Mutiny (19 page)
He passed down
the centreline of the ship, the sunlight patterning down through the hatchway
gratings, the odour of the salt pork and pease filling the close air of the
gundeck. Today there were not the lowered voices, glaring eyes or harsh curses
that usually preceded trouble, and he guessed that the useless quota hand had
gained few friends.
'Jeb.' He nodded
at a nuggety able seaman, who grinned back, winking his one remaining eye. No
bad blood, it seemed. This was a man Kydd had seen to it drew duty as captain
of the heads after he had found him asleep in the tops. He could have taken the
man before the captain for a serious offence, but instead he was cleaning the
seats of ease each morning before the hands turned to.
As Kydd came abreast
the next pair of guns, a seaman got to his feet, hastily bolting a mouthful. It
was Boddy. 'First Sunday o' the month, next,' he said significantly.
'Aye,'
said Kydd, guessing what was coming.
'An'
I claims ter shift mess inter number six st'b'd.'
Kydd pursed his lips. 'They'll have ye?'
It was the right of every man to choose his messmates - and they him.
The first Sunday of the month was
when moves were made. What was a puzzle was that this was Farnall’s mess, a
landman's refuge, and he'd heard that Boddy and Farnall had tangled in
Gibraltar. He took out his notebook. 'I'll see first luff knows’ he said.
The indistinct blue-grey bluff of
Finisterre left astern, Achilles plunged and rolled on into the Bay of Biscay.
Kydd's heart was full: they were bound for England, to his home and hearth for
the first time after years that had seen him on a world voyage in a famous
frigate, in the Caribbean as a quartermaster in a trim little topsail cutter
and a full master's mate in a 64-gun ship-of-the-line. He would return to
Guildford a man of some consequence. 'Back to th' fleet - no chance of prize
money there,' he said to Cockburn, a grin belying his words.
The day faded to a
brisk evening, then night. The frigate had been called to heel, and her lights
twinkled and appeared over to larboard in the moonless dusk. Last dog-watchmen
were called, hammocks piped down and the watch-on-deck mustered. Achilles
sailed into the night, her watch expecting an uneventful time. The frigate's
lights faded ahead before midnight, but an alert lookout sighted them an hour
or two later on the opposite side, creeping back companionably.
The morning watch was
always a tense time, for enemy ships could appear out of the cold dawn light
and fall upon an unprepared vessel. As with most naval vessels, Achilles met
the dawn at quarters, ready for any eventuality.
A ship-of-the-line with
a frigate in company had little to fear, and as the light of day gradually
extended, the boredom of waiting saw gun-crews dozing, watch-on-deck relaxed,
captain not on deck.
The situation caught
everyone by surprise. In the strengthening light the comfortable but indistinct
loom of the frigate to starboard resolved by degrees into a much larger ship,
further off.
Eastman, the master, snatched the night
glass from Binney, the officer-of-the-watch, and sighted on the vessel. 'Blast
m' eyes if that ain't a Mongseer!' he choked. The telescope wavered slighdy.
'An' another comin' up fast!'
Binney snatched the
glass back. 'The captain,' he snapped, to a gaping midshipman.
Kydd crossed to the ship's side and
strained to make out the scene. The larger vessel, ship-rigged and just as
large as Achilles, was making no moves towards them. The tiny sails beyond were
the other ship that Eastman had spotted.
'Mr Binney?' Dwyer was
breathless and in his night attire.
'Sir, our frigate is
not in sight. The lights we saw during the night were this Frenchman, who it
seems thought ours were, er, some other. There's another of 'em three points to
weather.' He handed the telescope over.
The morning light was
strengthening rapidly and it was possible to make out details. 'Frenchy well
enough,' Dwyer murmured. As he trained the telescope on the ship, her masts
began to close, her length foreshorten. 'She's woken up — altering away.'
'Off
ter get with the other 'un,' offered someone.
'Yeeesss, I agree,'
Dwyer said, and handed back the telescope. 'Bear up, Mr Binney, and we'll go
after him.'
He turned to the master. 'What's our
offing from the French coast?'
'About twelve
leagues, sir.' Near to forty miles; but no ports of consequence near. The
captain's eyes narrowed, then he shivered and hurried below.
Kydd clattered down the
main hatchway; his place at quarters was the guns on the main deck forward,
under Binney. The captain and his officers were now closed up on the
quarterdeck, so he and Binney could assume their full action positions.
Low conversations started
among the waiting guncrews: a weighing of chances, exchanging of verbal wills,
a comparative estimate of sailing speeds — the age-old prelude to battle. Kydd
grimaced at the sight of the new hands, nervously chattering and fiddling with
ropes. Mercifully the course alteration to eastward was downwind, the complex
motion of before was now a gentle rise and fall as she paced the waves. The
landmen would at least have a chance of keeping their footing.
One had the temerity to
ask Poynter their chances. He stroked his jaw. 'Well, m' lad, seein' as we're
outnumbered two ter one, can't say as how they're so rattlin' good.' The man
turned pale. 'Should give it away, but the cap'n, bein' a right mauler, jus'
won't let 'em go, we has -ter go 'em even if it does fer us . . .' He drew
himself up, and scowled thunderously at the man. 'An' you'll be a-doin' of yer
dooty right ter the end, now, won't yez?'
Kydd himself was
feeling the usual qualms and doubts before an action, and when the man looked
away with a sick expression he smiled across at him encouragingly. There was no
response.
'Hey,
now!' An excited cry came from one of a gun-crew peering out of a gunport. 'She
ain't French, she's a Spaniard!'
Kydd pushed his way past the crew and
took a look. The larger vessel, stern to, had just streamed the unmistakable
red and yellow of the Spanish sea service. At the same time he saw that she had
not pulled away — but the other ship was much nearer, as tight to the wind as
she could.
Poynter appeared next
to Kydd, eagerly taking in the scene. Kydd glanced at him: his glittering,
predatory eyes and fierce grin was peculiarly reassuring.
'Ha!' Poynter snarled in triumph. 'Yer
sees that? She ain't a-flyin' a pennant — she's a merchant jack is she, the fat
bastard!' The stem-on view of the ship had hidden her true character, but
Poynter had spotted the obvious.
It seemed that on deck
they had come to the same conclusion, for above their heads there was a sudden
bang and reek of powder-smoke as a gun was fired to leeward to encourage the
Spaniard to strike her colours.
Binney couldn't resist,
and came over to join them at the gunport. 'She's a merchantman, you say.'
'She is,' said Poynter,
who saw no reason why he should enlighten an officer.
The fleeing ship did
not strike, and Kydd saw why: the other ship, the frigate, coming up fast must
be her escort. The odds were now reversed, however. He did not envy the
decision the frigate must take: to throw herself at a ship-of-the-line, even if
of the smallest type, or to leave the merchantman to her fate. A frigate escort
for just one merchant ship would see them safe against most, but a lone
ship-of-the-line on passage would not be expected.
'We'll soon see if we
win more than a barrel of guineas in prize money,' Binney said significantly.
This
drew Poynter's immediate interest. 'How so — sir?'
'Why, if the frigate sacrifices himself
for the merchantman we'll know he's worth taking. And if that's so, we may
well have a Spaniard on his way to the mines with mercury. I don't have to tell
you, that means millions ...'
His words flew along
the gundeck, and soon the gunports were full of men peering ahead, chattering
excitedly about their prospects. Another gun sounded above, but a stern chase
would be a long one especially as Achilles had no chase guns that would bear so
far forward, and with the French coast and safety lying ahead the Spaniard
would take his chances.
The Spanish frigate
tacked about; the combined effect of the run downwind and her own working to
windward towards them had brought her close - this tack would see her in a
position to interpose herself between Achilles and her prey.
'Stand to your guns!' bawled Binney.
Kydd pulled back from the bright daylight into the sombre shades of the
gundeck. All was in order, and he nodded slowly in satisfaction as he saw
gun-captains yet again checking carefully the contents of their pouches, the
quill tubes to ignite the main charge from the gunlock atop the breech, the
spring-loaded powder horn for the priming.
Kydd had been in ships
that had sailed into batde to the sound of stirring tunes from fife and drum,
but
Achilles went into action in a
lethal quiet, every order clear and easy to understand.
His stomach contracted - as much from
his delayed breakfast as anything. From his position on the centreline he could
see everything that happened inboard, but nothing of the wider sea scene.
But he could imagine:
Achilles crowding after the merchantman, the frigate coming across between them,
and in the best possible position for her — cutting across the bows of the
ship-of-the-line and thereby avoiding her crushing broadside, and at the same
time her own broadside would be ready to crash into Achilles's bow and rampage
down the full length of the bigger ship.
A cooler appreciation
told him that this was not something that an experienced captain would allow,
and Dwyer was nothing if not experienced. Going large, the wind astern, there
was the greatest scope for manoeuvrability, and at the right moment he would
haul his wind - wheel around closer to the westerly — to bring his whole
broadside to bear on the hapless frigate. They would lose ground on their
chase, but. . .
'Starb'd first, then to larb'd,' Binney
relayed. On the quarterdeck the captain had his plan complete: it was seldom
that a ship fought both sides at once, and here they would be able to have the
unengaged side gun-crews cross the deck to reinforce those in action. 'Mr Kydd,
I want the best gun-captains to starb'd, if you please.'
Kydd felt the ship turn, the sudden heel
making the deck sway before she steadied. He tensed. There was a muffled shout
from the main-hatchway, and Binney roared, 'Stand by!'
Kydd braced himself,
but these were only twenty-four-pounders; he had served great thirty-twos
before now. At the gun closest to him he saw one of the new hands. His eyes
were wild and his legs visibly shaking.
The distant shout
again, and instandy Binney barked, 'Fire!'
The crash of their
broadside with its deadly gunflashes playing through the smoke dinned on his
ears, the smoke in great quantities filling the air. Up and down the invisible
gundeck he heard the bellow of gun-captains as they whipped raw gun-crews into
motion.
They had got in their
broadside first. Such a brutal assault from two whole decks of guns would
utterly shatter the frigate - if they had aimed true. Kydd felt Achilles's
stately sway as she resumed her course; this she would not be doing if they had
failed.
'Larb'd guns!' Having
blasted the frigate to a standstill they would cross her bows and in turn
deliver a ruinous raking broadside, while at the same time be resuming their
pursuit.
He folded his arms and
smiled. There was little for him to do. Poynter and the other quarter-gunners
could be relied on to keep up the fire: his duty was for the graver part of an
action — if it was hot work, with casualties and damage, Kydd would need a cool
mind acting as deputy to the lieutenant of the gundeck, to see through carnage
and destruction to deploying men to continue the fight. But there was no chance
of that now.