"Take her back, lads!" Lewrie yelled, stumbling as someone to his left shouldered into him. He shoved back, faintly recognised one of the afterguard before bringing a roundhouse right fist into juncture with the fellow's skull. "King and Country!" He stooped to pick up the dropped belaying pin the man had been about to cosh him with and waded in on those who were shouting objections the loudest. He heard a rabbity scream, got a quick glimpse of a loyal sailor being stabbed in the belly with a clasp knife. Heard the dread popping of a pistol! Right, he thought; a real battle and no quarter!
Haslip came at him with a cutlass, lips drawn back in a feral grin, almost hissing with delight. A turn or two, a parry or two, and Lewrie had the man's blade far out from his body. He clubbed Haslip on the forehead as hard as he could and danced away as the man went down like a toppled marble statue, landing so hard on his back that Lewrie might conjure that he'd shatter.
"Piss-poor sailor… piss-poor swordsman too!" Lewrie sneered as he traded the belaying pin for the blade. He hobbled off aft, under a misdirected swing or two, jabbing at shins or knees to gain running room, as he tried to join Lieutenant Ludlow, who had both hands around a man's throat and was squeezing him blue. Midshipman Peacham was partnered with Ludlow, of course, laying about with an iron crow-lever from one of the quarterdeck carronades, and two sailors who'd tried him on were already down and bleeding. "Give it up!" Lewrie urged to all. "Give it up!"
"Rally!" Lt. Devereux was crying. "Rally on me! Come on, men!" And two or three of his Marines were with him, fist-fighting their way forward to reinforce Lt. Langlie and the other midshipmen.
There was a sudden report, the stink of powder, and the fearsome "thud!" of a.75-caliber ball slamming into someone quite near. Another shot, and Lewrie heard and felt a ball sizzle past his ear. Even more shots up forrud, another scream of anguish, almost lost in the high-pitched screams of terrified women caught in the middle of this fight.
Then the deep, door-slam BOOOMMM! of a cannon.
"Drop it, sir!" Mr. Handcocks snapped, facing Lewrie with his own cutlass. "Best, sir… really," he wheedled, nothing like aggressive. "We're winnin'. Got th' pistols. Got th' muskets."
Lewrie brought his cutlass up to touch blades with Handcocks's, batting at it to beat it aside, as the Master Gunner retreated, keeping his sword in play, but only on the defensive. Lewrie had no time to sport with him. He launched himself into the drill with a right-to-left downward slash, and Handcocks responded with a two-handed parry, stamping his foot for a backward slash, though yelping and giving ground, never trained in using an awkward cutlass the same as a smallsword, avoiding the point which Lewrie was probing at him.
Another loud cannon boom, then another! Quite near. A splash of water that towered over the quarterdeck, as one of the two-deckers anchored close to Proteus started firing on any ship which looked like it was defecting from the mutiny.
"Throw down yer arms 'fore I kill him!" Marine Corporal O'Neil screamed to one and all, holding Midshipman Elwes with one arm, with a wickedly gleaming midshipman's dirk to the terrified boy's throat!
Punctuated by another cannon blast from the two-decker. Which, this time, rattled everyone's teeth as a solid 24-pounder round-shot struck Proteus in her timbers in the lower wale below the gun-ports.
Bales strode up, a pistol in his right hand with the lock back at full cock, another in his left at half-cock. He jammed the right-hand pistol hard against Lewrie's skull, stiff-armed, from his side.
"Throw down before I kill him!" Bales roared, panting with exertion and emotion, yet grinning like a death's head, and seeming eager for the opportunity. "It's over! D'ye hear, there!" he bellowed, throwing his head back like a wolf at the moon. "By Jesus, does any man-jack continue to resist the lawful committee, I'll put a ball in the Captain's head… hear me? Surrender, you perjurers! You lying, canting hounds! Run up the red flags 'fore we get shot to flinders!"
Lewrie's cutlass was too long to do anything with it with Bales so close to his right side. He changed hands, laid the blade flat upon his chest, so he could stab to his right with it. He moved it forward, felt the tip meet resistance against flesh, pucker a dingy chequered calico shirt… almost begin to grate upon a rib?
"Be the last thing you ever do, Captain Lewrie!" Bales grinned, yet almost on tip-toe to back off and still keep his pistol in contact with Lewrie's skull.
"Then it'd be worth it, you shit-eatin' dog!"
They glared at each other, each determined to die if it came to it, neither yielding the other even a blink as they locked eyes in a moment of ultimate truth. Yet, grinning.
Clatter of steel on oak though. Cutlasses, clasp knives, iron marling-spikes, and gun-tools being dropped. The thuds of wooden weapons being abandoned too, as the threat took the last resistance away.
"No, lads, don't give up on me!" Lewrie pled. "We almost had her back!"
"Too late!" Bales sing-songed, triumphant.
Lewrie almost wet himself, as he felt something cold and sharp poke at the left side of his neck. Handcocks, with his cutlass. Even if he took Bales with him, he'd still die. He didn't dare turn to look.
"You'll hang for that, Mister Handcocks," Lewrie swore. "Even if you don't hang for the rest… you'll die for that."
"Give it up, please sir," Handcocks begged. "Short, sharp… but th' donnybrook's done, an' we've th' ship again. No harm done."
"Give it up, you lot!" Bales snapped to the men behind Lewrie. "Midshipman Elwes… your precious captain. Think your little band'll prevail? Even if it costs two more lives? Gentlemen, gentlemen! Men most-like dead already here!" Bales cajoled. "For nothing! See the masts? Yard ropes rove again… flags hoisted again. You made this happen, out of pride and arrogance! Now atone! Give it up!"
Another, final clatter of weapons as they hit the deck; curses as proud men were forced to surrender.
"You last, sir," Bales said, swivelling his gaze back to meet Lewrie's. "Corporal O'Neil, un-hand the wee midshipman, will you? And Mister Handcocks, I'd admire did you step back. Not too far. Surrender your cutlass, Captain Lewrie. It's not as if it's your own sword of honour, is it. Drop it… or die. For nothing."
"I'll see you in Hell, Bales," Lewrie spat, knowing he was going to drop the sword and hating himself for it. "Soon as I'm ashore your name'll be known as a murdering bastard. And there's no place on earth you can ever run and hide, not from the Navy you can't."
"I'll take the chance." Bales shrugged, as if was no threat at all.
Lewrie gritted his teeth and straightened himself erect. With a forceful exhalation, he lowered the cutlass's tip to the deck by his left side, willed his fingers to let it go, to clatter on the pristine white-sanded quarterdeck, and turned on his heel to walk away.
To see the pain, the accusing pain, in the eyes of his officers! He'd failed! He'd been a coward before them! Better he'd died, with his pride, his honour intact…!
"By God, Captain," Lt. Wyman muttered brokenly, with tears in his eyes, one hand out as if to shake. "I am so sorry, sir! I let you and the rest down, but I couldn't see Mister Elwes butchered… nor you shot down, sir! Forgive me!"
"Ah?" Lewrie gawped, realising it wasn't accusation he'd seen but commiseration! And the shame of their own surrenders! "You're a brave young man, Mister Wyman, and an honourable one. Had it been a fair fight, without such a dastardly ploy…"
Christ, and when did I ever fight fair? he chid himself; haven't I sneered my whole life at the very idea? Get the knife or the boot in first … and make it look honourable? Fair fight, mine arse!
"Almost took her, sir," Lt. Devereux gruffly muttered, coming up to offer his hand as well. "Do better next time, what?"
"Now we know there are more than we thought who're with us," Lewrie agreed, taking his hand. "I count on it… as I count on you, Lieutenant Devereux. All of you. For a moment there…"
"Took us all by surprise, sir," Lt. Langlie said, staunching a bloody bruise on his handsome brow. "Be better prepared, organised…?"
"Aye… though we are ordered ashore. I hope there's a next time, but in the face of that…" He gloomed, looking about. "How many are hurt? Mister Shirley? Where's Mister Shirley and his mates?"
' 'Ere, sir," Surgeon's Mate Mr. Durant piped up, clambering to the quarterdeck from the waist. He had his leather "butcher's apron" on, fresh from the lower-deck surgery. It, his hands, and rolled-up shirt cuffs were speckled with blood. "The surgeon an' M'sieur Hodson are below, sir. There are several wounded. An' one dead, sir. A man sous le nom de.. .'scuse. 'Is name is Beamish. 'E was stabbed, sir."
"I saw that." Lewrie nodded grimly. "Uhm… the man here who was shot… I thought I heard a man being shot too, Mister Durant."
"Ah, oui, Captain." Durant shrugged with Gallic coolness. " 'E is ver' bad hurt. Anozzer loyal seaman, c'est dommage. Per'aps an even dozen below who need care too? Et vous, m'sieurs? Any of you who need care? Lieutenant Langlie, your brow, sir? Lieutenant Ludlow?"
"Nothing to you, sir!" Ludlow snarled. "Bucket o' sea-water's a better cure than your sort'd give me."
"Mister Ludlow!" Lewrie seethed. "Mind yer manners, sir."
Ludlow had come up at the first sounds of rioting, had come to fight, which was a credit in his favour. He now bore a bleeding gash on his sword-arm and a bruise on his face which was already yellowing and bluing. Another mark to his credit. Still…
"Damn all Frogs, sir…" Ludlow went on, wincing as he flexed his fingers in experiment. "Might ask this'un where all the radical ideas o' th' mutineers came from. He knew Beamish as a loyal man, and he knew to call the shot hand as loyalist too. Wager anything I have he knew the names of the conspirators… days before…"
"Vous minus!" Durant bristled. "Vous cochon insultant!"
"Here, speak English, you damned…!" Ludlow barked. "What's he sayin'? Damme, does he dare insult me?'
"Mister Durant," Lewrie interceded, "you will apologise to the First Lieutenant… for calling him a moron and an insulting pig. He is your superior officer and such is not allowed from a warrant mate to a Commission Officer. At once, sir."
Durant simmered, looked fit to whistle like a tea kettle to have his gentlemanly honour maligned-heaved a great sigh, swallowed his pride- and stumbled out an apology.
"And, Mister Ludlow," Lewrie intoned, "you will apologise to Mister Durant for your own harsh words and your supposition that Mister Durant is a traitor or in the pay of French agents."
"Why, sir, I'll be damned if…"
"You will, sir! Now!" Lewrie snapped. "Goddamnit! One dead, a man close to death… a dozen wounded. We don't have time for any of this petty… shit! More to the point… / don't! I expect my officers to behave like gentlemen, to the hands and to each other. Now… sir!"
"Very well, sir." Ludlow flushed, lowering his chin and turning nigh to burgundy-colour. "Mister Durant, I apologise. My pardons."
"Merci… M'sieur Ludlow," Durant replied, wcwr-stiffly.
"Thankee, Mister Ludlow," Lewrie said, turning to face him. "I have orders for us to depart the ship. All of us. Given the fact that you responded to our melee with alacrity and courage… I release you from confinement. Let us pack our chests, sirs. There is light enough for us to get ashore before dark if we leave within an hour. Let me thank you all again," he said, peering at their downcast faces, most especially Ludlow 's, "for all you tried just now. But… well, excuse me for a moment or two. Dismiss."
He paced aft to the taffrails, with failed resisters, the faint-hearted, and the sneering victors all giving him a wide berth. He took hold of the cap-rail, gripping the timbers 'til his fingers screamed.
Best chance we'd have… the last chance! he groaned to himself; and it's a bloody failure! Have to slink ashore with my tail between my legs. Ceding the field and the ship to the mutineers, he realised. Encouraging them and their little victory, so they'd be even more obstinate, less prone to settlement.
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.
