Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

"Quota Men, sir." Tuggle sneered. "We've a few. Worst lot o' drunks, rowdies, back-stabbers… thieves, sir!" Tuggle growled, and several of the new-come men, and most of the old Jesters still aboard, chimed in with a like growl of disgust.

"No matter, they're no sort o' sailormen, nor watermen either, sir," Cony stuck in. "Ev'ry county, ev'ry borough, an' town'z down t' supply so many men each Assizes f r th' Navy… their quota."

"So they muck out their gaols and loonie bins, and pass 'em on to the Fleet?" Lewrie scowled.

"Bloody right, sir… beggin' yer pardon, Maggie darlin'," Will Cony rejoined, most heartily. " 'Ere, Maggie, you take young Will for a piece. 'E's 'z squirmy'z a worm in hot ashes. Oh, they're scamps, idlers, back-talkers an' sea-lawyers, Cap'um. Won't none of 'em make Ord'nary Seamen do ya give 'em a month o' Sundays. No idea o' what it means t'be a proper shipmate. Drunks, hen-heads, cut-throats… why, we'd all be better off were they transported f r life t'that New South Wales! Man's possessions…"

"Man's tools, sir!" Mr. Reese, the Carpenter, shouted.

"Ain't safe from 'e, do ya 'ide 'em in th' powder magazines!" Cony barked, which raised another agreeing rumble of discontent from the true seamen and petty officers gathered 'round them.

Lewrie forced himself to scowl more deeply, though he felt like breaking out in laughter. For here was the same plaint he'd heard for years in midshipmen's cockpits, officer's gunrooms, and many a captain's great-cabins-about the sailors they already had! And for it to come from men 'afore the mast too, well…!

"Anyways, sir… refusin' t'sail, that got their Lordship attention, right smart." Tuggle sighed, once the hands had calmed down. Lewrie noticed that a few of the new-comes were blushing or scowling-some of those Quota Men here, among real sailors?

"I would imagine that would," Lewrie japed, deadpan.

"Anyway, sir," Tuggle went on, "we, the Fleet Delegates, that is, come up with our list o' grievances Lord Bridport asked us for. Written up proper and signed this time. Reasonable demands, sir, I am mortal-certain you'd call 'em too, Commander Lewrie, bein' a long-time officer, an' all. You've seen how things're done, how the hands are treated. Oh, there's some private grievances from some ships… 'bout removin' th' real death-floggers an' th' truly cruel officers'n mates… men so cruel it'd make yer eyes water, sir. Nought like you, I've heard, nossir."

"An' we're holdin' out for a gen'ral pardon too, sir," Sadler chimed in from one side. "In writin', so we don't end up like the lads 'board Culloden a few years back…"

Culloden, the same two-decker Troubridge had fought so well just recently at St. Vincent, with pretty much the same crew. Aye, Lewrie recalled that she'd staged a brief mutiny. Captain Troubridge had been saddled with a perfect whore of a warship, barely in any condition to put to sea, and her people had demanded that they turn over into some other, safer ship or have Culloden into the yards for a proper refit. Surprisingly, the Admiralty had given into their demands, though they needed every ship at sea, and they'd sworn to her crew that they'd be forgiven. Yet as soon as they'd returned to duty, Troubridge and the Marines had rushed them and seized the ten ringleaders. Five of them had ended up being hanged by the neck until dead, then their corpses tarred and chained and displayed 'til their bones fell apart.

"Admiral Gardner called aboard his flagship, Queen Charlotte, sir " Cony grunted, sour from the memory. "Urged 'em t'give way an' return t'duty. Said they could swear loyalty, sign a tribute to th' Admiralty, an' it'd all be forgotten. 'Ey wouldn't, though, sir… not 'thout a pardon, not 'thout their demands. So he cursed 'em… called 'em cowards, sir! Swore ev'ry fifth man'd be hanged.,.swore they all deserved hangin'. Just'z good'z spittin' on 'em, sir. An' them some o' th' best sailors in th' Fleet. His own crew, sir!"

"So what were these, uhm… grievances?" Lewrie asked. "Well, the wages, that's still first, sir," Tuggle announced. He produced a folded copy of the document which had been copied for every ship and laid it on the table. Lewrie put one hand in his lap and the other on his beer; no way was he going to touch that!

"Ahem…" Tuggle began to read, " '… that our provisions be raised to the weight of sixteen ounces to the pound, and of a better quality; and that our measures may be the same as those used in the commercial code of this country…' "

Well, God help the pursers, Lewrie thought; that'd put 'em out of business in a Dog Watch! No profit for 'em in that!

"Uhm… 'that there be no flour served while we are in harbour, in any port whatsoever under the command of the British flag; and also that there might be granted a sufficiency of vegetables of such kind as may be most plentiful in the ports to which we go; which we grievously complain and lay under the want of.' "

"So we gets the fresh meat from them dockyard thieves the regulations says we should, sir," Sadler groused. "Pound o' bread, even fresh-baked 'Tommy,' won't never be the match of a pound o' beef, sir! And the flour's so cheap, they claim t'issue the beeves or hogs then pocket the diff rence!"

"Sick care, sir," Tuggle added, tapping a marlin-spike finger on the document. "Man gets sick or injured, he might as well turn up his toes an' die, for all the care most surgeons give. Cram 'em deep below where there's no fresh air, cram 'em in the orlop, some do… and the surgeons and mates responsible for buyin' their own medicines, sir? Well, you know how cheese-parin' they are 'bout that. Like we say in the grievances here, sir… 'that these necessities be not on any account embezzled' ''

"Then I may presume, Mister Tuggle, that Surgeon Mister Howse and his mate left the ship soon after?" Lewrie chuckled.

"Sure t'God did, sir," Cony supplied, most cheerfully. "First warrant-holders off, in fact. Called us ungrateful curs, sir, after all they'd… done fer us!"

Lewrie winced to himself; too much use o' that term "ungrateful curs," hmm?

"Now, sir…" Tuggle went on, stern-faced as an instructor at his first morning class-and sure to be disappointed by his scholars. "The fourth thing we want is liberty. Real shore-liberty, for those of the hands de-servin'. Like Jester, sir… three years in foreign waters, and what'd she get, sir? Anchored out, combed for the Press. At best, put Out of Discipline, and all the hands, wives, children, and the hired drabs amingle… that's not respectful at all, sir. No privacy, and in me last ship, sir… there were these midshipmen who loved t'wander in, watch proper married folk at their couplin'… beggin' yer pardon, Mrs. Cony. Leave-tickets for trusted men, long-time married men, sir. And holders of warrant, so they could go home, outside the port town, when back in England. Liberty o' th seaport for the younger and unmarried. Now, mayhap there'll be some… like these new Quota Men and such… who have t'stay aboard 'cause you can't trust 'em, and mayhap ya ferry the doxies out for them, but…"

You haven't a bloody hope, Lewrie sadly thought; you stay stubborn over that 'un, and you'll still be mutineers 'til next Epiphany! Navy can't take the risk, can't send a third of a crew ashore, not if there's a French fleet just 'cross Channel and the wind shifts of a sudden. And, Lord… how many'd ever come back? No, impossible…

"Last thing, sir," Cony said, drawing Lewrie back from a pose of half-focused inattention. "Well, almost… right now, any man is wounded in action or sick…'is pay's docked 'til he's back on 'is pins an' discharged from sick-berth. We figger 'e oughta get all 'is pay straight through. Does 'e land at Haslar or Greenwich Hospital, ends up Discharged, then 'e's pensioned off; but for God's sake, sir… don't dock 'is last bit o' money, then turn 'im out t'starve in civilian life where 'e can't earn 'alf th' livin' 'e coulda made as a sailor. Broke up, crippled, missin' legs an' arms and such…"