Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  “They can’t send this!

  “It gets worse.”

  “’Shall we now be induced from a few Paltry threats to forsake our Glorious plan & lick your lordships feet for Pardon & Grace, when we see ourselves in possession of 13 sail of as noble Ships as any in His Majesty’s service, and Men not inferior to any in the Kingdom? …’”

  Kydd went cold. This would push the whole into unknown regions, it was a bitter, provocative taunt—but his heart was with the reckless courage and defiant spirit that were all the seamen had left.

  “I have to send it. This is their feeling.”

  “Yes. I see,” Kydd murmured.

  In the afternoon, the Bloody Flag fluttered down in Clyde and a white one appeared. Kydd and Parker watched in silence as the same happened in San Fiorenzo. But then the masts of Inflexible, anchored between, changed their aspect: she had a spring to her cable and heaved around so the wavering vessels faced two lines of guns apiece. The red flag slowly ascended again.

  By early evening, the seas had moderated. The gunboats sailed out to the fleet again as the president of the delegates made ready to go ashore. Niger was seen without her red flag; cannon fire was heard again in the anchorage, but in vain. The frigate slipped away.

  Parker and the delegates entered the boats and pulled ashore through squally weather. Soaked but defiant, the men marched once more to the commissioner’s house.

  “Here is our response, sir,” Parker said, handing the letter to Admiral Buckner. “I shall return for your reply.”

  He turned and retired from the scene with dignity. There was brave and foolhardy talk at the Chequers, but Parker sat apart.

  At six, they filed out for the quarter-mile walk to where the flag of the Lord High Admiral of England still flew. The people of Blue Town lined their way, but in the rain there were only thin, scattered cheers. Most remained somber and quiet, watching the seamen as if they were going to meet their fate.

  Buckner emerged promptly, but his head was held high and he kept his distance.

  “Good evening, sir,” Parker said. “May I know if their lordships have an answer to our letter?”

  “They have not! There will be no answer. Are you here to make your submission?”

  Parker kept his silence.

  “You may still, through their lordships’ grace, accept the King’s Pardon. But if you fire again on a king’s ship, then every man will be excluded from the pardon,” the admiral added hastily.

  Not deigning to reply, Parker gave a low bow, and left.

  “The kippers, if you please. They are particularly succulent, I find.” Renzi’s lodgings in Rochester were small, but quiet. His words caused the merchant gentleman opposite to lower his newspaper and fix him with a warning glare: conversation at breakfast was of course entirely ill-mannered.

  Renzi inclined his head and picked up his own Rockester Morning Post. He quickly opened it to the news; with the big naval construction dockyard of Chatham close by and Sheerness but a dozen miles farther out, it was to be expected that coverage of the recent shocking events at the Nore would be extensive.

  He particularly wanted news on the much talked-about visit by the lords of the Admiralty, with their promises of pardon, but what he saw was far worse. It seemed that after intolerable insults from the mutinous seamen, their lordships had washed their hands of the matter and taken themselves and their pardon back to London. The editorial wondered acidly whether this meant that readers could now, all restraint gone, expect a descent by hordes of drunken seamen.

  Renzi slowly laid down the newspaper. This was the worst news possible. For some reason the mutineers had rejected their last hope; they had nowhere else to go. Pitt would never forgive them now, not after the inevitable spectacle of the army or the loyal remnant of the navy ending the mutiny in a welter of ignominious bloodshed.

  He couldn’t face breakfast with the knowledge that his dearest friend was now beyond mercy, the pardon withdrawn. He left the lodging, striding fiercely in a rage of hopelessness, past the curious medieval streets and shops, up steep cobbled roads.

  Logic said that there were only two courses: that Kydd could be miraculously saved, or that Renzi should resign himself to his friend’s fate and spare himself the hurt. The former was for all practical purposes impossible, the latter he could not face.

  That left the ludicrous prospect of trying to find a miracle. The path turned into a grassy lane down to the river crossing, and the soft and ancient gray stone of a Norman castle. His hand reached out to touch its timeless strength, willing an inspiration, but none came.

  All Renzi knew was that he had to do something, try something … He came to a resolution: he would go to London.

  The coach was uncomfortable and smelly, but he made the capital and the White Hart Inn well before dark. Restless and brooding, he left his bag at the inn and braved the streets. London was the same riotous mix of noise and squalor, carriages and drays, horses and hawkers, exquisites and flower girls. Instinctively he turned into Castle Street and south past the Royal Mews—time was pressing, and it could all come to a conclusion very soon.

  He trudged through the chaos of Charing Cross, then entered the broad avenue of White Hall. Past the Treasury was Downing Street, where he knew behind the bland frontage of Number Ten the prime minister was probably in cabinet, certainly taking swift and savage measures.

  Renzi stopped and looked despondently down the street. His father had powerful connections in Parliament, a rotten borough and friends aplenty, but he knew he could be baying at the moon for all the help they would give him now.

  He retraced his steps. This was the seat of power, the center of empire. Rulers of strange lands around the globe, the King himself, but not one could he think to approach.

  On past Horseguards he continued, and then to the Admiralty itself. Staring at the smoke-grimed columns, the stream of officers and bewigged civilians coming and going, he cudgeled his brain but could think of nothing that might break the iron logic of the situation: Kydd was a mutineer who had publicly declared for the insurrection—there could be no reasoning with this.

  Black thoughts came. Would Kydd want to see Renzi at the gallows for his execution, or brave it out alone? Was there any service he could do for him, such as insure his corpse was not taken down for dissection?

  The lamplighters came out as the dusk drew in, and Renzi’s mind ached. As he waited for a grossly overloaded wagon to cajole and threaten its way around Charing Cross, he concluded that there was no possible answer he could find. Perhaps there was someone who could tell him of one—but who, in his whole experience, would know both naval imperatives and political expediencies?

  From somewhere within his febrile brain came memories of a quite different time and place: the sun-blessed waters of the Caribbean, a hurricane, and a fearful open-boat voyage. It was a slim chance, but he had no other: he would seek out Lord Stanhope, whose life and mission he and Kydd had secured together.

  Stanhope would never stoop to using his standing with the government for such a cause, but he could give Renzi valuable inside knowledge of the wheels of power, perhaps an insight into how … But Stanhope was beyond reach for a mere mortal. Dejection returned as Renzi thought through the impossibility of gaining access to a senior government figure in a wartime crisis.

  Then another flood of recollection: a crude palm hut on a Caribbean beach, an injured Stanhope and a promise exacted from Renzi that if Stanhope were not to survive, he should at all costs transmit his intelligence to a Mr. Congalton, at the Foreign Office.

  Renzi hurried back to the White Hart. The landlord provided writing materials, and in his tiny room he set to. It was the height of gall, but nothing could stop him now. The form of the letter was unimportant: it was simply a request for a hearing, through Congalton to Stanhope, shamelessly implying a matter of discreet intelligence.

  He folded the letter and plunged out into the night, scorning the offer of a link boy. Without a l
ong coat and sword he would not be worth the attention of robbers. The Foreign Office was well used to late-night messages passed by questionable figures, and he slipped away well satisfied.

  A reply arrived even while he was at an early breakfast—“Hatchards, 173 Piccadilly, at 10 a.m.” He forced his brain to an icy calm while he rehearsed what he intended to say, and in good time he made the most of his attire, clapped on a borrowed hat and appeared at the appointed place.

  It turned out to be a bookseller recently opened for business, well placed in a quality district and just down from Debrett’s. No stranger to books, Renzi eyed the packed shelves with avarice. Bold titles on political economy and contemporary analysis tempted, as well as tracts by serious thinkers and pamphlets by parliamentary names. Engrossed, he missed the activity around the carriage that drew up outside.

  “You would oblige me by the use of your back room, Mr. Hatchard.”

  Renzi wheeled around. It was Stanhope, the lines in his face a little deeper, the expression more flinty. Renzi bowed and was favored by a brief smile.

  “If you please, sir.” An assistant took Stanhope’s cloak, then led the party up a broad spiral staircase to a comfortable upper room at the rear, where they were ushered to the high-backed chairs before the fire.

  “Coffee, my lord?”

  “Thank you, John, that would be welcome. Renzi?” The interval, as the assistant served, allowed time for Renzi to compose himself.

  “A long time, my lord,” Renzi said, his heart hammering. There was now no one else in the room. The chandelier threw a bright, pleasing light over several reading desks arranged to one side.

  “You have not asked me here on a matter of intelligence,” Stanhope said shortly, his voice just loud enough to be heard.

  “Er, no, my lord,” Renzi said. He knew enough of Stanhope to refrain from dissimulation: it would help nobody to delay.

  “Then …?”

  Renzi took a deep breath. “Your advice is solicited, sir, in a matter which touches me deeply.”

  “Go on.”

  “A very dear friend has been unfortunate enough to be caught up in the recent mutiny, and I am concerned how to extricate him.”

  “The Nore?”

  “Just so.”

  “Therefore he has chosen not to avail himself of the King’s gracious pardon?”

  “It would seem that is the case.”

  Expressionless, Stanhope steepled his fingers and said, “You realize, of course, I can have no influence on the course of this unhappy affair once it has reached its climax. It is completely within the jurisdiction of the Admiralty courts, his only hope of mercy lying in the King’s express forgiveness. I rather suggest that in the circumstances of the King’s known hostility to the mutineers’ actions this will not be a likely prospect. I advise you, Renzi, to resign yourself. Your friend unhappily has nothing but the gallows to reflect upon.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I think I made myself clear?” Stanhope frowned.

  “Yes, my lord, but—”

  “There is no hope, either at law or in the machinations of politics—no one would be fool enough to put himself forward in the cause of a mutinous seaman at these times, no one.”

  “I understand, my lord,” Renzi said quietly. He paused, then continued softly, “Sir, the man is Thomas Kydd, whom you remember perhaps from the Caribbean.”

  Stanhope looked up sharply. “You may believe I am grieved to hear it.”

  “He has taken the plight of his seamen brothers to heart. Sir, he has the ardor of youth compelling him to rash acts, but still has the love of his country foremost.”

  Staring into the fire, Stanhope said nothing.

  “His would be a great loss to the sea profession, but a greater one to myself.”

  Still no response. Then a stirring. “Mr. Renzi,” Stanhope said, his voice sad and gentle, “there is nothing I crave more than to be of service to this young man, nothing. But my eminence is as nothing compared to the forces he has caused to be raised against him. I am in truth powerless.”

  Renzi felt hope die. This was the end for his friend. He looked at the floor through misted eyes.

  There was a discreet cough. “I said that there was nothing I could do. This is certain. But if the Admiralty found that they had good reason to spare him, even to pardon his crimes …”

  “Sir, Kydd could never find it in him to inform on, to delate upon his shipmates. This is an impossible course.” Renzi’s head dropped again.

  “Then there is one final action that may answer.’”

  “My lord?”

  “You will forgive the elliptical speech—my conscience is a hard master, as I know is yours.” He considered carefully. “I can conceive of a circumstance that would have the same effect, result in the same happy conclusion. This will require an act of—of imagination by one devoted to the subject’s well-being, yet at the same time be kept from his knowledge at all costs. Renzi, I am speaking of—”

  “I conceive I penetrate your meaning, sir. Am I to understand you mean this, er, associate to establish a proxy connection to—”

  “Precisely.”

  It was a chance; it was also uncertain and dangerous, but it was a chance—if he had the will and necessary guile.

  In the stillness steps could be heard coming up the stairs. An austere man in gray entered with books for the reading desk. “Frederick, dear fellow!”

  “Ah, the country burns and you are at your Grecian odes, William. Might I present Mr. Renzi, visiting London. Renzi, this is Baron Grenville, Mr. Pitt’s foreign minister.”

  “Sir.” Renzi managed an elegant leg, noticing Grenville’s polite curiosity. He guessed that few of Stanhope’s mysterious acquaintances would merit an introduction.

  “I understand you have further business, Renzi, I won’t detain you.”

  The coach left from the Blue Boar’s Head at two; he had time. At the Fleet market at Holbourn he found a well-used and capacious periwig, and an old-fashioned lace-edged frock coat of the kind more likely to be seen on supercargoes in an East Indiaman; these he bundled into a bag with a pair of pattens—clogs to raise the shoes clear of mud.

  A spectacle shop on Cheapside provided an old silver pair of smoked glasses, like those needed by persons with weak eyes. A heavy faux-silver-headed cane and a large body-purse completed his outfitting.

  After a weary and impatient journey he was finally in Rochester. Firmly locking the door to his room, he tried on his gear. It would do, but much hung on its effectiveness.

  Wig powder—he loathed it for the inevitable dusty droppings on his high coat collar, but it was essential for appearances. His face was too healthy, tanned and weather-touched; ladies’ face powder would subdue it to an indoor appearance. There was nothing more he could do that night so he took a modest supper and went to bed.

  He couldn’t sleep. It was a perilous undertaking, and Stanhope had all but declared that he would be on his own. If he failed—if he was discovered, then …

  Too hot in the strange bed, he threw off a blanket. In theory it could just work, but it would mean personal peril, patience and, at the right time, Kydd doing exactly—to the letter—what was asked of him.

  At the Nore the weather had not improved. Rainy, gusty, and raw off the North Sea, it was Sheerness at its bleakest.

  As usual, Kydd’s first morning task was to assemble the day’s victualing requisitions. He relied on the other ships to render their lists of requirements: sides of beef, lemon juice, small beer in the cask, dried pease and, this being harbor routine, bread. When the requirements had all been consolidated, he would send these ashore.

  That duty done, he went to see Parker, who was finishing a letter. “Good day, Tom, we have to call an assembly of the Parliament, you’ll agree. Then it’s my intent to tour the fleet and speak to the men. I’ll wait until we’ve the stores under hatches, though.”

  It would be a critical meeting. If their united front broke u
nder the strain of competing loyalties it would be a merciless end for them all—but if they held staunch there was still a chance.

  On deck they waited for the boats to thrash out to them. In these racing seas they would be making heavy weather of it, but Kydd had told the other ships to insure they were not short of provisions for just this eventuality—he knew the dockyard hoys would put discretion before the bellies of sailors when it came to filthy weather.

  The wind whipped at Kydd’s oilskins, sending a shiver down his backbone. How was it that Sheerness weather had a quality that made the town seem the rawest, most desolate spot in the kingdom?

  “I spy our cutter,” Parker said, in some puzzlement, pointing to where a boat with the distinctive old-fashioned lug mizzen projected over the transom made its laborsome way toward them. The crews were there to supervise the loading of the hoys, and for some reason were returning early.

  The petty officer in charge came up the side quickly. “We bin flammed, Mr. Parker. The shonky bastards, they’ve stopped vittlin’.”

  “What—gave ye no stores? None at all?” Kydd couldn’t understand it.

  “None!”

  Parker looked at Kydd. “I fear, Tom, you and I must get ashore and see what’s afoot. Fetch your papers.”

  The victualing storekeeper was not helpful. It was a matter of authority, and for that they had to see a clerk of the check. They trudged across the dockyard, aware of the changed atmosphere. No longer the cheerful processions and hands waved in comradeship. Now it was in a sullen, hostile mood.

  “You see?” The clerk’s finger stabbed at the requisition form. “The signature. We have no authority to issue against this.” It was Parker’s signature.

  “And why not? You have before.”

  “You needs an orficer ter clap ’is scratch to these.”

  “An’ since when did we have t’ do this?” Kydd snarled.

  “Steady, Tom,” Parker muttered.

  “This’s not th’ business of a mutineer,” the clerk said contemptuously.