Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

"Thief was Landsman Haslip, sir. Caught dipping into Landsman Furfy's seabag. Landsman Desmond caught him at it, and they both lit into him, sir."

"God help the poor bastard then." Lewrie shrugged, remembering that this fellow Haslip was a puny, shifty runt with the air of a practiced gaolbird, whilst the new-comes, Furfy and Desmond, were burlier, younger; and Furfy had fists the size of middling pot roasts! "Haslip still breathin', is he… there's a wonder, Mister Ludlow?"

"Looks like a fresh-skinned rabbit, sir," Ludlow told him, but without a trace of humour which that remark might have drawn from him. "Ship's Corporals attempted to intervene, Captain. But those Paddies wouldn't have it and took a swing or two at Burton and Ragster, sir."

"Shit." Lewrie frowned, laying down his fork.

"Told you we should have been choosy, sir…'bout taking those damned Irish aboard," Ludlow grumbled. "Nothing but trouble, the lot of f 'em… their whole bloody shiftless race."

Gloomy, he said it, but with a trace of glee for being proved to be correct; hiding it damned well, he must have thought to himself, but Lewrie glared back at him.

"Irish… Yankee Doodles… Cuffies… or bloody tattooed savages, Mister Ludlow," Lewrie barked, "now they're ours, it doesn't signify. Discipline and punishment are the same. We'll treat them all the same too, no matter where a hand springs from."

"Aye, aye, sir." Ludlow nodded, with a trace of weariness.

"And, sir," Lewrie griped, "you may suggest all you wish, 'long as it's for the common good. But, sir… you'll not take that doubtful tone with me. Or play 'I told you so.' Hear me, sir?"

"Aye, aye, sir," Ludlow cheeped, all obedient, though with his eyes slitting, either in surprise or distaste.

"We'll discuss this later, sir," Lewrie told him. "As for our offenders… I'll hold 'mast' at Two Bells of the Forenoon. Warn your midshipmen or mates to be ready to testify about their behaviour… good or ill, along with the Ship's Corporals."

"Very good, sir. I'll do it directly, sir," Ludlow said as he bowed his way out.

Lewrie picked up his knife and fork and began dining once more. Toulon jumped up on the table with a prefatory "Ummph!" to sniff, lift one paw as he sat, and fan the air as if begging, with his mournfully abused face on. "Mew?" he barely managed, as if too famished to ask.

"Aspinall, hasn't this cat had his breakfast yet?"

"Aye, 'e has, sir," his servant said, leaning out from the pantry, wiping his hands on a stained dish-clout. "Three strips o' bacon all by hisself. An' thought well o' th' tatty-hash too, sir."

"Well, damme… fetch his plate, Aspinall." Lewrie sighed. "I think another dab'd do him. Mister Padgett?"

"Aye, sir," his clerk replied from aft in his day-cabin.

"Look up Landsman Haslip in ship's books. See if he's a Quota Man or how he was recruited," Lewrie directed, as Aspinall returned with the small bowl which Toulon usually ate from, with another heap of hash from the sideboard in it. "Hmmm… another dollop for me as well, Aspinall. It's main-tasty this morning," Lewrie said, taking a pleasureable moment to watch his ram-cat tuck in most daintily.

"Not a full day aboard and you're already in trouble, lads," Lewrie pretended to sneer at Furfy and Desmond, who stood hatless and hangdog before his desk. "Did they read the Articles of War to you aboard Sandwich? Or once you were in the Impress tender?"

"Yessir," they muttered, unable to look him in the eyes.

"Read us a power o' 'whereases,' aye, sir," Furfy expanded.

"Article the Twenty-third, lads…" Lewrie intoned, "says that 'no one shall quarrel or fight in the ship, nor use reproachful or provoking speeches tending to make any quarrel or disturbance, upon pain of imprisonment'… or whatever punishment I think fit. Now Proteus is still in port. This could, d'ye wish it, be sent ashore for court martial. But I don't think you'd Kke that much, would you?"

"Uh, nossir… no, Yer Honour, sir." They cringed.

The Court Martial Jack was already flying across the harbour, as a board of Post-Captains off some of the line-of-battle ships convened to deal with a whole raft of malefactors aboard HMS Inflexible, an old stores-ship, this morning.

"Formal charges'd put you in irons, cooped up in another ship's brig, 'mongst strangers," Lewrie informed them. "Might take days… before they got 'round to your case." He forced himself to glower hot. Furfy's use of "Yer Honour, sir," told him the bulky fellow had been in the dock before. "And your trial'd go 'bout as fast as havin' yerself a hedge-whore… 'in, out… repeat if necessary.' Now, do you insist on your rights then…"

"Nossir… no, so please, Yer Honour, sir!"

"Now, then." Lewrie sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Goin' for Haslip, that I can understand. A thief caught red-handed by his shipmates deserves a thrashing! There's none worse to have aboard a ship than a thief who'd steal from his own kind. But once the Ship's Corporals came to break it up, you should have stopped right there… d'ye hear me? You caught him, well and good. They'd have taken over, brought him to me on charges, and you'd have been blameless, see? It would be up to ship's justice, my justice, from then on. Like you'd turned him over to the 'Charlies' or the Bow Street Runners in London. You will not continue to thump him t'get your own back. You will not take a poke or two at Burton and Ragster, the 'captain' of your working party, a petty officer, or midshipman! Know why, you idiots? Allow me to point out Article the Twenty-first. 'None shall presume to quarrel with his superior officer upon pain of j severe punishment… nor strike any such-upon pain of death! Or, otherwise, as a court martial shall find the matter to deserve.' Never will you lay hands on those above you. Or even back talk 'em. Now do you get it, my pretties?"

"Oh, arra!" Furfy groaned, turning pale.

"Lord save us, sir, we…!" Desmond wavered, looking like-about to faint in dread.

"They read it to you; you should have known," Lewrie cut him off. "There is no excuse for it, most especially ignorance. Landsman Furfy, Landsman Desmond, I find you guilty of refusing to cease fighting, of disobeying lawful orders to desist, and of quarrelling with a superior. Since, however, you are only a week in the Navy, and less than a day aboard Proteus, I will… this once, mind!… be lenient. Do you ever come before me again in violation of Article the Twenty-first, I will have you triced up and flogged bloody raw! As for now…"

They blanched, shared a worried look, then turned their gaze on him all but quivering in their shoes.

"Ten days bread and water. Ten days deprived of rum, wine, or even small beer. Bread to be ship's biscuit, not 'Tommy.' No tobacco either And you will both serve as hammockmen to the Ship's Corporals for those ten days, atop your other duties: fetchin', scrubbin', and scourin' their laundry and such."

No rum, no wine, no beer? No tobacco to ease their idle hours? It was a death blow! And to survive on water and biscuit, when every other man was eating shore-bread, fresh meat from shore…!

"Dismissed," Lewrie snapped. "Now, for Landsman Haslip, Mister Ludlow."

"Aye, aye, sir." Ludlow nodded. There it was again-another querulous note in his voice that hinted of disapproval of leniency for Furfy and Desmond; what he'd wished for was the maximum of two-dozen lashes. "Pass the word for Landsman Haslip to present himself!" he barked at the Marine inside the great-cabin.

"Passin' t'word fer Landsman Haslip!" the outer sentry echoed.

Then there came the sounds of cheering, a chorus of 'Hip, Hip, Hooray!' which made Lewrie turn up the corners of his mouth with wry amusement. The crew must have been on the Irishmen's side in the matter and were expressing satisfaction for his lenient sentence despite the risk they ran to dare approve or disapprove. A first sign of spirit in this new crew of his? he wondered.

No, he thought a moment later, as a scrubbed-up Haslip was led in from the gun-deck, past his dining-coach, chart-space, and pantry.

It wasn't coming from Proteus's forecastle; it was too far off for that and sounded as if it was getting louder, as if it was coming from a great many ships at the same time. He furrowed his brows and rose from his desk to discover what holiday might elicit such cheers from every warship at the Nore, dissonant and un-organised.

"Mister Ludlow, we miss something? Restoration Day, perhaps?"

"Don't know, sir?" Ludlow puzzled. "Not Restoration Day, for certain. That's not for…"

"Off'cer th' Watch, Mister Wyman, SAH!" the outer gun-deck sentry cried, slamming his musket butt with the crash of an explosion, and the tone of his shout more urgent than "parade-ground."

"Captain…!" Lieutenant Wyman gasped as he burst in, almost wringing his hat in his hands, his complexion flushed. "It's mutiny, sir! The Nore too! Every ship, sir… hands cheering in the rigging… plain battle flags flying, and… yard ropes rove, sir!"

"Bloody…!" Lewrie yelped, as if stung. He dashed forrud to see for himself, careening off Haslip and his marine guards. Out upon the gun-deck, up a ladder to the quarterdeck to peer out hatless, and suddenly breathless from more than haste. He lunged for the binnacle rack for a telescope, then froze… for it really wasn't necessary.

Sandwich… Latona… Inflexible… Champion, a 20-gunner, the old stores-ship Grampus… every line-of-battle ship, every vessel in the Nore…! And they all flew the red mutiny flags, sported damnable yard ropes from their course and tops'l spars! In fact, HMS Proteus was about the only Royal Navy vessel that didn't!

"Christ, not here too!" Lewrie felt like wailing.

"Lord, sir, what'll we do?" Lieutenant Wyman almost begged.

Now there was a good question, if Lewrie'd ever heard one!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

His first instinct was to beat to Quarters, to load and run out his artillery, raise the anti-boarding nets, open the arms chests, and prepare his crew to defend the ship until they could get sail on her and escape the anchorage.

But so far Proteus had spent most of her time in "River Discipline" at the rawest basics-knots, tracing the rigging, the making or tending of sail, anchor and cable work, striking and raising top-masts, or hoisting boats off the cross-deck beams, lowering them overside, and then recovering them, along with some practical oar-work about the harbour or mooring. Until he had formed a full crew, he hadn't planned on telling-off gun crews, so only the seamen with previous experience were adept at gunnery practice. That would have been part of this new week's curriculum, he'd hoped. Now, though…

Short of rations, water, firewood, powder, and shot, Proteus had only one chance of being swept up in mutiny: flee at once, escape the Nore, and try to make good her lacks at another Royal dockyard!

"Mister Pendarves?" he shouted. "Mister Devereux?"

"Here, sir," the marine officer called back from the quarterdeck, already immaculately turned out in full kit.

"Turn out your Marines, sir, at once!" Lewrie snarled. "Armed, mind… to the teeth!"

"Captain?" the Bosun queried from below in the waist.

"Bosun, pipe 'All Hands.' Muster hands to man the capstan, then prepare to make sail!" Lewrie called down to him. "We're leaving harbour quick as we can. If you have to cut the bower and kedge away, so be it."

Pendarves's silver call began to peep and shrill, joined by the sounds from his junior, Towpenny's. Feet, shod or bare, began to drum on the oaken decks as the crew responded to their summons, racing from below to mill and bleat in confusion. Some knew the call and went to their proper stations at once. Others, the fresh-caught landsmen, had the civilian penchant for chattering about it before being collared by the yeomen or detail "captains"; berated, shoved, fisted, or "started" to their proper positions. Spry young topmen clambered aloft, up the rat-lines and out over the futtock shrouds to the fighting tops, beyond to the tops'l yards to scoot out precariously on the foot-ropes to loose harbour gaskets and brails to free sails.

Lewrie took time to have another gander round the anchorage. A cutter was stroking for Proteus's larboard entry-port, filled with seamen from HMS Sandwich, whose rigging was filled with cheering sailors..

"Glass, Mister Nicholas," Lewrie demanded of the sweet-natured fourteen-year old midshipman who was near the binnacle cabinet darting eyes about in wide-eyed wonder, as Devereux's drummer began a long roll and a fife joined the urgent shrieks of the bosun's calls. The lad fetched him a telescope.

"Damme, not a night glass, Mister Nicholas!" Lewrie howled with impatience, after one look through the telescope, which, unlike the day glasses, turned everything upside-down and backwards.

"Here, sir?" Midshipman Elwes Fetched a substitute, having seen Nicholas's mistake and corrected it.

Better, Lewrie thought, taking a peek at the oncoming boat; well, not really! Damme… no midshipman steerin'… eight oarsmen, nigh on a dozen more aboard… armed!

He'd seen the spikey danger of erect musket barrels, the gleam of wan sunlight on fixed bayonets and bared cutlass blades.

"Mister Devereux! A file of your men to guard the entry-port!" Lewrie shouted. "No one from yonder cutter is t'be allowed aboard!"

"Aye, aye, sir. Corpr'l Plympton…?"

"Shoot if you have to," Lewrie fretted in a loud voice. There was a sentiment in the Navy that officers, captains especially, should ever strive to maintain the disposition of a stoic, no matter how dire the circumstances; that they should present the world a calm, unruffled demeanour, reassuring those under them to behave properly. Should a tidal wave arise to swamp their ship and take them all down to Perdition, a proper captain should pull out his pocket watch, stare at it glumly, and announce, "Ah, right on time!"

Not Alan Lewrie, unfortunately.

"Andrews, fetch me my hat," he bade to his Cox'n, who stood by the top of the after-companionway ladder to his private quarters. "My sword, and the double-barrel pistols too!"

"Aye, aye, sah!" Andrews said, hustling below at once.

The cutter was about a single musket shot away from them, coming fast. Lewrie turned to look inboard, at his crew on the gangways and the capstan.

"Ready, sir," Pendarves reported. "Hands at Stations for Leavin' Harbour.' "

"Very well, Mister Pendarves. Mister Ludlow? Set a buoy on the kedge anchor and haul us in to short stays on the bower. Stand ready to make sail."

"Aye, sir!" Ludlow barked. "Mister Peacham, free the kedge… buoy the bitter end o' the cable. Forrud, there! Fleet the messenger to the capstan… nippermen, ready? Breast to the bars…"