Mutiny (27 page)
Lane finished
resentfully, 'No court martial — barring the cap'n only, I should say, an' the
cap'n, first luff an' not forgettin' the bo'sun, all gets turned out o' their
ship, just as they says.'
'That's
all?'
'Is all,' confirmed
Lane, "ceptin' they gets a pardon, every one.'
The surprised grunts
that this received were quickly replaced by a thoughtful quiet. Cockburn
soberly interjected: 'This is different. At Spithead it's not just one ship
but the whole fleet. The Admiralty will never forgive them — there'll be
corpses at every yardarm for months.'
'I saw in Th' Times the
mutineers are talkin' to Parliament, even got 'em to print their demands in th'
paper. It's already past the Admiralty - wouldn't be surprised if Billy Pitt
himself ain't involved,' Kydd said.
'Good Lord! I didn't know that.'
Cockburn appeared shaken by the news. 'If that's so then this - well, it's
never gone so far before. Anything can happen.'
Lane's face
tightened. 'O' course, you knows what this means f'r us . ..'
'It's
about to start here,' said Cockburn.
The gunner gave a hard
smile. 'No, mate. What it means is that Parlyment has t' finish this quick —
that means they'll be askin' us an' the North Sea fleet t' sail around to
Spithead an' settle it wi' broadsides.'
'No!'
Kydd gasped.
'C'n
you think else?' Lane growled.
'Could be. Supposin'
it's like y'r Windsor Castle an' they agree t' do something. Then it's all
settled, we don't need t' sail.'
'You're both forgetting
the other possibility,' Cockburn said heavily.
'Oh?'
'That
the Spithead mutiny spreads here to the Nore.'
A wash of foreboding
shook Kydd. Out there in the night unknown dark forces were tearing at the
setded orderliness of his world, upheavals every bit as threatening as the
despised revolution of the French.
'Need t' get me head
down,' muttered Morice. 'Are ye—' The little group froze. From forward came a
low rumble, more felt than heard. It grew louder — and now came from the upper
deck just above. It came nearer, louder, ominous and mind-freezing: it seemed
to be coming straight for them, thunderous and unstoppable.
Then, abruptly, the
noise ceased and another rumble from forward began its fearful journey towards
them. Unconsciously the surgeon's mate gripped his throat and, wide-eyed, they
all stared upward. The gunner and carpenter spoke together ‘Rough music!'
This was a rough and
ready but effective way for seamen to let the quarterdeck know of serious
discontent. In the blackness of night on deck, a twenty-four-pounder cannon
ball from the ready-use shot garlands would be rolled along the deck aft, the
culprit impossible to detect.
It was nearly upon them
— whatever storm it was that lay ahead.
They were waiting for him at the
fore jeer bitts, hanking down after re-reeving a foreyard clew-line block,
making a show of it in the process. Standing in deliberate, staged groups, eyes
darted between them.
Kydd saw the signs and
tensed. 'Ah, Mr Kydd,' Jewell said carefully, inspecting critically the coil of
line in his hand as though looking for imperfections.
'Aye, Nunky,' Kydd
replied, just as carefully. The others stopped what littie work they were doing
and watched.
'Well, Tom, mate,
we're puzzled ter know what course we're on, these things we hear.'
'What
things, Nunky? The catblash y'r hearing about—'
'The
actions at Spithead, he means, of course.'
Kydd turned to Farnall, sizing him up.
'And what've y' heard that troubles ye so much?' He was not surprised that
Farnall was there.
'As
much as you, I would say,' Farnall said evenly.
Kydd. coloured. 'A set o'
mumpin' villains, led like sheep t' play their country false, the sad dogs.'
Farnall
raised an eyebrow. 'Sad dogs? Not as who would call the brave victors of St
Vincent, just these three months gone.'
Pent-up feeling
boiled in Kydd and, knocking Jewell aside, he confronted Farnall. 'You an' y'r
sea-lawyer ways, cully, these 'r' seamen ye're talkin' of, fine men ye'd be
proud t' have alongside you out on the yard, gale in y' teeth - what d' ye know
o' this, y' haymakin' lubber?'
Jewell spoke from
behind. 'Now, Mr Kydd, he's no sailor yet, but haul off a mort on 'im, he's
tryin'.'
Breathing deeply, Kydd was taken
unawares by the depth of his anger: Farnall was only an unwitting representative
of the rabid forces of the outside world that were tearing apart his share of
it. 'Aye, well, if ye runs athwart m' hawse again .. .'
'Understood, Mr Kydd,' said Farnall,
with a slight smile.
Kydd looked around and glowered; the
group drifted apart and left under his glare, but Boddy remained, fiddling with
a rope's end.
'Will?' Kydd would
trust his life with someone like Boddy: he was incapable of deceit or trickery
and was the best hand on a sail with a palm and needle, the sailmaker included.
'Tom, yer knows what's
in th' wind, don' need me ter tell yez.'
Kydd didn't speak for a
space, then he said, 'I c'n guess. There's those who're stirrin' up mischief
f'r their own reasons, an' a lot o' good men are goin' to the yardarm 'cos of
them.'
Boddy let the rope
drop. 'Farnall, he admires on Wilkes - yer dad probably told yer, "Wilkes
'n' Liberty!" an' all that.'
'I don't hold wi'
politics at sea,' Kydd said firmly. 'An' don't I recollect Wilkes is agin the
Frenchy revolution?'
'Aye, that may be so,'
Boddy said uncomfortably, 'but Farnall, he's askin' some questions I'm vexed
ter answer.'
'Will,
ye shouldn't be tellin' me this,' Kydd muttered.
Boddy looked up
earnestly. 'Like we sent in petitions 'n' letters an' that — how many, yer
can't count — so th' Admiralty must know what it's like. They've got ter! So if
nothin' happens, what does it mean?'
He paused, waiting for Kydd to respond.
When he didn't, Boddy said, 'There's only one answer, Tom.' He took a deep
breath. 'They don't care! We're away out of it at sea, why do they haveta
care?'
'Will, you're telling
me that ye're going t' trouble th' Lords o' the Admiralty on account of a piece
o' reasty meat, Nipcheese gives y' short measure—'
'Tom, ye knows it's
worse'n that. When I was a lad, first went ter sea, it were better'n now. So I
asks ye, how much longer do we have ter take it — how long, mate?'
'Will,
y're talkin' wry, I c'n see that—'
'Spithead, they're doin' the right thing
as I sees it. No fightin', no disrespeck, just quiet-like, askin' their country
ter play square with 'em, tryin'—'
'Hold
y'r tongue!' Kydd said harshly.
Boddy stopped, but
gazed at him steadily, and continued softly, 'Some says as it could be soon
when a man has t' find it in himself ter stand tall f'r what's right. How's
about you, Mr Kydd?'
Kydd felt his control slipping. Boddy
knew that he had overstepped - but was it deliberate, an attempt to discover
his sympathies, mark him for elimination in a general uprising, or was it a
friend and shipmate trying to share his turmoil?
Kydd turned away.
In what he had said Boddy was guilty of incitement to mutiny; if Kydd did not
witness against him he was just as guilty. But he could not - and realised that
a milestone had been passed.
He did not sleep well: as an
eight-year-old he had been badly shaken when his mother had returned from a
London convulsed by mob rioting, Lord Gordon's ill-advised protest lurching out
of control. She had been in a state of near-panic at the breakdown of
authority, the drunken rampages and casual violence. Her terror had planted a
primordial fear in Kydd of the dissolution of order, a reflexive hatred of
revolutionaries, and in the darkness he had woken from terrifying dreams of
chaos and his shipmates turned to ravening devils.
Glad when morning came, he sat down to
breakfast in the gunroom. The others ate in silence, the navy way, until
Cockburn pushed back his plate and muttered, 'I have a feeling in m' bowels,
Tom.'
'Oh?' Kydd answered cautiously. This was
not like Cockburn at all.
'Last night there was no play with the shot-rolling.
It was still, too quiet by half. Have you heard anything from your people?'
'I heard 'em talkin'
but no thin' I c'n put my finger on,' he lied.
'All it needs is some hothead.' Cockburn
stared morosely at the mess-table.
Kydd's dream still cast
a spell and he was claustrophobic. 'Going topsides,' he said, but as he got to
his feet, the gunroom servant passed a message across.
There was no mistaking
the bold hand and original spelling, and a smile broke through. This had
obviously been brought aboard by a returning libertyman.
'The sweet Dulcinea
calls?' Cockburn asked drily. It was no secret in the gunroom that Kydd's dark
good looks were an unfailing attraction to females.
He
broke the wafer.
It wood greeve me if we are not to be frends any
moor and I wood take it kindly in yuo if you could come visit for tea with me.
Yoor devoted
Kitty
His day brightened: he could
probably contrive another visit that afternoon — after his experience in an
Antiguan dockyard he was good at cozening in the right quarters. Stepping
lightly he arrived on deck; it was a clear dawn, promising reliable weather for
the loosing and drying of the headsails.
The duty watch of
the hands appeared; the afterguard part-of-ship rigged the wash-deck hose and
the morning routine started. Kydd could pace quietly one side of the
quarterdeck until the petty officer was satisfied with clean decks and then he
could collect the hands.
He tried to catch a glimpse of their
temper. He knew all the signs — the vicious movements of frustration, the
languid motions of uncaring indolence — but today was different. There was a
studied blankness in what they were doing; they worked steadily, methodically,
with little of the backchat usual in a tedious job. It was unsettling.
His musing was
interrupted by the approach of a duty midshipman. 'Mr Kydd, ol’ Heavie Hawley
wants to see you now.'
Kydd's heart gave a
jump. With the captain ashore, the first lieutenant was in command, and for
some reason wanted his presence immediately. He stalled: 'An' I don't
understan' y'r message, y' swab - say again.'
'First l'tenant asks
that you attend him in his cabin, should you be at liberty to do so at this
time.'
'I shall be happy t'
attend shortly,' Kydd replied guardedly, and the reefer scuttled off.
It could be anything,
but with increasing apprehension he remembered his talk with Boddy. If anyone
had overheard, or had seen that it had not been followed by instant action to
take the matter aft, he was in serious trouble.
Removing his worn round
hat, he hurried down to the wardroom and the officers' cabins. The polished
dark red of the first lieutenant's cabin door looked ominous. He knocked.
'Come in.' Hawley's
aristocratic tones were uncompromising, whoever he addressed. He was at his
desk, writing. He looked up, then carefully replaced his quill in the holder
and swivelled round. 'Ah, Mr Kydd.' His eyes narrowed. 'I've asked you here on
a matter of some seriousness.'