CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

His first instinct was to beat to Quarters, to load and run out his artillery, raise the anti-boarding nets, open the arms chests, and prepare his crew to defend the ship until they could get sail on her and escape the anchorage.

But so far Proteus had spent most of her time in "River Discipline" at the rawest basics-knots, tracing the rigging, the making or tending of sail, anchor and cable work, striking and raising top-masts, or hoisting boats off the cross-deck beams, lowering them overside, and then recovering them, along with some practical oar-work about the harbour or mooring. Until he had formed a full crew, he hadn't planned on telling-off gun crews, so only the seamen with previous experience were adept at gunnery practice. That would have been part of this new week's curriculum, he'd hoped. Now, though…

Short of rations, water, firewood, powder, and shot, Proteus had only one chance of being swept up in mutiny: flee at once, escape the Nore, and try to make good her lacks at another Royal dockyard!

"Mister Pendarves?" he shouted. "Mister Devereux?"

"Here, sir," the marine officer called back from the quarterdeck, already immaculately turned out in full kit.

"Turn out your Marines, sir, at once!" Lewrie snarled. "Armed, mind… to the teeth!"

"Captain?" the Bosun queried from below in the waist.

"Bosun, pipe 'All Hands.' Muster hands to man the capstan, then prepare to make sail!" Lewrie called down to him. "We're leaving harbour quick as we can. If you have to cut the bower and kedge away, so be it."

Pendarves's silver call began to peep and shrill, joined by the sounds from his junior, Towpenny's. Feet, shod or bare, began to drum on the oaken decks as the crew responded to their summons, racing from below to mill and bleat in confusion. Some knew the call and went to their proper stations at once. Others, the fresh-caught landsmen, had the civilian penchant for chattering about it before being collared by the yeomen or detail "captains"; berated, shoved, fisted, or "started" to their proper positions. Spry young topmen clambered aloft, up the rat-lines and out over the futtock shrouds to the fighting tops, beyond to the tops'l yards to scoot out precariously on the foot-ropes to loose harbour gaskets and brails to free sails.

Lewrie took time to have another gander round the anchorage. A cutter was stroking for Proteus's larboard entry-port, filled with seamen from HMS Sandwich, whose rigging was filled with cheering sailors..

"Glass, Mister Nicholas," Lewrie demanded of the sweet-natured fourteen-year old midshipman who was near the binnacle cabinet darting eyes about in wide-eyed wonder, as Devereux's drummer began a long roll and a fife joined the urgent shrieks of the bosun's calls. The lad fetched him a telescope.

"Damme, not a night glass, Mister Nicholas!" Lewrie howled with impatience, after one look through the telescope, which, unlike the day glasses, turned everything upside-down and backwards.

"Here, sir?" Midshipman Elwes Fetched a substitute, having seen Nicholas's mistake and corrected it.

Better, Lewrie thought, taking a peek at the oncoming boat; well, not really! Damme… no midshipman steerin'… eight oarsmen, nigh on a dozen more aboard… armed!

He'd seen the spikey danger of erect musket barrels, the gleam of wan sunlight on fixed bayonets and bared cutlass blades.

"Mister Devereux! A file of your men to guard the entry-port!" Lewrie shouted. "No one from yonder cutter is t'be allowed aboard!"

"Aye, aye, sir. Corpr'l Plympton…?"

"Shoot if you have to," Lewrie fretted in a loud voice. There was a sentiment in the Navy that officers, captains especially, should ever strive to maintain the disposition of a stoic, no matter how dire the circumstances; that they should present the world a calm, unruffled demeanour, reassuring those under them to behave properly. Should a tidal wave arise to swamp their ship and take them all down to Perdition, a proper captain should pull out his pocket watch, stare at it glumly, and announce, "Ah, right on time!"

Not Alan Lewrie, unfortunately.

"Andrews, fetch me my hat," he bade to his Cox'n, who stood by the top of the after-companionway ladder to his private quarters. "My sword, and the double-barrel pistols too!"

"Aye, aye, sah!" Andrews said, hustling below at once.

The cutter was about a single musket shot away from them, coming fast. Lewrie turned to look inboard, at his crew on the gangways and the capstan.

"Ready, sir," Pendarves reported. "Hands at Stations for Leavin' Harbour.' "

"Very well, Mister Pendarves. Mister Ludlow? Set a buoy on the kedge anchor and haul us in to short stays on the bower. Stand ready to make sail."

"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?"

"Uhm… let me, ask, Captain, sir," Handcocks mumbled, slinking off \ to join the group of Sandwiches by the entry-port, who were still deep in a frustrated conversation over the keys.

"Mister Coote, you here, sir?" Lewrie asked, turning about.

"Aye, sir," a shaken Coote replied. "I s'pose."

"Stand ready to go ashore. Mister Langlie? With Lieutenant Ludlow off the quarterdeck, do you take charge of the Forenoon Watch. Tell-off men to assist the Purser ashore. Mister Pendarves?" Lewrie bellowed down to the gun-deck. "Assemble working parties to ferry stores offshore!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" Pendarves shouted back, looking about as forlorn as a landed trout and eager for a command from a proper authority.

"Now look here, sir…!" McCann snapped, returning, reinforced by his own followers from Sandwich and the Proteus mutineer leaders.

"Proteus must be stocked with four months' supplies for sea," Lewrie informed him soberly. "We're short of salt-meat, flour, biscuit, small beer, rum, wine, cheeses, dried peas, portable soup… presently she has but half the powder and shot required. Now, sir… do you say you're loyal Britons, mutinying for your grievances… and not traitorous rebels in the pay of foreign foes! Then readying this ship for sea, does the mutiny end and we're ordered out to fight the Dutch, or the French, is vital. A normal ship's routine, which you just said you would not interfere with? Surely, even you can see that."

"Gawd, I wish…!" McCann gargled, raising a fist. "Ye an' yer sort, yer all alike! Thinkin' yer so damn' clever an' smug! I…!"

"Short of rations, powder and shot, mate," Bales hinted, from the rear of the pack, elbowing and sidling forward to stand alongside McCann. "Do they cut us off from the warehouses in Sheerness, what'll we do then? Think on't. What'll we eat 'til it's settled?"

"Th' people're for us! Th' common folk'd not let 'em!" McCann countered, eyes bulging with fervour. "Th' high an' mighty'll tremble in their beds do they even try t'cut us off! The whole nation arise…!"

"Aye, though… we should stock her, gunn'1-deep." The Gunner sighed. "Just in case, like."

"Right, then!" McCann sneered, sensing another defeat within a five-minute span. "Go 'head an' stock her. But no midshipmen, none o' their brutal sort're t'work th' boats. Senior hands. Loyal men on th' tillers an' oars… brothers t'th' cause. No escape for th' weak, them as won't swear t'uphold th' cause neither."

"Very good then." Lewrie nodded, striving to not look as glad as he felt that he was dealing with a witless escapee from Bedlam. "I assume normal duties also encompasses my hearing for Landsman Haslip? Mister Pendarves! Muster boat-crews! We will go below…"

"Nossir, ye won't!" McCann barked. "We'll do it! Man's a thief! Stole from brother sailors, so he'll get sailors' justice! An' no boat-crews t'go ashore 'til ye've elected yer delegates, Handcocks… picked yer committee 'board ship for runnin' her, an' delegates t'th' committee 'board Sandwich." He nudged Handcocks under the ribs. "An' weed out them as'd cozen ye… Have ev'ry man-jack in an' make 'em swear on a Bible t'be loyal or else."

"No," Lewrie insisted once more, quite flatly, and pinching at the bridge of his nose as if wearied beyond endurance.

"Now, lookee…!" McCann threatened, going wild-eyed again.

"Justice is mine, McCann," Lewrie pointed out. "Determining the crime and punishment for it 'board this ship is the Captain's prerogative alone, and well you know it. You assure me and the others that this mutiny will end when the grievances are satisfactorily settled… and ships at the Nore are included in the terms. That's what you told my crew to get them to join you? That's what you profess?"

"It is!" McCann shouted back.

"Then once you return to subordination and discipline, you will once more be under a captain's supervision, which includes hearing any violations of the Articles of War, or Admiralty Regulations," Lewrie hammered home. "To unsurp my right to hear and judge Haslip will make any sentence you and the… delegates!… decide, illegal. Unless you… or some one of you…" he growled, searching the nearest faces for defiance, "wish to declare himself a Commission Officer and presume to issue orders.. • then the custom and usage of the Sea Service says that I, alone, can judge. You can go below and do all the… electing!… you wish to choose your delegates. But you will not usurp my power of command! Or my right to conduct 'captain's mast.' "

"Arrr!" McCann howled with frustration, "a pox on ye, an' th' Devil take all officers! I wish t'God we could just hang ye all an' be done! Choose new'uns an' start fresh, by God!"

Frightfully, there were more than one or two growls of agreement from the men mustered before him; thankfully though, they seemed to be Sandwiches, not Proteuses. Bales, the new-come mutineer, even went so far as to take McCann by the elbow and whisper in his ear, to warn him to temper his remarks or hide his true sentiments.

Mutiny was one thing, Lewrie thought, turning to match eyes with his remaining officers; mutiny with the threat of physical violence or the murder of superiors was different. Lewrie thought to compare the almost-dignified, sober-headed truculence of what he'd experienced at Portsmouth-a much more respectful and respectable plea for better conditions-with the very beginnings of this version, which was led, he suspected, by a whole baying pack of hotheads like this McCann! If so, it was a damn' narrow razor's edge he'd have to tread before this was over!

Oddly, Lt. Langlie was looking back at him with the tiniest of grins on his face, the one corner of his mouth turned up, all but tipping him a conspiratorial wink of encouragement! He shrugged back his perplexity- and his gratitude for Langlie's silent support.

"Right, then," McCann announced quite grudgingly, much taken down from his rant of the short minute before. "Yer a Commission Sea Officer… 'mast' on this Haslip bastard is yours. But we'll choose who we will for delegates; get yer whole crew firm b'hind us…"

"And what of those who don't wish to swear allegiance with you, McCann?" Lewrie asked, feeling suddenly pleased that he'd regained a tiny bit of authority in the midst of raving chaos, already scheming as to how [he might undermine this particular mutiny aboard his ship. "Bligh over yonder," Alan said, gesturing towards HMS Director, a 64-gunner 'cross the harbour, "had his loyal hands who went in the longboat with him- even him!" He snorted in derision. "You can't just force everyone to be loyal to you if they don't wish to. Or are too fearful of the consequences… as you should be." He stuck on, slyly.

Oh, God, yes! he thought. Hull the buggers; make 'em sweat…!

"Ah, but isn't that what yoz and the Navy do, sir?" Able Seaman Bales just-as-slyly japed. "Make 'em loyal… without a chance to choose for themselves?"

The nearby mutineers had themselves a real knee-slapping hoot at that one and passed it on along the gangways, down into the waist, and aft to the taffrails to their mates, where it elicited the same mirth.

Lewrie's face suffused with sudden anger, that he'd been bested by an unexpected opponent, by an un-looked-for fount of wits. Whatever shred of authority he'd wished to salvage, whatever doubts he'd wished to plant in them, were ripped away in a twinkling, torn to atoms.

This is over, I'll see you swing in tar an' chains, you smarmy bastard! Lewrie swore to himself; you and McCann, most of all!

" We 'II let you know when we're done, sir," Bales smirked, with an air as if he had already been elected leader and was taking charge. "When we're ready to send boats to the storehouse wharves. Just'z soon as we've chosen delegates, Captain."

"And I, for my part, Seaman Bales," Lewrie gritted back, "will expect the crew to muster aft to witness punishment when / order them to… no matter where you are in your… elections. Hear me?"

"Oh, aye, sir… we're looking forward to that." Bales grinned.

"Twelve men for th' ship, mind," McCann advised as he followed them, remaining on the gangway so he could depart through the entry-port and go off to cause even more mischief aboard other ships. "Two for th' fleet committee, t'meet aboard Sandwich. An' one 'captain'… no matter his high-an'-mightiness… right, brothers?"

McCann was departing, shouting a last set of encouraging words to the crew in general and pumping Bales's hand quite vigourously.,

"There's a viper in our breast, no error," Lewrie gravelled, in a bleak mood. "And me that chose him, special! Damme, what a fool I was! He must be one of the chief plotters… planted on us as a sham volunteer just so he could stir 'em up to mischief…"

"Uh, sah…" Andrews suggested in a low voice, after a bashful cough into his fist. "Jus' one feller come aboard las' night, sah… 'E couldna stirred 'em up, much… not dot quick. Scheme musta been a-fest'rin' fo' some time. 'Mong some o' de lads we got at Chatham… even 'fore we got 'em, Cap'um."

"Aye, you're probably right, Andrews," Lewrie had to admit to his Cox'n. "Damme, what's the world coming to? What next? A total civilian rebellion too?"

There was no answer to that one.

Or nothing anyone would ever dare put into words!

He looked outboard, seeking salvation, like a marooned sailor on a desert isle might scan the horizon for a scrap of tops'ls which might mean rescue. But there was no cause for hope in sight.

Every ship at the Nore new the plain red flags of rebellion… every ship now sported yard ropes. Boats full of senior officers were streaming from Inflexible, steered by their personal coxswains, rowed by their personal boat-crews, rushing too late to reclaim the commands they'd lost.

Signal flags flapped busily from the roof of the Dockyard Commissioner's house, and from Vice-Admiral Buckner's shore residence.

The semaphore tower on Garrison Point was "talking" in a flurry of whirling arms. To the next station at Queenborough, thence across the f low country to Gadshill or Beacon Hill, near Chatham. From there, the news would now be "flashed" in a matter of minutes to Swanscombe station near Greenhithe alerting the Tilbury river forts, then on to Shooter's Hill, about equidistant between the Royal Arsenal at Woolwich and Greenwich Naval Hospital-to New Cross, West Square on the south bank of the Thames, and at last across the river, to Admiralty.

Informing their Lords Commissioners that another entire bloody ad hoc fleet had been lost-to Mutiny!

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