Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

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…"