King`s Captain

the emotions that erupted on his phyz, and those were stony and bloody! He doffed his hat and made a leg in a most-formal conge, then turned on his heel to stamp away, after sharing a bleak but knowing look with Midshipman Peacham.

'Uhm, sir'-Lt. Langlie whispered, after a long, embarrassed silence- 'though he stated his case, uhm, well, insolently, there is the problem of those two-deckers and their guns.'

'I doubt they keep a zealous watch, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie muttered back. 'Too bored. We've not held sail-drill lately, or had our people at the artillery. With the shore cut off from them and our mutinous committee worried, suggestions from us as to drilling back to passing competence might find a welcome ear. No shot, no powder in the guns, but…? Make and furl sail; put men aloft on the yards? If we do it often enough, then it may not draw much attention when we do it for our escape. When we cut our cables.'

'No pilot aboard, sir,' Mr. Winwood pointed out, lowering his voice to a conspirator's hiss. 'Tricky passage: shoals, sands, flats where we could run aground.'

'But could you do it, Mister Winwood?'

'Aye, sir,' Winwood allowed, and that rather reluctantly. It would be a perfect bitch did they take the ground, and under fire from a two-decker's heavy guns. 'The tides, though. Do we sail out with the ebb to speed our way, it'd have to be in daylight, sir. The flood runs at night, and will take us into the Medway or Sheerness. Might be a safer escape, sir, if the government has garrisoned Sheerness 'gainst the mutineers retaking us. Dark as a boot, scudding off a North, Sea blow, sir? Harder to shoot at.'

'There is that, Mister Winwood,' Lewrie allowed. 'But we'd have to run past a great many ships before we got there. Here…'he said, casting a hand out toward the beckoningly empty eastern horizon, 'we're less than a mile, mile-and-a-half… the Range-To-Random-Shot of an 18-pounder… from showing them a clean pair of heels. We're in the outer I row of the Great Nore, less than a mile from the buoyed channel. Most of the other ships are streamin' back from a single bower. When the flood runs, they point outward. When the ebb runs, they're facing Sheerness. Sail exercise… make a slow way up to short stays, under reduced sail, then furl and fall back. Do that a few times each morning and, sooner or later, they'll take no more notice of us. But one time… the last time… we cut and keep on going. Turn of the tide, Mister Winwood? With a suitable slant o' wind? Do-able, d'ye think?'

'Aye, sir. Do-able,' Winwood replied gravely. But with a nod of conviction and determination.

'The gunboats, sir…' Lt. Wyman enthused, almost hugging himself to contain his eagerness. 'They've lost 'em, sir. There's no one to chase us, did we get a way on.'

On Restoration Day, during the gale, when even massy two-deckers had been tossed about, the eight commandeered gunboats which had been stationed at either end of the fairly snug double crescent of warships had been all but swamped by breaking waves and had finally gone into the calmer waters of the Medway for shelter, just in time for Admiral Buckner to stir himself to action at last and take them away from the mutineers.

'Uhm… there is the additional problem of arms, sir,' Marine Lt. Devereux sighed, pulling at his nose in thought. 'Beyond our own, we've none. Though we have identified hands who remain loyal, and we know who supports the mutiny… would fight to keep the ship… we are a bit thin on the ground compared to their numbers. And they now are armed, sir.'

Another pesky problem, that; Bales had finally tired of being denied the arms chest keys by Lewrie's aloof truculence and had torn the locks and hasps off the chests with crow-levers from among the gun tools hung over every mess table, to distribute muskets, pistols, and swords.

'Aye, they are, Lieutenant Devereux,' Lewrie sombrely agreed. 'But then… so are the loyal men. Damme, sir… they were forced to take the oath… they wear the red cockades, don't they? And so do a goodly number of the fearful and the un-committed who'd let themselves be blown will-he, nill-he by either faction. Let themselves be blown to sea, and out of danger, if it came to it. There's a mixture of all factions in every watch good sir… every division or work-party. We know who the ringleaders are, who the firmest supporters are. Do we get the drop on them when the time is ripe, take the deck and keep a fair number of true mutineers below long enough…'

'Arms are common, aye, sir.' Lt. Devereux pondered, his aristocratic features creased in thought as he pondered something pleasant, put his wits to work on a tactical situation, a lightning raid, a coup. 'They have to allow all hands have arms, watch-and-watch. Else it…'

'Else it seems as if the real mutineers don't trust the rest.' Lt. Langlie smirked. 'And they can't have that sort of resentment in their ranks.'

'As if they don't now, sir?' Midshipman Catterall quipped, in sotto voce.

'If they don't have it now, we could make sure they do soon,' Lewrie hinted. 'Do we drop a few sly rumours. There's grievances beyond the mutineers' demands aboard. We must exploit them. We believe we know who among the crew we can trust… those clever enough to keep mum 'til our time comes. Those who can chat up the rest and sow even more seeds of discontent. The mutineers have helped us in that.'

It was goggling time for his officers again, one more reason to stare at him as if he'd grown antlers or broken out in purple blotches.

'They've cut off news from shore, d'ye see,' Lewrie slyly explained. 'No more rowing 'tween ships to visit cousins, brothers, or old shipmates either. What morale our people have is become entirely internal to Proteus. They're already showing signs of boredom with cheering and speechifying. Now what else d'ye think they could get hellish tired of… do we put our wits to it, hey?'

'When our chance comes then, sir…' Mr. Winwood gravely mused, 'shouldn't we get the women and children off the ship? Out of the way of any fighting? It'll require some fighting, I expect, sir. Without their wives, and uhm… without the distracting, er… that is to say, entertaining presence of the, ah… them.' Winwood flummoxed, trying to find a Christian way to name that which he disdained.

' 'Thout the whores an' strumpets, Mister Winwood?' Lewrie rephrased for him; taking a bit of joy in twitting the man by employing plainer terms.

'Ah… aye, sir.' Winwood actually blushed. 'Fallen women or not, sir they are the frailer sex. T'ain't right for them to be exposed to violence, no matter their stripe or station. Without women aboard, would they not become even more dispirited with nothing to do but dwell upon their dismal situation? And I believe Mister Coote will bear me out that they are eating us out of house and home, sir. Week or two more of feeding useless mouths and we'll deplete our victuals. Then when we do cut free, we'd not be at our best state for duty.'

'Hmmm…' Lewrie frowned in thought, clapping his hands in the small of his back and studying the toes of his boots, the tarred oakum seams in the quarterdeck planking. 'No, Mister Winwood. Their being aboard and out of reach for want of money is troubling to our tars, so… we'll keep 'em as one more cause for upset. If they are eating us out of house and home, then Bales and Handcocks might put them on half-rations… put the whole crew on half- rations sooner or later. No quim and short-commons? Our jacks'll never stand for that! We've need of the whores, believe me.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A little after the midday meal had been served to the crew and they lazed in post- prandial ease for a half-hour (during which time the officers dined), Lewrie was surprised to hear a hail from an entry-port to an arriving boat-one which didn't draw the requisite cheers that the delegates prefered. He was making the best the best he could of his dinner, which wasn't much more than the same salt-beef that the hands had fed upon, and was more than happy to abandon the effort and saunter out on deck to satisfy his curiosity.

He was further surprised to see that a bumboat had come alongside. Mr. Morley of the ship's committee was speaking to the hopeful trader and summoning Bales to make the decision about letting strange people aboard. The boat's skipper was bowing, scraping, and gesticulating as humbly as a Levant rug-merchant, pointing overside and leering suggestively. Even more whores? Lewrie wondered.

His mate in the boat passed up a wooden cage in which several plump chickens resided, shedding feathers and dung as they swayed up on a light whip, and squawking their unwillingness to be so impressed into the Royal Navy. Their upset spurred other creatures into protests, and Lewrie heard the squeals of piglets. Drawn by gustatory