Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

"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?

"In th' main channel, sir." Elder Grace grinned. "An' clear o' th' worst bars an' shoals, so far. Markers an' buoys'll see us right."

"Very well, Mister Winwood, Seaman Grace. Carry on." Lewrie nodded. "And, thankee… thankee both. Or, all three, that is," he added, as their son/grandson crooked his neck to follow Winwood's finger on the chart, between their legs, seeing a wonder he'd not suspected could be pictured or written down, that lore he'd learned from the cradle, mostlike. "For your loyalty and steadfastness through all our troubles. I believe, Mister Winwood, we'll be needing a replacement for your Irish Master's Mate, Mister Nugent?"

"Well, aye, sir." Winwood frowned.

"Move one of the quartermasters up, one of the mates to replace that'un… and Mister Grace here," he nodded at the elder, "advanced to Quartermaster's Mate?"

"Very good, sir." Winwood nodded, whether he liked it or not.

"And Young Grace, sir!" Lewrie said, squatting down. "Mister Peacham is ashore… permanently, pray Jesus. For the short time we must promote Mister Catterall an acting-lieutenant, Mister Adair, too, as Third Officer. That leaves an opening in the midshipman's mess. Would you be interested, Master Grace?" he asked the boy. "Try your hands as a trainee midshipman?"

For a poor fisheries lad with no hopes of a naval career, it was a miraculous bolt from the blue. Aye, he was more than eager!

"Good, then," Lewrie said, rising to his feet. "Carry on, Mister Winwood. Make us a good offing, but we'll lurk off to the South, for a while longer. Deep water off Herne Bay, Whitstable? By dark, we'll close the coast and land our prisoners and civilian women. Should we not come across a coaster or large fisheries boat, we could pay to put them ashore."

"Aye, aye, sir." Winwood perked up, glad to be rid of the women at last.

"Know most of 'em, sir," Elder Grace supplied, still peering at the seaward horizon with one hand shading his eyes. "Beg pardon, but do ya wish, it'd be best did I hail 'em. They know me, but they'd run from a Navy ship, expectin' a Press Gang, sir."

"Very well, Grace, we'll do it that way." Lewrie nodded. "I'll go below for a moment then. Mister Wyman? You have the deck, sir. I have much to write 'fore dusk, and little time in which to do it."

Proteus had been slowly hobby horsing over the tide-run, surging a bit to the press of the winds. Now her bows lifted as a wave, a sea wave, crested below her cutwater and broke to cream down her flanks. A cheer went up, for she was now truly free and halfway to salt ocean.

"Mister Wyman!" Lewrie roared. "Haul down those yard ropes… haul down those red flags. Mister Catterall? Fetch out a Red Ensign from the aft lockers and bend it on. Put us back under true colours!"

He went forrud to the edge of the nettings to look down on his crew. It was a thinner crew than before, barely the numbers he needed to work her or fight her, and God knew when he'd get more, especially sailors he could trust implicitly. Perhaps the entire Navy would have that problem from this moment on, no matter when the Nore mutiny was over. And it would be over, he was mortal-certain. With his crew as a guide, there weren't enough wild-eyed radicals to sustain rebellion, when that wasn't what the most had sworn on for. Days… weeks even; but sooner or later, it would be over. He just hoped it ended before England 's enemies took advantage of it.

They stood on gun-deck or gangways, now the topmen were down off the upper yards, looking to him their captain. Proud and pleased; the sullen, who still might prove untrustworthy; the frightened and confused, who'd always wavered in the middle…

"Thankee, lads! Thankee," he said, taking off his hat in humility. "We're now returned to duty. The Spithead terms are yours. See you yonder!" he cried, spearing an arm aloft.

Red Ensign at the mizzen peak, where it belonged.

"H… M… S Proteus. 1" he roared. "Won back from the brink of shame by men! A proud ship… redeemed! A proud young frigate, manned by a proud crew! Mister Coote, sir? I note it is now a quarter-past noon. B'lieve 'Clear Decks And Up Spirits' is late, sir! We'll splice the main brace! Proteuses, ladies and wives, alike!" That raised an even greater cheer.

"Slate's clean again!" he shouted, as they began to queue up at the foc's'le belfry. "And nary a man who returned to duty will ever be charged, you hear? Now when you drink… drink to yourselves. Drink to success for our ship! May her fame never be tarnished again!"

N igh to dusk and HMS Proteus lay fetched-to a scant five miles off Herne Bay and Whitstable. They'd come across a Margate lugger two hours before, had had to run her down and fire a warning shot to bring her up, then perplexed the very Devil out of her captain by having Elder Grace call over to her, for he'd known her identity as soon as her patched sails were close enough to fill a telescope.

"Hoy, Jemmy Vernish! Ye want t'make some money?"

Aye, Captain Vernish did and had come aboard to haggle out the price for carrying prisoners, despatches, and whores into Whitstable: prisoners dumped on the local magistrate, whores wafted upriver behind the Medway booms to Sheerness in shallow oyster dredgers owned by men whom Middle Grace recommended.

"Glad you have 'em chained, Cap'um Lewrie"-Vernish had smiled- "for my own piece o' mind… and, for the constable at Herne Bay. Not one you'd call a capable feller, God help him."

Despatches! Lewrie and Padgett had scribbled away in a fury, and a flurry of ink to get them all done in time. He wrote to Admiralty, Admiral Buckner, even the King, as he'd promised, praising the loyalist hands who'd stood by him, naming those who had wavered but rallied to his side-and damning the prisoners, citing their crimes. He urged for Langlie, Devereux, and most of the others sent ashore to be sent posthaste to Whitstable, swearing he would patrol close offshore, to await their arrival as long as he could.

As for Lieutenant Ludlow and Midshipman Peacham, he strongly hinted at their assignment to another ship, since their brusque and abusive dealings had been partly responsible for stoking the fire of mutiny in the first place, despite his cautions to modify their behavior… the reassignments and acting-promotions he had made, being very short-handed…

And, short-handed though he was, and his crew inexperienced or not, he wrote that, barring orders to the contrary "… it is my intent to remove my ship as far from mutinous assemblies as possible, 'til my taint is scoured away by dint of routine Discipline, and Instruction in seamanship restores her people to complete Obedience. Therefore, once my officers are aboard, I shall sail at once for the Texel to bolster what few ships Admiral Duncan has got, shorn as he is for the moment of two-deckers. I see this course of action as my bounden Duty, in such parlous times, with the threat of battle or invasion ever before us…"

God, but I'm a toadyin' wretch! even he groaned as he read his prose; what a canting bastard! But it will read well with those who count, he told himself. And I didn 't trowel it on too bloody thick!

Recommendations for his "distaff" re-enforcements, his whores; a draught on his funds to his solicitor, Matthew Mountjoy in London, to pay them, or their representatives, a certain sum each. Hmm, Lewrie thought; and a rather handsome sum it was too! Thirty-two women, at Ј5 per… that atop the pound note he'd slipped each one after they'd made it to sea, and the five shillings per for passage with Vernish… and the money Padgett would carry to buy their further passage back to Sheerness too! And if Padgett thought he was going to enjoy his short voyage with 'em, then God help the poor lad!

Finally it was done, and all but the personal copied into his letter books, with Padgett aided by Mr. Coote's Jack-In-The-Breadroom clerk, who would spell Padgett until he could return aboard. He still had to update his watch-and-quarter bills, of course, but that could surely wait… Lewrie rather hoped he'd get Langlie back as his First Officer quickly… then he could saddle him with the drudgery! That's what First Lieutenants were for, by God, Lewrie could gladly contemplate!

Proteus heaved and clattered slowly on a slack sea, now that the tide had turned for the night and sundown reddened the western skies; laying cocked up to weather near Captain Vernish's dowdy old lugger-which went by the grand name of Marlborough. Proteus's boats were hard at it stroking over to her filled with iron-bound men. Some waited on the larboard gangway for their turn in the boats. Pleading…

"Sir, Captain Lewrie, sir," Mr. Handcocks smiled sheepishly with his wrists before him. "Hope ya put in a good word for me, sir. Didn't mean no harm, ever. Stood up for sailors' rights, sir, same as ev'ry other hand. Didn't wish t'be a delegate, sir, but th' lads chose me an' I couldn't say no, now could I, sir? Keep' 'em on th' straight'un narrow?"

"It's over, Mister Handcocks," Lewrie grunted, having no wish to bandy words with the man. "You, a man with years at sea, Admiralty Warrant… God help you, Mister Handcocks, for I can't."

"But, sir!" Handcocks began to beg, then broke off as he got his pride up, biting back what else he might have said, gnawing on his cheek lining, as stoop-shouldered as a man already convicted.

And there was Seaman Bales… Rolston, really. Lewrie had yet to dredge up his Christian name, after all these years, when they had been midshipmen together aboard HMS Ariadne, under Captain Bales, so long ago in 1780! Bales, even in chains and shackles, still exuded an air of coolly aloof superiority, a sneering "damn yer blood" glint to his harsh phyz. Even without the beard, Lewrie would have had no clue as to who he was. Perhaps someone else in the Navy might've. Lewrie had made sure that his report had contained Bales's secret identity… with what few hints he'd gleaned about his prior service, the boasting he'd made when first they'd shifted Proteus to the double crescent anchorage, that he'd once been a Master's Mate.

Bales/Rolston glared daggers at him. Lewrie felt happy enough to return him what was known in the Sea Service as a "shit-eatin' grin."

"You really plan this, Rolston?" he idly enquired, taking a few steps closer. "Right from the start, did you? One of the schemers in Sandwich ?"

"Why should I tell you anything, Lewrie?" Rolston sneered back. "Keep wondering… and the Devil take you, as I'm sure he will sooner or later."

"Rather think he'll see you first, you dog." Lewrie continued to grin, enjoying goading him. "Did you really come off a frigate up at Chatham… Hussar, was she?"

Bales sniffed in derision, but nodded in the affirmative.

"Just an Able Seaman… after all these years," Lewrie taunted. "Found your proper level, I s'pose. Yet a naval career begun with such promise… my, my," Lewrie snickered, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Keith Ashburn… you remember Keith, don't you, Rolston? Post-Captain into the Tempest frigate. And that was in '94 in the Med, so he's sure to have risen higher by now. Young Shirke, I heard he got command of a brig o'war last year… made Commander. Even Bascombe, that idiot, he's a Lieutenant too. Yet you, on the other hand…"