Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  “Clap a stopper on yer jabber, Joe, let’s hear it all.”

  The young sailor paused. “Well, t’ tell the truth, Mr. Wells it was tol’ me. He works f’r Admiral Buckner.”

  The room grew quiet. “So it could be a rumor, like?” someone piped up.

  “No, can’t be!” the sailor said scornfully “He showed me th’ signal ’n’ said I was t’ find Mr. Parker an’ tell him.”

  The room fell silent as the enormity of the event sank in. Kydd glanced over to Parker, who was shaking his head slowly, a weary smile on his face. “What’s t’ do, Dick?” he said.

  Parker didn’t answer at first, then looked about the room, catching the eye of this one and that.

  “Yair, what next, then, Dick?” came a call.

  Levering himself to his feet, Parker stood before them. His hands grasped the lapels of his coat. “Brothers,” he began softly, “can I ask you one question? Just the one! And if you can answer it to satisfaction, then I’ll sit down again and be silent.”

  Uncertain smiles showed, men glanced at one another.

  “This I ask, then. If you were in power—at the highest—and your entire fleet was in the hands of those who have embarrassed you with the exposing of your perfidy, and you are desperate, would it not be a rattling good plan to win back control by a very simple contrivance? You tell the Nore that the Spithead matter is resolved, and to Spithead you say that the Nore is reconciled. In this way, you get both to return to duty, and having dropped their defenses you are then at liberty to seek whatever vengeance …” The words hung in the silence. “Then, this I ask, shipmates, is this an impossible plan?”

  “Be damned! They wouldn’t—”

  “The slivey fucksters! Once they got us t’ sea—”

  “They lied at th’ Culloden trials. My mate—”

  The room broke into angry shouts, but Parker held up his arms for order. “I say then, we hold fast. We keep the faith. Only when we have proof—solid evidence—will we even begin to consider the situation.” He sat down to shouts and gusts of applause, accepting a large glass as he did so. But when Kydd next saw him, he was looking distracted.

  “Why, Tom, m’ darlin’!” Kitty laughed. “Such a surprise!” She kissed him soundly. Then she gazed at him earnestly, and hugged him tight. “Do take care of y’rself, m’ dear Tom,” she whispered. “In m’ bones, I have a dreadful feelin’ this is all goin’ to end wi’ blood an’ weepin’—there’s been nothin’ like it this age.” She let her arms drop, but when she looked up again, a smile adorned her face. “Dick Parker, y’ knows him now. What’s he like—I mean, as a man?”

  Kydd laughed. “Well, he’s a swell cove, right enough, his beaver hat ’n’ all. But a great one f’r thinkin’ and planning. None o’ this would’ve happened but f’r him, an’ I’m proud t’ call him m’ friend. An’ has a wife in Leith, who he’s very partial of,” he added.

  They laughed together, but it died quickly and she looked him in the eyes again. “Tom, there’s somethin’ on y’r mind.”

  “Just worries—’t would oblige me if we could talk a while, Kitty.”

  She caught something in his voice. “We will, love. But not here—jus’ wait for me to fetch m’ bonnet an’ we’ll take a walk.”

  Arm in arm, they stood on Minster Hill, looking down on Sheerness and the dockyard. At this distance, a couple of miles away, they were close enough for details, but removed from the noise and distraction. The walk had cleared Kydd’s mind, and the sparkling air was invigorating.

  “I jus’ feel—well, it’s such a—an awful thing that I did, Kitty,” he muttered. “Here am I, master’s mate, an’ I turned an officer out of his own ship. It has t’ be said, I’m a mutineer.”

  She looked at him shrewdly. “It’s a big thing ye did, Tom, that’s f’r sure. But that’s not all, is it?”

  “No.” In a low voice he went on. “It’s my particular frien’, a shipmate o’ mine since I was pressed. We—we had many a rare time together, been aroun’ the world b’ Cape Horn, been at hazard wi’ the enemy so many times I can’t count.” He stared at the cold hard line of the sea horizon. “We had hard words together, Kitty. He doesn’t see that sometimes ye’ve got to—to follow y’r heart an’ do what y’ need to. Nicholas is a taut hand at logic, ’n’ it’s hard to keep with him at times. Says that th’ gov’ment won’t stand a second mutiny, an’ will be down on us like thunder, an’ we’re going at it the wrong way—don’t say what the right way is.”

  Kitty squeezed his arm. “I knows how ye feels, but there’s sailors not born yet who’ll bless ye.”

  “They say th’ telegraph has news o’ Spithead, that th’ mutiny is over.”

  “I heard that. What d’ you think?”

  “Dick Parker thinks it’s lies ’n’ treachery by th’ Admiralty, that they want t’ get us back under discipline an’ take revenge.”

  “I asked what you think, Tom.”

  Kydd looked down at the disorderly revelry around Blue Town, and nearer, the streets of Mile Town clear of honest folk. Out at sea clustered the ships at the Great Nore, a broad cordon of open water around them. “Fine view,” he said, taking it all in. “Gives ye a perspective, as y’ might say.” He turned to Kitty. “What do I think? We wait ’n’ see. Dick’s right, we don’t give up an inch until we c’n see proper proof, real things th’ government can’t deny after. We stand fast, m’ love.”

  As days passed, the rumpus ashore subsided, as much from satiation as from a shortage of means to continue, and the men stayed aboard. The people of Sheerness began to appear on the streets, believing that Spithead was on the point of settlement and that the Nore would soon follow.

  But without proof, the Nore did not drop its guard. Routines were maintained, watch was kept. Parker held apart. A lonely figure, he rose regularly at dawn and paced slowly along the decks, his face remote and troubled.

  Kydd became increasingly impatient. With the Royal Navy idle in port and a government set to defiance, a resolution must come soon. At the back of his mind, but as menacing as a caged beast, was the question: Would the rumored pardon be general enough to cover each and every one, no matter what their actions?

  He returned to his work. The business of victualing was in actuality no real difficulty. The pursers were in the main detested and had been sent ashore but their stewards were quite capable of making out demands on stores, which although signed by delegates were duly honored by the dockyard.

  Even the press-gang was accommodated. New-pressed hands were processed in the usual way aboard Sandwich: the seamen and able-bodied were sent out to the fleet, the quota men and brokendown sailors kept aboard.

  Kydd lifted his pen. It was all very necessary, but quill driving was no work for a seaman. His eyes glazed, but then a round of shouting and cheers broke in.

  “Dick!” called McCarthy, one of the delegates sent to Spithead to get the true lay.

  Parker emerged from an inner cabin. Kydd was puzzled that he did not appear more enthusiastic.

  More men crowded in. “We done it! ’S all over!” Their elation was unrestrained. “Got th’ pardon an’ all, the lot! Th’ fuckin’ telegraph was right, Black Dick did it f’r us!”

  The deck above resounded with the thump of feet as the news spread. A wave of relief spread over Kydd, until he remembered the pardon—the wording would be critical.

  “Have you any proof with you?” Parker said edgily.

  McCarthy lifted a seabag and emptied a pile of printed matter on the desk, some still smeared with printer’s ink. “An’ we have one th’t Black Dick hisself clapped his scratch on.” Evidently pleased with himself, he added, “S’ now I goes below an’ I lays claim ter a week’s grog.”

  Parker sifted quickly through the papers, and straightened. “It does seem we have something, I believe,” he said, but the intensity of his expression did not relax. “The Parliament committee meets here in this cabin this afternoon.”

  “No, it do
n’t!” chortled a seaman. “We meets at th’ Chequers, an’ after, we kicks up a bobs-a-dyin’ as will have ’em talkin’ fer ever.”

  “Meetin’ comes ter order!” bawled Davis, a broad grin belying his ferocity. Red faces and loud talk around the table showed that perhaps the celebration had been a little early in starting.

  Parker had the papers in a neat pile before him, and waited with impatience. The meeting settled down and, with a frosty look to each side, he began: “You elected me president of the delegates because you trusted me to see through the knavish tricks of the Admiralty. I have to tell you today I mean to honor that trust.” He picked up a paper. “This,” he said, dangling it as though it were soiled, “is what they intend for us. It’s all here, and plain to any who have any schooling in law whatsoever. They’ve been forced to agree on certain points, only by the steadfast courage of our brothers in Spithead, but it’s trickery.”

  “Why so?” came a shout.

  Parker smiled wolfishly “For anything to have any meaning, a rise in wages, a full pardon, everything, it has to have the force of Parliament, evidence to the world that for a surety things are to be changed. This means an Act of Parliament! Now, if you inspect this document carefully, you will see that the instrument they choose to promulgate these concessions is an order in council, which as you may recollect retains its force for only a year and a day. So, at the end of this time?”

  An angry muttering swelled. “Show us th’ paper!” snarled Hulme, the delegate from Director, who had no patience with his more moderate colleagues. Parker ignored him, and placed it neatly out of sight under the pile.

  “But the worst is to come.” He paused dramatically. “I’m speaking of the pardon.” Kydd went cold. “Our precious pardon! Without this to protect us, then everyone here seated today stands to dance at the yardarm within the month. Agreed?”

  His words were met with a stony silence. “Very well. See here …” he tapped a column in a printed broadsheet “‘… George R’—that’s the King—‘Whereas, upon the representation of our Lords-commissioners of our Admiralty, respecting the proceedings of the seamen …’ It goes on, but we are interested in one thing only—the date. This pardon is dated the eleventh of May Therefore, it cannot possibly cover any actions after that date—and our rising was. We’re not covered in any whit by this pardon. It’s a scrap of paper only, and we must prepare for—”

  His words were drowned in a breaking wave of anger. Men used to the open sea were quite unfitted for pettifogging wordplay. Some turned on the committee, preferring to believe that this was a slip of the pen that could easily be altered later, others cursed the stupidity that had led them this far.

  “Still!” Davis roared. “Shut yer noise, y’ mumpin’ lubbers, ’n’ listen!”

  The meeting, now cold sober, turned once more to Parker. “So. You will ask me why they do this. It’s simple, and so predictable. Have you not noticed? In Spithead they have Admiral Howe to meet the delegates personally. The First Lord, Earl Spencer, he sees fit to make the journey all the way from London to treat with them, and in the end, according to Brother McCarthy, the admiral then has a rousing good dinner with them, foremast jacks and all, there in the governor’s mansion.

  “Now, shipmates, you don’t need me telling you, nothing like that has happened to us. No! And why? Because—now, don’t take this amiss, I should have thought of it before—the government are deeply embarrassed by a successful mutiny. Therefore they pay it off to get it over with, and then they can turn all their attention to us. What does this mean? Again, it doesn’t need too much thinking to see that without a pardon, just as soon as we return to duty, they’re free to hang the lot of us. Friends, we’re nothing else but political scapegoats for Spithead.”

  In the uneasy quiet came a lone call. “So what’s t’ do then, Mr. President?”

  “Just to get things on the record, is there any of you wants to trust the pardon and give himself up, hoping that I’m wrong? No? Then please write that down, Mr. Kydd. We’re still all as determined as we always were.”

  Parker leaned forward intently. “Now this is what I say. You and I both know the only reason the government listens to us is that we hold the biggest hand of all—the keys to the kingdom, the fleet at the Nore. And a bit of thought says that, in truth, we have ’em at our mercy, or they wouldn’t let us stay at liberty like this. So—seeing what can be achieved at Spithead, why don’t we go further, do better than them?

  “First, we make sure we get a special pardon of our own.” Rumbles around the table indicated that his point was well taken. “Then we make our own demands, good tough ones that finish the job that’s just started. This way we save our necks, and at the same time earn the hearty cheers of all our fellow tars from this day.”

  There was a stunned silence. Parker sat down and waited. After a minimum of discussion, John Blake of Inflexible spoke for all. “We’re in. Now, let’s be started. What about them demands?”

  The delegates started with a first article that Kydd noted down as: “Article 1. That every indulgence granted to the fleet at Portsmouth, be granted to His Majesty’s subjects serving in the fleet at the Nore, and places adjacent.”

  That was never in dispute, but matters of liberty ashore, arrears of pay and prize money and so many others that presented themselves would not be so easily disposed of. By the dog-watches they had only two articles settled, and it was then that a message arrived from Admiral Buckner, addressed directly to the delegates.

  Parker opened it. “Ah—at last!” He laughed. “Here, mates, our first official communication. And it says, ta-tum, ta-tum, ‘I wish to visit Sandwich to notify His Majesty’s pardon upon the terms expressed in their lordships’ direction….” Be damned! It means they’re coming to negotiate at last. Tom, let’s work a polite reply, saying something like, ‘Being sensible of the honor …’ and all that, and we’ll be happy to meet him next morning, and, um, escort him in a procession of grace through the fleet to Sandwich, and so on. That’s what they did for Black Dick Howe in Spithead—we can’t do less. But we’ve got to work on these demands, get ’em written fair to present to him tomorrow.”

  The meeting continued through the night, men of stalwart beliefs but plain thinking grappling with the formulation of intent into words, the consequences of the effect on meaning of word choice, the sheer effort of rendering thought onto the page. In the morning there was a demand of eight articles ready for negotiation.

  The deputation went ashore at two, after taking the precaution of a restorative nap in the forenoon. They landed at the dockyard steps, where a curious crowd waited for the singular sight of what rumor promised would be common seamen making terms with a vice admiral in his own flagship.

  “Rare day!” Kydd murmured to Parker, as they formed up on the quayside.

  Parker seemed preoccupied, but he lifted his chin high and, with a bearing of nobility and resolve, told Tom, “Today we make our mark forever upon the annals of this fair country.” The moment was clouded a little by squabbles among befuddled sailors in the onlookers, spurring them on with impossible suggestions.

  Preceded by a large flag the deputation wended through the dockyard to the commissioner’s house, a square and forbidding mansion with smoke-blackened bricks, many white-edged windows and a large black polished front door. The whole seemed in defiant repose, like a castle with its drawbridge up.

  The deputation quietened, and looked to their president and head of deputation. Parker hammered the big brass knocker three times. Immediate movement behind the door suggested that their arrival was not unexpected. It opened and a gold-laced servant appeared.

  “The president and delegates of the fleet of the Nore. We are here to be heard by Admiral Buckner,” Parker said loudly. The servant withdrew quickly, firmly closing the door.

  The door catch rattled, and into view stepped Admiral Buckner. He was in full uniform and sword, gold lace on blue, but appeared curiously shrunken, an old ma
n. Kydd knew he’d been a lieutenant at Quiberon Bay and with Rodney at his smashing victory in the Caribbean.

  Hats flew off as naval discipline reasserted itself with marks of respect due a flag officer. Parker lifted his beaver cap, but did not remove it. “Sir, we have come to escort you on a procession of honor to HMS Sandwich”

  “Thank you, er …?” His voice was dry and whispery.

  “Richard Parker, president of the delegates.”

  “Then, Mr. Parker, shall we proceed? I have with me a plenary letter from their lordships that gives me authority to notify His Majesty’s full pardon to you all.”

  Parker reached inside his waistcoat, and withdrew papers bound with a red ribbon. “Yes, sir, but you may wish to read these in the boat before we sit down together.”

  “Wh-what are they?” Buckner said, taking them.

  “Why, sir, this is the substance of our negotiating. Be free to read them now, if you wish.”

  Buckner untied the ribbon. His hands trembled as he read. “I—I cannot! No, no, sir—this is impossible!”

  Parker frowned. “Sir, I cannot see that these articles in any way—”

  “No! You do not know what you are asking. I cannot do it—I have no authority. I cannot discuss anything, you understand.”

  “You can’t discuss anything?” asked Parker, with barely concealed scorn. “Then, sir, who can?”

  “Er, it is for their lordships to—”

  “Then that is where we must address these grievances.”

  The old admiral stared at Parker in horror. “Common seamen? I mean—not an officer? It would be most improper, sir.”

  The papers dropped from Buckner’s fingers. He stooped hastily to pick them up again, straightening painfully.

  Parker folded his arms and stared back. “Then, sir, we are at a stand. You cannot treat with us, and the ear of the Admiralty is stopped to us.”