Mutiny Page 31

  The interminable waiting, being prevented from talking—his mind tried to escape to other realms and hallucination was never far away. Bright, vivid imagery crowded into his thoughts: fierce, exhilarating seas so real he could taste the salt spray, the bloodlust of a gundeck in action with its death and exultation—and the many sights of great beauty and peace he had seen as a deep-sea mariner. It faded, as it always did, into the gray pit of desolation that was now his lot.

  The door to the Great Cabin opened. He looked up; it was Parker. He stood there, white-faced. “It’s death,” he said, with no emotion.

  The provost marshal came with the irons, clamped them brutally to his legs. “Mark this, you damned one-eyed bugger,” Parker said venomously, “when you put on the halter, I’ll give you such a kick as will send your soul to hell.”

  Davis saw Parker being dragged away, and murmured, “If they serve me th’ same way, I’d ask ter die with him.”

  There was indistinct movement inside the Great Cabin, and a lieutenant emerged. “Court is adjourned. It will meet tomorrow,” he informed the provost marshal.

  They were brought to their feet and taken down to confinement in the gloom and mustiness of the orlop. There, they were placed in bilboes, a long bar with sliding leg irons; it would be a dozen hours or more before they could hope to be released.

  Kydd tried to lie, but his legs twisted awkwardly. Four marine sentries watched, their expressions impossible to make out in the dimness of the two lanthorns. Some of the prisoners talked quietly; most lay motionless.

  Some had visitors; a dissenter chaplain led prayer for a Scots boatswain’s mate and a disreputable legal gentleman escorted by a lieutenant attempted to question one prisoner, but left quickly. Fearon’s mother came, but was so overcome she had to be attended by the surgeon.

  The screaming and weeping tore at Kydd and he struggled to stay rational. Then a young woman, brought by the marine lieutenant, appeared before him. It was Kitty.

  “Tom, m’ darlin’ man, t’ see you here!” she said piteously, her hands writhing together.

  “Kitty, m’ dear,” said Kydd, his mind scrabbling to keep a hold on reality. “Y’ shouldn’t be here—why, it’s a long way from—”

  “Tom, oh, Tom,” she wept, and clung awkwardly to him. The marine lieutenant looked away politely. Kydd could just get his arms around her, and held her while she sobbed.

  She pulled away, dabbing her eyes, then leaned forward to whisper. Next to Kydd, Davis pushed at Hulme and they leaned away so as not to overhear the endearments. “Tom, m’ love, listen to me,” she whispered urgently. “Are ye listening?”

  “Aye, Kitty,” he said.

  She kissed him quickly. “Then mark what I have t’ say, on y’ life, Thomas. On y’ very life, I said!”

  He mumbled, she kissed him again. “This is what ye must say th’ very instant y’ steps into the court. Don’t ask any questions—just say it. For my sake, darlin’. Are y’ ready?”

  Davis appeared at the door, unbowed, and said, with a laugh, “Aye, well, death o’ course, I never doubted it.” His irons were clamped on and he shambled off to the condemned cell. They were accelerating the pace.

  “Bring in the prisoner Thomas Paine Kydd.” A plunging fear seized him, but only for a second. His future was ordained; there was no mercy through those doors, he would leave as a condemned felon. He would therefore face his fate without flinching.

  Light patterned prettily through the mullions of the sternlights in the Great Cabin. The room was filled with figures in blue and gold lace, grim faces.

  “You may stand there.” An officer indicated with a sword.

  “You are Thomas Paine Kydd?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “You stand charged, that—”

  “I claim Cap’n Hartwell t’ speak f’r me.” He heard his voice, weak but firm.

  “You’ll have your chance later, my man. Now, on the twelfth day of May 1797, you did—”

  “Sir! I claim Cap’n Hartwell—”

  “Silence! Silence in court! If you do not keep silence, I will see you gagged, sir!”

  “Oh, yes. Ah, er, I do believe we have a rather nice point here.” Kydd’s eyes focused on the speaker. “Might I crave the court’s indulgence, sir, and ask the court be cleared?”

  “Do you indeed, Cap’n Hartwell? At this stage to be toppin’ it the lawyer, dammit!”

  “Sir, I have to insist.”

  The president of the court glowered. Then, seeing Hartwell’s quiet obstinacy, he agreed. “Clear the court—prisoner can go to the officers’ waiting room, but keep a damn close eye on the villain, sir.”

  There was a general shuffling about the court. All save the sitting captains and president left the room. Kydd was taken under close escort to the admiral’s sleeping quarters, temporarily a waiting room.

  “Now, sir, what is this infernal matter that it must so inconvenience the court?” Hartwell spoke in a low voice, but forcefully. “Sir, this Kydd is one of the most courageous young men I have known. His loyalty to Crown and country was such that he deliberately sought out the friendship of Parker and the so-called Parliament and, in appalling danger, passed us vital intelligence—warning about the blockade and the best chance for Trinity House to play their part is only some of it. Sir, we can do no more than sympathize with his terrible ordeal, and instantly set him free with a full pardon.”

  Rumbles of approval came from around the table, but the president remained unmoved. “How do ye know it was this man? Did you go out t’ the ship an’ ask for him?”

  “Sir, a good question, if I may remark. It was in fact through the loyal services of a Queenborough merchant that the information was passed.”

  “I shall want t’ see the merchant identify this man. Is he at hand?”

  “He is on deck at this moment, sir.”

  “Pray find him—an’ make haste if you please, Captain.”

  * * *

  “Sir, this is the merchant in question. He wishes to resume trading at Sheerness shortly and therefore begs for your discretion in the article of naming. He will answer to ‘Mr. X’.”

  “Harrumph! Well, Mr. X, we will bring in a prisoner. You will identify him as your informant, and if it is, you will declare to the court, ‘This is the man,’ or ‘This is not the man,’ accordingly.”

  “I understand,” said Renzi, his high voice raising eyebrows.

  “Bring in the prisoner.”

  Kydd returned and stood facing the court, swaying slightly.

  “This is the man,” Renzi said.

  “Very well. Remove the prisoner.” When Kydd had been led out, he resumed. “You are asking me to believe that you boarded a ship in active mutiny to interview this Kydd?”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t dare! Those were desperate men—”

  “Quite. Then, if I may ask …”

  “I secured the offices of his—his paramour, if you will excuse the indelicacy, sir. She it was who regularly passed between, utterly without suspicion.”

  “Then it only needs the young lady to be produced to identify both parties and th’ link is complete. Is she …?”

  “She is nearby, sir. I’ll ask her to attend immediately.”

  Kydd entered the court for the second time. “Kitty!”

  “This ’s the man, so please y’, sir,” she said, avoiding Kydd’s eye.

  The prisoner was taken away.

  “And this man, do you know him?”

  “Yes, sir, I do indeed.”

  “Then the court thanks you, m’ dear, for your assistance.” The president waited for them both to leave, then sat back.

  “I find the identity proved and, in the light of what we have heard, find the man Kydd exonerated of all culpability. Are there any to gainsay? Then I rule that the prisoner receive a full and general pardon. This ruling is made in camera without prejudice to the prerogatives of the court and, for the protection of the individual concerned, is entered without record.
These proceedings will not be discussed outside this court now or at any future date. Bring in the prisoner.

  “Thomas Paine Kydd, this court finds that, for reasons not for record, you have been exonerated of culpability in the matter of the charges brought against you, and that the gracious pardon of His Majesty be deemed to extend to you. You are hereby freed. You may go.”

  Utterly confused, mind a-swim, Kydd had to be helped to the door. It opened, and there were Hulme, Fearon and the others looking up at him. “P-pardoned,” he said hoarsely, and the irons were struck off.

  CHAPTER 11

  For pity’s sake, tell me!” Kydd pleaded. Snuggled deep into Kitty’s bed, he was still feeling woozy after a deep sleep and the draft she had slipped into his negus.

  She fussed at his coverings and replied, with a sigh, “I’ve told ye before, m’ dear, not until Mr. Renzi comes. I promised him he’ll be th’ one t’ tell you.” Lowering her voice she added wistfully, “You are s’ lucky, Tom, t’ have such a friend as will do this f’r you.”

  As consciousness returned, the past galloped back to crowd his thoughts, bringing with it all the desperate feelings of the last few weeks. He had to know why he had been spared, if only to be sure that he wouldn’t in some way find himself back there again.

  He dressed and looked out of the gunport window at the ships at anchor in Sheerness and farther away, still where they had fled after escaping the mutineer fleet. The sight of them brought back dark memories that tugged at his sanity—but for now he let the enfolding warmth of Kitty’s caring soothe his soul.

  Kydd sat in the armchair staring at the miniature of Ned Malkin, the simple patriotic Toby jugs and souvenirs of far voyaging, and let his thoughts drift. A knock at the door shattered his reverie. Renzi entered diffidently, his hat in his hands. “My dear fellow.”

  “Nicholas.” Kydd was unsure how to treat a friend he’d last seen when on a riotous procession and who apparently had contrived to spare him the gallows.

  “I pray I find you in good health?”

  “With Kitty t’ care f’r me, how can I not be?”

  Renzi found another chair, and sat delicately on it. “I’m wondering if you might be up to a little—”

  “Why am I pardoned?” Kydd demanded hotly.

  “Shall we—”

  “I need t’ know now, damn you, Nicholas. I have t’ think, sort it out.”

  They climbed silently up the hill to Minster and from the top looked out across gray, wanly sparkling sea and dreary saltmarsh. Kydd sought out the Sandwich, the largest black ship in the Medway, nearly lost among scores of other craft. Then his eyes focused on the desolate scatter of dockyard buildings at the end of the island and, next to it, the huddle of hulks that was Kitty’s home.

  They sat down on a grassy ridge. Kydd was first to speak. “Then tell me, Nicholas.”

  Renzi plucked a grass stem. “I remember, years ago it was, in a place very far from here.” Kydd waited impatiently. “The Great South Sea it was, on an island to which I was, er, particularly fond,” Renzi continued, “and there you had the gall to thwack me on the calabash, so to speak, rendering it impossible for me to continue there. And, might I remind you, you have never once since begged pardon for the presumption.”

  “God preserve me! Nicholas, be damned t’ the history, this is m’ life we’re about.” Kydd snorted, then added, “Aye, I do remember, but I recollects as well, while we’re discussin’ it, that if I hadn’t you’d be cannibal scran b’ now.”

  “My point precisely.” Renzi smiled back, waiting.

  Kydd kept his silence.

  “We each of us have our principles, some dearly held, some of which are of the loftiest motivation, some mere rank superstition. I rather believe that in both our cases principles were informed by the purest of motives, but were not necessarily grounded in strict practicality. My position is that I have merely redressed the balance, perhaps achieved a measure of revenge.”

  “Nicholas, I have to know! What did ye do, tell me, that th’ court thinks to pardon me so quick, like?”

  “Oh, nothing but the judicious exercise of family patronage, the shameful deployment of interest among the highest on your behalf. Do you know, I met Grenville, the foreign minister, in Hatchards the other day? Delightful fellow, much attached to Grecian odes.”

  “Spare me y’ politics, Nicholas,” Kydd threw at him. “Do y’ really mean t’ stand there ’n’ tell me it’s by corruption that I’m delivered?”

  “It was my decision to use any power within my reach to preserve for the service a high-principled and gifted seaman. I do apologize if I offended,” Renzi said, with the utmost politeness. “And, of course, the deed is now in the past, all done,” he added. “No prospect of winding back the clock.”

  Kydd’s eyes burned. He raised a fist. “God damn ye for a bloody dog, Renzi. I have t’ live with this now.”

  “Just so.”

  “I was in insurrection agin my king an’ country.”

  “This is true. You have also been given the chance to atone—I’d hazard your loyalty to the sea service from now on will be a caution to us all.”

  “You cold-blooded bastard! There are men I know over there in chokey waitin’ t’ be led out t’ the fore yardarm, an’ all you can do—”

  “Mr. Kydd! At some point you will put all this behind you, and step out to your future. It may be a week, a year or even half your remaining days, but it will come. The rational thing is to accept it, and make it earlier, rather than filling your days with regrets. Which will it be for you?”

  Kydd lowered his head, and tried to cool his anger. Renzi’s words made sense: there was nothing at all he could do about his situation other than humbly accept his fortune and move on.

  “Shall we rejoin Kitty?” Renzi said gently. “I have been promised a mutton pie, which I lust for.”

  Kydd sat for a little longer, then lifted his head. “Yes.” He stood facing the far-off men-o’-war. “It’s all over, then, Nicholas,” he said thickly. His eyes glistened.

  “All over, my dear friend.”

  They walked together down the hill.

  “Nicholas,” Kydd began hesitantly, “y’r decision t’ return to y’ family. May I know—”

  “My position is unaltered.”

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. Kydd. You’re in Mr. Monckton’s watch, he’ll be expectin’ you.” The master of HMS Triumph shook Kydd’s hand and escorted him below. A considerate Hartwell had insured that he would rejoin the fleet as a master’s mate in a new ship, a well-tried 74-gun vessel in for minor repair.

  Monckton looked at him keenly. “I heard you were caught up in the late mutiny.”

  Kydd tensed, then said carefully, “Aye, sir, I was.” He returned the curious gaze steadily.

  Monckton did not pursue the matter, and went on to outline Kydd’s duties and battle quarters. He looked at Kydd again, then added, “And everyone knows of your splendid open-boat voyage. I’m sure you’ll be a credit to Triumph, Mr. Kydd.”

  The ship was due to return to station at Yarmouth, but first she joined others in taking position in the Medway, at Blackstakes. Kydd knew what was happening—Sandwich was moored midstream, ships of the fleet around her. On the banks of the river spectator stands were erected; at Queenborough and the public landing place at Sheerness small craft were sculling about, kept in their place by naval guardboats.

  Troops filed out of the fort and along the foreshore. With fixed bayonets they faced seaward in a double line toward Sandwich. The crowd surged behind them, chattering excitedly, and boats started heading for the big three-decker.

  At nine, the frigate Espion fired a fo’c’sle gun. A yellow flag broke at her masthead, the fleet signal for capital punishment. Sandwich obediently hoisted a yellow flag in turn.

  Kydd watched with an expression of stone, but his soul wept.

  Just a few hundred yards away a temporary platform had been built on the starboard cathead, a scaffold—the pr
ominence would give a crowd-pleasing view.

  “Clear lower deck! Haaaands to muster, t’ witness punishment!” The boatswain’s mates of HMS Triumph stalked about below until the whole ship’s company was on deck, many in the rigging, the fighting tops and even out along the yards.

  Kydd stood between the officers and the seamen, and moved to the ship’s side. In Sandwich the men had similarly been called on deck, with marines in solid ranks forward and aft.

  A rustle of sighs arose at the sight of a figure entirely in black emerging on deck from the main hatchway, flanked with an escort. It was too far away to distinguish features, but Kydd knew who it was.

  Parker paused. His face could be seen looking about as if in amazement at the scene. Over on the Isle of Grain women jostled each other for the best view of the spectacle and men stood on the seafront with telescopes trained.

  The distant prisoner knelt for a few moments before a chaplain on the quarterdeck. When he arose, his hands were bound and he passed down the length of the vessel to the fo’c’sle, then to the cathead under the fore yardarm.

  An interchange occurred; was Parker being allowed to speak? It seemed he was, and he turned aft to address his old shipmates. The provost marshal approached with the halter, which would be bent to the yard-rope, but there was some difficulty, and the presiding boatswain’s mate was needed to secure the halter above. The provost marshal put a handkerchief into Parker’s hands, and he stumbled up to the scaffold. The officer pulled a hood over Parker’s head, then stepped down.

  Parker stood alone. A party of seamen was ranged down the deck with the yard-rope fall ready to pull. The signal to haul would be a fo’c’sle gun, their cue apparently Parker’s handkerchief.

  In that endless moment Kydd struggled for control, the edge of madness very near.

  Without warning Parker jumped into space. Taken by surprise, the gun then fired, and the sailors ran away with the hanging rope, jerking Parker’s body up. It contorted once, then hung stark. A handkerchief fluttered gently to the water.