King`s Captain

Lewrie's face suffused with sudden anger, that he'd been bested by an unexpected opponent, by an un-looked- for fount of wits. Whatever shred of authority he'd wished to salvage, whatever doubts he'd wished to plant in them, were ripped away in a twinkling, torn to atoms.

This is over, I'll see you swing in tar an' chains, you smarmy bastard! Lewrie swore to himself; you and McCann, most of all!

' We 'II let you know when we're done, sir,' Bales smirked, with an air as if he had already been elected leader and was taking charge. 'When we're ready to send boats to the storehouse wharves. Just'z soon as we've chosen delegates, Captain.'

'And I, for my part, Seaman Bales,' Lewrie gritted back, 'will expect the crew to muster aft to witness punishment when / order them to… no matter where you are in your… elections. Hear me?'

'Oh, aye, sir… we're looking forward to that.' Bales grinned.

'Twelve men for th' ship, mind,' McCann advised as he followed them, remaining on the gangway so he could depart through the entry-port and go off to cause even more mischief aboard other ships. 'Two for th' fleet committee, t'meet aboard Sandwich. An' one 'captain'… no matter his high-an'-mightiness… right, brothers?'

McCann was departing, shouting a last set of encouraging words to the crew in general and pumping Bales's hand quite vigourously.,

'There's a viper in our breast, no error,' Lewrie gravelled, in a bleak mood. 'And me that chose him, special! Damme, what a fool I was! He must be one of the chief plotters… planted on us as a sham volunteer just so he could stir 'em up to mischief…'

'Uh, sah…' Andrews suggested in a low voice, after a bashful cough into his fist. 'Jus' one feller come aboard las' night, sah… 'E couldna stirred 'em up, much… not dot quick. Scheme musta been a-fest'rin' fo' some time. 'Mong some o' de lads we got at Chatham… even 'fore we got 'em, Cap'um.'

'Aye, you're probably right, Andrews,' Lewrie had to admit to his Cox'n. 'Damme, what's the world coming to? What next? A total civilian rebellion too?'

There was no answer to that one.

Or nothing anyone would ever dare put into words!

He looked outboard, seeking salvation, like a marooned sailor on a desert isle might scan the horizon for a scrap of tops'ls which might mean rescue. But there was no cause for hope in sight.

Every ship at the Nore new the plain red flags of rebellion… every ship now sported yard ropes. Boats full of senior officers were streaming from Inflexible, steered by their personal coxswains, rowed by their personal boat-crews, rushing too late to reclaim the commands they'd lost.

Signal flags flapped busily from the roof of the Dockyard Commissioner's house, and from Vice-Admiral Buckner's shore residence.

The semaphore tower on Garrison Point was 'talking' in a flurry of whirling arms. To the next station at Queenborough, thence across the f low country to Gadshill or Beacon Hill, near Chatham. From there, the news would now be 'flashed' in a matter of minutes to Swanscombe station near Greenhithe alerting the Tilbury river forts, then on to Shooter's Hill, about equidistant between the Royal Arsenal at Woolwich and Greenwich Naval Hospital-to New Cross, West Square on the south bank of the Thames, and at last across the river, to Admiralty.

Informing their Lords Commissioners that another entire bloody ad hoc fleet had been lost-to Mutiny!

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Permission to enter the gunroom, sir,' Lewrie announced with a cough into his fist, as he stood by the berth-deck portal which led to his officers' quarters. Normally, the gunroom was a holy-of-holies, off-limits to all but those who lodged there, their personal hammockmen or body-servants, their cook or table- servants. Captains were included in the banned category, since they had their own great-cabins one deck above, equal in size to the hull space shared by eight or more men below them. The enforced separation allowed them a haven of peace and quiet from the tumult of a working vessel, from the wrath of a demanding captain, the sight of the common seamen… usually.

He waited, one brow up in demand, as Lt. Ludlow took his sweet time mulling over the heathenish idea of allowing him into their sanctuary, filling the doorway set into the insubstantial deal-and-canvas 'bulkhead' partition, which was more a token of privacy than real.

'Aye, sir… come in, sir.' Ludlow nodded at last, stepping to one side. He did not say that Lewrie was welcome though.

'Thankee, Mister Ludlow,' Lewrie said, forcing himself to act pleasant as he stepped inside, his hat under his arm. 'Ah. All here, I see, gentlemen… our middies too.'

Langlie, Wyman, Mr. Winwood the Sailing Master, Surgeon Shirley, Purser Coote, and Marine Lieutenant Devereux filled the seats down both sides of their mess table. The chair at the head of the table was Ludlow 's, now empty. There was an eighth chair available, but Lewrie would not go f any further towards upsetting the gunroom's well-run order by taking it. Besides, it was at the vice-end of the table, below the salt-and a place for those inferior to Ludlow. Lewrie walked slowly aft, giving the midshipmen, who were perched on the sideboard or were forced to stand a'lean against the interior partitions, an encouraging smile or two.

'Might you do us the honour of partaking in a glass of brandy, sir?' Lt. Langlie offered. Lewrie could see that at least one bottle had already been rendered a 'dead soldier,' on its side atop the table, with a fresh one already half-drained beside it.

'Thankee, Mister Langlie, and I do appreciate the offer and the gun-room's hospitality, but… no,' Lewrie told him pleasantly. 'Bit early in the day for me, d'ye see. On a sensible day, mind. Proceed, though, yourselves… don't let my presence discourage your cheer.'

'I thought it best, did we put our heads together… informally,' he began to explain. 'Summoning you to my cabins might have raised the suspicions of our so-called… committee. Might have made them refuse to allow it, and…'

'Damn 'em all, root and branch,' Midshipman Peacham growled at that, with his glass halfway to his lips. 'Ungrateful pigs!'

The committee had elected a dozen hands to run the ship, chosen the Master Gunner, Mr. Handcocks, and his mate, Morley, to represent her aboard the flagship of the mutiny, and had 'requested' that watch-standing officers and midshipmen go below, off-duty, and remain out of sight unless there was an evolution to perform.

And had chosen that blackguard, Able Seaman Bales, to be their temporary 'captain' in charge of Proteus until the seamen's grievances had been answered, and the mutiny was declared over! And Bales chose a day of 'Rope Yarn Sunday' and celebration in place of those chores of lading ship he'd been so insistent upon two hours before.

Leaving the officers with nothing to do and no reason to stay on deck in the presence of their mutinous inferiors.

'Listen to 'em,' Ludlow spat, reaching for the half-full bottle. 'Cater-waulin' an' caperin'…'

Proteus thrummed to the stamp of feet as their mutineers danced their joy, clapped and sang rowdy songs to the music of the fiddle and the fife, and the songs echoed faintly as far as the gunroom, through those insubstantial screens.

'Quite clever of 'em,' Lewrie snapped. 'Take a day of rest to cajole the unconvinced. Like we do at a recruiting 'rondy,' to beguile 'em to join in the first place.'

'Have 'em all in their pockets 'fore dark,' Ludlow gloomed.

'I don't think so, Mister Ludlow,' Lewrie disagreed. 'That is the reason I'm here, so we may decide what to do tomorrow, when they begin to face reality. Hopefully, they are enough in league with Spithead to remain in a form of discipline, and…' '

'Discipline! Bah!' Ludlow griped most sourly.

'I've seen it, sir. You have not,' Lewrie snapped at his First Officer. Badly as he