Mutiny Read online

  “A shant o’ gatter is jus’ whatll set me up prime, like,” sighed the lean and careful Tippett, carpenter’s mate and Coxall’s inseparable companion. They eased into chairs, orienting them to look out over the water, then carefully placed their hats beneath. They were just above Rosia Bay, their two ships neatly at anchor within its arms, while farther down there was a fine vista of the length of the town, all cozy within long lines of fortifications.

  The ale was not long in coming—this establishment was geared for a fleet in port, and in its absence they were virtually on their own, with only one other table occupied.

  “Here’s ter us, lads!” Coxall declared, and upended his pewter. It was grateful to the senses on the wide balcony, the wind at this height strong and cool, yet the soft warmth of the winter sun gave a welcome laziness to the late afternoon.

  Coins were produced for the next round, but Cockburn held up his hand. “I’ll round in m’ tackle for now.” The old 64-gun Achilles had not had one prize to her name in her two years in the Caribbean, while Seaflower cutter had been lucky.

  Kydd considered how he could see his friend clear to another without it appearing charity, but before he could say anything, Coxall grunted: “Well, damme, only a Spanish cobb ter me name. Seems yer in luck, yer Scotch shicer, can’t let ’em keep m’ change.”

  Cockburn’s set face held, then loosened to a smile. “Why, thankee, Eli.”

  Kydd looked comfortably across his tankard over the steep, sunlit slopes toward the landward end of Gibraltar. The town nestled in a narrow line below, stretching about a mile to where it ceased abruptly at the end of the Rock. The rest of the terrain was bare scrub on precipitous sides. “So this is y’r Gibraltar,” he said. “Seems t’ me just a mile long an’ a half straight up.”

  “Aye, but it’s rare val’ble to us—Spanish tried ter take it orf us a dozen years or so back, kept at it fer four years, pounded th’ place ter pieces they did,” Coxall replied, “but we held on b’ makin’ this one thunderin’ great fortress.”

  “So while we have the place, no one else can,” Cockburn mused. “And we come and go as we please, but denying passage to the enemy. Here’s to the flag of old England on the Rock for ever.”

  A murmur of appreciation as they drank was interrupted by the scraping of a chair and a pleasant-faced but tough-looking seaman came across to join them. “Samuel Jones, yeoman outa Loyalty brig.”

  Tippett motioned at their table, “We’re Achilles sixty-four, only this day inward-bound fr’m the Caribbee.”

  “Saw yez. So ye hasn’t the word what’s been ’n’ happened this side o’ the ocean all of a sudden, like.” At the expectant silence he went on, “As ye knows—yer do?—the Spanish came in wi’ the Frogs in October, an’ since then …”

  Kydd nodded. But his eyes strayed to the point where Gibraltar ended so abruptly; there was Spain, the enemy, just a mile or so beyond—and always there.

  Relishing his moment, Jones asked, “So where’s yer Admiral Jervis an’ his fleet, then?”

  Coxall started to say something, but Jones cut in, “No, mate, he’s at Lisbon, is he—out there.” He gestured to the west and the open Atlantic. Leaning forward he pointed in the other direction, into the Mediterranean. “Since December, last month, we had to skin out—can’t hold on. So, mates, there ain’t a single English man-o’-war as swims in the whole Mediterranee.”

  Into the grave silence came Coxall’s troubled voice. “Yer means Port Mahon, Leghorn, Naples—”

  “We left ’em all t’ the French, cully. I tell yer, there’s no English guns any further in than us.”

  Kydd stared at the table. Evacuation of the Mediterranean? It was inconceivable! The great trade route opened up to the Orient following the loss of the American colonies—the journeys to the Levant, Egypt and the fabled camel trains to the Red Sea and India, all finished?

  “But don’t let that worry yez,” Jones continued.

  “And pray why not?” said Cockburn carefully.

  “’Cos there’s worse,” Jones said softly. The others held still. “Not more’n a coupla weeks ago, we gets word fr’m the north, the inshore frigates off Brest.” He paused. “The French—they’re out!” There was a stirring around the table.

  “Not yer usual, not a-tall—this is big, forty sail an’ more, seven-teen o’ the line an’ transports, as would be carryin’ soldiers an’ horses an’ all.”

  He sought out their faces, one by one. “It’s a right filthy easterly gale, Colpoys out of it somewhere t’ sea, nothin’ ter stop ’em. Last seen, they hauls their wind fer the north—England, lads …”

  “They’re leaving!” The upstairs maid’s excited squeal brought an automatic reproof from Emily, but she hurried nevertheless to the window. White sail blossomed from the largest, which was the Glorious, she had found out. The smaller Achilles, however, showed no signs of moving and lay quietly to her anchor. Emily frowned at this development. With no children to occupy her days, and a husband who worked long hours, she had thrown herself into the social round of Gibraltar. There was to be an assembly soon, and she had had her hopes of the younger ship’s officers—if she could snare a brace, they would serve handsomely to squire the tiresome Elliott sisters.

  Then she remembered. It was Letitia who had discovered that in Achilles was the man who had famously rescued Lord Stanhope in a thrilling open-boat voyage after a dreadful hurricane. She racked her brain. Yes, Captain Kydd. She would make sure somehow that he was on the guest list.

  The next forenoon the new men came aboard, a dismal shuffle in the Mediterranean sun. They had been landed from the stores transport from England, and their trip across wartime Biscay would not have been pleasant.

  Kydd, as mate-of-the-watch, took a grubby paper from the well-seasoned warrant officer and signed for them. He told the wide-eyed duty midshipman to take them below on the first stage of their absorption into the ship’s company of Achilles and watched them stumble down the main-hatch. Despite the stout clothing they had been given in the receiving ship in England, they were a dejected and repellent-looking crew.

  The warrant officer showed no inclination to leave, and came to stand beside Kydd. “No row guard, then?”

  “Is this Spithead?” Kydd retorted. Any half-awake sailor would see that it was futile to get ashore—the only way out of Gibraltar was in a merchant ship, and they were all under eye not two hundred yards off at the New Mole.

  The warrant officer looked at him with a cynical smile. “How long you been outa England?”

  “West Indies f’r the last coupla years,” Kydd said guardedly.

  The man’s grunt was dismissive. “Then chalk this in yer log. Times ’r changin’, cully, the navy ain’t what it was. These ’ere are the best youse are goin’ to get, but not a seaman among ’em …” He let the words hang. By law the press-gang could only seize men who “used the sea.”

  He went on. “Ever hear o’ yer Lord Mayor’s men? No?” He chuckled harshly. “By Act o’ Parlyment, every borough has to send in men, what’s their quota, like, no choice—so who they goin’ to send? Good ’uns or what?” He went to the side and spat into the harbor. “No, o’ course. They gets rid o’ their low shabs, skulkers ’n’ dandy prats. Even bales out th’ jail. An’ then the navy gets ’em.”

  There seemed no sense in it. The press-gang, however iniquitous, had provided good hands in the past, even in the Caribbean. Why not now? As if in answer, the man went on, “Press is not bringin’ ’em in anymore, we got too many ships wantin’ crew.” He looked sideways at Kydd, and his face darkened. “But this’n! You’ll find—”

  Muffled, angry shouts came up from below. The young lieutenant-of-the-watch came forward, frowning at the untoward commotion. “Mr. Kydd, see what the fuss is about, if you please.”

  Fisticuffs on the gundeck. It was shortly after the noon grog issue, and it was not unknown for men who had somehow got hold of extra drink to run riotous, but unusually this time one of
them was Boddy, an able seaman known for his steady reliability out on a yardarm. Kydd did not recognize the other man. Surrounded by sullen sailors, the two were locked in a vicious clinch in the low confines below decks. This was not a simple case of tempers flaring.

  “Still!” Kydd roared. The shouts and murmuring died, but the pair continued to grapple, panting in ragged grunts. Kydd himself could not separate them. If a wild blow landed on him, the culprit would face a noose for striking a superior.

  A quarter-gunner reached them from aft and, without breaking stride, sliced his fist down between the two. They fell apart, glaring and bloody. The petty officer looked inquiringly at Kydd.

  His duty was plain, the pair should be haled to the quarterdeck for punishment, but Kydd felt that his higher duty was to find the cause. “Will, you old haul-bowlings,” he said loudly to Boddy, his words carrying to the others, “slinging y’ mauley in ’tween decks, it’s not like you.”

  Kydd considered the other man. He had a disquieting habit of inclining his head one way, but sliding his eyes in a different direction; a careful, appraising look so different from the open honesty of a sailor.

  “Caught th’ prigger firkling me ditty bag,” Boddy said thickly. “I’ll knock his fuckin’ toplights out, the—”

  “Clap a stopper on it,” Kydd snapped. It was provocation enough. The ditty bag was where seamen hung their ready-use articles on the ship’s side, a small bag with a hole halfway up for convenience. There would be nothing of real value in it, so why—

  “I didn’t know what it was, in truth.” The man’s careful words were cool, out of place in a man-o’-war.

  Boddy recoiled. “Don’t try ’n’ flam me, yer shoreside shyster,” he snarled.

  It might be possible—these quota men would know nothing of sea life from their short time in the receiving ship in harbor and the stores transport, and be curious about their new quarters. Either way, Kydd realized, there was going to be a hard beat to windward to absorb the likes of these into the seamanlike ship’s company that the Achilles had become after her Atlantic passage.

  “Stow it,” he growled at Boddy. “These grass-combin’ buggers have a lot t’ learn. Now, ye either lives wi’ it or y’ bears up f’r the quarterdeck. Yeah?”

  Boddy glared for a moment then folded his arms. “Yair, well, he shifts his berth fr’m this mess on any account.”

  Kydd agreed. It was a seaman’s ancient privilege to choose his messmates; he would square it later. There was no need to invoke the formality of ship’s discipline for this. He looked meaningfully at the petty officer and returned on deck.

  The warrant officer had not left, and after Kydd had reassured the lieutenant-of-the-watch he came across with a knowing swagger. “Jus’ makin’ the acquaintance of yer Lord Mayor’s men, mate?” Kydd glanced at him coldly. “On yer books as volunteers—and that means each one of ’em gets seventy-pound bounty, spend how they likes …”

  “Seventy pounds!” The pay for a good able seaman was less than a shilling a day—this was four years’ pay for a good man. A pressed man got nothing, yet these riffraff … Kydd’s face tightened. “I’ll see y’ over the side,” he told the warrant officer gruffly.

  At noon Kydd was relieved by Cockburn. The bungling political solution to the manning problem was lowering on the spirit. And Gibraltar was apparently just a garrison town, one big fortified rock and that was all. England was in great peril, and he was doing little more than keeping house in an old, well-worn ship at her long-term moorings.

  Kydd didn’t feel like going ashore in this mood, but to stay on board was not an attractive proposition, given the discontents simmering below. Perhaps he would take another walk around town. It was an interesting enough place, all things considered.

  Satisfied with his appearance, the blue coat of a master’s mate with its big buttons, white breeches and waistcoat with cockaded plain black hat, he joined the group at the gangway waiting for their boat ashore. The first lieutenant came up the main-hatch ladder, but he held his hat at his side, the sign that he was off-duty.

  “Are you passing through the town?” he asked Kydd pleasantly.

  Kydd touched his hat politely. “Aye, sir.”

  “Then I’d be much obliged if you could leave these two books at the garrison library,” he said, and handed over a small parcel.

  Kydd established that the library was situated in Main Street, apparently opposite a convent. It didn’t take long to find—Main Street was the central way through the town, and the convent was pointed out to him half-way along its length. To his surprise, it apparently rated a full complement of sentries in ceremonials. There was a giant Union Flag floating haughtily above the building and a sergeant glared at him from the portico. Across the road, as directed, was the garrison library, an unpretentious single building.

  It was a quiet morning, and Emily looked around for things to do. On her mind was her planned social event, as always a problem with a never-changing pool of guests. Her brow furrowed at the question of what she would wear. Despite the tropical climate of Gibraltar, she had retained her soft, milky complexion, and at thirty-two, Emily was in the prime of her beauty.

  There was a diffident tap on the door. She crossed to her desk to take position and signaled to the diminutive Maltese helper.

  It was a navy man; an officer of some kind with an engagingly shy manner that in no way detracted from his good looks. He carried a small parcel.

  “Er, can ye tell me, is this th’ garrison library, miss?” She didn’t recognize him: he must be from the remaining big ship.

  “It is,” she said primly. A librarian, however amateur, had standards to uphold.

  His hat was neatly under his arm, and he proffered the parcel as though it was precious. “The first l’tenant of Achilles asked me t’ return these books,” he said, with a curious mix of sturdy simplicity and a certain nobility of purpose.

  “Thank you, it was kind in you to bring them.” She paused, taking in the fine figure he made in his sea uniform; probably in his mid-twenties and, from the strength in his features, she guessed he had seen much of the world.

  “Achilles—from the Caribbean? Then you would know Mr. Kydd—the famous one who rescued Lord Stanhope and sailed so far in a tiny open boat, with his maid in with them as well.”

  The young man frowned and hesitated, but his dark eyes held a glint of humor. “Aye, I do—but it was never th’ maid, it was Lady Stanhope’s travelin’ companion.” His glossy dark hair was gathered and pulled back in a clubbed pigtail, and couldn’t have been more different from the short, powdered wigs of an army officer.

  “You may think me awfully forward, but it would greatly oblige if you could introduce me to him,” she dared.

  With a shy smile, he said, “Yes, miss. Then might I present m’self? Thomas Kydd, master’s mate o’ the Achilles.”

  CHAPTER 2

  It had been an agreeable day, Kydd decided. Cockburn had joined him later and they had wandered along the busy back streets, sampling exotic fruit and fending off importunate gewgaw sellers. They returned on board and Kydd opted to stay on deck, knowing that Cockburn would want to get out his quill and paper to scratch away, his particular solace.

  The evening had turned into night, and Kydd stood at the mizzen shrouds. Yellow lights twinkled in the darkness, faint sounds of the land floated across the water: a donkey’s bray, an anonymous regular tap of a hammer, the ceaseless susurration of activity.

  Possibly their indefinite stay in Gibraltar would not be wholly unpleasant, he reflected. Then he recalled the dire news of the invasion fleet and that Renzi, in Glorious, was on his way to join in a titanic battle for the very life of England, while his own ship was left here as a poor token of English power.

  Logically, he knew that helpless worry was of no use to his country, and he tried resolutely to turn his mind to other things. The ship: as soon as they took delivery of a spar, they would resling the cro’jack yard across the mi
zzenmast, and he would then make his plea for a double cleat truss, for this would conveniently also act as a rolling tackle.

  His thoughts returned to the present. Here he was, a master’s mate, a warrant officer. It was something he couldn’t have dreamed of being in years past; it was the pinnacle of achievement for a common sailor to have a crackling Admiralty warrant in his sea chest. While he wasn’t a real officer—they held a commission from King George—as a master’s mate he was held in real respect aboard. He messed with the midshipmen, it was true, but he was senior to them and could curb their schoolboy antics as he felt inclined. At the same time, he was squarely part of the ship’s company—a seaman and a professional. His social horizons were theirs, but he was at the top and owed no one before the mast except the master any deference; he could look forward to long service at this comfortable eminence.

  Yet there was one aspect of this existence that was a continuing source of regret. Nicholas Renzi had not only shared his adventurous and perilous sea life, but had opened so much to him that was deep and true, and from him he had learned the habits of reason and principle in many a companionable night watch. He remembered the passionate discussions in the South Seas over the precepts of Rousseau, the intensity of Renzi’s convictions informed by Locke and Diderot—all worthy of an enlightened mind. And Renzi’s effortless acquaintance with the beauty and art of words, which touched a part of the soul that nothing else could.

  But Renzi was now also a master’s mate; even a sail-of-the-line would only have one or two. This made it unlikely that they would ever again serve together.

  His eyes cast down to the dark water. At least up to now they had been on the same station and could occasionally visit. They had divided their stock of books in Barbados, now long since read, but to exchange them he must wait until they met again …

  Moody and depressed, he was on the point of going below when he thought of the garrison library. Perhaps the kind lady in charge would understand and allow him a volume or two; then he would apply himself and later astonish Renzi with a morsel of philosophy, or an arcane and wonderfully curious piece of natural science. He brightened.