"An' all of 'em torturin' devils!" the man shot back, jabbing at Lewrie as if his musket had a bayonet to keep him back out of reach of his sword's tip. "They all deserved what they got, and more! Officers, God above! You're all monsters! Navy, merchant…!"
"The Spaniards didn't treat ya right?" Lewrie taunted, parrying with his hanger, forcing the sailor backwards. "No shower o' gold for handin' 'em a British frigate? No commission in their navy, no reward for you? Drop that musket… now! It's over. Nowhere to go…"
He grazed his sword blade down the musket barrel and forestock, threatening to slash the man's left wrist and fingers if he kept proper hold of it, forcing him back against the bulwarks, with no place to escape, sure that this made a great raree-show. "Give up!" he roared in the man's face.
Leap and lunge! Left hand round the muzzle to lever it up and away, right fist smashing his hanger's hilt and curved hand-guard into Hennidge's nose, making it explode in crimson, eyes crossed in pain!
Left knee into the crutch as he bulled forward, for good measure!
Give, before ya get! Lewrie snickered to himself.
As Hennidge dropped to his knees, Lewrie stepped back a pace and yanked hard to tear the useless musket away. Hennidge found breath to howl, right hand still clawing to keep his weapon by the fire-lock and one finger inside the brass trigger-guard, and… BLAM!
"Holy shit!" Lewrie screeched, flinging away the hot muzzle from his left hand. "You bastaren" he added, raising his sword and bringing the hard pommel down atop the man's head for sheer spite, as the spent powder smoke wreathed round his head and shoulders.
From sheer terror, Lewrie coshed him on the head again!
Sailors and Marines were beside him in an eyeblink to take hold of the mutineer and drag him toward the companionway to the gun-deck.
Fat lot of help you shits were! Lewrie fumed, gasping fit to a swoon, and his bowels dangerously loose; Unloaded, hey? Mine arse on a bandbox! Why, he could've… killed me! Aye, make a great show, now he's out cold! Pitch in, and look organised… if not brave!
"I'll have that sonofabitch in irons… double irons, at once, Mister Catterall!" Lewrie roared, once he'd got his breath back, picking on the first officer he spotted within easy reach. "Someone check my cabins for the list of descriptions of Hermione mutineers we were told to look out for. See Mister Padgett, my clerk, quickly now!"
"No need, sir," Mr. Towpenny assured him from the gun-deck. "I knew him. You peel off his shirt, here, you'll find two tattoos. He had one on his left upper arm, a Killick Anchor atop a heart. Seen it often enough when we were in Queen Charlotte t'gether, sir. Over his right shoulder blade, there should be a Saint Paul 's Cross, in green ink… protection 'gainst drownin', the tattoo man in Plymouth told him, sir. He's Martin Hennidge, sure enough, I'll swear a Bible Oath to it at a court, Cap'um. And admire t'see him hang for his sins."
Padgett came forward with the list, quickly raked out of the desk drawers aft in his cabins, and the written description, including tattoos, fit Gamble/Hennidge to a Tee.
Lewrie sheathed his hanger and stepped down to the gun-deck as Hennidge was sluiced with a bucket of sea-water and awakened, spluttering and moaning, already fettered and shackled to a 12-pounder shot.
"Sling his sorry arse below on the orlop," Lewrie ordered in a mellower mood. "Bread and water, only. Mister Langlie?"
"Here, sir."
"Our prisoner, and his return to justice, is more important than continuing our cruise," Lewrie instructed. "Once well Sou'east of the island yonder, shape course for Kingston."
"Aye, sir," Langlie replied, a foolish expression of awe, mixed with both relief and joy on his face. "Beg pardon, sir, but that deed was… just about the boldest, damnedest thing, ever I did see! You went for him without a blink, a thought for your safety…!"
Lewrie made the appropriate, and expected, deprecating gestures and clucking sounds, as if it was really nothing much, though all the while thinking: S posed t'be safe as houses. Un-thinking is the word for it! Damme, there must be easier ways t'keep a good name! Got to get aft…fore I squit my breeches!
"Don't quite know, myself, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said with a shake of his head, as if puzzled, heading sternward along the gangway. "Thank God for Mister Towpenny, or we'd have had this man aboard for years, all unknowing. Thought his story was queer, but…" Lewrie shrugged again.
"I'd admire to shake your hand, sir!" Langlie earnestly cried.
"Well, if you must, Mister Langlie," Lewrie answered, trying on a humble chuckle as he took hands with him, keeping a pleasant grin on his face, though he was, by gastric necessity, rather impatient.
"Three cheers for the Captain, lads!" Lt. Catterall yelled, not to be outdone. "Hip hip…!"
HMS Proteus trembled with the strength of their enthusiasm, the cheers almost feral in their intensity. And Lewrie caused a further outburst, when he drew out his pocket watch, noted the time, and said that after such a strenuous and rewarding morning's work, once they'd shaped course for Jamaica, the rum cask would be got up and everyone would "Splice The Mainbrace," with full and honest measure for all.
He did not stay on deck to share rum with them, though. He got the retrieved musket from a Marine private and stepped down to the gundeck to return it to Ordinary Seaman Fawcett, who had lost it.
"Not loaded, was it?" he hissed, almost in the lad's ear, as he leaned close. "Not charged or primed, hey?"
"Oh Gawd, sir, I'm sorry!" Fawcett gulped, eyes abrim with tears and shaking like a leaf. "I thought 'twas, oh Jesus…!"
"You're an idiot, Fawcett! The blitherin' sort!"
"Yessir?" the sailor cringed in dread and sorrow.
"Oh, for God's sake," Lewrie relented, stepping back, his urgent needs denying him a good and proper rant. "Go get your rum, and we'll say no more about it. But, by God you'll never, ever fetched a loaded weapon back aboard, again… will you."
He went up the ladder to the quarterdeck, stiff-legged and his buttocks pinched; struck a "captainly" pose for a second, hands behind his back, then ducked aft quickly. Bounding down the stern ladder to his cabins, he stripped off hat, coat, waistcoat, sword and belt, and dashed into his private quarter-gallery, slamming the door on Aspinall and a welcoming brandy. Even so, he barely made it. Fear, belated or not, worked its way on him better than an enema from Mr. Durant's clysters; so loose, rank, and gaseous that he had to fan the air.
After a moment or two, though, he had to laugh out loud. "God, people get knighted for less, and…!" Captain Alan Lewrie, RN, wheezed, biting on a fist to keep from braying, for all the world to hear.
"Don't know how fame and glory strike other people," he giggled, "but by God, they have an effect on me! Hee hee!"
"Out in a bit, puss!" Mewl Toulon cried, pawing the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Lewrie had Lieutenant Langlie and Lieutenant Catterall in for a working supper, with Mr. Durant to aid in the translations. They had captured a brace of hogs from the brig Sycamores manger, quickly run over to Proteus in the cutter, and done to a crackly turn by their new ship's cook. Being a Yankee brig, she'd also carried several sacks of cornmeal which had gone into skillets to bake sweet, chewy muffins or pone bread for all hands, to replace hard ship's biscuit for a day or two. Mushy peas with melted cheese sauce, and breaded and fried onion accompanied the tender pork roast, making a fine victory feast, with promise of a piping-hot apple dowdy to come. It was only after a round oн port, with some biscuit and cheese, that the papers from the French privateer Incendiare were fetched out for study.