King`s Captain l-9

by Dewey Lambdin

  "The Clyde frigate too, Mister Pendarves." Lewrie shrugged, at a seeming loss. "She isn't in the anchorage this morning. And when I went aloft with a glass, I could have sworn I spotted her anchored inshore. Must have slipped her cables and drifted into Sheerness on the flood tide last night. Now San Fiorenio too. A bit more theatrical that"-he grinned- "but out to sea on the ebb."

  The San Fiorenio frigate, originally assigned to carry Princess Charlotte and her new husband, had "eloped" in broad daylight, sailing out to sea where a merchantman had guided her to deep water. She had attracted vicious but poorly aimed and ineffective gunfire from nearby mutiny ships. Stalwart mutineers had crowed over the gunnery display, jeering that such would be the fate of any deserter, and who wanted such half-hearted bastards as them anyway! But it had been sobering to Proteus % crew.

  And after yesterday's brief counter-rebellion and the restive misgivings his own sailors had felt after it had been put down, by delegate force, Lewrie could conjure it had heartened those gnawed by grave doubts, for San Fioren^o had sailed free. No matter how the ship's committee or Fleet Delegates explained it, everyone could see that two ships had found their courage and their common sense, and were now clear of damnation. That, atop his sailors' misgivings and grudges, were all to the good for his scheme.

  Proves it can be done, Lewrie gloomed; to them, and me. Maybe they'll take heart from it, find the bottom to stand up to Bales. Or maybe it's already too late-two ships escape, they 're sure to be on their guard now, even stricter than before. Did we lose our best shot at it 'cause we failed yesterday? Buck up, damn ye! "Now perish all gloom," and play up "me-hearty."… We're halfway there; I can smell it!

  His crew was acting sullen and restive: moody and grumbling at their drills in silent, wooden obedience; glumly going through the motions with their minds half on their own troubles. Over the necessity of drilling, of course, but… for also still being there, trapped and damned by Admiralty, by the nation itself.

  "Now, Desmond… that's not the way t'belay that clew-sheet…" Pendarves grumbled, almost sighing at the futility of teaching hapless landsmen even a tenth of what a crewman had to learn. "Lemme show ya… again."

  "Morning, Desmond… Furfy." Lewrie nodded most sunnily at his Irishmen. They mumbled back greetings, torn between watching Pendarves and the rope-end, and their curiosity.

  "Cap'um, sir…" Desmond whispered, "is it true, sir, that two ships got clean away?"

  "Looks that way, Desmond," Lewrie agreed.

  "Faith… an' d'ye think any o' their men'll be hanged, sir? As they returned to duty now, sir?" Desmond queried, fearful of the other sailors, who might overhear and report him.

  "Only the villains, I'd expect, Desmond," Lewrie informed him. "Only

  the villains."

  "Aye… them as'd kill a body, do 'e not keep his oath." Furfy almost

  shuddered.

  "There are tyrants," Lewrie muttered, guardedly, "and then… there're tyrants, Furfy. It seems there're tyrants before the mast too."

  Furfy was a simple soul, Lewrie suspected; his large bulk seemed to deflate to half its size as he heaved a helpless sigh but shook his head up and down in agreement, as if completely lost, or doomed.

  "Bad as th' Houghers or White-Boys, Michael?" Desmond commiserated. "Join, help out, keep mum… or die, 'cause they'll niver let a body go 'bout his own bus'ness nor stand apart."

  "I never thought willing duty was tyranny though, lads," Lewrie hinted, wondering what in blazes Desmond was talking about. Some anti-English secret societies back in Ireland?

  "Broke their Bible-oath they did though, sir," Desmond carped in a louder voice, as they all sensed the presence of a committeeman on the gangway above them. For his own protection, Lewrie decided. "No good'll ever come from such as that, Cap'um."

  The committeeman, an Ordinary Seaman named Ahern (another Irishman), gave a faint nod of approval and a sniff of satisfaction before he turned his attention to other things.

  "And what's the value of a Bible-oath exacted at the point of a sword, Desmond?" Lewrie posed. "One that'd drag you down to Hell, do you honour it, along with the cynical bastards who bound you with it."

  Furfy, the faint soul, automatically crossed himself. Desmond was made of quicker wits though, for he slyly smiled.

  "Why, t'would be no oath at'all, sir," Desmond chuckled softly. "Now, was a man t'take an oath worth honourin', Cap'um…"

  Lewrie wasn't sure what Desmond was getting on about that time either, but he felt it wouldn't go amiss did he reward him a wink and a tap of his forefinger beside his nose before resuming his seemingly casual stroll about the decks, towards the quarterdeck, seeking out Sergeant Skipwith, to see what he might have to say. He found him supervising practice with a quarterdeck carronade. These marines were free of pipe-clayed crossbelts cartridge boxes, waist-coats, hats, and bayonets of the sentries, though they still wore their short hangers on their left hips, hung from shoulder-belts. Discipline was still at full bore though, for they still wore their hair pulled hard back in a tar-stiffened queue formed over a "rat," and were sporting the cruel stiff leather neck-stocks, no matter that they worked at an un-marine-like exercise.

  "Charge with cartridge…!" Skipwith intoned, and one man pretended to cradle a sewn cartridge bag of powder into the squat gun bore, while a second man plied the flexible rope rammer down the barrel to seat the imaginary charge. "Shot your piece…!" And the first man pretended to heft a 24-pounder ball down the bore.

  Lewrie waited 'til they'd gone through the steps of ramming the shot down firm against the cartridge, stepping back and seizing up the run-out tackles, pricking the cartridge bag down the touch hole, priming the flintlock igniter, fiddling with the elevation screw, tightening the compression baulks to either side of the slide carriage, and pretending to traverse, aim, and fire.

  "Three rounds in two minutes, Sergeant Skipwith?" Lewrie asked.

  "Detachment…, 'shun!" Skipwith yipped, and sprang to quivering attention as if Lewrie had snuck up on his blind side and goosed him. "Aye, aye, Captain… sah! Three rounds in two minutes… sah!"

  "At least, long as you're loading such heavy cartridge and shot, Sergeant?" Lewrie chuckled.

  "Well er… aye, sir." Skipwith darkened, making his gun-team smirk as much as they thought they could get away with. "But I know we'll make three rounds in two minutes when it's for real, sir!"

  "I get us out to sea where we can load and fire for real, then we'll see, Sergeant Skipwith," Lewrie said, strolling up to lay a hand on the breech of the short 24-pounder. "I did not time you, but I am certain you were managing quite well, men. As Lieutenant Devereux had assured me you would, even if it is unfamiliar to you."

  Hmmm, he thought, three more who seem crestfallen at the mention of their absent commander, now that they were freed from the demanding but mindless lab'our and had time to dwell upon it.

  "Marines can do anything, do they put their minds to it, right, Sergeant?" Lewrie joshed.

  "Ever and amen, sir!" Skipwith proudly barked, even un-bending enough to display a rare smile of pleasure. "Mister Devereux said we could do it, sir… t'help the Captain's sailors out, sir… then we will do it, sir!" Of course, given the anarchy of the times, he dared put in a sly dig at sailors (as Marines ever would) that put a beamish glint in every "lobster-back's" eyes, for a second or so, and stiffen their backs with pride as they stood at attention by the gun.

  "Been at it long, have you, Sergeant Skipwith?" Lewrie enquired, offhandedly.

  "Half-hour, sir," Skipwith told him.

  "Well then, I'd imagine a turn at the scuttle-butt, up forrud, would not be sneered at," Lewrie allowed. "Besides… all the rumbles are scaring my cat out of a year's growth. Even making my gunners go green with envy, hey?"

  "Aye, aye, sah!" Skipwith replied, taking the hint. "Squad…! Quarter-hour interval! Dismiss!"

  After the privates had sloped off towards the water butts, Lewrie turned to Sergeant Skipwith. "Sorry
if I interrupted, Sergeant. And for presuming to issue orders direct, 'stead of through your own officers, but… since Lieutenant Devereux is ashore…"

  "Understood, sir," Skipwith replied, a tad less starched.

  "What's their mood, this morning, Sergeant Skipwith?" Lewrie asked, clapping his hands in the small of his back whilst pretending to inspect the carronade. "Any of them wavering after yesterday? An idea of how many of the marine complement we could trust, did we…?"

  "Ah, sir," Skipwith gravely nodded, stepping up closer, as if responding to a question Lewrie had posed about the gun. "Beg pardon for sayin' so, sir, but I was hoping you were still of a mind to take back the ship. Even if Mister Devereux is now ashore, sir."

  "I am," Lewrie vowed, sure he could trust Skipwith to keep mum. "Could have done it yesterday had we known there'd be a scuffle among the hands. Corporal O'Neil, though…"

  "God-damned Paddy duck-fucker!" Skipwith graveled. "Umm, beg yer pardon, sir."

  "Thought pretty-much the same of him"-Lewrie snickered-"when he put that dirk to Mr. Elwes's throat. Many of his sort, Sergeant?"

  "Nossir," Skipwith replied, twisting up his face in disgust at that deed's recollection. "No more than a half-dozen, all told, sir. 'Bout five bigger older men, who know all th' cautions, who've served at sea before, sir. O'Neil one of 'em… last'd be a new-come private… Private Mollo, sir. Oh, he's a smarmy bastard, sir, a right sea-lawyer, all pepper an' ginger but the lazy sort. Spotted him as trouble first I clapped eyes on him, sir. Now I thought I knew O'Neil, t'others, but…"

  "So, they'd be easy to overpower… cut out of the pack?" Alan muttered hopefully.

  "Aye, sir… do we do it sly-boots," Skipwith affirmed. "See, sir"-he flummoxed, ready to run his hands through his hair in frustration-"most o our lads are new-come, straight from bashin' on the barracks square, sir. Hopeless dolts, o' course, sir, when they come aboard, but that proud t'be Marines and eager t'do their duty, sir…"

  "Open to blandishments from the half-dozen seniors though."

  "Green as grass, sir, aye," Skipwith admitted. "Easy-swayed. Caught up in the fun of it, skylarkin' the first few days, sir… We hadn't much hope, the Leftenant an' me. Last few days though, sir, we were close to bringin' 'em 'round. The men look up to Leftenant Devereux, Captain, sir. Firm but fair, he is, and ever a cheery word for 'em. Treats 'em with respect, sir, like they were special already, sir. Oh, but he's a good officer!"

  And most aren 't, I take it, Lewrie could only silently conclude.

  "Now though, Sergeant… how close might we be?" Alan pressed.

  "They're low, sir," Skipwith pondered. "Havin' the Leftenant sent away… seein' how far the delegates'll go t'get what they wish too, sir? Told 'em, the Leftenant'd be ashamed of 'em did they keep on with this. Corp'ral Plympton an' me made sure the lads know they're runnin' outa chances t'make him proud… be proud of themselves, too, sir. They're close t'givin' it up, I think. Be hard to get anything done on the sly though, sir. Committee has said they won't let anyone assemble below, after Lights Out, anymore. Don't want any of what they call perjurers to the oath, sir."

  "But you could still stir the pot, Sergeant?" Lewrie queried. "Into Sheerness… out to sea, either way, depending on when it comes, and the tide state… we'll need to be ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. Fiddle with your watch-and-quarter bill perhaps, isolate O'Neil and that Mollo, the others, in one watch…?"

  "Half-and-half, sir," Skipwith suggested. "Then it's only three t'overpower on deck, and three t'jump below decks."

  "Just as long as they don't get excited and start titterin' in their hands," Lewrie warned. "Give the game away, 'fore…"

  "Aye, they're young'uns, I'll allow, sir," Skipwith gloomed, "but there's some with foreheads bigger'n a hen we could tell off at first," he quickly added, with a hopeful set of his shoulders. "And you know how it is, Captain, sir…" Skipwith leered. "As scared of a noose as most of'em are, now they see how things stand, p'raps they'll be more gulpy-nervous than titterin', an' the ringleaders'd not know the diff rence. And they are Marines, sir. Hard as recruitin' gets… desp'rate as we are for warm bodies… an' low-down, dumb, an' hopeless as most recruits are, sir… they are Marines. Means they stand head an' shoulders above yer av'rage tar or Redcoat when it comes to wits, sir. Beggin' yer pardon, o' course, Cap'um, sir."

  "Well, there is that…" Lewrie felt he had to admit.

  "Won't let you or the Leftenant down again, sir. Swear it. Now they see two other frigates managed to cut free… well, sir!"

  "I'm certain they won't, Sergeant… Thankee," Lewrie replied, giving Skipwith's shoulder a grateful squeeze. "You carry on with the undermining and shuffling, and I'll search us out the opportunity. Do you tell 'em I'll move Heaven and Earth to get their officer back."

  "Aye, sir, I'll pass that along, sir!"

  Pleasin', Lewrie felt like humming to himself as he resumed his strolling, all but strutting with delight; it's comin' together, maybe as soon as tonight, once it's dark as a boot? Sheerness, or seaward, that's the question. Seaward, I'd prefer, but… inshore might have to suit. Look up Mr. Wyman, the middies… have 'em in for dinner, aha! Let 'em know we can now count on the Marines, make a final list of friends or foes… Hell's Tinny Little Bells! As downcast, as shit-scared! as most of the people look this mornin', we justmight could pull it off tonight/ Backed into a corner, damned by everyone from Land's End to John O' Groats… time runnin' out on 'em… one word'd send 'em to their knees in gratitude, most-like. We could…

  Cheering interrupted him, making him snarl petulantly; a reedy, thin distant cheering from down the line of anchored ships that began at the far end and swelled towards Proteus like the onset of a gale. He went to the bulwarks to see what nonsense had them going this time. Another parade of boats and bands?

  "Oh, Christ!" he gasped, espying a cloud of sail offshore. "A glass! Now!" he bade, turning his head to see Midshipman Sevier near the binnacle cabinet. "My glass, Mister Sevier, quickly!"

  Once he had it in his hand, he slung it over his shoulder like a carbine and scampered into the larboard mizzenmast shrouds 'til he was above the cat-harpings near the fighting-top.

  Dutch… French, he fretted, opening the tube out of its full extent. Panting a bit too, and damning the enforced idlness of these last few days; surely it wasn't his fault that a brief ascent winded him! There! Enemy ships, come from the Texel before Admiral Duncan could take up his blockade… the van division of a feared invasion?

  No, they were beam-reaching off a Northerly, which would blow a "dead-muzzier" for the Texel 's narrow North shore exit, so they couldn't be the Dutch Fleet.

  French then? No again, he grumbled. They'd have had to come up-Channel, first, weather the Straits of Dover, the Downs, and Goodwin Sands.

  Channel Fleet, itself, come to shoot the Nore ships into submission? Well, maybe, but the tail-end ships seemed as if they'd come from the North, scudding off the Northerly winds before they wheeled about inline-ahead to follow the others which were coming in for the Queen's Channel and the outer anchorage on a soldier's wind.

  " Duncan!" he cried with glee. "The North Sea Fleet, ordered to the Nore to put the mutiny down! Someone found his nutmegs, at last! Now we'll see something, by God!"

  He lifted his glass again, leaning back into the shrouds, with one arm cocked through the rat-lines, smug with victory, and pitying the poor fools who were cheering the sight of the arriving ships. In a half-hour, when they opened their gun-ports and ran out their batteries, they'd be laughing out the other side of their necks!

  "Ah…" He shuddered.

  Perhaps not.

  For atop the on-coming line-of-battle ships' foremasts, he saw a dread, red plainness to the flags they flew. No royal cantons, no cross of St. George or St. Andrew…

  Plain, stark red battle flags-mutiny flags!

  Aye, the North Sea Fleet had arrived. In open rebellion!

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A bloody, un
mitigated damned disaster!" Lewrie fumed, pacing furiously from starboard to larboard in the day-cabin of his quarters, while his remaining officers and midshipmen stood or sat.

  "Enough to make a man weep, sir," Mr. Winwood spat, looking as close as he'd ever come to letting his despair overpower him. "Thirteen sail of the line they have now. Nigh on ten thousand seamen and marines in rebellion. Encouraged…" he trailed off in a sigh.

  "There's been battles won with less," Midshipman Catterall had the lack of tact to say almost under his breath, and even Mr. Adair's warning elbow in his ribs only caused him to grunt and glower back in ill humor. He was senior midshipman, two years older than Adair, and the cock of the orlop cockpit; ever the nudger, not the nudgee:

  "Oh, yes, there have been, Mister Catterall," Lewrie sniped back. "Thank you so much for bringing that historical fact to our attention!"

  "Uhm, sorry sir," Catterall reddened, trying to pull his head in like a tortoise. He found something intricate in the Turkey carpet's design to be fascinated by.

  The heart of Admiral Duncan's North Sea Fleet, the bulk of his two-decker, 64-gun warships-Montagu, Belliqueux, Repulse, Standard, Lion, and Nassau, along with the Inspector sloop and the fireship Comet__had come in around 5:00 p.m. the previous afternoon. Captain William Bligh's HMS Director had been part of that fleet, but had mutinied whilst anchored at the Nore, so no one expected that Admiral Duncan had much left to work with, if he still intended to blockade the Texel channels. If it came to a fight with Channel Fleet to put down this mutiny-if one could still call it a strictly naval mutiny and not a burgeoning revolution-it would be a close-run thing, even if Channel Fleet owned larger, more powerful 74s, 80s, and ships of the 1st and 2nd Rate, compared to the weaker, shallower draught 64s from Great Yarmouth, more useful near the Dutch shoals.

  If it came to a fight, Lewrie glumly suspected, it'd be no fight at all. Channel Fleet might have been saved from mutiny, most of the grievances satisfied. But would that be good enough for them to fire upon other British tars? Should that come, it'd surely be the end of the Royal Navy. Most-like, he imagined, the two fleets would meet and blend, overthrow authority again, and would then be fully provisioned, at sea! beyond the reach of reason. Not just the Royal Navy though, oh, no… perhaps it would be the tiny spark in the pan, like that one at Lexington in the lost American Colonies, that had begun the revolt against the Crown; and Britain would be torn asunder. Republicans and Jacobinist Levellers versus Royalists; hard-pressed as the commoners were by the demands of the war and the new taxes, it might be wealthy against poor too! The Irish, of course, encouraged to throw off the yoke of English occupation. Scotland too, uneasily forced into submission since the last rising of the clans in "The 45."