The mutinous ships at the Nore were now arrayed in a single long line, right across the navigable waters of Queen's Channel and Thamesmouth, with a half-mile separation between ships. Proteus hadn't gone very far, and was in fact now directly North of Minster and Cheyney Rock Oyster Ground; and when the ebb ran, she streamed back from her anchor into the Queen's Channel, into deep water, with her stern half facing the inviting escape route into the North Sea. Several smaller warships patrolled the inner and outer face of that barricade to stop and inspect the papers and cargoes of every vessel that tried to sail up or down the great river. So far, McCann's ravings hadn't come true; no provisions from civilian merchantmen had been removed and shared out to those ships short of supplies. Of course, Lewrie was now beginning to understand, just like there were tyrants, and then there were tyrants, there were delegates, and then there were delegates, and McCann didn't speak for them all-thank God.
Proteus began her ship's routine at daybreak, with the hands up to scrub decks and stow bedding. There would be no more drills though; Bales had had enough of those and was leery of any more sail-making.
After the decks were spotlessly sanded and sluiced to pristine white, perhaps as a way to regain the crew's lost enthusiasm for the evolving mutiny, Seaman Bales decreed a day of "Rope-Yarn" sloth and led them into the requisite morning "three hearty cheers" before dismissing them for their breakfasts and got back what sounded a bit like proper йlan in their open-throated response.
"Rope-Yahn, sah." Andrews smiled, ducking back into the cabins. "Evahbody gon' caulk or idle."
"Aha," Lewrie sighed, looking glum. It was perfect, the enforced half-mile separation, the crew restive and gnawing on their worries, and now idled for the day. Plenty of reason for any sharp-eyed watcher to nod off and let his guard down, plenty of time for his new "vanguard" of prostitutes to insinuate themselves with the diehards and disarm them… one way or another. He looked at Wyman, Winwood, and his midshipmen, who were aft to breakfast with him. There would never be a better chance not in a month of Sundays, yet…
He fretted his mouth, gnawed at his lips in indecisiveness. It could still fail, go horribly wrong, and more innocent men be killed or injured, more loyal hands hurt and let down by a second failure. After scheming for so long, feverish for an opening, if they tried again and were beaten again, there'd never be another hope of salving Proteus.
What they pay detached captains for, he writhed in silent agony; be king and foreign minister and God all rolled up into one, with yer head on the choppin' block if you 're wrong! Come on, ya damn' fool! A bit o' backbone,.. a pinch o' wits! Say something. They're waitin'.
"Forenoon… or wait 'til the First Dog," Lewrie muttered just to fill the echoing void, to temporise a bit more while his creaky wit churned. "Try to sail past the guns of the rest… with frigates and a sloop of war patrolling inshore? I fear it'll have to be mid-morning, gentlemen. No chance to retrieve Lieutenant Devereux and Mister Langlie 'til this is done and we can put back in for 'em."
"But do we proceed, sir?" Lt. Wyman dared press.
"Aye, we do." Lewrie sighed, feeling like it was wrung from him on an inquisitor's rack. "Alert Sergeant Skipwith and Mistress Nancy. Charge your pistols and hide them on your persons. Swords might alert them. Let's say, uhm… six bells of the Forenoon. With a Rope-Yarn Day, they'll begin queuing up forrud before the rum-cask comes up in no particular order. With nothing more'n grog on their minds, we must hope. Six Bells, gentlemen. Aye… let's proceed with it."
Gawd! he shivered as they departed, flopping half-limp into his desk chair; I'm trustin' to luck, Marines who can play-act innocent, and a pack o' whores! But he opened the mahogany box on the desktop and extracted two long-barreled, single-shot pistols to clean them and charge them, and check their flints and mechanisms. Andrews set to at his second set of double-barrel Mantons, and Aspinall and Padgett got busy with Padgett's two small, single-barrel pocket pistols.
"You hear me shout, Andrews, you come running with my hanger," Lewrie bade him. "Your spare cutlass, since you know how to use it. I will trust you, Aspinall, to guard my back with one pistol, and you to my other hand, Mister Padgett. Close-in belly shots, no tricky work."
"Aye, sir." Padgett nodded in his lugubrious, quiet way, with a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead already and his long, clerkish, ink-stained fingers juddering a little in fearful foreboding.
Daft! Lewrie deemed it; bloody, ragin' daft! Still, by 11:00 a.m. there'd be some fewer mutineers aboard. Mr. Handcocks and Morley would be aboard Sandwich for the daily wrangle, and they'd take a boat-crew with them, about half of those the diehards. Six or seven less for them to overpower, so… Christ, so hellish daft!
Half-hour to go to the appointed time for the uprising. Lewrie posing at music by the taffrails, since it was a dry day with no rain, some sunshine, and a bit of wind. Wind square out of the North, about perfect for a ship bound out so she could beam-reach at first to deep water, then haul off to Large or Fair down the Queen's Channel. Bosun Pendarves had been told off to take and hold the forecastle with some few trusty men, to cut the anchor cable and hoist the inner and outer jibs, so Proteus would bear off to her larboard, South-facing side, and drift. Mr. Towpenny and a few more would hoist the spanker from the mizzen to get some drive on her. Let fall the fore and main-course to hang loose-braced and baggy for speed and not worry about the tops'ls or t'gallants 'til they'd gotten the last of the mutineers subdued.
With a brace of long-barrel pistols shoved down into the back of his breeches under his uniform coat, sitting on the flag lockers wasn't the most comfortable thing he'd ever done, as he tootled away on that tin-whistle of his. Louder than his usual wont, to sound casual, and harmless. "Derry Hornpipe," "Portsmouth Lass," "Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day"… he ran through his repertoire (and a damn' thin'un it was!) of the old, old airs, the Celtic, Gaelic, West Country tunes he knew.
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 disarm 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!"
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 Tow-penny 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 Desmond 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 back-pedaled. 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 parted 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 barn-siding 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 Fiorenio, 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…"
"Come up here, Seaman Grace, you and your son! Hell, bring the grandson too! Assist the Sailing Master 'til we reach deep water."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Skreakings and squeals of the lignum-vitae sheaves of the pulley blocks as the fore-course finally reached its limit of travel and the main-course began to ascend too, more squeals as the brace-blocks to the courses took a strain, as the braces were trimmed in to cup wind.
BOOM! From astern at last, and a few seconds later a cannon-ball went shrilling past Proteus's starboard side, very wide of her and hopelessly high. The ball's first graze raised a feathery plume at least a quarter-mile beyond and well alee.
"Showin' 'em our stern, Mister Winwood. Aye, Easterly, as much as you wish," Lewrie agreed, crossing to the binnacle rack to fetch a telescope. He could see several ships near their recent anchorage that had opened their gun-ports; but it was a haphazard thing, as irregular as a beggar's teeth, and he doubted if they'd get off a killing broadside before Proteus got out of range. BOOM! another piece spoke, but it was a forecastle carronade on one of the 64-gunners, not a long-range gun. This ball was closer to line-of-aim, but couldn't even begin to reach her and fell very short, not even skipping near.
"Sergeant Skipwith?" Lewrie demanded, pacing back to the hammock nettings.
"Aye, aye, sah!" Skipwith said, stamping to attention.
"You and the Master At Arms, the Ship's Corporals assist Mister Offley. I want all our mutineers taken under arms in chains at once!" Lewrie ordered. "Especially that bastard!" he said, pointing at Bales with the tin-whistle, which was by then pretty-much the worse for wear.
Rumbold, Smyth, and Mash, Mr. Handcocks, Mr. Morley, and Private Mollo, two of the Sailmaker's crew, Bales, and two other of the Marines, a few more faces he'd come to loathe by then, scooped up from where they lay or slumped on the deck, some dragged up from below already in irons, hooted and jeered by the victorious doxies who'd bamboozled the lot of 'em. Seventeen, altogether, less Haslip and O'Neil. He hoped Proteus had enough restraints to hold them. If Proteus had sailed into Sheerness through a blizzard of gunfire, he'd have been able to dispose of them with the authorities. Now, though, escaping to sea, he was stuck with them and he doubted his died-in-the-wool mutineers would go quietly. They'd finagle and whisper, perhaps cry out to the rest of the crew for help, try to turn them back into mutineers and free them, retake Proteus… Bales especially. There were a whole nest of vipers in his breast, and he needed to be shot of them as quick as he could. How, though? Hmmm.. . goodquestion, he mused.
More cannonfire, as Proteus got a bone in her teeth and began to put on speed, gathering way out into Queen's Channel, beginning to bend her course a touch Sutherly at Elder Grace's suggestions, sailing Large off that North wind, and the sea round her peppered by misses still, but more guns were now involved. And there was a mutineer frigate far up near The Warp, off the North shore, that was speeding down on Proteus to intercept, abandoning her clutch of ten or twelve captured merchant ships to punish a defector.
"Mister Wyman?" Lewrie snapped, turning to his Second Officer. "Aye, sir," Wyman replied, still smiling dreamily over retaking the ship. "You are now my First Officer, Mister Wyman," Lewrie said. "Ah… I see, sir. My goodness gracious!" Wyman sobered. That was an onerous job of work he hadn't thought to expect, sure that Lieutenant Langlie, or even Ludlow, might return aboard.
"Get sail on her, Mister Wyman, quick as dammit!" Lewrie said. "Before yon rebel frigate catches us up. Tops'ls and t'gallants. The foremast first, to lighten and lift the bows.
"Er… aye, aye, sir!" Wyman goggled, then gulped, reset his hat, and cupped his hands round his mouth. "Hoy, there! All topmen aloft! Lay aloft, trice up, and lay out! Free tops'ls and t'gallants! Smartly, foremast… handsomely, main and mizzen!"
Lewrie looked aft. That frigate off his larboard quarter seemed to be gaining slightly, though not yet within range of her foredeck chase-guns. Heavier stuff was peppering about astern though; someone had gotten a 3rd Rate's lower-deck 32-pounders in action at last and three or four round-shot went moaning past Proteus, rustling the air with the sound of ripping canvas, to splash about a quarter-mile ahead of her bows. Turning to follow their flight, and seeing those towering plumes of spray, Lewrie could see several merchantmen far beyond, out to sea, some coastal fishing boats slanting in towards the Thamesmouth or the Medway. Or at least they had been, until they'd seen firing and gotten a fright, for they either fetched-to or broadened profiles even as he watched, steering clear of something they didn't wish to be involved with.
Coasters! Lewrie thought; find myself a coaster, warm him off of theThames, and get him to land my chained mutineers somewhere else… turn 'em over to a civil magistrate, if not a Navy officer. Where's the Impress Services; they'd suit? Harwich, Whitstable, Herne Bay… bloody Margate?
" "Ere!" Miss Nancy was crying, scampering up the starboard ladder to the quarterdeck, with several other doxies in tow. "We're goin' out! We wanna go back t'Sheerness, Cap'um, not t'seaf'
"Aye, what're ya playin' at, sir?" Sally Blue's mother carped. "By God, didya play us false, I'll have yer gizzard!"
"Ladies!" Lewrie boomed, spreading his arms in greeting, just as chearly as anything to placate them. "You did it, by Christ!"
Mr. Winwood could be heard uttering a scandalised groan.
"My undying thanks to all of you!" he pressed on quickly, taking off his hat, making a formal leg to them. " 'Twas a fearsome and brave deed you did in your King's, and Country's, service; and I will be sure to list each of you by name, with the firmest recommendations to Vice-Admiral Buckner, the First Secretary to Admiralty, Mr. Evan Nepean… aye, I'll write 'His Nobs' King George himself, swear I shall! telling them what splendid, patriotic women you are. And honour our pact, I assure you. But…" he said, straightening and pointing astern, "we aren't out of the woods yet. We almost lost again, and it was happenstance that we beat 'em down when the tide was running out, not in. I will set you ashore… promise! But we have to get out of the range of their guns first. Wait 'til dusk, no longer. Swear it."
He didn't think it would go amiss to walk amongst them (though he suspected they still had their impromptu weapons about their persons), bestow kisses on work-hardened hands, buss cheeks on the younger-and cleaner-and speak a few personal words of congratulations and gratitude. Sally Blue responded most eagerly, flinging her arms 'round him again, and he patted (well, perhaps stroked as well) her slim back as she jounced atip-toe and squealed nicely. It seemed to mollify them.
"Oh, give 'im 'is fob back, Sally," Miss Nancy chuckled when they'd untangled from their embrace, relenting to his logic.
"Sorr-eyy." Sally Blue blushed quite prettily. "Habit, like."
"Right, then, Cap'um Lewrie." Miss Nancy shrugged. "We'll wait 'til dark."
"You kill any of 'em, Miss Nancy?" he had to ask.
"Hurt a few, I reckon." She shrugged again. "Aye, one o' them committeemen…'at Kever feller? Ravin' 'bout settin' light to th' powder store, 'fore he'd let th' ship be took, so…" She drew a hand across her throat, though not with as much enthusiasm as Sally Blue had the moment before the counter-mutiny had erupted. "Lost int'rest fer quim too quick; couldn't 'old 'im back."
Lewrie nodded, thinking on how he'd manage Proteus as a fighting ship without Master Gunner, Mate, and Yeoman of The Powder. Oh shit, he suddenly realised; we could've been blown higher'n a kite! I do b'lieve I need me a sit-down. And who slit Kever's gizzard for him? You, Nancy? he wondered. Damme, don't know why I ever thought her attractive. There's some women just too dangerous t'mess with!
He looked aloft, saw the tops'ls on both fore and main drawing, the fore t'gallant heaving upward from the fighting top, almost in position, half-open and flagging like a rattle of musketry. He turned to look back towards the Great Nore. What cannonfire directed at Proteus from the anchored ships wasn't reaching them and was tailing off in a weary acceptance-and it had never been more than half-hearted. The frigate to her North still stood on, though slanting more to the Sou-Sou'west, back into the Queen's Channel, as if she was breaking off pursuit too.
Can't trust their own hands to chase us too far, Lewrie realised with joy; fore they get ideas about escape in their heads too!
"Things well in hand, Mister Winwood?" he asked, walking back to the helm where Winwood was buried in his charts, and the two Grace men were craning their necks and conferring on where the next deadly shoal might be.
"Good as may be expected, Captain," Winwood allowed, not quite sure he liked being counselled by two common seamen; wasn't he Sailing Master, the Admiralty-chosen sage responsible for safe navigation?
"In th' main channel, sir." Elder Grace grinned. "An' clear o' th' worst bars an' shoals, so far. Markers an' buoys'll see us right."
"Very well, Mister Winwood, Seaman Grace. Carry on." Lewrie nodded. "And, thankee… thankee both. Or, all three, that is," he added, as their son/grandson crooked his neck to follow Winwood's finger on the chart, between their legs, seeing a wonder he'd not suspected could be pictured or written down, that lore he'd learned from the cradle, mostlike. "For your loyalty and steadfastness through all our troubles. I believe, Mister Winwood, we'll be needing a replacement for your Irish Master's Mate, Mister Nugent?"
"Well, aye, sir." Winwood frowned.
"Move one of the quartermasters up, one of the mates to replace that'un… and Mister Grace here," he nodded at the elder, "advanced to Quartermaster's Mate?"
"Very good, sir." Winwood nodded, whether he liked it or not.
"And Young Grace, sir!" Lewrie said, squatting down. "Mister Peacham is ashore… permanently, pray Jesus. For the short time we must promote Mister Catterall an acting-lieutenant, Mister Adair, too, as Third Officer. That leaves an opening in the midshipman's mess. Would you be interested, Master Grace?" he asked the boy. "Try your hands as a trainee midshipman?"
For a poor fisheries lad with no hopes of a naval career, it was a miraculous bolt from the blue. Aye, he was more than eager!
"Good, then," Lewrie said, rising to his feet. "Carry on, Mister Winwood. Make us a good offing, but we'll lurk off to the South, for a while longer. Deep water off Herne Bay, Whitstable? By dark, we'll close the coast and land our prisoners and civilian women. Should we not come across a coaster or large fisheries boat, we could pay to put them ashore."
"Aye, aye, sir." Winwood perked up, glad to be rid of the women at last.
"Know most of 'em, sir," Elder Grace supplied, still peering at the seaward horizon with one hand shading his eyes. "Beg pardon, but do ya wish, it'd be best did I hail 'em. They know me, but they'd run from a Navy ship, expectin' a Press Gang, sir."
"Very well, Grace, we'll do it that way." Lewrie nodded. "I'll go below for a moment then. Mister Wyman? You have the deck, sir. I have much to write 'fore dusk, and little time in which to do it."
Proteus had been slowly hobby horsing over the tide-run, surging a bit to the press of the winds. Now her bows lifted as a wave, a sea wave, crested below her cutwater and broke to cream down her flanks. A cheer went up, for she was now truly free and halfway to salt ocean.
"Mister Wyman!" Lewrie roared. "Haul down those yard ropes… haul down those red flags. Mister Catterall? Fetch out a Red Ensign from the aft lockers and bend it on. Put us back under true colours!"
He went forrud to the edge of the nettings to look down on his crew. It was a thinner crew than before, barely the numbers he needed to work her or fight her, and God knew when he'd get more, especially sailors he could trust implicitly. Perhaps the entire Navy would have that problem from this moment on, no matter when the Nore mutiny was over. And it would be over, he was mortal-certain. With his crew as a guide, there weren't enough wild-eyed radicals to sustain rebellion, when that wasn't what the most had sworn on for. Days… weeks even; but sooner or later, it would be over. He just hoped it ended before England 's enemies took advantage of it.
They stood on gun-deck or gangways, now the topmen were down off the upper yards, looking to him their captain. Proud and pleased; the sullen, who still might prove untrustworthy; the frightened and confused, who'd always wavered in the middle…
"Thankee, lads! Thankee," he said, taking off his hat in humility. "We're now returned to duty. The Spithead terms are yours. See you yonder!" he cried, spearing an arm aloft.
Red Ensign at the mizzen peak, where it belonged.
"H… M… S Proteus.1" he roared. "Won back from the brink of shame by men! A proud ship… redeemed! A proud young frigate, manned by a proud crew! Mister Coote, sir? I note it is now a quarter-past noon. B'lieve 'Clear Decks And Up Spirits' is late, sir! We'll splice the main brace! Proteuses, ladies and wives, alike!" That raised an even greater cheer.
"Slate's clean again!" he shouted, as they began to queue up at the foc's'le belfry. "And nary a man who returned to duty will ever be charged, you hear? Now when you drink… drink to yourselves. Drink to success for our ship! May her fame never be tarnished again!"