Julian Stockwin - Mutiny

In sombre mood, Parker and Kydd rejoined the Parliament in the Great Cabin. 'Reports,' Parker ordered.

Davis, looking cast-down and ill, opened: 'We now has Espion an' Niger in th' dockyard wi'out the red flag. I have m' doubts on Clyde and San Fi as well. They wants out, we know. Th' fleet istl, they don' know what ter do, an' when they gets noos of th' stoppin' of vittles ...'

'Brother Bellamee?'

This fo'c'sleman, a shrunken gnome of a sailor, spent his time ashore, listening and observing. He waited until it was quiet. 'Shipmates, th' sojers, they're on th' march, hundreds on 'em, an' all marchin' this way. They got this

Gen'ral Grey with 'em, an' he's a tartar. Got 'em all stirred up, settin' guns across the river to th' north, an' I heard he has clouds more of 'em all over in th' country —' 'Thank you, Mr Bellamee.'

— an' he's goin' ter put two whole reggyments inter the fort. Dunno where they'll kip down, mates. Word is, we can't go ashore any more, 'less we has a pass an' a flag o' truce.'

The mood became black: it didn't take much imagination to picture a country in arms against them, relentlessly closing in.

'I was in Mile Town, mates, an' there was a sight.' Kydd had never heard MacLaurin of Director speak before. 'See, all the folks think we's goin' to riot or somethin' fer they're all in a pelt, women 'n' children an' all, a-leavin' town, carts 'n' coaches — anythin' to get away.'

Parker shot to his feet. 'My God,' he choked, 'what are we doing?' His anguished cry cut through the murmurs of comment. Astonished, all eyes turned to him. His head dropped to his hands.

'What's wi' him?' Hulme demanded.

Blake's eyes narrowed. 'Could be he's a-gettin' shy, mates!' Growls of discontent arose — there were many who still distrusted Parker's educated tones. 'We doesn't have ter have the same president all th' time, y' knows.'

It brought all the talking abruptly to a stop.

'I votes we has an election.'

In the first possible coach, a villainous unsprung monster of a previous age, Renzi headed away from Rochester. Time was critical. The coach wound through fields and marshland, across the Swale at King's Ferry and on to the island of Sheppey. Then it was an atrocious journey over compacted, flint-shot chalk roads to his destination - the ancient town of Queenborough, just two miles south from the dockyard but unnoticed since Queen Anne's day.

There was only one inn, the decrepit Shippe. With much of the population on the move away, there was no questioning of the eccentric merchant with the fusty wig who chose to take rooms just at that time.

'I'm an abstemious man,' Renzi told the landlord. 'It's my way to take the air regularly.' He was particularly pleased with his affected high voice, and he had taken the precaution, for local consumption, of laying out a reason for his presence — he was a merchant hoping to do business with the dockyard, waiting out the tiresome mutiny at a safe distance.

The oyster-fishermen at the tiny landing-hard were curious, but satisfied by Renzi's tale of gathering sketches for a painting, and for a generous hand of coins agreed to show him many wonderful views, the events of the Nore permitting. They had no fear of the press-gang for the oyster-fishers of Queenborough carried protections whose rights dated back to the third King Edward.

Renzi strolled along the single bridlepath that led to Sheerness. Behind his smoked glasses, his eyes darted around — angles, lines of sight, coven the undulating marsh grass was possible, but not easy.

The road ended at the intersection with that of Blue Town on the way out of the dockyard. He turned left — his business was with the authorities.

A stream of people were leaving: old women, fearful men with family possessions on carts, stolid tradesmen at the back of drays — and in the other direction troops of soldiers were on their way to the garrison.

Renzi clutched his bag to him as though in alarm, and shuffled towards Red Barrier Gate. This was now manned with a sergeant and four.

'I've been asked to attend upon the captain,' Renzi squeaked. The sentry gave him a hard look, then let him through. Renzi passed the hulks, then the public wharf, which was perilously crowded by those begging a passage on the next Chatham boat.

The entrance to the fort was also well guarded. A moustached sergeant was doubtful about his stated mission and compromised by providing an escort. They set off for the commissioner's house, the seat of operations.

At the door, Renzi instantly changed his demeanour; now he was in turn wordly and discreet, knowing and calculating. He bowed to the flag lieutenant. 'Sir, I desire audience with Captain Hartwell at your earliest convenience. I may have information . ..'

Chapter 10

No hard feelin’s, Mr Parker,’ said Hulme, after the vote.

'None that a mort more trust wouldn't cure,' Parker said stiffly, reassuming his seat. The interruption, however, had allowed him to regain countenance, and he leaned forward in the old, confident way. 'It's clear that the soldiers are deploying to deny us the shore,' he said crisply. 'They have reinforced the garrison, and we've had reports from Pylades that there are parties of militia splashing about in the mud the other side of the Thames.'

It brought laughter: if the intention was to surround them with troops, then there would be a lot more cursing, mud-soaked soldiers floundering about in the marshlands.

'But we have to face it,' Parker continued. 'Ashore we're in danger anyway — they could cut us off and have us in irons in ho time. We're much safer snug on board in our fleet.'

'Damme,' rumbled Blake, 'an' I was gettin' ter like th' marchin' up an' down wi' our red flag in front of th' ladies.'

Parker's rejoinder was cut off by a piercing hail. 'Deck hooooo! Ships — men-o'-war, ships-o'-the-line — standin' toward!'

There was a general scramble for the deck. The lookout in the maintop threw out an arm to the open sea to the north-east. On the horizon was a fleet - no modey collection of vessels, but a first-class squadron of ships-of-the-line in battle order. It was upon them: there was no more time to debate, to rationalise the fighting of fellow seamen — a decision had to be made.

''They're flyin' the red flag!'

'The North Sea squadron! They've come across, joining! Two, five, six — eight of their ship-o'-the-line! It's — it's marvellous!' Parker skipped about the deck in joy. 'Don't you see? We've lost three or four frigates and smaller, but now we've got eight - eight - of the line more.'

'Doubles our force,' Kydd said. 'At last, th' shabs came across!'

'An' I'm Joe Fearon, Leopard, an' this is Bill Wallis o' Standard - we come t' say we signed y' eight articles an' we mean to abide by 'em t' death.'

Kydd responded warily: these were hard men and would need careful handling.

'Thank you,' said Parker. 'There are many—'

'An' we've brought a few of our own, like,' Fearon said flady.

'Oh, may we hear them?'

'Right. Fer the first we has this. Court martials on seamen ter be made o' foremast hands, not grunters.' 'Yes, well—'

'Fer the second, we want prize-money three-fifths forrard, two-fifths aft.'

There was no use in opposing: they had to hear it out. All told there were four articles, which had to be voted upon. Then it was insisted that they be taken ashore and presented to the admiral.

'I do this from duty, Tom, not by choice. You stay here, my friend.'

Kydd's spirits were low as he saw him off in the rain. They had doubled their force, but the Admiralty was not moving an iota towards meeting any of their grievances. Where was it all leading?

When Parker returned, the fleet was in joyous mood, with singing and dancing on deck in the clear moonlit evening. But his face was deeply lined. Buckner had refused even to accept the articles, and the fear and chaos ashore were worse: now it was open hostility.