Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  The hull of the enemy ship loomed through the gunports in the thinning smoke; dull black, with signs of cannon strike everywhere and jerking activity at her gunports. Their own guns crashed out. Triumph’s gun crews worked savagely, needing no goading. Smoke swirled thickly back into the gundeck, obscuring everything. A mounting warrior’s bloodlust set Kydd’s heart aflame for victory.

  There was no pretense at aiming; fire was general. “Double shotting!” Kydd bellowed. As the two balls diverged at the muzzle, aim would be affected but the damage would be broadened and doubled. “Smash it in ’em, lads!” he bawled. Yet in the wildness of the battle Kydd felt a serenity, the calm of a dedicated ferocity that he knew would take him through anything.

  High screams close by—a young powder monkey with his lower body soaked in blood, pulling himself helplessly away on his elbows. Kydd motioned to an opposite gun crew to carry the lad below.

  A wrecked gun, its barrel askew and carriage in pieces, its crew in a moaning, bloody heap, was being cleared of its dead, tumbled out of the gunport to the sea below.

  Then, unbelievably, a messenger appeared, shrilling urgently, “Cease firing!” The crews, working like automatons, checked their fire and subsided into a trembling stillness. Kydd ran to the side and looked out. Roiling gunsmoke still hid much of the enemy, but there was an unnatural quiet aboard their adversary. Confused shouting from behind caused Kydd to turn around—but then came cheering, and maniac roars of jubilation. The enemy had struck!

  It was ironic, thought Renzi, that when he had been reassigned to another ship at the last minute it had been this one, Tenacious, and within weeks of his final retirement from the sea he was headed into his second major fleet action in a year.

  He knew Kydd had been shipped in Triumph, and there she was, the other side of Duncan’s Venerable. He hoped that the lottery of war would spare his friend, whom he had not seen since their farewell in Sheerness—but this was going to be no stately fight against unwilling Spanish allies.

  The Dutch were rightly proud of their maritime past, yet at the same time would be fearing the submergence of their national identity following their defeat and occupation by the French. If they could rise victorious over a field of war on their own, this would be preserved. It would be a sanguinary conflict indeed.

  Renzi’s post was at the quarterdeck nine-pounder battery. He would see what was developing, a mercy compared to the hell of a gundeck below, but he would be a target for enemy musketry. At least if he survived he could retire to the estate with as unique a claim to fame as any in the county set, he mused.

  The enemy opened fire. It would be a hard thing to achieve, a breaking of the line, but Venerable led the division nobly, her signal for close action seemingly nailed in place. The fire got hotter. A ball slammed through a file of marines and left bloody corpses in its wake. Twice Renzi staggered at the vicious slap of wind from a near miss.

  He forced his mind to float free, calmly observing his actions and freeing his thoughts of a vortex of anxiety—it was the only rational course.

  Venerable was close to starboard, clearly heading for the enemy flagship. Tenacious kept faithful station on her, and when they were closer Renzi could see she was going around the stern of de Winter’s ship to deliver a crushing, raking fire—but her next astern bravely closed the gap and Venerable had to bear away to round her instead.

  Tenacious, a humble 64, found herself alone in taking on the big Dutch flagship. As she swung to bring her own broadside to bear, the space between the two filled with acrid powder smoke and a devastating storm of shot. The enemy were not, like the French, aiming for rigging and spars to disable the ship. Instead they were smashing their shot home directly into the hull of their opponent in a brutal prizefight.

  There were no broadsides now; both ships at less than a hundred yards’ range pounded to the limits of endurance. The air was torn by the whir of chain-shot, the heavy slam of thirty-two-pound balls, the vicious wasplike hum of bullets—the whole against the continuous noise of guns and shattered timbers and the dry reek of gunpowder smoke.

  Men struck by balls were blown into pieces like sides of beef in a butcher’s shop or were disemboweled in an instant; those hit by splinters shrieked in agony as they were skewered. Renzi saw a midshipman, then the signal lieutenant drop in their tracks, and over at a disabled nine-pounder a corpse exuded blood that made tracks on the deck as the ship rolled and heaved.

  The captain dropped to his knees with a bloody graze on his head, then crumpled to the deck; a midshipman started weeping, the pain from a crushed foot overcoming his young attempt at bravery. Renzi paced along the deck, watching his nine-pounder crews throwing everything into a frenzied cycle of violence, and ferociously excluded the logical probability that his own survival was in doubt.

  He turned, and started to pace back the other side. Something like a horse’s kick from behind threw one of his legs from under him. He fell to the deck. There was no immediate pain, and he scrabbled about trying to locate the source of a growing numbness, then noted spreading blood on the scrubbed deck. He sat up, trying to rise, but then the hot pain began and he flopped down again.

  “Get yez below, mate,” said an out-of-breath gun captain, who lifted his arms. In shock, Renzi fell back while another took his feet in an awkward carry-and-drag to the blood-smeared hatchway. They bumped him down the ladder and staggered around to lower him down the next.

  On the orlop it was a scene from hell. The entire deck was carpeted in wounded, an operating table contrived from midshipmen’s chests in the center. But the surgeon was not there; he with his loblolly boys could only move about the stream of wounded, as they came down, trying their best to ease their suffering.

  Renzi was placed on an old piece of canvas, which was rapidly soaked with blood from his wound. He lay light-headed in the infernal gloom, listening to groans and cries. But there were also cheers of encouragement and bravery from some of those who would soon face the knife and saw. The back of his leg throbbed with increasing pain and he wondered abstractly if he would lose it.

  A lanthorn bobbed nearer. It was the surgeon and his helper. In the navy way men were seen in the strict order they were carried below, no matter the severity of their wounds. Renzi waited for his turn, hearing the noise and shaking of the gundeck in action above.

  The surgeon in his black smock, stiff with bloodstains, turned to him. His eyes were glazed. “Where is the wound, if you please?” he said, kneeling beside Renzi.

  Renzi tried to turn over but could not. The two loblolly boys—older men no longer suitable for work on deck—rotated him. He felt the surgeon’s hands rip away clothing and tensed for the knife, but after a pause and cursory poke the surgeon straightened. “You’re lucky, my man. Superficial tissue loss but well need to staunch the blood.” He probed the area. Renzi could feel the man’s breath around the wound. “Yes, fit for duty in weeks. You know what to do,” he told the loblollies; then he was gone.

  The excruciating pain of a vinegar solution on the raw flesh brought tears to his eyes, but relief was unfolding in a tide of emotion—he would not suffer under the saw. A dressing, a tourniquet; additional pain came from the biting cord. Then the indignity of being dragged to a farther corner to recover—or die.

  Somewhere outside the battle’s fury continued; the fabric of Tenacious shuddered with savage blows. On deck it would be chaos, but the cruel logic of war meant that duty must be done and the battle fought irrespective of the hideous scenes.

  Renzi rolled to his side in discomfort. Then he noticed the glint of gold lace being carried down the hatchway. It was the first lieutenant, his head lolling ominously to one side. The quarterdeck was being cleared fast.

  * * *

  Possession of their prize—Wassenaar—released Triumph for hotter work. Passing Venerable and Tenacious she rounded into the enemy line again, laying herself bow to bow with a yellow-sided man-o’-war.

  Her guns opened again with a thun
derous broadside, which was answered with equal venom by their opponent—but having practiced over long weeks at sea the English guns spoke faster and truer. Kydd, below, drove on his men with bellows of encouragement as the side of their opponent bulked just yards away.

  But Triumph was coming under fire from another quarter. A previously untouched Dutch ship had approached and opened up on her opposite side. Kydd was taken by surprise at the sudden irruption of cannon fire—but almost immediately the sea was lit by a flash, and a sullen boom rolled over the waves.

  The enemy fire slackened and stopped. A ruddy glow tinged the sea. Fire! Kydd stooped to look out, and saw, only a few hundred yards off, the attacking warship lit by a spreading blaze near the base of the mainmast. Something must have touched off powder on deck, and if the flames reached tarred rigging and sails she would turn into a fire ship, a danger to friend and foe on the crowded sea.

  Kydd turned back to his task and saw that the yellow-streaked ship’s angle away had changed and, after another exchange of fire, she could be seen gathering way: she was fleeing! Triumph continued on to wear around; she was keeping clear from the burning ship and falling back to support the hard-pressed Venerable. Kydd set about squaring up.

  In the lull a midshipman messenger hurried down the ladder to Kydd. “Captain desires your report, if y’ please.”

  Kydd tried to keep his mind calm as he emerged on deck. Triumph was cut about grievously, wreckage strewn about, ropes trailing from aloft, blood smears on the deck. This was his first sight of the open battlefield. While he hurried aft, his eyes took in the vastness of the scene: ships in every direction at every angle, boats in the water, cannon splashes around ships still under fire, an immense pall of smoke over the whole area.

  “You, er, Kydd?” The captain was obviously in pain, his arm in an improvised sling, his face blackened and red.

  “Sir.”

  “Lieutenant Monckton?”

  “Regret he’s still unconscious, sir. I have him on th’ gratings ’midships so if he comes to …”

  “Quite right. And the guns?”

  “Number seven larb’d dismounted, number nine larb’d has a blown vent bushing. Lost a truck off number six stb’d, but the crew is managin’. Er, we lost six men on number seven, an’ there’s a total of—let me see—thirteen been taken below.” Kydd added, “We c’n still give ye a full broadside less two t’ larb’d, an’ all to starb’d, but could be pressed t’ fight both sides. But, sir, we’re in fine spirits, don’t worry of us.”

  Captain Essington nodded slowly, looking closely at Kydd.

  “Sir, may I know—f’r the others—how’s the day?”

  Essington smiled grimly. “You see there,” he pointed to the south, “the starb’d division has taken all five of their opponents and are bearing up to join us. And there,” he indicated the ships they were steering for locked together in the throes of combat, “that is their flagship, and she has lost all her masts, and fights three of our ships. I rather fancy she will strike soon—and the day will then be won.”

  Kydd touched his hat and went below. Monckton was still unconscious, breathing heavily, so Kydd tried to make him comfortable and turned back to the task of clearing away the debris of battle.

  A swelling roar of cheers sounded on deck followed by a shout at the ladderway. “She’s struck! The Dutchy admiral threw it in!” The cheers were instantly taken up on the gundeck by Kydd’s men, smoke-grimed, bloody, but victorious—and in that moment all the emotional tensions of recent events melted away for Kydd. He punched the air with rediscovered pride.

  The deck heeled once more, staying at an angle. They were wearing around to the north again, seeking new opponents. Kydd leaned from a gunport; two or three vessels could be seen away to the north, but the guns of all those nearer were silent. The background rumble and thunder of heavy guns was no longer there.

  The battle was over.

  It was hard, having to work at the pumps, repair the shot-torn rigging, and sluice the decks of blood smears and endless smoke stains without the urgency of battle. But it was very necessary, for if the Dutch had any reinforcements they might descend on the weary, battered English and quickly reverse the verdict of the day.

  Lines of battle dissolved. Beaten ships, now the prizes of war, bent on sail and set course for England while the men-o’-war lay together, working repairs for the voyage home.

  “Mr. Kydd—passing the word for Mr. Kydd!” He looked up. “T’ attend the captain,” the messenger said importantly, “in his quarters.”

  Monckton was recovering in his cabin, the guns had spoken faithfully. He should not have any cause for worry.

  The captain’s door was open, a stream of people entering and leaving while he and his clerk sat behind a desk of papers.

  “Kydd, sir?”

  A flustered, battle-worn Essington looked up briefly. The redness in his face had turned to a bruising, and he had not yet changed his clothes. “Go to Monarch, they’re expecting you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Now, if you please, sir,” said Essington irritably.

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Kydd said hastily, wondering what his mission could be.

  The boat joined others crisscrossing between other ships. Close to he could see that the sea was speckled with pieces of wreckage, some as big as spars, some smaller unidentifiable fragments. His eyes lifted to the loose cluster of men-o’-war ahead, every one showing where they had endured.

  Monarch was the flagship of Onslow, vice admiral of the other division. Kydd went up the pockmarked side of the big 74 and, touching his hat, reported.

  The officer looked at him curiously. “Come with me.” He was escorted to the admiral’s Great Cabin. “Mr. Kydd, master’s mate, Triumph, sir.”

  Onslow put down his pen and came around his desk. The splendid blue and gold, the stars and epaulettes—all the grandeur of naval circumstance—brought to Kydd a surge of guilt and apprehension.

  “Ah, Mr. Kydd.” He looked appraisingly at Kydd, who stuttered something about his tattered, smoke-grimed appearance. “Nonsense, my boy. All in th’ line of duty. Well, now, you must be feelin’ proud enough that your captain speaks s’ highly of ye.”

  “Sir?” To his knowledge there was no reason that Essington could have even to mention his existence to such an august being.

  Onslow’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t know why ye’re here?” He chuckled quietly. “Then I’ll tell you. Since Admiral Duncan is entertainin’ the Dutch admiral, he’s left certain jobs to me. An’ one of’em is this. In the course o’ such a day, sadly there’s some ships have suffered more than others. Your captain was one o’ those asked to spare a suitable man t’ fill vacancies in these. He seems t’ think you’re suitable, so by the powers vested in me by the flag officer-in-command, I order that, as of this moment, ye’re to be known as Lieutenant Kydd.”

  “S-sir, I—I—”

  It was staggering—it was marvelous! It was frightening! It was—

  “Unusual name, that—Kydd. Don’ come from Guildford, b’ any chance?”

  “Sir—” He couldn’t speak. Feeling his face redden with pleasure, the broadest of smiles bursting out, he finally spluttered, “Aye, sir.”

  “Related t’ the Kydds who opened the navy school not so long past?”

  “M-my father, sir,” he said, in a near delirium of emotion.

  “A fine school f’r Guildford. Like t’ pay my respects to y’r father at some time.”

  Speechless, Kydd accepted the precious letter of commission and turned to go.

  “And, Lieutenant, might I have the honor of takin’ your hand? It gives me a rare pleasure to know that Guildford can still produce fightin’ seamen. Ah—do ye not wish t’ know which ship?”

  “Sir?” Any ship that swam would do.

  “Tenacious sixty-four. Good fortune to ye, Mr. Kydd.”

  His heart full, Kydd tried to concentrate in the boat on its way to the battle-worn Tenacious. But he w
as a lieutenant! An officer! A—gentleman! His universe spun as he attempted to readjust his worldview; strictly, his father should touch his forelock to him, his mother curtsy when introduced—and what would they say in Guildford?

  But what about Renzi, supposing they ever met again? Would he accept him as a gentleman? Would they …

  His seabag and chest lay between his legs. When he had returned to Triumph to fetch them, Essington had cut short his thanks. “We were signaled for a suitable man. Do you wish to dispute my choice, sir? I know something of your history. Pray you will live up to your step—and the best of luck, Mr. Kydd.”

  This was absolute evidence for Kydd that the Admiralty held nothing against him over his support for the seamen; there could be no doubt now, no more feelings of guilt, betrayal or ambivalence. Now he was a naval officer, with all the rights and privileges. It was altogether incredible.

  Tenacious loomed. “Boat ahoy!” came the distant cry.

  “Aye-aye!” their bowman roared. Kydd started—but then, of course, he was the naval officer they carried! A long sigh came from the depths of his being.

  The boat hooked on, and Kydd sprang for the handropes. Impatiently he mounted the side, passing by an openmouthed boatswain’s mate at the entry-port. Embarrassed, he retraced his steps down and across to the entry port. He entered the carved portal, the silver call pealing out to all concerned that a naval officer was boarding Tenacious.

  “Sway aboard my dunnage, younker,” he told a duty midshipman.

  “Aye,” the youngster said.

  “What was that?” Kydd snapped.

  “Er, aye-aye, sir,” the midshipman corrected himself, stiffening and touching his hat.

  “Very well.” Kydd remembered too late that he still wore his master’s mate plain coat, and grinned at the discomfited lad. There would be time to find a uniform later. “Where’s the captain?” he asked.