Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

Isn't it? Lewrie wondered sadly.

"Last we heard, sir"-Tuggle told him as Lewrie got his feet to pace, hands in the small of his back-"they'd agreed to the rise in pay. Nothin' official yet, but… do they give us better wages, then surely they're con-siderin' the rest."

"Wouldn't that be enough then?" Lewrie asked. "To end this?"

"Well, nossir." Tuggle sighed, after a long thought. "We wrote back thankin' 'em for the pay rise, but…'til we get the fresh meat back an' the flour removed… the vegetables… the pensions and the signed pardon from the King, we don't stir, sir. We'll maintain discipline and order, keep the ships up proper… but we won't stir from Portsmouth, sir."

"Even do the French come out from Brest or the Dutch from the Texel?" Lewrie scoffed quickly. "You'd sit idle if they invade us?"

"Well, sir… uhm"-Will Cony wheedled for a moment as he got to his own feet to look his old captain and compatriot eye-to-eye-"might be best then… does Whitehall worry 'bout such… that we come to an agreement soon'z they can, sir."

Stone-faced, and cold as Christmas, Will Cony, of all people in the Navy telling him he'd not sail to his country's defence? It was inconceivable! Could an easy-going, loyal old tar like Will Cony put his back up and refuse to yield a single point, then what in Hell was the world coming to?

"Sail over t'France… give 'e Froggies th' fleet," some faceless voice at the back of the pack crowed. "Be swimmin' in gold, fer that!"

"Here, none o' that now!" Tuggle barked, wheeling to confront such sentiments. "Who said that? Own up, man!"

No one did, though no one glared back too angrily or reddened with embarrassment to betray himself.

"Aye, beware of talk like that!" Lewrie roared, like he still had the right to roar on these beloved decks. "That's not mutiny… that's treason 'gainst King and Country. Levelling, Republican poisoning talk! London Corresponding Society talk, same as annual Parliaments, no King…" he trailed off, a tad limply.

He wasn't sure what else the London Corresponding Society wanted, couldn't recall their other points in those tracts he'd discovered!

"Any man talks of stealing the fleet and sailing off for France isn't a true Englishman, lads. He's a viper in your breast, planted on you by schemers who plot treason. Besides, Jester ain't exactly fit for sailin' to France at the moment, now is she? Damme, if we do not get what we want, and they try to take us, why I just might steal me a row-boat for spite… and sell it to the Frogs, hah? Will any of ya be swimmin' in gold for that, hey?" he mimicked.

There was a certain, sardonic logic to it that made them laugh, at least the slightest bit.

"Whoever said that, you lads watch him close… make sure that you take whatever else he suggests with a handful of salt!" Lewrie told them. "Damme, not three weeks ago, I told the old hands among you I was as proud of you as a captain could be, and now look at what you've gotten yourselves talked into! Come on, men! Settle for better wages and a few concessions. You're in no spot to sail away from a graving dock, and you're in no spot to resist, without artillery."

"Took an oath, sir," Tuggle insisted. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but our minds're made up… same as yours, by the sound of it. Said yerself, sir… you didn't come to negotiate. Don't have an ear with Admiralty to help or hinder, sir. Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but… it might be best did ya go ashore. Like t'other officers, sir."

"Will, I came for you," Lewrie snapped, after having himself a long, incredulous gawp at Tuggle. He hadn't been ordered about like that since he was a midshipman! "I'm asking, as a friend, leave it. There's still your leave-ticket. You'd let him off, wouldn't you, Mister Tuggle? Lads? Here's his wife and child begging… damn you all! Here's me begging!" he demanded. "Will you come away, Mister Cony?"

"Nossir, I s'pose not." Cony grimaced, after heaving a long, deep sigh of regret. "A'ready signed me name as a delegate. Leave-ticket'd not mean much do h'it go again' us."

"Will, for God's sake, noooo!" Maggie wailed. "Come away!"

Cony went to her, to take her hands and lead her a little off to one side, gently trying to explain. "Swore me a Bible-oath, dear Maggie. Can't rightly say I ever did afore. Man who'd break faith with 'at, well… ain't much of a man atall."

"They'll hang you, sure as Fate…!" his wife shrilled, pale as death and like to faint with fear.

"Can't slide off an' let th' lads down neither, darlin'… not after 'ey made me one o' their rep-Gawd, ain't h'it a break-teeth word though- rep-re-sent-atives? "

"Then I'll stay with you, Will… me and the boy!" Mrs. Cony shuddered, reaching down and finding a firm Country-English spunk to draw on. "God help us, Will, but no matter the folly you've got in, if yer that determined… then you must think yerself right. And if you think you're right, then I'll stand by you through thick an' thin, same as we vowed… at our marryin' Bible-oath!"

"Ah, ya can't, Maggie," Cony muttered sadly. "Committee said t'put all women ashore, out o' harm's way, so we could keep good order, proper Ship's Discipline… so they don' think us nothin' but drunks an' debauchers. Can't make no exceptions, dear as I'd wish… Maggie, come 'ere a minute. Give me leave, Cap'um? 'fore ya takes 'em back 'ome for me?"

Lewrie saw it was no use and gravely nodded. Will and Maggie went aft towards the taffrails for a last few words of parting, while Lewrie retrieved his hat, then paced away towards the entry-port. And little Will, tears running down his face, aware his dad'd not be with him anytime soon-saw himself being cosseted and dandled on old Mr. Paschal's knee, surrounded by some older petty officers and seamen who had children of their own, making a fuss over him, cooing, making faces to amuse him, though Will wailed inconsolably.

Lewrie felt a presence near him and turned to meet the sheepish gaze of Jester's new Master Gunner, Mister Tuggle.

"You're a hopeless pack of bloody fools, you know," Lewrie said accusingly. "And do you get Will Cony court-martialed and hung aside you, then I swear t'Christ, I'll dance on your grave!"

"I s'pose you may be right, sir," Tuggle confessed, looking a bit lost and hopeless at that moment. "But the fat's in the fire for sure, sir. There's always a chance they'll give us better'n half what we asked. Be satisfied with that… a bit more'n half, sir."

"Is there much to this… from that London Corresponding Society?" Lewrie simply had to know. "Saw some tracts. Priestley, Place… some of that lot. Did they stir this up or did it…?"

"You forgot Mister Thelwall and Mister Binns, sir, a heap of others," Tuggle said, with a brief, weary smile. "I'd reckon 'least a quarter o' the new hands-those Quota Men and United Irishmen… pressed Americans- have Thorn Paine's Rights of Man, Part the Second, damn'-near memorised by now, sir. No King, sir? No House of Lords, just Commons… annual Parliaments… fair wages, pensions, decent working hours, and conditions, sir? Right t'vote for any man making Ј6 a year, not Ј100, any who pay 'scot and lot'? Lord, sir! Even gone so far as to preach on giving wimmen the vote, sir! Did ya ever hear such tripe, Commander Lewrie? Has nought t'do with the Fleet; 'tis nothing we wish! As to yer question, sir… though I 'spect we've a few LCS men aboard… wasn't them started this. Seen none o' their tracts. No one ashore stirred the fleet t'mutiny, either, sir. This come from the sailors themselves, sir; and did some of the wild-eyed, radical shite… beg-gin' yer pardon, sir… come up, 'twas rejected by the delegates early on. We're loyal men, sir," Tuggle insisted. "Just want better rations… pay, a tad better treatment, sir… that's all we demand. T'be treated like men, sir. We aren't all drunken, brainless animals, sir, like most officers and th' Admiralty think. We'll do our duty for King and Country should we be called to… we're still True Blue Hearts o' Oak at bottom, sir."

Lewrie opened his mouth to make a reply, but decided against a rebuttal; it could only come out an exasperated sneer, he suspected.

"I trust, Mister Tuggle, that you are sincere 'bout doing your duty should it come-should the French come," Lewrie said, instead. "And with Will Cony so stubborn over this, I trust you're all as sincere in your grievances too. I cannot wish you good fortune, you know it. Yet… for Will's sake, if nothing else… I wish that I could."

"For Will Cony's sake then, Commander Lewrie, sir. For Will's sake." Mr. Tuggle grimly nodded, with only a tiny crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

All Lewrie could do after that was to go aft, to take charge of Bosun Cony's family, and escort them off the ship, back to their carriage-and take them home, their quest a failure.

L ewrie was feeling particularly helpless, and hapless, after a few more days. No letter had come from Admiralty to offer employment, as he had smugly expected; it was spring planting season, about which he knew absolutely nothing, no matter his few idle half-pay years as a gentleman-tenant farmer before the war-that was Caroline's bailiwick and none of his. He had been known to raise his hat, but nothing green!

His civilian suitings were once more hopelessly out of style as well, and to waste money updating his shore wardrobe at a time when the farm needed every pence in these tight times could appear selfish and "hen-headed" spendthrift, showing disloyalty to Caroline. Besides, he half-dreaded, to invest in civilian togs might signal a surrender or a willingness to remain ashore on half-pay for the rest of his life! The Fates, he superstitiously feared, took note of such accommodations.

Practically in a Dog Watch, he had been reduced from a powerful warship captain to a mere centurion, mouthing repetitions of his tribune-wife's dictates to their hired labourers, without even half a clue to what they portended or a decent idea of what proper work such orders involved, or how such labour was to be carried out!

On top of that, the household was also feverishly engaged with the dreaded spring cleaning; and did he not wish to be "press-ganged" into moving furniture or emptying pantry shelves, a man still possessed of his higher faculties would make himself scarce, perhaps oversee the boiling of water, as one did for childbirth at best, and leaving the womenfolk to their "pagan" rites, rituals, and mysteries.

Simpler societies, such as the South Sea Islanders or the Seminole and Muskogee Indians he had dealt with in '82, had solutions for menfolk and warriors in situations such as these, Lewrie recalled-the Long-House where women were barred. London had its clubs. Lewrie, and Anglesgreen had the public houses.

After a horseback tour of his acres, a word or two with the new foreman and his mates, Lewrie betook himself to the Old Ploughman tavern.

The pub was uncrowded in the morning hours of course; the real farmers who knew what they were about were out busily doing it. Even the more-gentlemanly Red Swan Inn that he rode past, where he was anathema as long as any Embleton still drew breath, only had a coach or two, a saddle horse or two, out front.

Lewrie handed his reins to the Ploughman's newest boyish "daisy-kicker," said hello to old Mr. Beakman and his spinster daughter (whom Will Cony had jilted years before, Lewrie recalled with a newfound sadness for his missing Bosun), ordered up a mug of light, sprightly new spring ale to steel himself for a look at the even more troubling world beyond, and called for the newspapers.