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 cat-pawed alongside, just beginning to be bloodied by a faint red sunset.
"Lir…" he whispered hopelessly. "You're a blocd-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 / 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 / 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 disobeying 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 homegrown… 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 Ican 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 even 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! Notjust 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!
He reluctantly went below to unpack. Once there, he faced his Cox'n Andrews, Padgett, and Aspinall, who had just released Toulon… who was bristled up and carping angrily at the indignation.
"Almost made it ashore." Lewrie shrugged. "Sorry 'bout that."
"Not your fault, sir," Padgett replied, looking miserable.
"Uhm…" Aspinall sighed, scuffing his toes. "Now we're t'be aboard, sir… your goose is cooked, so…"
"It would seem so, now wouldn't it!" Lewrie barked sarcastically.
"Uh, nossir! Meant your supper, sir!" Aspinall yelped. "Meant, 'twas a shame we'd leave without it, and… do ya feel peckish, I can fetch it from the galley, sir! Be a shame it goes t'waste."
"Oh." Lewrie relented, smiling and blushing. "That! My pardons, Aspinall. But since it seems I'll not dine at Admiral Buckner's, by all means, trot my goose out. I am hungry. Dry too."
"A nice bottle o' your claret, and the goose, comin' right up, sir! And a tot o' brandy t'tide you over whilst I fetch 'em!"
Now, what am I going to do? he asked himself, once he'd gotten his paws about a large snifter of brandy. Devereux gone, now Langlie… my stoutest fellow conspirators! Even Ludlow and Peacham! Dim-witted, insultin', truculent… but, bred-in-the-bone foes of mutiny and eager to fight when you let slip their leashes. Caused half of it, but they could've helped put it down.
I still plan to retake the ship, Gawd! he squirmed at his boasting to Langlie; what empty posturing that was. As if I have leaders left who could sway the crew to help me!
Bales had been right, he determined, wincing again in recrimination, and hellish-astute too. Those left… Catterall, he was very witty and droll, smarmy-clever. But was he reliable? Adair was promising, a clever lad. Sevier was a lack-wit, just as Bales had deemed him, with nothing behind his eyes but rote, dumb obedience. Nicholas and Elwes were too young to scheme or dissemble… they could run covert messages, at best, chat people up. The hands liked them. Would they blush and duck their heads though, were they put to whispering ideas to Proteus's people in seemingly casual conversations?
Most likely, he groaned. Lieutenant Wyman?
A likely lad, a sweet young fellow too. Reliable, ever cheery, and genuinely liked by the crew; earnest and brave, determined to do his best but… would it be enough? Lewrie could imagine Lt. Wyman uttering "my goodness graciouses" with his eyes blared… like a virgin chambermaid the first time someone put a hand 'neath her skirts!
"We need a half-dozen o' me," Lewrie decided in a black humour. "A pack of the real ruthless bastards."
Bosun Pendarves and his mate, Towpenny, Mr. Winwo
od and his mates, that's five men. Mr. Garraway the Carpenter, at least two of his crew, his mate, Jacks? Purser and his assistant… Sailmaker, Mr. Reyne, and at least one from Ms crew. Mr. Offley the Armourer… twenty-five or twenty-six people, all told? God, it still looked hopeless. The Marines, now…
Bales had said that most of the Marines had wanted to keep Lieutenant Devereux aboard-all but Corporal O'Neil the Irishman, one of the United Irish for certain. Three or four of the privates were with the hard core of mutineers… Corporal Plympton the Devon man, though, and Sergeant Skipwith… there's where he should make a sly approach! With twenty to twenty-five of the fourty-man marine complement allied with him, there just might be a chance yet.
"Supper's served, sir," Aspinall announced at last.
"Hmmpfh," Lewrie grunted, as he rose to go forrud to his table. Even if it did seem hopeless, at the moment, at least he could keep up his strength… for that "later" he dearly coveted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It seems there's more than one way to vote yourself out of the mutiny, Mister Pendarves," Lewrie gleefully pointed out to the Bosun and his mate, Mr. Towpenny, as they supervised the gun-deck crew through a rare "River Discipline" sail-making drill. "That's two ships gone!"
He said that loud enough to be easily overheard by many of the hands near them, yet casually enough, he hoped, that it would not come across as contrived. It had been hard, personally galling for him, to get this sail-making drill staged. He'd had to point out to Bales that the crew had gone slack, requiring exercise at sea-tasks-practice at what Lewrie had hoped was a rehearsal for their escape-then wait for Bales to make up his mind as to whether he'd allow it or not!
"Bless me, not another, sir?" Pendarves replied almost as loud, attracting even more hesitant attention, as they'd rehearsed earlier.
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