Читать интересную книгу King`s Captain - Dewey Lambdin

"Unless they already are, sir," Midshipman Catterall gloomily pointed out.

"You are quite the font of cheer, Mister Catterall," Lewrie said rather frostily, delivering a withering glower. "Right, then… we say they've been deceived, now they're here, 'cause they've no wish to be against Crown and Country or be part of a Floating Republic forever! They're ready to sail to aid Admiral Duncan, even if the delegates, in the pay of foreign powers, wish to prevent it. Plausible?" he asked.

"And our people are already leery of the Fleet Delegates, and their radical insolence to authority, sir!" Midshipman Adair excitedly chimed in. "Why, they already take half what they say with a handful of salt! North Sea ships, and ours, deceived…!"

"That's the spirit!" Lewrie nodded with pleasure. He had put a bit of iron back in their spines and had cobbled together new reasons for his ship's hands to despair once more. "Thank you, gentlemen. I think we should begin spreading our 'moonshine.' And about time for us to conduct sail-making drill, hmm? I'll be on the deck later to see how it goes. Both the sail-drill… and our rumour-mongering."

Once they had departed though, he flung himself into his desk chair with a fretful sigh and rang a tiny bell for his steward.

"Any coffee left on the candle warmer, Aspinall?"

" 'Nough for a cup, at least, sir. Comin' right up." Aspinall delivered the cup, atop a new sennet place mat, as intricate as Holland lace.

"Nice work, that… complex," Lewrie idly congratulated him.

"Aye, sir. Some o' the Irish lads're teachin' me their Gaelic knots," Aspinall proudly admitted. Under Andrews's and others' tutelage, Aspinall had become quite good at decorative rope-work, fashioning some brooches, bracelets, even rings, as well as place mats and such. "Some of 'em still know their old ways… what they call Celtic. I'll pare a bit more sugar for ya, sir. Won't be a tick."

Lewrie studied his mug, the coin-silver, engraved present from his former Jesters, while Aspinall scraped at the bee-hive-shaped lump of sugar in the small pantry. Hmmm…

He stared at the engraving, setting it down to rotate it, with a thoughtful expression; admiring the profile of Jester rushing along with all plain sail set, a bone in her teeth, led onward by that mysterious forearm and sword, with the dolphins and seals dancing…

"Aspinall…" he mused aloud.

"Sir?"

"You associate much with our new-come Irish, do you?"

"Some, sir."

"Are many of them in on the mutiny, d'ye think?" Lewrie asked.

"Not that many, sir," Aspinall discounted. "Most of 'em are as poor as church-mice… just wantin' decent wages and a chance to get by, sir. Not much work in Ireland, troubles and risin's, and most of 'em wishin' a wide berth o' those, like Desmond and Furfy. Count them with any education on the fingers o' one hand, sir. A chearly lot, I must say, though, for all that… singin' and hornpipin' at the drop o' your hat, sir? Full o' grand stories too, sir… why, Irishmen could talk the birds from the sky and not repeat themselves for three days runnin', sir!"

"You ever tell them stories, Aspinall? They pump you for information?" Lewrie pressed.

A captain's steward could be an unwitting font of intelligence for the disgruntled; some stewards traded on their access.

"Lord, sir… get a word in edgewise! Aye, some. 'Bout how we had a lucky ship, sir… and you, a lucky captain."

"Ever tell them all about Jester?" Lewrie pressed, getting inspired at this welcome news, "and the strange… fey things we saw?" He swiveled the mug about and pointed at the dolphins and seals and the sea-god's arm, tapping his finger by them. "And how much do they know about Proteus? They came aboard after Chatham. They may not know all her short history… her launching, the change of her name, the Irish sawyer and his boy who convinced her to take water?"

"Dribs an' drabs, here an' there, I s'pose, sir," Aspinall said with a shrug.

"That Proteus was an ancient sea-god, Aspinall." Lewrie smiled. "A very old, shape-changing sea-god. This ship murdered a Protestant, Anglo-Irish vicar. Drove an Anglo-Irish captain ashore, mad as a hatter. But so far…" he added, rapping his knuckles for luck, "she has nothing against me. For I've seen an old sea-god. Jester and me, we were a lucky ship, together. A blessed ship, Aspinall. But, by whom?"

"By 'at ole Lir, sir?" Aspinall replied.

"And Lir's an Irish sea-god, Aspinall." Lewrie nodded happily. "Lir… Proteus… same old gentleman. Cleared her hawse, Proteus did, so I'd come aboard her as captain."

God, I am such an egotistical bastard! he silently grimaced to himself; and a damned liar too!

"Oh, I think I get yer meanin', sir!" Aspinall grinned slyly.

"A proud, willful ship, a living ship she is," Lewrie said. "Too proud to let herself be shamed by serving an Anglo-Irish captain. Too proud and haughty to be involved in something shameful either! And… too savage in her anger 'gainst anyone who'd let her be shamed… in his name! Vengeful, arrogant, blood-thirsty… a ship to serve chearly… in his name."

"Lord, sir!" Aspinall gulped. "Talk like 'at fair gives me th' shivers!"

"Your Irish mates forrud… they tell their old tales like they half-believed 'em, Aspinall?" Lewrie smirked.

"Oh, aye, they do, sir. Even Desmond… best-educated o' their lot, sir. All his songs an' stories…"

"You tell 'em our songs and stories, Aspinall," Lewrie schemed. "Jester and the burial, the seals… the seals off Italy the morning we caught that French bastard Choundas. In the Adriatic, at that pirate isle… Proteus wants out of here, Aspinall, before she's smeared in shame for all time, and no good… what do they call it? No good cess'll be in her if she doesn't… for any man-jack who doesn't aid her. Or… him, whose name she secretly bears. Can you whisper that to 'em, lad?"

"Oh, aye, sir, I can," Aspinall agreed.

"You and the Bosun, he already knows her nature. Hunt up Bosun pendarves, Mister Towpenny… they're West Country men almost good as Irish. You tell 'em for me, Aspinall. I can't. 'Twould sound like crowing."

And get me tossed in gaol as a heretic-or Bedlam as a loonie!

"I'll get started then, sir. Iff n ya don't need nothin' else?" "No, nothing else, Aspinall. You go visit your Irish friends."

God helps those who help themselves, he told himself after his steward had departed; now… which god, well…'Either one, ya know I'm desperate. And a gallopin' lie in a good cause is forgivable.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Another day, another harangue, Lewrie thought with a scowl as he pared his nails with a small pocket knife. The boat-parade of delegates had come with a band, flags, their "green cockade" speakers, and another rant, that just might take up half the Forenoon Watch if past performances were anything to go by.

Must be gettin' dotty, he told himself; but I'm almost lookin'forward to the "entertainment/" He sat, most un-captainly slouched, in his personal wood-and-canvas folding deckchair of his own devising… feet up on the compass binnacle cabinet, conveniently near the speaker so he could hear all that transpired… yet far enough away to disclaim any real curiosity- enjoying the wan sunlight and fresh air, should anyone enquire. Lazily, as was his secret wont.

"Now, hark ye, t'what those cringin', cowardly tyrant ministers from London have sent us, thinkin' we'd cringe an' knuckle under," the idiot McCann raved from the forward edge of the quarterdeck, brandishing a sheet of paper over his head. "Ahem!" he announced, lowering it so he could read it. "George Rex… 'Whereas!' " he bellowed, "… 'upon th' rep… rep-resent…' damme."

Lewrie had himself a pleasing smirk of glee over McCann's nigh illiterate ignorance, well hidden by the shade of his cocked hat.

'… of Our Lords-commissioners of Our Admiralty respectin' th' proceedin's of th' seamen and Marines on board certain of Our ships at th' Nore'… hah! All ships at th' Nore, an' more to come, count on't, lads! Here, uhm… where th' Devil was I…? Ahem! 'We were pleased to command Our Lords-commissioners of Our Admiralty to signify to th' seamen and Marines Our gracious intentions, ex…' hmmph! '… under Our sign m… man'-means he writ his name-then, '… bearin' date at Saint James's th' 27th day of May instant; and, whereas …! Our right trusty and beloved…' Devil take 'em! He says Earl Spencer, th' Lord Arden, and Rear Admiral Young are 'trusty,' th' old half-wit. Loony as a bedbug, an' ever'body knows it! Here, someone with good eyes, read this shitten thing! Brother Bales, you're a scholard, ain't ye?"

Bales, Lewrie noted, was ever eager to step forward and bask at centre-stage. A quickly whispered conference, McCann's tarry finger on the place he'd left off, and Bales began to declaim.

"… 'did cause Our gracious intentions, expressed in Our declaration, to be signified to the crews of Our ships at the Nore, and did require such crews to return to their due obedience accordingly; and, whereas it has been represented to us, that some of the crews of Our said ships have been desirous of returning to their obedience, accordingly, but have been prevented from doing so by violence

"Who, by Jesus?" McCann howled, peering about the gathered hands as if seeking witches in New England, making the crowd of sailors balk and cringe. "No one I know wants t'return t'duty, by God! Violence… twaddle! We're free men here, of our own free will for th' Cause!"

Then why, Lewrie almost chuckled to himself, did Fleet Delegates now travel in very well-armed packs, escorted by weapons-heavy guards!

"Read on, Brother Bales! Read on!" McCann boomed.

Bales shrugged, then turned back to face the crew below him in the waist, crowded on the gangways. "Ah… 'doing so by violence, and others of Our ships in the actual discharge of their duty having been fired upon, and attempts having been made to prevent some of Our ships from proceeding according to the orders of their commanders, and whereas such continued perseverance in rebellious and treasonable attempts… against Our Crown and dignity…' " Bales began to mutter and frown at those words, and Lewrie perked up his own ears; "Rebellious" and "Treasonable" were not words idly bandied about!

"Louder, damn ye; we can't hear!" some hands demanded.

"Uhm, '… after repeated admonitions and offers of Our gracious pardon, render it necessary for Us to call on all Our loving subjects to be aiding and assisting in repressing the same!' Listen, mate, we best not…" Bales fretted, turning to McCann, as if pleading to leave off.

"Go on, Brother Bales… louder! What's it say, then?" McCann insisted, oblivious to the consequences. Bales dashed a hand 'cross his brow as if sweating lead pistol-balls. He peered about the deck for a bit of help, it looked like, someone with sense he might appeal to.

Lewrie lowered his feet, blew breath on his now-trimmed nails, and sauntered a few feet further forward, suddenly filled with hope as he realised that the King's letter was an ultimatum!

Bales heaved a petulant, despairing shrug, then continued where he had broken off. " '… We have thought fit, by the advice of Our Privy Council, to issue this Our royal proclamation, and we do hereby strictly enjoin all Our admirals, generals, commanders, and officers of Our forces by sea and land, and all of Our magistrates whatsoever, and all others of Our loving subjects… that they in their several stations do use their utmost endeavours, according to the law, to suppress all such mutinous and treasonable proceedings, and to use all lawful means to bring the persons concerned therein, their aiders and abettors to… to justice!' '

Some few still dared to boo or hiss like geese; the rest stood rooted by alarm; it was an ultimatum: His Majesty's patience had come to an end!

'… and We do hereby strictly enjoin and command all of Our loving subjects whatsoever not to give any aid, comfort, assistance, or encouragement whatsoever, to any person or persons concerned in any such mutinous and treasonable proceedings, as…' " Bales paled, " 'as they will answer the same at their peril; and also to the utmost of their power, and according to the law, to prevent all other persons from giving any such aid, assistance, comfort or encouragement. Given at Our court at Saint James's, the 31st day of May, 1797, and in the 37th year of Our reign! G… God save the king!' "

"What?" McCann erupted in spittle-flinging fury. "God-damn th' 6Y bugger, is more like it! Listen, Brother Bales…"

"It's what's written here, you fool!" Bales screeched back at him. "See it? It's how any royal proclamation ends, damn your eyes!"

Glorious! Lewrie felt cause to exult in his heart; oh, thankee Jesus… maybe Lir, too! They should never have read that to the mutineers!

When the Crown spoke of Rebellion or Revolution and portrayed the mutineers as Treasonable…! That could get hundreds hung higher than Haman! And to order the entire nation to deny any mutineer aid, comfort, to deem anyone who did as co-conspirators!-like the Romans Lewrie could recall from his schooldays-exiles had to leave the furthest border of the Empire and never return, shunned as lepers and denied all aid on the way-"neither fire, nor food, nor forage," he thought the phrase was- or end up nailed to a cross, exile and aider alike!

The King demanded that family, neighbours, friends, wives, even shopkeepers, publicans, and whores shun the mutineers now; the children flee from their father's sight, lest they be tainted and taken up!

Opportunity! Lewrie exulted; look at 'em waver, even the stout radicals… grim as a cartload of condemned men on the way to Tyburn and the gallows.1

"Empty threats, I tell ya!" McCann ranted, too stupid to realise the harm he'd done his cause. "The common folk are with us! We got th' North Sea Fleet, in spite of any royal decree! Thirteen ships of th' line, strong enough t'sail right up t'London Bridge, smashin' all th' forts along th' way! Take th' arsenal at Woolwich, all th' guns, shot an' powder… gather up th' soldiers too, just ripe for comin' over to us, and don't ye doubt it, brothers! They're tremblin' in their boots!"

And you're whistlin past the graveyard, Lewrie thought!