Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain
"Hmmm…" Lewrie frowned in thought, clapping his hands in the small of his back and studying the toes of his boots, the tarred oakum seams in the quarterdeck planking. "No, Mister Winwood. Their being aboard and out of reach for want of money is troubling to our tars, so… we'll keep 'em as one more cause for upset. If they are eating us out of house and home, then Bales and Handcocks might put them on half-rations… put the whole crew on half-rations sooner or later. No quim and short-commons? Our jacks'll never stand for that! We've need of the whores, believe me."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A little after the midday meal had been served to the crew and they lazed in post-prandial ease for a half-hour (during which time the officers dined), Lewrie was surprised to hear a hail from an entry-port to an arriving boat-one which didn't draw the requisite cheers that the delegates prefered. He was making the best the best he could of his dinner, which wasn't much more than the same salt-beef that the hands had fed upon, and was more than happy to abandon the effort and saunter out on deck to satisfy his curiosity.
He was further surprised to see that a bumboat had come alongside. Mr. Morley of the ship's committee was speaking to the hopeful trader and summoning Bales to make the decision about letting strange people aboard. The boat's skipper was bowing, scraping, and gesticulating as humbly as a Levant rug-merchant, pointing overside and leering suggestively. Even more whores? Lewrie wondered.
His mate in the boat passed up a wooden cage in which several plump chickens resided, shedding feathers and dung as they swayed up on a light whip, and squawking their unwillingness to be so impressed into the Royal Navy. Their upset spurred other creatures into protests, and Lewrie heard the squeals of piglets. Drawn by gustatory fantasies, Lewrie drifted forrud, fingering his purse for ready coin.
"Well, damn th' authorities, says I!" The bumboatman was crying. "No man'll tell a Willis he can't sellta whoever he wishes, mate. Hoy there, Captain, sir! No more fresh stores t'come. Admiral saysta cut 'em off. Wager a plump hen'r two'd suit ya, sir, whilst yer forced t'wait. Yer officers, too, sir… hens, geese, a plump torn turkey fer th' gunroom?
Roast piglet wi' cracklin's an' gravy by sundown, do ya buy this hour, sir. Loaf bread, sweet biscuits… fresh cheese that'll melt in yer mouth, sir. Hoy, now! Who'll buy… does this'n let me aboard, hey? Give a poor merchant a chance, willya?"
Full or not on Navy fare, the hands drifted over to see what he had, up on the gangway to peer over the bulwarks, or below its lip to grumble and insist that Bales let him come aboard. Most especially the whores.
"Might not see another, Brother Bales." Handcocks speculated. "Tyrants've most-like scared th' rest o' th' bumboatmen from tradin'. Threatened t'take away their permits, sure."
"Very well," Bales sighed. "No private spirits, mind. We've articles against it, Mister Willis," he warned the vendor. "You've no doxies in your boat, so I can't see the harm. Let him enter!" Bales decreed in a loud voice, like Moses reading the First Commandment, to a glad cheer from the bored crew and the deprived womenfolk.
Willis the vendor and several of his assistants clambered up to the gangway. Some of them descended into the waist to show off samples of their wares. Children began shrieking over gooey sweets or stickily sugared buns they wished. The warship's waist quickly became a village green on Market Day.
Willis the vendor came aft to confront Lewrie and the rest of his officers, who had come up fingering their own purses or delving in their breeches' pockets to purchase those luxuries which enlivened their own lives.
"Oh, sirs, I've so many fowl, I'm chicken-pore, an' they'll go for less'n anybody else'd charge ye, my Bible-oath 'pon it! T'others cut off from tradin'… skeered off from tradin' by that Admiral Buckner and that new Gen'r'l Grey just come t'Sheerness with all his soldiers?" The man bubbled most brightly. "Wines, sirs. Brandies, sirs. Not for the likes o' them lads down yonder, but off cers can have private wine-stocks. Good vintages an more'n reasonable. Here, Captain, sir. We see ya, all but slobb'rin' over these here fine shoats. Brace of them, good Captain, an' I swear ya could feast fer four days runnin'. Half-crown each, Captain, sir. A crown, th' pair."
"Damme, that's… more'n reasonable," Lewrie was forced to say.
"Bought up th' stock o' other vendors!" Lewrie could hear a vendor's assistant on the lower deck bawling the explanation. "Bought for a song when they saw 'twas ruinous for 'em, th' craven poltroons! Bought cheap, sold cheap! Come one, come all. No pushin' there, lad!"
"I'll take the shoats," Lewrie said, looking for Aspinall to come and take charge of them and opening his purse for solid coin. "A brace of geese too. A full pound for all, is it?"
"An' here's yer change, good sir!" The vendor winked, handing Lewrie a folded square of paper. "Shame it is, good Englishmen forced t'use paper money, but there 'tis." He winked again.
Lewrie pocketed the note in his breeches and gave this fellow Willis a dumbstruck nod of understanding.
"No matter th' rest o' th' cowards, sir," Willis assured him, "you can count on Willis's fer all yer needs. Be back whene'er th' ole Nore weather allows me, sirs. Keep ya in yer best tucker. Cheer ya with spirits, as good as any fine merchant in London would, and so I will. Good as… Willis's Rooms'd treat a lodger such'z yerself."
"I know it well," Lewrie admitted with a nod, keeping a grin of comprehension from giving the game away. "But… ah…?"
"Thought ya would, Captain Lewrie." This Willis whispered as he twisted his torso to one side to pocket more money from the other officers who'd made purchases. With another brief wink.
"You will come often then, I take it, sir?" Lewrie asked.
"Ev'ry t'other day, do th' weather allow, sir," Willis boasted in a normal voice.
"Good." Lewrie smiled. "I'd hate to be deprived out here. Of anything needful. A newspaper…?"
"Next trip, sir, or my name's not Willis." The man guffawed, as if at a private jest. "Zachariah Willis."
"Ah!" Lewrie nodded, the scales of mystery torn from his eyes.
Of course, every arm of HM government had been sicced on this mutiny, on the Spithead mutiny before it. Nepean had said that agents working for the Duke of Portland, the King's "Witch-Finder" and seeker of dangerous dissidents, had been delving 'round Portsmouth and Plymouth for signs that the mutiny was foreign-sponsored.
Every arm of HM government, both the spiritual and temporal. Most-like the Established Church of England had already sent out circulars to every vicar, urging them to preach loyalty and obedience from their pulpits. i And should a tiny bureau of the Foreign Office be told to delve, to finagle, undermine, and investigate-perhaps even go so far as to eliminate the most infamous rabble-rousers, well…
Zachariah! A clue to Zachariah Twigg, that cold-blooded, ruthless old cut-throat spy of Lewrie's long, painful, and dangerous association? In the Far East 'tween the wars, the Ligurian Sea not so long ago in '95 and '96…! Someone official was establishing underground communication to him, to all captains who'd not been put off already. Looking for information… imparting information, encouragement… orders? That folded square of foolscap was burning a brand upon his thigh!
"Pity I have so little to give you, Mister Willis," Lewrie said with an apologetic shrug. "But I didn't anticipate your arrival. I b'lieve, though… when next you call… I'll have a proper list of my wants and needs."
"Ah, that's th' spirit, Captain, sir!" Willis cackled with glee. "All brass-bound Navy like. Can't scuttle 'cross a duck pond without a man havin' his lists. An' I'll be honoured t'have 'em from ya," he hinted.
Lewrie's lips opened and he felt the urge to take the man by the arm that instant to pump him for more information or tell him about the state of the mutiny aboard Proteus. But this fellow who pretended to be Willis took a half-step back, squinted in worry, and gave him a brief but vigourous negative shake of his head.
"See some others've found th' courage t'come out an' trade with the ships," Willis said instead, further pretending to frown, pointing outboard. "Hope you'll not be fickle an' let just anybody come sell to ya, sir."
Lewrie looked outward. Despite the likelihood of decent profit, there did seem to be an increase in the number of traders' bumboats by the other warships now. There were smaller row-boats from Sheerness, Minster, or Leigh alongside some, crying their fresh-dredged oysters or fresh-caught fish.
"Thrivin' trade, sir," this Willis simpered, "d'spite prohibitions 'gainst it."
"Admiral Buckner's… or Parker's?" Lewrie muttered.
"Mum's th' word on that head, sir," Willis responded.
"Smugglin', are you?" Lewrie barked with amusement, and Willis looked like to about jump out of his skin in alarm. In point of fact, Lewrie suspected he had a poor repute with the Twiggs of this world; it was evident this man had been warned he was dealing with a loose-lip, a slender reed. Perhaps he'd been promoted to Nitwit, who was nowhere as clever as he thought himself.
"Well, damme…" Lewrie pretended to sigh in resignation. "How else'd I, or anyone in England, have our tea, silks, or lace without a smuggler at the root of it."
"Ah, ha!" Willis nervously laughed at that, all but shivering in relief (1) that Lewrie had grasped that the bumboats were indeed smuggling, but in the King's name; (2) that despite the reports, Lewrie wasn't a raving twit; and (3) that he hadn't gotten him killed-yet! "But a very English trade, sir, hey? 'Long as it stays solely English?" he purred in question. After he'd gotten his wits and control of his sphincter back, that is.
Which subtle query gave Lewrie pause. Damn me, this is gettin' a tad deep, he thought; had as spoonin' up some willin' chit right under her husband's nose! How to say it? He's as good as put it to me direct: Is our mutiny homegrown or foreign-brewed? And what do I know?
"Oh there may be interlopers, now and then, who hope to prosper at it," Lewrie cautiously replied, with wit enough to growl, indignant, "though not for very long. It's a home-grown trade mostly. That's to say, ah… uhmmm…" Horse turds! Even I can't make sense of what I just told him!
"Oh, exactly, sir," Willis said, his eyes hooding (and crossing in perplexity) as he could take no clue from that either. "Well, sir, take joy. By yer leave, I'll search out some other customers."
The smuggled letter (for that was what his "change" had been) stated what he already pretty-much knew or had deduced. It began most ominously, though, with… "The Dutch Fleet is ready."
The additional demands of the Nore mutineers had been presented to visiting Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty and had been rejected out-of-hand. The Spithead terms would be all they would receive. And those terms were not the defamed Orders in Council but were legitimate Acts of Parliament for all to read. Copies of the Acts, and copies of the King's Pardon, were being smuggled aboard the recalcitrant vessels at the Nore to convince the deluded or ignorant that they should take them and return to duty, be pardoned, without any hard feelings.
Upon receipt of those, did his crew still refuse to return command of his ship to him and return to discipline, the letter bore specific orders for all captains and officers still aboard mutinous ships to quit their vessels at once and report to Admiral Buckner ashore!
"Damn, damn, damn!" Lewrie sighed, hunched over the letter at the transom sash windows right aft, huddled up in a corner of the settee atop his lazarette stores. How could he leave her when his plots to retake her had barely been set in motion, had yet to bear fruit? he agonised. With the King's Pardon and Acts of Parliament aboard for all to see, there was more than a good chance that Proteus would strike the mutineers' flags and hoist her proper colours!
But it was a direct order, scribbled at the bottom with Vice-Admiral Buckner's signature; to disobey, did the crew prove obstinate, was to risk not only this command but his entire career!
He crumpled it up into a tight ball, thinking hard; which gay noise brought Toulon from a sound nap atop the wine-cabinet, swishing his tail in expectation of a brand-new, un-munched, un-swatted "toy." He plopped to the deck, meowed enticingly as he hopped into his owner's lap, trying to paw it or bite it from Lewrie's hand.
Lewrie idly stroked him, as he unfolded the letter to give it a second reading, hoping for an escape clause. No, no hopes of that, but… information he had leapt over before: Channel Fleet was returned to duty- Admiral Duncan at Great Yarmouth was to sail to the Texel Channel to block the exits of the French-controlled Dutch Batavian Navy.
Channel Fleet would be no help here; Brest, Cherbourg, St. Malo, and Le Havre already bristled with warships, invasion galleys to carry troops, and escorting gunboats. That armada was weather-bound, so far, but was rumoured to be on tip-toes, prepared to descend on Ireland or, perhaps, even on England 's south coast. It was vital, therefore…
"And blah-blah-blah," Lewrie softly groaned. "Sorry, puss, not a toy for you." To his ram-cat's dismay, he shredded it to tiny bits, before someone else could read it. "Well, you can have it… later."
He could toss it out the transom sash windows, but that might raise suspicions if someone spotted him doing it. But turned into a heaping handful of foolscap, the letter would do main-well for filler in Toulon 's litter box! After a fragrant spritz or two of cat-pee, no spy in the world would even try to retrieve it, much less piece it back together!
"Oh, sometimes you're so useful, Toulon," Lewrie told him. "Do you know that? Yayysss, 'oo are. I'll give you another sheet to play with would you like that?"
Toulon did, eagerly bounding off to football, pounce, and mutter over a blank sheet, most intriguingly balled; far forrud into the dining-coach and back.
"Damme, and it was such a good plan we had going too," Lewrie sighed, quite bleakly, as he gingerly "disposed" of that incriminating letter's remains.
That late in the afternoon, the tide was starting to turn. His frigate, streaming back from a single bower, was beginning to swing on her cable, turning her stern shoreward as the evening flood tide took her. In the transom sash windows, the alluring vista of an open horizon, the puddled-steel glitter of the North Sea, and freedom, was slowly being replaced by the sight of low-lying fen land to the north-Foulness and Shoeburyness, the villages of Great Wakering and Southend, the partly exposed Leigh and Maplin Sands at low tide.
An embaying fen land-hemming him and his ship in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
