The smuggled letter (for that was what his "change" had been) stated what he already pretty-much knew or had deduced. It began most ominously, though, with… "The Dutch Fleet is ready."
The additional demands of the Nore mutineers had been presented to visiting Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty and had been rejected out-of-hand. The Spithead terms would be all they would receive. And those terms were not the defamed Orders in Council but were legitimate Acts of Parliament for all to read. Copies of the Acts, and copies of the King's Pardon, were being smuggled aboard the recalcitrant vessels at the Nore to convince the deluded or ignorant that they should take them and return to duty, be pardoned, without any hard feelings.
Upon receipt of those, did his crew still refuse to return command of his ship to him and return to discipline, the letter bore specific orders for all captains and officers still aboard mutinous ships to quit their vessels at once and report to Admiral Buckner ashore!
"Damn, damn, damn!" Lewrie sighed, hunched over the letter at the transom sash windows right aft, huddled up in a corner of the settee atop his lazarette stores. How could he leave her when his plots to retake her had barely been set in motion, had yet to bear fruit? he agonised. With the King's Pardon and Acts of Parliament aboard for all to see, there was more than a good chance that Proteus would strike the mutineers' flags and hoist her proper colours!
But it was a direct order, scribbled at the bottom with Vice-Admiral Buckner's signature; to disobey, did the crew prove obstinate, was to risk not only this command but his entire career!
He crumpled it up into a tight ball, thinking hard; which gay noise brought Toulon from a sound nap atop the wine-cabinet, swishing his tail in expectation of a brand-new, un-munched, un-swatted "toy." He plopped to the deck, meowed enticingly as he hopped into his owner's lap, trying to paw it or bite it from Lewrie's hand.
Lewrie idly stroked him, as he unfolded the letter to give it a second reading, hoping for an escape clause. No, no hopes of that, but… information he had leapt over before: Channel Fleet was returned to duty- Admiral Duncan at Great Yarmouth was to sail to the Texel Channel to block the exits of the French-controlled Dutch Batavian Navy.
Channel Fleet would be no help here; Brest, Cherbourg, St. Malo, and Le Havre already bristled with warships, invasion galleys to carry troops, and escorting gunboats. That armada was weather-bound, so far, but was rumoured to be on tip-toes, prepared to descend on Ireland or, perhaps, even on England 's south coast. It was vital, therefore…
"And blah-blah-blah," Lewrie softly groaned. "Sorry, puss, not a toy for you." To his ram-cat's dismay, he shredded it to tiny bits, before someone else could read it. "Well, you can have it… later."
He could toss it out the transom sash windows, but that might raise suspicions if someone spotted him doing it. But turned into a heaping handful of foolscap, the letter would do main-well for filler in Toulon 's litter box! After a fragrant spritz or two of cat-pee, no spy in the world would even try to retrieve it, much less piece it back together!
"Oh, sometimes you're so useful, Toulon," Lewrie told him. "Do you know that? Yayysss, 'oo are. I'll give you another sheet to play with would you like that?"
Toulon did, eagerly bounding off to football, pounce, and mutter over a blank sheet, most intriguingly balled; far forrud into the dining-coach and back.
"Damme, and it was such a good plan we had going too," Lewrie sighed, quite bleakly, as he gingerly "disposed" of that incriminating letter's remains.
That late in the afternoon, the tide was starting to turn. His frigate, streaming back from a single bower, was beginning to swing on her cable, turning her stern shoreward as the evening flood tide took her. In the transom sash windows, the alluring vista of an open horizon, the puddled-steel glitter of the North Sea, and freedom, was slowly being replaced by the sight of low-lying fen land to the north-Foulness and Shoeburyness, the villages of Great Wakering and Southend, the partly exposed Leigh and Maplin Sands at low tide.
An embaying fen land-hemming him and his ship in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
When in doubt… mope, Lewrie told himself, of half a mind to begin packing his sea chests. And of half a mind to have himself one more glass of claret and wait 'til after Aspinall and his cook served up that goose they'd cooked for him. A dull rumble interrupted his foul mood though, the sounds of many voices. And a knock on the door.
"Captain, sir?" Mr. Midshipman Sevier cheeped, leaning in the doorway to bare his noddy's face. "Disturbance on deck, sir. They're arguing amongst themselves, and some are calling for you, sir?"
"Haven't built themselves a guillotine out o' bosun's stores yet, have they, Mister Sevier?" Lewrie frowned at him, slumped quite comfily on the starboard side settee with his feet and legs out-splayed.
"Uhm… a guillotine, sir?"
"You know… King of France… chop-chop?"
"Uhm… nossir. It's getting heated though, sir. The people wish you to address them."
"Ah, then!" He brightened. Those smuggled Acts of Parliament and the King's Pardon must have encouraged the moderates and faint of heart to relent already! He rose, tugged down his waist-coat, plucked his shirt cuffs, and clapped on his hat.
He emerged on the gun-deck to witness a slanging match between determined mutineers, ditherers, and quitters. They'd formed sides in unconscious scrums, dividing themselves into packs laced with uncomprehending children and hectoring wives and whores pretty-much allied to the loyal side, or the ditherers in the middle, with but a few harpies siding with the committee or the leaders.
They quieted their arguments as he appeared and made his way to the starboard quarterdeck ladder, parting before him, even as Seaman Bales was still expostulating from the nettings overlooking the waist.
"… cutting off all food to us, brothers!" Bales bellowed, to exhort his minions before Lewrie could speak. "Not even their damned substitute flour will they give us! No more candles, rum, small beer! Damme, no more rope, tar, or lumber either."
"Treachery!" the determined side shouted.
"Now you see what our King thinks of us, mates. How little he thinks of you, his long-suffering and loyal tars. How could a loving King deprive you thus, who've served him so well in the past? Or let criminals like Pitt, Henry Dundas, and Spencer try to starve us out to get what they want… ?" That drew many boos and catcalls.
Lewrie scowled as he ascended to the quarterdeck. Bales's hot-blooded talk was dangerous dissident cant, the sort that could get any civilian tossed into gaol for treason. He might have something interesting, indeed, to pass on to that Willis fellow when next he came out to offer his wares! He scowled too, because he was loath to be drawn into a noisy Beggar's Opera, a bit of political theatre, as it now seemed the mutiny had become!
"But here's your captain, brothers… You wanted him to speak to you, and I'll not have it said your committee, your 'Fleet Parliament,' won't abide by your wishes," Bales hurriedly summed up as Lewrie stalked up to his side, almost shouldering him aside from his rightful place. Bales tossed him a sneerful, high-nosed glare of satisfaction, as if he'd finessed Lewrie into an impossible situation. His smile of welcome, and reason, was a bloody sham for the others.
"Very well, men," Lewrie said, looking out and down. "You say you wish me to speak with you. About what? Out with it."
"The terms, sor!" Landsman Desmond was quick to shout. "Them they got out to us… are they true?"
"They are," Lewrie assured them. "Just as Parker told you… when he was last aboard. Pay rise and all. Everything Spithead won for themselves is now yours. If you submit and take the pardon."