"There is the possibility the new arrivals are not victualled as well as the original mutinous ships, sir," Mr. Coote offered in a hopeful gesture. "And with supplies now refused them… perhaps they cannot stay here at the Nore for very long."
"I rather doubt that, Mister Coote," Lieutenant Wyman sighed, "though it is wishful. They were to all accounts provisioned for an extended spell of blockade duty off the Dutch coast. From what I heard from our rumour-mill, they defected after receiving sailing orders to join Admiral Duncan. Meet him at some 'rondy,' somewhere off the coast…"
Lt. Wyman did not wear disappointment well; he looked like he'd aged ten years in the last two days and was not as prone to appearing surprised or startled any longer. Most un-lieutenant-like, he slouched on the starboard-side upholstered settee with his legs out and his hands in his breeches pockets, like one of Hogarth's sketches of an idle roisterer with a killing "head," the morning after.
"And where do they think they'd get provisions, with every port closed to 'em, Mister Coote?" Lewrie fretted. "Aye, most-like they are well-provisioned for up to six months at sea. Gawd…!"
"Can't last that long, can it, sir?" Midshipman Adair queried. "Else the wind shifts, sooner or later, and the Dutch get out to sea. The French Fleet at Brest bound for Ireland… we've been fortunate in the weather so far, sir."
"That's so, sir." The Sailing Master nodded, stuffing tobacco into his clay church warden pipe. "But a man who'd depend on weather for his salvation is the hugest sort of fool. I cannot but think that the Merciful Hand of Providence has controlled the contrary winds this long during our travails, sirs-to grant His most favoured nation a space in which to save ourselves. But such Divine Mercy is not forever."
"A tiny space," Lewrie mused, mussing his hair as he came to a stop behind his desk, for a moment envying Mr. Winwood the comfort of his pipe and tobacco. He'd never taken up the custom, and the time he had been forced to smoke, with the Muskogee Indians during the Revolution, hadn't exactly made him a devotee of the Noble Weed. "Is it not true, Mister Winwood, that 'God helps those, who help themselves'? As you say, it's only the fools who lift their hands in supplication, depending on the Lord, not their own efforts, to save their skins."
"Well, there are some believers, sir," Winwood winced, "not in the Established Church, of course, who hold that is the Almighty truly 'almighty,' He can do anything, even for the weakest and most powerless. It has been my experience though, sir, that… was a man adrift at sea in a small boat amid a raging gale, the Good Lord might look down more kindly on the sort who'd strive in league with Divine Assistance, not lay whimpering in the bilge, sir. Though I must confess the Bible is replete with examples of the utterly hopeless being salved at the last moment, through no action on their part but deep, abiding faith and a fervent prayer." He puffed away quite contentedly, wreathing himself in aromatic blue fumes, after delivering what to Lewrie sounded mightily like a paradox: "This, but on the other hand…"
"Take the case of Abraham, sir, and the offering of his beloved son on the altar in the desert wilderness…" Mr. Winwood began to expound. "You've prayed fervently on this, I take it, Mister Winwood?" Lewrie asked him.
"Well… aye, sir!" Winwood admitted, as if surprised that anyone might suspect that he had not.
"And I take it that all of you gentlemen, as Christian, English gentlemen, have prevailed upon the Good Lord for guidance and succour, for victory over our foes, and a way out of our… wilderness?"
"Oh, of course, sir," they mumbled back, as if by rote, though looking a bit cutty-eyed that they had perhaps not, but were making the "proper" noises.
"Then we cannot fail." Lewrie thinly smiled, tossing in a stab at "Hardy, Noble Christian Gentleman" himself. "And, with Divine aid, we will retake Proteus … God willing," he piously concluded.
And thus endeth the epistle, he sourly thought, having no time for Win-wood's parson-like pontificating: or is it "here endeth"?
Damme I must pay more attention next time I'm in church! "But… how, sir? Now that…" Lieutenant Wyman waffled. "Aye, they're encouraged, Mister Wyman"-Lewrie grinned at him- "I'll grant you, for the nonce. I doubt though that these new-come ships are as radical as some. They've not been cut off from news from London and know of the Royal Pardon and the Acts. Their arrival here at the Nore is, I suspect, a temporary thing… their way of assuring themselves they're included in the terms, showing support for the Nore sailors who might appear to be excluded for the moment."
Don't know that at all, he admitted to himself; whistling past the graveyard… spinnin' fairy-shite!
"Doubt there's been much communication 'tween Great Yarmouth and the Nore either… they haven't had a chance to take their measure of our mutineers. Once they see what a pack of radicals they are, there's more than a good chance it'll make 'em queasy. We're still anchored out in the seaward row, close to the Queen's Channel. The new-comers are crowded in on either end. We're still dealing with the two ships anchored closest to us. And one of those came within a quim-hair of overpowering their mutineers. Now granted, the other one fired into us, but… if we continued sail-drill, making up to short stays before backing and filling, we can lull them to think nothing of it, just as we originally planned. We've most of the Marines on our side now… ready to act the next time."
"Sir, are you sure they're still with us now the mutiny's reenforced and their spirits lifted?" Mr. Coote worried aloud.
"A day or two's excitement," Lewrie said dismissively, hoping that he was right, feeling forced to be optimistic, if only to prevent his officers from sinking into the "Blue Devils." "A day or two more and they'll be back to their doubts and mis-givings, thinking of the courts-martial and gibbets. Here's what we should rumour about: The North Sea Fleet is here so they can be included in the Spithead terms and nothing more. There's no contact allowed with them either, so our hands won't know the diffrence."
"But they would, sir," Mr. Adair plumbed the fault to it quite quickly, "the Fleet Delegates will swear they're in agreement with all their terms."
"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
A nother 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 wo
rds 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!' '
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