Mutiny (41 page)
A vote was taken, but too late in
the evening to bear to their lordships. A substantial majority was for
continuing with their action. They broke up noisily and the Parliament of
delegates returned to their ships, leaving Parker, Kydd and Davis alone in the
Great Cabin.
'What d' we do, then?' Davis asked,
reflecting the doubts of those who had voted against continuing the action.
'Ask pardon?'
Parker's grey face
lifted. 'I was elected by the men to be their president. You may seek pardon,
that is your decision. For myself, I will do my duty by my shipmates, as they
trusted me to do, and convey their determinations to the Admiralty as needed.'
Cast down after the
exaltation of the morning, Parker's misery was intense, Kydd realised, but the
nobility of character that had impelled him originally was still as strong as
ever.
'No,
mate,' Davis said. 'I'll be stayin'.'
Kydd was too. 'If ye're
standin' by the men, Dick, then what kind o' gullion is it wants t' skin out
now? I'll be with ye.'
The day of the ultimatum was raw
and grey. Kydd had spent a hard, sleepless night, the noises of the old ship
around him now sounding ominous. He pulled on oilskins and ventured to the
upper decks. To his surprise, he saw a party of seamen charging the guns,
loading and running them out, then covering their gunlocks with a lead apron.
'Cheerly, lads, don't
wan't' make mistakes, now do we?' It was Hulme. What crack-brained scheme was
this?
'What's this'n, John?' Kydd asked
carefully. The rain pattered insistendy on his oilskins.
Hulme looked at him.
'Tell me, Kydd, honest now. Are you loyal? We all is.'
Taken aback, Kydd could
only reply, 'As much as th' next, I reckon.'
'Stan'
clear, then, cully.'
Sandwich snubbed
sulkily at her moorings, the wind's blast uneven. Under her guns there was no
enemy, no ship closer than the humble Pylades. A forward gun went off, a
sullen, subdued thud. Another fired, the smoke rolling downwind. In the
distance Inflexible began firing. It was so unreal, in keeping with his imaginings
of the night. Kydd shook himself. 'A salute?' he asked dully.
Hulme grinned and
pointed up. At the mainmast head the Bloody Flag streamed out, wet and dull.
But at the fore, and in all the other ships, the Royal Standard fluttered, its
striking colours unaffected by the rain. 'King's Birthday?'
'No, mate, Restoration Day.' The day
nearly one and a half centuries ago when the second King Charles had been
restored to his throne after Cromwell's mutiny. 'Shows 'em we're still loyal,
like.'
It was still four hours
to the expiry of the ultimatum -four hours to come to a different conclusion
and accept the King's Pardon, to resume his sea life, put it all behind him.
But if he did, how would he get away to present himself? Stand up and tell them
that Thomas Kydd wanted to save his bacon? Steal off in a boat, in disguise so
none would recognise who was creeping off?
He tried to crush the bleak thoughts,
and went below in search of Parker, the water streaming off his foul-weather
gear. The wind had freshened, gusting in, and was quickly kicking up a sea; the
lurching and tugging of the ship added seasickness to the misery of the
press-gang victims.
Below, an ill-tempered
meeting was still in progress; Parker was sitting motionless, not intervening.
He did not notice Kydd, who quiedy left.
As the morning wore on the
weather got worse and the old ship-of-the-line leaked. Water dripped and ran
from waterways above, penetrating decks below. The result was sodden hammocks
and the foetid smell of wet bodies.
The
hours turned to minutes, and then it was noon.
Ironically the seas
were so much in motion that it was impossible for boats; even the gunboats
sought shelter round the point. But the seamen were resolved. All votes had
been taken, all arguments exhausted. It only needed the president of the
delegates to close, lock and bar the last gate, to inform their lordships
formally of the sense of the Parliament.
"They could see we're meanin' what
we say an' come round,' Kydd said hopefully, to the lonely figure of Parker at
his quill.
Parker raised a
troubled face. 'I don't think it possible, my dear friend.' He sanded the sheet
and passed it to Kydd. 'This is the form of words voted by the delegates.'
Kydd read it aloud.
'"My Lords, we had the honour to receive your lordships' proclamation (for
we did not conceive it to be His Majesty's) . . . How could your lordships
think to frighten us as old women in the Country frighten Children with such
stories as the Wolf and Raw head & bloody bones or as the Pope wished to
terrify..."'
"They
can't send this!'
'It
gets worse.'
'"Shall we now be
induced from a few Paltry threats to forsake our Glorious plan & lick your
lordships feet for Pardon & Grace, when we see ourselves in possession of
13 sail of as noble Ships as any in His Majesty's service, and Men not inferior
to any in the Kingdom? ..."'
Kydd went cold. This would push the
whole into unknown regions, it was a bitter, provocative taunt — but his heart
was with the reckless courage and defiant spirit that were all the seamen had
left.
'I
have to send it. This is their feeling.'
'Yes.
I see,' Kydd murmured.
*
* *
In the afternoon, the Bloody Flag
fluttered down in Clyde and a white one appeared. Kydd and Parker watched in
silence as the same happened in San Fiorenzo. But then the masts of Inflexible,
anchored between, changed their aspect: she had a spring to her cable and
heaved round so the wavering vessels faced two lines of guns apiece. The red
flag slowly ascended again.
By early evening, the
seas had moderated. The gunboats sailed out to the fleet again as the president
of the delegates made ready to go ashore. Niger was seen without her red flag;
cannon fire was heard again in the anchorage, but in vain. The frigate slipped
away.
Parker and the
delegates entered the boats and pulled ashore through squally weather. Soaked
but defiant, the men marched once more to the commissioner's house.
'Here is our response,
sir,' Parker said, handing the letter to Admiral Buckner. 'I shall return for your
reply.'
He turned and retired
from the scene with dignity. There was brave and foolhardy talk at the
Chequers, but Parker sat apart.
At six, they filed out
for the quarter-mile walk to where the flag of the Lord High Admiral of England
still flew. The people of Blue Town lined their way, but in the rain there were
only thin, scattered cheers. Most remained sombre and quiet, watching the
seamen as if they were going to meet their fate.
Buckner emerged promptly,
but his head was held high and he kept his distance.
'Good evening, sir,'
Parker said. 'May I know if their lordships have an answer to our letter?'
'They have not! There
will be no answer. Are you here to make your submission?'
Parker
kept his silence.
'You may still, through
their lordships' grace, accept the King's Pardon. But if you fire again on a
king's ship, then every man will be excluded from the pardon,' the admiral
added hastily.
Not deigning to reply,
Parker gave a low bow, and left.
'The kippers, if you please. They
are particularly succulent, I find.' Renzi's lodgings in Rochester were small,
but quiet. His words caused the merchant gendeman opposite to lower his
newspaper and fix him with a warning glare: conversation at breakfast was of
course entirely ill-mannered.
Renzi inclined his head
and picked up his own
Rochester Morning Post
. He quickly opened it to
the news; with the big naval-construction dockyard of Chatham close by and
Sheerness but a dozen miles further out, it was to be expected that coverage of
the recent shocking events at the Nore would be extensive.
He particularly wanted
news on the much talked-about visit by the lords of the Admiralty, with their
promises of pardon, but what he saw was far worse. It seemed that after
intolerable insults from the mutinous seamen, their lordships had washed their
hands of the matter and taken themselves and their pardon back to London. The
editorial wondered acidly whether this meant that readers could now, all
restraint gone, expect a descent by hordes of drunken seamen.
Renzi slowly laid down the newspaper.
This was the worst news possible. For some reason the mutineers had rejected
their last hope; they had nowhere else to go. Pitt would never forgive them
now, not after the inevitable spectacle of the army or the loyal remnant of the
navy ending the mutiny in a welter of ignominious bloodshed..
He couldn't face
breakfast with the knowledge that his dearest friend was now beyond mercy, the
pardon withdrawn. He left the lodging, striding fiercely in a rage of
hopelessness, past the curious medieval streets and shops, up steep cobbled
roads.
Logic said that there
were only two courses: that Kydd could be miraculously saved, or that Renzi
should resign himself to his friend's fate and spare himself the hurt. The
former was for all practical purposes impossible, the latter he could not face.
That left the ludicrous
prospect of trying to find a miracle. The path turned into a grassy lane down
to the river crossing, and the soft and ancient grey stone of a Norman castle.
His hand reached out to touch its timeless strength, willing an inspiration,
but none came.
All Renzi knew was that
he had to do something, try something . .. He came to a resolution: he would go
to London.
The coach was uncomfortable and
smelly, but he made the capital and the White Hart Inn well before dark. Restless
and brooding, he left his bag at the inn and braved the streets. London was the
same riotous mix of noise and squalor, carriages and drays, horses and hawkers,
exquisites and flower-girls. Instinctively he turned into Castle Street and
south past the Royal Mews — time was pressing, and it could all come to a
conclusion very soon.
He trudged through the
chaos of Charing Cross, then entered the broad avenue of White Hall. Past the
Treasury was Downing Street, where he knew behind the bland frontage of Number
Ten the Prime Minister was probably in cabinet, certainly taking swift and
savage measures.
Renzi stopped and
looked despondently down the street. His father had powerful connections in
Parliament, a rotten borough and friends aplenty, but he knew he could be
baying at the moon for all the help they would give him now.
He retraced his steps. This was the seat
of power, the centre of empire. Rulers of strange lands around the globe, the
King himself, but not one could he think to approach.
On past Horseguards he
continued, and then to the Admiralty itself. Staring at the smoke-grimed
columns, the stream of officers and bewigged civilians coming and going, he
cudgelled his brain but could think of nothing that might break the iron logic
of the situation: Kydd was a mutineer who had publicly declared for the
insurrection — there could be no reasoning with this.
Black thoughts came.
Would Kydd want to see Renzi at the gallows for his execution, or brave it out
alone? Was there any service he could do for him, such as ensure his corpse was
not taken down for dissection?
The lamplighters came
out as the dusk drew in, and Renzi's mind ached. As he waited for a grossly
overloaded wagon to cajole and threaten its way round Charing Cross, he
concluded that there was no possible answer he could find. Perhaps there was
someone who could tell him of one — but who, in his whole experience, would
know both naval imperatives and political expediencies?