As the morning wore on the weather got worse and the old ship-of-the-line leaked. Water dripped and ran from waterways above, penetrating decks below. The result was sodden hammocks and the foetid smell of wet bodies.
The hours turned to minutes, and then it was noon.
Ironically the seas were so much in motion that it was impossible for boats; even the gunboats sought shelter round the point. But the seamen were resolved. All votes had been taken, all arguments exhausted. It only needed the president of the delegates to close, lock and bar the last gate, to inform their lordships formally of the sense of the Parliament.
"They could see we're meanin' what we say an' come round,' Kydd said hopefully, to the lonely figure of Parker at his quill.
Parker raised a troubled face. 'I don't think it possible, my dear friend.' He sanded the sheet and passed it to Kydd. 'This is the form of words voted by the delegates.'
Kydd read it aloud. '"My Lords, we had the honour to receive your lordships' proclamation (for we did not conceive it to be His Majesty's) . . . How could your lordships think to frighten us as old women in the Country frighten Children with such stories as the Wolf and Raw head & bloody bones or as the Pope wished to terrify..."'
"They can't send this!'
'It gets worse.'
'"Shall we now be induced from a few Paltry threats to forsake our Glorious plan & lick your lordships feet for Pardon & Grace, when we see ourselves in possession of 13 sail of as noble Ships as any in His Majesty's service, and Men not inferior to any in the Kingdom? ..."'
Kydd went cold. This would push the whole into unknown regions, it was a bitter, provocative taunt — but his heart was with the reckless courage and defiant spirit that were all the seamen had left.
'I have to send it. This is their feeling.'
'Yes. I see,' Kydd murmured.
* * *
In the afternoon, the Bloody Flag fluttered down in Clyde and a white one appeared. Kydd and Parker watched in silence as the same happened in San Fiorenzo. But then the masts of Inflexible, anchored between, changed their aspect: she had a spring to her cable and heaved round so the wavering vessels faced two lines of guns apiece. The red flag slowly ascended again.
By early evening, the seas had moderated. The gunboats sailed out to the fleet again as the president of the delegates made ready to go ashore. Niger was seen without her red flag; cannon fire was heard again in the anchorage, but in vain. The frigate slipped away.
Parker and the delegates entered the boats and pulled ashore through squally weather. Soaked but defiant, the men marched once more to the commissioner's house.
'Here is our response, sir,' Parker said, handing the letter to Admiral Buckner. 'I shall return for your reply.'
He turned and retired from the scene with dignity. There was brave and foolhardy talk at the Chequers, but Parker sat apart.
At six, they filed out for the quarter-mile walk to where the flag of the Lord High Admiral of England still flew. The people of Blue Town lined their way, but in the rain there were only thin, scattered cheers. Most remained sombre and quiet, watching the seamen as if they were going to meet their fate.
Buckner emerged promptly, but his head was held high and he kept his distance.
'Good evening, sir,' Parker said. 'May I know if their lordships have an answer to our letter?'
'They have not! There will be no answer. Are you here to make your submission?'
Parker kept his silence.
'You may still, through their lordships' grace, accept the King's Pardon. But if you fire again on a king's ship, then every man will be excluded from the pardon,' the admiral added hastily.
Not deigning to reply, Parker gave a low bow, and left.
'The kippers, if you please. They are particularly succulent, I find.' Renzi's lodgings in Rochester were small, but quiet. His words caused the merchant gendeman opposite to lower his newspaper and fix him with a warning glare: conversation at breakfast was of course entirely ill-mannered.
Renzi inclined his head and picked up his own Rochester Morning Post. He quickly opened it to the news; with the big naval-construction dockyard of Chatham close by and Sheerness but a dozen miles further out, it was to be expected that coverage of the recent shocking events at the Nore would be extensive.
He particularly wanted news on the much talked-about visit by the lords of the Admiralty, with their promises of pardon, but what he saw was far worse. It seemed that after intolerable insults from the mutinous seamen, their lordships had washed their hands of the matter and taken themselves and their pardon back to London. The editorial wondered acidly whether this meant that readers could now, all restraint gone, expect a descent by hordes of drunken seamen.
Renzi slowly laid down the newspaper. This was the worst news possible. For some reason the mutineers had rejected their last hope; they had nowhere else to go. Pitt would never forgive them now, not after the inevitable spectacle of the army or the loyal remnant of the navy ending the mutiny in a welter of ignominious bloodshed..