King`s Captain

'Have we learned nothing, sir?' Lewrie asked him. 'Our common sailors are nothing like simple or child-like; we just saw that at the Nore and Spithead. Do the people come to believe that Proteus had an odd birth, an air of mystery about her… a soul, if you will, what's the harm in it? Perhaps they'll serve her more chearly for that.'

'From fear, Captain?' Winwood countered, nigh to scoffing.

'For the ship, sir… if she demands it,' Lewrie allowed, turning to stroke Toulon, who was now washing himself as if he hadn't one care in the world. 'Pride, stubbornness… that's more important among them than Navy, King, or Country… the ship, and their mates are paramount, if you get past all the patriotic cant. Shame of failing mates, good officers like Lieutenant Devereux for our Marines, that makes 'em toe up and stick it in a scrap. Discipline and fear of punishment… that only goes so far. But it doesn't inspire them, Mister Winwood!'

Winwood got cutty-eyed, seeing his point, but not liking it.

'We'll not encourage such moonshine, sir. But let 'em have a spindrift, and a sense of bein' unique men servin' a unique ship. In the long-run, it really doesn't signify.'

'Uhm… very good, sir.' Winwood surrendered, though dubious.

Let him think what he likes, Lewrie thought, turning away to see to getting his ship underway. I begged God-and Lir-the both of em, to get her back. I promised Bales's… Rolston s heart's blood for it. Whichever answered my prayer, well… that don't signify either. As long as I have a proud ship!

EPILOGUE

Forsan et HaecOlim

Meninisse juvabit.

Perhaps someday it will be pleasant

to remember these things.

– Virgil

HMS Proteus lay peacefully at anchor in the port of Harwich, up the coast from the Nore. She was finished with provisioning, and her people were Out-Of-Discipline, after six rugged weeks at sea, off the Texel. Six weeks they'd bluffed with but a handful of ships to shut the door on the Dutch, with Admiral Duncan's two or three liners anchored almost aground, right in the channel, and Proteus and a few other frigates or sloops further out, flurrying bogus signals to a pretended 'fleet' under the Northern horizon. With battle expected daily, Lewrie had found his external bogeyman, the roweled Spanish spur that focused his crewmen on learning their trade as quick as they could. Now she was of passing professionalism-still with some raggedness about her, of course, but Lewrie reckoned that she'd just about do. So when she had been relieved by the Nore ships, the re-assembled North Sea Fleet, which had given up their mutiny not ten days after Proteus had escaped, everyone had been more than grateful for a spell in harbour.

The skylights were open to cool his great-cabins as he worked, and he could hear the voice of Lieutenant Devereux drilling his Marines on the quarterdeck above him, the clomp of booted feet as they sweated through close-order under arms. Music drifted up from the berthing-deck where the hands idled with a new lot of temporary 'wives.'

'Down By The Sally Gardens,' he recognised, pausing in his writing, smiling to himself since he'd learned a thing or two himself, learned to play a few new airs on his battered, but straightened tin-whistle.

'Boat ahoy!'

'Aye, aye!'

'Marines! By the left… quick-march!'.

Though the crew had settled into a trouble-free Navy routine-for the most part-summoning Marines to the entry-port boded ominous. That 'Aye, aye!' might mean the presence of an officer in the approaching boat. Or it might be Thomas McCann, come back from his tar and chains! There was a stamp by the door, the rap of his sentry's musket butt. 'Midshipman Nicholas… SAH!'

'Come.'

'Captain, sir!' Little Mr. Nicholas burst out, flushed and excited, 'the First Officer Mister Langlie's respects, sir, and I am bid to inform you that we've a visitor arriving… a soldier! A real general, he appears, sir!'

'Good, God,' Lewrie replied, with a frown, startled to his feet, and grasped for his coat that hung on the back of his chair.

He only knew one general… his father! And what the Devil was he doing in Harwich? Lewrie feared the worst; there had been no fresh letters from Anglesgreen since he had taken Proteus over to Holland… whilst recent bumf from his solicitor, tailor, Coutts's Bank, chandlers, and such had come aboard with Langlie and Devereux. Despite his own letters home, there'd been no replies, and he could explain that away only so long with the urgency of the spring planting season.

He dashed out of his great-cabins, up the starboard ladder to the gangway and entry-port, as the Marines formed up and Lt. Langlie had Bosun Pendarves shrilling like a starved harpy on his silver call to assemble the crew. 'Present! Ship's comp'ny… off hats, face to starboard, and… salute!' Langlie bellowed.

A cocked military hat loomed over the lip of the entry-port, the bosun's calls tweetled a long, complicated trilling… gold lace then appeared. Damme, it is my father, Lewrie thought with a deeper frown.

Sir Hugo Saint George Willoughby got safely to the deck, almost spryly, gaily, and stepped inboard, grandly doffing his hat to one and all, with a condescending smile on his phyz, like a hero might at the theatre, cheered and clapped for his most recent exploit and basking in his glory from a loge-box before the curtain rose.

'How-dy do, sir… Charmed, I'm certain, young sir…,' Sir Hugo said, as officers and midshipmen were named to him. 'Ah!' he finally cried, 'there's my son. Embrace me, lad… and give ye joy!' making Lewrie feel like a schoolboy just back from his first term at boarding school. And about as embarrassed.

'What in the world are you doin' here? What's happening at home? You'd not come 'less there was something horrid…' Lewrie babbled as he suffered himself to be bear-hugged, bounced and dandled, thumped on the back so hard, for a moment he could conjure that someone had died and left him a huge bundle; he could not imagine his father acting so 'paternal,' else!

'Patience, lad,' Sir Hugo muttered in his ear, 'and all will be told. Everyone's well. No worries on that score.' He released Lewrie at last, stepped back, and whinnied louder for everyone's ear, 'Why, I haven't seen you in ages, and here you are, back safe… and famous, I am bound! I'm dry as dust too. Warmish summer, ain't it. Good t'see me, too, eh wot?'

'We can retire to my cabins,' Lewrie said, getting the hint. 'This way… Father. Lookin' fit and full o' cream, as you always do. What about some champagne? Aspinall, break out some 'bubbly.' '

The drunken old fart! Lewrie thought.

'Ah, capital, my boy… simply capital!'

'Well, aren't ye goin' to congratulate your pater, me boy?' Sir Hugo asked, once they were below and out of public view. 'Uhm… for what, sir?' Lewrie had to ask, pouring him a glass and keeping his eyes fixed on his sire. It was an old habit-always know where his paws were, else he'd pick you cleaner than Sally Blue-and twice as neatly!

Sir Hugo smirked as he reached up to tap his gaudy epaulets.

'Major-General, me lad, just as I told ye, haw!' He beamed like a well-fed buzzard, 'Thanks of Parliament too.'

'Ah… congratulations,' Lewrie replied. 'Just who'd you kill?'

'Haw-haw!' Sir Hugo guffawed, tweaking at the fabric of his new and fashionably snug breeches, 'No, for my duty suppressing your Nore mutiny. Arrived just after your ship scampered… under General Grey and Buckner's replacement, Admiral Lord Keith.'

'Keith Elphinstone, when I knew him at Toulon,' Alan supplied, handing his father a tall stem of champagne.