Oddly, Lt. Langlie was looking back at him with the tiniest of grins on his face, the one corner of his mouth turned up, all but tipping him a conspiratorial wink of encouragement! He shrugged back his perplexity- and his gratitude for Langlie's silent support.
"Right, then," McCann announced quite grudgingly, much taken down from his rant of the short minute before. "Yer a Commission Sea Officer… 'mast' on this Haslip bastard is yours. But we'll choose who we will for delegates; get yer whole crew firm b'hind us…"
"And what of those who don't wish to swear allegiance with you, McCann?" Lewrie asked, feeling suddenly pleased that he'd regained a tiny bit of authority in the midst of raving chaos, already scheming as to how [he might undermine this particular mutiny aboard his ship. "Bligh over yonder," Alan said, gesturing towards HMS Director, a 64-gunner 'cross the harbour, "had his loyal hands who went in the longboat with him- even him!" He snorted in derision. "You can't just force everyone to be loyal to you if they don't wish to. Or are too fearful of the consequences… as you should be." He stuck on, slyly.
Oh, God, yes! he thought. Hull the buggers; make 'em sweat…!
"Ah, but isn't that what yoz and the Navy do, sir?" Able Seaman Bales just-as-slyly japed. "Make 'em loyal… without a chance to choose for themselves?"
The nearby mutineers had themselves a real knee-slapping hoot at that one and passed it on along the gangways, down into the waist, and aft to the taffrails to their mates, where it elicited the same mirth.
Lewrie's face suffused with sudden anger, that he'd been bested by an unexpected opponent, by an un-looked-for fount of wits. Whatever shred of authority he'd wished to salvage, whatever doubts he'd wished to plant in them, were ripped away in a twinkling, torn to atoms.
This is over, I'll see you swing in tar an' chains, you smarmy bastard! Lewrie swore to himself; you and McCann, most of all!
" We 'II let you know when we're done, sir," Bales smirked, with an air as if he had already been elected leader and was taking charge. "When we're ready to send boats to the storehouse wharves. Just'z soon as we've chosen delegates, Captain."
"And I, for my part, Seaman Bales," Lewrie gritted back, "will expect the crew to muster aft to witness punishment when / order them to… no matter where you are in your… elections. Hear me?"
"Oh, aye, sir… we're looking forward to that." Bales grinned.
"Twelve men for th' ship, mind," McCann advised as he followed them, remaining on the gangway so he could depart through the entry-port and go off to cause even more mischief aboard other ships. "Two for th' fleet committee, t'meet aboard Sandwich. An' one 'captain'… no matter his high-an'-mightiness… right, brothers?"
McCann was departing, shouting a last set of encouraging words to the crew in general and pumping Bales's hand quite vigourously.,
"There's a viper in our breast, no error," Lewrie gravelled, in a bleak mood. "And me that chose him, special! Damme, what a fool I was! He must be one of the chief plotters… planted on us as a sham volunteer just so he could stir 'em up to mischief…"
"Uh, sah…" Andrews suggested in a low voice, after a bashful cough into his fist. "Jus' one feller come aboard las' night, sah… 'E couldna stirred 'em up, much… not dot quick. Scheme musta been a-fest'rin' fo' some time. 'Mong some o' de lads we got at Chatham… even 'fore we got 'em, Cap'um."
"Aye, you're probably right, Andrews," Lewrie had to admit to his Cox'n. "Damme, what's the world coming to? What next? A total civilian rebellion too?"
There was no answer to that one.
Or nothing anyone would ever dare put into words!
He looked outboard, seeking salvation, like a marooned sailor on a desert isle might scan the horizon for a scrap of tops'ls which might mean rescue. But there was no cause for hope in sight.
Every ship at the Nore new the plain red flags of rebellion… every ship now sported yard ropes. Boats full of senior officers were streaming from Inflexible, steered by their personal coxswains, rowed by their personal boat-crews, rushing too late to reclaim the commands they'd lost.
Signal flags flapped busily from the roof of the Dockyard Commissioner's house, and from Vice-Admiral Buckner's shore residence.
The semaphore tower on Garrison Point was "talking" in a flurry of whirling arms. To the next station at Queenborough, thence across the f low country to Gadshill or Beacon Hill, near Chatham. From there, the news would now be "flashed" in a matter of minutes to Swanscombe station near Greenhithe alerting the Tilbury river forts, then on to Shooter's Hill, about equidistant between the Royal Arsenal at Woolwich and Greenwich Naval Hospital-to New Cross, West Square on the south bank of the Thames, and at last across the river, to Admiralty.
Informing their Lords Commissioners that another entire bloody ad hoc fleet had been lost-to Mutiny!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Permission to enter the gunroom, sir," Lewrie announced with a cough into his fist, as he stood by the berth-deck portal which led to his officers' quarters. Normally, the gunroom was a holy-of-holies, off-limits to all but those who lodged there, their personal hammockmen or body-servants, their cook or table-servants. Captains were included in the banned category, since they had their own great-cabins one deck above, equal in size to the hull space shared by eight or more men below them. The enforced separation allowed them a haven of peace and quiet from the tumult of a working vessel, from the wrath of a demanding captain, the sight of the common seamen… usually.
He waited, one brow up in demand, as Lt. Ludlow took his sweet time mulling over the heathenish idea of allowing him into their sanctuary, filling the doorway set into the insubstantial deal-and-canvas "bulkhead" partition, which was more a token of privacy than real.
"Aye, sir… come in, sir." Ludlow nodded at last, stepping to one side. He did not say that Lewrie was welcome though.
"Thankee, Mister Ludlow," Lewrie said, forcing himself to act pleasant as he stepped inside, his hat under his arm. "Ah. All here, I see, gentlemen… our middies too."
Langlie, Wyman, Mr. Winwood the Sailing Master, Surgeon Shirley, Purser Coote, and Marine Lieutenant Devereux filled the seats down both sides of their mess table. The chair at the head of the table was Ludlow 's, now empty. There was an eighth chair available, but Lewrie would not go f any further towards upsetting the gunroom's well-run order by taking it. Besides, it was at the vice-end of the table, below the salt-and a place for those inferior to Ludlow. Lewrie walked slowly aft, giving the midshipmen, who were perched on the sideboard or were forced to stand a'lean against the interior partitions, an encouraging smile or two.
"Might you do us the honour of partaking in a glass of brandy, sir?" Lt. Langlie offered. Lewrie could see that at least one bottle had already been rendered a "dead soldier," on its side atop the table, with a fresh one already half-drained beside it.
"Thankee, Mister Langlie, and I do appreciate the offer and the gun-room's hospitality, but… no," Lewrie told him pleasantly. "Bit early in the day for me, d'ye see. On a sensible day, mind. Proceed, though, yourselves… don't let my presence discourage your cheer."