"Uh, nossir… no, Yer Honour, sir." They cringed.
The Court Martial Jack was already flying across the harbour, as a board of Post-Captains off some of the line-of-battle ships convened to deal with a whole raft of malefactors aboard HMS Inflexible, an old stores-ship, this morning.
"Formal charges'd put you in irons, cooped up in another ship's brig, 'mongst strangers," Lewrie informed them. "Might take days… before they got 'round to your case." He forced himself to glower hot. Furfy's use of "Yer Honour, sir," told him the bulky fellow had been in the dock before. "And your trial'd go 'bout as fast as havin' yerself a hedge-whore… 'in, out… repeat if necessary.' Now, do you insist on your rights then…"
"Nossir… no, so please, Yer Honour, sir!"
"Now, then." Lewrie sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Goin' for Haslip, that I can understand. A thief caught red-handed by his shipmates deserves a thrashing! There's none worse to have aboard a ship than a thief who'd steal from his own kind. But once the Ship's Corporals came to break it up, you should have stopped right there… d'ye hear me? You caught him, well and good. They'd have taken over, brought him to me on charges, and you'd have been blameless, see? It would be up to ship's justice, my justice, from then on. Like you'd turned him over to the 'Charlies' or the Bow Street Runners in London. You will not continue to thump him t'get your own back. You will not take a poke or two at Burton and Ragster, the 'captain' of your working party, a petty officer, or midshipman! Know why, you idiots? Allow me to point out Article the Twenty-first. 'None shall presume to quarrel with his superior officer upon pain of j severe punishment… nor strike any such-upon pain of death! Or, otherwise, as a court martial shall find the matter to deserve.' Never will you lay hands on those above you. Or even back talk 'em. Now do you get it, my pretties?"
"Oh, arra!" Furfy groaned, turning pale.
"Lord save us, sir, we…!" Desmond wavered, looking like-about to faint in dread.
"They read it to you; you should have known," Lewrie cut him off. "There is no excuse for it, most especially ignorance. Landsman Furfy, Landsman Desmond, I find you guilty of refusing to cease fighting, of disobeying lawful orders to desist, and of quarrelling with a superior. Since, however, you are only a week in the Navy, and less than a day aboard Proteus, I will… this once, mind!… be lenient. Do you ever come before me again in violation of Article the Twenty-first, I will have you triced up and flogged bloody raw! As for now…"
They blanched, shared a worried look, then turned their gaze on him all but quivering in their shoes.
"Ten days bread and water. Ten days deprived of rum, wine, or even small beer. Bread to be ship's biscuit, not 'Tommy.' No tobacco either And you will both serve as hammockmen to the Ship's Corporals for those ten days, atop your other duties: fetchin', scrubbin', and scourin' their laundry and such."
No rum, no wine, no beer? No tobacco to ease their idle hours? It was a death blow! And to survive on water and biscuit, when every other man was eating shore-bread, fresh meat from shore…!
"Dismissed," Lewrie snapped. "Now, for Landsman Haslip, Mister Ludlow."
"Aye, aye, sir." Ludlow nodded. There it was again-another querulous note in his voice that hinted of disapproval of leniency for Furfy and Desmond; what he'd wished for was the maximum of two-dozen lashes. "Pass the word for Landsman Haslip to present himself!" he barked at the Marine inside the great-cabin.
"Passin' t'word fer Landsman Haslip!" the outer sentry echoed.
Then there came the sounds of cheering, a chorus of 'Hip, Hip, Hooray!' which made Lewrie turn up the corners of his mouth with wry amusement. The crew must have been on the Irishmen's side in the matter and were expressing satisfaction for his lenient sentence despite the risk they ran to dare approve or disapprove. A first sign of spirit in this new crew of his? he wondered.
No, he thought a moment later, as a scrubbed-up Haslip was led in from the gun-deck, past his dining-coach, chart-space, and pantry.
It wasn't coming from Proteus's forecastle; it was too far off for that and sounded as if it was getting louder, as if it was coming from a great many ships at the same time. He furrowed his brows and rose from his desk to discover what holiday might elicit such cheers from every warship at the Nore, dissonant and un-organised.
"Mister Ludlow, we miss something? Restoration Day, perhaps?"
"Don't know, sir?" Ludlow puzzled. "Not Restoration Day, for certain. That's not for…"
"Off'cer th' Watch, Mister Wyman, SAH!" the outer gun-deck sentry cried, slamming his musket butt with the crash of an explosion, and the tone of his shout more urgent than "parade-ground."
"Captain…!" Lieutenant Wyman gasped as he burst in, almost wringing his hat in his hands, his complexion flushed. "It's mutiny, sir! The Nore too! Every ship, sir… hands cheering in the rigging… plain battle flags flying, and… yard ropes rove, sir!"
"Bloody…!" Lewrie yelped, as if stung. He dashed forrud to see for himself, careening off Haslip and his marine guards. Out upon the gun-deck, up a ladder to the quarterdeck to peer out hatless, and suddenly breathless from more than haste. He lunged for the binnacle rack for a telescope, then froze… for it really wasn't necessary.
Sandwich… Latona… Inflexible… Champion, a 20-gunner, the old stores-ship Grampus… every line-of-battle ship, every vessel in the Nore…! And they all flew the red mutiny flags, sported damnable yard ropes from their course and tops'l spars! In fact, HMS Proteus was about the only Royal Navy vessel that didn't!
"Christ, not here too!" Lewrie felt like wailing.
"Lord, sir, what'll we do?" Lieutenant Wyman almost begged.
Now there was a good question, if Lewrie'd ever heard one!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
His first instinct was to beat to Quarters, to load and run out his artillery, raise the anti-boarding nets, open the arms chests, and prepare his crew to defend the ship until they could get sail on her and escape the anchorage.
But so far Proteus had spent most of her time in "River Discipline" at the rawest basics-knots, tracing the rigging, the making or tending of sail, anchor and cable work, striking and raising top-masts, or hoisting boats off the cross-deck beams, lowering them overside, and then recovering them, along with some practical oar-work about the harbour or mooring. Until he had formed a full crew, he hadn't planned on telling-off gun crews, so only the seamen with previous experience were adept at gunnery practice. That would have been part of this new week's curriculum, he'd hoped. Now, though…
Short of rations, water, firewood, powder, and shot, Proteus had only one chance of being swept up in mutiny: flee at once, escape the Nore, and try to make good her lacks at another Royal dockyard!
"Mister Pendarves?" he shouted. "Mister Devereux?"
"Here, sir," the marine officer called back from the quarterdeck, already immaculately turned out in full kit.
"Turn out your Marines, sir, at once!" Lewrie snarled. "Armed, mind… to the teeth!"
"Captain?" the Bosun queried from below in the waist.
"Bosun, pipe 'All Hands.' Muster hands to man the capstan, then prepare to make sail!" Lewrie called down to him. "We're leaving harbour quick as we can. If you have to cut the bower and kedge away, so be it."