The thick-set
delegate's face hardened. Kydd snapped, 'Y'r president, Mr Parker, what does he
think o' yez topping it the tyrant over th' poor bast'd? Thinks y' doing a fine
job as delegates, does he?'
The two delegates
looked at each other, muttered something inaudible and left.
A muffled clang sounded
from the side room, then a sliding crash. Kydd strode over and threw open the
door. In the dim light he saw the form of the surgeon on the floor, flopping
like a landed fish. The reek of blood was thick and unmistakable as it spread
out beneath the dying man, clutching at his throat. The mutiny had drawn its
first blood.
'Take a pull on't,' Kitty urged,
the thick aroma of rum eddying up from the glass.
Kydd had been shaken by
the incident, not so much by the blood, which after his years at sea had lost
its power to dismay, but by the almost casual way the gods had given notice
that there would be a price to pay for the boldness of the seamen in committing
to their cause.
Paradoxically, now, he
was drawn to them - their courage in standing for their rights against their
whole world, their restraint and steadfast loyalty to the Crown, their
determination to sustain the ways of the navy. It would need firm control to
ensure that hotheads didn't take over; but if they never left sight of their
objectives, they must stand a good chance of a hearing at the highest levels.
'Thank
ye, Kitty,' he said.
Her face clouded for a moment. 'An' that
was a rummer I had saved f'r Ned, poor lamb.'
The snug room was
warmly welcoming to his senses, and he smiled at Kitty. 'It's a rare sight in
the dockyard.'
'Yes, an' it's not the
place f'r a respect'ble woman,' she said, with feeling.
'Ye should be pleased with y'r sailors,
that they've stood up f'r their rights.'
She
looked away. 'Aye.' Then, turning to Kydd with a smile, she said, 'Let's not
talk o' that, me darlin', we could be havin' words. Look, we're puttin' on a
glee tomorrow on Queen Street. Would y' like to come?'
'With you? As long as I
c'n get ashore, Kitty, m' love.'
She moved up to him,
her eyes soft. 'Come, Tom, I've a fine rabbit pie needs attention. An' after
...'
Coxall waited until Kydd sent his men
forward and was on his own. 'If I could 'ave a word, Tom.' 'Eli?' he said
guardedly.
'Well, Tom, ye knows I ain't as who
should say a taut hand wi' the words.' 'Er, yes, mate?'
'An' I have t' write
out these rules o' conduc', which are agreed b' the committee. They has to get
sent t' Sandwich fer approval.' He looked awkwardly at the deck. 'Heard ye was
a right good word-grinder an' would take it kindly in yez if you could give me
a steer on this.'
'What
about Farnall? He was a forger, y' knows.'
'He's over in Sandwich wi'
Dick Parker.'
'Eli,
y' knows I'm not in with ye.'
'I understands, Tom, but we ain't in the
word-grubbin' line a-tall, it's a fathom too deep for me an' all.'
'I'll bear a fist on y'
hard words, but — y' writes it out fair y'selves afterwards, mind.'
'Right,
Tom,' said Coxall.
The other delegates moved over
respectfully, giving Kydd ample room on the sea-chest bench. He picked up the
draft and read the scratchy writing.
'What's this'n?' he
asked, at the first tortuous sentence.
'Er, this is ter say we
only wants what's agreed b' everyone, no argyments after.'
'So we has this word
for it, and it's "unanimous",' Kydd said. 'We say, "To secure
all points, we must be unanimous.'" He reached for a fresh paper, made a
heading, and entered the article.
'Thanks,
Tom.'
'An' this one: "We
turns out o' the ship all officers what come it the hard horse." You may
not say this, cuffin, they'd think you a parcel o' shabs.' He considered for a
space. 'Should you like "All unsuitable officers to be sent ashore"
in its place?'
'Yes, if y' please.' They dealt with the
remaining articles in turn, and when it was finished, he handed back the sheet.
'Now ye get them copied fair, an' Achilles is not let down a-tall.'
A seaman in shore-going
rig hovered nearby. 'Why, Bill, mate, are y' ready, then?' Coxall asked.
'Yeah, Eli,' the seaman
said. He had his hat off, held in front of him, but Kydd could make out Achilles
picked out in gold on a ribbon round it.
'Then here's y' money.' It was five
pounds, all in silver and copper. The man accepted gingerly.
Coxall turned back to Kydd. 'We're
sendin' delegates t' Spithead, tellin' 'em we've made a risin' in support. Bill
and th' others are goin't' bring back some strat'gy an' things fr'm the
brothers there. On yer way, cully.'
Coxall found no problem
in confiding in Kydd. 'They're doin' right well in Spithead. Had a yatter wi'
the admiral, an' th' Admiralty even gave our tally o' grievances to the
gov'ment.' He allowed a smile to spread. 'All we gotta do is follow what they
done.'
Despite all that was going on, Kydd
never tired of the vista. Even after several days the estuary of the Thames
was, in its ever-changing panorama, a fascinating sight, the sea highway to the
busiest port in the world. Sail could be seen converging on the river from
every direction; big Indiamen, the oak-bark-tanned sails of coasters,
bluff-bowed colliers from the north, plain and dowdy Baltic traders, all in
competition for a place to allow them to catch the tide up the sweeping bends
of the Thames to the Pool of London.
Kydd knew it took real
seamanship: the entrance to London was probably the most difficult of any port.
The oudying sandbanks — the Gunfleet, Shipwash, the Sunk - were intricate
shoals that the local coasters and the pilots alone knew; only the careful
buoyage of Trinity House made transit possible for the larger vessels. The
ebbing tide would reveal the bones of many a wreck if ever a lesson were
needed.
The fleet anchorage of
the Great Nore was to one side of the shipping channels, safely guarded by
these outer hazards, but in its turn acting as the key to the kingdom,
safeguarding the priceless torrent of trade goods and produce in and out of
London.
In the calm sea, the
anchorage was a-swarm with boats, under sail and going ashore, or with oars
while visiting each other. Some outbound merchantmen tacked towards the scene,
curious to see the notorious fleet in mutiny, but kept their distance.
Reluctandy Kydd went below to see
the master; no matter that the world was in an uproar, charts still needed
correcting, accounts inspected. But Eastman was not in his cabin. He made to
leave, but was stopped by Coxall. Five others were with him.
'Beggin' y'r pardon,
mate, but Mr Parker begs leave t' make y'r acquaintance.'
Every ship had its
smell, its character, and Sandwich did not prove an exception: approaching from
leeward Kydd was surprised at its acrid staleness and reek of neglect and
decay.
They hooked on at the
mainchains, Kydd gazed up at the 90-gun ship-of-the-line with interest; this
vessel had started life nearly forty years before, in the wonderful year of
victories, and had gone on to see service in most parts of the world. But she
had ended up as a receiving ship for the Nore, little more than a hulk that
would never again see the open sea. She was now where the press-gang and
quota-men were held before they were assigned to the ships of the fleet.
The old-fashioned
elaborate gilded scroll-work around her bows and stern was faded and peeling,
her sides darkened with neglect, but nevertheless she was the flagship of Vice
Admiral Buckner, commander-in-chief of the Nore, now humiliatingly turned out
of his ship and ashore.
Kydd grabbed the worn
man-rope and went up the side. He was curious to take a measure of the man who
had brought his shipmates to such peril. Stepping aboard he was met by two
seamen. 'T' see Mr Parker,' he said.
'Aye, we know,' one
said, 'an' he's waitin' for ye now.'
The ship was crowded.
Men lay about the deck, barely stirring in attitudes of boredom; others padded
around in not much more than rags. As well as the usual gloom of between-decks
there was a reek of rot and musty odours of human effluvia.
They thrust through,
making their way aft, and into the cabin spaces. 'One t' see th' president,'
called his escort. A seaman with a cudass came out, and motioned Kydd inside.
It was the admiral's
day cabin, with red carpets, hangings and small touches of domesticity. Kydd
had never entered one before, but he was not going to be overawed. 'Th'
admiral's cabin suits ye?' he said to Parker, who had risen from behind a
polished table to meet him.
Parker stopped, a
slight smile on his face. 'It's the only quiet place in the ship, Mr Kydd,' he
said pleasantly. 'Please sit yourself down, my friend.'
Kydd brisded. He would
be no friend to this man, but he thought better of challenging him openly at
this stage. He found a carved chair with a gold seat and sat in it - sideways,
with no pretence at politeness.
'It's kind in you to
visit, Mr Kydd. I know you don't subscribe to the validity of our actions, so I
particularly wanted to thank you for the handsome way you helped the delegates
aboard your ship.'
'They're no taut hand
as ye might say at words,' Kydd said carefully. This Parker was no fool: he was
educated and sharp.
'I should introduce myself — Richard
Parker, for the nonce president of delegates, but sometime officer in His
Britannic Majesty's Sea Service. My shipmates are happy to call me Dick.'
'Officer?'
Kydd said, incredulous.
'Indeed, but sadly cast up as a foremast
hand after a court martial as unjust as any you may have heard.' Parker's voice
was soft, but he had a trick of seizing attention for himself rather than the
mere offering of conversation.
'Are ye a pressed man?'
Kydd asked, wanting time.
'No, for the sake of my dear ones, I
sold my body as a quota man back to the navy. You may believe I am no stranger
to hardship.'
The dark, finely drawn
features with their hint of nervous delicacy were compelling, bearing on Kydd's
composure. 'Do y' know what ye've done to my men, Mr Delegate President?' he
said, with rising heat. 'Y've put their heads in a noose, every one!'
'Do you think so? I rather think
not' He leaned across the table and held Kydd with his intensity. 'Shall I tell
you why?'
'I'd
be happy t' know why not.'
'Then I'll tell you — but please be so
good as to hear me out first' He eased back slightly, his gaze still locked on
Kydd's. 'The facts first. You know that our pay is just the same as in the time
of King Charles? A hundred and fifty years — and now in this year of
'ninety-seven an able seaman gets less than a common ploughman. Do you dispute
this?'
Kydd
said nothing.
'And talking of pay,
when we're lying wounded of a great battle, don't they say we're not fit to
haul and draw, so therefore not worthy of wages?'
'Yes,
but—'
'Our victuals. Are we
not cheated out of our very nourishment, that the purser's pound is not sixteen
ounces but fourteen? I could go on with other sore complaints, but can you say
I am wrong? Do I lie in what I say?'
'Aye,
this is true, but it's always been so.'
'And getting worse.
You've seen this ship for yourself - the navy is falling into a pit of ruin,
Tom, and there's no help for it. And because you've got uncommon good sense
I'll tell you why.