The afternoon passed at an interminable pace, giving ample time for reflection. The stark fact was that he had chosen a course of action that contradicted the principles he had arrived at. He could alert the mutineers and nullify the action, but this he had coldly and logically decided was a matter touching on the safety of the realm, and it must remain.
Now it had to be. Renzi knew that the attention of the mutineers would be on celebrating the arrival of their powerful new brothers; this would be the only time that the daring operation planned by the Elder Brothers of Trinity House had even the slimmest of chances.
It was, besides, a source of some satisfaction that Hartwell had trusted him enough to divulge the plot and consult him on the timing. His strategy was working.
At last, sunset. He waited for a further hour, then made his way in the dark to the jetty.
“Why sir, you haven’t a grego,” an oysterman said kindly. “Ye surely needs one on th’ water at this time o’ night.”
Renzi accepted the fishy-smelling surcoat and boarded the smack by the light of one dim lanthorn. “How exciting!” he made himself say. “What kind of creatures are abroad at this hour, I can hardly conceive!”
Under easy sail to the night airs, the smack put out into the Swale. The moon came and went behind ragged clouds, and Renzi scanned the night tensely.
A splash nearby startled him. “Don’ never mind him, sir. Jus’ a fish out on a frolic.”
They met the Medway and paid off to starboard. Still no sign. Then he caught a sudden blackening of the wan glitter of moon on sea. “What’s that?” he asked quickly.
“That? Oh, jus’ the Trinity Yacht, sir. Don’ rightly know why she’s abroad now, don’t usually.”
Renzi settled back with relief. It was happening. His part was now finished.
From seaward, the approaches to London beckoned with lights in a confusion of beguiling sea paths—hundreds of golden pinpricks ashore and afloat, the larger navigation beacons and the Nore light-vessel.
The Thames met the sea in a maze of sandbanks that stretched out to sea for miles, each one marked with the wrecks of countless unfortunate vessels that had strayed from the deep-water channels. No sailing master in his right senses would attempt to enter or leave without thankful reference to the buoys and lights set and maintained by the brethren of the Corporation of Trinity House, whose ceaseless work continued even in wartime.
On this night, Trinity House began a different task. To the sea-marks of the Whiting, Rough and Gunfleet to the north, Girdler, Shivering Sand and Pan in the center, and the Blacktail, Mouse and Sheers, their vessels converged under the command of Captain Philip Bromfield.
The Trinity Yacht, purpose-built for buoy lifting and heavy cable work, slipped through the night to her first rendezvous. She was fitted with a massive capstan and particular cathead to starboard. Her decking was of Danzig deal for laying out buoy and ground tackle, but her captain did not rig for buoy lifting. Instead, the buoy was hove short and the night’s quiet was broken by the sound of men wielding axes and hammers, smashing into carefully crafted staves, wrecking tightly caulked seams. Then the buoy was let go, to disappear into the black depths.
One by one the seaward buoys that the buoy warden of Trinity House had dedicated his life to preserve were sunk without a trace. The work continued through the night, as quietly as possible, as they approached the Nore and the mutinous fleet.
By morning it was complete, carried off during the only night when there was any chance of success—a daring feat that so easily could have gone wrong. To seaward not a buoy or beacon remained: the Nore fleet was trapped, unable to get out across lethal sandbanks now lying concealed under an innocent sea.
Kydd found Parker forward, right in the eyes of the ship, alone. He was gazing out across the smooth, unblemished sea to the hard gray line of the horizon, his face a picture of grief.
“Why? Why do they force my hand in this way?” Parker mouthed.
Kydd mumbled something, but his own mind was in a chaos of feeling. Just hours ago they were dictating terms to the King himself, now they were trapped in their own impregnable lair. He could see nothing but the blackness of defeat ahead. Their mighty fleet was impotent—they would rot in place until … Kydd forced himself to the present. “What was that ye said, Dick?”
Parker turned to him with an intense expression of noble suffering. “My friend, by their stubbornness, stupidity and malice they have forced me into the position where there is only the final sanction, the last move in the game. They insult us to think we would carry the fleet over to the enemy, for they’ve shown by their actions last night that this is their concern. Very well, this is barred to us. But this we can do. I have ten thousand men and a thousand guns at my command. At the expiry of our ultimatum, if the King is led by false advice to deny us our right, then we sail, upriver, to the capital. There we shall demand our due, and if not we shall with broadsides reduce the City to utter ruin.”
“Yer mad bastard, ye’ve lost y’r mind!” shouted the Lancaster delegate.
“Damn yer blood, c’n ye think of a better?” snarled Hulme.
Kydd put down his pen. In the violent discussions nothing was being decided. “Mates, do we have t’ fire on London t’ get our way? Is this the only thing t’ do?”
“Shut yer face, Kydd, you ain’t a delegate,” snapped Blake.
Hulme added, “An’ yeah, if it saves our necks, cully.”
“I don’ like this a-tall,” MacLaurin, delegate of Lancaster, said. “Can’t be right, firin’ on our own, like that. There’s kitlings ’n’ all ashore, like t’ stop a ball. I tell yer, we—”
Kydd was nauseous, his head ready to burst. He excused himself, went to the captain’s sea cabin and pulled out the victualing list. Some ships were running far short of proper rations.
“Director needs six tons o’ water b’ sundown, Mr. Kydd.” It was the dour purser’s steward of the ship; he had asked before, but Kydd had been caught up with the endless arguments in the Great Cabin.
“Ye can’t have any now,” Kydd snapped.
“I asked ye yesterday forenoon, Mr. Kydd.”
“Goddamn it t’ hell! Listen, the water hoy won’t come ’cos the dockyard maties want t’ slit our throats, Proserpine’s waterin’ party was all took b’ the soldiers, an’ Leopard thinks now a good time t’ find her water foul ’n’ wants more fr’m the fleet.”
“I said, Director needs ’er water,” the purser’s steward repeated obstinately.
Blind rage surged up. “You come here pratin’ on y’r problems—y’ fuckin’ shaney prick, you—you—Get out! Out!”
The man left soundlessly, leaving Kydd to hold his head in his hands.
How long could he hold on? Pulled apart by his loyalty to the navy and that to his shipmates, in a maelstrom of half-belief in the wickedness of the highest in the land, he had now to come to terms with the prospect, if the mutineers voted it, of doom and destruction to the heart of his country.
He threw himself out of the suffocating closeness of the cabin, needing the open sky and air. At the main shrouds he stopped, breathing heavily. He grabbed one of the great black ropes, wanting to feel in his hands its thickness, its seamanlike simplicity. He looked up at the towering maintop: its stark, uncompromising outline was urgent with warlike strength, yet in its form there was also grace and beauty for those who knew the sea.
Not long afterward red flags descended on three of the smaller ships and were replaced by white. Fighting could be seen on the decks of one, and the red flag ascended once more, but the other two slipped away around the point to the dockyard, and safety.
Parker came on deck. “They’re deserting their shipmates!” he called loudly. “Damn them to hell, don’t we say, men?” There were weak cheers and cursing from those in earshot. But Kydd could see he was pale and shaking.
“There goes Leopard, the bloody dogs!” someone called excitedly.
Fearon, delegate to the Le
opard, raised his fists. “I know the gibfaced shab ’ut did that. When I get aboard …”
The bigger 50-gun ship slid away with the tide. Others in the fleet opened fire on her but she made her escape. Then it was the turn of Repulse—but her furtive setting of sails had been spotted by the alerted fleet and guns started to go off.
“Captain Davis, call away my barge,” shouted Parker. “I’m going to send those beggars to the devil by my own hand, see if I don’t!” The boat put off, and pulled madly for Director.
Repulse’s sails caught the wind and she heeled, gathering way. Parker scrambled up the side of Director and could be seen arguing with her gun crews—they had not opened up on Repulse as she slipped away—but then Repulse suddenly slewed and stopped, hard aground.
Parker flew into his boat again, and stood in the sternsheets wildly urging on its crew as it made for Monmouth, the closest to the stranded ship. He swarmed up the side and ran to her fo’c’sle. An indistinct scrimmage could be seen around a nine-pounder. Then it fired—and again.
Kydd watched in misery as Monmouth and other ships poured fire on Repulse. All the high-minded sacrifice, hard work and dedication, the loyalty and trust, now crumbling into vicious fighting.
Hundreds of Sheerness folk lined the foreshore to watch as the mutineers” guns thundered, the stink of powder smoke drifting in over them. They would have something to tell their grandchildren, Kydd thought blackly.
Miraculously, Repulse seemed unscathed through the storm of fire. Then Kydd understood why Savage splashes and spouts rose all around the ship, none on target, an appalling standard of gunnery—the gunners were firing wide.
The masts of Repulse changed their aspect as the ship floated free with the tide. She spread more canvas, eased off and away.
The night passed interminably. The ultimatum would expire at two in the afternoon. Would they then go to the capstans, bend on sail and set course for London? By this time tomorrow the biggest city in the world might be a smoking ruin—an impossible, choking thought.
Kydd couldn’t sleep. He went on deck: the lights of the fleet were all around, the three-quarter moon showing the row guards pulling slowly around the periphery of the anchorage. His eyes turned to other lights glimmering on shore. In the nightmare of the past few days he had not had time to think of Kitty. What would she be feeling now? Would she think badly of him? Had she already fled into the country?
His breast burned and, as he looked up at the stars, a terrible howl escaped into the night.
In the morning Parker appeared. There were dark rings around his eyes. “Good day to you, Tom,” he said quietly. “My deliberations are done. And they are that we cannot do this thing. I am preparing a petition asking only that we receive pardon. We send this to the Admiralty today.”
An hour later, Captain Knight of Montagu arrived in a boat. He carried the King’s reply. In the plainest words possible King George comprehensively condemned the actions of the mutineers and utterly refused to entertain any further communication.
Captain Knight carried back Parker’s petition by return.
When the news emerged, there was outrage at Parker’s betrayal. Director and Belliqueux shifted moorings to the bow of Sandwich to put her under their guns, and the wait resumed. At noon the fleet began to prepare for sea—sail bent on ready for loosing, lines faked out for running, topmen at their posts.
“Is the signal gun charged?” Parker hailed.
“Ye’re not goin’ ahead with it?” Kydd’s voice broke with anguish.
“I am their president, they have voted for it, I will do my duty,” he said woodenly, turning away to consult his fob watch. “It is now two. You may fire, if you please.”
The six-pounder cracked spitefully, and from all around the fleet came acknowledging gunfire. Capstans were manned, topmen lay out on the yard ready to loose sail. It was their final throw.
But a noise was heard, a swelling roar of voices, that welled up from the farthest reaches of all the ships. Fierce arguments, louder rejoinders, fighting—but not a capstan turned or a ship moved.
The seamen had decided: the mutiny was over.
They had fired on the King’s ships, stood as a deadly threat to the government of the day and repudiated the King’s Pardon. There would be no limit to the Admiralty’s vengeance. It left Kydd numb, in a floating state between nightmare and reality, but also with a paradoxical sense of relief that all the striving, doubt and uncertainty were now resolved forever.
He stood on the fo’c’sle with Parker, watching boats full of soldiers heading for any ship flying a white flag. The first made for them.
“It’s finished f’r us, Dick,” Kydd said, in a low voice, “but we face it when it comes.”
Parker crossed to the ship’s side and gripped a line. “History reached out and touched me, Tom. Did I fail? Was it all in vain?”
Kydd could find no words to reply. He noticed the white of Parker’s knuckles and saw that he was only just in control.
“Any with a shred of humanity could not stand by and see those men groan under the burden of their miseries. I could not!” He turned to Kydd, eyes bright. “So you might say I am the victim—of the tenderest human emotion.”
He resumed his dogged stare at the approaching boats. “They could only ever see us as a mortal threat, never as sailors with true cause for complaint. At any time they could have remedied our situation and claimed our loyalty, but they never did. Instead they bitterly opposed everything we put forward. They offered redress and pardon at Spithead, but to us nothing.”
He heaved a deep breath. “I was the one that the illiterate, baseborn seamen turned to when they needed a leader—they elected me to achieve their goals, but… It grieves me to say it, my friend, but the material I had at my command was not of the stuff from which is wrought the pure impulse of a glorious cause. They were fractious, hot-tempered, impatient and of ignoble motives. In short, Tom, my friend, I was betrayed.”
The approaching boat came alongside, and the unbending Admiral the Lord Keith came aboard.
“Which one of you is Richard Parker?”
The president of the delegates walked toward him. “I am.”
“Then I arrest you in the King’s name. Provost corporal, do your duty.”
Parker smiled briefly.
“That will do. I’ll be back for the others. Get him ashore.”
Kydd watched Parker move to the ship’s side. He turned once toward him, then disappeared.
The boat returned, and Kydd was ordered aboard with others for the journey ashore. A numb state of resignation insulated him from events, but when they approached the small dockyard wharf his heart nearly failed him. Nothing had prepared him for the degradation, the baying crowd, the noise and the shame. Hoots of derision, small boys playing out a hanging, the hisses of cold hatred—and Kitty, her face distorted and tear-streaked.
Flanked by soldiers who kept the crowds at a safe distance, the seamen shuffled off, shackled in pairs with clumsy manacles. They were taken to the fort, searched at the guardhouse and then on toward the garrison chapel. Under the chapel were the cells; dark, dank and terrifying. And there Kydd waited for his fate.
Renzi watched Kydd, with the others, stumble out of sight into the fort. He forced his mind to rationality: Kydd’s incarceration in the fastness of the garrison with two regiments of soldiers in the guard was unfortunate for his plan. He would, in probability, be moved like Parker to the security of Maidstone Jail until the court-martial. This would be at night, and without warning.
The whole plan hinged on communicating with Kydd, passing on the vital message—and, of course, Kydd playing his part without question. But if he could not even make contact?
Condemned men—and Kydd was as good as condemned—had a certain unique position, and it was permitted that they could be visited by loved ones; no one would question a woman’s privilege in this regard.
“O’ course, you’d be meanin’ Kitty Malkin. Sh
e’s over on t’ next one, Queen Street.”
She didn’t answer the door, but Renzi saw inside through the curtained window that there was a light. He knocked and waited, feeling conspicuous. Eventually the door opened, and a rumpled and tear-stained Kitty appeared.
“I hesitate to intrude at this sad time, Miss Malkin, but do you remember me?”
She looked at him without interest. “No, sir, I do not.”
“I am the particular friend of Thomas Kydd.” Her eyes flared but she said nothing. “Please, don’t be alarmed. I come to you to see if you will do him a service. A particular service, which may be the means of saving him from an untimely end.”
“Why did ye not save him afore now, may I be s’ blunt as to remark it?”
“A long story er, Kitty. It is a simple enough thing—a message needs to be passed to him, that is all. You may be sure there is no danger or inconvenience to you—”
“You know I will! Who are you, sir?”
“I am Nicholas Renzi, and my friendship with Thomas begins with his very first ship. Please believe that since then we have been through much together.”
“What do ye want me t’ do, Mr. Renzi?”
Outside the Great Cabin of HMS Neptune, anchored off Greenhithe, the first batch for trial sprawled listlessly in leg irons. Among them was Thomas Kydd, mutineer.
The numbness was still there but the misery had reached everincreasing depths. The shame he was bringing on his family—his father would be trying to hold up his head in Guildford town, and his sister, Cecilia, would hear and her hero worship of Kydd would die, her own situation with a noble family perhaps threatened.
He tried to move position. The clanking irons drew irritation from the other prisoners and a glare from the deputy provost marshal. The nightmare days before the end had left him exhausted and ill; lack of sleep was now sapping his will to live.
Mutiny Page 30
