Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

"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…"

The younger lads brought the lighter, dry messenger cable out, took three-and-a-half turns about the capstan drum, and fastened the nippers to the much thicker anchor cable, which could never be reeled in directly. Bars were dropped into the pigeon-holes, and three men to each bar faced-to, placed their hands in front and below the bars, with thumbs out and up to avoid pinching, shoved their chests against the bars, and stood poised to begin shoving to wind the messenger in.

But that was all they did. That was as far as they went.

"Sir!" Midshipman Peacham yawped from back aft. i

Four men of the afterguard stood about the jear bitts, to which the light kedge cable was warped. Protecting it from being undone!

"Goddammit!" Lewrie growled. "Mister Langlie, go aft, assist Mister Peacham. Let go the kedge cable… buoy bedamned."

"Nossir," some loud naysayer shouted.

"What?" he screeched, in total, goggling disbelief.

"Nossir!" The Master Gunner, Mr. Handcocks, had dared to mount to the quarterdeck, with his mate, Mr. Morley, behind him, and the Yeoman of the Powder, that pale spook Kever, in tow. "We won't be sailin', sir."

"Damn you, Mister Handcocks, get your arse back on the gun-deck at once! There'll be no mutiny in this ship!"

"But there is, Captain," Handcocks disagreed, in almost a reasonable voice of amiable, idle disagreement. "We're decided. The Nore will support the grievances o' the Spithead lads."

"Mister Devereux, you will clear the quarterdeck," Lewrie said to his marine officer. "Place any hand who resists making sail under arrest. You can start with Mister Handcocks."

"Aye, sir," Devereux snapped, drawing his slim sword. "Corp'ral O'Neil, seize those men."

"Uh, wellsir… uh…" Corporal O'Neil waffled, still standing at attention with his musket by his side. "Don' reckon I kin do that, sir. Can't obey that order, sir."

"You… bloody… what?" It was Lieutenant Devereux's turn to yelp.

"Won't raise hands 'gainst no man, sir… not 'til terms're all agreed at Portsmouth. Maintain proper order, sir, but…" The Marine blushed, his tongue tangling over unfamiliar concepts, shrugging helplessly, looking to his squad of privates for eloquence.

' 'Hoy, the boat!" Corporal Plympton was shouting to the cutter as it came alongside, levelling his musket down at an extreme angle to aim at the men he thought were leaders. "Sheer off. You're not t'come aboard, d'ye hear me?"

"Sir, it'd be best were ya t'hand over the keys t'th' arms chests, 'fore someone gets hurt for no call, Captain, sir," Handcocks suggested, with his hand out, as if Lewrie had the precious keys on him.

"I'll be damned if I do, Mister Handcocks," Lewrie shot back at him. "Try and take 'em, and I'll make sure they hang you higher than Haman."

"Get below where you belong, you buggers!" Lt. Ludlow roared, stepping forward to cuff Mr. Morley and the wispy Kever, shoving them towards the larboard quarterdeck ladder. "Lay hands on me and you'll swing at Execution Dock. Don't!" he cautioned Handcocks, who had raised his fists and a belaying pin to defend his minions. "Do ye disobey, you're gallows-meat!" He lunged and shoved Handcocks back to join his followers, then drew his sword.

But there were other sailors dashing for the quarterdeck with belaying pins in their hands, boarding pikes stripped from the chained beckets about the base of the masts.

Some were surrounding the Marines by the entry-port, shouting in their ears, overbearing and daunting them, pressing so close they had no room in which to lower their muskets or draw their hangers.

"Andrews?" Lewrie bellowed, daring to glance aft to see if his Cox'n had fetched his weapons yet. "Damn!" He sagged.

Andrews was back on deck… so was Aspinall and his clerk, Mr. Padgett; all with their hands bound and clasped firmly in the grip of mutineers from the afterguard. Midshipman Peacham and Lt. Langlie were off to one side, closely surrounded by others, who still would not dare actually lay hands on them, but hemmed them in so snugly they had no room to defend themselves or take a single step either.

Pipes were shrilling urgently, panicky, and the gun-deck seethed with arguments pro and con, with the whines of the dazed and confused. And cheering, as the passengers from the cutter below the entry-port got aboard, despite Lewrie's orders, despite the musket-armed Marines, who were either disarmed by now or firmly aligned with the mutiny to begin with! Mustering to a new leader!

"Man the yards, lads!" one of the new-comers was crying, waving a cutlass in the air. "Reeve yard ropes aloft, d'ye hear there? Break out the battle flags from the taffrail lockers, you lot! Declare for the cause… be quick about it! Huzzah for sailors' rights! Huzzah!"

"Please, sirs…" Handcocks interrupted. "Do ya sheathe them swords, Mister Ludlow. LePten't Devereux, sir? Yer out-numbered… no call for violence. Ship's ours now, sirs, same'z t'others. Won't make no point. We've the artillery."

Handcocks gestured to the guns. One of those brutal 12-pounden carriage guns had been rolled back from its port, freed of its tackles, and secured to other deck ringbolts, aimed aft at the door to Lewrie's cabins. Lighter 2-pounder swivel guns sprouted from their stanchions along the gangways-pointed aft and inboard! Seamen stood by them, fondling cartridge bags of grape-shot and canister, which they had yet to ram down the muzzles; grape-shot and canister which could scour the quarterdeck or gun-deck cleaner than a billiards table was there any resistance or disruption. They didn't look particularly glad about it-but they were standing ready, with flintlocks fitted and the trigger cords in their hands!

"Damn you all!" Lewrie snarled, whirling about to face the men nearest him, the uneasy Marines who still held weapons, the sailors who sported belaying pins, crow-levers, or rammers from the quarterdeck guns, boarding pikes, marling-spikes, tar-paying loggerheads, or clasp knives. "Admiral Lord Howe is in Portsmouth to settle things. They may be settled as we speak. Come on, lads… don't do this! Any man proved a mutineer… in arms!… laying hands on superiors, threatening superiors, will hang when this is over! Drop your weapons, go back to your stations, and submit to orders."

"Sorry, sir… can't do that just yet." Handcocks disputed in a sad tone. "Not 'til word comes from Portsmouth. Not 'til all grievances're satisfied. What they demand, we want, too, Captain, sir. And we won't obey orders t'sail. Do we not take hands with the other lads, well… there's a chance we won't be included in the settlement, d'ye see? Like it only applies t'them? Not us?"

"Oh, don't be a complete fool, Mister Handcocks!" Lewrie sneered. " Portsmouth, Plymouth… that's half the Fleet in home waters. Don't you think Admiralty needs this over, quick as dammit? All of it over? Of course it'll be Navy-wide!"

If they've any bloody sense, he thought, hoping he wasn't lying.

"Wouldn't be so sure o' that, lads!" the well-armed stranger from the cutter shouted, barging his way through the press to confront Lewrie, with his drawn cutlass in his hand and a brace of pistols in his waistband. "Cheese-parin' bastards'd starve us t'death 'fore we see a shillin' more'n necessary. Congratulations, mates! You stood up an' took her like real men, soon'z ya saw th' red banners, an' proved faithful t'th' cause!" he orated, flinging his arms about to brandish his sword, bellowing to be ! heard. "Huzzah, brother seamen! Cheer, now, lads! Hip-hip-hooray!"

They did, rather more lustily than Lewrie expected; though there were an encouraging number who only went through the motions unwilling.

Sadly, though, he also noted more than a minority eagerly at the halliards, lowering the Red Ensign to replace it with the plain battle flag, or out on the course-yards' tips, reeving ropes… to which hanging nooses could quickly be bent!

"Now then, brothers…!" the squat stranger cajoled.

"Now then," Lewrie countered quickly, "you can get your arse off my bloody quarterdeck. And put that damn' cutlass away 'fore you hurt yourself."

"Oh, I'll sheathe, sir," the stranger rasped, looking sly. "Do these tyrant officers sheathe alike. I'll let 'em keep 'em, for now…"

"How bloody gracious of you!" Lewrie sneered, so adrip with acid that most within earshot were forced to laugh.

"Aye, 'long'z they stow 'em below in their cabins an' appear on deck unarmed, sir. You're the Captain, I take it, sir? Here, see me do it, sir; I'm sheatin' my cutlass now. An' I'm… requestin'… yer officers do the same?"

Lewrie looked at Ludlow and Devereux. They were glaring, panting with anger and outrage. Ludlow looked glazed-over, ready to lash out; Devereux's slyer eyes were calm, half-slitted, darting about for an opening or an advantage. He'd be the more scientific fighter, did that come, the more dangerous. Ludlow, though, was about to go off at half-cock, draw blood out of rage, and that'd…!

"Mister Ludlow," Lewrie said, in a captain's proper stoic tone, "in the face of overwhelming opposition, I request that you put your sword away. As the Master Gunner said, there is no call for you to perish without a chance to alter the situation. Or aggravate it?" he hinted. "Lieutenant Devereux, my pardons, sir, but I have to ask the same of you. I would not have you fall needlessly, sir."

"Very well, Captain." Devereux sighed, sounding disappointed, as he released the watch-spring tension of his body with an exhalation that sounded like a deflating pig-bladder, rose an inch or so from the taut crouch he'd held, and flourished his sword in a circle before he sheathed it, gaining a bit of his own back by making the nearer mutineers flinch from its wickedly sharp tip.

"Mister Ludlow?" Lewrie was forced to insist.

"Gahh!" Ludlow spat, making a chopping motion with his sword out of sheer frustration. "Damn you all! Yer scum… fuckin' scum! Damn' fools! I'll see you all in chains; I'll break the lot of you! Signed your death warrants, ya have, every last mother's son!"

But Ludlow raised his scabbard and clumsily stabbed at it, to jab his sword-tip into it and ram it home. He glared at Lewrie, with ultimate scorn and bloody murder on his phyz!

"Never thought I'd see the day a Royal Navy captain'd just give up his ship at the first whim o' cut-throats an' trash!" Ludlow snarled, as he turned away to stomp his way below, shoving the close press apart with his shoulders, glaring defiance, and muttering dire imprecations.

"See how th' proud're brought low, lads, an' tyrants banished!" the stranger hooted. " 'Least yer captain's sensible."

"Fuck you, too!" Lewrie hissed back with an evil grin.

"Thomas McCann, sir. Able Seaman. An' you're Captain Lewrie."

"I am. McCann," Lewrie grudgingly allowed, taut-lipped.

"Heard o' ye, we have," McCann leered. "Called 'the Ram-Cat' I heard-tell. Fightin captain. Not so cruel an' high-nose proud'z some. Though, ye all are. Firm but fair, hah! Don't mean dis-respect, sir…"

"Do you not, McCann?" Alan scoffed. "Does this not?"

"Delegates've decided, sir," McCann ploughed on, oblivious to Lewrie's scorn. "Officers behave, they won't be discomfited. Ship's discipline t'be maintained. Officers, warrants, mates, an' midshipmen t'be obeyed 'long as it's run-o'-th'-mill duties. Barrin' th' last few minutes, sir, no man'll raise a hand 'gainst any superior nor show any signs o' disrespect. Belong-in's t'be safe, even personal pistols an' swords…'long as they're below an' unloaded. We give ye a promise on that. 'Cept, we'll turn out the man-killers an' tyrants as soon as we name 'em."

"How reassuring," Alan drawled, with one brow up.

"Just 'til word comes from Portsmouth that them bloodsuckers at Admiralty's declared all our demands're met, sir," McCann ranted, with an odd look to his eyes. "That all brother seamen been victorious, do ye see. As a caution, like… so none o' us're ordered t'fight brother sailors at Spithead or Plymouth an' we know for certain we're included in th' terms an' them bastards won't betray us. Our cause is just, I tell ye! Their grievances're ours too!" McCann all but raved.

Christ, I'm dealing with a bloody lunatick! Lewrie realised.

"So's we don't get betrayed like them Cullodens!" someone back in the crowd crowed. "Pay, more pay!" howled another. "Fairer share o' prize-money!" suggested another. "Proper rations an' honest weights… shore leave whene'er we wish… bigger rum ration!" they gabbled.

"Turn out th' villains put over us… like Ludlow!"

"Lash 'em bloody, then turn 'em out!"

It dissolved into a bedlam of things they wanted, their shouts blending into a brutish cacophony, even less musical then the baying of wolves, 'til their inchoate roars became a general, lusty cheering. It had to peter out, after a while, and it did, though McCann and several others pumped their arms like orchestra leaders to sustain it.

"Now, sir…" McCann leered. "I'll be havin' th' keys to th' arms chests."

Lewrie looked at him askance, cocking his head to one side. He looked aloft at those new flags flying from every mast, as if bemused. He took time to study the gloss of his boots, clasped his hands behind his back…

"No," he said at last. "I don't think so."

"Now, lookee here, sir, don't ye…!" McCann blustered.

"Didn't you just say that no violence would be offered, McCann?" Lewrie said, dead-level serious. "That means the crew has no need for weapons, doesn't it. Did you not say that proper order and discipline, and respect for officers, will be maintained? In normal usage, the arms chests would be locked anyway. Therefore… unless you break your word and lay hands on me, rifle my possessions, or put a knife to my throat, the keys will stay in my possession. You claim to hold Proteus already. Therefore you don't need weapons. No, sir, I refuse to hand the keys over to you. Totally."

"But…" McCann blubbered, his eyes almost crossed in concentration, sputtering and bending to mutter with his fellow mutineers, to try and find some loophole in the logic of Lewrie's statement, or make sense of such high-flown, "break-teeth" speech. Instead, he turned on Handcocks, Morley, and Kever, urging them to do something.

"Damme, was I in Proteus, I'd have th' arms chest keys!" MtCann screeched, then stomped off towards the entry-port, dragging his coterie of fellow mutineers with him, glowering, cursing, and muttering much as Lt. Ludlow had just moments before!

"We're allowed to carry on with a normal ship's work day, Mister Handcocks?" Lewrie demanded of his chief mutineer.

"Well… aye, sir." Handcocks blushed, looking cutty-eyed.

"I take it you think you are now in command of Proteus?" Lewrie scoffed. "You will allow me to resume my hearing on Landsman Haslip? We may man the boats and ferry supplies from shore… sir?"