King`s Captain

sir! And the flour's so cheap, they claim t'issue the beeves or hogs then pocket the diff rence!'

'Sick care, sir,' Tuggle added, tapping a marlin-spike finger on the document. 'Man gets sick or injured, he might as well turn up his toes an' die, for all the care most surgeons give. Cram 'em deep below where there's no fresh air, cram 'em in the orlop, some do… and the surgeons and mates responsible for buyin' their own medicines, sir? Well, you know how cheese-parin' they are 'bout that. Like we say in the grievances here, sir… 'that these necessities be not on any account embezzled' ''

'Then I may presume, Mister Tuggle, that Surgeon Mister Howse and his mate left the ship soon after?' Lewrie chuckled.

'Sure t'God did, sir,' Cony supplied, most cheerfully. 'First warrant-holders off, in fact. Called us ungrateful curs, sir, after all they'd… done fer us!'

Lewrie winced to himself; too much use o' that term 'ungrateful curs,' hmm?

'Now, sir…' Tuggle went on, stern-faced as an instructor at his first morning class-and sure to be disappointed by his scholars. 'The fourth thing we want is liberty. Real shore-liberty, for those of the hands de-servin'. Like Jester, sir… three years in foreign waters, and what'd she get, sir? Anchored out, combed for the Press. At best, put Out of Discipline, and all the hands, wives, children, and the hired drabs amingle… that's not respectful at all, sir. No privacy, and in me last ship, sir… there were these midshipmen who loved t'wander in, watch proper married folk at their couplin'… beggin' yer pardon, Mrs. Cony. Leave-tickets for trusted men, long-time married men, sir. And holders of warrant, so they could go home, outside the port town, when back in England. Liberty o' th seaport for the younger and unmarried. Now, mayhap there'll be some… like these new Quota Men and such… who have t'stay aboard 'cause you can't trust 'em, and mayhap ya ferry the doxies out for them, but…'

You haven't a bloody hope, Lewrie sadly thought; you stay stubborn over that 'un, and you'll still be mutineers 'til next Epiphany! Navy can't take the risk, can't send a third of a crew ashore, not if there's a French fleet just 'cross Channel and the wind shifts of a sudden. And, Lord… how many'd ever come back? No, impossible…

'Last thing, sir,' Cony said, drawing Lewrie back from a pose of half-focused inattention. 'Well, almost… right now, any man is wounded in action or sick…'is pay's docked 'til he's back on 'is pins an' discharged from sick-berth. We figger 'e oughta get all 'is pay straight through. Does 'e land at Haslar or Greenwich Hospital, ends up Discharged, then 'e's pensioned off; but for God's sake, sir… don't dock 'is last bit o' money, then turn 'im out t'starve in civilian life where 'e can't earn 'alf th' livin' 'e coulda made as a sailor. Broke up, crippled, missin' legs an' arms and such…'

'Our pay goes up, sir… so does the pay for Greenwich Pensioners,' Tuggle said, as though it was already decided. 'But that's a pittance. And for a man grown up at sea, what sort o' life would it be t'end a beggar ashore!' Tuggle drew out 'ashore!' as if it were a biblical curse. 'An' never tread a deck again, sir? Never see a foreign port, nor have pride in a voyage done, a storm weathered, nor a watch shared with real sailor-men…

'A sunrise, a sunset,' Lewrie sighed wistfully, wondering if there'd be a Navy, another deck for him to tread, if this mutiny went on much longer. What would Ae do as a… civilian? 'Uh… ahem!'

'Now, 'sides the pardon, sir'-Tuggle said, clearing his throat with a tutorly whinny-'here's the last bit, so their Lordships know we're reasonable men, askin' no more'n our due. Ahem…'

It is also unanimously agreed by the Fleet, that, from this day, no grievance shall be received, in order to convince the nation at large that we know when to cease to ask, as well as to begin, and that we ask nothing but what is moderate, and may be granted without detriment to the Nation, or the injury of the Service.

Given on board the Queen Charlotte, by the delegates of the Fleet,

the 18th day of April 1797

'Now that ain't askin' so much, is it, sir?' one of the older hands enquired. 'Not like we're askin' for th' moon.'

Isn't it? Lewrie wondered sadly.

'Last we heard, sir'-Tuggle told him as Lewrie got his feet to pace, hands in the small of his back-'they'd agreed to the rise in pay. Nothin' official yet, but… do they give us better wages, then surely they're con-siderin' the rest.'

'Wouldn't that be enough then?' Lewrie asked. 'To end this?'

'Well, nossir.' Tuggle sighed, after a long thought. 'We wrote back thankin' 'em for the pay rise, but…'til we get the fresh meat back an' the flour removed… the vegetables… the pensions and the signed pardon from the King, we don't stir, sir. We'll maintain discipline and order, keep the ships up proper… but we won't stir from Portsmouth, sir.'

'Even do the French come out from Brest or the Dutch from the Texel?' Lewrie scoffed quickly. 'You'd sit idle if they invade us?'

'Well, sir… uhm'-Will Cony wheedled for a moment as he got to his own feet to look his old captain and compatriot eye-to-eye-'might be best then… does Whitehall worry 'bout such… that we come to an agreement soon'z they can, sir.'

Stone-faced, and cold as Christmas, Will Cony, of all people in the Navy telling him he'd not sail to his country's defence? It was inconceivable! Could an easy-going, loyal old tar like Will Cony put his back up and refuse to yield a single point, then what in Hell was the world coming to?

'Sail over t'France… give 'e Froggies th' fleet,' some faceless voice at the back of the pack crowed. 'Be swimmin' in gold, fer that!'

'Here, none o' that now!' Tuggle barked, wheeling to confront such sentiments. 'Who said that? Own up, man!'

No one did, though no one glared back too angrily or reddened with embarrassment to betray himself.

'Aye, beware of talk like that!' Lewrie roared, like he still had the right to roar on these beloved decks. 'That's not mutiny… that's treason 'gainst King and Country. Levelling, Republican poisoning talk! London Corresponding Society talk, same as annual Parliaments, no King…' he trailed off, a tad limply.

He wasn't sure what else the London Corresponding Society wanted, couldn't recall their other points in those tracts he'd discovered!

'Any man talks of stealing the fleet and sailing off for France isn't a true Englishman, lads. He's a viper in your breast, planted on you by schemers who plot treason. Besides, Jester ain't exactly fit for sailin' to France at the moment, now is she? Damme, if we do not get what we want, and they try to take us, why I just might steal me a row-boat for spite… and sell it to the Frogs, hah? Will any of ya be swimmin' in gold for that, hey?' he mimicked.

There was a certain, sardonic logic to it that made them laugh, at least the slightest bit.

'Whoever said that, you lads watch him close… make sure that you take whatever else he suggests with a handful of salt!' Lewrie told them. 'Damme, not three weeks ago, I told the old hands among you I was as proud of you as a captain could be, and now look at what you've gotten yourselves talked into! Come on, men! Settle for better wages and a few concessions. You're in no spot to sail away from a graving dock, and you're in no spot to resist, without artillery.'

'Took an oath, sir,' Tuggle insisted. 'Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but our minds're made up… same as yours, by the sound of it. Said yerself, sir… you didn't come to negotiate. Don't have an ear with Admiralty to help or hinder, sir. Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but… it might be best did ya go ashore. Like t'other officers, sir.'

'Will, I came for you,' Lewrie snapped, after having himself a long, incredulous gawp at Tuggle. He hadn't been ordered about like that since he was a midshipman! 'I'm asking, as a friend, leave it. There's still your leave-ticket. You'd let him off, wouldn't you, Mister Tuggle? Lads? Here's his wife and child begging… damn you all! Here's me begging!' he demanded. 'Will you come away, Mister Cony?'

'Nossir, I s'pose not.' Cony grimaced, after heaving a long, deep sigh of regret. 'A'ready signed me name as a delegate. Leave-ticket'd not mean much do h'it go again' us.'

'Will, for God's sake, noooo!' Maggie wailed. 'Come away!'

Cony went to her, to take her hands and lead her a little off to one side, gently trying to explain. 'Swore me a Bible-oath, dear Maggie. Can't rightly say I ever did afore. Man who'd break faith with 'at, well… ain't much of a