Taking no chances, Achilles
passed down the line of ships at anchor. No red flags, no mutinous cheering,
only the grave naval courtesies of a ship rejoining the fleet Under greying
skies the 64 found her berth and the great bower anchors tumbled into the muddy
grey where the Thames met the North Sea, and she composed herself for rest.
Chapter
6
This Mr Evan Nepean, my lord. He
will furnish you with as complete an account as you'd wish and - dare I say it?
- more succinct in the particulars.' As a politician and not a seaman, the
First Lord of the Admiralty was happy to turn over an explanation of the
calamitous events at Spithead to the secretary: he knew the sea cant of the
sailors in mutiny and would field the more delicate matters capably.
'Very well, then,' said Lord Stanhope,
easing himself wearily into one of the carved seats around the board table.
'Not the details, if you please, just the salient facts.' Stanhope had made an
urgent return from Sweden at the news of the outbreak and was plainly
exhausted. But his discreet journeyings abroad had earned him the ear of
William Pitt, and it would be folly to underestimate his power.
Nepean moved round the
table the better to access the hanging maps above the fireplace. He pulled down
one of Great Britain. 'As you will appreciate, sir, our concentrations of force
for the defence of the kingdom are the Channel fleet here at Portsmouth to be
directed against the French in Brest, and at Plymouth we find our advanced
squadron. At Yarmouth we have the North Sea fleet, which looks directly into
the Netherlands and the Baltic, and near there we have the Nore anchorage and the
dockyard at Sheerness to victual and maintain them.
'For some weeks prior
to mid-April, discontent became apparent at Spithead, and on the fifteenth of
April last this resulted in open mutiny; the seamen refused duty and the fleet
was unable to proceed to sea. They are in such a state at this time, and
unhappily have been joined in their mutiny by the Plymouth squadron.'
'Is
the situation stable?'
'It appears so at the
moment, my lord,' Nepean said carefully. 'The mutinous seamen are keeping good
order and discipline, and await a resolution. However, I am not sanguine this
will continue - in an unfortunate excess of zeal, blood was shed and the seamen
are affronted.'
Stanhope pondered. 'So
as we speak, in essence, the approaches to these islands are entirely
defenceless.'
'The men talk of
sailing to meet the French if they make a sally, my lord, and please note that
— praise be - the Nore and North Sea squadron are left to us, they did not
mutiny.'
'Pray,
why do they persist in their mutiny?'
Nepean shot a glance at Earl Spencer —
his was the responsibility for some kind of resolution - but the First Lord
continued to regard him gravely, so he continued: 'My lord, they have a number
of grievances which they demand find redress before they'll consent to any kind
of return to duty.' 'And these are?'
'The level of wages, of course,
provisions served at short weight, no vegetables in port, that kind of thing.'
Stanhope
looked up with a cynical smile. 'And?'
'Er, liberty in port
and some oversight with the sick and wounded — and your lordship will no doubt
recall that a couple of years ago the army were rewarded with an increase.'
Frowning, Stanhope turned
to Spencer. 'It seems little enough. Can we not . . .'
'With the government's position the
weaker for Lord Moira's unfortunate interference, any attempt on revenues will
upset a delicate situation — we have suspended gold payments at the Bank of
England, we are in dire need of every penny to buy off the Austrians, our last
ally in all of Europe. Need I go further?'
'Our entire standing in foreign
chancellories is threatened, sir. Do you propose to allow the situation to
continue indefinitely?'
'No, my lord,' Spencer said heavily. 'We
have compounded with the mutinous rascals for a substantial improvement in
their pay, we have even secured a free pardon for this whole parcel of
traitors, but still they will not yield.' He wiped his forehead wearily. 'They
will not listen to Parliament, sir.'
Nepean broke in: 'This
is true, sir,' he said smoothly, 'but we have secured the services of Earl Howe
to intercede for us with the sailors. He is to coach to Portsmouth shortly,
with plenary powers.'
'Earl
Howe?'
'Whom
the sailors call "Black Dick". He led them to victory in the action of
the Glorious First of June, and they trust him like a father.' A wintry smile
appeared. 'It is our last resource. If he does not succeed .. .'
Kydd stood in the foretop as one of
the last rituals of the transition from live sea creature to one tethered and
submissive was enacted. The sails were furled into a pristine harbour stow, the
bunt taken over the yard into a graceful 'pig's ear' and plaited bunt gaskets
passed to his satisfaction.
He found himself
looking up to take in the sombre brown cliffs and bleak seacoast of Sheppey
over the mile or so of scurrying drab sea. Emotions of times past returned
sharp and poignant. A great deal had happened since he had left home ...
'Clap on more sail, if
y' please, Mr Cantlie!' Kydd threw at the inboard seaman on the footropes. The
sailor stared up resentfully but did as he was told. ‘Lay in,' Kydd ordered,
when the furling was complete. The men came in off the yard and assembled in
the foretop, but as they did so the piercing wail of calls from the boatswain's
mates cut through. 'Haaaands to muster! Clear lower deck — all hands lay aft!'
It appeared that
Captain Dwyer would address his ship's company before going ashore to pay his
respects to the admiral. It was unusual — minds would be set on the joyous
sprees to be had ashore, and a bracing talk more properly belonged to an
outward-bound voyage.
Kydd took up his
position, facing inwards midway between the officers aft on the poop-deck and
the men crowding the main-deck forward, feet astride in an uncompromising
brace.
'Still? the
master-at-arms roared. Muttering among the mass of men died away quickly, and
the captain stepped forward to the poop-deck rail.
'Men of the Achilles’ he began, then
paused, surveying them grimly. The last shuffling of feet subsided: something
was in the wind.
'I have to tell you now the gravest
news, which affects us all. I am talking about nothing less than the very
safety of this kingdom and the survival of these islands.'
He had total attention; some sailors had
jumped into the lower rigging to hear him better. 'It is a stroke of war that
the enemy have been able to achieve by cunning, treachery, and inciting our
honest tars to treason.'
Puzzled looks were
exchanged: this was nothing like a hearty call to arms.
Dwyer glanced at the
stony-faced marine lieutenant, then continued: 'The news I will give may well
come from others who do not have the true facts, which is why I am telling you
now, so you have no reason to believe them.'
Suspicious
looks appeared, eyes narrowed.
'It is my sad duty to
have to inform you that your fellow seamen of the Channel fleet at Spithead
have mutinied.' The suspicion turned to shock. 'In fact, the mutineers, led we
believe by French agents, have joined together to hold Old England to ransom
with a list of impossible demands that they have had the gall to inflict on
Parliament this past week.'
An appalled silence was
followed by a rising hubbub. 'Silencer screamed the master-at-arms. His voice
cracked with tension, and the marines fingered their muskets. The noise
lessened, but did not fade entirely.
'The fate of these blackguardly rogues
you may guess. England will not forgive easily those who have so perfidiously
betrayed their mother country, be assured.' His voice rose strongly. 'But do
not you be gulled by free-talking scoundrels into thoughtless acts of treason,
crimes for which only a halter at the yardarm is the answer. Your duty is plain
before you — to your ship and His Majesty, no other!
'Mr Hawley,' he called to the first
lieutenant. 'Three cheers for His Majesty!'
Hawley took off his hat and called
loudly, 'M' lads, an huzzah for King George: hip, hip ...'
The cheers were
distracted and uncertain, however, and Dwyer's face creased into a frown.
'Three more for our ship!' he ordered. These cheers were somewhat louder, but
to Kydd's ears they sounded mechanical and lacking in spirit.
The captain waited for
them to die, then continued evenly, 'I'm going ashore now. Mr Hawley will
prepare your liberty tickets while we see about your pay. Carry on, please.'
Achilles's ship's
company went to their noon grog in a ferment of anticipation. The talk of pay
was promises only, but liberty ashore in an English port, however barren, after
so long in foreign parts would be sweet indeed.
The more thoughtful
reflected on the danger to the realm of the British fleet in a state of
insurrection. Individual ships had mutinied before, the most prominent the Bounty
less than ten years earlier, but this was a planned wholesale rising — who or
what could be behind it?
At six bells the captain went
ashore with all ceremony to make his number with the port admiral, Vice
Admiral Buckner, and the ship setded to harbour routine. In the main this
consisted of a controlled bedlam, a mix of those happy souls making ready to
step ashore to taste the dubious delights of Sheerness and others whose duties
kept them aboard.
The arrival of a big
ship was always a gratifying sight to those shoreside, and it was not long
before Achilles became the focus of a host of small craft coming round Garrison
Point. Kydd sighed. He knew what was coming and, as mate-of-the-watch to
Lieutenant Binney, he would have most to do with it.
Binney was on call
below. Alone on the quarterdeck, Kydd watched as the hordes converged. He had
made all the dispositions he could — boarding nettings were rigged below the
line of the gunports, as much to deter desertion as unwanted visitors; gear had
been triced up to allow more deck space, the guns run out to broaden the width
of gundecks; and canvas screens rigged on the lower deck.
'Here they come, the
saucy cuntkins!' piped a midshipman in glee.
'Clap a stopper on it,
young 'un!' Kydd growled. 'M' duty to Mr Binney, an' they'll be alongside
presently.'
Binney came up just as
the first boats arrived at the side-steps. 'One at a time, and they're to be
searched,' he said, in a bored tone. Men lined the side, chuckling at their
prospects.
Kydd motioned at random to one of the
boats. It responded with alacrity and the woman at the oars made a dextrous
alongside. She hoisted a basket of goods to her head and, grabbing the manrope,
easily mounted the side, leaving a companion to lie off on her oars. 'An' the
best o' the day ter yez.' She bobbed familiarly at the lieutenant. Chubby, and
of invincible cheeriness, she submitted to the cursory search with practised
ease, then pushed through the gathering sailors to set up position forward for
her hot breads, pies and oranges. Others came aboard, some with trinkets, several
with ingenious portable workbenches for tailoring, cobbling and leatherwork,
and still more with cash-boxes ready to take a seaman's pay-ticket and change
it — at ruinous discount — into hard cash.
More crowded aboard.
The master-at-arms and ship's corporals were hard put to keep up with the
stream. The hubbub grew, and Kydd stepped back for the sanctity of the
quarterdeck just as the master-at-arms thrust an arm under a fat woman's dress.
''That f'r yer cat's piss, m' lovely!'
he snarled triumphantly. The squeal of indignation faded into the embarrassment
of discovery as a knife cut into a concealed bladder and cheap gin flooded into
the scuppers.
'Heave her gear
overside,' Binney ordered, and to mingled shouts . of protest and derision her
tray of gewgaws sailed into the sea. The gin was destined for sale below decks
and Kydd suspected from the growing merriment that other sources had already
found their way there.