King`s Captain l-9

by Dewey Lambdin

  All of them flying battle-flags, the stark, unadorned blood-red flags without the British canton! Commission pendants still streamed, but none of the flagships wore broad pendants denoting the presence of an admiral or commodore-only the battle colours, nothing national!

  Militia paraded in Portsea as their coach slowed, shunted aside to make room for soldiery and idling onlookers. There were hardly any sailors to be seen, naval or civilian. Marines in full kit stood here and there in full squads, their bayonets unsheathed and fixed under the muzzles of their muskets. Usually, a parade of troops brought out the spectators, raised cheers, the fluttering of handkerchiefs by the town women, and the tittery delight of youngsters. But not this time, Lewrie noted; now, the doleful beats of drums, the clomp of crude-made boots, the clop of his coach's horses, and the funereal rumbles from its iron-shod wheels seemed the only sounds.

  Right-into the main gate of the dockyard, and several minutes in argument with a Marine Captain, no matter Lewrie was wearing uniform; then at last proceeding past the Hard, Gun Wharf, the mast-pool, and the small Royal Naval Academy, and the Commissioner's House, the Rope Walk-and a few more aggressively curious roving marine patrols!-until they could alight hard by one of the stone graving docks, where HMS Jester stood propped and stranded, looking like a scrofulous, dead whale. With her bottom exposed, all the sheet copper, paper, and felt ripped off, and a good third of her underwater planking stripped away for replacing, she looked more a shipwreck than a ship of war. She did not fly any flags, since she was officially out of commission, in the hands of the yards. And, Lewrie was grateful to see, she did not sport that rebellious red banner either.

  "I'd go aboard," he told an idling yard worker by her brow, eyeing that shaky-looking gangplank which led from the lip of the dock to her starboard entry-port, perched rather high-ish above the floor of the graving dock and all its accumulated trash, muck, and filth, in about a foot of verminous-looking harbour water. A few rare workmen pretended to do something constructive beneath her.

  "You her cap'um, sir?" The dock worker yawned.

  "Her last captain," Lewrie explained.

  :' 'Ey ain't too fond o' awficers come callin', sir. But ye c'n try." The man shrugged.

  "Hoy, Jester/" Lewrie shouted, about halfway across that brow.

  Several heads popped up over the sail-tending gangway bulwarks, where a harbour-watch party evidently had been loafing. A few sailors mounted to the quarterdeck, hands in their pockets and their hats far back on their heads.

  Damme! Lewrie fumed; no warrant or petty officer standing deck-watch? And common seamen, walking the quarterdeck without leave?

  "Permission to come aboard, to visit…" Lewrie called over.

  "Denied, sir… sorry," a strange voice rasped back. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but… there'll be no officers return aboard 'til all our grievances been settled."

  Lewrie went colt-eyed at that reply, his eyebrows up to his hat brim in shock at being spoken to so by a common seaman. Damme! Lewrie gawped again, taking a closer look; that saucy bugger's armed! He had himself a closer peer at the sailors who'd been lazing on deck before, and those who'd come up to see the commotion. Wide baldrics were hung over their shoulders, supporting scabbarded cutlasses. Pistols poked from their waistbands, most piratical; and those who served as watch or side-party held muskets and sported cartouche boxes!

  "None of your officers are aboard then?" Lewrie puzzled aloud. "And they gave you the keys to the arms chests? Not even a midshipman left?"

  "Nary a one, sir," the strange seaman shouted back. "All sent ashore, just after the delegates of the Fleet decided. Bosun an' the Master Gunner'z in charge, sir. Charge o' th' arms too, sir. And… beggin' yer pardon again, sir, but… we vowed no Commission Officer's to come aboard 'til…"

  "I am Commander Lewrie… Jester's last captain," Lewrie stated, moving forward a few feet along that rickety gangplank. "I've come to see your Bosun, Mister Cony. I've brought his wife and child along… there they are, yonder."

  "Oh, a social call then, sir!" The leading sailor brightened. "In 'at case, aye, sir… come aboard. Passin' th' word for th' Bosun!"

  Several of the mutinous hands relayed that shout to summon the Bosun on deck, as Lewrie waved Maggie and little Will forward to join him. "Side-party…! Present…!"

  They would offer him a proper salute then, though the muskets were most-like loaded, if not primed, as well! Lewrie took it, doffing his hat to the quarterdeck and side-party as if Jester was still a ship in proper hands… and everything was normal!

  "Maggie, darlin'!" Will Cony shouted, as soon as he had gained the deck. He rushed up to help her the last few steps inboard through the entry-port. Maggie swept him into a fierce, protective hug just as quickly, with little Will clinging to his father's leg like a limpet to a rock. The armed sailors, their duties done, lowered their muskets to lean on, and cooed and chuckled softly, breaking into fond smiles!

  "Cap'um, sir!" Will exclaimed, after he'd scooped his child up to eye-level, still with one arm about his wife. "God o' Mercy, sir… 'twas 'opin' yew'd come. An' thankee f r bringin' Maggie an' little Will. Didn' know when I'd see 'em again, f r all this…"

  "Will, damme… just what in Hell is all… this?" Lewrie asked.

  "Will ya be 'avin' a seat, sir? Th' explainin'll take a piece. Hoy, this's Mister Tuggle… new Master Gunner. Mister Tuggle, could we fetch up table an' chairs… any sort o' seats? This is my old cap'um, Commander Lewrie, Mister Tuggle."

  "Sir," the Master Gunner intoned, straightening himself like a "piss and gaiters" sergeant of marines. "Pleasure t'meet ye, sir. We know ye for a fair-minded man, sir. Of yer old warrants and petty officers… name in the Fleet, sir?"

  As a table from the officer's gunroom, some chairs or kegs were fetched, there came a parade up from below: Mr. Reese, Mr. Paschal, and Mr. Meggs-Hogge the Gunner's Mate, the "Dutchie" Mr. Rahl, some of the hands who'd served this ship since the very first-all smiling in welcome and in pleasure of the rencontre-though a tad sheepish, Lewrie noted as he took a seat at the table, after acknowledging their helloes.

  "Small beer, sir?" Cony offered. "Ah, 'ere we go, sir. Need a 'wet,' I s'pose. Mind 'at keg, Maggie. 'Tis tarry, but 'twill 'ave t'serve f r yer seat… an' sure t'be bad Pr yer 'andsome new gown, me love. Will, do ye climb up on yer daddy's lap, whilst we 'ave ourselves a yarnin'? Do ye not mind me sitting, 'at is, sir…?"

  "Aye, seat yourself, Will. This isn't official. And after so many years together…" he said with a shrug and a smile. "I'm not here in any capacity 'cept to see you away for home like your leave-ticket allows. Not to meet with any, uhm… what-you-call-'ems."

  "Delegates, sir." Cony fidgeted a bit, his eyes going cutty as a bag of nails. "Fleet Delegates an'… ship delegates."

  "Right." Lewrie nodded, taking a sip of the beer before him. "Delegates. I'm not representing anyone, so… this is personal."

  "Well, sir…" Will sighed, scratching his head. He took himself a deepish quaff before continuing. "This'z a tad, uhm… well…"

  "Well?" Lewrie joshed. "A deep subject, that."

  "Aye, sir… aye." Will nodded sagely, mustering up a chuckle of his own for a second. "But, uhm… d'ye see, Cap'um. Me… an' Mister Tuggle, uhm… Mister Reese, an' Sadler, sir… we are th' delegates. Got elected, like, by the rest o' th' 'ands."

  "Oh, Will, my God, what's t'become o' ya?" Maggie gasped aloud, hands to her mouth. "Tell me they don't know it yet!"

  "Signed our names, Maggie… right out in th' open, like. Same as th' rest." Cony winced, taking another duck-and-cover sip of beer.

  "Well, I'll be damned." Lewrie groaned. "Why in Hell?"

  "Day'r two after ya left th' ship, sir." Will wriggled about as he began to explain, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "See, these petitions come aboard from th' line-o'-battle ships, all signed by ev'ry liner in Channel Fleet. Boats visitin' back an' forth, folks lookin' up ol' shipmates… ya know how 'at is, don't ya, Cap'um, why a body
'd not think o' thing of h'it. First off, they waz about pay… Mister Tuggle, show th' cap'um | 'at first 'un we got."

  "Uhm, er… here, sir." Tuggle complied, rather warily. "D'ye see, sir, ah… Commander Lewrie? Hands haven't been paid, Lord knows how long, nor how far in arrears, not the six months usual. And with the redcoats gettin' a rise in pay two years ago too, well…"

  He handed over a document. Lewrie scanned it, feeling like he should be using tongs, not fingers. This could surely burn up a Navy career like a fireplace ember would consume a carpet! He did smirk at it though; for it was Admiralty paper, water-marked with "GR"-the monogram for Georgius Rex!

  To the Right Honourable the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.

  THE HUMBLE PETITION of the seamen aboard His Majesty's Ship

  ____________________in behalf of themselves and all others serving in His

  Majesty's fleets

  Humbly Sheweth

  THAT your petitioners must humbly intreat your Lordships will take the hardships of which they complain into your consideration, not in the least doubting that Wisdom and Goodness will induce your Lordships to grant them a speedy Redress.

  It is now upwards of two years since your Lordships' petitioners observed with Pleasure the Increase of Pay which has been granted the Army and Militia, and the separate provision for their wives and families-naturally expecting that they should in turn experience the same Munificence, but alas, no notice has been taken of Them, nor the smallest provision…

  The petition went on to state most assuredly that the seamen of the Royal Navy were His Majesty's most loyal and most courageous men, especially in such trying times, when their country called them to… "so pressingly advance once more to face her foes…" With what additional vigour and happy minds they would fly to their duty should they know that they'd be paid more money, in line with the increases the Army (and the idle Militia) got-and pointed out that the Navy hadn't gotten a rise in pay since the times of Charles I!

  "Well, hmmm…" Lewrie commented, ducking-and-covering behind a quaff of his beer for a moment of thought; damme, anything I say will be misconstrued as encouraging a mutiny… mine own arse nailed to the mainmast. But…? Could I cosset 'em out of it? he wondered. Save a ship for the loyalist side; that would be another favour Admiralty owes me!

  "Oh, for God's sake, Mister Tuggle, you look half-strangled," Lewrie said with a faint smile. " 'Long as Will's taking his ease, why do you not, yourself, sir? Mind now…, as I said, I have no brief to negotiate, nothing official, but…"

  "Aye, thankee, sir, thankee right kindly." Tuggle relented with a whoof of expelled breath. He pulled up a tarry keg and bobbed his head as he poured himself a piggin of beer, after bobbing his head to seem to beg even more permission. Sailors had been flogged half-dead in the Fleet who'd even dared begin a conversation with some officers! Or take any liberties of familiarity with them. Tuggle was treading on very shaky ground, and he knew it.

  "I must say, this petition was quite respectful. And handsomely done. A small pay rise, and a more timely paying of it, well… your officers, I assure you, experience just such frustration. I don't see how that this letter led to… this!" Lewrie cried, holding the damning document aloft to sweep over his head to encompass the whole rebellious harbour. "And compared to the liners anchored out there, you're in shoal waters. Guns landed ashore, trapped in the graving dock… why, it's a wonder the Port Admiral hasn't sent Marines here already to root you out. A mutiny for this piddlin'…?"

  " 'Scuse me, Cap'um Lewrie, but"-Cony interjected-"this'd been sent weeks afore, an' nary an answer did t'others get. Sent up t'Admiralty, sir… sent t'Lord Howe too, we 'eard tell. Might even o' been sent t'that fellow Fox up in Parliament…"

  "Aye, the Great Patriot, for certain, sir… bein' so liberal an' all?" Tuggle added, sounding a trifle more enthused. Whether he admired Charles James Fox, the new champion of the Common Man, or the beer more-well, Lewrie was uncertain. "But like Mister Cony says… no reply, sir. So this time the committees determined they'd not put back t'sea 'thout we get some answer. Orders come down Easter morn t'sail. Lord Bridport ordered Vice-Admiral Gardner t'drop eight ships down t'Saint Helen's Patch and await a wind, sir? Well, they didn't… not a man moved. Obeyed orders, sir, all orders but that 'un. Afore then, well, sir…" Tuggle related, more chummily. "Lord Bridport, he knew what was goin' on, or had an inklin' at last. He asked for the ships t'send him more specific complaints and…"

  "He bloody what?" Lewrie barked, half-strangled on his beer.

  Open the floodgates to the lower deck? Lewrie marvelled to himself; oh, try and lance it fore it festers, but, my God! The wrong damn' way! Why, every man-jack had something that rankled him about being in the Navy, pressed or volunteered!

  "Said he couldn't deal with anonymous petitions, sir," Cony admitted. "Why we ended up signin' our names. Valentine Joyce, in Royal George… th' speaker for all, sir… he signed first o' th' list. Sorry, Maggie, but I had t'do h'it. Wot those Yankee Doodles said durin' th' war… 'we hang t'gither, or we all hang sep'rate'?"

  "You were coerced, Cony," Lewrie objected, offering him a way out. "The people looked to you, and…"

  "Most o' th' old crew's gone, sir," Cony cut him off gently. "Turned over t'other ships… promoted up an' out. Wot 'ands we got, they're new-come. Cap'um Mallard's lot, he brought with 'im? Even them agreed, sir."

  "Oh, 'twas a sore patch for him, that, sir! Been with him for years, they had." Tuggle grunted with a dab of humour, but even more sympathy for the new fool who'd seen his "pets" turn on him. "Voted for me an' Will, they did, sir, same'z the old hands remainin'. Then we swore, sir."

  "Took a Bible-oath, Cap'um," Cony stated, chin up in a noble, bright-eyed conviction. "Swore t'be true t'th' cause, we did. There were Marines took the oath, sir. Stap me, did they not!"

  "An' swore t'keep proper order, sir… e'en without Commission Officers aboard," Tuggle chimed in. "Ye look sharp with a glass out yonder, sir. They've rove yard ropes from the yardarm tips."

  "A threat against…?"

  "No, sir!" Tuggle objected. "No threat 'gainst officers, sir! A threat t'any bully-bucks who get out o' line. Officers and wimmen t'be turned out, sir… no spirits t'be smuggled aboard, and no folder-ol, no debauch. Repairs, store-keepin', watch-standin', same'z…"

  "An' 'ard 'nough 'at is, Cap'um Lewrie," Cony smiled wryly. "Why, th' Fleet's workin' alive with Yew-nited Irish, sworn t'ruin it, so France c'n sail over an' help 'em do they 'ave another risin'…"

  "Quota Men, sir." Tuggle sneered. "We've a few. Worst lot o' drunks, rowdies, back-stabbers… thieves, sir!" Tuggle growled, and several of the new-come men, and most of the old Jesters still aboard, chimed in with a like growl of disgust.

  "No matter, they're no sort o' sailormen, nor watermen either, sir," Cony stuck in. "Ev'ry county, ev'ry borough, an' town'z down t' supply so many men each Assizes f r th' Navy… their quota."

  "So they muck out their gaols and loonie bins, and pass 'em on to the Fleet?" Lewrie scowled.

  "Bloody right, sir… beggin' yer pardon, Maggie darlin'," Will Cony rejoined, most heartily. " 'Ere, Maggie, you take young Will for a piece. 'E's 'z squirmy'z a worm in hot ashes. Oh, they're scamps, idlers, back-talkers an' sea-lawyers, Cap'um. Won't none of 'em make Ord'nary Seamen do ya give 'em a month o' Sundays. No idea o' what it means t'be a proper shipmate. Drunks, hen-heads, cut-throats… why, we'd all be better off were they transported f r life t'that New South Wales! Man's possessions…"

  "Man's tools, sir!" Mr. Reese, the Carpenter, shouted.

  "Ain't safe from 'e, do ya 'ide 'em in th' powder magazines!" Cony barked, which raised another agreeing rumble of discontent from the true seamen and petty officers gathered 'round them.

  Lewrie forced himself to scowl more deeply, though he felt like breaking out in laughter. For here was the same plaint he'd heard for years in midshipmen's cockpits, officer's gunrooms, and many a captain's great-cabins-about the sailors they alrea
dy had! And for it to come from men 'afore the mast too, well…!

  "Anyways, sir… refusin' t'sail, that got their Lordship attention, right smart." Tuggle sighed, once the hands had calmed down. Lewrie noticed that a few of the new-comes were blushing or scowling-some of those Quota Men here, among real sailors?

  "I would imagine that would," Lewrie japed, deadpan.

  "Anyway, sir," Tuggle went on, "we, the Fleet Delegates, that is, come up with our list o' grievances Lord Bridport asked us for. Written up proper and signed this time. Reasonable demands, sir, I am mortal-certain you'd call 'em too, Commander Lewrie, bein' a long-time officer, an' all. You've seen how things're done, how the hands are treated. Oh, there's some private grievances from some ships… 'bout removin' th' real death-floggers an' th' truly cruel officers'n mates… men so cruel it'd make yer eyes water, sir. Nought like you, I've heard, nossir."

  "An' we're holdin' out for a gen'ral pardon too, sir," Sadler chimed in from one side. "In writin', so we don't end up like the lads 'board Culloden a few years back…"

  Culloden, the same two-decker Troubridge had fought so well just recently at St. Vincent, with pretty much the same crew. Aye, Lewrie recalled that she'd staged a brief mutiny. Captain Troubridge had been saddled with a perfect whore of a warship, barely in any condition to put to sea, and her people had demanded that they turn over into some other, safer ship or have Culloden into the yards for a proper refit. Surprisingly, the Admiralty had given into their demands, though they needed every ship at sea, and they'd sworn to her crew that they'd be forgiven. Yet as soon as they'd returned to duty, Troubridge and the Marines had rushed them and seized the ten ringleaders. Five of them had ended up being hanged by the neck until dead, then their corpses tarred and chained and displayed 'til their bones fell apart.

  "Admiral Gardner called aboard his flagship, Queen Charlotte, sir " Cony grunted, sour from the memory. "Urged 'em t'give way an' return t'duty. Said they could swear loyalty, sign a tribute to th' Admiralty, an' it'd all be forgotten. 'Ey wouldn't, though, sir… not 'thout a pardon, not 'thout their demands. So he cursed 'em… called 'em cowards, sir! Swore ev'ry fifth man'd be hanged.,.swore they all deserved hangin'. Just'z good'z spittin' on 'em, sir. An' them some o' th' best sailors in th' Fleet. His own crew, sir!"