'Delegates, advance!'
shouted Parker. The drums thudded twice rapidly, and the colourful procession
stepped off gaily to the tune of 'Rule Britannia'. It attracted a noisy,
adoring crowd that brought apprentices running, women leaving their work and
small boys capering alongside.
As
the column swung away down the road, Parker waved affably at the spectators,
bowing to some, blowing kisses at the ladies. At first Kydd could only manage a
stiff wave, but after a laughing girl threw rose blossoms over him, he joined
in with gusto.
Around the corner and
through Red Barrier Gate. Thumping lustily, the band brought the first of the
Blue Town people running. Cries of 'Huzzah to the delegates - and be damned to
Billy Pitt!' were heard. Beribboned sailors already ashore added to the uproar.
A larger crowd waited
at a timbered building—a tavern with a sign hanging, the Chequers. The band
played a hurried final flourish and spilled inside. 'With me, Tom,' Parker
called. Kydd found himself at a dark-stained table in the smoky interior.
Davis arrived, his
large frame wedging in the high-backed seat. 'Tom, me ol' cock, what c'n I get
you?'
Parker intervened.
'Kydd's with me, Bill, and I'll be having my usual. Tom?'
'Oh, a stout pint o' the right sort'll
do,' replied Kydd, happily. Parker's tipple turned out to be dog's nose, the
splicings being a liberal dash of gin in the beer. The blue haze thickened in
the tavern in due proportion to the noise and soon it was a merry throng that celebrated
together.
A seaman bawled for
attention near the door. 'Dick Parker, ahoy!’
Parker lurched to his
feet. 'Who wants him?' he returned loudly.
'Why,
yer speechifyin' — when are yer comin', Admiral?'
'I've
said not t' call me that,' Parker grumbled.
'Aye
aye, Yer Majesty.'
In
front of the Chequers a space had been cleared and several boxes pushed
together formed a stage, already bedecked with flags and boughs of greenery. A
few chairs were in precarious position atop the boxes.
A roar went up when Parker
appeared. He stood to acknowledge the cheers, then jammed his beaver hat at a
rakish angle and mounted the stage. Beaming, he held up his hands for silence,
and the crowd subsided, while more ran up to catch the occasion.
'Friends! Brothers!' he began, his face
flushed. 'How dare their lordships presume to try the patience of the British
tar, to deny him his rights, to ignore his courage and resource? I will tell
you something that even these false ministers, these traitors, cannot conceive
of — the true value of a British seaman!' He paused, and looked into the crowd.
'Ah, there he is!' he cried. 'Brother Tom Kydd, new-won to the cause. Come up
here beside me, Tom!'
There was a warm roar
of welcome. 'Tom here was a master's mate in Achilles, but that didn't stop him
standing for what he believed. The first lieutenant hales him to the
quarterdeck and calls him to account — but Tom Kydd here, he tells him to sling
his hook! So it's Heave-ho Hawley in the boat and turned ashore, mates, all
because Tom didn't flinch when the time came. How can m' lords of the Admiralty
prevail when we've got the likes of him in with us? Let's hear it for Brother
Kydd, friends!'
Chapter
8
At dawn the soft grey coastline of
England appeared far ahead. After the tedium of a Baltic convoy, complicated by
an outbreak of ship-fever in the fo'c'sle, it was a welcome sight. But Renzi
had mixed feelings: it was now just a few months before his term of exile was
over. Then he must make his peace with his family, and resume his life on the
land. It would be hard to leave the sea. The gentle lift and surge of a deck
had its own compelling sensuality and the life perspective to be gained from
numberless foreign horizons was precious - but there was no going back. Before
the year was out it would be finished, all over.
As he paced back along
the gangway, a depression settled, one that was never far away these days.
There would be no interesting exotic finale to his last months. They were to
spend a couple of days in Sheerness, repair and victual, then Glorious was to
rejoin the North Sea fleet in Yarmouth, resuming its watch over the Dutch in
the Texel, a powerful fleet now loyal to the French and which, sooner or later,
would have to be dealt with.
The low coastline ahead
hardened to a deep blue, then acquired features; dark splotches, pale blurs.
There was sail in all directions, converging to the south, a river of commerce,
for here was the entrance to the Thames and the port of London.
Renzi sighed heavily,
and started pacing the other way. Glorious was not a happy ship: the captain
was unimaginative and set in his ways, remote from his men, and the first
lieutenant was a bully. The ship's company was a collection of individuals, not
a team, and petty tyrannies flourished.
They joined the flow of
vessels into the Thames, the master watchful and alert for the lookouts' hail
as another buoy was sighted. Then the dark forest of masts that was the Great
Nore came into sight, reassuring in its powerful presence at the entrance to
the capital.
Signals fluttered up
from Glorious's quarterdeck. The mass of fifty-four ships of the Baltic Trade
astern were now released and broke into an undignified straggle as they
jockeyed for position for the beat up-river to the docks.
cHaaaands
to moor ship!'
They closed with the
fleet. Saluting guns were loaded, but as Sandwich was not flying her admiral's
flag they were not needed. Glorious glided in, her anchors tumbled down to the
muddy seabed, her sails were furled and she prepared for storing.
Finished with the veering crew at the
hatchway, Renzi regained the deck to find the officer-of-the-watch, but his
curiosity was taken by three boats making for Glorious.
A giant Union Flag was in one, and from
another what sounded like 'Rule Britannia' was being pounded out by a scratch
band.
'Hail them, if you please,' ordered
Murray, the officer-of-the-watch. Aboard Glorious, sailors crowded to the deck
edge, astonished by the display. The lead boat shaped course to come alongside;
it was then plain there were no officers aboard.
'Damme an' I know what's afoot, m'lads,'
Renzi heard the flabbergasted boatswain say.
'Lay off, the boat!' warned Murray,
sensing something wrong. The boat took no notice and hooked on at the
main-chains. Seamen nimbly mounted Glorious's side.
'What
in God's name—'
The lead seaman, a
bulky sailor with cutlass and two pistols, came easily over the bulwarks;
another two were not far behind. Murray stalked down from the quarterdeck. 'Did
you not hear my order? Why the devil did you—'
Bringing a paper out of
his waistcoat, the first seaman announced, 'Sir, I'm commanded by th' president
of the delegates of th' whole fleet of His Majesty's navy in the river Medway
and the buoy of the Nore ter give you this'n.'
'What
nonsense is this?' said Murray aghast.
The captain appeared
from below. 'Mr Murray, why are these men in arms?'
The boarders smiled
grimly. 'An' as of this minute, Cap'n, you're released fr'm duty. You're
desired ter yield up yer ship to th' committee.'
Gobbling with anger,
the captain opened his mouth to speak.
'No,
sir, we'll take none o' yer pratin'. Take a squiz there.' The seaman indicated Director,
lying barely a hundred yards abeam, and Inflexible, fine on the bow. 'These're
all risen, they is, every one. An' if I signal, well, there's more'n a hundred
guns'll answer.' As if on cue, gunports opened all down the sides of the
ships-of-the-line.
At the threat there was
little that could be done. The mutineer went to the ship's side and hailed the
waiting boats. 'Right, lads, let's get ter work.'
After securing the ship
the mutineers set up a committee in the starboard bay, holding court on the
unfortunates against whom complaints had been laid. First the officers: most
of them were deemed 'unsuitable' and given fifteen minutes to be clear of the
ship. One boatswain's mate was taken below in irons to be dealt with later, and
a sergeant of marines was given a ducking. Liberty tickets were freely given
under the hand of the committee.
Renzi watched the-
proceedings with interest, for without doubt it would be talked of for years to
come. But then the new-elected delegates called him below, and he was asked to
give a statement of position, and abruptly told, 'Fer a foremast jack yer've
got a wry way o' talkin', cuffin. I thinks fer y' own sake, better ye're ashore
'n' out of it.'
In the boat on the way
to Sheerness, Renzi's eyes lifted as he took in the unmistakable bulk of Achilles.
The boat's crew cheered as they passed, and were answered with a full-throated
roar from the ship. Renzi wondered if Kydd was aboard, or had been turned
ashore, perhaps after an intemperate but loyal outburst. Whatever the case,
probably within the day he would be seeing his friend once more.
He glanced at the
boat's crew. They were in high spirits and full of what they would do ashore.
In their way, these men were as close to the paradigm of Natural Man as it was
possible to find: the suborning elements of civilisation were necessarily
denied to them — he would never find such stout beliefs and open character in
the elegant, blase world that awaited him.
The dockyard was in a
state of feverish chaos and open disorder. People were all about but the gaunt
ribs of new ships were not thronged with shipwrights and their sidesmen, the
sawpits were deserted and the smithy silent.
Renzi was able to share
a handcart for his sea-chest with one of the lieutenants at the price of
pushing the creaking relic. The lieutenant was eager to be quit of Sheerness
and saw no reason why he should not return to his family until the whole
disgraceful episode was over.
They quickly crossed
the marshes and left the noisy revelry of Blue Town behind. The lieutenant
waited for a coach in the small hotel at the start of the London turnpike, but
Renzi was not sure what to do. He had no plans after being so recently turned
out of his ship; it would need some thinking about but, given the tumult and
isolated nature of Sheppey, it was unlikely he would stay either.
The lugubrious landlord
took a deal of gloomy pleasure in telling them of developments at Spithead as
current rumour had it.
Such events did not greatly
surprise Renzi: the wonder in his mind was that the seamen had not acted
earlier, given the criminal neglect of their circumstances. That the mutiny was
brilliantly organised, widespread and effective was the surprising element:
could it be the work of Jacobin agents? However, with Robespierre executed
there was a more sceptical cast to the power struggle now ensuing that probably
didn't include such a hot desire to export their revolution — but without a
doubt the French would be mad not to seize the opportunity to act against
England. It was as grave a state of affairs as he had known, and the government
would be well advised to act rapidly and decisively against the mutineers.
He had to speak to Kydd
- that much was clear. Leaving his sea-chest, he walked back through the
apprehensive inhabitants of Mile Town to the carnival atmosphere in Blue Town.
Outside one of the larger timbered
hostelries in the high street a crowd was gathered, applauding two
rabble-rousers. Renzi winced even though, at the distance, he couldn't hear the
words, but the exultant roars that punctuated the speech did not leave much
doubt over the nature of the harangue. He had to pass by to reach the dockyard
in his mission to find Kydd, and glanced over the back of the crowd at the
speakers. One was a dark, intense individual who appeared almost messianic in
his zeal. The other was Kydd.
Rigid with surprise,
Renzi stared at his friend while the other man declaimed against His Majesty's
treasonable ministers.
A sailor whooped his
approval next to him. 'Who are these gentlemen?' Renzi asked him.