Читать интересную книгу King`s Captain - Dewey Lambdin

An embaying fen land-hemming him and his ship in.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

When in doubt… mope, Lewrie told himself, of half a mind to begin packing his sea chests. And of half a mind to have himself one more glass of claret and wait 'til after Aspinall and his cook served up that goose they'd cooked for him. A dull rumble interrupted his foul mood though, the sounds of many voices. And a knock on the door.

"Captain, sir?" Mr. Midshipman Sevier cheeped, leaning in the doorway to bare his noddy's face. "Disturbance on deck, sir. They're arguing amongst themselves, and some are calling for you, sir?"

"Haven't built themselves a guillotine out o' bosun's stores yet, have they, Mister Sevier?" Lewrie frowned at him, slumped quite comfily on the starboard side settee with his feet and legs out-splayed.

"Uhm… a guillotine, sir?"

"You know… King of France… chop-chop?"

"Uhm… nossir. It's getting heated though, sir. The people wish you to address them."

"Ah, then!" He brightened. Those smuggled Acts of Parliament and the King's Pardon must have encouraged the moderates and faint of heart to relent already! He rose, tugged down his waist-coat, plucked his shirt cuffs, and clapped on his hat.

He emerged on the gun-deck to witness a slanging match between determined mutineers, ditherers, and quitters. They'd formed sides in unconscious scrums, dividing themselves into packs laced with uncomprehending children and hectoring wives and whores pretty-much allied to the loyal side, or the ditherers in the middle, with but a few harpies siding with the committee or the leaders.

They quieted their arguments as he appeared and made his way to the starboard quarterdeck ladder, parting before him, even as Seaman Bales was still expostulating from the nettings overlooking the waist.

"… cutting off all food to us, brothers!" Bales bellowed, to exhort his minions before Lewrie could speak. "Not even their damned substitute flour will they give us! No more candles, rum, small beer! Damme, no more rope, tar, or lumber either."

"Treachery!" the determined side shouted.

"Now you see what our King thinks of us, mates. How little he thinks of you, his long-suffering and loyal tars. How could a loving King deprive you thus, who've served him so well in the past? Or let criminals like Pitt, Henry Dundas, and Spencer try to starve us out to get what they want… ?" That drew many boos and catcalls.

Lewrie scowled as he ascended to the quarterdeck. Bales's hot-blooded talk was dangerous dissident cant, the sort that could get any civilian tossed into gaol for treason. He might have something interesting, indeed, to pass on to that Willis fellow when next he came out to offer his wares! He scowled too, because he was loath to be drawn into a noisy Beggar's Opera, a bit of political theatre, as it now seemed the mutiny had become!

"But here's your captain, brothers… You wanted him to speak to you, and I'll not have it said your committee, your 'Fleet Parliament,' won't abide by your wishes," Bales hurriedly summed up as Lewrie stalked up to his side, almost shouldering him aside from his rightful place. Bales tossed him a sneerful, high-nosed glare of satisfaction, as if he'd finessed Lewrie into an impossible situation. His smile of welcome, and reason, was a bloody sham for the others.

"Very well, men," Lewrie said, looking out and down. "You say you wish me to speak with you. About what? Out with it."

"The terms, sor!" Landsman Desmond was quick to shout. "Them they got out to us… are they true?"

"They are," Lewrie assured them. "Just as Parker told you… when he was last aboard. Pay rise and all. Everything Spithead won for themselves is now yours. If you submit and take the pardon."

"Don't say nothin' 'bout riddin' th' ship o' bad officers an' mates," Mr. Morley objected. "Doesn't give us th' liberty we wanted either! What about them?"

"Say 'sir,' Mister Morley," Lewrie chid him, glaring at him as long as it was going to take, 'til he swallowed hard.

"What about them, Cap'um, sir?" Morley blushed.

"You know the objections to shore leave, to inland leave-tickets, Mister Morley," Lewrie explained, turning to speak to them all. "The Admiralty never knows when the foe will pop out. They can't idle their ships with a third or a half of the crews out of reach. They leave it to the discretion of captains. Now I ask you, lads… how many of you have ever had a captain that wouldn't grant shore leave to those hands he thought he could trust to come back, hey?"

Damned few, aha! he thought; and so much for how dangerous that question was!

"And how many of you knew men who couldn't be trusted to come back, who were just looking for the first chance to scamper, that you would trust?" he dared pose. "Slackers, idlers, backbiters…"

Quite a few, it should be said.

"But Spithead put off'cers an' mates ashore, sir!" a foremast sailor queried. "Acts don't say nothin' 'bout it. Does that mean we cain't?"

Lewrie had wondered about that unwritten clause. The settlement had reputedly contained that term, and the last newspaper he'd gotten his paws on, before this mess had started, of course, had decried the removal or replacement of officers the Spithead mutineers had thought as tyrants, cruel floggers, and "drivers." This was dangerous ground. Did he sound approving of it, he'd be labeled a radical himself! Did he not… he might lose this wondrous, un-looked-for chance to finagle his crew back to duty! "Like here, as I recall…," he began, crossing his fingers for luck, "officers were put off at Spithead and Plymouth. Here… there are officers who have already gone ashore of their own volition. And I must tell you true… does this ship not take down those yard ropes, lower the red flags, and return to duty… I am ordered to depart and take all officers and midshipmen with me. Leaving you your appointed captain and mates… Seaman Bales, Mister Handcocks, and that lot…"

He was heartened more than he could have ever imagined to hear so many voices raised in sudden, distressful woe that he was going to leave them!

"… every captain remaining will do so, every officer still on mutinous ships!" he shouted. "The good'uns… and the bad!" Lewrie added. "Did Admiral Lord Howe agree to that at Spithead, it was after officers had gone ashore from those ships too. I don't know how they agreed to it, how the lists were made up… how they determined which officers did not

return aboard, but… damme, lads, d'ye think it's a thing they'd scribble down for all to see?"

Oh, Christ, I've just cut my own throat, he told himself; there goes mygood odour, my career! I'm tellin' 'em how to purge officers, pushin' 'em towinnow the gunroom!

While they had a hearty laugh and began to hoot, whistle, and catcall in what he hoped he could construe as appreciation, he dared to glance over at his officers, warrants, and midshipmen. They looked dumbstruck by his admission, some outraged, some queasily appalled.

"Now as for the rest of your demands…" Lewrie roared, raising one hand to gather their attention again. "What… for ships to be paid arrears in wages down to six months before sailing. They can't help you on that'un, lads… there's a war on, and England 's short of cash. In peacetime, they might could, but not now. That rise in pay you've already won… even if you never mutinied… thanks to Spithead, that increase for pensioners too, for sick-berth hands and those crippled to be paid off… the increase in rations to sixteen ounces, instead of twelve or fourteen, that takes money too! "You said you wanted new-come pressed men to get two months' advance in pay, like a Joining Bounty for volunteers… . Admiralty can't afford that either. Back wages and indemnification made to men who've run once before then gone back in service… the same problem with that. And, an encouragement to bounty-jumpers, who'd do it over and over again and deprive you of funds! Useless damned shirkers the lot of 'em, and well you know it! Given a choice, would you have a thing t'do with 'em? No, I tell you!"

Damme, I'm rollin', now! Rantin' like a leapin' Methodist!

"Your delegates wanted those jumpers and runners to keep what they'd stolen from your mouths when you were ready to sign on, serve King and Country, heart and soul! And then … not be arrested as deserters when justice caught up with 'em! What, you want them rewarded? Is that what real English sailors wish… or is it some foreign, radical shit someone in Paris dreamed up to undermine the Royal Navy?"

More hoots, more claps and cheers, and cries of "No!"

Damme, he exulted; no wonder the reverends look so smug. This is fun!

"You said you wished a fairer split of prize-money," he ranted on, rocking on the balls of his feet, gripping the cap-rail to lean out over them as he got on shakier ground. "Three-fifths 'stead of your two-eights. Well, if Spithead could concede that point, and the prevailing division wasn't cause for them to kick furniture, then should it not be good enough for you?"

Uh-oh… losin' 'em.

"Well, as long as a fine frigate such as our Proteus is swingin' 'round the anchor in the Nore… you're not takin' prizes, are you?" he hooted. "You give me my ship back, I'll take you out where we can find prizes, scourge the seas, and give you a chance to get bloody rich… even under the old division!"

That got them back. They were, the bulk of them, growling like famished tigers for a chance at pillaging enemy ships. The hard-core mutineers could only glower, grim-lipped, and swear to themselves.

"And the last… alterations and amendments in the Articles of War." Lewrie deigned to sneer. "But… you'll note your committees and delegates never spelled out what changes or deletions they wished, did they? Because some of 'em are wanted men… pickpockets and thieves who've stolen from shipmates before? Duck-fuckers and buggers who prefer the 'windward passage,' who don't want to be court-martialed for it? Maybe it concerns Article Three… Holding Illegal Correspondence with Enemies. Article Five, the one against spies or Seducing Letters? Or Numbers Eight or Nine, about stripping anything they want out of a prize, and stripping and abusing people taken aboard a prize? Damme, do away with these, and we might as well hoist the 'Jolly Roger' and become pirates! Is that what you want?"

Another loud outburst of "Noes!"

"Is it Twelve they object to, the one against Cowardice in Action, and Neglect of Duty?" he posed, strutting now, as aggressive as a guinea cock. "Fifteen… desertion or running away with a ship and its stores? Sixteen… the one against desertion itself? Enticing others to desert? Or are they trying to cover their arses by doing away with Nineteen, Twenty and Twenty-one… the ones covering Mutinous Assemblies… Seditious Words… hiding or covering Mutiny and Sedition… shit-stirring over unwholesome victuals! They put that in your compact so no one would be punished later? Well, what d'ye think the King's Pardon is about, then!"

"Twenty-six!" Bosun Pendarves roared from the base of the main-mast. "Maybe they like to neglect the steering… the cunny-thumbed bastards!"

"Twen'y-seven… an' we'll all be allowed t'sleep on watch!" a sailor on the larboard gangway shouted.

"So what the Devil is it they wanted, then? Does it make any sense to you, lads?" Lewrie asked them, once that laugh had run its course. "What do your delegates really want? Look you yonder."

He pointed ashore towards Sheerness.

"Yesterday, lads, you could see a flag flying on top of a house ashore… the flag of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty. Lord Spencer was here, I'm told. They came to negotiate, to tell your delegates that the Spit-head terms were official Acts of Parliament, show your leaders that the King's Pardon was real. Well, do you see their flag flying now?"

An hundred heads craned to look.

"No, you don't!" Lewrie screeched. "And why is that? Because your delegates spoke for you and told 'em to bugger off! That they wanted more… that you wouldn't take the Spithead terms of settlement and wanted to hold out for all sorts of impossible things. That you'd defy your King, turn your back on your Country when it needs you the most, and spurn a perfectly good offer… turn your guns upon Sheerness, defy the rest of the Fleet… threaten the nation.1So they had no choice but to leave and cut off the dockyard stores, cut off the ration boats. Wasn't wicked ministers… wasn't a tyrannical King caused that! 'Twas the pride and arrogance of your delegates…!"

"That's enough!" Bales howled, summoning his stoutest henchmen. "Said he'd answer questions, not rant! Lads, he lies…!"

"No, let 'im speak, damn yer eyes!"

"Arra, th' Cap'um's talkin' sense!" Desmond countered.

"Give it up!" someone cried. "Give it up! Take the terms!"

"No, you damned cowards! Lickspittles!"

And where's my sword when I need it? Lewrie goggled, seeing a pushing, shoving match break out on every hand. It was happening… a sudden, un-organised counter-mutiny!

"Lookit t'other ships! They're striking colours! Runnin' up white flags!" Ship's Corporal Burton screamed. "Givin' it up too!"

It was true! From what Lewrie could see as he whirled about in a furious, dis-oriented fugue that almost made him dizzy, there were at least a half-dozen warships where the same sort of melees were breaking out, where the ominous yard ropes were being hauled down to snake back to the decks, and the unadorned red banners of rebellion were fluttering down, to here and there be replaced with proper naval ensigns and white flags of submission!

Hands were springing to the flag halliards, to the racks of belaying pins or bitts which secured Proteus's yard ropes. Just as many were swinging their fists, flailing about with gun-tools or whatever fell to hand to prevent them. The cowards, the confused, or hesitant, the women and children were hanging back, thundering in panicky herds from one gang-fight to another, turning this way and that in response to cries for help from those who'd strike, to bitter battle-cries from those who'd hold out, resist.

"Take her back, lads!" Lewrie yelled, stumbling as someone to his left shouldered into him. He shoved back, faintly recognised one of the afterguard before bringing a roundhouse right fist into juncture with the fellow's skull. "King and Country!" He stooped to pick up the dropped belaying pin the man had been about to cosh him with and waded in on those who were shouting objections the loudest. He heard a rabbity scream, got a quick glimpse of a loyal sailor being stabbed in the belly with a clasp knife. Heard the dread popping of a pistol! Right, he thought; a real battle and no quarter!