Ludlow had come up at the first sounds of rioting, had come to fight, which was a credit in his favour. He now bore a bleeding gash on his sword-arm and a bruise on his face which was already yellowing and bluing. Another mark to his credit. Still …
“Damn all Frogs, sir …” Ludlow went on, wincing as he flexed his fingers in experiment. “Might ask this’un where all the radical ideas o’ th’ mutineers came from. He knew Beamish as a loyal man, and he knew to call the shot hand as loyalist too. Wager anything I have he knew the names of the conspirators … . days before …”
“Vous minus!” Durant bristled. “Vous cochon insultant!”
“Here, speak English, you damned … !” Ludlow barked. “What’s he sayin’? Damme, does he dare insult me?”
“Mister Durant,” Lewrie interceded, “you will apologise to the First Lieutenant … for calling him a moron and an insulting pig. He is your superior officer and such is not allowed from a warrant mate to a Commission Officer. At once, sir.”
Durant simmered, looked fit to whistle like a tea kettle to have his gentlemanly honour maligned—heaved a great sigh, swallowed his pride—and stumbled out an apology.
“And, Mister Ludlow,” Lewrie intoned, “you will apologise to Mister Durant for your own harsh words and your supposition that Mister Durant is a traitor or in the pay of French agents.”
“Why, sir, I’ll be damned if …”
“You will, sir! Now!” Lewrie snapped. “Goddamnit! One dead, a man close to death … a dozen wounded. We don’t have time for any of this petty … shit! More to the point … I don’t! I expect my officers to behave like gentlemen, to the hands and to each other. Now … sir!”
“Very well, sir.” Ludlow flushed, lowering his chin and turning nigh to burgundy-colour. “Mister Durant, I apologise. My pardons.”
“Merci … M’sieur Ludlow,” Durant replied, most-stiffly.
“Thankee, Mister Ludlow,” Lewrie said, turning to face him. “I have orders for us to depart the ship. All of us. Given the fact that you responded to our melee with alacrity and courage … I release you from confinement. Let us pack our chests, sirs. There is light enough for us to get ashore before dark if we leave within an hour. Let me thank you all again,” he said, peering at their downcast faces, most especially Ludlow’s, “for all you tried just now. But … well, excuse me for a moment or two. Dismiss.”
He paced aft to the taffrails, with failed resisters, the faint-hearted, and the sneering victors all giving him a wide berth. He took hold of the cap-rail, gripping the timbers ’til his fingers screamed.
Best chance we’d have … the last chance! he groaned to himself; and it’s a bloody failure! Have to slink ashore with my tail between my legs. Ceding the field and the ship to the mutineers, he realised. Encouraging them and their little victory, so they’d be even more obstinate, less prone to settlement.
Some distant firing made him spin about, searching for a source.
There!
“Ah, Christ!” He sagged.
Making things even worse for him at such a bleak, low point (was such a thing possible) was the sight of a frigate from the inner tier of ships, flying a Blue Ensign at her main and spanker gaff, with her royal standard at the fore! Sailing into Sheerness on the flood tide!
Escaping … as he and Proteus hadn’t.
L’Espion, he thought she was—Captain James Dixon. He’d wanted to visit her when he had time—before the mutiny had happened—to see if her captain was the same James Dixon who’d commanded a sloop or smaller ship that had taken part in his Turk’s Island adventure back in ’83 and compare notes and reminiscences about that time … perhaps dig up some juicy “dirt” on the way then—Captain Horatio Nelson had bungled that fiasco!
Dixon had managed to overcome his mutineers; Dixon had won free!
He went back forward to the binnacle cabinet to study her with a glass. Aye, it was L’Espion. And in the yards … HMS Niger, another frigate … that morning she’d been flying the red mutiny flags, but now she also sported the Blue Ensign in defiance.
“Christ, why not us too?” he muttered in self-pity, envious of those two ships, which were now, or soon would be, as safe as houses in the welcoming bosom of the Admiralty; feeling like the weakest, most inept idiot who’d ever put on King’s Coat!
He put the glass back in the binnacle cabinet rack and paced to the larboard bulwarks for something to grab onto, scathing himself, as he tried to relive those few breathless moments of confusion, seeking a way he hadn’t tried, but should have …
He looked down on the waters of the Nore as they flowed and catpawed alongside, just beginning to be bloodied by a faint red sunset.
“Lir …” he whispered hopelessly. “You’re a blood-thirsty sort. This is your ship then? Pagan, vengeful … this your way of taking care of another English bastard, same’z the way you sorted out the last’un? Well, hurrah then … you won. You really want this ship for yourself, heart and soul? Then stir your salty arse up and help me!”
Daft, he told himself, straightening and peering about quickly, in fear that someone had overheard him and would deem him as lunatick as that Captain Churchwell had been just before he’d fled Proteus.
Daft as bats, he silently re-iterated to himself; pleading to a Celtic sea-god! Might as well read some sheep guts, for all the good that does. Sacrifice pigeons …? No, better that bastard, Bales!
He’s yours, Lewrie silently vowed. His heart’s blood is yours, if you help me!
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
By sundown, he was ready to leave, taking his sea chests and a few necessary articles. He emerged in the waist to find another mob assembled to see him, and the rest of the officers, off. He expected to be jeered at by the mutineers, but evidently the brief fighting had battered any taunting out of them, had sobered them to the enormity of what they were dedicated to continue.
“No man t’help ’em,” a committeeman cautioned. “Let officers carry their own traps fer once.”
“Don’t be a whole bastard, Lincoln,” Curcy, the lamed cook, spat. “Lend ’em a hand, there.”
“We do require a working party for our dunnage, Mister Lincoln,” Lewrie calmly demanded, boring him with his gaze. “No dis-respect to officers and mates, remember? I certainly will, you know. When this is over.”
“Ah, uhm …” Lincoln grumbled, unable to match gazes with him; perhaps fearing the further consequences and harried by protestations from other crew members. “Right, then … reeve a stay-tackle aloft!”
“Captain!” A bright call came from the quarterdeck. “Leaving, are you?” It was Bales, damn him! In quite good cheer, come to gloat.
“Seaman Bales,” Lewrie coolly replied, turning to look at him, once more detesting that their places were reversed.
“You’re more than welcome to stay aboard, sir,” Bales told him with a taunting, mocking tone to his voice. “She is still your ship, after all.”
“I have my orders,” Lewrie snapped, hands in the small of his back. “As I’m certain, Bales, you have yours from your revolutionary paymasters.”
“Oh, sir, when will you realise that your crew turned against you of their own accord … oppressed too long by too many grievances.” Bales sighed theatrically. It would be more political theatre to the last. Lewrie grunted in disgust. “Right, lads?” Bales prompted, but didn’t get the “amens” and cries of agreement which he’d expected. “Well?” he posed, and even that left them mute and shuffling in embarrassment.
“Lecture and prose all you like when I’m gone, Bales. But for now … just do stop yer gob, will you?” Lewrie gravelled.
“A fighter to the end, would you?” Bales smirked, crossing to the starboard ladder which led down from the gangway to the waist. “A worthy opponent to the last. Damme, Captain Lewrie, I enjoy our debates so much, I’m loath to part with you. So … I won’t.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lewrie gawped.
“We took a vote, didn’t we, lads?
Ship’s committee all put our heads together and decided we’d take your advice, Captain Lewrie, and purge the ship of officers and mates we wish gone for good.”
Knew I was gonna regret those words, Lewrie bleakly thought!
“Now we can’t do without the Sailing Master,” Bales explained, as he clumped down the steps to the gun-deck, taking way between crew-men as easily as a lord strolling down the Strand might part the poor with his walking-stick. “So, Mister Winwood will remain aboard her … just in case.” He winked at those closest to him, causing sly mirth.
“I shan’t!” Mr. Winwood erupted. “Do you try and force me to sail her out, I’ll put her hard aground. You’ll get no aid from me!”
“We’ll see about that, Mister Winwood.” Bales shrugged, as if he had no doubts about his powers to coerce when the time came. “We also voted to keep the rest of the officers aboard. As an assurance, if you will, gentlemen, that the authorities ashore realise just how determined we are. Though not all. Oh my, no. Not all. You must go ashore, Lieutenant Devereux. Most of your Marines wished to keep you, but after this afternoon’s little set-to … you proved yourself just a bit too doughty a fighter. One too dangerous to keep, nourished in our breast as it were … like the proverbial viper?”
“Bales, that well-studied insult will cost you a stretch of the neck, I promise you,” Devereux smoothly replied, as if relishing the event already and with the greatest enjoyment.
“Mister Ludlow too!” Bales shouted, lifting his arms to strut out into plainer view, “the worst of the slave-drivers and floggers!” he exulted, to stir up the silent, shambling crew. He struck fire on that stroke, raising grumbles of assent, some glad cries of “at last!” from others. “And, his creature Midshipman Peacham too!”
That drew a much louder cheer. Ludlow and Peacham protested, their honour impugned to the quick, but anything they had to say was lost in jeers and catcalls.
“Damme, Bales! You can’t do this! You can’t pick and choose!” Lewrie shouted to make himself heard.”You can’t detain us when we’ve orders to leave either. That’s kidnapping, that’s …”
“Ah, but we like you so much, sir,” Bales told him, as the catcalls and verbal abuse heaped on Ludlow and Peacham continued. “We’ve nothing against you or the rest. Adair, he’s a likeable fellow. The other midshipmen are good lads,” Bales almost cooed. “Midshipman Sevier, that lack-wit? Mister Catterall, he’s a jester … an empty shell.”
“With or without our chests, Bales, we’re going ashore. And I dare you to try and stop us,” Lewrie threatened.
“Without a boat, sir?” Bales smirked. “And no hand willing to aid you? I say you’ll not, sir,” he chuckled, his eyes crinkled with mocking mirth. “If I have to lay hands on you, sir. If I have to put a gun to your head … again, I’ll run that risk.”
“What do you have against me, Bales?” Lewrie demanded, feeling trapped again, powerless and utterly frustrated. “You’ve acted as if this was a personal grudge ’twixt us since you rose up to capture the ship! Did we ever serve together? Did I ever do you or yours a bad turn?”
“Don’t know what you mean, sir,” Bales taunted, grinning wider. “Rose up ’gainst tyrants, sir, same as the others. Now do you wish to think it’s personal ’cause you can’t feature your ‘faithful’ sailors turning on you … or you’re growing fearful at last, well … that is your problem, sir. Are you becoming a bit fearful, sir?”
Damned right I am, Lewrie queasily thought; but I’ll not give him the satisfaction!
“Oh, don’t keep lying to me, Bales. You must’ve served under me. On Ariadne, back in ’80, the both of us, under poor old Captain Bales. That’s where you found your present name, isn’t it! Joined the Navy again, under his name, ’cause your own was too well …”
“Never heard of him, sir,” Bales intoned deadpan. “Never was on a ship named Ariadne either,” he swore, then turned away to regain the crew’s attention and dismissing Lewrie’s presence. “Last now, lads! What we agreed to! Who among the officers does the Captain’s chiefest bidding? Who worked us harder than the Israelites in Egypt? Harder’n Cuffy slaves cutting sugar cane in the Indies? The Second Officer Mister Langlie, wasn’t it? Mister Ludlow’s too cup-shot most of the time to work us … just abuse us! … but Mister Langlie did, so … off the ship with him!”
“Oh, I say … dammit,” Langlie gaped, astonished to be tarred as black as Ludlow. “What utter rot!”
“Didn’t none o’ us vote fer that!” Landsman Furfy complained in a loud voice, speaking for a majority of the hands, who were as astonished by that pronouncement as Lt. Langlie was.
“Damme, don’t ya trust yer committeemen, mates?” Mr. Handcocks bellowed. “We’ll see ya right, you can count on it!”
“Why would they wish me ashore, sir?” Langlie fretted as hands fell to at lashing up Lt. Ludlow’s chests. “What’d I ever … ?”
“Side-party!” Bales hooted. “See the tyrants off with proper honours at least, hey, lads?”
“Damme, I’m no Tartar, no plantation flogger, sir!” Lt. Langlie said, pressed close to Lewrie by the sailors coming to tote the expelled officers’ chests. “Ludlow and Peacham I can understand, and good riddance to bad rubbish, frankly, but …” he whispered derisively.
In spite of being out-schemed once more by Bales’s latest blow to his covert plan, Lewrie allowed himself a frisson of relief that Peacham and Ludlow would be gone.
Outwardly though, he gave Lt. Langlie a tiny shrug of agreement, a wee moue of disgust. “Because they wish to strip Proteus of any officer the hands like, Mister Langlie.” He spat. “Anyone with courage or wits or bottom, who the people’d listen to, bring them back ’round, and retake the ship.”
“Ah.” Langlie winced for a moment. “I think I see what you mean, sir. Me … Lieutenant Devereux … a compliment really. Sort of.”
“No matter,” Lewrie cut him off, his mind awhirl to rebuild the shambles of his schemes—and suddenly, chillingly aware of just what sort of lies or half-truths the truculent Lt. Ludlow and his creature, Midshipman Peacham, might impart ashore—to their own advantage, to his detriment! “Look, we’ve no time to write a report, why it seems that I’m dis-obeying orders to quit her, but I am held against my will … I still have hopes of retaking the ship and will try to parlay becoming hostages into something useful …”
“Well, of course, sir,” Langlie nodded, encouraging him.
“You must give the authorities a true accounting, Mister Langlie,” Lewrie bade him in a fierce whisper of his own. “You know all of the ringleaders, who to accuse … that most of the crew’s wavering, more than a minority loyal … !” he rushed out, pressed to furious urgency to say a half-hour’s piece in a single minute. “ … state of rations, how long they could hold out. Names of the dead …”
“B’lieve I know what needs telling, sir,” Langlie assured him with a firm, determined expression, “to bring our nastiest villains to book … where the real infamy lies.”
“No matter Lieutenant Ludlow is senior to you and his place to make the report, it’s vital …” Lewrie sped on, stifling the urge to beg as he dropped his carronade-sized hint.
“Rest assured, Captain Lewrie,” Lt. Langlie said, coming over all noble, “I’ll speak of everything infamous aboard Proteus. Everyone,” he added, with a significantly arched brow.
Thank bloody Christ! Lewrie thought; ah—t’other thing … !
“Do you come across some leery sorts, Mister Langlie,” Lewrie rushed out, as if Langlie’s assurances that he’d cover his arse for him were neither here nor there, “some civilians who have no business in this, but do? They’ll be government agents … spies … same ones who smuggled the Pardon and the Acts of Parliament aboard in the bumboats … ask for one going by the name of Willis … I think he’s working for a fellow I’ve met before. He’ll understand. Tell him I’ve determined our rebellion is home-grown … mostly! But I fear there are some of a more dangerous stripe exploiting
it for their own ends. Turning it political. Didn’t begin it, I don’t think, but …” Lewrie stammered in his haste to get it all said.
“Soon as I alight, sir,” Langlie declared, offering his hand to be clasped right-manly. “And I’ll pray most strenuously for your safety and your success with the hands, sir. I trust I’ll serve under you again, sir … be proud to. Aboard a free, un-tainted Proteus.”
“Thankee, Mister Langlie, and I’m certain you will,” Lewrie said at last, realising there was nothing more he could do or say. He took Langlie’s hand and gave it a welcome shake. “Pray I see you too, sir … coming o’er the lip of the entry-port to reclaim your place as her first …”
Oops! he grimaced; what sort o’ slip is that? Hmm … useful!
“My pardons, Mister Langlie,” Lewrie all but managed to blush. “A thing devoutly to be wished perhaps … but best left unsaid. It’d be disloyal to Mister Ludlow … no matter his temperament …” And he attained a gruff sadness for his last, abashed “ … poor old fellow.”
“Thank you, Captain, er … I say, thank you!” Langlie croaked, bedazzled by the possibility of being so honoured, to even accidentally be offered the post of First Lieutenant as a mark of his captain’s esteem.
I swear I can hear the wheels turnin’, Lewrie told himself; see puffs o’ smoke from out his ears! Hooked, gaffed … and landed!
Langlie finally let go Lewrie’s hand and stepped back a respectful distance so he could doff his hat in a parting salute, before following his sea chest up to the gangway to take his place in the pecking-order of seniority decreed for the departure of officers. Lewrie was quite pleased to note how many sailors came up to Langlie, how many of the marines approached Lt. Devereux, to share a few last kind words … assurances that they weren’t died-in-the-wool rebels too, but …
You devious … shit! Lewrie chid himself; watching them depart. With Langlie as First Officer instead of Ludlow, would I have eyen had a mutiny aboard? Now if Langlie truly is ambitious, his account would expose Ludlow’s insubordination … . Hell, he needed turnin’ out, him and Peacham both! Not just for this ship, but for the entire Navy! Couch my final report the right way, and I’ll purge ’em as good as Spithead ships cleaned out their gunrooms!
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