Mutiny (29 page)
They emerged together
on deck - the spring sunshine out of keeping with the dire events taking place.
Kydd glanced up wistfully at the innocent blue sky. 'What has you planned f'r Achilles,
Will?' he said.
Boddy paused. Ter an
answer, ye needs ter know what's happened altogether, like.' He pursed his
lips. 'We feels they has a right steer on things in Spithead, Tom. They's
standin' f'r hard things that should've bin done an age back. What we're doin'
is giving 'em our backin', 'cos they need it. What we done is, we have two
delegates f'r each ship, an' a committee o' twelve. We decides things b' votes
an' that, Farnall knows all about this. An' we hold wi' discipline, Tom. We
won't have any as is half slued around the decks, not when we're so close t'
the wind like this'n.'
'Who's
y'r delegates?' Kydd asked.
'Coxall 'n' Farnall, but we got some
good men in th' committee. We already have rules o' conduct: no liquor aboard
wi'out it's declared, respects to officers, ship is kept ready f'r sea — an'
this is because we swear 'ut if the Mongseers sail on England, we're ready ter
do our dooty.'
Kydd looked
squarely at Boddy. 'Will, who's it behind this all — who organised it?' If
there was the barest whiff of French treachery he would have all his doubts
resolved, his duty clear.
'Why,
we're follering Spithead, is all, nothin' more.'
'No
Frenchies at the bottom of it, a-tall?'
'No, mate. If they noo
that the whole navy of Great Britain was hook down an' goin' nowhere, they'd
soon be crowdin' sail for England. They ain't, so there's no plot. They don't
even know.'
'But
there's someone takin' charge?'
'O'
course — someone has ter. Sandwich, she's the Parlyment ship, the committee o'
the fleet meets there. We has a president o' the delegates, name o' Dick
Parker. We'll see 'im soon, wouldn't wonder.' Boddy looked shrewdly at Kydd.
'Look, Tom, it's started, cuffin, an' mark my words, we're goin' to stand fast.
Now why doesn't ye come in wi' us? There's many a soul looks up ter you, would
take—'
Kydd's harsh reply
stilled Boddy's words, but the latter's eyes held reproach, sadness, which-
touched Kydd. Boddy glanced at him once, then turned and went below.
Kydd paced restlessly. If the likes of
Will Boddy had seen it necessary to hazard their lives to stand for what they
believed needed righting . . .
It had to be admitted,
the mutiny had been conducted on the strictest lines. The committee was even
preparing articles of conduct for preserving good order and naval discipline in
the face of the absence of authority, an amazing thing, given the
circumstances.
But most astonishing
was the mere fact that the complexity of daily life — the taking aboard of
stores to meet the needs of seven hundred men, the deployment of skilled hands
to maintain the miles of cordage and sea-racked timbers, the scaling of cannon
bores — was continued as before.
The noon meal was a cheerless
affair in the gunroom; the midshipmen were subdued, the senior hands edgy,
Cockburn introspective. It was made more so by the waves of jollity gusting
from the sailors on the gundeck relishing being in relaxed discipline.
Glad to return on deck and get away
from Cockburn's moodiness, Kydd kept out of the way of the sailors at the
gangway waiting to board the boats to take them ashore. Liberty tickets were
being issued on a generous scale. These were of the usual form to protect them
from the press-gang and prove them not deserters, but they were signed by a
delegate, not an officer.
A shout from the waist
caught Kydd's attention. Someone called out, 'An' if I'm not wrong that
longboat comin' under our stern now is 'imself come t' visit.'
Men ran to the ship's
side to catch a glimpse of the president. The boat curved widely, the men at the
oars pulling lustily in a play of enthusiasm. In the sternsheets was a
dark-featured man sitting bolt upright, looking neither to left nor right; he
did not acknowledge the surging cheers.
The boat hooked on, and
the passenger, wearing a stylish beaver hat and a blue coat with half-boots,
came down the boat. He clambered up the side, and there was a scramble among
the men at the top, a cry of 'Side!' A hurrying boatswain's mate arrived and,
with appropriate ceremony, President of the Delegates Richard Parker was piped
aboard HMS Achilles. Kydd held back at the parody, but was drawn in fascination
to the scene.
Parker carried himself
well and looked around with studied composure, his dark eyes intelligent and
expressive. He doffed his hat to Hawley, who had come on deck but did not
speak with him; he went forward, and stood on the fore gratings, folding his
arms, waiting for the men to come to him.
Sailors gathered
around, their talking dying away. 'Brother Tars,' he began, fixing with his
eyes first one man, then another. 'Your waiting is over. Your long wait for
justice, rights and true respect - is over.' His voice was educated, assured
and direct, but somewhat thin against the breeze and shipboard noises. 'We have
joined our brothers in Spithead, as they asked us, and even while we celebrate,
there are despatched our representatives to Yarmouth, to the North Sea
squadron, to beseech them also to join us. When they do, with Plymouth now
aroused, the entire navy of Great Britain will be arisen in our cause.'
Kydd listened,
unwilling to leave. The North Sea squadron! This was news indeed: the last
battle squadron left to Britain, the one strategically sited to confront the
Dutch and the entrance to the Baltic, if it mutinied then . ..
'This will make His Majesty's perverse
ministers sit up. It will show that we are steadfast, we mean to win entire
recognition of our grievances - and as long as we stand together and united, we
cannot fail.' Parker's eyes shone, as though he was personally touched by the
moment.
Scattered cheers rose
up, but there were as many troubled and uncertain faces.
'We are His Majesty's
most loyal and dutiful subjects. Our intentions are noble, our motions
virtuous. Why then do we, victims of a barbarous tyranny, have to clamour for
justice? I will tell you! King George is surrounded by corrupt and treacherous
advisers, but now they have been brought low, the scoundrels, by common seamen.
By us!'
Despite himself, Kydd
was transfixed by the scene. Here was the man who had pulled together seamen
from a dozen ships in common cause - so many hard men, tough seamen who had met
the enemy in battle and prevailed: they were not a rabble to be swayed by wild
words. They were being asked to risk their necks for others, and would not
easily have been convinced.
Parker's voice rose.
'While we stand steadfast, they must treat with us, and our claims are just and
few. As I speak, in London there are meetings of the lords and nobles, the
ministers and secretaries — and they are meeting because they have to! No
longer can they ignore us. And all because we stood up for our rights, without
flinching.'
Kydd saw men
around beginning to look thoughtful, others becoming animated.
'Fellow seamen, let's give it three
hearty cheers — and I invite any who will to step ashore this afternoon and
lift a pot with me to the King, and confusion to his false friends.'
Coxall stepped forward
with a grim smile. 'An' it's three cheers 'n' a tiger!' he roared. This time
the exultation was full-hearted, and there was an air of savage joy as Parker
stepped down to make his way back to the boat.
Achilles's boats
were soon in full use, putting off full of libertymen keen to taste the sweets
of success in a ran-tan ashore.
Kydd gazed around the
anchorage. Sandwich swung serenely to her buoy, but her decks were alive with
activity, her boats similarly employed. Inshore of Achilles was Director, Bligh's
ship. Kydd wondered what had happened to him: this was the second mutiny he had
suffered. Astonishingly, the ships showed little sign of the breathtaking
events taking place, all men-o'-war at the Nore were flying their flags and
pennants as though nothing had happened.
Kydd had not been
turned out of the ship, like some of the officers, but he found his
estrangement from the seamen irksome. But if they were enjoying a spree ashore,
he saw no reason not to step off himself — if only on ship's business. He had a
seaman in his division in sick quarters ashore somewhere: he would visit, and
perhaps call on Kitty. He found himself a place in the cutter, enduring jovial
taunts from sailors who had no doubt where he was headed.
They rounded the point
and ran the boat alongside. The dockyard was in uproar. Sailors and their women
were everywhere. Along with grog cans some bore rough banners - 'Success to our
Cause!', 'Billy Pitt to be damn'd!'
Dockyard artisans left
their workshops and joined the glorious merrymaking, and here and there Kydd
saw the red coats of soldiery; it seemed the garrison was taking sides.
A brass band led by a
swaggering sailor with a huge Union Flag came round the corner in a wash of
raucous sound, scattering urchins and drawing crowds. It headed towards the
fort on the point and Kydd was carried forward in the press. The militia was
formed up, but the procession swirled around them, and while officers and
sergeants tried to march the soldiers off, laughing sailors walked along with
them, joking and urging.
Kydd found himself
caught up in the carnival-like mood. He took off his blue master's mate coat,
swinging it over his arm in the warm spring sunshine before wholeheartedly
joining in the chorus of 'Britons Strike Home'.
He resisted the urge to
join fully in the roystering, feeling a certain conscience about the sick man
he had come to see, and took the road to Blue Town, passing the hulks and on
through Red Barrier Gate, which was unmanned.
Blue Town had taken the
mutineers to its heart. The shanty town, with its maze of mean alleyways,
taverns and bawdy-houses rocked with good cheer. Seamen came and went raucously
and more processions brought people spilling out on to the street to shout
defiance and condemnation.
Kydd set off the
quarter-mile over the marshes for Mile Town, a rather more substantial
community with roads, stone houses and even shops for the quality. As he
entered the settlement he saw that there was a quite different mood — the few
sailors who had strayed this far were neither feted nor cheered, shops were
shuttered and in the streets only a few frightened souls were abroad.
The temporary sick
quarters were in a large hostelry, the Old Swan, which was near the tollgate
for the London turnpike. Kydd turned down the path and walked through the open door,
but the dark-stained desk just inside was deserted.
He walked further — it was odd, no
orderlies or surgeons about. Suddenly noise erupted from a nearby room, and
before Kydd could enter a black-coated medical man rushed past. 'Hey — stop!'
he called, in bewilderment, after the figure, who didn't look back, vanishing
down the road in a swirl of coat-tails.
Not
knowing what to expect, Kydd went into the room.
'Ye'll swing fer this, mate, never
fear,' a bulky seaman shouted, at a cringing figure on his knees. 'N-no, spare
me, I beg!'
Another, watching with
his arms folded, broke into harsh laughter. 'Spare ye? What good t' the world
is a squiddy oF ferret like you?'
It was a sick room. Men
lay in their cots around the walls, enduring. One got to his elbow. 'Leave off,
mates! Safferey, 'e's honest enough fer a sawbones.' He caught sight of Kydd
standing at the doorway. 'Poor looby, thinks th' delegates are comin' to top
'im personally.' The surgeon was desperately frightened, trembling
uncontrollably. 'Said they were here ter check on conditions, an' if they
weren't up to snuff, they'd do 'im.'
'Shut yer face, Jack,'
one of the delegates growled. 'O' course, we're in mutiny, an' today the whole
o' the fleet is out 'n' no one's ter stop us gettin' our revenge — are you?'
'Time t' let him go,'
Kydd said, helping the shattered man to his feet. Wild-eyed, Safferey tore free
and ran into a side room, slamming the door behind him.