King`s Captain

fantasies, Lewrie drifted forrud, fingering his purse for ready coin.

'Well, damn th' authorities, says I!' The bumboatman was crying. 'No man'll tell a Willis he can't sellta whoever he wishes, mate. Hoy there, Captain, sir! No more fresh stores t'come. Admiral saysta cut 'em off. Wager a plump hen'r two'd suit ya, sir, whilst yer forced t'wait. Yer officers, too, sir… hens, geese, a plump torn turkey fer th' gunroom?

Roast piglet wi' cracklin's an' gravy by sundown, do ya buy this hour, sir. Loaf bread, sweet biscuits… fresh cheese that'll melt in yer mouth, sir. Hoy, now! Who'll buy… does this'n let me aboard, hey? Give a poor merchant a chance, willya?'

Full or not on Navy fare, the hands drifted over to see what he had, up on the gangway to peer over the bulwarks, or below its lip to grumble and insist that Bales let him come aboard. Most especially the whores.

'Might not see another, Brother Bales.' Handcocks speculated. 'Tyrants've most-like scared th' rest o' th' bumboatmen from tradin'. Threatened t'take away their permits, sure.'

'Very well,' Bales sighed. 'No private spirits, mind. We've articles against it, Mister Willis,' he warned the vendor. 'You've no doxies in your boat, so I can't see the harm. Let him enter!' Bales decreed in a loud voice, like Moses reading the First Commandment, to a glad cheer from the bored crew and the deprived womenfolk.

Willis the vendor and several of his assistants clambered up to the gangway. Some of them descended into the waist to show off samples of their wares. Children began shrieking over gooey sweets or stickily sugared buns they wished. The warship's waist quickly became a village green on Market Day.

Willis the vendor came aft to confront Lewrie and the rest of his officers, who had come up fingering their own purses or delving in their breeches' pockets to purchase those luxuries which enlivened their own lives.

'Oh, sirs, I've so many fowl, I'm chicken-pore, an' they'll go for less'n anybody else'd charge ye, my Bible-oath 'pon it! T'others cut off from tradin'… skeered off from tradin' by that Admiral Buckner and that new Gen'r'l Grey just come t'Sheerness with all his soldiers?' The man bubbled most brightly. 'Wines, sirs. Brandies, sirs. Not for the likes o' them lads down yonder, but off cers can have private wine-stocks. Good vintages an more'n reasonable. Here, Captain, sir. We see ya, all but slobb'rin' over these here fine shoats. Brace of them, good Captain, an' I swear ya could feast fer four days runnin'. Half-crown each, Captain, sir. A crown, th' pair.'

'Damme, that's… more'n reasonable,' Lewrie was forced to say.

'Bought up th' stock o' other vendors!' Lewrie could hear a vendor's assistant on the lower deck bawling the explanation. 'Bought for a song when they saw 'twas ruinous for 'em, th' craven poltroons! Bought cheap, sold cheap! Come one, come all. No pushin' there, lad!'

'I'll take the shoats,' Lewrie said, looking for Aspinall to come and take charge of them and opening his purse for solid coin. 'A brace of geese too. A full pound for all, is it?'

'An' here's yer change, good sir!' The vendor winked, handing Lewrie a folded square of paper. 'Shame it is, good Englishmen forced t'use paper money, but there 'tis.' He winked again.

Lewrie pocketed the note in his breeches and gave this fellow Willis a dumbstruck nod of understanding.

'No matter th' rest o' th' cowards, sir,' Willis assured him, 'you can count on Willis's fer all yer needs. Be back whene'er th' ole Nore weather allows me, sirs. Keep ya in yer best tucker. Cheer ya with spirits, as good as any fine merchant in London would, and so I will. Good as… Willis's Rooms'd treat a lodger such'z yerself.'

'I know it well,' Lewrie admitted with a nod, keeping a grin of comprehension from giving the game away. 'But… ah…?'

'Thought ya would, Captain Lewrie.' This Willis whispered as he twisted his torso to one side to pocket more money from the other officers who'd made purchases. With another brief wink.

'You will come often then, I take it, sir?' Lewrie asked.

'Ev'ry t'other day, do th' weather allow, sir,' Willis boasted in a normal voice.

'Good.' Lewrie smiled. 'I'd hate to be deprived out here. Of anything needful. A newspaper…?'

'Next trip, sir, or my name's not Willis.' The man guffawed, as if at a private jest. 'Zachariah Willis.'

'Ah!' Lewrie nodded, the scales of mystery torn from his eyes.

Of course, every arm of HM government had been sicced on this mutiny, on the Spithead mutiny before it. Nepean had said that agents working for the Duke of Portland, the King's 'Witch-Finder' and seeker of dangerous dissidents, had been delving 'round Portsmouth and Plymouth for signs that the mutiny was foreign-sponsored.

Every arm of HM government, both the spiritual and temporal. Most-like the Established Church of England had already sent out circulars to every vicar, urging them to preach loyalty and obedience from their pulpits. i And should a tiny bureau of the Foreign Office be told to delve, to finagle, undermine, and investigate-perhaps even go so far as to eliminate the most infamous rabble-rousers, well…

Zachariah! A clue to Zachariah Twigg, that cold-blooded, ruthless old cut-throat spy of Lewrie's long, painful, and dangerous association? In the Far East 'tween the wars, the Ligurian Sea not so long ago in '95 and '96…! Someone official was establishing underground communication to him, to all captains who'd not been put off already. Looking for information… imparting information, encouragement… orders? That folded square of foolscap was burning a brand upon his thigh!

'Pity I have so little to give you, Mister Willis,' Lewrie said with an apologetic shrug. 'But I didn't anticipate your arrival. I b'lieve, though… when next you call… I'll have a proper list of my wants and needs.'

'Ah, that's th' spirit, Captain, sir!' Willis cackled with glee. 'All brass-bound Navy like. Can't scuttle 'cross a duck pond without a man havin' his lists. An' I'll be honoured t'have 'em from ya,' he hinted.

Lewrie's lips opened and he felt the urge to take the man by the arm that instant to pump him for more information or tell him about the state of the mutiny aboard Proteus. But this fellow who pretended to be Willis took a half-step back, squinted in worry, and gave him a brief but vigourous negative shake of his head.

'See some others've found th' courage t'come out an' trade with the ships,' Willis said instead, further pretending to frown, pointing outboard. 'Hope you'll not be fickle an' let just anybody come sell to ya, sir.'

Lewrie looked outward. Despite the likelihood of decent profit, there did seem to be an increase in the number of traders' bumboats by the other warships now. There were smaller row-boats from Sheerness, Minster, or Leigh alongside some, crying their fresh-dredged oysters or fresh-caught fish.

'Thrivin' trade, sir,' this Willis simpered, 'd'spite prohibitions 'gainst it.'

'Admiral Buckner's… or Parker's?' Lewrie muttered.

'Mum's th' word on that head, sir,' Willis responded.

'Smugglin', are you?' Lewrie barked with amusement, and Willis looked like to about jump out of his skin in alarm. In point of fact, Lewrie suspected he had a poor repute with the Twiggs of this world; it was evident this man had been warned he was dealing with a loose-lip, a slender reed. Perhaps he'd been promoted to Nitwit, who was nowhere as clever as he thought himself.

'Well, damme…' Lewrie pretended to sigh in resignation. 'How else'd I, or anyone in England, have our tea, silks, or lace without a smuggler at the root of it.'

'Ah, ha!' Willis nervously laughed at that, all but shivering in relief (1) that Lewrie had grasped that the bumboats were indeed smuggling, but in the King's name; (2) that despite the reports, Lewrie wasn't a raving twit; and (3) that he hadn't gotten him killed-yet! 'But a very English trade, sir, hey? 'Long as it stays solely English?' he purred in question. After he'd gotten his wits and control of his sphincter back, that is.

Which subtle query gave Lewrie pause. Damn me, this is gettin' a tad deep, he thought; had as spoonin' up some willin' chit right under her husband's nose! How to say it? He's as good as put it to me direct: Is our mutiny homegrown or foreign-brewed? And what do I know?

'Oh there may be interlopers, now and then, who hope to prosper at it,' Lewrie cautiously replied, with wit enough to growl, indignant, 'though not for very long. It's a home-grown trade mostly. That's to say, ah… uhmmm…' Horse turds! Even I can't make sense of what I just told him!

'Oh, exactly, sir,' Willis said, his eyes hooding (and crossing in perplexity) as he could take no clue from that