Julian Stockwin - Mutiny

This was a rough and ready but effective way for seamen to let the quarterdeck know of serious discontent. In the blackness of night on deck, a twenty-four-pounder cannon ball from the ready-use shot garlands would be rolled along the deck aft, the culprit impossible to detect.

It was nearly upon them — whatever storm it was that lay ahead.

They were waiting for him at the fore jeer bitts, hanking down after re-reeving a foreyard clew-line block, making a show of it in the process. Standing in deliberate, staged groups, eyes darted between them.

Kydd saw the signs and tensed. 'Ah, Mr Kydd,' Jewell said carefully, inspecting critically the coil of line in his hand as though looking for imperfections.

'Aye, Nunky,' Kydd replied, just as carefully. The others stopped what littie work they were doing and watched.

'Well, Tom, mate, we're puzzled ter know what course we're on, these things we hear.'

'What things, Nunky? The catblash y'r hearing about—'

'The actions at Spithead, he means, of course.'

Kydd turned to Farnall, sizing him up. 'And what've y' heard that troubles ye so much?' He was not surprised that Farnall was there.

'As much as you, I would say,' Farnall said evenly.

Kydd. coloured. 'A set o' mumpin' villains, led like sheep t' play their country false, the sad dogs.'

Farnall raised an eyebrow. 'Sad dogs? Not as who would call the brave victors of St Vincent, just these three months gone.'

Pent-up feeling boiled in Kydd and, knocking Jewell aside, he confronted Farnall. 'You an' y'r sea-lawyer ways, cully, these 'r' seamen ye're talkin' of, fine men ye'd be proud t' have alongside you out on the yard, gale in y' teeth - what d' ye know o' this, y' haymakin' lubber?'

Jewell spoke from behind. 'Now, Mr Kydd, he's no sailor yet, but haul off a mort on 'im, he's tryin'.'

Breathing deeply, Kydd was taken unawares by the depth of his anger: Farnall was only an unwitting representative of the rabid forces of the outside world that were tearing apart his share of it. 'Aye, well, if ye runs athwart m' hawse again .. .'

'Understood, Mr Kydd,' said Farnall, with a slight smile.

Kydd looked around and glowered; the group drifted apart and left under his glare, but Boddy remained, fiddling with a rope's end.

'Will?' Kydd would trust his life with someone like Boddy: he was incapable of deceit or trickery and was the best hand on a sail with a palm and needle, the sailmaker included.

'Tom, yer knows what's in th' wind, don' need me ter tell yez.'

Kydd didn't speak for a space, then he said, 'I c'n guess. There's those who're stirrin' up mischief f'r their own reasons, an' a lot o' good men are goin' to the yardarm 'cos of them.'

Boddy let the rope drop. 'Farnall, he admires on Wilkes - yer dad probably told yer, "Wilkes 'n' Liberty!" an' all that.'

'I don't hold wi' politics at sea,' Kydd said firmly. 'An' don't I recollect Wilkes is agin the Frenchy revolution?'

'Aye, that may be so,' Boddy said uncomfortably, 'but Farnall, he's askin' some questions I'm vexed ter answer.'

'Will, ye shouldn't be tellin' me this,' Kydd muttered.

Boddy looked up earnestly. 'Like we sent in petitions 'n' letters an' that — how many, yer can't count — so th' Admiralty must know what it's like. They've got ter! So if nothin' happens, what does it mean?'

He paused, waiting for Kydd to respond. When he didn't, Boddy said, 'There's only one answer, Tom.' He took a deep breath. 'They don't care! We're away out of it at sea, why do they haveta care?'

'Will, you're telling me that ye're going t' trouble th' Lords o' the Admiralty on account of a piece o' reasty meat, Nipcheese gives y' short measure—'

'Tom, ye knows it's worse'n that. When I was a lad, first went ter sea, it were better'n now. So I asks ye, how much longer do we have ter take it — how long, mate?'

'Will, y're talkin' wry, I c'n see that—'

'Spithead, they're doin' the right thing as I sees it. No fightin', no disrespeck, just quiet-like, askin' their country ter play square with 'em, tryin'—'

'Hold y'r tongue!' Kydd said harshly.

Boddy stopped, but gazed at him steadily, and continued softly, 'Some says as it could be soon when a man has t' find it in himself ter stand tall f'r what's right. How's about you, Mr Kydd?'

Kydd felt his control slipping. Boddy knew that he had overstepped - but was it deliberate, an attempt to discover his sympathies, mark him for elimination in a general uprising, or was it a friend and shipmate trying to share his turmoil?

Kydd turned away. In what he had said Boddy was guilty of incitement to mutiny; if Kydd did not witness against him he was just as guilty. But he could not - and realised that a milestone had been passed.

He did not sleep well: as an eight-year-old he had been badly shaken when his mother had returned from a London convulsed by mob rioting, Lord Gordon's ill-advised protest lurching out of control. She had been in a state of near-panic at the breakdown of authority, the drunken rampages and casual violence. Her terror had planted a primordial fear in Kydd of the dissolution of order, a reflexive hatred of revolutionaries, and in the darkness he had woken from terrifying dreams of chaos and his shipmates turned to ravening devils.

Glad when morning came, he sat down to breakfast in the gunroom. The others ate in silence, the navy way, until Cockburn pushed back his plate and muttered, 'I have a feeling in m' bowels, Tom.'

'Oh?' Kydd answered cautiously. This was not like Cockburn at all.

'Last night there was no play with the shot-rolling. It was still, too quiet by half. Have you heard anything from your people?'

'I heard 'em talkin' but no thin' I c'n put my finger on,' he lied.

'All it needs is some hothead.' Cockburn stared morosely at the mess-table.

Kydd's dream still cast a spell and he was claustrophobic. 'Going topsides,' he said, but as he got to his feet, the gunroom servant passed a message across.

There was no mistaking the bold hand and original spelling, and a smile broke through. This had obviously been brought aboard by a returning libertyman.

'The sweet Dulcinea calls?' Cockburn asked drily. It was no secret in the gunroom that Kydd's dark good looks were an unfailing attraction to females.

He broke the wafer.

It wood greeve me if we are not to be frends any moor and I wood take it kindly in yuo if you could come visit for tea with me.

Yoor devoted

Kitty

His day brightened: he could probably contrive another visit that afternoon — after his experience in an Antiguan dockyard he was good at cozening in the right quarters. Stepping lightly he arrived on deck; it was a clear dawn, promising reliable weather for the loosing and drying of the headsails.

The duty watch of the hands appeared; the afterguard part-of-ship rigged the wash-deck hose and the morning routine started. Kydd could pace quietly one side of the quarterdeck until the petty officer was satisfied with clean decks and then he could collect the hands.

He tried to catch a glimpse of their temper. He knew all the signs — the vicious movements of frustration, the languid motions of uncaring indolence — but today was different. There was a studied blankness in what they were doing; they worked steadily, methodically, with little of the backchat usual in a tedious job. It was unsettling.

His musing was interrupted by the approach of a duty midshipman. 'Mr Kydd, ol’ Heavie Hawley wants to see you now.'

Kydd's heart gave a jump. With the captain ashore, the first lieutenant was in command, and for some reason wanted his presence immediately. He stalled: 'An' I don't understan' y'r message, y' swab - say again.'

'First l'tenant asks that you attend him in his cabin, should you be at liberty to do so at this time.'