Mutiny Read online

  Kydd bit his lip. Even to the last Parker had thought of the seamen: he had effectively hanged himself to spare them the guilt.

  The next day five vessels at the Great Nore flew the Blue Peter; Triumph was one. The North Sea squadron would be whole again, and at sea.

  Of all the memories Sheerness would hold, there was one that shone like a beacon for Kydd. He secured an understanding permission to go ashore for a few hours before the ship sailed, and stepped out for the hulks.

  “Kitty, how do I find ye?” He hugged her close.

  “Come in, Tom, darlin’,” she said, but her voice was tired, subdued.

  Kydd entered the familiar room and sat in the armchair. Kitty went to fetch him an ale. “I’m master’s mate in Triumph seventyfour,” he called to her. “She’s gettin’ on in years but a good ’un—Cap’n Essington.”

  She didn’t reply, but returned with his tankard. He looked at her while he drank. “We’re North Sea squadron,” he explained. “C’n expect to fall back on Sheerness t’ vittle ’n’ repair, ye know.”

  “Yes, Tom,” she said, then unexpectedly kissed him before sitting down opposite.

  Kydd looked at her fondly. “Kitty, I’ve been thinkin’, maybe you ’n’ me should—”

  “No, Tom.” She looked him in the eyes. “I’ve been thinkin’, too, m’ love.” She looked away. “I told ye I was fey, didn’t I?”

  “Y’ did, Kitty.”

  She leaned forward. “Tom Kydd, in y’r stars it’s sayin’ that y’re going t’ be a great man—truly!”

  “Ah, I don’ reckon on that kind o’ thing, Kitty,” Kydd said, pink with embarrassment.

  “You will be, m’ love, mark my words.” The light died in her eyes. “An’ when that day comes, you’ll have a lady who’ll be by y’r side an’ part o’ your world.”

  “Aye, but—”

  “Tom, y’ know little of the female sex. Do y’ think Pd want t’ be there, among all them lords ’n’ their ladies, knowin’ they were giggling’ behind y’r back at this jumped-up seamstress o’ buntin’? Havin’ the fat ol’ ladies liftin’ their noses ’cos I don’t know manners? Have you all th’ time apologizin’ for your wife? No, dear Tom, I don’ want that. ’Sides, I couldn’t stand th’ life—I’m free t’ do what I want now.” She came over and held his hand. “Next week, I’m leavin’ Sheerness. What wi’ Ned ’n’ all, there’s too many memories here. I’m off t’ my father in Bristol.”

  “Kitty, I’ll write, let me—”

  “No, love. It’S better t’ say our good-bye now. I remember Ned once said, A ship’s like a woman. To think kindly of her, y’ have t’ leave her while y’r still in love.’ That’s us, Tom.”

  Triumph put to sea, her destination in no doubt. She would be part of Admiral Duncan’s vital North Sea squadron, there to prevent the powerful Dutch fleet emerging from the Texel anchorage. If they did—if the Channel was theirs for just hours—the French could at last begin the conquest of England.

  It was at some cost to ships and men: beating up and down the coast of Holland, the French-occupied Batavian Republic, was hard, dangerous work. The land was low and fringed with invisible sandbanks, a fearful danger for ships who had to keep in with the land, deep-sea ships whose keels brushed shoals while the Dutch vessels, designed with shallow draft, could sail down the coast and away.

  But it was also a priceless school for seamen. With prevailing winds in the west, the coast was a perpetual lee shore threatening shipwreck to any caught close in by stormy winds. And as the warm airs of summer were replaced by the cool blusters of autumn and the chill hammering of early winter, it needed all the seamanship the Royal Navy had at its command to stay on station off the Texel.

  Kydd hardened, as much as by conflicts within as by the ceaseless work of keeping the seas. The mutiny of two months ago was now receding into the past, but he had still not put it truly behind him. He accepted the precious gift of reprieve, however achieved: life itself. But so many had paid the price: the gentle Coxall, the fiery Hulme, the fine seaman Davis, Joe Fearon, Charles McCarthy, Farnail, others. The Inflexibles, led by Blake, had stolen a fishing smack and gone to an unknown fate in France.

  It could have been worse. Vengeance had been tempered, and of the ten thousand men involved, only four hundred had faced a court, and less than thirty had met their end at a yardarm.

  To say farewell to Kitty had brought pain and loneliness, and with Renzi about to return to his previous life, there was now not a soul he could say was truly his friend, someone who would know him, forgive his oddities as he would theirs in the human transactions that were friendship. His reticence about speaking of recent events had stifled social conversation, and a burning need to be hard on himself had extended to others, further isolating him. He withdrew into himself, his spirit shriveling.

  Days, weeks, months, the same ships that had been in open mutiny were now at sea so continuously that the first symptoms of scurvy appeared. Sails frayed, ropes stranded, timbers failed, and still they remained on station. By October signals from the flagship showed that even the doughty Duncan was prepared to return to Yarmouth to revictual and repair.

  The storm-battered fleet anchored, but there would be no rest. Duncan had said, “I shall not set foot out of my ship …” It would be a foolhardy captain indeed who found he had business ashore. Storing ship, caulking gaping seams, bending on winter canvas—there was no rest for any.

  Then, early one morning in the teeth of a northwesterly blow, the Black Joke, an armed lugger, appeared from out of the sea fret to seaward of Yarmouth sands. Signal flags whipped furiously to leeward; a small gun cracked out to give emphasis to them, the smoke snatched away in the stiff wind. “Glory be!” said Triumph’s officerof-the-watch peering through his telescope. “An’ I do believe the Dutch are out!”

  By noon the North Sea squadron had secured for sea, and without a minute lost, Duncan’s fleet put out into the white-streaked waters under a dark, brooding sky with every piece of canvas that could draw set on straining spars.

  The wind, however, was astern; the fleet streamed toward Holland in an exhilarating and terrifying charge. The next day they raised land, the Texel, the ancient home of the Dutch fleet, low, sprawling and foreboding under gray skies.

  The Dutch were not there, but Duncan’s scouts were. Their dogged tracking of the enemy fleet enabled them to inform Duncan that indeed the Dutch were at sea—and heading southward. The British fleet wheeled to follow, keeping the shore in sight under their lee all the time. Now at last there was a chance that the enemy could be brought to bay. If they caught up, then without doubt there would be a major battle, a formal clash of fleets that would enter history. The stakes could hardly be higher: if they lost the day then the way would be clear for enemy troops to make a landing on the shores of England.

  It would be Kydd’s first major fleet action. He almost looked forward to the fight: a purging by combat of all the devils that haunted his soul. But would ex-mutineers fight? Under Lieutenant Monckton, Kydd was in charge of the center main-deck twentyfour-pounders, and to his certain knowledge there were five in the gun crews he had seen parading under the red flag, including both quarter-gunners.

  At nightfall hopes faded. They had not overhauled the enemy—they could be anywhere, or have changed course to the north and open sea. The fleet shortened sail for the night, standing off the coast.

  Dawn came with driving rain, clearing to blustery squalls that sent men aloft to take in sail. While they were fisting the wet canvas, Circe frigate hove in sight, a signal hoist and a gun to leeward bringing every man on deck.

  Kydd hastened to the quarterdeck to hear developments. The signal lieutenant had his glass up, his midshipman beside him with the signal book. “Enemy in sight, sir!” he said, following the frigate. “Three leagues to the sou’east.”

  The news spread, and from all parts of the ship roars of satisfaction and ribaldry arose, but Captain Essington waited grimly.
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br />   “Enemy course north, sir.”

  “Ah! That’s what I want to hear. They’ve heard we’re at sea and are turned back for home. How far from the Texel?”

  “Er, the town yonder must be Kamperduin, so that makes the Texel fifteen miles distant, sir.”

  “Umm. De Winter has to form up. If we can bring him to action before noon, we have a chance.” The quarterdeck became animated, high spirits breaking through, but Essington did not join in. “Do you bear in mind, gentlemen, the Dutch are an old and proud race. They have bested us once before in the last age, and we can be sure they will consult their honor again today. Their admiral is of the first rank, and their ships are not worn by stress of weather. They are of equal numbers and they are fighting for their hearth and home in their own seas. Today will be hard won for the victor. Enough talk! Clear for action, if you please.”

  The boatswain piped the order and the ship was plunged into instant activity. The boatswain’s party went to the tops. Their task was to sway up and rig chain slings to restrain hundred-foot yards from plunging down if their tie blocks were shot away, with quarter slings on the lower yards.

  Along the decks topsail sheets were stoppered properly, preventer braces led along and a netting spread between main and mizzen to catch wreckage falling from above.

  The galley fire was put out, its cinders placed in tubs amidships ready for scattering over pooling blood, and hammocks were hoisted into the tops to form protective barricades against enemy muskets.

  Below, in the gloomy orlop, the surgeon and his mates readied the cockpit. Who could guess how many men would be carried in agony and fear below?

  Kydd had little time to think about an unknown future. His quarters were the big twenty-four-pounders along the main deck, and specifically those aft of center. Standing near the main-hatch gratings he watched his gun captains make ready their pieces: the implements of gunnery—the handspike, sponge, crow—could be relied on to be in place; what was more important were the details.

  He knew what to look for. The match tubs next to each gun for use in case of misfire would be useless without slow-burning match ready alight and drawing. The gunners’ pouch of each gun captain must contain tools and spare flints for the gunlock, and quill ignition tubes checked that the tallow cap had been removed.

  The sound of a grindstone came from forward: pikes, cutlasses and tomahawks were getting a fine edge. A cook’s mate carried a scuttled butt of water to place on the centerline for thirsty gun crews. It was well spiked with vinegar to slow their drinking.

  Activity slowed, the ship was cleared fore and aft. It now only required the enemy to appear and the ship would beat to quarters. During the wait, biscuit and cheese were issued, and a double tot of rum to all hands. It was nearly time …

  The enemy fleet was sighted at nine, sail upon sail startlingly pale against the dark gray clouds, occupying half the horizon. Beyond lay the flat terrain of Holland. Men came up from the gundeck to catch a glimpse of the enemy; once in action they would not see them again until they closed and grappled.

  At half past, de Winter formed his line of battle. On the quarterdeck Kydd heard the officers’ conversation. The taut enemy line was heading to the north—the Dutch, still apparently hoping to reach safe harbor, were sailing close to the land.

  Duncan’s strategy was simple: braving the massed broadsides of the enemy he would without delay throw his fleet at their line in two groups, one to larboard under himself to take the Dutch van, the other to starboard under his vice admiral, Onslow, to fall on their rear. Triumph would go with Duncan.

  More signal flags soared up on the flagship, but Kydd never found out what they were for the urgent thunder of a drum sent the ship to quarters. With an iron resolution, he clattered down the main hatchway past the marine drummer madly rattling out “Hearts of Oak.” Of one thing he was certain: he would do his duty to the limit.

  Touching his hat to Monckton, he verified the presence of the young midshipman and three men standing by the centerline grating, then turned his attention to the guns. If they fought both sides at once they would be shorthanded; some gun numbers would have to cross the deck to work the opposite gun.

  He stepped up on the grating while the wash-deck hose swashed across the deck. A seaman followed, scattering sand to give grip to the feet. Powder monkeys brought up the first cartridges in their long wooden salt boxes, and he watched as the quarter-gunner settled ear pads on the young lads. Gun-crews made do with their bandannas, tying them tightly around their heads.

  Kydd took his broad crossbelt, settling it to take the weight of his cutlass, which, as a boarder, he would wear for the rest of the battle. When the order came, he would seize a brace of pistols from the arms chest and lead the second wave of boarders.

  He paced slowly along, checking and rechecking. The middle of a battle was not a good time to be finding missing spares. Tucked in along the sides of the main-hatch, beside the ready-use shot lining it, were ranged spare breeching, complete training tackles, gun lashings, all becketed up neatly.

  As he walked, he saw the gun crews looking at him, eyes flashing. They would be forced to stand idle for all of the time it took to reach the enemy, their own guns unable to bear, while the Dutch could concentrate their whole fire unopposed. After their line was reached it would be another story. As they passed through they would blast a storm of balls down the length of an enemy ship from each side.

  But first they had to reach them. Triumph was as ready as forethought and devotion to the sea crafts could make her. Now the fortune of war and the courage of her men would decide the day.

  The enemy began to fire just after midday, the thunder of their guns loud on the inactive gundeck. Kydd joined the gun crews leaning out of their ports to see. The whole line of the enemy ahead was nearly obscured in gunsmoke, the sea between torn by shot. To starboard Vice Admiral Onslow’s division was diverging, his flagship, Monarch, in the lead of a straggling group. Duncan must be anxious to start the fight, thought Kydd, that he did not form line of battle.

  He crossed to the other side of the deck. As he did, the first cannon strikes thudded home. These were longer-range shots and taken on the ricochet; closer in they would crush and splinter. Out of the gunports Kydd saw their own flagship, Duncan’s Venerable, streaming out ahead, her blue ensign defiantly aloft, others coming up on her flank.

  The sea hissed past a few feet below. They were running large, directly to leeward in the stiff wind—their time to fight would not be long delayed. Kydd pulled himself inboard. A sudden crash sounded somewhere forward. Something hissed past him, striking a deck beam then angling down to a gun, which it hit with a musical clang.

  Then came the welcome smash of their own carronades on the deck above. Kydd dared a quick last look out of a port and saw, in a single flash ahead, Venerable bearing down on the big Dutch flagship, and at the same time the Dutch next astern courageously closing the gap to prevent Venerable passing through and breaking the line. He pulled in and took post, conscious that his duty was to make sure Lieutenant Monckton’s orders were carried out—whatever the circumstances.

  “Point your guns!” The enemy were very near now. Gun captains scrambled to sight down their pieces, signaling for handspikes to muscle the heavy guns around to train on target, then tracking it, waiting with gun lanyard extended for the word to fire.

  So close. Smashing strikes and cries of injured men were general now, the moments seeming to last forever. But then it died away and the sea outside shadowed suddenly. It was the enemy line.

  “Fire!” came the order. In a rippled broadside from forward the twenty-four-pounders crashed out in a vengeful smash straight at the unprotected stern of the unknown Dutch ship—thirty-seven heavy iron balls at point-blank velocity in a merciless splintering path of destruction right down the length of the ship. The noise was overwhelming, going on and on as they passed through.

  Kydd bent his knees to see. Through the smoke he caught sight o
f an ornate stern gallery riven into gap-toothed ugliness. Wreckage rained down and turned the sea white with splashes. He wheeled around, still bent, and briefly glimpsed, through the opposite side, the tangled bowsprit of another ship.

  Crews flung themselves at their guns: sponging, the lethal gray cartridge and wad, then the deadly iron ball. Kydd felt the deck sway over to starboard and realized they must be coming around to lock into their opponent. He yelled hoarsely at the crews. Doubling the rate of fire was as good as doubling the number of guns, and once around they would be facing an equal broadside from their opponent.

  It came early, before they were fully around—and at ten-yards range the effect was lethal. The iron shot tore through the sides of Triumph, the balls rampaging the whole width of the gundeck before smashing through the far side, tearing and shattering. The deck trembled as more balls struck below.

  Monckton raised his speaking trumpet and was thrown violently along the deck. He did not move. Kydd ran to his body; there was no mark on it, but a red rash was spreading on the side of his face. He put his hand inside the officer’s coat and felt for the heart: it still beat.

  “Bear a hand!” he roared at the men hovering around. They dragged Monckton to the centerline gratings and laid him out on his back. He had been knocked unconscious by the close passage of a round shot. If he recovered he would want to be at his post, but for now Kydd must perform his duty.

  A midshipman arrived from forward, wide-eyed, his hand convulsively gripping the hilt of his dirk. “Get back to y’r post,” Kydd told him. “Orders are th’ same.”

  Kydd turned to the gun crews. There was no need for interference; the men worked like demons, their gun captains throwing a glance his way, then getting on with it.

  A messenger raced down from the quarterdeck and skidded to a stop at the sight of Monckton’s body. Kydd stepped up. “I’m in charge. What’s y’r message?” The order was clear: each gun was to fire alternately at maximum depression or elevation. This would send their shot down to the enemy’s keel or up through her unprotected decks, a terrifying ordeal for an opponent. Kydd ran along the guns, tasking off the gun captains.