Julian Stockwin - Mutiny

'I understand, my lord,' Renzi said quietly. He paused, then continued softly, 'Sir, the man is Thomas Kydd, whom you remember perhaps from the Caribbean.'

Stanhope looked up sharply. 'You may believe I am grieved to hear it.'

'He has taken the plight of his seamen brothers to heart. My lord, he has the ardour of youth compelling him to rash acts, but still has the love of his country foremost.'

Staring into the fire, Stanhope said nothing.

'His would be a great loss to the sea profession, but a greater one to myself.'

Still no response. Then a stirring. 'Mr Renzi,' Stanhope said, his voice sad and gentle, 'there is nothing I crave more than to be of service to this young man, nothing. But my eminence is as nothing compared to the forces he has caused to be raised against him. I am in truth powerless.'

Renzi felt hope die. This was the end for his friend. He looked at the floor through misted eyes.

There was a discreet cough. 'I said that there was nothing I could do. This is certain. But if the Admiralty found that they had good reason to spare him, even to pardon his crimes . . .'

'My lord, Kydd could never find it in him to inform on, to delate upon his shipmates. This is an impossible course.' Renzi's head dropped again.

'Then there is one final action that may answer.' 'My lord?'

'You will forgive the elliptical speech — my conscience is a hard master, as I know is yours.' He considered carefully. 'I can conceive of a circumstance that would have the same effect, result in the same happy conclusion. This will require an act of - of imagination by one devoted to the subject's well-being, yet at the same time be kept from his knowledge at all costs. Renzi, I am speaking of—'

'I conceive I penetrate your meaning, my lord. Am I to understand you mean this, er, associate to establish a proxy connection to—'

'Precisely.'

It was a chance; it was also uncertain and dangerous, but it was a chance — if he had the will and necessary guile.

In the stillness steps could be heard coming up the stairs.

An austere man in grey entered with books for the reading desk. 'Frederick, dear fellow!'

'Ah, the country burns and you are at your Grecian odes, William. Might I present Mr Renzi, visiting London. Renzi, this is Baron Grenville, Mr Pitt's Foreign Minister.'

'My lord.' Renzi managed an elegant leg, noticing Grenville's polite curiosity. He guessed that few of Stanhope's mysterious acquaintances would merit an introduction.

'I understand you have further business, Renzi, I won't detain you.'

* * *

The coach left from the Blue Boar's Head at two; he had time. At the Fleet market at Holbourn he found a well-used and capacious periwig, and an old-fashioned lace-edged frock coat of the kind more likely to be seen on supercargoes in an East Indiaman; these he bundled into a bag with a pair of pattens — clogs to raise the shoes clear of mud.

A spectacle shop on Cheapside provided an old silver pair of smoked glasses, like those needed by persons with weak eyes. A heavy ^woc-silver-headed cane and a large body-purse completed his outfitting.

After a weary and impatient journey he was finally in Rochester. Firmly locking the door to his room, he tried on his gear. It would do, but much hung on its effectiveness.

Wig powder - he loathed it for the inevitable dusty droppings on his high coat collar, but it was essential for appearances. His face was too healthy, tanned and weather-touched; ladies' face powder would subdue it to an indoor appearance. There was nothing more he could do that night so he took a modest supper and went to bed.

He couldn't sleep. It was a perilous undertaking, and Stanhope had all but declared that he would be on his own. If he failed — if he was discovered, then . ..

Too hot in the strange bed, he threw off a blanket. In theory it could just work, but it would mean personal peril, patience and, at the right time, Kydd doing exacdy — to the letter - what was asked of him.

At the Nore the weather had not improved. Rainy, gusty, and raw off the North Sea, it was Sheerness at its bleakest.

As usual, Kydd's first morning task was to assemble the day's victualling requisitions. He relied on the other ships to render their lists of requirements: sides of beef, lemon juice, small beer in the cask, dried pease and, this being harbour routine, bread. When the requirements had all been consolidated, he would send these ashore.

That duty done, he went to see Parker, who was finishing a letter. 'Good day, Tom, we have to call an assembly of the Parliament, you'll agree. Then it's my intent to tour the fleet and speak to the men. I'll wait until we've the stores under hatches, though.'

It would be a critical meeting. If their united front broke under the strain of competing loyalties it would be a merciless end for them all — but if they held staunch there was still a chance.

On deck they waited for the boats to thrash out to them. In these racing seas they would be making heavy weather of it, but Kydd had told the other ships to ensure they were not short of provisions for just this eventuality — he knew the dockyard hoys would put discretion before the bellies of sailors when it came to filthy weather.

The wind whipped at Kydd's oilskins, sending a shiver down his backbone. How was it that Sheerness weather had a quality that made the town seem the rawest, most desolate spot in the kingdom?

'I spy our cutter,' Parker said, in some puzzlement, pointing to where a boat with the distinctive old-fashioned lug mizzen projected over the transom made its laboursome way towards them. The crews were there to supervise the loading of the hoys, and for some reason were returning early.

The petty officer in charge came up the side quickly.

'We bin flammed, Mr Parker. The shonky bastards, they've stopped vittlin'.'

'What - gave ye no stores? None at all?' Kydd couldn't understand it.

'None!'

Parker looked at Kydd. 'I fear, Tom, you and I must get ashore and see what's afoot. Fetch your papers.'

The victualling storekeeper was not helpful: it was a matter of authority, and for that they had to see a clerk of the cheque. They trudged across the dockyard, aware of the changed atmosphere. No longer the cheerful processions and hands waved in comradeship. Now it was in a sullen, hostile mood.

'You see?' The clerk's finger stabbed at the requisition form. 'The signature. We have no authority to issue against this.' It was Parker's signature.

'And why not? You have before.'

'You needs an orficer ter clap 'is scratch to these.'

'An' since when did we have t' do this?' Kydd snarled.

'Steady, Tom,' Parker muttered.

'This's not th' business of a mutineer,' the clerk said contemptuously.

'You — you fawney 'longshore bugger, what d' you know about it?' Kydd seized the man's none-too-clean coat and forced him to his knees. 'Why don't y' let us have our vittles?'

'H-help! M-murder! Help!' The clerk's eyes rolled. Passing dockyard workers stopped. A few moved warily towards Kydd.

'Let him go, the bastard!' hissed Parker.

Kydd dropped his hands and stepped back.

The man dusted himself down ostentatiously. 'Yair, well. Since y' must know, we have orders,' he said, aggrieved but triumphant. 'An' the orders are fr'm the Admiralty, an? they say no vittles t' any ship what wears th' Bloody Flag.'

A sizeable group of dockyard tradesmen gathered at the commotion. 'T' hell wi' the black mutineers!' shouted one. 'In th' oggin wi' 'em!' yelled another.

Kydd bunched his fists. 'First man wants t' have his toplights doused, I c'n oblige ye.'

'Let's be back aboard, Tom,' Parker said. 'It's as I thought. They're going to starve us out.'

Even before they arrived back on the ship they caught sight of the 38-gun frigate Espion slowly turning, her slipped cables splashing into the water around her bows. Too quick for the mutineer vessels to bring their guns to bear, she went in with the tide and disappeared round the point.