Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain
I still plan to retake the ship, Gawd! he squirmed at his boasting to Langlie; what empty posturing that was. As if I have leaders left who could sway the crew to help me!
Bales had been right, he determined, wincing again in recrimination, and hellish-astute too. Those left… Catterall, he was very witty and droll, smarmy-clever. But was he reliable? Adair was promising, a clever lad. Sevier was a lack-wit, just as Bales had deemed him, with nothing behind his eyes but rote, dumb obedience. Nicholas and Elwes were too young to scheme or dissemble… they could run covert messages, at best, chat people up. The hands liked them. Would they blush and duck their heads though, were they put to whispering ideas to Proteus's people in seemingly casual conversations?
Most likely, he groaned. Lieutenant Wyman?
A likely lad, a sweet young fellow too. Reliable, ever cheery, and genuinely liked by the crew; earnest and brave, determined to do his best but… would it be enough? Lewrie could imagine Lt. Wyman uttering "my goodness graciouses" with his eyes blared… like a virgin chambermaid the first time someone put a hand 'neath her skirts!
"We need a half-dozen o' me," Lewrie decided in a black humour. "A pack of the real ruthless bastards."
Bosun Pendarves and his mate, Towpenny, Mr. Winwood and his mates, that's five men. Mr. Garraway the Carpenter, at least two of his crew, his mate, Jacks? Purser and his assistant… Sailmaker, Mr. Reyne, and at least one from Ms crew. Mr. Offley the Armourer… twenty-five or twenty-six people, all told? God, it still looked hopeless. The Marines, now…
Bales had said that most of the Marines had wanted to keep Lieutenant Devereux aboard-all but Corporal O'Neil the Irishman, one of the United Irish for certain. Three or four of the privates were with the hard core of mutineers… Corporal Plympton the Devon man, though, and Sergeant Skipwith… there's where he should make a sly approach! With twenty to twenty-five of the fourty-man marine complement allied with him, there just might be a chance yet.
"Supper's served, sir," Aspinall announced at last.
"Hmmpfh," Lewrie grunted, as he rose to go forrud to his table. Even if it did seem hopeless, at the moment, at least he could keep up his strength… for that "later" he dearly coveted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It seems there's more than one way to vote yourself out of the mutiny, Mister Pendarves," Lewrie gleefully pointed out to the Bosun and his mate, Mr. Towpenny, as they supervised the gun-deck crew through a rare "River Discipline" sail-making drill. "That's two ships gone!"
He said that loud enough to be easily overheard by many of the hands near them, yet casually enough, he hoped, that it would not come across as contrived. It had been hard, personally galling for him, to get this sail-making drill staged. He'd had to point out to Bales that the crew had gone slack, requiring exercise at sea-tasks-practice at what Lewrie had hoped was a rehearsal for their escape-then wait for Bales to make up his mind as to whether he'd allow it or not!
"Bless me, not another, sir?" Pendarves replied almost as loud, attracting even more hesitant attention, as they'd rehearsed earlier.
"The Clyde frigate too, Mister Pendarves." Lewrie shrugged, at a seeming loss. "She isn't in the anchorage this morning. And when I went aloft with a glass, I could have sworn I spotted her anchored inshore. Must have slipped her cables and drifted into Sheerness on the flood tide last night. Now San Fiorenio too. A bit more theatrical that"-he grinned- "but out to sea on the ebb."
The San Fiorenio frigate, originally assigned to carry Princess Charlotte and her new husband, had "eloped" in broad daylight, sailing out to sea where a merchantman had guided her to deep water. She had attracted vicious but poorly aimed and ineffective gunfire from nearby mutiny ships. Stalwart mutineers had crowed over the gunnery display, jeering that such would be the fate of any deserter, and who wanted such half-hearted bastards as them anyway! But it had been sobering to Proteus % crew.
And after yesterday's brief counter-rebellion and the restive misgivings his own sailors had felt after it had been put down, by delegate force, Lewrie could conjure it had heartened those gnawed by grave doubts, for San Fioren^o had sailed free. No matter how the ship's committee or Fleet Delegates explained it, everyone could see that two ships had found their courage and their common sense, and were now clear of damnation. That, atop his sailors' misgivings and grudges, were all to the good for his scheme.
Proves it can be done, Lewrie gloomed; to them, and me. Maybe they'll take heart from it, find the bottom to stand up to Bales. Or maybe it's already too late-two ships escape, they 're sure to be on their guard now, even stricter than before. Did we lose our best shot at it 'cause we failed yesterday? Buck up, damn ye! "Now perish all gloom," and play up "me-hearty."… We're halfway there; I can smell it!
His crew was acting sullen and restive: moody and grumbling at their drills in silent, wooden obedience; glumly going through the motions with their minds half on their own troubles. Over the necessity of drilling, of course, but… for also still being there, trapped and damned by Admiralty, by the nation itself.
"Now, Desmond… that's not the way t'belay that clew-sheet…" Pendarves grumbled, almost sighing at the futility of teaching hapless landsmen even a tenth of what a crewman had to learn. "Lemme show ya… again."
"Morning, Desmond… Furfy." Lewrie nodded most sunnily at his Irishmen. They mumbled back greetings, torn between watching Pendarves and the rope-end, and their curiosity.
"Cap'um, sir…" Desmond whispered, "is it true, sir, that two ships got clean away?"
"Looks that way, Desmond," Lewrie agreed.
"Faith… an' d'ye think any o' their men'll be hanged, sir? As they returned to duty now, sir?" Desmond queried, fearful of the other sailors, who might overhear and report him.
"Only the villains, I'd expect, Desmond," Lewrie informed him. "Only
the villains."
"Aye… them as'd kill a body, do 'e not keep his oath." Furfy almost
shuddered.
"There are tyrants," Lewrie muttered, guardedly, "and then… there're tyrants, Furfy. It seems there're tyrants before the mast too."
Furfy was a simple soul, Lewrie suspected; his large bulk seemed to deflate to half its size as he heaved a helpless sigh but shook his head up and down in agreement, as if completely lost, or doomed.
"Bad as th' Houghers or White-Boys, Michael?" Desmond commiserated. "Join, help out, keep mum… or die, 'cause they'll niver let a body go 'bout his own bus'ness nor stand apart."
"I never thought willing duty was tyranny though, lads," Lewrie hinted, wondering what in blazes Desmond was talking about. Some anti-English secret societies back in Ireland?
"Broke their Bible-oath they did though, sir," Desmond carped in a louder voice, as they all sensed the presence of a committeeman on the gangway above them. For his own protection, Lewrie decided. "No good'll ever come from such as that, Cap'um."
The committeeman, an Ordinary Seaman named Ahern (another Irishman), gave a faint nod of approval and a sniff of satisfaction before he turned his attention to other things.
"And what's the value of a Bible-oath exacted at the point of a sword, Desmond?" Lewrie posed. "One that'd drag you down to Hell, do you honour it, along with the cynical bastards who bound you with it."
Furfy, the faint soul, automatically crossed himself. Desmond was made of quicker wits though, for he slyly smiled.
"Why, t'would be no oath at'all, sir," Desmond chuckled softly. "Now, was a man t'take an oath worth honourin', Cap'um…"
Lewrie wasn't sure what Desmond was getting on about that time either, but he felt it wouldn't go amiss did he reward him a wink and a tap of his forefinger beside his nose before resuming his seemingly casual stroll about the decks, towards the quarterdeck, seeking out Sergeant Skipwith, to see what he might have to say. He found him supervising practice with a quarterdeck carronade. These marines were free of pipe-clayed crossbelts cartridge boxes, waist-coats, hats, and bayonets of the sentries, though they still wore their short hangers on their left hips, hung from shoulder-belts. Discipline was still at full bore though, for they still wore their hair pulled hard back in a tar-stiffened queue formed over a "rat," and were sporting the cruel stiff leather neck-stocks, no matter that they worked at an un-marine-like exercise.
"Charge with cartridge…!" Skipwith intoned, and one man pretended to cradle a sewn cartridge bag of powder into the squat gun bore, while a second man plied the flexible rope rammer down the barrel to seat the imaginary charge. "Shot your piece…!" And the first man pretended to heft a 24-pounder ball down the bore.
Lewrie waited 'til they'd gone through the steps of ramming the shot down firm against the cartridge, stepping back and seizing up the run-out tackles, pricking the cartridge bag down the touch hole, priming the flintlock igniter, fiddling with the elevation screw, tightening the compression baulks to either side of the slide carriage, and pretending to traverse, aim, and fire.
"Three rounds in two minutes, Sergeant Skipwith?" Lewrie asked.
"Detachment…, 'shun!" Skipwith yipped, and sprang to quivering attention as if Lewrie had snuck up on his blind side and goosed him. "Aye, aye, Captain… sah! Three rounds in two minutes… sah!"
"At least, long as you're loading such heavy cartridge and shot, Sergeant?" Lewrie chuckled.
"Well er… aye, sir." Skipwith darkened, making his gun-team smirk as much as they thought they could get away with. "But I know we'll make three rounds in two minutes when it's for real, sir!"
"I get us out to sea where we can load and fire for real, then we'll see, Sergeant Skipwith," Lewrie said, strolling up to lay a hand on the breech of the short 24-pounder. "I did not time you, but I am certain you were managing quite well, men. As Lieutenant Devereux had assured me you would, even if it is unfamiliar to you."
Hmmm, he thought, three more who seem crestfallen at the mention of their absent commander, now that they were freed from the demanding but mindless lab'our and had time to dwell upon it.
"Marines can do anything, do they put their minds to it, right, Sergeant?" Lewrie joshed.
"Ever and amen, sir!" Skipwith proudly barked, even un-bending enough to display a rare smile of pleasure. "Mister Devereux said we could do it, sir… t'help the Captain's sailors out, sir… then we will do it, sir!" Of course, given the anarchy of the times, he dared put in a sly dig at sailors (as Marines ever would) that put a beamish glint in every "lobster-back's" eyes, for a second or so, and stiffen their backs with pride as they stood at attention by the gun.
"Been at it long, have you, Sergeant Skipwith?" Lewrie enquired, offhandedly.
"Half-hour, sir," Skipwith told him.
"Well then, I'd imagine a turn at the scuttle-butt, up forrud, would not be sneered at," Lewrie allowed. "Besides… all the rumbles are scaring my cat out of a year's growth. Even making my gunners go green with envy, hey?"
"Aye, aye, sah!" Skipwith replied, taking the hint. "Squad…! Quarter-hour interval! Dismiss!"
After the privates had sloped off towards the water butts, Lewrie turned to Sergeant Skipwith. "Sorry if I interrupted, Sergeant. And for presuming to issue orders direct, 'stead of through your own officers, but… since Lieutenant Devereux is ashore…"
"Understood, sir," Skipwith replied, a tad less starched.
"What's their mood, this morning, Sergeant Skipwith?" Lewrie asked, clapping his hands in the small of his back whilst pretending to inspect the carronade. "Any of them wavering after yesterday? An idea of how many of the marine complement we could trust, did we…?"
"Ah, sir," Skipwith gravely nodded, stepping up closer, as if responding to a question Lewrie had posed about the gun. "Beg pardon for sayin' so, sir, but I was hoping you were still of a mind to take back the ship. Even if Mister Devereux is now ashore, sir."
"I am," Lewrie vowed, sure he could trust Skipwith to keep mum. "Could have done it yesterday had we known there'd be a scuffle among the hands. Corporal O'Neil, though…"
"God-damned Paddy duck-fucker!" Skipwith graveled. "Umm, beg yer pardon, sir."
"Thought pretty-much the same of him"-Lewrie snickered-"when he put that dirk to Mr. Elwes's throat. Many of his sort, Sergeant?"
"Nossir," Skipwith replied, twisting up his face in disgust at that deed's recollection. "No more than a half-dozen, all told, sir. 'Bout five bigger older men, who know all th' cautions, who've served at sea before, sir. O'Neil one of 'em… last'd be a new-come private… Private Mollo, sir. Oh, he's a smarmy bastard, sir, a right sea-lawyer, all pepper an' ginger but the lazy sort. Spotted him as trouble first I clapped eyes on him, sir. Now I thought I knew O'Neil, t'others, but…"
"So, they'd be easy to overpower… cut out of the pack?" Alan muttered hopefully.
"Aye, sir… do we do it sly-boots," Skipwith affirmed. "See, sir"-he flummoxed, ready to run his hands through his hair in frustration-"most o our lads are new-come, straight from bashin' on the barracks square, sir. Hopeless dolts, o' course, sir, when they come aboard, but that proud t'be Marines and eager t'do their duty, sir…"
"Open to blandishments from the half-dozen seniors though."
"Green as grass, sir, aye," Skipwith admitted. "Easy-swayed. Caught up in the fun of it, skylarkin' the first few days, sir… We hadn't much hope, the Leftenant an' me. Last few days though, sir, we were close to bringin' 'em 'round. The men look up to Leftenant Devereux, Captain, sir. Firm but fair, he is, and ever a cheery word for 'em. Treats 'em with respect, sir, like they were special already, sir. Oh, but he's a good officer!"
And most aren 't, I take it, Lewrie could only silently conclude.
"Now though, Sergeant… how close might we be?" Alan pressed.
"They're low, sir," Skipwith pondered. "Havin' the Leftenant sent away… seein' how far the delegates'll go t'get what they wish too, sir? Told 'em, the Leftenant'd be ashamed of 'em did they keep on with this. Corp'ral Plympton an' me made sure the lads know they're runnin' outa chances t'make him proud… be proud of themselves, too, sir. They're close t'givin' it up, I think. Be hard to get anything done on the sly though, sir. Committee has said they won't let anyone assemble below, after Lights Out, anymore. Don't want any of what they call perjurers to the oath, sir."
