Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain
seu nostra dolos molitor opertos sive externa manus,
primus mihi nuntius esto.
Cast now thine eyes upon the land, upon all the sea;
whether it be men of my own land or strangers
that are planning secret treachery,
be first to bear me news.
– Argonautica, Book V, 246-49
Valerius Flaccus
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
If Proteus had lacked information before, her isolation became even worse once the mutinous fleet had shifted out to the Great Nore. Their "Parliament" had already banned letters to or from shore. Now, 'tween-ship visiting, which was usually allowed, had been cancelled as well. Oh, there was still visiting; but it was done by the representatives from the "Parliament" ship, HMS Sandwich alone, the daily parade of rowing boats filled with cheering leaders and sycophants, accompanied by noisy ships' bands, and a sea of gay flags.
Monday the twenty-ninth had been Restoration Day, and to celebrate King Charles II's return to the throne after the end of commoners' rule, the mutiny ships had fired the usual 19-gun salutes and hoisted the royal standards for a time, though the weather was cold and gloomy, blowing half a gale of wind off the North Sea, even harbour waves high enough to stir and rock the line-of-battle ships like fishing smacks. A rather odd act, Lewrie had thought, for a pack of mutineers hellbent on hanging the monarch, to read their truculent diatribes!
But there had been no Rope-Yarn Day after, no special feasts, no libertymen allowed ashore to carouse and toast the King in the pubs. Once the royal standards had been lowered, they had returned to a lack-lustre waiting, and workaday chores of ship-keeping.
Rumours, mostly third- or fourth-hand, spoke of President Parker and the Fleet Delegates meeting ashore with the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty… others spoke of pilots called aboard to steer them to France… six months' arrears in pay to be settled on the morrow… the only thing sure was that no one but Parker and the other leading negotiators, and their boat-crews, were allowed liberty in Sheerness. Delegates had made the rounds dictating a new "regulation" that said a man must apply to the Fleet Delegates for a pass, after approval by his own ship's committee, and the matter decided by Parker himself!
Anchored that far out, the mutineers had also lost the services of the many vendors' bumboats, their pastries, meat-pies, gew-gaws, or smuggled spirits; the shoes, shirts, and slop-clothing better than what Mr. Coote offered; the tobacco, sweets, or treats that sailors bought to liven the dull sameness of ship's fare. Though some pedlars tried to make the long row or sail out to the mutineer ships, their numbers were not a third of the usual, or previous, days.
One thing Lewrie had determined by keeping an eager ear open to the complaints of his crew; what Joining Bounty they had gotten as volunteers had already been spent on slop stores; what little they'd hoarded for contingencies had gone for the wild sprees that had followed the mutiny's eruption. The poor bastards were broke! The bumboaters couldn't squeeze a single farthing more from them; and, expecting the worst from an impatient government, were not of a mind to extend them any credit against future pay vouchers either!
Now that they were reduced to plain commons and the skimpy daily rum issue, whole days of skylarking, hornpiping, and delegates' shouted harangues could not relieve the monotony of Navy routine. Resentments arose too over how long this mutiny of theirs might take before winning the wished-for results; most especially, they resented the strident militancy and "high-flown airs" of the Fleet Delegates of their brand-new " Floating Republic."
And the women…! Lewrie could recall, hugging himself with joy. Article the Third of their compact declared that "… no woman shall be permitted to go on shore from any ship, but as many may come as please. When they had been anchored hard by Garrison Point, that had been a lark. Now, though, the women were becoming burdensome, one more irritant.
Proteus had over an hundred "live-lumber," not two dozen of 'em authentic wives who had come out to stand by their real husbands. No, the rest were Sheerness or Chatham whores, the hired doxies and drabs brought out in the bumboats by brothel-keepers, pimps, or boatmen, who got a share of their earnings in return for "passage." The hands had been eager to speak up and claim the prettiest and cleanest, youngest and most fetching, declaring them "wives" who'd turned up to stay with them whilst in harbour, to be "kept" on their money and rations. Even some of the most raddled, who were normally turned away, had remained, knowing that someone less choosy would turn up after a few hours down on the gun-deck, and all that semi-public rutting to whet appetites or remove fears; and even honest married men might succumb, the young and inexperienced turned heady with lust! They'd not been turned away by the Surgeon, Mr. Shirley, and his mates, so they weren't "poxed" so…
They would usually stay aboard as long as a ship was at anchor and Out of Discipline, as long as their "husbands" had money for their sexual favours and upkeep… and not a single minute more.
Now the "fairer sex," even the frailest, sweetest, and prettiest (and there were damned few of those to start with!), were sniping and snarling over being "press-ganged" without pay! They were definitely not a pack of shrinking violets to be put off, stalled, or "used," without solid coin either. Born with, or developing by necessity, a grave-digger's chary soul, the average sailor's doxy was a flinty chit, no one to trifle with! Coquetry and languid, lash-fluttering charms of perfumed London courtesans, shammed passion and affection were beyond them. Mostly it was, "Hoy, Jack… wanna poke?"
Now, without money to earn, without civilian fripperies off the mostly absent bumboats, kept from leaving as strictly as the sailors, and now reduced to the same salt-rations, tile-hard ship's biscuit, the same pease porridge and already semi-rancid Navy-issue cheese, and with but a sip of small beer or a share of their "man's" watered grog, they posed a greater threat of counter-mutiny than anything Lewrie or his officers could conjure up! Clearly, the "honeymoon" was over. He snickered in private and schemed upon how to turn it to his advantage!
Lewrie paced the larboard gangway for exercise, all the way to the bower anchor cat-heads and the break of the forecastle; 'round the belfry, then down the starboard gangway, aft to the quarterdeck and the traffrails, to begin another circuit. To be seen by his men, unruffled, calm, and serene, no matter his predicament; to point out things needing trimming or re-roving, a lick of paint or tar, to the mates and leading hands; reinforcing his authority… and eliciting information.
"Mornin', Mash… bearin' up?" He would brighten whenever he encountered a face he could put name to in his raw, new crew. "Mornin', Landsman Furfy… mornin', Landsman Lucas… Bannister. Christ, what an eye, man! Run into a rammer in the dark, did you?"
"Run outta money, sir…'en run into th' wrong drab, sir," the sailor griped, daubing at his impressive "shiner" with a soggy neckerchief.
"Knocked 'im flatter'n a flounder, sir," Middle Grace chuckled. "Ah, a fearsome woman. Not one t'cross, Cap'um, sir," he said with a jut of his chin towards the blowsy blonde who'd mocked Lewrie before.
"Nancy, sir," she named herself, swaying her broad hips at him as she paced over near the bottom of the gangway lip below him, putting on a lascivious air (out of hard-drilled habit, Lewrie suspected).
"Aye, I put him down, the 'skint' pup!" she boasted, hands on her hips, and leaning forward to sport her ample bosom at him. "Ya give me a dozen lashes, Cap'um? Or a dozen o' somethin' else 'd be yer pleasure?"
"And my dear wife'd black both my eyes, Nancy," Lewrie quipped.
"Give a poor girl a chance, Cap'um!" She pouted, with what she must have imagined was an enticing note to her voice. "None o' yer lads've two pence t'rub t'gither…"
"You leave 'em anything to rub at all, Mistress Nancy?" Lewrie was quick to reply, enjoying the banter with her. "Even a nubbin?"
By God, scrubbed up, she don't look half bad! he thought; tad stout, but that's teats an' hips, mostly. Blonde, pretty-ish… Gawd!
She threw her head back and cackled, proud that she'd "rubbed" at least one, two-a half-dozen of his hands down to "nubbins" before they'd run out of coin. Brassy, bold, fresh-faced, totally amoral…
Was a time, 'twas my favourite sort, he told himself!
234
I "Wager you 've more'n a nubbin in yer britches, Cap'um, sir!" she suggested, drawing a chorus of "ooohs" from the hands nearby. "Care t' spank me fer bein' mean t'yer men? Handsome officer like yerself, I'd even enjoy it… nor charge ye much, darlin'!"
"Now how could I do that, Mistress Nancy?" Lewrie felt obliged to [pout in disappointment. "And a firm, spankable bum I'm certain you own too. But… like you say, now the hands are 'skint'… how fair d'ye think it'd be for me to savour what the lads no longer can?"
Damme, bet it is! he all but salivated; now, let's see what they think o' that? Aha! Sage nods… bless me… old "firm but fair!"
"Dammit t'Hell, Cap'um…" Nancy groaned, swiping at her hair irritatedly, " 'thout they let me'un t'other girls ashore, how am I to keep meself?"
"Well, you've what you've earned… to spend on the bumboats,"
Lewrie suggested, " 'til they let you and the rest go. Did you spend that well… there's Bales and the other committeemen. They've still got coin, I'll wager. Planned this for a long time? Probably laid a store o'money aside for it."
"Them with the green cockades?" Nancy sneered, spitting on the deck in derision. "Mouths, they got! Fine words. No nutmegs though. Too busy t'even play wif their own cocks!"
Another hearty laugh, this one directed at their "betters." Oh, trust a leery, chary English sailor to turn on those over them as soon as they began to put on the "Qualities' " airs. There was an inbred deference to your average Englishman, be he tar or rural day-labourer, a costermonger or house-servant. He would doff his hat, knuckle at his forelock, and scrape out a bow to gentlemen and ladies; and most of the time (as long as orders were reasonable) would obey. He had trouble with obedience though, when it came to being bossed about by those no grander than he was-or who had risen from his level to greatness.
Officers and midshipmen, sailing masters, and surgeons were from the Quality, the squirearchy or aristocracy, the upper level of middling rank- used to being obeyed, and the sailors were used to obeying, and even expected "the Better Sort" to make the decisions. Now, though… Another reason for resentment, Lewrie schemed.
Nancy, encouraged by the laughter her comment had got, hoisted the skirts of her gaudy sack gown to display her calves. They were bare instead of sheathed in the usual cotton or opaque silk stockings… slimmer and more alluring than he'd suspected! Clean, too; not smutted with tar or soot. Rather cunning little feet…!
"Not even a thumb-worth, Mistress Nancy?" Lewrie pretended to gawp in astonishment. "Not even a nubbin? Less than a nubbin? Damme, ye don't think they traded 'wedding-tackle' for green cockades, hey?"
They made sure that every man had pledged fidelity, gave oaths as firm as wedding vows, and sported the red cockade of rebellion… but then said that red cockades must respect green cockades as their superiors-as good as officers.
Nancy gave out a shriek of mirth, which made the rest feel free to roar their appreciation of his jest too.
"Hoy, then!" another harridan bellowed from below him, this one a much fiercer old bulldog, practically towing a rather pretty younger miss with her by the hand. "Daughter'un me, fine sir! Damn my eyes, I won't let her spread fer free, nor lift my skirts fer nothin' neither! Th' skipper o' this here barge, are ye? Well then, 'thout you pay us t'stay, give us a boat t'go ashore, ya tight-fisted bastard!"
And then, Lewrie sighed, there were some who'd skipped classes the day they took up "Deference."
"I have no control over that, Mistress," Lewrie told her, taking off his hat and laying it over his heart to show the old strumpet just how sincere he was. And giving the old bat's fifteen-year-old protйgй a good going over with his glims! "The fellow calls himself 'captain' of 'this-here barge'… for now… is named Bales. You'd have to take it up with him and his committee. You want pay, you'd best ask of them to give you your daily bread… and your daily shilling. Or a boat."
"What good're the likes o' you, then!" the old woman scoffed.
" 'Til this crew accepts the Spithead terms, the pardon, and returns to discipline, ma'am," Lewrie informed her, "there's nought that I can do.. • not with a pistol to my head or a knife in my ribs, I cannot. Me, I'd be happy to oblige you and put you ashore with all your earnings, where you can buy yourself and charming daughter a meal and a bottle, when you wish. But…" He shrugged most eloquently. And sadly doffing his hat and making a departing "leg" to Hoary Harridan, Bountiful Nancy, and the Unknown but Luscious Little'un, he departed.
With the gay sounds of curses, slurs, demands, and arguments in his shell-like ears!
Another bloody fire lit, he sniffed; now let's just see who gets scorched by it!
Hands who now couldn't afford to put the leg over, but presented with (mostly) desirable pulchritude everywhere they looked; real wives who wished the paid variety off, 'cause their husbands still had money and didn't need the temptations trolling about for tuppence; mutineer leaders maligned, and another resentment, and suspicion, raised against them. Did they really have some hoarded coin and took time from their incessant preaching of mutiny and rebellion to put the leg over one of the whores-especially one of the prettier ones-themselves?
And the disgruntled, "impressed" whores…?
Oh, we're a happy little ship, we are! Lewrie chortled silently, a "tiddly" little ship!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
And, by the time eight bells of the Forenoon Watch had finished chiming, Lewrie was quite pleased to see that Proteus had been given a new cause for upset.
The hands had queued up at seven bells, when "Clear Decks and Up Spirits" had been piped for the grog issue. A keg of rum so stout it was almost pitchy-dark and treacly had been fetched up; decorated with yellow paint, the Navy seal, and the ancient motto, "The King God Bless Him." With it had come a butt of water, and the miniature mugs; to be mixed and diluted two-for-one, which would yield each hand the equivalent of a half-pint of grog-all carefully guarded and administered by the Master At Arms and Ship's Corporals, the Purser, and Mr. Shirley the Surgeon. Mutineers or not, the ritual was not to be tinkered with, for sailors were a conservative lot, as ill-suited as a cat to a sudden change in daily routine or surroundings. The new leaders aboard, obeying the stricture in their compact to respect officers and their orders, clung to the notices on the watch-and-quarter bills as to how much grog each man should get; was someone being punished by deprivation; and the agreements among the hands themselves as to whether another got not only his own, but "sippers" or "gulpers" of another man's for sewing up slop-trousers to a better fit, standing a watch, making a useful article, or settling wagers between them.
