Mutiny! A word to chill the bowels. Achilles was now in the hands of mutineers, every one of whom would probably swing for it, condemned by their own actions. Kydd paced forward cautiously; men gave way to him as a master's mate just as they had before. There were sailors in the waist at work clearing the waterways at the ship's side, others sat on the main hatch, picking oakum. Forward a group was seeing to the loosing and drying of headsails. A few stood about forlornly, confused, rudderless.
It was hardly credible: here was a great ship in open insurrection and shipboard routines went on largely as they did every day. Binney paced by on the opposite side of the deck; seamen touched their hats and continued, neither abashed nor aggressive.
Impulsively Kydd clattered down the hatchway to the main deck and made his way to the ship's bay, the clear area in the bluff bow forward of the riding bitts. There was a canvas screen rigged across, with one corner laced up, a seaman wearing a cutlass at ease there, on watch. 'I have a question f'r the delegates,' Kydd told the man.
He smiled briefly. 'Aye, an' I'm sure ye have,' he said, and peered inside. He straightened and held back the corner flap. 'Ask yer questions, then,' he said, looking directly at Kydd.
Farnall sat at a table, Boddy on his right. Others were on benches and sea-chests, about a dozen in all. They were discussing something in low, urgent tones, while Farnall shuffled a clutch of papers. Boddy wore a frown and looked uneasy.
'What cheer, Tom?' This came from Jewell, who was standing to one side. Boddy looked up and nodded. Others stopped their talk and looked at him.
'Nunky, Will,' Kydd acknowledged.
'And to what do we owe this honour?' Farnall said.
Kydd folded his arms. 'I came t' see if there's anyone c'n explain t' me this ragabash caper.'
There were growls from some, but one called, 'Tell 'im, Mr Farnall.'
Farnall rose to his feet. Gripping the lapels of his waistcoat he turned to Kydd, but before he could speak, Kydd interrupted forcefully: 'No, I want t' hear it from a reg'lar-built sailorman, not a land-toggie who doesn't know his arse from his elbow about sailoring.'
Farnall's face grew tight, but he sat down. Boddy stood up and hurried over to Kydd, taking him by the elbow and leaving the bay. 'Tom, it'll do yez no good to get up Farnall's nose. He's a delegate now, an' he's got friends.'
They emerged together on deck - the spring sunshine out of keeping with the dire events taking place. Kydd glanced up wistfully at the innocent blue sky. 'What has you planned f'r Achilles, Will?' he said.
Boddy paused. Ter an answer, ye needs ter know what's happened altogether, like.' He pursed his lips. 'We feels they has a right steer on things in Spithead, Tom. They's standin' f'r hard things that should've bin done an age back. What we're doin' is giving 'em our backin', 'cos they need it. What we done is, we have two delegates f'r each ship, an' a committee o' twelve. We decides things b' votes an' that, Farnall knows all about this. An' we hold wi' discipline, Tom. We won't have any as is half slued around the decks, not when we're so close t' the wind like this'n.'
'Who's y'r delegates?' Kydd asked.
'Coxall 'n' Farnall, but we got some good men in th' committee. We already have rules o' conduct: no liquor aboard wi'out it's declared, respects to officers, ship is kept ready f'r sea — an' this is because we swear 'ut if the Mongseers sail on England, we're ready ter do our dooty.'
Kydd looked squarely at Boddy. 'Will, who's it behind this all — who organised it?' If there was the barest whiff of French treachery he would have all his doubts resolved, his duty clear.
'Why, we're follering Spithead, is all, nothin' more.'
'No Frenchies at the bottom of it, a-tall?'
'No, mate. If they noo that the whole navy of Great Britain was hook down an' goin' nowhere, they'd soon be crowdin' sail for England. They ain't, so there's no plot. They don't even know.'
