Binney climbed inside the coach, his grave face gazing out of the window. With hoarse bellows from the driver, the whip was laid on and the coach jerked into motion. Kydd had an urge to wave, but at the last instant made a sketchy naval salute. The coach clattered over the bridge and was gone.
Kydd stood irresolute: it was hard to remain idle while others faced perils — it was not the navy way. He let the morning sun warm him, then sat on the bench outside the inn and felt the tensions seep away as he listened, with eyes closed, to the cheep and trill of country birds, the rustling of breezes in the hayfield close by, myriad imperceptible rustic sounds.
His thoughts tumbled along: only hours before he had been at sea, now in longed-for England — but in such circumstances! Where was Renzi? Should he do something? Restless, he opened his eyes and got to his feet. It was getting towards noon and he was hungry. Perhaps he should take a meal.
In the dark interior of the inn, all glinting brass and pewter, there was only one other, reading a newspaper in the corner. Kydd left him to it and settled in a high-backed bench, relishing the rich sickliness of ale on sawdust.
'Bliddy blackguards!'
As there was no one else in the room, Kydd leaned round. 'I beg y'r pardon?' he said mildly.
'Thikky mut'neers, o' course,' the red-faced man said, shaking the newspaper for emphasis. His appearance suggested landed folk. Kydd caught the 'mutineers' through the round Devon accent and tensed. There was now no question of rumour, it was actuality. 'They'm maakin' fresh demands, tiz maize.'
'Demands?'
'Eys zertainly, where've 'ee bin th' last couple o' weeks?' the man said suspiciously.
'Out o' the country,' Kydd said quickly. 'C'n I take a quick look, friend?'
The man paused, then passed the paper across. 'Leave it yer when you be vanished, I'll zee 'ee dreckly avter.'
Kydd snatched up the paper, The Times of London. The front page was all advertisements — 'A patent Oeconomic machine ...' and 'Marylebone Cricket Club, Anniversary Dinner . . .' Impatiently he turned the page. He wanted to see with his own eyes words that would tell him the navy was in revolution.
'... the Jacobin papers have turned all their speculations ... to the meeting at Portsmouth .. .'
'.. . notwithstanding all the idle and ignorant reports detailed in the Morning Papers of the day of the discontents at Portsmouth having been rapidly adjusted, we are sorry to say that no such good news has been received .. .'
Kydd could hardly believe his eyes.
'. .. the conduct of the seamen ... is reprehensible in the extreme . . .'
'... Is any man sanguine as to think that Mr Fox could retrieve the general anarchy that threatens us?'
He stared at the report. This was worse than he had feared, almost beyond credibility. Kydd sat back in dismay.
A farmer entered, looking in Kydd's direction with a friendly grin, but Kydd could not talk: he turned his back on the man and read on. '. .. correspondence between the Board of Admiralty and Deputation of Seamen ...'
The Admiralty reduced to treating with mutineers - it was unbelievable.
He rose, feeling an urgent need to get outside into the bright sunlight. He found the bench, all thoughts of a meal dispelled, and read the report again.
There was a deal of breathless comment on the audacity of the sailors, their conduct and a sinister, 'The success of the enemy in corrupting our brave Tars is truly formidable. What have we to expect, if we are not true to ourselves at this dreadful moment, when we are betrayed on every side?'
He turned to the next page. It was in tiny print, and began: 'The Petition, or rather Remonstrance, of the sailors of Lord BRIDPORT'S fleet, is now before the Public, and we most sincerely wish that it was not our duty to publish it.' Underneath was column after column of
