Julian Stockwin - Mutiny

Early the next day the seamen's Parliament met.

'Brother Kydd, how d' we stan' in the matter o' vittles?' Hulme opened.

Kydd had estimates: dry stores and those in cask could possibly be shared out among the ships that were running short, but there was already hardship. The difficult part was the usual problem of finding wood and water: cooking salt beef needed a good deal of both, and all had been held back.

'We c'n hold out f'r another week or so. Then it's two upon four f'r another—'

'Those fuckin' toads! It's insultin' to us. Th' admiral here commands thirteen o' the line — that's nigh-on what Old Jarvey had at St Vincent.' Hulme scowled.

Parker sat quite still.

'Why we has t' sit here, takin' all they wants ter dish out.. .' Hulme finished morosely.

Parker's face animated suddenly. 'Perhaps we don't.'

'Ah, how so?' Blake drawled, clearly reluctant for yet another of Parker's schemes.

But Parker was energised and would not be stopped. 'Think of it, brothers, we could, with one stroke, win free of these shackles and at the same time force their lordships to accept our terms.'

Conversations stopped around the table. 'Go on, then, cully, let's hear yez,' Fearon, of Leopard in the North Sea squadron, said.

Parker waited until he had complete attention. 'We have all the means we need to call their lordships' bluff. If they don't want to come to us and talk — we'll force 'em.'

Hulme sneered. 'Yair, you'll—'

'We throw a blockade on London.'

There was an appalled silence, then everyone spoke at once. Parker leaned back in his chair, a smile playing, while he waited for quiet. 'Indeed. We have the power to clamp our hold on the richest trade gateway in the land. No one would dare touch us while we stop every merchantman, arrest everything that sails. Trade comes to a standstill, the mills of industry stop for want of materials, companies fail for want of exports — the City collapses, the government falls.'

'No!' Kydd burst out. 'This is madness! T' bring y'r country to its knees? We can't sink s' low we'd do this t' England.'

'It would work.' Parker's reply was flat and final.

Returning to Queenborough along the bridlepath, Renzi's mind was preternaturally alert in a cold race of logic and action. The rhythm of walking helped focus his thoughts, and he settled to the task: to review and test the rationalisations that had brought him to this.

At base, the principle of deception, his pose as a merchant, with an interest in an early resolution to the mutiny who was prepared to use agents of commercial intelligence to that end, was successful; Hartwell had been covetous of a clearly first-grade reliable source in place of the usual illiterate ramblings from disaffected sailors. The harder part was to make the intelligence convincing, without jeopardising either Kydd or doing violence to his conscience.

His ground rules were settled: first, the overriding objective was the saving of Kydd, but only in so far as it did not require betrayal of his country. The next was harder: he would transmit nothing that could not be concluded by any intelligent observer for themselves, a hard thing to make convincing. And, finally, no names of individuals would go forward.

They seemed sound, and Renzi lightened. For the immediate future he must acquire intelligence to establish his credentials. He had already found a suitable observation post: there was an elbow in the sea-wall going away from the fort, which obscured him from both the fort and the mile houses.

He slid down the wall into the marsh grasses at the water's edge and watched the fleet's movements through a small brass telescope. If he was caught with the instrument he could well be taken up as a French spy, but there was no other way.

But he had to get closer. 'Good day to you, gentlemen,' he greeted the oyster-fishermen. 'Do you think today is a good day for seeing the sights?' He fumbled absentmindedly for some shillings, squinting at the silver.

'But o' course it be,' the nearest said. 'Where'd ye like t' go?'

'Oh, do you think we might go past the, er, fleet in mutiny?' he asked breathlessly.

The fishermen grinned. 'Thought ye might. Why, o' course, they don't worry th' likes of us.'

The oyster smack was a gaff-rigged cutter, decked in with hatches and reeking of shellfish. Renzi sat doubtfully on one side, then allowed himself to slide down the deck with a cry of alarm when the boat took the wind, and had to be hauled up to windward by an amused deckhand.

They rounded Garrison Point and shaped course towards the end of the fleet. Renzi sat open-mouthed, apparently admiring the formidable display of naval might, but his eyes were moving furiously behind his dark glasses. All yards were crossed, topmasts a-taunt, the ships in an impregnable double-crescent formation.

His eyes strayed to the biggest; there, in Sandwich, Kydd would be now with Parker and the Parliament, probably discussing some grave move. 'Could we go a bit closer, do you think?' he asked, only just remembering his high voice.

The two crew exchanged doubtful looks, but closed with the nearest two-decker. 'Jem — over yonder!' one said urgently. It was a naval pinnace emerging from round the stern of the ship and foaming towards them.

Tiller hard over, the smack went about, but only to end in the path of another. A musket was wielded in the boat astern, a puff of white appeared and a ball slapped through their mainsail. 'Give over, Jem, they'll do us, mate!'

The pinnace came up quickly once their sails were doused. 'What're yez doin' here, then?' Renzi thought he recognised a boatswain's mate and shrank. No mercy would be shown an officer's spy.

The older crew-member spoke up. 'Well, mates, y' know us t' be honest oyster-fishers, fr'm Queenboro'. An' this is a merchant cove wants t' do business wi' the dockyard, once things 'r' settled, like.'

'A merchant?'

'An' wants t' see the fleet, tell 'is frien's all about it.'

Renzi quaked in fear at the rough sailors.

The boatswain's mate grinned wickedly. 'If he's a merchant, he'd be smart t' shift 'is cargoes a mort sharpish - we're goin' t' be puttin' a stopper in this 'ere bottle,' he said, grandly encompassing the estuary.

'Yer what?' one of the fisherman asked.

'A blockade,' he said proudly. 'We got the ships, we got the guns. After we finished, nothin' swims 'less we say so!'

In the sleepy quiet of late night hoofs crashed on the cobbles at the back of 10 Downing Street. The messenger slid down the flanks of his panting horse,

grabbed an Admiralty pouch from the saddlebag and sprinted up the stairs.

A little later, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, in his nightgown, was reading the urgent despatch. 'Good God above!' he said, slowly lifting his eyes from the page. 'Merciful heavens! Toby! Toby, here this instant, you rogue!' The major-domo tumbled out on to the landing, blinking. 'The cabinet — all of 'em, a meeting this hour!'

As the man hurried off, Pitt went to the empty cabinet room and sat, staring. His servant came with his long coat, which he draped over his shoulders, and later a small carafe of port.

He was granted minutes of thought only before a confused babble began at the door, getting louder. They filed in, shocked into silence by Pitt's unkempt, wild appearance. He nodded a greeting to the most eminent, and raised the despatch. 'This news is the worst I have ever received in this entire war.' He paused, fixing his gaze on everyone present. 'I will tell you. In brief it is that the mutiny at the Nore has exploded in our faces.'

He glared contemptuously at General Grey as he continued, 'There were those who thought that left to itself, cut off from the land, the mutiny would in some way wither and die. The same assured us that we should have nothing more to do with them. Now they've called our bluff. We have it from an unusually reliable source in the Medway that the mutineers will deploy their recently augmented fleet to instigate a total blockade on the capital.'