Victory

‘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.

‘The damn rascals,’ spluttered Howlett. ‘They’ll swing for it now!’

‘Once in mut’ny, always t’ be distrusted,’ Gilbey growled. ‘We’ll have no truck wi’ mutineers, I hope. I remember in ’ninety-seven when Black Dick Howe—’

Kydd cut in sharply. ‘They’re about their duties, we can’t move against them.’

‘They’re a scrovy lot as will fall on us when our back’s turned. Sir, we should—’

‘No, Mr Gilbey. If they meant to rise, they wouldn’t warn us like this.’ Uneasily, however, Kydd remembered Hermione: Captain Pigot, with all his officers, had died at the point of a cutlass in an insane mutiny in a similar-sized frigate.

Howlett cleared his throat. ‘Sir. The situation is plain. They’ll not bend sail unless it suits ’em and in anyone’s book that’s rank mutiny. We must send for troops, clear the ship and haul ’em ashore to answer for it. No other way.’

‘Mr Clinton? What of the Royals?’

The young man started, his pale face set at the thought of two dozen marines facing more than two hundred desperate men. ‘I – they’ll do their duty, sir. Sar’nt Dodd is posting them about the ship agreeable to my orders.’

Kydd cleared his head to an icy coolness. Whatever happened to them depended on what he did next, and he had no wish to rush into a confrontation. ‘Gentlemen. They’re going about their duties in accordance with orders given. For now there is no offence.’

Howlett snorted, but Kydd went on quietly, ‘Let ’em carry on. There’s a good chance their nerve will fail before it’s time to weigh.’

‘Sir, I must protest! This note is an insult and an abomination – and under the Articles of War constitutes a treasonable communication. We have no alternative but overbearing force while we can.’

‘I take mind of what you’re saying, Mr Howlett, but it’s my decision to wait it out for now.’

He looked gravely from one officer to the next. ‘On no account will I allow hasty words or other provocation to spark a rising. Confine yourselves to calm and lawful orders. If you feel the need for a weapon, a pistol concealed in the pocket will serve – no swords or similar on display. Any questions?’