Julian Stockwin - Mutiny

'Time t' let him go,' Kydd said, helping the shattered man to his feet. Wild-eyed, Safferey tore free and ran into a side room, slamming the door behind him.

The thick-set delegate's face hardened. Kydd snapped, 'Y'r president, Mr Parker, what does he think o' yez topping it the tyrant over th' poor bast'd? Thinks y' doing a fine job as delegates, does he?'

The two delegates looked at each other, muttered something inaudible and left.

A muffled clang sounded from the side room, then a sliding crash. Kydd strode over and threw open the door. In the dim light he saw the form of the surgeon on the floor, flopping like a landed fish. The reek of blood was thick and unmistakable as it spread out beneath the dying man, clutching at his throat. The mutiny had drawn its first blood.

'Take a pull on't,' Kitty urged, the thick aroma of rum eddying up from the glass.

Kydd had been shaken by the incident, not so much by the blood, which after his years at sea had lost its power to dismay, but by the almost casual way the gods had given notice that there would be a price to pay for the boldness of the seamen in committing to their cause.

Paradoxically, now, he was drawn to them - their courage in standing for their rights against their whole world, their restraint and steadfast loyalty to the Crown, their determination to sustain the ways of the navy. It would need firm control to ensure that hotheads didn't take over; but if they never left sight of their objectives, they must stand a good chance of a hearing at the highest levels.

'Thank ye, Kitty,' he said.

Her face clouded for a moment. 'An' that was a rummer I had saved f'r Ned, poor lamb.'

The snug room was warmly welcoming to his senses, and he smiled at Kitty. 'It's a rare sight in the dockyard.'

'Yes, an' it's not the place f'r a respect'ble woman,' she said, with feeling.

'Ye should be pleased with y'r sailors, that they've stood up f'r their rights.'

She looked away. 'Aye.' Then, turning to Kydd with a smile, she said, 'Let's not talk o' that, me darlin', we could be havin' words. Look, we're puttin' on a glee tomorrow on Queen Street. Would y' like to come?'

'With you? As long as I c'n get ashore, Kitty, m' love.'

She moved up to him, her eyes soft. 'Come, Tom, I've a fine rabbit pie needs attention. An' after ...'

Coxall waited until Kydd sent his men forward and was on his own. 'If I could 'ave a word, Tom.' 'Eli?' he said guardedly.

'Well, Tom, ye knows I ain't as who should say a taut hand wi' the words.' 'Er, yes, mate?'

'An' I have t' write out these rules o' conduc', which are agreed b' the committee. They has to get sent t' Sandwich fer approval.' He looked awkwardly at the deck. 'Heard ye was a right good word-grinder an' would take it kindly in yez if you could give me a steer on this.'

'What about Farnall? He was a forger, y' knows.'

'He's over in Sandwich wi' Dick Parker.'

'Eli, y' knows I'm not in with ye.'

'I understands, Tom, but we ain't in the word-grubbin' line a-tall, it's a fathom too deep for me an' all.'

'I'll bear a fist on y' hard words, but — y' writes it out fair y'selves afterwards, mind.'

'Right, Tom,' said Coxall.

The other delegates moved over respectfully, giving Kydd ample room on the sea-chest bench. He picked up the draft and read the scratchy writing.

'What's this'n?' he asked, at the first tortuous sentence.

'Er, this is ter say we only wants what's agreed b' everyone, no argyments after.'

'So we has this word for it, and it's "unanimous",' Kydd said. 'We say, "To secure all points, we must be unanimous.'" He reached for a fresh paper, made a heading, and entered the article.

'Thanks, Tom.'

'An' this one: "We turns out o' the ship all officers what come it the hard horse." You may not say this, cuffin, they'd think you a parcel o' shabs.' He considered for a space. 'Should you like "All unsuitable officers to be sent ashore" in its place?'

'Yes, if y' please.' They dealt with the remaining articles in turn, and when it was finished, he handed back the sheet. 'Now ye get them copied fair, an' Achilles is not let down a-tall.'

A seaman in shore-going rig hovered nearby. 'Why, Bill, mate, are y' ready, then?' Coxall asked.

'Yeah, Eli,' the seaman said. He had his hat off, held in front of him, but Kydd could make out Achilles picked out in gold on a ribbon round it.

'Then here's y' money.' It was five pounds, all in silver and copper. The man accepted gingerly.

Coxall turned back to Kydd. 'We're sendin' delegates t' Spithead, tellin' 'em we've made a risin' in support. Bill and th' others are goin't' bring back some strat'gy an' things fr'm the brothers there. On yer way, cully.'

Coxall found no problem in confiding in Kydd. 'They're doin' right well in Spithead. Had a yatter wi' the admiral, an' th' Admiralty even gave our tally o' grievances to the gov'ment.' He allowed a smile to spread. 'All we gotta do is follow what they done.'

Despite all that was going on, Kydd never tired of the vista. Even after several days the estuary of the Thames was, in its ever-changing panorama, a fascinating sight, the sea highway to the busiest port in the world. Sail could be seen converging on the river from every direction; big Indiamen, the oak-bark-tanned sails of coasters, bluff-bowed colliers from the north, plain and dowdy Baltic traders, all in competition for a place to allow them to catch the tide up the sweeping bends of the Thames to the Pool of London.

Kydd knew it took real seamanship: the entrance to London was probably the most difficult of any port. The oudying sandbanks — the Gunfleet, Shipwash, the Sunk - were intricate shoals that the local coasters and the pilots alone knew; only the careful buoyage of Trinity House made transit possible for the larger vessels. The ebbing tide would reveal the bones of many a wreck if ever a lesson were needed.

The fleet anchorage of the Great Nore was to one side of the shipping channels, safely guarded by these outer hazards, but in its turn acting as the key to the kingdom, safeguarding the priceless torrent of trade goods and produce in and out of London.

In the calm sea, the anchorage was a-swarm with boats, under sail and going ashore, or with oars while visiting each other. Some outbound merchantmen tacked towards the scene, curious to see the notorious fleet in mutiny, but kept their distance.

Reluctandy Kydd went below to see the master; no matter that the world was in an uproar, charts still needed correcting, accounts inspected. But Eastman was not in his cabin. He made to leave, but was stopped by Coxall. Five others were with him.

'Beggin' y'r pardon, mate, but Mr Parker begs leave t' make y'r acquaintance.'

Every ship had its smell, its character, and Sandwich did not prove an exception: approaching from leeward Kydd was surprised at its acrid staleness and reek of neglect and decay.

They hooked on at the mainchains, Kydd gazed up at the 90-gun ship-of-the-line with interest; this vessel had started life nearly forty years before, in the wonderful year of victories, and had gone on to see service in most parts of the world. But she had ended up as a receiving ship for the Nore, little more than a hulk that would never again see the open sea. She was now where the press-gang and quota-men were held before they were assigned to the ships of the fleet.

The old-fashioned elaborate gilded scroll-work around her bows and stern was faded and peeling, her sides darkened with neglect, but nevertheless she was the flagship of Vice Admiral Buckner, commander-in-chief of the Nore, now humiliatingly turned out of his ship and ashore.

Kydd grabbed the worn man-rope and went up the side. He was curious to take a measure of the man who had brought his shipmates to such peril. Stepping aboard he was met by two seamen. 'T' see Mr Parker,' he said.