Mutiny Read online

  Kydd could feel the resentment—and the broken-down pride. To be left to rot in port was hard for a good seaman to take, especially when England was menaced by as great a danger as she had ever been.

  Evening drew in and, with it, more tiresome carping in the gunroom and petty quarreling on the lower deck. Kydd made up his mind to take a turn along the streets of Gibraltar to get away.

  It was impossible to avoid the wine shops at the lower levels of the town, and Kydd pushed past hurriedly, but at one angry shouts climaxed with the ejection of a thickset seaman, who skidded angrily in the dust then staggered to his feet. It was a common sight and Kydd moved to go around the spectacle—but something about the build of the man made him hesitate.

  It was Crow—Isaac Crow of the Artemis, the hard and fearless captain of the maintop who had been so much a part of Kydd’s past—become a wine-soaked travesty of his former self. Kydd steadied him and leaned him against a wall. “Isaac, where—”

  “What—well, if it ain’t me ol shipma’ Tom Kydd!” Crow chortled. His clothes were musty and ragged, probably all he had left after selling the rest for cheap drink, Kydd guessed.

  His expression changed. In an instant his overly cheery features grew pinched, suspicious. “A master’s mate, our Tom Kydd, doin’ well fer ’isself. Still know yer frien’s, then?” He pushed away Kydd’s steadying hand and drew himself up. “Th’ blackstrap they sells ’ere is worse’n goat’s piss.”

  “What ship, Isaac?”

  Crow looked at him for a moment. “Weazle brig-o’-war.” It was an unrated minor warship, in Gibraltar for lengthy repair. “Gunner’s mate, but broke fer fightin’ out o’ turn.”

  So now he was a common seaman, disrated no doubt for a frustrated flaring on the mess-decks while his ship was interminably delayed.

  Crow stared at Kydd, his face hardening into contempt. “It’s gone ter rats—the whole fuckin’ navy’s gone t’ rats. Shite off th’ streets is gettin’ seventy pound ter be a sailor, while we gets the same less’n a shillin’ a day the buggers got back in King Charles’s day. What sort o’ life is it ter offer a younker t’ go to sea?”

  There was no answer to that, or to the unspoken loathing of professional seamen with pride in themselves having to share a mess with the kind of men Kydd had seen. “Isaac, mate, y’ knows that a ship o’ war can’t be sailed b’ the likes o’ those shabs. It takes real seamen—like us!” Kydd felt the rise of anger. “They’ll always need us, an’ just when are they going t’ wake up to it?”

  Crow turned on him slowly. “Yer messin’ aft wi’ the grunters—why should yer worry yerself about us foremast jacks?” He held Kydd with his hard black eyes, then swayed back into the pothouse.

  Kydd was taken aback by his words. He wandered for a time, then made his way back aboard before evening gun. Cockburn looked at him curiously, but Kydd did not feel like confiding in him. His origin was as a volunteer and midshipman and presumably, in the fullness of time, he would attract interest and gain a commission as an officer; he had never slung his hammock with the men, and could not be expected to know their true worth and particular strengths. It was something that he would give much to reflect on with Renzi. He could bring things to order in fine style.

  Brought on deck by a general rush, Kydd saw from out of the early-morning haze the 38-gun frigate La Minerve sailing into the anchorage.

  Even the arrival of a single frigate was a noteworthy event, and there were few in Achilles who weren’t on deck and interested in the smart ship coming to anchor. As she glided in, sharp eyes picked up a most unusual state of affairs: this frigate was wearing the swallowtail broad pennant of a commodore, Royal Navy, in place of the usual sinuous length of a commissioning pennant, placing her notionally senior to Achilles.

  The first lieutenant’s telescope was steadily trained on the frigate’s quarterdeck. “I see him—Commodore Nelson! A fire-brand if ever I heard of one.”

  Another lieutenant gave a bleak smile. “I know him—cares only to add to his reputation at the cannon’s mouth whatever the cost to others, a vain soul, very vain.”

  The master’s stern face relaxed slightly as he murmured, “Aye, but he cares f’r his men as few does.”

  The frigate’s anchor splashed down and the vessel glided to a stop close enough for them to see every detail aboard, the sails vanishing from the yards in moments, the disciplined rush to each point of activity. The sharp orders and crisp flourishes of the boatswain’s calls carried over the water. Even as the admiral’s barge pulled strongly shoreward, aglitter with gold and blue in the sternsheets, the launch and cutter were not far behind.

  “Seems in an almighty pelt.” Cockburn grinned. It was in stark contrast to their own indolence. Recently Kydd had noticed the first green shimmer of weed below the waterline of Achilles also appearing on the anchor cable. But that didn’t concern him today: Emily had offered to show him the top of the Rock.

  It was donkeys again, but this time the party consisted only of Emily, Kydd and the quiet but watchful Letitia. They wound up a long path set at an incline to the face of the Rock. Emily kept up a prattle about the view and the history, all of which enabled Kydd to take his fill of her looks without pretense.

  From the top, a rocky spine and smooth parts, the view was every bit as breathtaking as claimed—at this height the ships were models, the town buildings miniatures, but Kydd was more aware of the rosy flush on Emily’s cheeks as she pointed out the sights. “Ah, look there, Thomas!” Far below, Nelson’s frigate was getting under way, her commodore’s pennant lifting in the fluky breeze and with all sail set. “What a picture it is, to be sure.” Impulsively, she laid her arm on his.

  The frigate was smart in her actions, but was having a hard time in the uncertain wind eddies in the lee of the Rock, paying off in the light airs but nevertheless slowly gaining ground to the northward.

  “And are the others coming, too?” Emily added innocently, taking out her dainty ladies’ pocket telescope.

  Kydd frowned. The faraway ships she had seen were moored across the bay, in Spanish Algeciras—and they were sail-of-the-line. “No doubt about it—but if y’ would allow …” She offered him the telescope with no comment, and two mighty enemy vessels leaped into view. If they caught up with the lone frigate, they could blast her to splinters.

  “They’re Spanish battleships, I’m grieved t’ say,” Kydd said. Achilles had her bowsprit in for survey and was not in any condition to come to the frigate’s aid. The Spanish ships had a steady wind in their favor, and had picked up speed; the English frigate’s wind was still in the thrall of the huge Rock, and she could not beat back against the southeasterly to escape.

  Kydd clenched his fists. This fire-breathing Nelson would not surrender tamely: the pretty frigate would be a shattered, smoking wreck even before he and Emily had had chance to spread their picnic.

  “Thomas?” Emily’s voice was edged with concern. Kydd stared through the telescope at the spreading drama. The larger Spanish three-decker was stretching away ahead of the other in her impatience to close with the frigate and, as Kydd watched, her guns were run out.

  Then, unaccountably, the frigate slewed around into the wind and came to a stop. Kydd could find no reason for the action. A small boat ventured out from behind her, her crew pulling energetically. It was carried forward by the current toward the Spanish, but stopped halfway. At last he understood: La Minerve had come aback while the jolly boat attended to a man overboard.

  The leading Spanish battleship shortened sail, slowing to drop back on her consort. Clearly, she thought the move preposterous. There had to be a reason for the doomed frigate to round confidently on her pursuers. Could it be that she had sighted the English fleet coming to her aid?

  Kydd could only watch in admiration as the frigate picked up her boat and made off in the strengthening breeze. The Spaniard clapped on sail, but he was too late—the frigate was well on her way.

  Kydd punched the air in pe
nt-up excitement. “That was well done, blast m’ eyes if it weren’t!” he roared, too late remembering the ladies’ presence.

  Cockburn was uncharacteristically blunt. “She is a married lady. It’s unseemly to be seen so much in her company.”

  Kydd glowered. “An’ have I been improper in m’ actions?” he asked. “Do I press my attentions? Is she unwilling?” He challenged Cockburn with a stare. “She’s invited me t’ see so many of her friends, right good of her—”

  “She is a married woman!”

  “So I’m to refuse her? I think not!”

  Cockburn paused. He leaned back and said, in an odd voice, “Do ye know her husband?”

  Kydd5s face hardened. “She’s not discussed him wi’ me at any time—must be a poor shab, he doesn’t keep station on her more. Mr. Mulvany is—”

  “The town major.”

  A shadow passed over Kydd’s face. “Acting town major only,” he replied stubbornly. Cockburn kept his silence, but the pressure of his disapproval was tangible. “An’ I regret I cannot be aboard t’night. The bishop is receivin’ an’ I’m invited,” Kydd added.

  The news of the climactic battle of Cape St. Vincent broke like a tidal wave on Gibraltar. The anxieties of the past months, the hanging sword of an invasion and devastation, the flaunting of enemy naval power just a few miles away, as they passed in and out of the Mediterranean—their sea now—needed a discharge of emotions.

  Over the horizon, on St. Valentine’s Day, two great fleets had clashed: fifteen British ships-of-the-line and a handful of frigates met the enemy’s twenty-seven of the line and a dozen frigates, and had prevailed.

  Admiral Jervis had been reported as saying, “A victory is very essential to England at this moment,” and had gone on to achieve just that. Details of the battle were sketchy, but wild rumors made the rounds of the daring Commodore Nelson disobeying orders and breaking the line to fall on the enemy from the rear. Apparently he had then personally led a boarding party to the deck of one enemy battleship and from there to yet another in a feat of arms that must rank alone in its bravery.

  Gibraltar went berserk with joy—bells, guns, joyous crowds flooding into the street and, finally, an official feu de joie ordered by the governor. Six regiments stood motionless on the Alameda parade ground in tight-packed rows, small field pieces at each corner. At twelve precisely, artillery thudded solemnly, then by command the redcoats presented their muskets—and a deafening running fire played up and down the ranks, beating upon the senses until rolling gunsmoke hid the soldiers. The noise stopped, the smoke cleared, and the spectacle was repeated twice more.

  On the water, every ship replied with thunderous broadsides; even the smallest found guns to mount and fire. The sailors dressed their ships in flags and there were wild scenes that night in the grog shops.

  Kydd responded warmly, but this was tempered by the realization that he had missed what must have been the defining battle of the age. With a stab of dread he realized that Renzi might have been struck down, mortally wounded, thrown overboard in the heat of battle. He fought down the thought, then turned his mind to other things. Emily.

  At their last meeting, she had shyly offered a little package, neatly finished with a bow. It was a pair of gloves—kidskin, probably Moorish, but of obvious quality. There was no conceivable need in his station for gloves, but Kydd’s imagination grew fevered with conjecture. A gift from her to him: What did it mean?

  He found Cockburn with a slim book. “Tarn, I’d be obliged f’r the lend of a clean waistcoat, if ye please. That scurvy gunroom servant’s in bilboes after a spree ashore.” Cockburn looked up, but said nothing. “I have t’ go somewhere tomorrow,” explained Kydd.

  Cockburn laid down his book. “Tomorrow, it seems, I shall need my waistcoat,” he said, his face hard.

  This was nonsense: without means, he was spending all his time on board. “Then y’r other one—I know you have ’un.”

  “Strangely, it appears that I shall need that also,” Cockburn said evenly.

  Kydd breathed hard. “An’ what kind o’ friend is it that—”

  “A friend who sees you standing into perilous waters, who fears to see you play the cuckold without—”

  “She cares f’r me, I’ll have ye know.”

  “Oh? She has told you? Pledged undying love when not free to do so?”

  Kydd clamped his jaw shut.

  “I thought so. You are naught but a fool,” Cockburn said, in measured tones. “Treading a path where so many poor loobies have gone before.” He sighed and returned to his reading. “I can only grieve for your future.”

  “Be damned t’ you ’n’ y’r prating,” Kydd snarled, and stormed off petulantly.

  They started in the cool of the morning, Emily mysterious as to their destination. “It might be Africa—or the bowels of the earth. Or the very summit of the Rock … or perhaps all three.”

  Kydd grunted in bafflement, but was much taken by Emily’s outfit; instead of the wide morning dress, it was a more close-fitting garment. Letitia followed behind, leaving the conversation to them.

  They emerged onto the upper spine of the Rock, a stretch of rifted rock layers, covered with furze and pungent with goat smell. Emily descended daintily from her donkey and pointed to an irregular small peak. “The highest point of the Rock,” she declared.

  Silently cursing his clumsiness, Kydd staggered off his beast.

  “Governor O’Hara wishes to build a tower on it, which he swears will allow him to look into Cadiz Bay,” Emily said, idly twisting her muslin scarf. “The surveyor calls it O’Hara’s Folly’, but he will not be dissuaded.”

  Her cheeks appeared rosier at this height, wisps of hair framing her face under the wide straw hat, and Kydd felt desire build. He glanced behind. There was Letitia, still on her donkey, her unblinking eyes gravely on him.

  “They call him ‘Cock o’ the Rock,’” Emily said, with a giggle, then dropped her eyes.

  To cover his embarrassment, Kydd bowed gallantly to Letitia and offered to help her down, but she shook her head mutely and slipped easily to the ground.

  From nowhere a dark-complexioned Iberian appeared, taking the donkey bridles and fixing Kydd with glittering, unfathomable eyes. Kydd hastily caught up with Emily, Letitia as usual falling behind.

  “This is our destination, then,” Emily said. “I do hope you think it interesting.”

  “Africa? Th’ bowels of the earth?” It was nothing more than an undistinguished cleft in a jutting crag.

  Emily stepped forward confidently, Kydd at her side. It was a cave of sorts, the outside light dimming the farther they entered, their footsteps changing from a tap into an echo as the light died and mysterious vertical shapes appeared from out of the Stygian blackness.

  She stopped to let the Iberian catch up. He produced candles in colorful pottery holders, and got to work with flint and steel. As each flame leaped and guttered, the golden light spread to reveal a huge vaulted cavern, a magnificent palace of gilded stone.

  Emily’s candle illuminated her face from beneath in an unearthly radiance, and for a long moment Kydd was lost to her beauty.

  “Saint Michael’s cave. Such a spectacle—you’d never know that the Rock is hollow from the outside,” she said softly, her eyes wide. The cavern smelt of damp soil, and tiny drip sounds were amplified all around.

  Letitia shivered, and stepped back, pulling her shawl close.

  Emily pointed forward. The path trended down, then reached a lip of rock. “We must climb down there.” It continued as another chamber beyond, untouched by their candlelight.

  “I—I shall wait here, Emily,” came Letitia’s small voice. “I have no stomach for these places. Do let’s return now.”

  “Nonsense, Letitia. I mean to show Thomas the inner chambers.” Carefully, she laid her candleholder on the stone, and slid over the lip to the blackness beyond. “Come along!” she called imperiously to Kydd.

  The inner cave was
smaller, longer, much colder. The path dipped sharply, and as they plunged out of sight Letitia’s plaintive voice echoed, “Please hurry back—I’m frightened.”

  Kydd kept up with Emily, the candlelight casting startling shadows that continually moved as if alive. They entered a vast chamber, the sounds of their steps and voices dissipating into the cold, breathy stillness.

  Emily stood still, gazing upward, enraptured. She moved farther in, found a broken-off stalagmite and placed her candle on it, letting the tiny golden light lose itself in the distance, as it did, hinting at fantastic shapes in the gloom. “Isn’t this the most splendid sight you have ever seen?” she breathed.

  Kydd’s heart was thumping: this was the first time they had been alone.

  Her eyes roamed upward, and Kydd added his candle to hers. The combined light beamed out strongly and grotesque shapes were illumined on all sides. But Emily’s face was brushed with gold.

  “We’re now in the center of the Rock! No one has ever reached the end of these caverns—it is said that they reach all the way to Africa …” Her voice was a whisper of awe.

  A swell of emotion surged in Kydd—a wellspring of feeling that could not be stopped. It found focus in the soft loveliness of Emily’s face. He closed with her, held her, and kissed her in silence.

  Her lips were formless with surprise, but she did not resist. His kiss grew deep with passion and she responded, avid and strong, her body pressing against his. They broke apart, hands clasped, staring into each other’s eyes.

  “M’ dear Emily! You—you’re …” Kydd was shaken with the power of his feelings.

  She did not speak; her face was flushed and taut. Kydd still held her hands, and their warmth and softness triggered another passionate upsurge. He pulled her close, but she turned away her face, yet not resisting him.

  Baffled, he let his arms drop. “Emily, I—”

  “Thomas, please.” Her voice was shaky. She disengaged from him, and half turned away. Kydd was unsure of what was happening; he felt gauche and adolescent.