Some distant firing made him spin about, searching for a source.
There!
"Ah, Christ!" He sagged.
Making things even worse for him at such a bleak, low point (was such a thing possible) was the sight of a frigate from the inner tier of ships, flying a Blue Ensign at her main and spanker gaff, with her royal standard at the fore! Sailing into Sheerness on the flood tide!
Escaping… as he and Proteus hadn't.
L'Espion, he thought she was-Captain James Dixon. He'd wanted to visit her when he had time-before the mutiny had happened-to see if her captain was the same James Dixon who'd commanded a sloop or smaller ship that had taken part in his Turk's Island adventure back in '83 and compare notes and reminiscences about that time… perhaps dig up some juicy "dirt" on the way then-Captain Horatio Nelson had bungled that fiasco!
Dixon had managed to overcome his mutineers; Dixon had won free!
He went back forward to the binnacle cabinet to study her with a glass. Aye, it was L'Espion. And in the yards… HMS Niger, another frigate… that morning she'd been flying the red mutiny flags, but now she also sported the Blue Ensign in defiance.
"Christ, why not us too?" he muttered in self-pity, envious of those two ships, which were now, or soon would be, as safe as houses in the welcoming bosom of the Admiralty; feeling like the weakest, most inept idiot who'd ever put on King's Coat!
He put the glass back in the binnacle cabinet rack and paced to the larboard bulwarks for something to grab onto, scathing himself, as he tried to relive those few breathless moments of confusion, seeking a way he hadn't tried, but should have…
He looked down on the waters of the Nore as they flowed and cat-pawed alongside, just beginning to be bloodied by a faint red sunset.
"Lir…" he whispered hopelessly. "You're a blocd-thirsty sort. This is your ship then? Pagan, vengeful… this your way of taking care of another English bastard, same'z the way you sorted out the last'un? Well hurrah then… you won. You really want this ship for yourself, heart and soul? Then stir your salty arse up and help me!"
Daft, he told himself, straightening and peering about quickly, in fear that someone had overheard him and would deem him as lunatick as that Captain Churchwell had been just before he'd fled Proteus.
Daft as bats, he silently re-iterated to himself; pleading to a Celtic sea-god/ Might as well read some sheep guts, for all the good that does. Sacrifice pigeons…? No, better that bastard, Bales!
He's yours, Lewrie silently vowed. His heart's blood is yours, if you help me!
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
By sundown, he was ready to leave, taking his sea chests and a few necessary articles. He emerged in the waist to find another mob assembled to see him, and the rest of the officers, off. He expected to be jeered at by the mutineers, but evidently the brief fighting had battered any taunting out of them, had sobered them to the enormity of what they were dedicated to continue.
"No man t'help 'em," a committeeman cautioned. "Let officers carry their own traps fer once."
"Don't be a whole bastard, Lincoln," Curcy, the lamed cook, spat. "Lend 'em a hand, there."
"We do require a working party for our dunnage, Mister Lincoln," Lewrie calmly demanded, boring him with his gaze. "No dis-respect to officers and mates, remember? I certainly will, you know. When this is over."
"Ah, uhm…" Lincoln grumbled, unable to match gazes with him; perhaps fearing the further consequences and harried by protestations from other crew members. "Right, then… reeve a stay-tackle aloft!"
"Captain!" A bright call came from the quarterdeck. "Leaving, are you?" It was Bales, damn him! In quite good cheer, come to gloat.,
"Seaman Bales," Lewrie coolly replied, turning to look at him, once more detesting that their places were reversed.
"You're more than welcome to stay aboard, sir," Bales told him with a taunting, mocking tone to his voice. "She is still your ship, after all."
"I have my orders," Lewrie snapped, hands in the small of his back "As I'm certain, Bales, you have yours from your revolutionary paymasters."
"Oh, sir, when will you realise that your crew turned against you of their own accord… oppressed too long by too many grievances." Bales sighed theatrically. It would be more political theatre to the last. Lewrie grunted in disgust. "Right, lads?" Bales prompted, but didn't get the "amens" and cries of agreement which he'd expected. "Well?" he posed and even that left them mute and shuffling in embarrassment.
"Lecture and prose all you like when I'm gone, Bales. But for now… just do stop yer gob, will you?" Lewrie gravelled.
"A fighter to the end, would you?" Bales smirked, crossing to the starboard ladder which led down from the gangway to the waist. "A worthy opponent to the last. Damme, Captain Lewrie, I enjoy our debates so much, I'm loath to part with you. So… I won't."
"I beg your pardon?" Lewrie gawped.
"We took a vote, didn't we, lads? Ship's committee all put our heads together and decided we'd take your advice, Captain Lewrie, and purge the ship of officers and mates we wish gone for good."
Knew / was gonna regret those words, Lewrie bleakly thought!
"Now we can't do without the Sailing Master," Bales explained, as he clumped down the steps to the gun-deck, taking way between crew-men as easily as a lord strolling down the Strand might part the poor with his walking-stick. "So, Mister Winwood will remain aboard her… just in case." He winked at those closest to him, causing sly mirth.
"I shan't!" Mr. Winwood erupted. "Do you try and force me to sail her out, I'll put her hard aground. You'll get no aid from me!"
"We'll see about that, Mister Winwood." Bales shrugged, as if he had no doubts about his powers to coerce when the time came. "We also voted to keep the rest of the officers aboard. As an assurance, if you will, gentlemen, that the authorities ashore realise just how determined we are. Though not all. Oh my, no. Not all. You must go ashore, Lieutenant Devereux. Most of your Marines wished to keep you, but after this afternoon's little set-to… you proved yourself just a bit too doughty a fighter.
One too dangerous to keep, nourished in our breast as it were… like the proverbial viper?"
"Bales, that well-studied insult will cost you a stretch of the neck, I promise you," Devereux smoothly replied, as if relishing the event already and with the greatest enjoyment.
"Mister Ludlow too!" Bales shouted, lifting his arms to strut out into plainer view, "the worst of the slave-drivers and floggers!" he exulted, to stir up the silent, shambling crew. He struck fire on that stroke, raising grumbles of assent, some glad cries of "at last!" from others. "And, his creature Midshipman Peacham too!"
That drew a much louder cheer. Ludlow and Peacham protested, their honour impugned to the quick, but anything they had to say was lost in jeers and catcalls.
"Damme, Bales! You can't do this! You can't pick and choose!" Lewrie shouted to make himself heard. "You can't detain us when we've orders to leave either. That's kidnapping, that's…"
"Ah, but we like you so much, sir," Bales told him, as the catcalls and verbal abuse heaped on Ludlow and Peacham continued. "We've nothing against you or the rest. Adair, he's a likeable fellow. The other midshipmen are good lads," Bales almost cooed. "Midshipman Sevier, that lack-wit? Mister Catterall, he's a jester… an empty shell."
"With or without our chests, Bales, we're going ashore. And I dare you to try and stop us," Lewrie threatened.