"As you say, Mister Peacham." Lewrie sniffed, striving to keep a straight face. "A bit of Jack-Sauce. Unless, of course, you thought he was serious…?"
"I will not abide it, sir! Never!" Peacham declared stiffly.
"Oh, yes you will, sir… for the nonce, as I said below a few days ago? You do recall that, sir? Me, in the gunroom?" Lewrie posed. "Tolerant, paternal, unruffled, and patient 'til this is ended. Now, do you have wits remaining, sir… recall his name and rating, make a sharp note of it and wait for that 'later.' To see if he was merely taking the chance to make a jest at an officer's expense, whether he was put up to it, or… whether there was something malicious about it."
"Malicious, of a certainty, Captain, sir!" Peacham averred.
"We'll see, once they're back in discipline, Mister Peacham," Lewrie told him. "Now go below and duck your head. Stay there 'til you've mastered yourself. So you won't explode the next time one of them twits you, hmm? Do they discover you're likely to rage at 'em, the more they'll try you on. For the fun of it," Lewrie cautioned. "And do they discover you're vulnerable, it might be one of the real ringleaders who'll try to get you to rise to their bait-and cause real trouble."
"Ahh…" Peacham sighed, sounding damn' close to an insubordinate cry of disagreement. He swallowed heavily, cringing as if rebuked.
"There, see how easy that is, Mister Peacham?" Lewrie snickered, instead of bellowing at the fool. "Practice, sir… practice."
"Aye, aye, sir," Peacham said, doffing his hat and departing.
Another thing to puzzle over, Lewrie frowned, as he paced back to the hammock nettings overlooking that boisterous waist of the ship and the "country-dance" revelry going on there. Ominously, Article the Fifth issued by the mutineers had specified that all ships were to keep their navigators aboard; as if, should their mutiny fail, they could sail off the ships they'd seized… to foreign, enemy ports?
But most ship's committees had put officers ashore. Captains had been sent packing, most willingly, and revolted by the betrayal of their crews. Committees had deemed some officers, midshipmen, and mates as "Soul Drivers" and cruel, abusive tyrants and had jeered them over the side right-chearly, vowing they'd never allow them to return. Not in this lifetime, they wouldn't. And had Howe agreed to that?
But aboard Proteus … no one had been denounced or turned out, yet. Well, grumbled about, denounced in a fashion, but…? That was a bit odd-something else for Lewrie to ponder; why ever not?
And can I goad 'em to put Peacham and Ludlow off? Lewrie speculated. Christ, both of 'em two loads for the proverbial camel's back…! Sooner or later, not being masters of themselves, they'd pop off, issue too great an insult to someone, and the crew would have another reason to resent authority, even after this was finished! Proteus might also be finished, and his command of her with it! The Admiralty might turn out the entire crew, captain and officers, and start fresh.
Three sailors mounted the larboard ladder to the quarterdeck, as if daring each other to do so. Lewrie steeled himself for a bit of Jack-Sauce, and saw Able Seaman Bales from the corner of his eye, still seated atop the breech of the 12-pounder gun, but watching most carefully, with his tongue in his cheek.
"Uhm… beggin' yer pardon, sir," one of them chortled, elbowed into speech by the ones flanking him and a bit behind for protection. "Permission t'speak, Cap'um, sir," he said, removing his hat.
"Go ahead." Lewrie sighed, already wearied.
"Would ya be so good, sir… as t'issue each man a bottle o' gin fer breakfast, Cap'um, sir?" the unfortunate managed to say, shivering with mirth. The others were blubbering their lips in strangled glee.
"Oh, for God's sake." Lewrie sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Is that all?"
"Wellsir, uhm… aye, sir. Thet is…"
"Me, I'd love to oblige you, frankly," Lewrie told them.
"Ah, sir? Really, sir?"
"But you know the rules, lads," Lewrie blathered on. "Naval regulations, and your own leaders, say there's to be no private liquor allowed, ever. So I'm afraid I can't. But… d'ye see your so-called temporary captain, Seaman Bales, there…" Lewrie smiled.
"Uhm…"
"Now, do you ask him, well… he might relent and allow you. I heard it said he has a private income beyond his Navy pay," Lewrie extemporised. "How else'd he come aboard with such a complete kit hmmm? Do you ask him nicely, he might take you ashore with him and sport you to yer gin. Just ask him."
"Sir, ah…" they goggled at him, and at each other.
"Well, go on!" Lewrie urged, most "mately." "Ask him. 'Nothin' ventured, nothin' gained,' as they always say. And good luck!"
"Er, aye, aye, Cap'um, sir, we will!" the spokesman enthused with a hopeful sound. They trooped down the ladder to the waist, scampering to approach Bales, and put their outrageous demand to him.
Lord, Alan shrugged, there's three simpler than yer average tars!
Before Bales could begin to bark at them and disabuse them, he glared upwards at Lewrie with a look of pure rage.
And take that you sly bastard! Lewrie thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Alan was writing Caroline a letter, though when he could get it to her, he wasn't sure. Much like the fate of most letters written when at sea, to be held until they put into a foreign port, met a ship sailing for home, or rendezvoused with a squadron flagship, the delegates had decreed that no letters would be allowed to go ashore.
Writing was a difficult chore, for Toulon, when not striving to catch and kill the waving quill pen's end, had developed a fondness for stretching his sleek, furry length atop anything Lewrie attempted to write or even read. Desktop, dining table, or the chart-table, it made no difference. Did he make paper rattle, Toulon would be there in a heartbeat-and in a most playful, insistent mood, rolling over onto his side or back to bare his white belly, and push or pat with his paws until he got some petting. Or, brought labour (of which, Alan assumed, most cats highly disapproved!) to a grinding halt.
" Toulon, now… damn yer eyes!" Lewrie fretted, shifting pen and paper closer to him. But over the cat rolled, right onto his back and put all four paws in the air, his thick, hairy tail lazily lashing, and purring in idle, impish delight. Squarely in the middle of the letter.
"Aren't you supposed t'sleep or something?" Lewrie groaned, on the verge of surrender. "It's daytime, fer God's sake. It's what cats do! Eat, shit, sleep… eat, pee, sleep. Don't you know the drill?"
"Weow?" Toulon demanded, wriggling nearer the desk's edge with his pitiful face on.
There was a rap on the outer door.
"Captain, sir?"
"Enter," Alan snapped.
"Sir, there's a boat coming alongside," Mr. Midshipman Catterall informed him as he stepped inside.
"Gunn'l down with gin, is she?" Lewrie frowned. "That why the hands are cheerin' so lusty?"
"Uhm… I gather one of the key ringleaders has come to call on us, sir." Catterall blinked back. "But nary a bottle in sight, sir. Come empty-handed, Captain. A very poor house-warming guest."
"Bugger him, then," Lewrie said, forced to smile in spite of the interruption by Catterall's jest. He rose and made his way forrud to go on deck. "I s'pose we must see this apparition for ourselves… and if he wishes to wet his throat, he'd best have brought his own spirits. Lead on, Mister Catterall."
"Aye, aye, sir," Catterall said, with a sly grin. "I'd expect rabble-rousing is a dry endeavour sir."
Lewrie smiled again, as he clapped on his hat.