Kydd looked around. A
ship always had a domestic individuality that meant everything to a sailor, her
litde ways at sea, her comfortable smells, the tiny compromises of living.
This one had sailed continuously for six months or more; her ropes were hairy
with use and her canvas sea-darkened to grey. There was evidence of careful
repair of sea hurts and hard hours of endurance in some ocean storm far out to
sea.
Binney handed back the papers. 'In
the name of the King, I ask you will muster your crew, Captain,' he said
uncomfortably. 'We mean to have a dozen good hands from you.'
'A dozen!' The owners of a merchant ship
always kept crew to a bare minimum, and so many taken would mean grim and
exhausting labour to work the ship for those left.
'Yes, sir. My captain
will not allow me to return without them.' Binney was discomfited, but stood by
his orders, patiently waiting for a response.
'It's an outrage, sir!' Heppel
spluttered and moved to confront Binney. Kydd stepped up quietly beside his
officer and the marines fingered their muskets. There was nothing this captain
could do: under the law the ship could be stripped of all but the mates and
apprentices.
'All
hands on deck,' Heppel flung over his shoulder.
Kydd counted the sailors as they emerged
from the hatches — just nineteen. It was impossible to work even a two-watch
system with only these. There were more. He looked at Binney, who seemed to
have come to the same conclusion. 'Come, come, sir, the sooner we have them,
the sooner we shall leave.'
The nineteen were a
ragged bunch, their sea gear worn and threadbare from thousands of miles of
long voyaging, their bodies hardened and browned. They gazed back warily,
stoically.
'Sir, ye want me t' go
below, rouse 'em out?' Kydd said loudly. 'I know about th' hidey-holes an' all
the tricks.'
Binney appeared to be considering Kydd's
words: the best seamen were obviously concealed below-decks, and his hesitation
implied that if the navy men were led a merry dance then their officer might
vindictively press more than his dozen. He let it hang until more appeared
resentfully from below, shuffling into the group abaft the main-mast.
Kydd thoughts stole
away to his own ocean voyaging. These men had lived closely together, through
dangers and hardships that, over the months at sea, would have forged deep
respect and friendships the like of which a landlubber would never know — and
now it would be ended, broken.
Stepping forward,
Binney addressed them. 'Now, my men, is there any among you who wish to serve
England in the King's Service? As a volunteer, you are naturally entided to the
full bounty.'
This was a threat as
much as a promise: unless they volunteered they would be pressed, and then they
would neither get a bounty nor see much liberty ashore.
Three moved forward.
Kydd guessed the others did not join them because of the belief that if they
were later caught deserting volunteers would be treated more harshly as having
accepted money; the others could plead, with some justification, that they had
been forced against their will.
'Come on, lads, Achilles is only bound
f'r Spithead an' a docking. Y're volunteers, an' there could be liberty t'
spend y'r bounty. Good place f'r a spree, Portsmouth Point.'
Another moved over. The
rest shuffled sullenly together.
'So. This means eight pressed men. Now
who's it to be?' Binney was not to be put off by the stony hostility he met,
and pointed to one likely looking young able seaman.
'Apprentice!'
snapped Heppel.
'Y'r protection, if y' please,' Kydd
said heavily, holding out his hand for the paper. A weak explanation for the absence
of papers died at Kydd's uncompromising stare.
The rest were quickly
gathered in. There were several prime seamen who could look forward to a petty
officer's berth if they showed willing, but one had Kydd's eyes narrowing — a
sea-lawyer if he wasn't mistaken, probably a navy deserter who would give a
'purser's name', a false name, to the muster-book and would likely be the focus
of discontents on the lower deck.
'Get y'r dunnage then,'
Kydd told the new-pressed hands. They went below to fetch their sea-chests and
ditty-bag of small treasures, all they had to show for their endless months at
sea.
Binney signalled to
Achilles: the cutter would take the chests and sea gear to their new home.
'Thank you, Captain,' he said courteously. 'We'll be on our way now.'
Heppel
said nothing, but his fists bunched.
'Ah - ye'd be makin' up the pay, Cap'n?'
Kydd asked quietly. It would suit some captains conveniently to forget wages
for pressed long-voyage men and pocket the sum; it was the least Kydd could do
to ensure they were not robbed.
'Haven't
the coin,' Heppel said truculently.
'Then we'll accept a note against the
owners,' Binney ' responded smoothly, and folded his arms to wait.
The press catch mollified Dwyer —
they were all seamen and would not take long to become effective in their
posts. Achilles got under way and, under the brisk north-easterly, stood out
into the Channel for the long board to Spithead.
On the quarterdeck the
atmosphere improved and Dwyer could be seen chatting amicably to the midshipmen.
He turned leisurely to the officer-of-the-watch. 'Should you sight a fisherman,
we'll take some fish for the people.'
'A pilchard boat, sir,' the
officer-of-the-watch reported later. The boat bobbed and dipped in the steep
mid-Channel waves. Faces turned to watch the big warship approach and come
aback as she drifted down on the fishing boat.
'A
Frenchy, sir.'
'The fish tastes the
same, does it not?' Dwyer said. It was an unwritten custom not to interfere
with the fisheries, for among other things fishermen could be sources of
intelligence. 'Pass the word for Mr Eastman.'
The master was a
Jerseyman and knew the Brittany language like a native. 'Tell 'em we'd be
interested in a few baskets of pilchards if the price is right, if you please.'
The transaction was
soon completed: it was more profitable to tranship a catch at sea and continue
fishing. The master leaned over the rail, gossiping amiably as baskets of fish
were swayed inboard.
He straightened
abruptly. A few tense sentences were exchanged and then he strode rapidly over
to Dwyer and whispered something urgendy to him. Conversations died away as
curious faces turned towards them.
Eastman returned quickly to the ship's
side and spoke to the old fisherman again. Then he returned to Dwyer, his face
grave. Dwyer hesitated and the two went below, leaving an upper deck seething
with rumour.
'Mr Kydd! Mr Kydd, ahoy - lay aft, if
you please.' Binney's hail cut through Kydd's speculations about the situation
with the boatswain and he went aft to the helm, touching his hat to the
lieutenant.
'We are to attend the captain in his
cabin,' Binney said shortly, turning on his heel. Kydd followed into the cabin
spaces. Strangely, the marine sentry had moved from his accustomed place at the
door to the captain's day cabin and had taken position further forward.
Binney knocked and, at
the brisk 'Enter', tucked his hat under his arm and opened the door. In the
spacious cabin Dwyer and the master stood waiting.
'I have your word of Kydd's reliability,'
Dwyer said curdy, looking at Binney.
'Why,
yes, sir, he is—'
'Very well.' Dwyer looked disturbed,
even hunted. 'What I have to say, you will swear not to divulge to a soul
aboard this ship.' He looked first at Kydd, then at Binney.
'Sir.'
Wary and tense, Binney spoke for both of them.
Dwyer's eyes flicked
once more to Kydd. Then he said, 'The fisherman has sure knowledge of a danger
to the realm that in all my experience I can say has never before threatened
these islands.' He took a deep breath. 'The fleet at Spithead has refused duty
and is now in a state of open mutiny. There is a red flag over every ship and
they have set at defiance both the Admiralty and the Crown.' He wiped his brow
wearily. 'The fisherman cannot be expected to know details, but he swears all
this is true.'
Kydd went cold. The navy — the
well-loved and sure shield of the nation - infected with mad revolution,
Jacobin plots? It was a world turned upside-down.
'By God's good grace, we have been
spared blundering into the situation, but we have to know more.'
"The Plymouth squadron, sir?' The
forward base was nearest the main French naval strength at Brest.
'He's not sure, but
thinks they may have gone over to their brethren.' Dwyer looked at the master.
'Near
as I c'd make out, sir.'
Dwyer paused. 'I cannot
risk this ship being overrun by mutineers. This is why I have sent for you, Mr
Binney. I understand you come from these parts?'
'Yes, sir. Our estate
is in south Devon, some small ways east of Plymouth.'
'Good. I desire you to
land at a point on the coast with Plymouth near at hand, such that within a day
you may enter the port in a discreet manner and make contact with the true
authority, then to withdraw and report back to me. Now, do you know how this
may safely be done?'
Binney hesitated for a
moment. Desperate mutineers would make short work of him if he was caught.
He requested a chart.
It was the standard approach to Plymouth, and he quickly found his place. 'Sir,
to the east.'
'Wembury?'
'No, sir, that has an
army garrison. Further to the east, past the Mewstones,' Binney said, bringing
to mind the sea-mark of unusual conical rocks to the south-east of the port.
'Along the coast four or five miles. If I land here -' he indicated a small
river estuary '— I'm out of sight on all sides, out in the country. I strike
north about two hours and reach Ivybridge. This is on the highway and the
posting house for the last change of horses before Plymouth, and there I can
ride the Exeter stage into Plymouth.'
'This
seems a good plan. Well done, Mr Binney.'
Eastman took a closer look at the chart.
'Hmmm, the Yealm and then the river Erme. Suggest you take the four-oared gig
in, under sail.'
'That will do — it's sand, and I'd be
satisfied to reach as far up as Holbeton.'
'Kydd,
boat's crew. This is you and ... ?'
'Poynter, sir, gunner's mate. An' one
other. Let me think on it, sir.'
Dwyer appeared
satisfied. 'So we'll raise the coast at dawn, send the boat away, and hope to
have you back before dark?'
'Aye
aye, sir,' said Binney quietly.
'Then I don't have to remind you
all that if this terrible news gets abroad . ..'
In the chill of early dawn, Achilles
stood in for the river Erme. The grey, formless land firmed and revealed its
rugged character. It was strange to be so close to a perilous shore from which
a big ship would normally keep well clear. Sails were backed and within minutes
the gig had touched water. Binney and Kydd, with Poynter and a seaman, boarded
and set the lug foresail and mizzen to bellying life.
As Achilles got under
way to assume position out to sea, the gig headed inshore. It was clear that
Binney knew where he was: the small river estuary ending in a wide flat sprawl
of sandy channels met the sea between a pair of bluffs. Binney took the biggest
channel, following its sinuous course upstream, past dark woods, some isolated
dwellings, steep pastoral idylls and at one point wispy effluvia of a lime
kiln.
It was dreamlike in the
early morning to be passing from the vastness and power of the open sea to the
enfolding quiet so close to the depths of the lovely English countryside, the
farmland, grazing animals, orchards - and in a ship's boat. The smell of wild
flowers, cows, cut hay and sun-warmed soil turned Kydd's mind irresistibly to
memories of his youth and past summers in Guildford. It was difficult to
reconcile where they were to the actuality of what they were doing.