Julian Stockwin - Mutiny

'Very well.' Hawley had little choice — in barely three minutes he had gone from command of a ship-of-the-line to an irrelevancy.

A scuffle of movement and raised voices came from the fore-hatchway. A knot of men appeared, propelling the boatswain aft, his hands roughly tied.

'We gives 'im medicine as’ll cure his gripin'!' crowed Cantlie, dancing from foot to foot in front of the detested Welby. 'Go reeve a yard rope, mates!'

From the main hatch the boatswain jerked into view, hatless and with blood trickling from his nose, a jeering crowd of seamen frogmarching him aft. 'Here's one t' do a littie dance fer us!'

It was met by a willing roar, but Coxall cut in forcefully: 'Hold hard, y' clinkin' fools! Remember, we got rules, we worked it out.'

'Rules be buggered!' an older fo'c'sle hand slurred. 'I gotta argyment wi' first luff needs settlin' now!' Hawley, pale-faced, tensed.

Coxall spoke quietly, over his shoulder: 'Podger?' Nelms's beefy arm caught the troublemaker across the face, throwing him to the deck. 'I said, mates, we got rules,' Coxall said heavily. He turned to Boddy. 'Will, these two are t' be turned out o' the ship now. C'n yer clear away the larb'd cutter?'

A seaman with drawn cutlass came on deck and reported to him. It seemed that the marines were powerless, their arms under control and all resistance impossible.

Coxall raised his voice to a practised roar and addressed the confused and silent mass of men. 'Committee meets in the st'b'd bay now. Anyone wants t' lay a complaint agin an officer c'n do it there.' He glanced around briefly, then led his party out of sight below.

Chapter 7

Mutiny! A word to chill the bowels. Achilles was now in the hands of mutineers, every one of whom would probably swing for it, condemned by their own actions. Kydd paced forward cautiously; men gave way to him as a master's mate just as they had before. There were sailors in the waist at work clearing the waterways at the ship's side, others sat on the main hatch, picking oakum. Forward a group was seeing to the loosing and drying of headsails. A few stood about forlornly, confused, rudderless.

It was hardly credible: here was a great ship in open insurrection and shipboard routines went on largely as they did every day. Binney paced by on the opposite side of the deck; seamen touched their hats and continued, neither abashed nor aggressive.

Impulsively Kydd clattered down the hatchway to the main deck and made his way to the ship's bay, the clear area in the bluff bow forward of the riding bitts. There was a canvas screen rigged across, with one corner laced up, a seaman wearing a cutlass at ease there, on watch. 'I have a question f'r the delegates,' Kydd told the man.

He smiled briefly. 'Aye, an' I'm sure ye have,' he said, and peered inside. He straightened and held back the corner flap. 'Ask yer questions, then,' he said, looking directly at Kydd.

Farnall sat at a table, Boddy on his right. Others were on benches and sea-chests, about a dozen in all. They were discussing something in low, urgent tones, while Farnall shuffled a clutch of papers. Boddy wore a frown and looked uneasy.

'What cheer, Tom?' This came from Jewell, who was standing to one side. Boddy looked up and nodded. Others stopped their talk and looked at him.

'Nunky, Will,' Kydd acknowledged.

'And to what do we owe this honour?' Farnall said.

Kydd folded his arms. 'I came t' see if there's anyone c'n explain t' me this ragabash caper.'

There were growls from some, but one called, 'Tell 'im, Mr Farnall.'

Farnall rose to his feet. Gripping the lapels of his waistcoat he turned to Kydd, but before he could speak, Kydd interrupted forcefully: 'No, I want t' hear it from a reg'lar-built sailorman, not a land-toggie who doesn't know his arse from his elbow about sailoring.'

Farnall's face grew tight, but he sat down. Boddy stood up and hurried over to Kydd, taking him by the elbow and leaving the bay. 'Tom, it'll do yez no good to get up Farnall's nose. He's a delegate now, an' he's got friends.'

They emerged together on deck - the spring sunshine out of keeping with the dire events taking place. Kydd glanced up wistfully at the innocent blue sky. 'What has you planned f'r Achilles, Will?' he said.

Boddy paused. Ter an answer, ye needs ter know what's happened altogether, like.' He pursed his lips. 'We feels they has a right steer on things in Spithead, Tom. They's standin' f'r hard things that should've bin done an age back. What we're doin' is giving 'em our backin', 'cos they need it. What we done is, we have two delegates f'r each ship, an' a committee o' twelve. We decides things b' votes an' that, Farnall knows all about this. An' we hold wi' discipline, Tom. We won't have any as is half slued around the decks, not when we're so close t' the wind like this'n.'

'Who's y'r delegates?' Kydd asked.

'Coxall 'n' Farnall, but we got some good men in th' committee. We already have rules o' conduct: no liquor aboard wi'out it's declared, respects to officers, ship is kept ready f'r sea — an' this is because we swear 'ut if the Mongseers sail on England, we're ready ter do our dooty.'

Kydd looked squarely at Boddy. 'Will, who's it behind this all — who organised it?' If there was the barest whiff of French treachery he would have all his doubts resolved, his duty clear.

'Why, we're follering Spithead, is all, nothin' more.'

'No Frenchies at the bottom of it, a-tall?'

'No, mate. If they noo that the whole navy of Great Britain was hook down an' goin' nowhere, they'd soon be crowdin' sail for England. They ain't, so there's no plot. They don't even know.'

'But there's someone takin' charge?'

'O' course — someone has ter. Sandwich, she's the Parlyment ship, the committee o' the fleet meets there. We has a president o' the delegates, name o' Dick Parker. We'll see 'im soon, wouldn't wonder.' Boddy looked shrewdly at Kydd. 'Look, Tom, it's started, cuffin, an' mark my words, we're goin' to stand fast. Now why doesn't ye come in wi' us? There's many a soul looks up ter you, would take—'

Kydd's harsh reply stilled Boddy's words, but the latter's eyes held reproach, sadness, which- touched Kydd. Boddy glanced at him once, then turned and went below.

Kydd paced restlessly. If the likes of Will Boddy had seen it necessary to hazard their lives to stand for what they believed needed righting . . .

It had to be admitted, the mutiny had been conducted on the strictest lines. The committee was even preparing articles of conduct for preserving good order and naval discipline in the face of the absence of authority, an amazing thing, given the circumstances.

But most astonishing was the mere fact that the complexity of daily life — the taking aboard of stores to meet the needs of seven hundred men, the deployment of skilled hands to maintain the miles of cordage and sea-racked timbers, the scaling of cannon bores — was continued as before.

The noon meal was a cheerless affair in the gunroom; the midshipmen were subdued, the senior hands edgy, Cockburn introspective. It was made more so by the waves of jollity gusting from the sailors on the gundeck relishing being in relaxed discipline.

Glad to return on deck and get away from Cockburn's moodiness, Kydd kept out of the way of the sailors at the gangway waiting to board the boats to take them ashore. Liberty tickets were being issued on a generous scale. These were of the usual form to protect them from the press-gang and prove them not deserters, but they were signed by a delegate, not an officer.

A shout from the waist caught Kydd's attention. Someone called out, 'An' if I'm not wrong that longboat comin' under our stern now is 'imself come t' visit.'

Men ran to the ship's side to catch a glimpse of the president. The boat curved widely, the men at the oars pulling lustily in a play of enthusiasm. In the sternsheets was a dark-featured man sitting bolt upright, looking neither to left nor right; he did not acknowledge the surging cheers.