King`s Captain

strolled the gun-deck or danced in drunken, half-clad abandon, groping at their men, being-groped and pawed, before being led below for a quick fumble 'tween the mess tables with two blankets hung for privacy.

Caught staring down from the quarterdeck too long, one blowsy blonde bawd jerked down the top of her ragged sack gown and shimmied, flaunting a brace of pendulous, but rather impressively sized teats at him, shrieking and calling him a 'dirty ole awfcer!' drawing the attention of several of his hands to her antics, to his staring.

God, what a dirty puftle, he snorted in derision! Yet doffed his hat and, beaming, bowed her a courtly 'leg.'

She shrieked again, then blew him a kiss, before turning to have her dugs groped by her partner. The men had laughed-not at him, he suspected; it had sounded good-natured.

And Able Seaman Bales, seated atop a 12-pounder's breech, with his arms crossed over his chest, cast him a brow-raised glare, with a shrewd cast to his phyz after that brief antic.

Point for me, Alan told himself as he paced away, ignoring that glare; now he's sure to think up something else new to undermine me and my authority. Has to!

It was dev'lish-queer, Lewrie thought; this confrontation 'twixt me and this Bales creature… he seems t 'take it so damn' personal! Not just a scheming sea-lawyer born for mutiny an' damn all officers, but… like he hates officers in general, but me in the most particular!

He fetched up at the traffrails and leaned on them, gazing out to sea, and wondered if there was an advantage to save Proteus in this fellow Bales's seething dislike; some way to use that against him, as a fatal weakness. But for the life of him, Lewrie could not recall a Seaman Bales in his past whom he had offended, from any former ship.

Kin to his old first captain, aboard HMS Ariadne, way back in 1780? Surely not-kin would come into the Fleet a midshipman, in spite of Captain Bales being cashiered after his court martial at English Harbour, Antigua. That was the way of the world, and 'interest,' in the Royal Navy. Sons of fools weren't quite the fools that their fathers were… 'Til they proved it, of course! Lewrie snickered to himself!

Then-'Oh!' struck him.

What if this Bales was old Bales's kin, too penniless and without influence at Admiralty to get the usual 'leg up'? Then he would have had to ship as a volunteer, go 'before the mast,' at first. But with a good education, surely he'd have advanced past his mostly illiterate fellow sailors, have made Master's Mate by now?

'Damme,' Lewrie whispered to himself, 'wasn't me cost old Bales his career. I spoke up for him, lauded him.' Even if I did lie like a rug, he ruefully chid himself; toadyin' for a good name of my own! And no way to get to the bottom of it… without asking this Bales!

'No, goddamn your eyes, no! And take your fool's face to Hell, you impudent gutter trash!'

Lewrie turned about, wincing at the tone and recognising that voice. It was Midshipman Peacham, railing at one of the hands from the afterguard-doing exactly what he'd warned them not to do days before!

Hands in the small of his back, reminding himself once more about being dignified, deliberate, and slow, he paced towards the altercation; but the seamen knuckled his forehead and sloped off before he could arrive, face suffused with what looked like murderous resentment.

'Mister Peacham, sir… something amiss?' he intoned.

'Captain, sir!' Peacham fumed. 'These disputatious… hounds! I have never heard the like for Jack-Sauce, obstreperous…!'

'Such as?' Lewrie purred, keeping a solemn face.

' 'Ahem, sir,' he says to me, Captain, Sir'-Peacham stammered in a face-suffusing heat of his own-' 'beggin' yer pardon, sir,' he poses! 'Would you be so good as to advance me the 'socket-fee' for a doxy of my own, sir?' the bastard asked! Purser to dispense funds for his rut…?'

'As you say, Mister Peacham.' Lewrie sniffed, striving to keep a straight face. 'A bit of Jack-Sauce. Unless, of course, you thought he was serious…?'

'I will not abide it, sir! Never!' Peacham declared stiffly.

'Oh, yes you will, sir… for the nonce, as I said below a few days ago? You do recall that, sir? Me, in the gunroom?' Lewrie posed. 'Tolerant, paternal, unruffled, and patient 'til this is ended. Now, do you have wits remaining, sir… recall his name and rating, make a sharp note of it and wait for that 'later.' To see if he was merely taking the chance to make a jest at an officer's expense, whether he was put up to it, or… whether there was something malicious about it.'

'Malicious, of a certainty, Captain, sir!' Peacham averred.

'We'll see, once they're back in discipline, Mister Peacham,' Lewrie told him. 'Now go below and duck your head. Stay there 'til you've mastered yourself. So you won't explode the next time one of them twits you, hmm? Do they discover you're likely to rage at 'em, the more they'll try you on. For the fun of it,' Lewrie cautioned. 'And do they discover you're vulnerable, it might be one of the real ringleaders who'll try to get you to rise to their bait-and cause real trouble.'

'Ahh…' Peacham sighed, sounding damn' close to an insubordinate cry of disagreement. He swallowed heavily, cringing as if rebuked.

'There, see how easy that is, Mister Peacham?' Lewrie snickered, instead of bellowing at the fool. 'Practice, sir… practice.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' Peacham said, doffing his hat and departing.

Another thing to puzzle over, Lewrie frowned, as he paced back to the hammock nettings overlooking that boisterous waist of the ship and the 'country-dance' revelry going on there. Ominously, Article the Fifth issued by the mutineers had specified that all ships were to keep their navigators aboard; as if, should their mutiny fail, they could sail off the ships they'd seized… to foreign, enemy ports?

But most ship's committees had put officers ashore. Captains had been sent packing, most willingly, and revolted by the betrayal of their crews. Committees had deemed some officers, midshipmen, and mates as 'Soul Drivers' and cruel, abusive tyrants and had jeered them over the side right-chearly, vowing they'd never allow them to return. Not in this lifetime, they wouldn't. And had Howe agreed to that?

But aboard Proteus … no one had been denounced or turned out, yet. Well, grumbled about, denounced in a fashion, but…? That was a bit odd-something else for Lewrie to ponder; why ever not?

And can I goad 'em to put Peacham and Ludlow off? Lewrie speculated. Christ, both of 'em two loads for the proverbial camel's back…! Sooner or later, not being masters of themselves, they'd pop off, issue too great an insult to someone, and the crew would have another reason to resent authority, even after this was finished! Proteus might also be finished, and his command of her with it! The Admiralty might turn out the entire crew, captain and officers, and start fresh.

Three sailors mounted the larboard ladder to the quarterdeck, as if daring each other to do so. Lewrie steeled himself for a bit of Jack-Sauce, and saw Able Seaman Bales from the corner of his eye, still seated atop the breech of the 12-pounder gun, but watching most carefully, with his tongue in his cheek.

'Uhm… beggin' yer pardon, sir,' one of them chortled, elbowed into speech by the ones flanking him and a bit behind for protection. 'Permission t'speak, Cap'um, sir,' he said, removing his hat.

'Go ahead.' Lewrie sighed, already wearied.

'Would ya be so good, sir… as t'issue each man a bottle o' gin fer breakfast, Cap'um, sir?' the unfortunate managed to say, shivering with mirth. The others were blubbering their lips in strangled glee.

'Oh, for God's sake.' Lewrie sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Is that all?'

'Wellsir, uhm… aye, sir. Thet is…'

'Me, I'd love to oblige you, frankly,' Lewrie told them.

'Ah, sir? Really, sir?'

'But you know the rules, lads,' Lewrie blathered on. 'Naval regulations, and your own leaders, say there's to be