There was almost palpable tension as they progressed, the glitter of hostile eyes in the shadows of the mess-deck, a barely audible muttering at the rear. He made a show of speaking amiably to every petty officer in charge, but there were only surly responses and barely concealed belligerence.
‘Very good, Mr Howlett. The men to go to supper now.’ It was time, too, for an issue of grog – in home waters, beer – and if there was going to be trouble the hotheads would start it then, but he did not want to provoke the men by stopping it.
There was little more he could do – damn it, he would sail the next hour if he could, letting the keen salt winds of the open ocean scour the ship of its mood. There was no sign of the disaffection lifting – and it was destroying his joy at achieving a frigate command.
He ate alone; Renzi had the absent marine captain’s cabin and would be a subscription-paying member of the gunroom by now and making acquaintance. In any case, he didn’t feel like discussion.
Howlett reported apologetically. ‘Four in bilboes, I’m sorry to say, sir.’
‘They stay in irons until tomorrow forenoon. I’ll deal with the rogues then. What’s the charge?’
‘Fighting. The Alcestes taking against the L’Aurores when—’
‘Be damned to it! We’re all L’Aurores now,’ Kydd snapped in irritation. ‘Tomorrow they’ll learn—’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll bid you good night, then.’
Kydd could not face his meal. If he failed to crack down now he would be seen as weak and his authority fatally undermined. Little by little he was being pushed into the very tyranny he despised and could see no way out of the spiral – except to get to sea.
‘Do I intrude, brother?’
‘No, come in, Nicholas. How’s the gunroom? Do join me in this passable claret.’
Renzi accepted a glass. ‘Eminently to my satisfaction, and thank you.’
‘You haven’t come here for the conversation . . . ?’
Renzi sighed. ‘No. My dear fellow, I’m here to tell you that whatever happens you have my quiet support.’
‘Whatever can happen?’ Kydd said, nettled.
Choosing his words carefully, Renzi said, ‘Do not take this amiss, old chap, but granted your undoubted insights into the character of Jack Tar, won from your own experiences before the mast, I rather fancy you are on a different course from they.’
‘And what is that, pray?’ Kydd said sarcastically.
‘Consider. When you were first a lieutenant, I can remember the joy and wonder you declared when obliged to study the professional publications of the strategical sort. Your discovery was that the seaman’s view of his existence is happily circumscribed by his wooden world but an officer’s must necessarily encompass the grievous complications, political and economic, that constitute the outer world.’
‘You’re saying—’
‘Your fore-mast jack has simple but robust views. He sees the enemy vanquished time and again and hears of mighty victories from England’s hearts of oak. In fine, he has the courage of a lion and an iron confidence in his cause and his ship.’
‘He does, but—’
‘Therefore, dear chap, he cannot see in the slightest whit why you’re getting on your high horse about joining Nelson. In his sturdy view there’s time to take a taste of liberty and beat the Crapauds too. You are privy to the dreadful secrets of the coming invasion. In mercy they are not. Therefore their conclusion is that they’re to suffer for your impatience.’
Kydd glowered. ‘This is all to no account. They’ve got their duty and I have mine, and that is to get this frigate to the Med with all dispatch. We take powder aboard tomorrow and then we sail, and there’s an end to it.’
They talked of other things but shortly Renzi made his excuses and went below to turn in, leaving Kydd alone with his thoughts.
He heard the boatswain’s mate pipe the silent hours and the master-at-arms and ship’s corporal doing their turn about the ship, looking for unauthorised lights. Kydd duly took the report and began to prepare for bed, dismissing Tysoe.
Minutes later a subliminal rumble took him instantly back to an earlier time and place: the gunroom of quite another ship, one that was about to be caught up in the desperate and bloody mutiny at the Nore. What he knew he was hearing was the ominous sound of a cannon shot being rolled down the length of the ship in a timeless gesture of defiance.
Still in his shirtsleeves he burst out of his cabin and pushed past the astonished marine sentry. He bounded up the single ladder to the night air and tried to catch sight of what was going on, but in the sepulchral gloom of the moonless evening he could see nothing.
‘The lookouts, ahoy!’ he bellowed.
‘Ho!’ the two aft returned promptly.
‘Did you see anything?’
‘No, sir,’ they replied instantly. He would get nothing out of them, of course, but it was of a certainty now that in the darkness of the bowels of the ship men were meeting, whispering – plotting?
This was deadly serious and could easily explode into something far worse unless . . . But what should he do? Stand the marines to and make search of the ship? No – they would find nothing and all it would achieve would be to demonstrate to the rest of the ship that he was frightened. Turn up the hands and harangue them? Equally useless.
The long night passed, and in the morning it was as if nothing had happened. The watch was changed, the men padding over to their stations without hesitation, standing mutely while muster was made.
When hammocks were piped up there was no show of hostility or defiance – they were lashed with their seven turns, proffered to the boatswain’s mate with his ring to test their tightness, then neatly packed within the hammock nettings, all without fuss. Had a corner been turned?
Breakfast was unusually quiet, however.
At eight bells, when the beginning of the forenoon signalled that the day was to start, and with the entire ship’s company mustered to be detailed off for their morning work, a midshipman noticed a scrap of paper smoothed out and placed precisely in the centre of the deck just abaft the main-mast bitts. He picked it up and took it to the first lieutenant, who turned white before hurriedly passing it to Kydd.
With a sickening lurch Kydd knew what it would contain and struggled to keep his face impassive while he inspected it gravely, knowing that he was under the watchful eyes of his entire crew.
‘Carry on, Mr Howlett,’ he snapped, whipping the paper behind his back. He stood grimly, waiting and glaring.
‘Hands turn to, part-o’-ship,’ Howlett ordered, in an unsteady voice.
The boatswain pealed out the high, falling notes of the ‘carry on’. Quietly, with hardly a word spoken, the men obediently went to their tasks.
When they had all moved off, Kydd called his officers down to his cabin. ‘Gentlemen. I’m obliged to tell you that as of this hour the ship’s company are in a state of mutiny.’
‘S-sir! That cannot be!’ Curzon gasped. ‘They went to their stations!’
He stared at the paper Kydd pushed at him. At the bottom were a dozen names, written in a crude circle. ‘A round robin, sir?’ It was a way to ensure that no single name could be singled out as the ringleader.
‘Read!’
It was straightforward enough:
God save the King! Bless our ship and oure officers who are sett above us too rule us and we meane no foule mutiny and will saile against the foe if they dare showe topsales over but pray considaration for our misrabel pligt. For 3 yeares in Alceste frigate wee have sayled the Caribee for our King and cuontry and now returne too find no libbertey to enjoy the friuts of oure labor as any Cristian desurve.
Sir, we ownly beg thatt we be given ower just rewarde as eny servante of the King do. This is nott much we aske and so we beleeve ower cuase is just and trust in yuor undrstandding wehn wee respekfully declyne too sayle onless we be payed on the barel head ower full duue.