King`s Captain

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Permission to enter the gunroom, sir," Lewrie announced with a cough into his fist, as he stood by the berth-deck portal which led to his officers' quarters. Normally, the gunroom was a holy-of-holies, off-limits to all but those who lodged there, their personal hammockmen or body-servants, their cook or table-servants. Captains were included in the banned category, since they had their own great-cabins one deck above, equal in size to the hull space shared by eight or more men below them. The enforced separation allowed them a haven of peace and quiet from the tumult of a working vessel, from the wrath of a demanding captain, the sight of the common seamen… usually.

He waited, one brow up in demand, as Lt. Ludlow took his sweet time mulling over the heathenish idea of allowing him into their sanctuary, filling the doorway set into the insubstantial deal-and-canvas "bulkhead" partition, which was more a token of privacy than real.

"Aye, sir… come in, sir." Ludlow nodded at last, stepping to one side. He did not say that Lewrie was welcome though.

"Thankee, Mister Ludlow," Lewrie said, forcing himself to act pleasant as he stepped inside, his hat under his arm. "Ah. All here, I see, gentlemen… our middies too."

Langlie, Wyman, Mr. Winwood the Sailing Master, Surgeon Shirley, Purser Coote, and Marine Lieutenant Devereux filled the seats down both sides of their mess table. The chair at the head of the table was Ludlow 's, now empty. There was an eighth chair available, but Lewrie would not go f any further towards upsetting the gunroom's well-run order by taking it. Besides, it was at the vice-end of the table, below the salt-and a place for those inferior to Ludlow. Lewrie walked slowly aft, giving the midshipmen, who were perched on the sideboard or were forced to stand a'lean against the interior partitions, an encouraging smile or two.

"Might you do us the honour of partaking in a glass of brandy, sir?" Lt. Langlie offered. Lewrie could see that at least one bottle had already been rendered a "dead soldier," on its side atop the table, with a fresh one already half-drained beside it.

"Thankee, Mister Langlie, and I do appreciate the offer and the gun-room's hospitality, but… no," Lewrie told him pleasantly. "Bit early in the day for me, d'ye see. On a sensible day, mind. Proceed, though, yourselves… don't let my presence discourage your cheer."

"I thought it best, did we put our heads together… informally," he began to explain. "Summoning you to my cabins might have raised the suspicions of our so-called… committee. Might have made them refuse to allow it, and…"

"Damn 'em all, root and branch," Midshipman Peacham growled at that, with his glass halfway to his lips. "Ungrateful pigs!"

The committee had elected a dozen hands to run the ship, chosen the Master Gunner, Mr. Handcocks, and his mate, Morley, to represent her aboard the flagship of the mutiny, and had "requested" that watch-standing officers and midshipmen go below, off-duty, and remain out of sight unless there was an evolution to perform.

And had chosen that blackguard, Able Seaman Bales, to be their temporary "captain" in charge of Proteus until the seamen's grievances had been answered, and the mutiny was declared over! And Bales chose a day of "Rope Yarn Sunday" and celebration in place of those chores of lading ship he'd been so insistent upon two hours before.

Leaving the officers with nothing to do and no reason to stay on deck in the presence of their mutinous inferiors.

"Listen to 'em," Ludlow spat, reaching for the half-full bottle. "Cater-waulin' an' caperin'…"

Proteus thrummed to the stamp of feet as their mutineers danced their joy, clapped and sang rowdy songs to the music of the fiddle and the fife, and the songs echoed faintly as far as the gunroom, through those insubstantial screens.

"Quite clever of 'em," Lewrie snapped. "Take a day of rest to cajole the unconvinced. Like we do at a recruiting 'rondy,' to beguile 'em to join in the first place."

"Have 'em all in their pockets 'fore dark," Ludlow gloomed.

"I don't think so, Mister Ludlow," Lewrie disagreed. "That is the reason I'm here, so we may decide what to do tomorrow, when they begin to face reality. Hopefully, they are enough in league with Spithead to remain in a form of discipline, and…" '

"Discipline! Bah!" Ludlow griped most sourly.

"I've seen it, sir. You have not," Lewrie snapped at his First Officer. Badly as he needed the support of all of his officers, Lewrie would most gladly have pitched Ludlow overboard. Being at-table, with a drink in his hand, in his own sanctum sanctorum, was making his First Lieutenant even less guarded with his opinions, he suspected.

"I beg your pardon, sir." Ludlow stiffened, eyeing him owlish and half-seas-over with brandy. "Do proceed, sir."

"We've a new crew," Lewrie ploughed on, trying to ignore that latest jape. "They haven't formed cliques yet. You saw how it was on deck. A middlin' pack of determined men, reinforced by the hands who came aboard from Sandwich. Christ Almighty, we only got our last thirty or so yesterday… and I doubt that Bales is the only one linked to the plot. Any of the others strike you as sea-lawyers? Dressed well… kept their kit, t'make themselves look more desirable as volunteers?"

"Some of the Irish, sir?" Midshipman Elwes suggested in a wary piping, surrounded by other nodding, sage heads too shy to speak up.

"United Irishmen, aye, Mister Elwes," Lewrie was quick to agree with the lad and reward him with a smile. "Sworn to drive us out of their island… waitin' for the bloody Frogs to land and arm them. We have to be wary of that lot. Not all of our Irishmen, I'd suspect. A half-dozen, at best. And the rest following along so far." \

"Uhm…" Lt. Wyman said, raising his hand like a schoolboy. "Would there not be more than a few hands still loyal, sir? But out-numbered and cowed? "

"Exactly, Mister Wyman!" Lewrie congratulated him. "Now, we've not been thrown together with our crew that long either, but I do trust you have already discovered the characters of most in that short time. We have to make up lists. Scribble down those in your watches or divisions you suspect… a second list of those you think might be caught in the middle-those who haven't thrown their lot in with the leaders and could still be swayed. Those we might be able to work on."

"Do they ever give us the chance though, Captain," Lieutenant Ludlow all but sneered. "At their pleasure, dammit all."

"This Bales fellow…" Lewrie said, pacing down the length of the table towards Ludlow 's end. Thinking again about sinewy fingers tightening about some rancourous bastard's throat-most specifically this cavilling bastard's windpipe, and squeeiing…! Glaring Ludlow to a drink-sodden, blessedly cowed silence for a moment.

"He was the one suggested we have to be laden with rations and powder and shot," Lewrie smirked, "for whatever ends he had in mind. And this ship can't proceed to sea 'thout we have the opportunity to train the hands further. Innocent evolutions and drills. Which give us the chance to make out lists… three lists, gentlemen.

"One, of the true ringleaders we most suspect, and those people in league with 'em." He ticked off on his fingers. "Second, a list of those still loyal. The third… the sheep in the middle. A day or two of watchin' close, takin' note of them like you were thinkin' of rating them for a promotion will suffice. Take strolls on deck, for the air if nothing else. Then put your heads together. And we'll convene meetings like this to go over the lists. An invitation to some of you to dine in with me might seem a plausible excuse. Some music?" He grinned slyly. And saw his officers and midshipmen gather a bit of hope in the midst of what seemed a hopeless situation.

"And when we do organise working parties to lade stores, sir," Lt. Langlie snickered, "we'll have even more opportunity to sift them out… separate the sheep from the goats, as it were!"

"Once again, exactly, Mister Langlie!" Lewrie chuckled. "Chat them up. Put on a pleased expression, no matter your personal thoughts. Firm, but fair. Agreeable and affable, as if you hold no grudges over their betrayal."

"Seem to agree with 'em, sir?" Peacham gasped.

"Absolutely not, sir!" Lewrie snarled. "You are to do nothing to encourage or abet the mutiny. No winking at it. No, the best pose to strike, I should think, would be… tolerance and patience. As a father might towards wayward children. Tolerate no dis-respect, any threats. God, report 'em to this Bales character! Stand on your dignity and your rights! Because once this is over, they'll be under your discipline again, and they don't wish to do anything which may be… remembered, hmm? We're somewhat assured that they're going to show respect to officers and petty officers, or discipline those who break that rule themselves."

"Report them to Bales, sir?" Midshipman Nicholas gawped, eyes wide with astonishment and looking more than a little lost. Or, as Lewrie suspected, more than a little befuddled by the gunroom's booze.

"He's declared himself temporary 'captain,' Mister Nicholas," Lewrie sighed. "Whyever not? He's taken the responsibility for any infractions by the crew upon himself for the nonce. Like Spithead, I expect our mutineers will declare that they're loyal and True Blue Hearts of Oak… just waitin' for their demands to be met. Those at Spithead said they'd maintain sobriety and good order among themselves. The yard ropes weren't a threat to officers there, sirs. They hoisted 'em to keep their own kind in line, my old crew told me."

"I'd suspect, though, sir…" Langlie said most shrewdly, "we will be tested sore 'fore this is done. Deliberate taunts and japes. 'Twill demand a power of patience from us all, do you not believe?"

"Amen, Mister Langlie." Lewrie nodded. "From all of us, sirs," he said, trying to lock eyes with all of them in turn. Lt. Ludlow… most especially. But Ludlow was busy picking at lint on his cuffs. "Anger, I'm afraid, is forbidden us. Public threats, taunts, and gibes are denied us as well. We can't curse them back to obedience."

"But!" he cautioned. "A sly word, whispered in the right ear… once you've discovered the right ears… may sow seeds of doubt and fear in 'em. Reminders, that once this ends, we're back in charge… and we'll remember the names of those who were complete traitors and rogues. Encouragement for those who didn't join hands with 'em. And encouragement to those wavering…"

"So we can take the ship back, sir?" Sailing Master Winwood, at last, commented. He looked quite worried.

"If it comes to it, sir," Lewrie nodded, grim. "But Admiral Howe's gone to Portsmouth. It may be no more than a few days' turmoil here before we hear that Spithead and Plymouth have been settled, and the Nore will then have no grievances to complain of; and this mutiny will collapse of its own. The settlement will most-like apply Fleet-wide, Mister Winwood. Something else to remind 'em of, sirs, when we are back on deck, givin' orders, even temporarily. Remind 'em to wait 'til they hear the settlement before they do something they'd regret."

"If that's all they have in mind, sir," Mr. Coote sighed. "I truly do hope that's all they have in mind. United Irishmen, though… revolutionaries even amongst good Englishmen, who wish to emulate the French Republic…"

"I know, Mister Coote." Lewrie shrugged. "But for now we're assured it concerns rations, shore leave, pay, and such. Have to take that at face value. 'Til they prove us wrong, that is."

"Do we pray that is not the case, sir." The Surgeon, Mr. Shirley, groaned. "That they prove that supposition wrong, that is."

"Indeed," Lewrie said, hands in the small of his back, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Something else to 'smoak out,' gentleman… when you're allowed on deck. Keep your ears cocked for any talk among the hands that sounds rebellious. Dangerously rebellious. Republican cant…? There's a chance there's more to this than the stated causes. We must hope that those who hold such traitorous views are distinctly in the minority."

"And the bulk of the hands are to be warned to guard themselves against being led to greater folly, sir," Lt. Devereux supposed aloud. "Anything that so much as smacks of Paris… or Thomas Paine…"

"Most shrewdly noted, sir," Lewrie said, with a half bow to the wits of his marine officer. "They declare themselves loyal Englishmen asking for but a tuppence of their due. Anything else, though…"

"Hid it well-enough from us"- Ludlow countered, slurring his words by then-"the back-stabbin' bastards. Who's t'say what they're hidin' from us now, hey?"

"That's 'hey… sir,' Mister Ludlow," Lewrie hissed. "And I will thank you to remember it!"

Damn him! he thought. I've just about had all I can take from this fool! Might as well be in league with the mutineers for all the good he is to me! Ruinin' the good mood I created… look at 'em now, cringin' likewhipped puppies when just a second ago they were eager to start cajolin' the people/

"We'll begin making preliminary lists, sir," Lt. Langlie said quickly. "Right, lads? Who to approach first. And we'll keep our ears and eyes open, sir, as you ordered. All of us, sir."

"Very good, Mister Langlie," Lewrie relented, forcing himself to grin in gratitude. "I know I am a very fortunate captain to have a set of officers on whom I may completely rely," he told them. With another "so there!" glare at Ludlow as he sprawled at the table, insensible to almost everything by then.

"Keep our own counsel," Marine Lt. Devereux added, glowering significantly first at Ludlow, then at some others. "And most especially our tempers, in the doing, Captain, sir."

"Thankee, Mister Devereux. Thank you all," Lewrie said. "Now, I will plague you no longer, and I am grateful for you allowing me to interrupt your off-duty time. I will have my Cox'n send down written invitations to dine with me tonight. Once you've made first stabs at winnowing our chaff, hmm? Good day, gentlemen."

"Good day, sir," they chorused, rising as he departed. Ludlow even managed to stagger to his feet. With a bit of help.

Lewrie emerged on the gun-deck, took a deep breath of air, and scowled at his crew gathered in the waist beneath the boat-tier beams. They were still dancing hornpipes, slapping time with their hands on their thighs, beating time with stacks of spoons, as the fiddler and the marine fifers supplied the tune. He saw the Black Irishman, Desmond, strangling what looked to be a long-necked cat, making a reedy wailing over a flute-like tube. That must be what he called uillean pipes, softer and mellower than their blaring Scots cousins. Everyone seemed to be having a grand time, except for Landsman Haslip, of course. He had been left where he'd fallen and was still being studiously ignored by his "shipmates."

Lewrie climbed to the quarterdeck, feeling a bit smug about how he'd handled that problem. He'd found him guilty oЈ theft, doomed him to a dozen lashes, and also broken up the elections of delegates by having "All Hands Aft To Witness Punishment" piped.

A neat little homily he'd preached, about crime and sailors who were unworthy of being called "shipmates," the sort never to be trusted. He'd seen at least a dozen sets of teeth grinding in the mouths of the most dedicated mutineers-and had begun a short list of his own!

Then after Haslip had taken his dozen lashes from the "cat"-wielded most enthusiastically by Bosun Pendarves and his mates, in the place of authority-he'd turned Haslip over to the crew.

"I've given him my dozen," Lewrie had declared, "but a rogue of his… stripe… will only resent me, and authority, for it. Now he's yours. Prove that you won't tolerate a thief… form a gauntlet!"

They'd leapt to it, forming two lines facing each other, fists and rope-ends ready, and Haslip had been dragged from the hatch grating, back bloody and wailing in pain. Bosun Pendarves stood ahead of him with a cutlass leveled at Haslip's breast, so he'd be forced to a slow pace and not run down the gauntlet quickly, if he didn't want to be skewered. Haslip had been pummeled and bludgeoned, beaten senseless, shrieking and cowering from their blows. A dash of salt water to wash the cat-o'-nine-tail's cuts as he lay prostrate, a surgeon's mate with warm tar to daub his wounds… normally, once punishment was done, the malefactor's mates would help him below, sneak him a tot of rum, tell him how well he'd borne up. But not for Haslip.

Pray God, Lewrie thought, studying his cavorting crew; they've no use for this mutiny, once news comes from Portsmouth either!

He cocked his head as Desmond, on his odd pipes, and the fiddler, began a new tune. Lewrie smiled to realise it was the same one that his father Sir Hugo had marched his militia to… "The Bowld Soldier Boy"!

Some of his men looked up at him, as if "cocking a snook" at him with that Irish air, waiting for his reaction. They were disappointed if they thought he would mottle or glower with anger though, for his right hand began to beat the measure on the cap-rail of the quarterdeck nettings. Toulon, intrigued, leapt from out of nowhere to preen, arch, and pace the rolled hammocks stowed in the nettings, as Lewrie petted him with his other hand. And smiled, in spite of himself.

Desmond, Furfy, a few others, nodded back at him, even tentatively smiled. 'Twas a faint sign, but a hopeful one, Lewrie dared think.