Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  “You—you fawney ’longshore bugger, what d’ you know about it?” Kydd seized the man’s none-too-clean coat and forced him to his knees. “Why don’t y’ let us have our vittles?”

  “H-help! M-murder! Help!” The clerk’s eyes rolled. Passing dockyard workers stopped. A few moved warily toward Kydd.

  “Let him go, the bastard!” hissed Parker.

  Kydd dropped his hands and stepped back.

  The man dusted himself down ostentatiously. “Yair, well. Since y’ must know, we have orders,” he said, aggrieved but triumphant. “An’ the orders are fr’m the Admiralty, an’ they say no vittles t’ any ship what wears th’ Bloody Flag.”

  A sizable group of dockyard tradesmen gathered at the commotion. “T’ hell wi’ the black mutineers!” shouted one. “In th’ oggin wi’ ’em!” yelled another.

  Kydd bunched his fists. “First man wants t’ have his toplights doused, I c’n oblige ye.”

  “Let’s be back aboard, Tom,” Parker said. “It’s as I thought. They’re going to starve us out.”

  Even before they arrived back on the ship they caught sight of the 38-gun frigate Espion slowly turning, her slipped cables splashing into the water. Too quick for the mutineer vessels to bring their guns to bear, she went in with the tide and disappeared around the point.

  In somber mood, Parker and Kydd rejoined the Parliament in the Great Cabin.

  “Reports,” Parker ordered.

  Davis, looking cast down and ill, opened. “We now has Espion an’ Niger in th’ dockyard wi’out the red flag. I have m’ doubts on Clyde and San Fi as well. They wants out, we know. Th’ fleet is restless, they don’ know what ter do, an’ when they gets noos of th’ stoppin’ of vittles …”

  “Brother Bellamee?”

  This fo’c’sleman, a shrunken gnome of a sailor, spent his time ashore, listening and observing. He waited until it was quiet. “Shipmates, th’ sojers, they’re on th’ march, hundreds on ’em, an’ all marchin’ this way. They got this Gen’ral Grey with ’em, an’ he’s a tartar. Got ’em all stirred up, settin’ guns across the river to th’ north, an’ I heard he has clouds more of ’em all over in th’ country—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bellamee.”

  “—an’ he’s goin’ ter put two whole reggyments inter the fort. Dunno where they’ll kip down, mates. Word is, we can’t go ashore anymore, ’less we has a pass an’ a flag o’ truce.”

  The mood became black. It didn’t take much imagination to picture a country in arms against them, relentlessly closing in.

  “I was in Mile Town, mates, an’ there was a sight.” Kydd had never heard MacLaurin of Director speak before. “See, all the folks think we’s goin’ to riot or somethin’ fer they’re all in a pelt, women ’n’ children an’ all, a-leavin’ town, carts ’n’ coaches—anythin’ to get away.”

  Parker shot to his feet. “My God,” he choked, “what are we doing?” His anguished cry cut through the murmurs of comment. Astonished, all eyes turned to him. His head dropped to his hands.

  “What’s wi’ him?” Hulme demanded.

  Blake’s eyes narrowed. “Could be he’s a-gettin’ shy, mates!” Growls of discontent arose—there were many who still distrusted Parker’s educated tones. “We doesn’t have ter have the same president all th’ time, y’ knows.”

  It brought all the talking abruptly to a stop.

  “I votes we has an election.”

  In the first possible coach, a villainous unsprung monster of a previous age, Renzi headed away from Rochester. Time was critical. The coach wound through fields and marshland, across the Swale at King’s Ferry and on to the island of Sheppey Then it was an atrocious journey over compacted, flint-shot chalk roads to his destination—the ancient town of Queenborough, just two miles south from the dockyard but unnoticed since Queen Anne’s day.

  There was only one inn, the decrepit Shippe. With much of the population on the move away, there was no questioning of the eccentric merchant with the fusty wig who chose to take rooms just at that time.

  “I’m an abstemious man,” Renzi told the landlord. “It’s my way to take the air regularly.” He was particularly pleased with his affected high voice, and he had taken the precaution, for local consumption, of laying out a reason for his presence—he was a merchant hoping to do business with the dockyard, waiting out the tiresome mutiny at a safe distance.

  The oyster fishermen at the tiny landing hard were curious, but satisfied by Renzi’s tale of gathering sketches for a painting, and for a generous hand of coins agreed to show him many wonderful views, the events of the Nore permitting. They had no fear of the press-gang for the oyster fishers of Queenborough carried protections whose rights dated back to the third King Edward.

  Renzi strolled along the single bridle path that led to Sheerness. Behind his smoked glasses, his eyes darted around—angles, lines of sight, cover. The undulating marsh grass was possible, but not easy.

  The road ended at the intersection with that of Blue Town on the way out of the dockyard. He turned left—his business was with the authorities. A stream of people were leaving: old women, fearful men with family possessions on carts, stolid tradesmen at the back of drays—and in the other direction troops of soldiers were on their way to the garrison.

  Renzi clutched his bag to him as though in alarm, and shuffled toward Red Barrier Gate. This was now manned with a sergeant and four.

  “I’ve been asked to attend upon the captain,” Renzi squeaked. The sentry gave him a hard look, then let him through. Renzi passed the hulks, then the public wharf, which was perilously crowded by those begging a passage on the next Chatham boat.

  The entrance to the fort was also well guarded. A mustached sergeant was doubtful about his stated mission and compromised by providing an escort. They set off for the commissioner’s house, the seat of operations.

  At the door, Renzi instantly changed his demeanor; now he was in turn wordly and discreet, knowing and calculating. He bowed to the flag lieutenant. “Sir, I desire audience with Captain Hartwell at your earliest convenience. I may have information …”

  CHAPTER 10

  No hard feelin’s, Mr. Parker,” said Hulme, after the vote. “None that a mort more trust wouldn’t cure,” Parker said stiffly, reassuming his seat. The interruption, however, had allowed him to regain countenance, and he leaned forward in the old, confident way. “It’s clear that the soldiers are deploying to deny us the shore,” he said crisply. “They have reinforced the garrison, and we’ve had reports from Pylades that there are parties of militia splashing about in the mud the other side of the Thames.”

  It brought laughter. If the intention was to surround them with troops, then there would be a lot more cursing, mud-soaked soldiers floundering about in the marshlands.

  “But we have to face it,” Parker continued. “Ashore we’re in danger anyway—they could cut us off and have us in irons in no time. We’re much safer snug on board in our fleet.”

  “Damme,” rumbled Blake, “an’ I was gettin’ ter like th’ marchin’ up an’ down wi’ our red flag in front of th’ ladies.”

  Parker’s rejoinder was cut off by a piercing hail. “Deck hooooo! Ships—men-o’-war, ships-o’-the-line—standin’ toward!”

  There was a general scramble for the deck. The lookout in the maintop threw out an arm to the open sea to the northeast. On the horizon was a fleet—no motley collection of vessels, but a first-class squadron of ships-of-the-line in battle order. It was upon them. There was no more time to debate, to rationalize the fighting of fellow seamen—a decision had to be made.

  “They’re flyin’ the red flag!”

  “The North Sea squadron! They’ve come across, joining! Two, five, six—eight of their ship-o’-the-line! It’s—it’s marvelous!” Parker skipped about the deck in joy. “Don’t you see? We’ve lost three or four frigates and smaller, but now we’ve got eight—eight—of the line more.”

  “Doubles our force,” Kydd said
. “At last, th’ shabs came across.”

  “An’ I’m Joe Fearon, Leopard, an’ this is Bill Wallis o’ Standard—we come t’ say we signed y’ eight articles an’ we mean to abide by ’em t’ death.”

  Kydd responded warily. These were hard men and would need careful handling.

  “Thank you,” said Parker, “There are many—”

  “An’ we’ve brought a few of our own, like,” Fearon said flatly.

  “Oh, may we hear them?”

  “Right. Fer the first we has this. Court-martials on seamen ter be made o’ foremast hands, not grunters.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “Fer the second, we want prize-money three-fifths forrard, two-fifths aft.”

  There was no use in opposing: they had to hear it out. All told, there were four articles, which had to be voted upon. Then it was insisted that they be taken ashore and presented to the Admiral.

  “I do this from duty, Tom, not by choice. You stay here, my friend.”

  Kydd’s spirits were low as he saw him off in the rain. They had doubled their force, but the Admiralty was not moving an iota toward meeting any of their grievances. Where was it all leading?

  When Parker returned, the fleet was in joyous mood, with singing and dancing on deck in the clear moonlit evening. But his face was deeply lined. Buckner had refused even to accept the articles, and the fear and chaos ashore were worse. Now it was open hostility.

  Early the next day the seamen’s Parliament met.

  “Brother Kydd, how d’ we stan’ in the matter o’ vittles?” Hulme opened.

  Kydd had estimates. Dry stores and those in cask could possibly be shared out among the ships that were running short, but there was already hardship. The difficult part was the usual problem of finding wood and water. Cooking salt beef needed a good deal of both, and all had been held back.

  “We c’n hold out f’r another week or so. Then it’s two upon four f’r another—”

  “Those fuckin’ toads! It’s insultin’ to us. Th’ Admiral here commands thirteen o’ the line—that’s nigh-on what Old Jarvey had at Saint Vincent.” Hulme scowled.

  Parker sat quite still.

  “Why we has t’ sit here, takin’ all they wants ter dish out …” Hulme finished morosely.

  Parker’s face animated suddenly “Perhaps we don’t.”

  “Ah, how so?” Blake drawled, clearly reluctant for yet another of Parker’s schemes.

  But Parker was energized and would not be stopped. “Think of it, brothers, we could, with one stroke, win free of these shackles and at the same time force their lordships to accept our terms.”

  Conversations stopped around the table. “Go on, then, cully, let’s hear yez,” Fearon, of Leopard in the North Sea squadron, said.

  Parker waited until he had complete attention. “We have all the means we need to call their lordship’s bluff. If they don’t want to come to us and talk—we’ll force ’em.”

  Hulme sneered. “Yair, you’ll—”

  “We throw a blockade on London.”

  There was an appalled silence, then everyone spoke at once. Parker leaned back in his chair, a smile playing, while he waited for quiet. “Indeed. We have the power to clamp our hold on the richest trade gateway in the land. No one would dare touch us while we stop every merchantman, arrest everything that sails. Trade comes to a standstill, the mills of industry stop for want of materials, companies fail for want of exports—the City collapses, the government falls.”

  “No!” Kydd burst out. “This is madness! T’ bring y’r country to its knees? We can’t sink s’ low we’d do this t’ England.”

  “It would work.” Parker’s reply was flat and final.

  Renzi returned to Queenborough along the bridle path, his mind preternaturally alert in a cold race of logic and action. The rhythm of walking helped focus his thoughts, and he settled to the task: to review and test the rationalizations that had brought him to this.

  At base, the principle of deception, his pose as a merchant, with an interest in an early resolution to the mutiny who was prepared to use agents of commercial intelligence to that end, was successful; Hartwell had been covetous of a clearly first-grade reliable source in place of the usual illiterate ramblings from disaffected sailors. The harder part was to make the intelligence convincing, without jeopardizing either Kydd or doing violence to his conscience.

  His ground rules were settled. First, the overriding objective was the saving of Kydd, but only in so far as it did not require betrayal of his country. The next was more difficult: he would transmit nothing that could not be concluded by any intelligent observer for themselves, a hard thing to make convincing. And, finally, no names of individuals would go forward.

  They seemed sound, and Renzi lightened. For the immediate future he must acquire intelligence to establish his credentials. He had already found a suitable observation post. There was an elbow in the seawall going away from the fort, which obscured him both from the fort and the mile houses.

  He slid down the wall into the marsh grasses at the water’s edge and watched the fleet’s movements through a small brass telescope. If he was caught with the instrument he could well be taken up as a French spy, but there was no other way.

  But he had to get closer. “Good day to you, gentlemen,” he greeted the oyster fishermen. “Do you think today is a good day for seeing the sights?” He fumbled absentmindedly for some shillings, squinting at the silver.

  “But o’ course it be,” the nearest said. “Where’d ye like t’ go?”

  “Oh, do you think we might go past the, er, fleet in mutiny?’ he asked breathlessly.

  The fishermen grinned. “Thought ye might. Why, o’ course, they don’t worry th’ likes of us.”

  The oyster smack was a gaff-rigged cutter, decked in with hatches and reeking of shellfish. Renzi sat doubtfully on one side, then allowed himself to slide down the deck with a cry of alarm when the boat took the wind, and had to be hauled up to windward by an amused deckhand.

  They rounded Garrison Point and shaped course toward the end of the fleet. Renzi sat openmouthed, apparently admiring the formidable display of naval might, but his eyes were moving furiously behind his dark glasses. All yards were crossed, topmasts a-taunt, the ships in an impregnable double-crescent formation.

  His eyes strayed to the biggest; there, in Sandwich,, Kydd would be now with Parker and the Parliament, probably discussing some grave move. “Could we go a bit closer, do you think?” he asked, only just remembering his high voice.

  The two crew exchanged doubtful looks, but closed with the nearest two-decker. “Jem—over yonder!” one said urgently. It was a naval pinnace emerging from around the stern of the ship and foaming toward them.

  Tiller hard over, the smack went about, but only to end in the path of another. A musket was wielded in the boat astern, a puff of white appeared and a ball slapped through their mainsail. “Give over, Jem, they’ll do us, mate!”

  The pinnace came up quickly once their sails were doused. “What’re yez doin’ here, then?” Renzi thought he recognized a boatswain’s mate and shrank. No mercy would be shown an officer’s spy.

  The older crew member spoke up. “Well, mates, y’ know us t’ be honest oyster fishers, fr’m Queenboro’. An’ this is a merchant cove wants t’ do business wi’ the dockyard, once things ’r’ settled, like.”

  “A merchant?”

  “An’ wants t’ see the fleet, tell ’is frien’s all about it.”

  Renzi quaked in fear at the rough sailors.

  The boatswain’s mate grinned wickedly. “If he’s a merchant, he’d be smart t’ shift ’is cargoes a mort sharpish—we’re goin’ t’ be puttin’ a stopper in this ’ere bottle,” he said, grandly encompassing the estuary.

  “Yer what?” one of the fishermen asked.

  “A blockade,” he said proudly. “We got the ships, we got the guns. After we finished, nothin’ swims ’less we say so!”

  In th
e sleepy quiet of late night, hooves crashed on the cobbles at the back of 10 Downing Street. The messenger slid down the flanks of his panting horse, grabbed an Admiralty pouch from the saddlebag and sprinted up the stairs.

  A little later, the prime minister of Great Britain, in his nightgown, was reading the urgent dispatch. “Good God above!” he said, slowly lifting his eyes from the page. “Merciful heavens! Toby! Toby, here this instant, you rogue!” The majordomo tumbled out onto the landing, blinking. “The cabinet—all of ’em, a meeting this hour!”

  As the man hurried off, Pitt went to the empty cabinet room and sat, staring. His servant came with his long coat, which he draped over his shoulders, and later a small carafe of port.

  He was granted minutes of thought only before a confused babble began at the door, getting louder. They filed in, shocked into silence by Pitt’s unkempt, wild appearance. He nodded a greeting to the most eminent, and raised the dispatch. “This news is the worst I have ever received in this entire war.” He paused, fixing his gaze on everyone present. “I will tell you. In brief, it is that the mutiny at the Nore has exploded in our faces.”

  He glared contemptuously at General Grey as he continued. “There were those who thought that left to itself, cut off from the land, the mutiny would in some way wither and die. The same assured us that we should have nothing more to do with them. Now they’ve called our bluff. We have it from an unusually reliable source in the Medway that the mutineers will deploy their recently augmented fleet to instigate a total blockade on the capital.”

  He paused grimly. “Why I have called you here is obvious. The solution, however, is not. General Grey?”

  “Prime Minister, I—I don’t know what I c’n say, sir. We’ve got ’em boxed in, troops on the northern shore, defense in depth on the banks of the Thames, but, sir, I beg to point out, we are up agin a fleet of ships, not an army.”

  “So, no further suggestions?”

  “I regret, no, sir. We’re helpless.”

  Pitt sighed. “Lord Spencer? Can you offer us hope of a way out?”