Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

Proud three-decker 1st- and 2nd-Rate flagships, two-decker 3rd and 4th Rates, slim frigates and sloops of war, brigs, schooners, and cutters, bulky transports converted from men-o'-war to carry troops and stores for a world-wide war; sheer-hulks and receiving ships reduced to a gantline and lower-most masts, where new-caught lubbers and seamen languished 'til a warship had need of them.

All of them flying battle-flags, the stark, unadorned blood-red flags without the British canton! Commission pendants still streamed, but none of the flagships wore broad pendants denoting the presence of an admiral or commodore-only the battle colours, nothing national!

Militia paraded in Portsea as their coach slowed, shunted aside to make room for soldiery and idling onlookers. There were hardly any sailors to be seen, naval or civilian. Marines in full kit stood here and there in full squads, their bayonets unsheathed and fixed under the muzzles of their muskets. Usually, a parade of troops brought out the spectators, raised cheers, the fluttering of handkerchiefs by the town women, and the tittery delight of youngsters. But not this time, Lewrie noted; now, the doleful beats of drums, the clomp of crude-made boots, the clop of his coach's horses, and the funereal rumbles from its iron-shod wheels seemed the only sounds.

Right-into the main gate of the dockyard, and several minutes in argument with a Marine Captain, no matter Lewrie was wearing uniform; then at last proceeding past the Hard, Gun Wharf, the mast-pool, and the small Royal Naval Academy, and the Commissioner's House, the Rope Walk-and a few more aggressively curious roving marine patrols!-until they could alight hard by one of the stone graving docks, where HMS Jester stood propped and stranded, looking like a scrofulous, dead whale. With her bottom exposed, all the sheet copper, paper, and felt ripped off, and a good third of her underwater planking stripped away for replacing, she looked more a shipwreck than a ship of war. She did not fly any flags, since she was officially out of commission, in the hands of the yards. And, Lewrie was grateful to see, she did not sport that rebellious red banner either.

"I'd go aboard," he told an idling yard worker by her brow, eyeing that shaky-looking gangplank which led from the lip of the dock to her starboard entry-port, perched rather high-ish above the floor of the graving dock and all its accumulated trash, muck, and filth, in about a foot of verminous-looking harbour water. A few rare workmen pretended to do something constructive beneath her.

"You her cap'um, sir?" The dock worker yawned.

"Her last captain," Lewrie explained.

:' 'Ey ain't too fond o' awficers come callin', sir. But ye c'n try." The man shrugged.

"Hoy, Jester/" Lewrie shouted, about halfway across that brow.

Several heads popped up over the sail-tending gangway bulwarks, where a harbour-watch party evidently had been loafing. A few sailors mounted to the quarterdeck, hands in their pockets and their hats far back on their heads.

Damme! Lewrie fumed; no warrant or petty officer standing deck-watch? And common seamen, walking the quarterdeck without leave?

"Permission to come aboard, to visit…" Lewrie called over.

"Denied, sir… sorry," a strange voice rasped back. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but… there'll be no officers return aboard 'til all our grievances been settled."

Lewrie went colt-eyed at that reply, his eyebrows up to his hat brim in shock at being spoken to so by a common seaman. Damme! Lewrie gawped again, taking a closer look; that saucy bugger's armed! He had himself a closer peer at the sailors who'd been lazing on deck before, and those who'd come up to see the commotion. Wide baldrics were hung over their shoulders, supporting scabbarded cutlasses. Pistols poked from their waistbands, most piratical; and those who served as watch or side-party held muskets and sported cartouche boxes!

"None of your officers are aboard then?" Lewrie puzzled aloud. "And they gave you the keys to the arms chests? Not even a midshipman left?"

"Nary a one, sir," the strange seaman shouted back. "All sent ashore, just after the delegates of the Fleet decided. Bosun an' the Master Gunner'z in charge, sir. Charge o' th' arms too, sir. And… beggin' yer pardon again, sir, but… we vowed no Commission Officer's to come aboard 'til…"

"I am Commander Lewrie… Jester 's last captain," Lewrie stated, moving forward a few feet along that rickety gangplank. "I've come to see your Bosun, Mister Cony. I've brought his wife and child along… there they are, yonder."

"Oh, a social call then, sir!" The leading sailor brightened. "In 'at case, aye, sir… come aboard. Passin' th' word for th' Bosun!"

Several of the mutinous hands relayed that shout to summon the Bosun on deck, as Lewrie waved Maggie and little Will forward to join him. "Side-party…! Present…!"

They would offer him a proper salute then, though the muskets were most-like loaded, if not primed, as well! Lewrie took it, doffing his hat to the quarterdeck and side-party as if Jester was still a ship in proper hands… and everything was normal!

"Maggie, darlin'!" Will Cony shouted, as soon as he had gained the deck. He rushed up to help her the last few steps inboard through the entry-port. Maggie swept him into a fierce, protective hug just as quickly, with little Will clinging to his father's leg like a limpet to a rock. The armed sailors, their duties done, lowered their muskets to lean on, and cooed and chuckled softly, breaking into fond smiles!

"Cap'um, sir!" Will exclaimed, after he'd scooped his child up to eye-level, still with one arm about his wife. "God o' Mercy, sir… 'twas 'opin' yew'd come. An' thankee f r bringin' Maggie an' little Will. Didn' know when I'd see 'em again, f r all this…"

"Will, damme… just what in Hell is all… this?" Lewrie asked.

"Will ya be 'avin' a seat, sir? Th' explainin'll take a piece. Hoy, this's Mister Tuggle… new Master Gunner. Mister Tuggle, could we fetch up table an' chairs… any sort o' seats? This is my old cap'um, Commander Lewrie, Mister Tuggle."

"Sir," the Master Gunner intoned, straightening himself like a "piss and gaiters" sergeant of marines. "Pleasure t'meet ye, sir. We know ye for a fair-minded man, sir. Of yer old warrants and petty officers… name in the Fleet, sir?"

As a table from the officer's gunroom, some chairs or kegs were fetched, there came a parade up from below: Mr. Reese, Mr. Paschal, and Mr. Meggs-Hogge the Gunner's Mate, the "Dutchie" Mr. Rahl, some of the hands who'd served this ship since the very first-all smiling in welcome and in pleasure of the rencontre -though a tad sheepish, Lewrie noted as he took a seat at the table, after acknowledging their helloes.

"Small beer, sir?" Cony offered. "Ah, 'ere we go, sir. Need a 'wet,' I s'pose. Mind 'at keg, Maggie. 'Tis tarry, but 'twill 'ave t'serve f r yer seat… an' sure t'be bad Pr yer 'andsome new gown, me love. Will, do ye climb up on yer daddy's lap, whilst we 'ave ourselves a yarnin'? Do ye not mind me sitting, 'at is, sir…?"

"Aye, seat yourself, Will. This isn't official. And after so many years together…" he said with a shrug and a smile. "I'm not here in any capacity 'cept to see you away for home like your leave-ticket allows. Not to meet with any, uhm… what-you-call-'ems."

"Delegates, sir." Cony fidgeted a bit, his eyes going cutty as a bag of nails. "Fleet Delegates an'… ship delegates."

"Right." Lewrie nodded, taking a sip of the beer before him. "Delegates. I'm not representing anyone, so… this is personal."

"Well, sir…" Will sighed, scratching his head. He took himself a deepish quaff before continuing. "This'z a tad, uhm… well…"