"Dammit t'Hell, Cap'um…" Nancy groaned, swiping at her hair irritatedly, " 'thout they let me'un t'other girls ashore, how am I to keep meself?"
"Well, you've what you've earned… to spend on the bumboats,"
Lewrie suggested, " 'til they let you and the rest go. Did you spend that well… there's Bales and the other committeemen. They've still got coin, I'll wager. Planned this for a long time? Probably laid a store o'money aside for it."
"Them with the green cockades?" Nancy sneered, spitting on the deck in derision. "Mouths, they got! Fine words. No nutmegs though. Too busy t'even play wif their own cocks!"
Another hearty laugh, this one directed at their "betters." Oh, trust a leery, chary English sailor to turn on those over them as soon as they began to put on the "Qualities' " airs. There was an inbred deference to your average Englishman, be he tar or rural day-labourer, a costermonger or house-servant. He would doff his hat, knuckle at his forelock, and scrape out a bow to gentlemen and ladies; and most of the time (as long as orders were reasonable) would obey. He had trouble with obedience though, when it came to being bossed about by those no grander than he was-or who had risen from his level to greatness.
Officers and midshipmen, sailing masters, and surgeons were from the Quality, the squirearchy or aristocracy, the upper level of middling rank- used to being obeyed, and the sailors were used to obeying, and even expected "the Better Sort" to make the decisions. Now, though… Another reason for resentment, Lewrie schemed.
Nancy, encouraged by the laughter her comment had got, hoisted the skirts of her gaudy sack gown to display her calves. They were bare instead of sheathed in the usual cotton or opaque silk stockings… slimmer and more alluring than he'd suspected! Clean, too; not smutted with tar or soot. Rather cunning little feet…!
"Not even a thumb-worth, Mistress Nancy?" Lewrie pretended to gawp in astonishment. "Not even a nubbin? Less than a nubbin? Damme, ye don't think they traded 'wedding-tackle' for green cockades, hey?"
They made sure that every man had pledged fidelity, gave oaths as firm as wedding vows, and sported the red cockade of rebellion… but then said that red cockades must respect green cockades as their superiors-as good as officers.
Nancy gave out a shriek of mirth, which made the rest feel free to roar their appreciation of his jest too.
"Hoy, then!" another harridan bellowed from below him, this one a much fiercer old bulldog, practically towing a rather pretty younger miss with her by the hand. "Daughter'un me, fine sir! Damn my eyes, I won't let her spread fer free, nor lift my skirts fer nothin' neither! Th' skipper o' this here barge, are ye? Well then, 'thout you pay us t'stay, give us a boat t'go ashore, ya tight-fisted bastard!"
And then, Lewrie sighed, there were some who'd skipped classes the day they took up "Deference."
"I have no control over that, Mistress," Lewrie told her, taking off his hat and laying it over his heart to show the old strumpet just how sincere he was. And giving the old bat's fifteen-year-old protйgй a good going over with his glims! "The fellow calls himself 'captain' of 'this-here barge'… for now… is named Bales. You'd have to take it up with him and his committee. You want pay, you'd best ask of them to give you your daily bread… and your daily shilling. Or a boat."
"What good're the likes o' you, then!" the old woman scoffed.
" 'Til this crew accepts the Spithead terms, the pardon, and returns to discipline, ma'am," Lewrie informed her, "there's nought that I can do.. • not with a pistol to my head or a knife in my ribs, I cannot. Me, I'd be happy to oblige you and put you ashore with all your earnings, where you can buy yourself and charming daughter a meal and a bottle, when you wish. But…" He shrugged most eloquently. And sadly doffing his hat and making a departing "leg" to Hoary Harridan, Bountiful Nancy, and the Unknown but Luscious Little'un, he departed.
With the gay sounds of curses, slurs, demands, and arguments in his shell-like ears!
Another bloody fire lit, he sniffed; now let's just see who gets scorched by it!
Hands who now couldn't afford to put the leg over, but presented with (mostly) desirable pulchritude everywhere they looked; real wives who wished the paid variety off, 'cause their husbands still had money and didn't need the temptations trolling about for tuppence; mutineer leaders maligned, and another resentment, and suspicion, raised against them. Did they really have some hoarded coin and took time from their incessant preaching of mutiny and rebellion to put the leg over one of the whores-especially one of the prettier ones-themselves?
And the disgruntled, "impressed" whores…?
Oh, we're a happy little ship, we are! Lewrie chortled silently, a "tiddly" little ship!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
And, by the time eight bells of the Forenoon Watch had finished chiming, Lewrie was quite pleased to see that Proteus had been given a new cause for upset.
The hands had queued up at seven bells, when "Clear Decks and Up Spirits" had been piped for the grog issue. A keg of rum so stout it was almost pitchy-dark and treacly had been fetched up; decorated with yellow paint, the Navy seal, and the ancient motto, "The King God Bless Him." With it had come a butt of water, and the miniature mugs; to be mixed and diluted two-for-one, which would yield each hand the equivalent of a half-pint of grog-all carefully guarded and administered by the Master At Arms and Ship's Corporals, the Purser, and Mr. Shirley the Surgeon. Mutineers or not, the ritual was not to be tinkered with, for sailors were a conservative lot, as ill-suited as a cat to a sudden change in daily routine or surroundings. The new leaders aboard, obeying the stricture in their compact to respect officers and their orders, clung to the notices on the watch-and-quarter bills as to how much grog each man should get; was someone being punished by deprivation; and the agreements among the hands themselves as to whether another got not only his own, but "sippers" or "gulpers" of another man's for sewing up slop-trousers to a better fit, standing a watch, making a useful article, or settling wagers between them.
Usually, it was a cheerful time when the crew lined up to take their ration, jealously watching for the slightest shortage when their measure was poured out. It signalled the end of the morning's exercise at sail-drill, small arms, or gun-drill, and the onset of their midday meal. For rum issue, the off-going watch and the on-coming both mingled for a while, crowding them all forrud toward the foc'sle belfry.
This time, it was even more crowded, as wives, children, and the whores gathered round for their share, wheedling, whining, bawling, or cajoling. If the men didn't have money anymore, at least they had rum to offer- the whores'd settle for that.
"How are we fixed for rum, Mister Coote?" Lewrie enquired.
"Twelve weeks' worth, sir… at normal rates of issue. Longer, did we water it at three-to-one," the Purser answered crisply, knowing his sums to the groat. "We did not receive our total due before…"
"Which'd be cause for mutiny of itself, sir," Lt. Langlie said.
"The pigs," Midshipman Peacham felt free to interject.
"Pigs… ah," Lewrie breezed on, as if he hadn't a care in the world. "Reminds me; thankee, Mr. Peacham. Speaking of trough, Mister Coote, how stands our food supply, then?"
"Nigh on the full sixteen weeks, Captain, sir," Mr. Coote told them. "Depending on whether we are responsible for victualling the dependents. With them aboard, sir… more like ten weeks' worth. Nine… are we profligate."