King`s Captain

hands liked them. Would they blush and duck their heads though, were they put to whispering ideas to Proteus's people in seemingly casual conversations?

Most likely, he groaned. Lieutenant Wyman?

A likely lad, a sweet young fellow too. Reliable, ever cheery, and genuinely liked by the crew; earnest and brave, determined to do his best but… would it be enough? Lewrie could imagine Lt. Wyman uttering 'my goodness graciouses' with his eyes blared… like a virgin chambermaid the first time someone put a hand 'neath her skirts!

'We need a half-dozen o' me,' Lewrie decided in a black humour. 'A pack of the real ruthless bastards.'

Bosun Pendarves and his mate, Towpenny, Mr. Winwood and his mates, that's five men. Mr. Garraway the Carpenter, at least two of his crew, his mate, Jacks? Purser and his assistant… Sailmaker, Mr. Reyne, and at least one from Ms crew. Mr. Offley the Armourer… twenty-five or twenty-six people, all told? God, it still looked hopeless. The Marines, now…

Bales had said that most of the Marines had wanted to keep Lieutenant Devereux aboard-all but Corporal O'Neil the Irishman, one of the United Irish for certain. Three or four of the privates were with the hard core of mutineers… Corporal Plympton the Devon man, though, and Sergeant Skipwith… there's where he should make a sly approach! With twenty to twenty-five of the fourty-man marine complement allied with him, there just might be a chance yet.

'Supper's served, sir,' Aspinall announced at last.

'Hmmpfh,' Lewrie grunted, as he rose to go forrud to his table. Even if it did seem hopeless, at the moment, at least he could keep up his strength… for that 'later' he dearly coveted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

It seems there's more than one way to vote yourself out of the mutiny, Mister Pendarves,' Lewrie gleefully pointed out to the Bosun and his mate, Mr. Towpenny, as they supervised the gun-deck crew through a rare 'River Discipline' sail-making drill. 'That's two ships gone!'

He said that loud enough to be easily overheard by many of the hands near them, yet casually enough, he hoped, that it would not come across as contrived. It had been hard, personally galling for him, to get this sail- making drill staged. He'd had to point out to Bales that the crew had gone slack, requiring exercise at sea-tasks- practice at what Lewrie had hoped was a rehearsal for their escape-then wait for Bales to make up his mind as to whether he'd allow it or not!

'Bless me, not another, sir?' Pendarves replied almost as loud, attracting even more hesitant attention, as they'd rehearsed earlier.

'The Clyde frigate too, Mister Pendarves.' Lewrie shrugged, at a seeming loss. 'She isn't in the anchorage this morning. And when I went aloft with a glass, I could have sworn I spotted her anchored inshore. Must have slipped her cables and drifted into Sheerness on the flood tide last night. Now San Fiorenio too. A bit more theatrical that'-he grinned- 'but out to sea on the ebb.'

The San Fiorenio frigate, originally assigned to carry Princess Charlotte and her new husband, had 'eloped' in broad daylight, sailing out to sea where a merchantman had guided her to deep water. She had attracted vicious but poorly aimed and ineffective gunfire from nearby mutiny ships. Stalwart mutineers had crowed over the gunnery display, jeering that such would be the fate of any deserter, and who wanted such half-hearted bastards as them anyway! But it had been sobering to Proteus % crew.

And after yesterday's brief counter-rebellion and the restive misgivings his own sailors had felt after it had been put down, by delegate force, Lewrie could conjure it had heartened those gnawed by grave doubts, for San Fioren^o had sailed free. No matter how the ship's committee or Fleet Delegates explained it, everyone could see that two ships had found their courage and their common sense, and were now clear of damnation. That, atop his sailors' misgivings and grudges, were all to the good for his scheme.

Proves it can be done, Lewrie gloomed; to them, and me. Maybe they'll take heart from it, find the bottom to stand up to Bales. Or maybe it's already too late-two ships escape, they 're sure to be on their guard now, even stricter than before. Did we lose our best shot at it 'cause we failed yesterday? Buck up, damn ye! 'Now perish all gloom,' and play up 'me-hearty.'… We're halfway there; I can smell it!

His crew was acting sullen and restive: moody and grumbling at their drills in silent, wooden obedience; glumly going through the motions with their minds half on their own troubles. Over the necessity of drilling, of course, but… for also still being there, trapped and damned by Admiralty, by the nation itself.

'Now, Desmond… that's not the way t'belay that clew-sheet…' Pendarves grumbled, almost sighing at the futility of teaching hapless landsmen even a tenth of what a crewman had to learn. 'Lemme show ya… again.'

'Morning, Desmond… Furfy.' Lewrie nodded most sunnily at his Irishmen. They mumbled back greetings, torn between watching Pendarves and the rope-end, and their curiosity.

'Cap'um, sir…' Desmond whispered, 'is it true, sir, that two ships got clean away?'

'Looks that way, Desmond,' Lewrie agreed.

'Faith… an' d'ye think any o' their men'll be hanged, sir? As they returned to duty now, sir?' Desmond queried, fearful of the other sailors, who might overhear and report him.

'Only the villains, I'd expect, Desmond,' Lewrie informed him. 'Only

the villains.'

'Aye… them as'd kill a body, do 'e not keep his oath.' Furfy almost

shuddered.

'There are tyrants,' Lewrie muttered, guardedly, 'and then… there're tyrants, Furfy. It seems there're tyrants before the mast too.'

Furfy was a simple soul, Lewrie suspected; his large bulk seemed to deflate to half its size as he heaved a helpless sigh but shook his head up and down in agreement, as if completely lost, or doomed.

'Bad as th' Houghers or White-Boys, Michael?' Desmond commiserated. 'Join, help out, keep mum… or die, 'cause they'll niver let a body go 'bout his own bus'ness nor stand apart.'

'I never thought willing duty was tyranny though, lads,' Lewrie hinted, wondering what in blazes Desmond was talking about. Some anti-English secret societies back in Ireland?

'Broke their Bible-oath they did though, sir,' Desmond carped in a louder voice, as they all sensed the presence of a committeeman on the gangway above them. For his own protection, Lewrie decided. 'No good'll ever come from such as that, Cap'um.'

The committeeman, an Ordinary Seaman named Ahern (another Irishman), gave a faint nod of approval and a sniff of satisfaction before he turned his attention to other things.

'And what's the value of a Bible-oath exacted at the point of a sword, Desmond?' Lewrie posed. 'One that'd drag you down to Hell, do you honour it, along with the cynical bastards who bound you with it.'

Furfy, the faint soul, automatically crossed himself. Desmond was made of quicker wits though, for he slyly smiled.

'Why, t'would be no oath at'all, sir,' Desmond chuckled softly. 'Now, was a man t'take an oath worth honourin', Cap'um…'

Lewrie wasn't sure what Desmond was getting on about that time either, but he felt it wouldn't go amiss did he reward him a wink and a tap of his forefinger beside his nose before resuming his seemingly casual stroll about the decks, towards the quarterdeck, seeking out Sergeant Skipwith, to see what he might have to say. He found him supervising practice with a quarterdeck carronade. These marines were free of pipe-clayed crossbelts cartridge boxes, waist-coats, hats, and bayonets of the sentries, though they still wore their short hangers on their left hips, hung from shoulder-belts. Discipline was still at full bore though, for they still wore their hair pulled hard back in a tar-stiffened queue formed over a 'rat,' and were sporting the cruel stiff leather neck-stocks, no matter that they