King`s Captain

'I must say, this petition was quite respectful. And handsomely done. A small pay rise, and a more timely paying of it, well… your officers, I assure you, experience just such frustration. I don't see how that this letter led to… this!' Lewrie cried, holding the damning document aloft to sweep over his head to encompass the whole rebellious harbour. 'And compared to the liners anchored out there, you're in shoal waters. Guns landed ashore, trapped in the graving dock… why, it's a wonder the Port Admiral hasn't sent Marines here already to root you out. A mutiny for this piddlin'…?'

' 'Scuse me, Cap'um Lewrie, but'-Cony interjected-'this'd been sent weeks afore, an' nary an answer did t'others get. Sent up t'Admiralty, sir… sent t'Lord Howe too, we 'eard tell. Might even o' been sent t'that fellow Fox up in Parliament…'

'Aye, the Great Patriot, for certain, sir… bein' so liberal an' all?' Tuggle added, sounding a trifle more enthused. Whether he admired Charles James Fox, the new champion of the Common Man, or the beer more-well, Lewrie was uncertain. 'But like Mister Cony says… no reply, sir. So this time the committees determined they'd not put back t'sea 'thout we get some answer. Orders come down Easter morn t'sail. Lord Bridport ordered Vice-Admiral Gardner t'drop eight ships down t'Saint Helen's Patch and await a wind, sir? Well, they didn't… not a man moved. Obeyed orders, sir, all orders but that 'un. Afore then, well, sir…' Tuggle related, more chummily. 'Lord Bridport, he knew what was goin' on, or had an inklin' at last. He asked for the ships t'send him more specific complaints and…'

'He bloody what?' Lewrie barked, half-strangled on his beer.

Open the floodgates to the lower deck? Lewrie marvelled to himself; oh, try and lance it fore it festers, but, my God! The wrong damn' way! Why, every man-jack had something that rankled him about being in the Navy, pressed or volunteered!

'Said he couldn't deal with anonymous petitions, sir,' Cony admitted. 'Why we ended up signin' our names. Valentine Joyce, in Royal George… th' speaker for all, sir… he signed first o' th' list. Sorry, Maggie, but I had t'do h'it. Wot those Yankee Doodles said durin' th' war… 'we hang t'gither, or we all hang sep'rate'?'

'You were coerced, Cony,' Lewrie objected, offering him a way out. 'The people looked to you, and…'

'Most o' th' old crew's gone, sir,' Cony cut him off gently. 'Turned over t'other ships… promoted up an' out. Wot 'ands we got, they're new-come. Cap'um Mallard's lot, he brought with 'im? Even them agreed, sir.'

'Oh, 'twas a sore patch for him, that, sir! Been with him for years, they had.' Tuggle grunted with a dab of humour, but even more sympathy for the new fool who'd seen his 'pets' turn on him. 'Voted for me an' Will, they did, sir, same'z the old hands remainin'. Then we swore, sir.'

'Took a Bible-oath, Cap'um,' Cony stated, chin up in a noble, bright-eyed conviction. 'Swore t'be true t'th' cause, we did. There were Marines took the oath, sir. Stap me, did they not!'

'An' swore t'keep proper order, sir… e'en without Commission Officers aboard,' Tuggle chimed in. 'Ye look sharp with a glass out yonder, sir. They've rove yard ropes from the yardarm tips.'

'A threat against…?'

'No, sir!' Tuggle objected. 'No threat 'gainst officers, sir! A threat t'any bully-bucks who get out o' line. Officers and wimmen t'be turned out, sir… no spirits t'be smuggled aboard, and no folder-ol, no debauch. Repairs, store-keepin', watch-standin', same'z…'

'An' 'ard 'nough 'at is, Cap'um Lewrie,' Cony smiled wryly. 'Why, th' Fleet's workin' alive with Yew-nited Irish, sworn t'ruin it, so France c'n sail over an' help 'em do they 'ave another risin'…'

'Quota Men, sir.' Tuggle sneered. 'We've a few. Worst lot o' drunks, rowdies, back-stabbers… thieves, sir!' Tuggle growled, and several of the new-come men, and most of the old Jesters still aboard, chimed in with a like growl of disgust.

'No matter, they're no sort o' sailormen, nor watermen either, sir,' Cony stuck in. 'Ev'ry county, ev'ry borough, an' town'z down t' supply so many men each Assizes f r th' Navy… their quota.'

'So they muck out their gaols and loonie bins, and pass 'em on to the Fleet?' Lewrie scowled.

'Bloody right, sir… beggin' yer pardon, Maggie darlin',' Will Cony rejoined, most heartily. ' 'Ere, Maggie, you take young Will for a piece. 'E's 'z squirmy'z a worm in hot ashes. Oh, they're scamps, idlers, back-talkers an' sea- lawyers, Cap'um. Won't none of 'em make Ord'nary Seamen do ya give 'em a month o' Sundays. No idea o' what it means t'be a proper shipmate. Drunks, hen-heads, cut-throats… why, we'd all be better off were they transported f r life t'that New South Wales! Man's possessions…'

'Man's tools, sir!' Mr. Reese, the Carpenter, shouted.

'Ain't safe from 'e, do ya 'ide 'em in th' powder magazines!' Cony barked, which raised another agreeing rumble of discontent from the true seamen and petty officers gathered 'round them.

Lewrie forced himself to scowl more deeply, though he felt like breaking out in laughter. For here was the same plaint he'd heard for years in midshipmen's cockpits, officer's gunrooms, and many a captain's great-cabins-about the sailors they already had! And for it to come from men 'afore the mast too, well…!

'Anyways, sir… refusin' t'sail, that got their Lordship attention, right smart.' Tuggle sighed, once the hands had calmed down. Lewrie noticed that a few of the new-comes were blushing or scowling-some of those Quota Men here, among real sailors?

'I would imagine that would,' Lewrie japed, deadpan.

'Anyway, sir,' Tuggle went on, 'we, the Fleet Delegates, that is, come up with our list o' grievances Lord Bridport asked us for. Written up proper and signed this time. Reasonable demands, sir, I am mortal-certain you'd call 'em too, Commander Lewrie, bein' a long-time officer, an' all. You've seen how things're done, how the hands are treated. Oh, there's some private grievances from some ships… 'bout removin' th' real death-floggers an' th' truly cruel officers'n mates… men so cruel it'd make yer eyes water, sir. Nought like you, I've heard, nossir.'

'An' we're holdin' out for a gen'ral pardon too, sir,' Sadler chimed in from one side. 'In writin', so we don't end up like the lads 'board Culloden a few years back…'

Culloden, the same two-decker Troubridge had fought so well just recently at St. Vincent, with pretty much the same crew. Aye, Lewrie recalled that she'd staged a brief mutiny. Captain Troubridge had been saddled with a perfect whore of a warship, barely in any condition to put to sea, and her people had demanded that they turn over into some other, safer ship or have Culloden into the yards for a proper refit. Surprisingly, the Admiralty had given into their demands, though they needed every ship at sea, and they'd sworn to her crew that they'd be forgiven. Yet as soon as they'd returned to duty, Troubridge and the Marines had rushed them and seized the ten ringleaders. Five of them had ended up being hanged by the neck until dead, then their corpses tarred and chained and displayed 'til their bones fell apart.

'Admiral Gardner called aboard his flagship, Queen Charlotte, sir ' Cony grunted, sour from the memory. 'Urged 'em t'give way an' return t'duty. Said they could swear loyalty, sign a tribute to th' Admiralty, an' it'd all be forgotten. 'Ey wouldn't, though, sir… not 'thout a pardon, not 'thout their demands. So he cursed 'em… called 'em cowards, sir! Swore ev'ry fifth man'd be hanged.,.swore they all deserved hangin'. Just'z good'z spittin' on 'em, sir. An' them some o' th' best sailors in th' Fleet. His own crew, sir!'

'So what were these, uhm… grievances?' Lewrie asked. 'Well, the wages, that's still first, sir,' Tuggle announced. He produced a folded copy of the document which had been copied for every ship and laid it on the table. Lewrie put one hand in his lap and the other on his beer; no way was he going to touch that!

'Ahem…' Tuggle began to read, ' '… that our provisions be raised to the weight of sixteen ounces to the pound, and of a better quality; and that our measures may be the same as those used in the commercial code of this country…' '

Well, God help the pursers, Lewrie thought; that'd put 'em out of business in a Dog Watch! No profit for 'em in that!

'Uhm… 'that there be no flour served while we are in harbour, in any port whatsoever under the command of the British flag; and also that there might be granted a sufficiency of vegetables of such kind as may be most plentiful in the ports to which we go; which we grievously complain and lay under the want of.' '

'So we gets the fresh meat from them dockyard thieves the regulations says we should, sir,' Sadler groused. 'Pound o' bread, even fresh-baked 'Tommy,' won't never be the match of a pound o' beef,