King's Captain

by Dewey Lambdin

  Lt. Wyman, as jittery as a whore at a christening, sawed away on his violin, with its case ajar at his feet, where he’d concealed a brace of his own pistols in addition to the pair he’d secreted under his own coat. He struggled in mid-saw, uttering a shuddery, “Uh-oh!” for approaching them on the quarterdeck were a clutch of Irish hands, and Lewrie wondered if a cry of, “I didn’t do it!” might help, as his tootling faltered to a stop.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” Desmond said, doffing his hat and making a short bow. “Know we ain’t t’be on th’ quarterdeck without an off’cer’s leave, sir, but … d’ye know a slip jig, sir?”

  They haven’t tumbled to it yet, thankee Jesus! Lewrie shivered.

  “A slip jig?” he managed to enquire with forced cheer.

  “Aye, sir … slip jig or hop jig, they calls ’em. English don’t allow our music played back home, sir, but there’s times we sneak away an’ play ’em still … in a remote shebeen. Here’s one, sir, by your leave?” Desmond smiled, producing his lap-pipes. Furfy was with him, along with Ahern, Kavanaugh, and Cahill, and they took seats flat on the deck. The ship’s lamed fiddler joined them. “One o’ th’ easier ones t’play, sir … called ‘Will You Come Down t’Limerick.’ You’ll master th’ tune easy, Cap’um, sir … Mister Wyman, sir.”

  It was a catchy tune, though a difficult one to follow, for the tempo changed several times, throwing Lewrie and Wyman off, so for the first few minutes they sat with their hands in their laps.

  “You try her now, sir,” Desmond urged, as Furfy swayed and beat the time on his meaty thighs, and the other three began to dance stiff-armed but footloose. They were beginning to gather a crowd of sailors who had nothing better to do on a Rope-Yarn Day and temporarily allowed access to the quarterdeck by their leaders.

  Lewrie shared a sick look with Wyman as they lifted their instruments, thinking they were exposed and a step away from being seized and disarmed. And, for the short meantime, mocked and derided!

  “A fine auld air, sir,” Desmond rhapsodised, as he pumped away with his elbow to stoke the uillean pipes in his lap, keyboarding the notes. “Suitin’ for lads who cling to th’ auld ways an’ legends. An’ tales o’ th’ auld gods, sir,” Desmond added, when he saw that his hint wasn’t broad enough. “Seen selkies for real, have ye, Cap’um Lewrie? Arra, yer a blessed man, sir. An banshees in th’ riggin’, croonin’ th’ poor lad a keen, ah?”

  “Aye, pretty much like that,” Lewrie replied, hiding his gasp, still not knowing if he was being twitted or re-enforced.

  “For th’ auld god who can’t be named, sir … and for his ship,” Desmond muttered with a proud smile and an affirmative nod of his head. “Do ye let us play an’ sing our auld songs, sir, and we’re yours. You say th’ word, Cap’um, an’ we’ll be like th’ ‘Minstrel Boy’ I spoke t’ye of … ‘our swords at least thy right shall guard … an’ one poor harp t’praise ye.’” Desmond shrugged modestly about his talents.

  “My word on’t,” Lewrie blurted out at once, in spite of a nagging fear he was exposing the plot to a clever burrower.

  Desmond widened his smile and gave one more cryptic nod as his lips encompassed the mouthpiece of his pipes; and when Lewrie looked up, Landsman Furfy, that simple soul, was beaming fit to bust.

  We can’t fail now! Lewrie thought in secret glee as he essayed a passage of “Will You Come Down to Limerick” on his tin-whistle; with a fair portion of the Irish lads with us … who can be against us?

  “Boat ahoy!” though, was shouted down over the larboard side.

  “Delegates!” the boat’s bowman cried back. “Proteus delegates!”

  Damn, damn, damn! Handcocks and Morley returned, and at least four mutineer oarsmen in the boat-crew with them! A cause for another speech or harangue, with all hands summoned on deck to listen, and no chance to delay or dis-arm their supporters below.

  It had certainly drawn Bales already, with Haslip, Mollo, and a few committeemen up from a meeting on the berth-deck. Men who held arms at their sides or in their belts by dint of long custom by now.

  They played through the rest of the tune, and Desmond began to rattle on about another he particularly liked, whilst Handcocks and his partner clambered aboard and had a few words with Bales on the gangway. Try as he might, Lewrie could not help riveting his gaze on them to see what would happen. Which was pretty-much nothing after a minute, for they broke up and drifted away, as lackadaisical as anything.

  Still ignorant of what we’ve planned. Lewrie sighed in relief.

  Then Bales looked over his way at the impromptu concert, and he smiled; one of his astute, knowing, and pleasureably evil smiles, which made Lewrie come within a cropper of filling his breeches in terror!

  He knows! he chilled; or he has somethin’ wicked in mind. And he didn’t know which was worse to fret over!

  “Uhm … you called it … ?” Lewrie made himself ask.

  “‘Molloy’s Favourite,’ some name it, sir … ‘My Sweetheart Jane’ it is to others,” Desmond replied, tossing a worried look over his shoulder too.

  “By, God, you perjurer!” someone roared a moment later, just as Desmond and the ship’s fiddler could begin to play the old reel. “No more heart for it, have ye? What’s this, what’s this, then? Pistol in yer pocket, have ye? What for, ye damn’ traitor?”

  “Oh, Christ.” Lewrie sagged, feeling physically, spewing ill.

  Corporal O’Neil and a sailor were manhandling Private Pope up from below, shaking him back and forth between them like a ragdoll in a hound’s jaws, up from the midships hatchway!

  “By God, I’ll see ya flogged for it!” Morley was bleating as he scampered nearby. “Seized up an’ dunked from th’ main-yard ’til yer lungs pop! Here, Brother Bales!”

  Lewrie’s party scrambled to their feet, Lewrie hissing at them and crooking a finger to draw them close about him. He drew a pistol and handed it to Desmond; Lt. Wyman gave up one of his to Cahill, and used his toe to open his violin case to extract the other pair.

  “Keep ’em well out of sight, lads,” Lewrie cautioned. “If we don’t have a chance, hold onto ’em for later,” he said, walking forward to the quarterdeck nettings. He saw Andrews below, through the opened skylights, gave him a confirming nod to summon the others.

  “Arming yourself against your shipmates, are you?” Bales asked loudly. “Bosun, plait me a ‘cat.’ You’ll flog him raw.”

  “Douse him overside from th’ main-yard!” Morley objected.

  “I’ll not do your flogging for you,” Pendarves countered, his arms folded cross his chest.

  “By God, sir, I tell you you will!” Bales yelled. “Or you’ll be tied to the gratings, and we’ll have ourselves a ‘bloody’ bosun in another minute. All hands! All hands on deck! Muster aft to witness punishment!”

  Christ, it’s over! Lewrie groaned, nigh to tears, with his face screwed up. No, by God. What … ?

  Sally Blue had climbed to the top of the midship companionway, her hair undone and long down her back, her sack gown held up with one hand over her breasts for modesty as she came up to watch the show. A moment later, Miss Nancy, the blowsy blonde, came up to stand beside her, re-dressing herself hurriedly as well. But they were smiling! Tipping him the wink too! And with the smile of a sweet-souled innocent, lissome little Sally Blue drew a finger cross her throat, dropped Lewrie a curtsy, and let go the top of her gown to hang ’round her waist, and stuck her tongue out at him impishly as that exposure took the interest of the hands already on the gun-deck!

  Spec-tacular young bouncers! Lewrie exulted in spite of the circumstances and encouraged by that hussy-ish demonstration (about as much as he was going to be encouraged) cleared his throat and drew breath.

  “You shall not!” he bellowed in his loudest quarterdeck voice, hands in the small of his back (close to his remaining pistol). “You will flog no man aboard this ship! You do not have the authority or the right. You never had … and you never will! Not over my people!”r />
  Political theatre to the end. He snickered as he went over near the larboard ladder to the gun-deck, looming over the upraised grating where O’Neil and the other mutineer were stripping Private Pope of his waistcoat and shirt, waiting to seize him up.

  Bales glared up at him, disliking their respective positions.

  “We shall, Captain Lewrie, for an example.” Bales sneered back.

  “You’ve brought shame enough to this proud new ship, you shit,” Lewrie snapped, taking the steps one at a time, slowly, eyes ahead and seemingly paying no heed for his balance as he descended. “Taken her into a mutiny, shunned a good settlement, as good as declared war upon your King and Country … beguiled good men to folly, ready to drag ’em all down to Hell with you, ’long as you don’t go alone, you … !”

  “Seize him, stop his gob!” Bales snarled. “We’ve not time for his lies! By God, do it! By God, better we flog him!”

  Just like McCann, he’d made a serious error, though Bales had wit enough to realise it. It was hard to miss, for most of the hands catcalled or booed Bales’s order and his threat. No one rushed over to seize Lewrie either, and almost everyone studiously kept their hands in their pockets, or peaceably at their sides, as he continued down to the foot of the gangway ladder to confront his enemies.

  “What’s in it for you, Bales? What makes you so dead set on the ruin of this ship and every man in her?” Lewrie scoffed, certain he’d have the upper hand, after that wink and smile, after Desmond’s pledge of support. He took time for a slow scan about the deck and was glad to see that more than a few of the diehards were not present. “French money? Treason? Revolutionary fervour? Hatred for me personally? Whatever it is, it clouds your judgment, leads you to violence. You men there, turn Private Pope loose! Mister Devereux’d be ashamed … was a man of his flogged for no good reason!” he bellowed, using Lt. Devereux’s name like a magic talisman.

  “Shut up, shut up, you … !” Bales cried, drawing his cutlass and raising it on high, taking a step forward as if he’d strike Lewrie down! “You bastard!” he screeched, panting hard, his neck corded in emotion.

  “Here, now!” Mr. Towpenny shouted, elbowing his way forward to take Bales’s sword arm. “Got no use for ya, Bales; but ya harm Cap’um Lewrie, an’ ya lay ev’ry man-jack in a noose for murder!”

  “Let go of me, you arse-kissing dog!” Bales whirled, shoving Towpenny off him and lowering the cutlass’s point as if to skewer him. Lewrie was jostled from behind, almost drew his pistol in fright, but it was Densmond and Furfy, Ahern, Cahill, and Kavanaugh coming down the ladder past him to take guard on his right-hand side … as they’d promised!

  “Aye, show yer colours at last, Bales!” Twopenny taunted him, baring his chest to dare him to stick him. “That’s yer Floatin’ Republic,’ ain’t it! All yer talk o’ votin’ an’ debatin’, an’ it comes t’ th’ power o’ yer sword. You ain’t no man t’follow. D’ye hear, there!” he roared as if to summon all hands on deck. “Ya want t’hang for this bastard’s spite? Turn him out! ’Fore ya share his ruin!”

  “You’re a loyalist, Mister Towpenny. You got no right t’tell us how t’conduct ship bus’ness,” Haslip sneered, coming up with his clasp knife drawn to defend Bales. “Do for ’em both, like ya said, man!”

  “Vote, vote, vote!” Desmond began to chant, arm-swinging at his fellow Irish to get them to join in.

  “Shut up, you witless Paddy!” Bales snapped, turning his sword on him. “By Christ, we’ll stick it to the end! I’ll do for any hand who won’t keep his oath. Now get back to your cabins, Lewrie, before I take my pleasure of you now, and be sure of it at last!”

  “Nope … don’t think so, Bales,” Lewrie said, with a shudder of commitment. He had at least ten loyal people close at hand, his whore platoon had kept several of Bales’s hottest below, and the Marines on the gangways were fidgeting with their hanger or bayonet hilts, cutting their eyes at their foes. “Or whoever you really are. You hate me … ! It’s personal!” he shouted loud enough to carry. “You don’t give one wee damn for anyone else. To hell with you! Lads … !”

  “Shut up, you monster, shut up!” Bales screeched, turning back to Lewrie with his cutlass raised again.

  “Strike!” Lewrie howled, digging desperately under his coat to free his pistol, scared he’d get skewered before he could, or shoot his own arse off if the mechanism got hung up on his waist-coat belt. The cutlass tip came nearer as Bales began to lunge, his face constricted by fury, as he realised Lewrie had organised a rebellion, despite his watchful guard, his superior wit, his thought-out plans … .

  “I’m Rolston, you whoreson!” he howled, stumbling forward, off balance a bit from being jostled. Lewrie flicked up his left hand, parried that wicked blade off with his penny-whistle, and his foe goggled in stunned dis-belief!

  Rolston? Jesus, o’ course! Lewre goggled himself. Rolston?

  Almost chest-to-chest, Bales—no, Rolston!—gaping that he’d been denied his long-sought vengeance by a tin penny-whistle, as Lewrie raised a knee and got him a good’un in the nutmegs, which whooshed the last startled air from the man’s lungs! Then Desmond and Furfy leaped into the fray, pawing Bales/Rolston down and piling on to drag him to the deck and seize his sword-hand. Lewrie at last got his pistol out, shoved over near the larboard ladder rails, and leveled it at Corporal O’Neil, who was ready to skewer him with an infantry hanger. The dog’s-jaws already back at full cock, a hasty trigger-pull … BLAM!

  And Corporal O’Neil’s rage was quite flown away—along with the back of his head, splattering gore and brains on the other mutineer who’d been holding Private Pope. He’d lost his stomach for mutiny and dropped his weapon, raised his hands, and knelt as Pope scooped up both pistol and cutlass and gave him a boot in the belly before spinning off in search of someone else to fight!

  A fight, By Jesus, yes, Lewrie crowed to himself, seeing melees on every hand. Old Trollop and Sally Blue whacking the stuffing from a mutineer who’d displeased them or cheated them most-like, swinging sand-filled leathern coshes with Amazonian howls of glee! Some of the waverers, the sheep-in-the-middle, bleating in alarm and backing up to the trunk of the foremast, hands conspicuously empty and un-involved! Bosun Pendarves on the forecastle, hewing about with a tar-paying iron loggerhead as the Armourer, Mr. Offley, was hacking at the bower cables, and four men, defended by Pendarves, hauled away lustily to hoist the jibs! And Andrews, eschewing his pistol but clashing his cutlass against Mr. Morley’s!

  Lewrie stopped to pick up the cutlass at his feet, pulling like he’d jerk a turkey leg off the carcass to wring the leather wrist strop from Bales’s/ Rolston’s hand and making him howl, while Desmond and Ahern lay atop him to keep him out of action.

  Aha! Lewrie espied Haslip and stalked after him. Haslip had no taste for danger, like all sea-lawyers, and gibbered in spittley panic as he backpedaled. Before Landsman Furfy came up from his offhand side, that is, plucked a pistol from Haslip’s nerveless fingers, and lifted him high in the air as easily as if Haslip was a kitten! The Irishman gave him a fearful shaking, then took a deep swing like some foredeck hand ready to swing the lead to sound the water’s depth, and hurled Haslip, screeching thin and rabbity—Gawd, Lewrie could not quite feature it, but Haslip cleared not only the lip of the gangway but the larboard bulwarks as well, blubbering, “I cain’ swim!” before he dropped from sight, followed by a most-welcome, but mortal, splash!

  “Spanker!” Lewrie roared, dashing back to the quarterdeck in a giddy, bounding rush, where he could see better. His quarterdeck once more, where he could command! Robbed of re-enforcements, taken unaware and surrounded by secret defectors, all but the last of the mutineers were now out of it: dis-armed and held down, out cold, or bleeding on the decks and gangways. “Mister Towpenny! Hands to the fore-course halliards! Hands to the starboard braces! Mister Pendarves, sheets! Jib sheets! Sheet home, and flat-in yer jibs!”

  With a groan and a gun-shot-like pop, the bower cable parte
d in a flurry of dry rope-shards and slithered out the hawse hole and over the side. Proteus was free of the ground! HMS Proteus was free, and paying off her bows to point South towards the Isle of Sheppey, paying off and shuffling alee as the out-rushing tide took her! Backed jibs were barnsiding taut, bellied out, the spanker above his head winging and fluttering as it soared aloft, the gaff-jaws and wood-ball parrels groaning and squeaking as the upper gaff scaled the mizzen as high as the cro’jack yard. Bowsprit jutting upward, sweeping Sou’easterly to parallel the Queen’s Channel.

  “Mister Winwood, sir!” Lewrie called out. “Lay her head East-Sou’east. Mister Towpenny, the fore-course, smartly now! That’s the way, my bully lads! That’s the way, my Proteuses! Haul away all!”

  He couldn’t help giggling, stamping his foot, and flinging wide his arms to hoot and howl to the heavens as Proteus began to gather way, singing along with the beginning notes of a ship under sail, with the gurgle and chuckle of salt water ’round her rudder and transom post and under her forefoot, the apparent wind just beginning to whistle in the rigging! “Free, by God! Free!” he bellowed.

  “Sir,” Mr. Winwood said, coming to his side. “Don’t know the channel all that well, sir. Hoped we’d have a pilot aboard. Do you allow me to steer more Easterly, out to mid-channel? Hate to take the ground. An outbound ship to guide us, like San Fiorenzo, t’other …”

  “Anyone know the Queen’s Channel good as a harbour pilot?” Lewrie roared down to the gun-deck, where the Bedlam was at its greatest, with mutineers herded to one place, sail-handlers trying to do their work in the room remaining, Mr. Shirley and his mates poking and prodding those still down on the deck, and a pack of loblolly boys traipsing along in their wake with their narrow carrying-boards.

  “Er … know it pert’ well, Cap’um!” Old Man Grace shouted back. “Me an’ me son been up an’ down it fer years, sir. Not in a big ship, but …”