Julian Stockwin - Mutiny

The boat hooked on, and the passenger, wearing a stylish beaver hat and a blue coat with half-boots, came down the boat. He clambered up the side, and there was a scramble among the men at the top, a cry of 'Side!' A hurrying boatswain's mate arrived and, with appropriate ceremony, President of the Delegates Richard Parker was piped aboard HMS Achilles. Kydd held back at the parody, but was drawn in fascination to the scene.

Parker carried himself well and looked around with studied composure, his dark eyes intelligent and expressive. He doffed his hat to Hawley, who had come on deck but did not speak with him; he went forward, and stood on the fore gratings, folding his arms, waiting for the men to come to him.

Sailors gathered around, their talking dying away. 'Brother Tars,' he began, fixing with his eyes first one man, then another. 'Your waiting is over. Your long wait for justice, rights and true respect - is over.' His voice was educated, assured and direct, but somewhat thin against the breeze and shipboard noises. 'We have joined our brothers in Spithead, as they asked us, and even while we celebrate, there are despatched our representatives to Yarmouth, to the North Sea squadron, to beseech them also to join us. When they do, with Plymouth now aroused, the entire navy of Great Britain will be arisen in our cause.'

Kydd listened, unwilling to leave. The North Sea squadron! This was news indeed: the last battle squadron left to Britain, the one strategically sited to confront the Dutch and the entrance to the Baltic, if it mutinied then . ..

'This will make His Majesty's perverse ministers sit up. It will show that we are steadfast, we mean to win entire recognition of our grievances - and as long as we stand together and united, we cannot fail.' Parker's eyes shone, as though he was personally touched by the moment.

Scattered cheers rose up, but there were as many troubled and uncertain faces.

'We are His Majesty's most loyal and dutiful subjects. Our intentions are noble, our motions virtuous. Why then do we, victims of a barbarous tyranny, have to clamour for justice? I will tell you! King George is surrounded by corrupt and treacherous advisers, but now they have been brought low, the scoundrels, by common seamen. By us!'

Despite himself, Kydd was transfixed by the scene. Here was the man who had pulled together seamen from a dozen ships in common cause - so many hard men, tough seamen who had met the enemy in battle and prevailed: they were not a rabble to be swayed by wild words. They were being asked to risk their necks for others, and would not easily have been convinced.

Parker's voice rose. 'While we stand steadfast, they must treat with us, and our claims are just and few. As I speak, in London there are meetings of the lords and nobles, the ministers and secretaries — and they are meeting because they have to! No longer can they ignore us. And all because we stood up for our rights, without flinching.'

Kydd saw men around beginning to look thoughtful, others becoming animated.

'Fellow seamen, let's give it three hearty cheers — and I invite any who will to step ashore this afternoon and lift a pot with me to the King, and confusion to his false friends.'

Coxall stepped forward with a grim smile. 'An' it's three cheers 'n' a tiger!' he roared. This time the exultation was full-hearted, and there was an air of savage joy as Parker stepped down to make his way back to the boat.

Achilles's boats were soon in full use, putting off full of libertymen keen to taste the sweets of success in a ran-tan ashore.

Kydd gazed around the anchorage. Sandwich swung serenely to her buoy, but her decks were alive with activity, her boats similarly employed. Inshore of Achilles was Director, Bligh's ship. Kydd wondered what had happened to him: this was the second mutiny he had suffered. Astonishingly, the ships showed little sign of the breathtaking events taking place, all men-o'-war at the Nore were flying their flags and pennants as though nothing had happened.

Kydd had not been turned out of the ship, like some of the officers, but he found his estrangement from the seamen irksome. But if they were enjoying a spree ashore, he saw no reason not to step off himself — if only on ship's business. He had a seaman in his division in sick quarters ashore somewhere: he would visit, and perhaps call on Kitty. He found himself a place in the cutter, enduring jovial taunts from sailors who had no doubt where he was headed.

They rounded the point and ran the boat alongside. The dockyard was in uproar. Sailors and their women were everywhere. Along with grog cans some bore rough banners - 'Success to our Cause!', 'Billy Pitt to be damn'd!'

Dockyard artisans left their workshops and joined the glorious merrymaking, and here and there Kydd saw the red coats of soldiery; it seemed the garrison was taking sides.

A brass band led by a swaggering sailor with a huge Union Flag came round the corner in a wash of raucous sound, scattering urchins and drawing crowds. It headed towards the fort on the point and Kydd was carried forward in the press. The militia was formed up, but the procession swirled around them, and while officers and sergeants tried to march the soldiers off, laughing sailors walked along with them, joking and urging.

Kydd found himself caught up in the carnival-like mood. He took off his blue master's mate coat, swinging it over his arm in the warm spring sunshine before wholeheartedly joining in the chorus of 'Britons Strike Home'.

He resisted the urge to join fully in the roystering, feeling a certain conscience about the sick man he had come to see, and took the road to Blue Town, passing the hulks and on through Red Barrier Gate, which was unmanned.

Blue Town had taken the mutineers to its heart. The shanty town, with its maze of mean alleyways, taverns and bawdy-houses rocked with good cheer. Seamen came and went raucously and more processions brought people spilling out on to the street to shout defiance and condemnation.

Kydd set off the quarter-mile over the marshes for Mile Town, a rather more substantial community with roads, stone houses and even shops for the quality. As he entered the settlement he saw that there was a quite different mood — the few sailors who had strayed this far were neither feted nor cheered, shops were shuttered and in the streets only a few frightened souls were abroad.

The temporary sick quarters were in a large hostelry, the Old Swan, which was near the tollgate for the London turnpike. Kydd turned down the path and walked through the open door, but the dark-stained desk just inside was deserted.

He walked further — it was odd, no orderlies or surgeons about. Suddenly noise erupted from a nearby room, and before Kydd could enter a black-coated medical man rushed past. 'Hey — stop!' he called, in bewilderment, after the figure, who didn't look back, vanishing down the road in a swirl of coat-tails.

Not knowing what to expect, Kydd went into the room.

'Ye'll swing fer this, mate, never fear,' a bulky seaman shouted, at a cringing figure on his knees. 'N-no, spare me, I beg!'

Another, watching with his arms folded, broke into harsh laughter. 'Spare ye? What good t' the world is a squiddy oF ferret like you?'

It was a sick room. Men lay in their cots around the walls, enduring. One got to his elbow. 'Leave off, mates! Safferey, 'e's honest enough fer a sawbones.' He caught sight of Kydd standing at the doorway. 'Poor looby, thinks th' delegates are comin' to top 'im personally.' The surgeon was desperately frightened, trembling uncontrollably. 'Said they were here ter check on conditions, an' if they weren't up to snuff, they'd do 'im.'

'Shut yer face, Jack,' one of the delegates growled. 'O' course, we're in mutiny, an' today the whole o' the fleet is out 'n' no one's ter stop us gettin' our revenge — are you?'