Mutiny(48)

"The Plymouth squadron, sir?' The forward base was nearest the main French naval strength at Brest.

'He's not sure, but thinks they may have gone over to their brethren.' Dwyer looked at the master.

'Near as I c'd make out, sir.'

Dwyer paused. 'I cannot risk this ship being overrun by mutineers. This is why I have sent for you, Mr Binney. I understand you come from these parts?'

'Yes, sir. Our estate is in south Devon, some small ways east of Plymouth.'

'Good. I desire you to land at a point on the coast with Plymouth near at hand, such that within a day you may enter the port in a discreet manner and make contact with the true authority, then to withdraw and report back to me. Now, do you know how this may safely be done?'

Binney hesitated for a moment. Desperate mutineers would make short work of him if he was caught.

He requested a chart. It was the standard approach to Plymouth, and he quickly found his place. 'Sir, to the east.'

'Wembury?'

'No, sir, that has an army garrison. Further to the east, past the Mewstones,' Binney said, bringing to mind the sea-mark of unusual conical rocks to the south-east of the port. 'Along the coast four or five miles. If I land here -' he indicated a small river estuary '— I'm out of sight on all sides, out in the country. I strike north about two hours and reach Ivybridge. This is on the highway and the posting house for the last change of horses before Plymouth, and there I can ride the Exeter stage into Plymouth.'

'This seems a good plan. Well done, Mr Binney.'

Eastman took a closer look at the chart. 'Hmmm, the Yealm and then the river Erme. Suggest you take the four-oared gig in, under sail.'

'That will do — it's sand, and I'd be satisfied to reach as far up as Holbeton.'

'Kydd, boat's crew. This is you and ... ?'

'Poynter, sir, gunner's mate. An' one other. Let me think on it, sir.'

Dwyer appeared satisfied. 'So we'll raise the coast at dawn, send the boat away, and hope to have you back before dark?'

'Aye aye, sir,' said Binney quietly.

'Then I don't have to remind you all that if this terrible news gets abroad . ..'



In the chill of early dawn, Achilles stood in for the river Erme. The grey, formless land firmed and revealed its rugged character. It was strange to be so close to a perilous shore from which a big ship would normally keep well clear. Sails were backed and within minutes the gig had touched water. Binney and Kydd, with Poynter and a seaman, boarded and set the lug foresail and mizzen to bellying life.

As Achilles got under way to assume position out to sea, the gig headed inshore. It was clear that Binney knew where he was: the small river estuary ending in a wide flat sprawl of sandy channels met the sea between a pair of bluffs. Binney took the biggest channel, following its sinuous course upstream, past dark woods, some isolated dwellings, steep pastoral idylls and at one point wispy effluvia of a lime kiln.

It was dreamlike in the early morning to be passing from the vastness and power of the open sea to the enfolding quiet so close to the depths of the lovely English countryside, the farmland, grazing animals, orchards - and in a ship's boat. The smell of wild flowers, cows, cut hay and sun-warmed soil turned Kydd's mind irresistibly to memories of his youth and past summers in Guildford. It was difficult to reconcile where they were to the actuality of what they were doing.

'Damn,' muttered Binney; the boat had touched sand. Poynter poled off with the boathook. The wind localised, becoming fluky and light; the sails were doused and oars shipped. Later the sand turned to flecked silt and then to dark mud, and it was at this point that Binney put the tiller over and brought their inland voyage to an end.

'Yarnink Nowle,' Binney announced, coming up to a decaying timber landing place. It took Kydd some moments to realise that the words meant the place, not an order. It was a quiet wood down to the water's edge; a rough path headed steeply up out of sight into it. 'Kydd, with me, you men stay with the boat.'

Kydd climbed over the gunwale and for the first time since Gibraltar had the good earth under his feet. They trudged up the steep, sinuous path, Binney leading and dressed in nondescript coat and breeches, while Kydd followed in as non-sea rig as he had been able to find.

They left the wood to cross deep green fields with curious sheep, and Kydd looked at Binney, worried. 'The crew'll hear of th' mutiny fr'm the folks hereabouts.'

Binney flashed a grin. 'Not here they won't. They know the navy and the press-gang in this part o' the world — they'll keep well away.' Kydd thought of the hard-faced Poynter, and grinned back.

They crossed another field, ignoring a gaping milkmaid, and arrived at the back of a thatched-roof farmhouse. A dog barked once, then approached to nuzzle at Binney; a leather-gaitered yeoman appeared at the noise and stopped in surprise at seeing Binney. 'Well, whot be doing yer, Maister Binney?'