"But!" he cautioned. "A sly word, whispered in the right ear… once you've discovered the right ears… may sow seeds of doubt and fear in 'em. Reminders, that once this ends, we're back in charge… and we'll remember the names of those who were complete traitors and rogues. Encouragement for those who didn't join hands with 'em. And encouragement to those wavering…"
"So we can take the ship back, sir?" Sailing Master Winwood, at last, commented. He looked quite worried.
"If it comes to it, sir," Lewrie nodded, grim. "But Admiral Howe's gone to Portsmouth. It may be no more than a few days' turmoil here before we hear that Spithead and Plymouth have been settled, and the Nore will then have no grievances to complain of; and this mutiny will collapse of its own. The settlement will most-like apply Fleet-wide, Mister Winwood. Something else to remind 'em of, sirs, when we are back on deck, givin' orders, even temporarily. Remind 'em to wait 'til they hear the settlement before they do something they'd regret."
"If that's all they have in mind, sir," Mr. Coote sighed. "I truly do hope that's all they have in mind. United Irishmen, though… revolutionaries even amongst good Englishmen, who wish to emulate the French Republic…"
"I know, Mister Coote." Lewrie shrugged. "But for now we're assured it concerns rations, shore leave, pay, and such. Have to take that at face value. 'Til they prove us wrong, that is."
"Do we pray that is not the case, sir." The Surgeon, Mr. Shirley, groaned. "That they prove that supposition wrong, that is."
"Indeed," Lewrie said, hands in the small of his back, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Something else to 'smoak out,' gentleman… when you're allowed on deck. Keep your ears cocked for any talk among the hands that sounds rebellious. Dangerously rebellious. Republican cant…? There's a chance there's more to this than the stated causes. We must hope that those who hold such traitorous views are distinctly in the minority."
"And the bulk of the hands are to be warned to guard themselves against being led to greater folly, sir," Lt. Devereux supposed aloud. "Anything that so much as smacks of Paris… or Thomas Paine…"
"Most shrewdly noted, sir," Lewrie said, with a half bow to the wits of his marine officer. "They declare themselves loyal Englishmen asking for but a tuppence of their due. Anything else, though…"
"Hid it well-enough from us"- Ludlow countered, slurring his words by then-"the back-stabbin' bastards. Who's t'say what they're hidin' from us now, hey?"
"That's 'hey… sir,' Mister Ludlow," Lewrie hissed. "And I will thank you to remember it!"
Damn him! he thought. I've just about had all I can take from this fool! Might as well be in league with the mutineers for all the good he is to me! Ruinin' the good mood I created… look at 'em now, cringin' likewhipped puppies when just a second ago they were eager to start cajolin' the people/
"We'll begin making preliminary lists, sir," Lt. Langlie said quickly. "Right, lads? Who to approach first. And we'll keep our ears and eyes open, sir, as you ordered. All of us, sir."
"Very good, Mister Langlie," Lewrie relented, forcing himself to grin in gratitude. "I know I am a very fortunate captain to have a set of officers on whom I may completely rely," he told them. With another "so there!" glare at Ludlow as he sprawled at the table, insensible to almost everything by then.
"Keep our own counsel," Marine Lt. Devereux added, glowering significantly first at Ludlow, then at some others. "And most especially our tempers, in the doing, Captain, sir."
"Thankee, Mister Devereux. Thank you all," Lewrie said. "Now, I will plague you no longer, and I am grateful for you allowing me to interrupt your off-duty time. I will have my Cox'n send down written invitations to dine with me tonight. Once you've made first stabs at winnowing our chaff, hmm? Good day, gentlemen."
"Good day, sir," they chorused, rising as he departed. Ludlow even managed to stagger to his feet. With a bit of help.
Lewrie emerged on the gun-deck, took a deep breath of air, and scowled at his crew gathered in the waist beneath the boat-tier beams. They were still dancing hornpipes, slapping time with their hands on their thighs, beating time with stacks of spoons, as the fiddler and the marine fifers supplied the tune. He saw the Black Irishman, Desmond, strangling what looked to be a long-necked cat, making a reedy wailing over a flute-like tube. That must be what he called uillean pipes, softer and mellower than their blaring Scots cousins. Everyone seemed to be having a grand time, except for Landsman Haslip, of course. He had been left where he'd fallen and was still being studiously ignored by his "shipmates."
Lewrie climbed to the quarterdeck, feeling a bit smug about how he'd handled that problem. He'd found him guilty oЈ theft, doomed him to a dozen lashes, and also broken up the elections of delegates by having "All Hands Aft To Witness Punishment" piped.
A neat little homily he'd preached, about crime and sailors who were unworthy of being called "shipmates," the sort never to be trusted. He'd seen at least a dozen sets of teeth grinding in the mouths of the most dedicated mutineers-and had begun a short list of his own!
Then after Haslip had taken his dozen lashes from the "cat"-wielded most enthusiastically by Bosun Pendarves and his mates, in the place of authority-he'd turned Haslip over to the crew.
"I've given him my dozen," Lewrie had declared, "but a rogue of his… stripe… will only resent me, and authority, for it. Now he's yours. Prove that you won't tolerate a thief… form a gauntlet!"
They'd leapt to it, forming two lines facing each other, fists and rope-ends ready, and Haslip had been dragged from the hatch grating, back bloody and wailing in pain. Bosun Pendarves stood ahead of him with a cutlass leveled at Haslip's breast, so he'd be forced to a slow pace and not run down the gauntlet quickly, if he didn't want to be skewered. Haslip had been pummeled and bludgeoned, beaten senseless, shrieking and cowering from their blows. A dash of salt water to wash the cat-o'-nine-tail's cuts as he lay prostrate, a surgeon's mate with warm tar to daub his wounds… normally, once punishment was done, the malefactor's mates would help him below, sneak him a tot of rum, tell him how well he'd borne up. But not for Haslip.
Pray God, Lewrie thought, studying his cavorting crew; they've no use for this mutiny, once news comes from Portsmouth either!
He cocked his head as Desmond, on his odd pipes, and the fiddler, began a new tune. Lewrie smiled to realise it was the same one that his father Sir Hugo had marched his militia to… "The Bowld Soldier Boy"!
Some of his men looked up at him, as if "cocking a snook" at him with that Irish air, waiting for his reaction. They were disappointed if they thought he would mottle or glower with anger though, for his right hand began to beat the measure on the cap-rail of the quarterdeck nettings. Toulon, intrigued, leapt from out of nowhere to preen, arch, and pace the rolled hammocks stowed in the nettings, as Lewrie petted him with his other hand. And smiled, in spite of himself.
Desmond, Furfy, a few others, nodded back at him, even tentatively smiled. 'Twas a faint sign, but a hopeful one, Lewrie dared think.
CHAPTER TWENTY
No, this'un wasn't the same sort of mutiny as the one he'd seen at Portsmouth, Lewrie decided early on. There was nothing orderly or even sane about it.
The frigate San Fiorenio had come in, all tricked out in holiday best, to bear the newlywed Princess Charlotte and her princely German groom over to the Continent for their honeymoon. When San Fiorenio had balked and attempted to sail free, she'd been fired upon, her rigging cut up by solid shot! Moments later, she'd reluctantly decided to enlist in the cause of their so-called "Brother Seamen."