Julian Stockwin: Mutiny

Then she remembered: it was Letitia who had discovered that in Achilles was the man who had famously rescued Lord Stanhope in a thrilling open-boat voyage after a dreadful hurricane. She racked her brain. Yes, Captain Kydd. She would make sure somehow that he was on the guest list.

The next forenoon the new men came aboard, a dismal shuffle in the Mediterranean sun. They had been landed from the stores transport from England, and their trip across wartime Biscay would not have been pleasant. Kydd, as mate-of-the-watch, took a grubby paper from the well-seasoned warrant officer and signed for them. He told the wide-eyed duty midshipman to take them below on the first stage of their absorption into the ship's company of Achilles and watched them stumble down the main-hatch. Despite the stout clothing they had been given in the receiving ship in England, they were a dejected and repellent-looking crew.

The warrant officer showed no inclination to leave, and came to stand beside Kydd. 'No rowguard, then?'

'Is this Spithead?' Kydd retorted. Any half-awake sailor would see that it was futile to get ashore - the only way out of Gibraltar was in a merchant ship, and they were all under eye not two hundred yards off at the New Mole.

The warrant officer looked at him with a cynical smile. 'How long you been outa England?'

'West Indies f'r the last coupla years,' Kydd said guardedly.

The man's grunt was dismissive. 'Then chalk this in yer log. Times 'r changin', cully, the navy ain't what it was. These 'ere are the best youse are goin' to get, but not a seaman among 'em . . .' He let the words hang: by law the press-gang could only seize men who 'used the sea'.

He went on: 'Ever hear o' yer Lord Mayor's men? No?' He chuckled harshly. 'By Act o' Parlyment, every borough has to send in men, what's their quota, like, no choice — so who they goin' to send? Good 'uns or what?' He went to the side and spat into the harbour. 'No, o' course. They gets rid o' their low shabs, skulkers 'n' dandy prats. Even bales out th' gaol. An' then the navy gets 'em.'

There seemed no sense in it. The press-gang, however iniquitous, had provided good hands in the past, even in the Caribbean. Why not now? As if in answer, the man went on, 'Press is not bringin' 'em in any more, we got too many ships wantin' crew.' He looked sideways at Kydd, and his face darkened. 'But this'n! You'll find—'

Muffled, angry shouts came up from below. The young lieutenant-of-the-watch came forward, frowning at the untoward commotion. 'Mr Kydd, see what the fuss is about, if you please.'

Fisticuffs on the gundeck. It was shortly after the noon grog issue, and it was not unknown for men who had somehow got hold of extra drink to run riotous, but unusually this time one of them was Boddy, an able seaman known for his steady reliability out on a yardarm. Kydd did not recognise the other man. Surrounded by sullen sailors, the two were locked in a vicious clinch in the low confines below decks. This was not a simple case of tempers flaring.

'Still!' Kydd roared. The shouts and murmuring died, but the pair continued to grapple, panting in ragged grunts. Kydd himself could not separate them: if a wild blow landed on him, the culprit would face a noose for striking a superior.

A quarter-gunner reached them from aft and, without breaking stride, sliced his fist down between the two. They fell apart, glaring and bloody. The petty officer looked enquiringly at Kydd.

His duty was plain, the pair should be haled to the quarterdeck for punishment, but Kydd felt that his higher duty was to find the cause. 'Will, you old haul-bowlings,' he said loudly to Boddy, his words carrying to the others, 'slinging y' mauley in 'tween decks, it's not like you.'

Kydd considered the other man. He had a disquieting habit of inclining his head one way, but sliding his eyes in a different direction; a careful, appraising look so different from the open honesty of a sailor.

'Caught th' prigger firkling me ditty-bag,' Boddy said thickly. 'I'll knock his fuckin' toplights out, the—'

'Clap a stopper on it,' Kydd snapped. It was provocation enough: the ditty-bag was where seamen hung their ready-use articles on the ship's side, a small bag with a hole half-way up for convenience. There would be nothing of real value in it, so why—

'I didn't know what it was, in truth.' The man's careful words were cool, out of place in a man-o'-war.

Boddy recoiled. 'Don't try 'n' flam me, yer shoreside shyster,' he snarled.

It might be possible — these quota men would know nothing of sea life from their short time in the receiving ship in harbour and the stores transport, and be curious about their new quarters. Either way, Kydd realised, there was going to be a hard beat to windward to absorb the likes of these into the seamanlike ship's company that the Achilles had become after her Atlantic passage.

'Stow it,' he growled at Boddy. 'These grass-combin' buggers have a lot t' learn. Now, ye either lives wi' it or y' bears up f'r the quarterdeck. Yeah?'

Boddy glared for a moment then folded his arms. 'Yair, well, he shifts his berth fr'm this mess on any account.'

Kydd agreed. It was a seaman's ancient privilege to choose his messmates; he would square it later. There was no need to invoke the formality of ship's discipline for this. He looked meaningfully at the petty officer and returned on deck.

The warrant officer had not left, and after Kydd had reassured the lieutenant-of-the-watch he came across with a knowing swagger. 'Jus' makin' the acquaintance of yer Lord Mayor's men, mate?' Kydd glanced at him coldly. 'On yer books as volunteers — and that means each one of 'em gets seventy pound bounty, spend how they likes . ..'

'Seventy pounds!' The pay for a good able seaman was less than a shilling a day — this was four years' pay for a good man. A pressed man got nothing, yet these riff-raff ... Kydd's face tightened. 'I'll see y' over the side,' he told the warrant officer gruffly.

At noon Kydd was relieved by Cockburn. The bungling political solution to the manning problem was lowering on the spirit. And Gibraltar was apparendy just a garrison town, one big fortified rock and that was all. England was in great peril, and he was doing little more than keeping house in an old, well-worn ship at her long-term moorings.

Kydd didn't feel like going ashore in this mood, but to stay on board was not an attractive proposition, given the discontents simmering below. Perhaps he would take another walk round town: it was an interesting enough place, all things considered.

Satisfied with his appearance, the blue coat of a master's mate with its big buttons, white breeches and waistcoat with cockaded plain black hat, he joined the group at the gangway waiting for their boat ashore. The first lieutenant came up the main-hatch ladder, but he held his hat at his side, the sign that he was off-duty.

'Are you passing through the town?' he asked Kydd pleasantly.

Kydd touched his hat politely. 'Aye, sir.'

"Then I'd be much obliged if you could leave these two books at the garrison library,' he said, and handed over a small parcel.

Kydd established that the library was situated in Main Street, apparently opposite a convent. It didn't take long to find — Main Street was the central way through the town, and the convent was pointed out to him half-way along its length. To his surprise, it apparently rated a full complement of sentries in ceremonials. There was a giant Union Flag floating haughtily above the building and a sergeant glared at him from the portico. Across the road, as directed, was the garrison library, an unpretentious single building.

It was a quiet morning, and Emily looked around for things to do. On her mind was her planned social event, as always a problem with a never-changing pool of guests. Her brow furrowed at the question of what she would wear. Despite the tropical climate of Gibraltar, she had retained her soft, milky complexion, and at thirty-two, Emily was in the prime of her beauty.