And let's just hope it's not that lunatick, McCann, again!
Well at least, thought Lewrie, it wasn't McCann the hands were cheering, though that idiot was in the party of visiting leaders of the mutiny, hanging back in the rear for once, like a spear-carrier in an Italian opera.
Lewrie thought to take his rightful place amidships by the nettings at the forward edge of the quarterdeck so he could study this new arrival, remember faces if not names for later, and remind his mutinous crew just who should be in charge. But the visitors usurped that post, marching directly from the starboard entry-port to the quarterdeck, and forced Lewrie, Catterall, and the few other midshipmen and officers who had come to answer their own curiosity to hang back far out of range of being tainted by appearing too curious-or tacitly supportive! They ended in a clump near the taffrail flag lockers, almost out of earshot, and mostly ignored by the enthusiastic sailors who were hoorawing what seemed an important visitor.
The stranger, Alan noted, was of middling height and build, and dressed much like a Commission Officer or Warrant Officer: gentlemanly white breeches, stockings and shirt, with a plain, dark blue, brass-buttoned coat over a yellowy, striped waist-coat. For shoes, he sported a pair of half-boots, another gentlemanly affection. On his head, the man wore a hairy beaver-fur hat, the sort with long and wide flaps that could be turned down over his ears and neck in bad weather.
The stranger waved his arms, crying out to Proteus's crew, shaking hands here and there with the most forward, glad-handing his way to the nettings like a Member of Parliament on the hustings might work his borough's pubs for re-election. Though he was of such regular features as could be deemed handsome, he was of a swarthy or sun-baked complexion. And there was a half-focused, almost dreamy glint to his eyes-the eyes of a romantic. Lewrie scowled with distaste. Or was he just as daft as his compatriot, McCann? He took an instant dislike to him.
"Ah, sir," Marine Lieutenant Devereux said, doffing his hat in salute as he came up to see their raree-show. "Odd, do you not think, sir… he carries himself with the airs of a born gentleman. Surely, he cannot be an officer, Captain, in league with Republican rebels?"
"A rogue officer?" Lewrie puzzled. "Pray not! We've troubles enough from the common seamen and mates who organised this mutiny." "Wearing a sword, sir," Devereux pointed out in a low mutter. "What looks to be a good pistol in his belt too. An officer's accoutrements, damn his eyes."
"Hip-hip… hooray, lads!" their Seaman Bales and Gunner, Mr. Hand-cocks, were exulting. "Three cheers for Richard Parker… President o' the Floatin' Republic… an' Admiral o' our Fleet!" "What gall!" Lt. Wyman gasped at the effrontery. "Now, now… lads…" this Richard Parker was saying, come over all modest and self-deprecating, pushing his hands at the crew as if to hush them so he could speak. Or, more-likely, to hush such damning talk! To declare a rival government to the established one-and the Crown-to promote oneself from sailor or mate to the highest peak of the Commission Officer list, a jealously guarded Admiralty right, could get anybody hanged in an eyeblink, even if the mutiny here at the Nore ended this instant!
"Hmmm…'tis a good sword at that," Lewrie had to admit once this Parker person had turned about a full circle to silence the crowd. It was an officer's long, slim smallsword; not the cutlass from some arms chest more suitable to a seaman.
"Pinched, most-like, sir," Midshipman Catterall sneered, from the offhand side, "from the gunroom of his own ship."
"Right, lads… give me an ear now. Hush!" Parker demanded, and they finally left off all that raucous cheering.
There, that's better, Lewrie told himself; 'fore Toulon got so scared he had his own litter o' kittens/
"We've heard from Spithead!" Parker dangled like a lure, making everyone lean forward and hold their breaths. "It's official. They've reached an agreement!"
Lewrie winced at the noise, even if it was joyful tidings.
"Lads, the terms…!" Parker screeched, to no avail.
"Brother Seamen!" McCann howled, stepping forward, and waving his cutlass aloft. "Hist, now! Hist t'th' president! Th' man-eatin' bastards give in t'us… th' common folk've triumphed over 'em! Give heed now!"
"They've won better rations"-Parker went on, once they had calmed at McCann's behest-"proper weights and measures… sick-berth pay, and proper medical care," he ticked off on his fingers. "They've gotten the rise in pay, for seamen, Marines, and pensioners…"
"Purged their ships o' tyrannical officers'n mates too!" That pop-eyed McCann felt thrilled to add. "And full pardons!"
"Fingers in yer ears…" Lewrie sighed to his assembled officers, before taking his own advice,
"Yyyyeeeaaahhhhf"
Well, thank God, Lewrie thought, as the cheering went on for a full minute or two more, turning to share relieved looks with his senior people and a few bold seamen who'd held themselves aloof from mutinous doings so far; mutiny's over, and we can get back to work. No lastin' harm done mongst the people; I've still my command…
"Listen, though, listen!" Parker shouted, as their cheers began to wane, wearing a somber face. "One thing they didn't get was the more liberal shore leave. Still limited to seaports or aboard ships, same as we have now. Still have to have our loved ones come out to us, 'stead of us going to them, and going ashore decided by individual captains' whims, still…"
"Damn 'em all, the soul-drivers!" someone cried.
"Well, that's all fine for Channel Fleet, lads!" Parked yelled, hands on his hips and looking about, taking a moment to peer aft at the ship's senior officers. "But there's a problem with it all. Listen… what Admiral Howe negotiated with the Spithead lads…"
"Our brother seamen, our fellow suff rers!" McCann raved. And made Parker wince for a moment. "Tell 'em, brother Parker!"
"… terms they agreed to was not an Act of Parliament! It was only an Order In Council! And they're only good for a year and a day, not permanent, like a proper Act!" Parker cautioned. "And so far it only applies to Spithead and Plymouth… not to the Nore!"
That set off a chorus of boos, catcalls, and growls of rage.
"We'll have to hold out 'til they've guaranteed us the pardon too, presented us with the same terms, and sat down and negotiated with us… ox whatever we wish beyond the Spithead agreement!"
I'll be Goddamned! Lewrie groaned. "Horse turds!" he bellowed, before he could think about it.
Which made them turn and glare at him, every last mother-son!
Ah… oops! he blushed; too forceful.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In for the penny," Alan sighed dejectedly, "in for the pound."
"If the settlement satisfies Channel Fleet," he roared, though, "and was done in good faith, then why is it not good enough for the Nore? All any ship has to do is send ashore to Vice-Admiral Buckner and ask for written confirmation of the terms. Then sign them and return to duty and receive the very same terms. And pardon!"
"No, no, won't work!" McCann shot back. "Ain't had our chance t'purge our own ships o' tyrants an' brutes! Pardon don't apply here, anyways! They gotta deal with us face t'face and give it to us, and we see they live up t'what they promised Spithead. 'Til we see they'll not stab Brother Seamen in the back, like they done the Cullodens, or if they're schemin' t'go back on it soon as it suits 'em… year and a day?"
"Wouldn't trust 'em further than a man can spit!" another sailor cried from the back of the pack below the nettings in the waist.