Bales glared up at him, disliking their respective positions.
"We shall, Captain Lewrie, for an example." Bales sneered back.
"You've brought shame enough to this proud new ship, you shit," Lewrie snapped, taking the steps one at a time, slowly, eyes ahead and seemingly paying no heed for his balance as he descended. "Taken her into a mutiny, shunned a good settlement, as good as declared war upon your King and Country… beguiled good men to folly, ready to drag 'em all down to Hell with you, 'long as you don't go alone, you…!"
"Seize him, stop his gob!" Bales snarled. "We've not time for his lies! By God, do it! By God, better we flog him!"
Just like McCann, he'd made a serious error, though Bales had wit enough to realise it. It was hard to miss, for most of the hands catcalled or booed Bales's order and his threat. No one rushed over to seize Lewrie either, and almost everyone studiously kept their hands in their pockets or peaceably at their sides, as he continued down to the foot of the gangway ladder to confront his enemies.
"What's in it for you, Bales? What makes you so dead set on the ruin of this ship and every man in her?" Lewrie scoffed, certain he'd have the upper hand, after that wink and smile, after Desmond's pledge of support. He took time for a slow scan about the deck and was glad to see that more than a few of the diehards were not present. "French money? Treason? Revolutionary fervour? Hatred for me personally? Whatever it is, it clouds your judgment, leads you to violence. You men there, turn Private Pope loose! Mister Devereux'd be ashamed… was a man of his flogged for no good reason!" he bellowed, using Lt. Devereux's name like a magic talisman.
"Shut up, shut up, you…!" Bales cried, drawing his cutlass and raising it on high, taking a step forward as if he'd strike Lewrie down! "You bastard!" he screeched, panting hard, his neck corded in emotion.
"Here, now!" Mr. Towpenny shouted, elbowing his way forward to take Bales's sword arm. "Got no use for ya, Bales; but ya harm Cap'um Lewrie, an' ya lay ev'ry man-jack in a noose for murder!"
"Let go of me, you arse-kissing dog!" Bales whirled, shoving Tow-penny off him and lowering the cutlass's point as if to skewer him. Lewrie was jostled from behind, almost drew his pistol in fright, but it was Desmond and Furfy, Ahern, Cahill, and Kavanaugh coming down the ladder past him to take guard on his right-hand side… as they'd promised!
"Aye, show yer colours at last, Bales!" Twopenny taunted him, baring his chest to dare him to stick him. "That's yer Floatin' Republic,' ain't it! All yer talk o' votin' an' debatin', an' it comes t' th' power o' yer sword. You ain't no man t'follow. D'ye hear, there!" he roared as if to summon all hands on deck. "Ya want t'hang for this bastard's spite? Turn him out! 'Fore ya share his ruin!"
"You're a loyalist, Mister Towpenny. You got no right t'tell us how t'conduct ship bus'ness," Haslip sneered, coming up with his clasp knife drawn to defend Bales. "Do for 'em both, like ya said, man!"
"Vote, vote, vote!" Desmond began to chant, arm-swinging at his fellow Irish to get them to join in.
"Shut up, you witless Paddy!" Bales snapped, turning his sword on him. "By Christ, we'll stick it to the end! I'll do for any hand who won't keep his oath. Now get back to your cabins, Lewrie, before I take my pleasure of you now, and be sure of it at last!"
"Nope… don't think so, Bales," Lewrie said, with a shudder of commitment. He had at least ten loyal people close at hand, his whore platoon had kept several of Bales's hottest below, and the Marines on the gangways were fidgeting with their hanger or bayonet hilts, cutting their eyes at their foes. "Or whoever you really are. You hate me … ! It's personal!" he shouted loud enough to carry. "You don't give one wee damn for anyone else. To hell with you! Lads…!"
"Shut up, you monster, shut up!" Bales screeched, turning back to Lewrie with his cutlass raised again.
"Strike!" Lewrie howled, digging desperately under his coat to free his pistol, scared he'd get skewered before he could, or shoot his own arse off if the mechanism got hung up on his waist-coat belt. The cutlass tip came nearer as Bales began to lunge, his face constricted by fury, as he realised Lewrie had organised a rebellion, despite his watchful guard, his superior wit, his thought-out plans…
"I'm Rolston, you whoreson!" he howled, stumbling forward, off balance a bit from being jostled. Lewrie flicked up his left hand, parried that wicked blade off with his penny-whistle, and his foe goggled in stunned dis-belief!
Rolston? Jesus, o' course! Lewre goggled himself. Rolston?
Almost chest-to-chest, Bales-no, Rolston!-gaping that he'd been denied his long-sought vengeance by a tin penny-whistle, as Lewrie raised a knee and got him a good'un in the nutmegs, which whooshed the last startled air from the man's lungs! Then Desmond and Furfy leaped into the fray, pawing Bales/Rolston down and piling on to drag him to the deck and seize his sword-hand. Lewrie at last got his pistol out, shoved over near the larboard ladder rails, and leveled it at Corporal O'Neil, who was ready to skewer him with an infantry hanger. The dog's-jaws already back at full cock, a hasty trigger-pull… BLAM!
And Corporal O'Neil's rage was quite flown away-along with the back of his head, splattering gore and brains on the other mutineer who'd been holding Private Pope. He'd lost his stomach for mutiny and dropped his weapon, raised his hands, and knelt as Pope scooped up both pistol and cutlass and gave him a boot in the belly before spinning off in search of someone else to fight!
A fight, By Jesus, yes, Lewrie crowed to himself, seeing melees on every hand. Old Trollop and Sally Blue whacking the stuffing from a mutineer who'd displeased them or cheated them most-like, swinging sand-filled leathern coshes with Amazonian howls of glee! Some of the waverers, the sheep-in-the-middle, bleating in alarm and backing up to the trunk of the foremast, hands conspicuously empty and un-involved! Bosun Pendarves on the forecastle, hewing about with a tar-paying iron loggerhead as the Armourer, Mr. Offley, was hacking at the bower cables, and four men, defended by Pendarves, hauled away lustily to hoist the jibs! And Andrews, eschewing his pistol but clashing his cutlass against Mr. Morley's!
Lewrie stopped to pick up the cutlass at his feet, pulling like he'd jerk a turkey leg off the carcass to wring the leather wrist strop from Bales's/ Rolston's hand and making him howl, while Desmond and Ahern lay atop him to keep him out of action.
Aha! Lewrie espied Haslip and stalked after him. Haslip had no taste for danger, like all sea-lawyers, and gibbered in spittley panic as he back-pedaled. Before Landsman Furfy came up from his offhand side, that is, plucked a pistol from Haslip's nerveless fingers, and lifted him high in the air as easily as if Haslip was a kitten! The Irishman gave him a fearful shaking, then took a deep swing like some foredeck hand ready to swing the lead to sound the water's depth, and hurled Haslip, screeching thin and rabbity-Gawd, Lewrie could not quite feature it, but Haslip cleared not only the lip of the gangway but the larboard bulwarks as well, blubbering, "I cain' swim/"'before he dropped from sight, followed by a most-welcome, but mortal, splash!
"Spanker!" Lewrie roared, dashing back to the quarterdeck in a giddy, bounding rush, where he could see better. His quarterdeck once more, where he could command! Robbed of re-enforcements, taken unaware and surrounded by secret defectors, all but the last of the mutineers were now out of it: dis-armed and held down, out cold, or bleeding on the decks and gangways. "Mister Towpenny! Hands to the fore-course halliards! Hands to the starboard braces! Mister Pendarves, sheets! Jib sheets! Sheet home, and flat-in yer jibs!"
With a groan and a gun-shot-like pop, the bower cable parted in a flurry of dry rope-shards and slithered out the hawse hole and over the side. Proteus was free of the ground! HMS Proteus was free, and paying off her bows to point South towards the Isle of Sheppey, paying off and shuffling alee as the out-rushing tide took her! Backed jibs were barn-siding taut, bellied out, the spanker above his head winging and fluttering as it soared aloft, the gaff-jaws and wood-ball parrels groaning and squeaking as the upper gaff scaled the mizzen as high as the cro'jack yard. Bowsprit jutting upward, sweeping
Sou'easterly to parallel the Queen's Channel.
"Mister Winwood, sir!" Lewrie called out. "Lay her head East-Sou'east. Mister Towpenny, the fore-course, smartly now! That's the way, my bully lads! That's the way, my Proteuses! Haul away all!"
He couldn't help giggling, stamping his foot, and flinging wide his arms to hoot and howl to the heavens as Proteus began to gather way, singing along with the beginning notes of a ship under sail, with the gurgle and chuckle of salt water 'round her rudder and transom post and under her forefoot, the apparent wind just beginning to whistle in the rigging! "Free, by God! Free!" he bellowed.
"Sir," Mr. Winwood said, coming to his side. "Don't know the channel all that well, sir. Hoped we'd have a pilot aboard. Do you allow me to steer more Easterly, out to mid-channel? Hate to take the ground. An outbound ship to guide us, like San Fiorenio, t'other…"
"Anyone know the Queen's Channel good as a harbour pilot?" Lewrie roared down to the gun-deck, where the Bedlam was at its greatest, with mutineers herded to one place, sail-handlers trying to do their work in the room remaining, Mr. Shirley and his mates poking and prodding those still down on the deck, and a pack of loblolly boys traipsing along in their wake with their narrow carrying-boards.
"Er… know it pert' well, Cap'um!" Old Man Grace shouted back. "Me an' me son been up an' down it fer years, sir. Not in a big ship, but…"
"Come up here, Seaman Grace, you and your son! Hell, bring the grandson too! Assist the Sailing Master 'til we reach deep water."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Skreakings and squeals of the lignum-vitae sheaves of the pulley blocks as the fore-course finally reached its limit of travel and the main-course began to ascend too, more squeals as the brace-blocks to the courses took a strain, as the braces were trimmed in to cup wind.
BOOM! From astern at last, and a few seconds later a cannon-ball went shrilling past Proteus's starboard side, very wide of her and hopelessly high. The ball's first graze raised a feathery plume at least a quarter-mile beyond and well alee.
"Showin' 'em our stern, Mister Winwood. Aye, Easterly, as much as you wish," Lewrie agreed, crossing to the binnacle rack to fetch a telescope. He could see several ships near their recent anchorage that had opened their gun-ports; but it was a haphazard thing, as irregular as a beggar's teeth, and he doubted if they'd get off a killing broadside before Proteus got out of range. BOOM! another piece spoke, but it was a forecastle carronade on one of the 64-gunners, not a long-range gun. This ball was closer to line-of-aim, but couldn't even begin to reach her and fell very short, not even skipping near.
"Sergeant Skipwith?" Lewrie demanded, pacing back to the hammock nettings.
"Aye, aye, sah!" Skipwith said, stamping to attention.
"You and the Master At Arms, the Ship's Corporals assist Mister Offley. I want all our mutineers taken under arms in chains at once!" Lewrie ordered. "Especially that bastard!" he said, pointing at Bales with the tin-whistle, which was by then pretty-much the worse for wear.
Rumbold, Smyth, and Mash, Mr. Handcocks, Mr. Morley, and Private Mollo, two of the Sailmaker's crew, Bales, and two other of the Marines, a few more faces he'd come to loathe by then, scooped up from where they lay or slumped on the deck, some dragged up from below already in irons, hooted and jeered by the victorious doxies who'd bamboozled the lot of 'em. Seventeen, altogether, less Haslip and O'Neil. He hoped Proteus had enough restraints to hold them. If Proteus had sailed into Sheerness through a blizzard of gunfire, he'd have been able to dispose of them with the authorities. Now, though, escaping to sea, he was stuck with them and he doubted his died-in-the-wool mutineers would go quietly. They'd finagle and whisper, perhaps cry out to the rest of the crew for help, try to turn them back into mutineers and free them, retake Proteus… Bales especially. There were a whole nest of vipers in his breast, and he needed to be shot of them as quick as he could. How, though? Hmmm.. . goodquestion, he mused.
More cannonfire, as Proteus got a bone in her teeth and began to put on speed, gathering way out into Queen's Channel, beginning to bend her course a touch Sutherly at Elder Grace's suggestions, sailing Large off that North wind, and the sea round her peppered by misses still, but more guns were now involved. And there was a mutineer frigate far up near The Warp, off the North shore, that was speeding down on Proteus to intercept, abandoning her clutch of ten or twelve captured merchant ships to punish a defector.
"Mister Wyman?" Lewrie snapped, turning to his Second Officer. "Aye, sir," Wyman replied, still smiling dreamily over retaking the ship. "You are now my First Officer, Mister Wyman," Lewrie said. "Ah… I see, sir. My goodness gracious!" Wyman sobered. That was an onerous job of work he hadn't thought to expect, sure that Lieutenant Langlie, or even Ludlow, might return aboard.
"Get sail on her, Mister Wyman, quick as dammit!" Lewrie said. "Before yon rebel frigate catches us up. Tops'ls and t'gallants. The foremast first, to lighten and lift the bows.
"Er… aye, aye, sir!" Wyman goggled, then gulped, reset his hat, and cupped his hands round his mouth. "Hoy, there! All topmen aloft! Lay aloft, trice up, and lay out! Free tops'ls and t'gallants! Smartly, foremast… handsomely, main and mizzen!"
Lewrie looked aft. That frigate off his larboard quarter seemed to be gaining slightly, though not yet within range of her foredeck chase-guns. Heavier stuff was peppering about astern though; someone had gotten a 3rd Rate's lower-deck 32-pounders in action at last and three or four round-shot went moaning past Proteus, rustling the air with the sound of ripping canvas, to splash about a quarter-mile ahead of her bows. Turning to follow their flight, and seeing those towering plumes of spray, Lewrie could see several merchantmen far beyond, out to sea, some coastal fishing boats slanting in towards the Thamesmouth or the Medway. Or at least they had been, until they'd seen firing and gotten a fright, for they either fetched-to or broadened profiles even as he watched, steering clear of something they didn't wish to be involved with.
Coasters! Lewrie thought; find myself a coaster, warm him off of theThames, and get him to land my chained mutineers somewhere else… turn 'em over to a civil magistrate, if not a Navy officer. Where's the Impress Services; they'd suit? Harwich, Whitstable, Herne Bay… bloody Margate?
" "Ere!" Miss Nancy was crying, scampering up the starboard ladder to the quarterdeck, with several other doxies in tow. "We're goin' out! We wanna go back t'Sheerness, Cap'um, not t'seaf'
"Aye, what're ya playin' at, sir?" Sally Blue's mother carped. "By God, didya play us false, I'll have yer gizzard!"
"Ladies!" Lewrie boomed, spreading his arms in greeting, just as chearly as anything to placate them. "You did it, by Christ!"
Mr. Winwood could be heard uttering a scandalised groan.
"My undying thanks to all of you!" he pressed on quickly, taking off his hat, making a formal leg to them. " 'Twas a fearsome and brave deed you did in your King's, and Country's, service; and I will be sure to list each of you by name, with the firmest recommendations to Vice-Admiral Buckner, the First Secretary to Admiralty, Mr. Evan Nepean… aye, I'll write 'His Nobs' King George himself, swear I shall! telling them what splendid, patriotic women you are. And honour our pact, I assure you. But…" he said, straightening and pointing astern, "we aren't out of the woods yet. We almost lost again, and it was happenstance that we beat 'em down when the tide was running out, not in. I will set you ashore… promise! But we have to get out of the range of their guns first. Wait 'til dusk, no longer. Swear it."
He didn't think it would go amiss to walk amongst them (though he suspected they still had their impromptu weapons about their persons), bestow kisses on work-hardened hands, buss cheeks on the younger-and cleaner-and speak a few personal words of congratulations and gratitude. Sally Blue responded most eagerly, flinging her arms 'round him again, and he patted (well, perhaps stroked as well) her slim back as she jounced atip-toe and squealed nicely. It seemed to mollify them.
"Oh, give 'im 'is fob back, Sally," Miss Nancy chuckled when they'd untangled from their
embrace, relenting to his logic.
"Sorr-eyy." Sally Blue blushed quite prettily. "Habit, like."
"Right, then, Cap'um Lewrie." Miss Nancy shrugged. "We'll wait 'til dark."
"You kill any of 'em, Miss Nancy?" he had to ask.
"Hurt a few, I reckon." She shrugged again. "Aye, one o' them committeemen…'at Kever feller? Ravin' 'bout settin' light to th' powder store, 'fore he'd let th' ship be took, so…" She drew a hand across her throat, though not with as much enthusiasm as Sally Blue had the moment before the counter-mutiny had erupted. "Lost int'rest fer quim too quick; couldn't 'old 'im back."
Lewrie nodded, thinking on how he'd manage Proteus as a fighting ship without Master Gunner, Mate, and Yeoman of The Powder. Oh shit, he suddenly realised; we could've been blown higher'n a kite! I do b'lieve I need me a sit-down. And who slit Kever's gizzard for him? You, Nancy? he wondered. Damme, don't know why I ever thought her attractive. There's some women just too dangerous t'mess with!
He looked aloft, saw the tops'ls on both fore and main drawing, the fore t'gallant heaving upward from the fighting top, almost in position, half-open and flagging like a rattle of musketry. He turned to look back towards the Great Nore. What cannonfire directed at Proteus from the anchored ships wasn't reaching them and was tailing off in a weary acceptance-and it had never been more than half-hearted. The frigate to her North still stood on, though slanting more to the Sou-Sou'west, back into the Queen's Channel, as if she was breaking off pursuit too.
Can't trust their own hands to chase us too far, Lewrie realised with joy; fore they get ideas about escape in their heads too!
"Things well in hand, Mister Winwood?" he asked, walking back to the helm where Winwood was buried in his charts, and the two Grace men were craning their necks and conferring on where the next deadly shoal might be.
"Good as may be expected, Captain," Winwood allowed, not quite sure he liked being counselled by two common seamen; wasn't he Sailing Master, the Admiralty-chosen sage responsible for safe navigation?
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