Things went well ashore. Buckner was an old fellow, welcoming as could be asked for, though seeming troubled. Lewrie put that down to his being in charge of everything, and nothing, for he had no command over the warships gathered in the Nore, only with an eye to fitting them, manning them, making repairs, and passing them on to other units.
He'd had some good news, even so. The semaphore telegraph had wagged the news that Admiral Howe's negotations with the mutineers at Spithead were going well, and a final solution now looked very likely.
"One which, I trust," Admiral Buckner had sighed, "will settle the grievances once and for all. Not only for Channel Fleet, but with the mutineers at Plymouth too, Captain Lewrie. And… uhm, a close-run thing. There was some fighting at Spithead aboard a few ships… nothing too drastic, but… the sort of thing which might have caused a violent rebellion had it spread. Spread much wider, d'ye see."
"Something akin to the Culloden business, sir?" Lewrie had asked, feeling a tad more perceptive by then; Vice-Admiral Buckner had had a large coffee pot at hand and had been most liberal in sharing. "Captains acting a bit too forcefully… engaging in perfidious, two-faced dealings, aye." Buckner had nodded. "Captains were forced to… uhm, back down in the face of resistance. Sensibly, I must allow. The retention of a single ship… the return of a vessel or two to proper order could never balance against the rancour incited-among vessels beyond Portsmouth." Buckner had most mystifyingly hinted.
"D'ye mean here, at the Nore, sir? Or at Great Yarmouth too?" "There have been, uhm… letters of grievances sent me, Lewrie-so far from individual ships-requesting shore-leave, back pay, food issues much like the demands of the Spithead mutineers. The removal of certain officers and mates they deem tyrannical or overly harsh, aye." Buckner had gloomed, and Lewrie had realised that his troubled mien was due to more than his usual travails. "Nothing organised so far. And pray Jesus when word of settlement arrives… as I am mortal-certain we will receive in a few more days… the terms and conditions will be mollifying throughout the Navy."
"A sloop of war named Jester was not cited as one of the ships where violence erupted, was she, sir?"
"Ah, no, Captain Lewrie. I do not recall any mention of that ship. Your last command, I suspect, sir? Rest easy… on that head, at the least. Now, sir… how many men did you say you desired? My, my!"-
The last task of his day's work away from Proteus. With a precious letter from Vice-Admiral Buckner and his Regulating Captain of the Impress Service safely in hand, he went aboard HMS Sandwich to pick up more seamen (hopefully!) and some more warm bodies to fill in the gaps in his watch-and-quarter bills. He stopped to pick up Lieutenant Ludlow to go along with him to aid him in the choosing.
Sandwich was crammed far beyond his most horrid imaginings. It reeked like an abattoir despite being scrubbed daily, the sickly, foetid reek of a hospital ward where hopelessly sick or wounded men were left to perish in their own good time.
As Buckner's flagship she was fully manned, ostensibly fit for sea at a day's notice, stocked and stored and armed for battle not one hour out to sea against any Dutch ships which might try the Thames and Medway again, as they had in wars of the previous century.
But she'd been saddled with hundreds more new-comes and recently impressed sailors, with all the other receiving ships already full with others. Buckner had been specific that they must choose from among the potential hands aboard Sandwich, not the other hulks. To reduce the odours, Lewrie suspected most cynically; when he made his rare appearances aboard her.
God, they were a villainous lot! He'd thought that the people who'd greeted him aboard Proteus had approached "villainous," but this crowd gave "villainous" a whole new aspect! Not only were they clad in rags and greasy civilian clothes, the most of them, but they shivered in bare feet, bare shins devoid of stockings, and even the ones who gave the appearance of nautical experience could barely boast of a single, thin shirt and a pair of torn, stained slop-trousers, a neck-kerchief, or a hat of any description. They smelled like a corpse's armpit, emitting a sour cloud of steam from being pent so close and thick below decks and freshly exposed to the cool open airs. Some were speckled with a host of rash-marks; fleas, lice-bites, saltwater boils, and ulcers that had grown large as the wens and buboes seen with the Black Death! Doddering oldsters, pitifully shivering children, barely in their teens. Long-haired, grey-haired, gap-toothed. As miserable an assortment of wretchedness as ever he'd imagined!
"This is Captain Lewrie… of the Proteus frigate," Sandwich's officer shouted to the hundred or so gathered amidships. "He is come for willing hands. A frigate, lads! Now who'll step forward to volunteer for her? Anyone? Nought of you willing to serve your King and Country in a fine, tall frigate? Damme!"
Lewrie looked at the faces glaring back at him, most wearing an utter blankness, a weariness beyond all reckoning of the opportunity he offered. Here and there were younger, fitter faces, men with straight backs and clean limbs, a few who'd retained their clothing and tried to keep themselves in better order. He hoped some of them might step forward.
"God, what a pot-mess!" Ludlow sniped, ready to spit on deck and be done with the lot of them. "Not one of 'em better than what a crop-sick hound'd spew up!"
"Their issue slops, sir? Where are they?" Lewrie asked.
"Lord, sir"- Sandwich's lieutenant sneered then, in a loud voice, to their faces-"gutter scum such as them? Improvident drunkards such as them sir? Sold or gambled 'em away with no thought for the morrow, like all their lot do, 'thout you'd beat some sense into 'em. Weaker'uns… well, mayhap the tougher stole 'em blind, Captain Lewrie. Be the first to admit such happens." The officer shrugged, as if it was of no matter to him what these "recruits" did amongst themselves. "Real sailors are so rare now, sir… we have to settle for the hopeless shit, such as these! Who'd rob shipmates, hey you lot? No more dawdling… let's have some of you step forward and volunteer 'fore we choose you by throwin' rocks."
"A moment, sir…" Lewrie snapped, his neck burning with anger at the lieutenant's choice of words, of being such a cruel bastard. "I would like to address them. Your surgeon has cleared them, I trust?"
"Aye, sir… I s'pose," the lieutenant allowed.
He'd not thought to fetch his own surgeon, Mr. Shirley, along. He had not expected, however, to be presented with a spectacle, such as these poor wretches.
"You men…" he began, "those sailors among you. Far back in the rear there… suspicious, I'd imagine." He chuckled. "Proteus is a frigate, and you know what that means. She's fast, well-armed, and has more deck space and mess space than other ships. So you won't be living with two other bastards' elbows in your eyes, off-watch. And a frigate means prize-money. To the Devil with ships-of-the-line like Sandwich. She'll never catch anything, but a frigate will. I've been lucky with prize-money in my last ship, and so my people've been too! There's frigate-men come home so rich they bought new pocket watches, then fried 'em in lard in public just for the Hell of it! Proteus is a spanking-new frigate too! Just come down from the Chatham yard. Not a month in commission. You lubbers, you know what that means, do you? She doesn't stink! Fresh, clean paint and tar, sweet-smelling timbers, nothing rotting in the bilges… and as pretty as a brand-new house. A fast ship, a proud ship…"