King`s Captain

no private liquor allowed, ever. So I'm afraid I can't. But… d'ye see your so-called temporary captain, Seaman Bales, there…' Lewrie smiled.

'Uhm…'

'Now, do you ask him, well… he might relent and allow you. I heard it said he has a private income beyond his Navy pay,' Lewrie extemporised. 'How else'd he come aboard with such a complete kit hmmm? Do you ask him nicely, he might take you ashore with him and sport you to yer gin. Just ask him.'

'Sir, ah…' they goggled at him, and at each other.

'Well, go on!' Lewrie urged, most 'mately.' 'Ask him. 'Nothin' ventured, nothin' gained,' as they always say. And good luck!'

'Er, aye, aye, Cap'um, sir, we will!' the spokesman enthused with a hopeful sound. They trooped down the ladder to the waist, scampering to approach Bales, and put their outrageous demand to him.

Lord, Alan shrugged, there's three simpler than yer average tars!

Before Bales could begin to bark at them and disabuse them, he glared upwards at Lewrie with a look of pure rage.

And take that you sly bastard! Lewrie thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Alan was writing Caroline a letter, though when he could get it to her, he wasn't sure. Much like the fate of most letters written when at sea, to be held until they put into a foreign port, met a ship sailing for home, or rendezvoused with a squadron flagship, the delegates had decreed that no letters would be allowed to go ashore.

Writing was a difficult chore, for Toulon, when not striving to catch and kill the waving quill pen's end, had developed a fondness for stretching his sleek, furry length atop anything Lewrie attempted to write or even read. Desktop, dining table, or the chart-table, it made no difference. Did he make paper rattle, Toulon would be there in a heartbeat-and in a most playful, insistent mood, rolling over onto his side or back to bare his white belly, and push or pat with his paws until he got some petting. Or, brought labour (of which, Alan assumed, most cats highly disapproved!) to a grinding halt.

' Toulon, now… damn yer eyes!' Lewrie fretted, shifting pen and paper closer to him. But over the cat rolled, right onto his back and put all four paws in the air, his thick, hairy tail lazily lashing, and purring in idle, impish delight. Squarely in the middle of the letter.

'Aren't you supposed t'sleep or something?' Lewrie groaned, on the verge of surrender. 'It's daytime, fer God's sake. It's what cats do! Eat, shit, sleep… eat, pee, sleep. Don't you know the drill?'

'Weow?' Toulon demanded, wriggling nearer the desk's edge with his pitiful face on.

There was a rap on the outer door.

'Captain, sir?'

'Enter,' Alan snapped.

'Sir, there's a boat coming alongside,' Mr. Midshipman Catterall informed him as he stepped inside.

'Gunn'l down with gin, is she?' Lewrie frowned. 'That why the hands are cheerin' so lusty?'

'Uhm… I gather one of the key ringleaders has come to call on us, sir.' Catterall blinked back. 'But nary a bottle in sight, sir. Come empty-handed, Captain. A very poor house-warming guest.'

'Bugger him, then,' Lewrie said, forced to smile in spite of the interruption by Catterall's jest. He rose and made his way forrud to go on deck. 'I s'pose we must see this apparition for ourselves… and if he wishes to wet his throat, he'd best have brought his own spirits. Lead on, Mister Catterall.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' Catterall said, with a sly grin. 'I'd expect rabble-rousing is a dry endeavour sir.'

Lewrie smiled again, as he clapped on his hat.

And let's just hope it's not that lunatick, McCann, again!

Well at least, thought Lewrie, it wasn't McCann the hands were cheering, though that idiot was in the party of visiting leaders of the mutiny, hanging back in the rear for once, like a spear-carrier in an Italian opera.

Lewrie thought to take his rightful place amidships by the nettings at the forward edge of the quarterdeck so he could study this new arrival, remember faces if not names for later, and remind his mutinous crew just who should be in charge. But the visitors usurped that post, marching directly from the starboard entry-port to the quarterdeck, and forced Lewrie, Catterall, and the few other midshipmen and officers who had come to answer their own curiosity to hang back far out of range of being tainted by appearing too curious-or tacitly supportive! They ended in a clump near the taffrail flag lockers, almost out of earshot, and mostly ignored by the enthusiastic sailors who were hoorawing what seemed an important visitor.

The stranger, Alan noted, was of middling height and build, and dressed much like a Commission Officer or Warrant Officer: gentlemanly white breeches, stockings and shirt, with a plain, dark blue, brass-buttoned coat over a yellowy, striped waist-coat. For shoes, he sported a pair of half-boots, another gentlemanly affection. On his head, the man wore a hairy beaver-fur hat, the sort with long and wide flaps that could be turned down over his ears and neck in bad weather.

The stranger waved his arms, crying out to Proteus's crew, shaking hands here and there with the most forward, glad-handing his way to the nettings like a Member of Parliament on the hustings might work his borough's pubs for re-election. Though he was of such regular features as could be deemed handsome, he was of a swarthy or sun-baked complexion. And there was a half-focused, almost dreamy glint to his eyes-the eyes of a romantic. Lewrie scowled with distaste. Or was he just as daft as his compatriot, McCann? He took an instant dislike to him.

'Ah, sir,' Marine Lieutenant Devereux said, doffing his hat in salute as he came up to see their raree-show. 'Odd, do you not think, sir… he carries himself with the airs of a born gentleman. Surely, he cannot be an officer, Captain, in league with Republican rebels?'

'A rogue officer?' Lewrie puzzled. 'Pray not! We've troubles enough from the common seamen and mates who organised this mutiny.' 'Wearing a sword, sir,' Devereux pointed out in a low mutter. 'What looks to be a good pistol in his belt too. An officer's accoutrements, damn his eyes.'

'Hip-hip… hooray, lads!' their Seaman Bales and Gunner, Mr. Hand-cocks, were exulting. 'Three cheers for Richard Parker… President o' the Floatin' Republic… an' Admiral o' our Fleet!' 'What gall!' Lt. Wyman gasped at the effrontery. 'Now, now… lads…' this Richard Parker was saying, come over all modest and self-deprecating, pushing his hands at the crew as if to hush them so he could speak. Or, more-likely, to hush such damning talk! To declare a rival government to the established one-and the Crown-to promote oneself from sailor or mate to the highest peak of the Commission Officer list, a jealously guarded Admiralty right, could get anybody hanged in an eyeblink, even if the mutiny here at the Nore ended this instant!

'Hmmm…'tis a good sword at that,' Lewrie had to admit once this Parker person had turned about a full circle to silence the crowd. It was an officer's long, slim smallsword; not the cutlass from some arms chest more suitable to a seaman.

'Pinched, most-like, sir,' Midshipman Catterall sneered, from the offhand side, 'from the gunroom of his own ship.'

'Right, lads… give me an ear now. Hush!' Parker demanded, and they finally left off all that raucous cheering.

There, that's better, Lewrie told himself; 'fore Toulon got so scared he had his own litter o' kittens/

'We've heard from Spithead!' Parker dangled like a lure, making everyone lean forward and hold their breaths. 'It's official. They've reached an agreement!'

Lewrie winced at the noise, even if it was joyful tidings.