King`s Captain

worked at an un-marine-like exercise.

'Charge with cartridge…!' Skipwith intoned, and one man pretended to cradle a sewn cartridge bag of powder into the squat gun bore, while a second man plied the flexible rope rammer down the barrel to seat the imaginary charge. 'Shot your piece…!' And the first man pretended to heft a 24-pounder ball down the bore.

Lewrie waited 'til they'd gone through the steps of ramming the shot down firm against the cartridge, stepping back and seizing up the run-out tackles, pricking the cartridge bag down the touch hole, priming the flintlock igniter, fiddling with the elevation screw, tightening the compression baulks to either side of the slide carriage, and pretending to traverse, aim, and fire.

'Three rounds in two minutes, Sergeant Skipwith?' Lewrie asked.

'Detachment…, 'shun!' Skipwith yipped, and sprang to quivering attention as if Lewrie had snuck up on his blind side and goosed him. 'Aye, aye, Captain… sah! Three rounds in two minutes… sah!'

'At least, long as you're loading such heavy cartridge and shot, Sergeant?' Lewrie chuckled.

'Well er… aye, sir.' Skipwith darkened, making his gun-team smirk as much as they thought they could get away with. 'But I know we'll make three rounds in two minutes when it's for real, sir!'

'I get us out to sea where we can load and fire for real, then we'll see, Sergeant Skipwith,' Lewrie said, strolling up to lay a hand on the breech of the short 24-pounder. 'I did not time you, but I am certain you were managing quite well, men. As Lieutenant Devereux had assured me you would, even if it is unfamiliar to you.'

Hmmm, he thought, three more who seem crestfallen at the mention of their absent commander, now that they were freed from the demanding but mindless lab'our and had time to dwell upon it.

'Marines can do anything, do they put their minds to it, right, Sergeant?' Lewrie joshed.

'Ever and amen, sir!' Skipwith proudly barked, even un-bending enough to display a rare smile of pleasure. 'Mister Devereux said we could do it, sir… t'help the Captain's sailors out, sir… then we will do it, sir!' Of course, given the anarchy of the times, he dared put in a sly dig at sailors (as Marines ever would) that put a beamish glint in every 'lobster-back's' eyes, for a second or so, and stiffen their backs with pride as they stood at attention by the gun.

'Been at it long, have you, Sergeant Skipwith?' Lewrie enquired, offhandedly.

'Half-hour, sir,' Skipwith told him.

'Well then, I'd imagine a turn at the scuttle-butt, up forrud, would not be sneered at,' Lewrie allowed. 'Besides… all the rumbles are scaring my cat out of a year's growth. Even making my gunners go green with envy, hey?'

'Aye, aye, sah!' Skipwith replied, taking the hint. 'Squad…! Quarter-hour interval! Dismiss!'

After the privates had sloped off towards the water butts, Lewrie turned to Sergeant Skipwith. 'Sorry if I interrupted, Sergeant. And for presuming to issue orders direct, 'stead of through your own officers, but… since Lieutenant Devereux is ashore…'

'Understood, sir,' Skipwith replied, a tad less starched.

'What's their mood, this morning, Sergeant Skipwith?' Lewrie asked, clapping his hands in the small of his back whilst pretending to inspect the carronade. 'Any of them wavering after yesterday? An idea of how many of the marine complement we could trust, did we…?'

'Ah, sir,' Skipwith gravely nodded, stepping up closer, as if responding to a question Lewrie had posed about the gun. 'Beg pardon for sayin' so, sir, but I was hoping you were still of a mind to take back the ship. Even if Mister Devereux is now ashore, sir.'

'I am,' Lewrie vowed, sure he could trust Skipwith to keep mum. 'Could have done it yesterday had we known there'd be a scuffle among the hands. Corporal O'Neil, though…'

'God-damned Paddy duck-fucker!' Skipwith graveled. 'Umm, beg yer pardon, sir.'

'Thought pretty-much the same of him'-Lewrie snickered-'when he put that dirk to Mr. Elwes's throat. Many of his sort, Sergeant?'

'Nossir,' Skipwith replied, twisting up his face in disgust at that deed's recollection. 'No more than a half- dozen, all told, sir. 'Bout five bigger older men, who know all th' cautions, who've served at sea before, sir. O'Neil one of 'em… last'd be a new-come private… Private Mollo, sir. Oh, he's a smarmy bastard, sir, a right sea-lawyer, all pepper an' ginger but the lazy sort. Spotted him as trouble first I clapped eyes on him, sir. Now I thought I knew O'Neil, t'others, but…'

'So, they'd be easy to overpower… cut out of the pack?' Alan muttered hopefully.

'Aye, sir… do we do it sly-boots,' Skipwith affirmed. 'See, sir'-he flummoxed, ready to run his hands through his hair in frustration-'most o our lads are new-come, straight from bashin' on the barracks square, sir. Hopeless dolts, o' course, sir, when they come aboard, but that proud t'be Marines and eager t'do their duty, sir…'

'Open to blandishments from the half-dozen seniors though.'

'Green as grass, sir, aye,' Skipwith admitted. 'Easy-swayed. Caught up in the fun of it, skylarkin' the first few days, sir… We hadn't much hope, the Leftenant an' me. Last few days though, sir, we were close to bringin' 'em 'round. The men look up to Leftenant Devereux, Captain, sir. Firm but fair, he is, and ever a cheery word for 'em. Treats 'em with respect, sir, like they were special already, sir. Oh, but he's a good officer!'

And most aren 't, I take it, Lewrie could only silently conclude.

'Now though, Sergeant… how close might we be?' Alan pressed.

'They're low, sir,' Skipwith pondered. 'Havin' the Leftenant sent away… seein' how far the delegates'll go t'get what they wish too, sir? Told 'em, the Leftenant'd be ashamed of 'em did they keep on with this. Corp'ral Plympton an' me made sure the lads know they're runnin' outa chances t'make him proud… be proud of themselves, too, sir. They're close t'givin' it up, I think. Be hard to get anything done on the sly though, sir. Committee has said they won't let anyone assemble below, after Lights Out, anymore. Don't want any of what they call perjurers to the oath, sir.'

'But you could still stir the pot, Sergeant?' Lewrie queried. 'Into Sheerness… out to sea, either way, depending on when it comes, and the tide state… we'll need to be ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. Fiddle with your watch-and-quarter bill perhaps, isolate O'Neil and that Mollo, the others, in one watch…?'

'Half-and-half, sir,' Skipwith suggested. 'Then it's only three t'overpower on deck, and three t'jump below decks.'

'Just as long as they don't get excited and start titterin' in their hands,' Lewrie warned. 'Give the game away, 'fore…'

'Aye, they're young'uns, I'll allow, sir,' Skipwith gloomed, 'but there's some with foreheads bigger'n a hen we could tell off at first,' he quickly added, with a hopeful set of his shoulders. 'And you know how it is, Captain, sir…' Skipwith leered. 'As scared of a noose as most of'em are, now they see how things stand, p'raps they'll be more gulpy-nervous than titterin', an' the ringleaders'd not know the diff rence. And they are Marines, sir. Hard as recruitin' gets… desp'rate as we are for warm bodies… an' low- down, dumb, an' hopeless as most recruits are, sir… they are Marines. Means they stand head an' shoulders above yer av'rage tar or Redcoat when it comes to wits, sir. Beggin' yer pardon, o' course, Cap'um, sir.'

'Well, there is that…' Lewrie felt he had to admit.

'Won't let you or the Leftenant down again, sir. Swear it. Now they see two other frigates managed to cut free… well, sir!'

'I'm certain they won't, Sergeant… Thankee,' Lewrie replied, giving Skipwith's shoulder a grateful squeeze. 'You carry on with the undermining and shuffling, and I'll search us out the opportunity. Do you tell 'em I'll move Heaven and Earth to get their officer back.'

'Aye, sir, I'll pass that along, sir!'

Pleasin', Lewrie felt like humming to himself as he resumed his strolling, all but strutting with delight; it's comin' together, maybe as soon as tonight, once it's dark as a boot? Sheerness, or seaward, that's the question. Seaward, I'd prefer, but… inshore might have to suit. Look up Mr. Wyman, the middies… have 'em in for dinner, aha! Let 'em know we can now count on the Marines, make a final list of friends or foes… Hell's Tinny Little Bells! As downcast, as shit-scared! as most of the people look this mornin', we justmight could pull it off tonight/ Backed into a corner,