If it came to a fight, Lewrie glumly suspected, it'd be no fight at all. Channel Fleet might have been saved from mutiny, most of the grievances satisfied. But would that be good enough for them to fire upon other British tars? Should that come, it'd surely be the end of the Royal Navy. Most-like, he imagined, the two fleets would meet and blend, overthrow authority again, and would then be fully provisioned, at sea! beyond the reach of reason. Not just the Royal Navy though, oh, no… perhaps it would be the tiny spark in the pan, like that one at Lexington in the lost American Colonies, that had begun the revolt against the Crown; and Britain would be torn asunder. Republicans and Jacobinist Levellers versus Royalists; hard-pressed as the commoners were by the demands of the war and the new taxes, it might be wealthy against poor too! The Irish, of course, encouraged to throw off the yoke of English occupation. Scotland too, uneasily forced into submission since the last rising of the clans in "The 45."
"There is the possibility the new arrivals are not victualled as well as the original mutinous ships, sir," Mr. Coote offered in a hopeful gesture. "And with supplies now refused them… perhaps they cannot stay here at the Nore for very long."
"I rather doubt that, Mister Coote," Lieutenant Wyman sighed, "though it is wishful. They were to all accounts provisioned for an extended spell of blockade duty off the Dutch coast. From what I heard from our rumour-mill, they defected after receiving sailing orders to join Admiral Duncan. Meet him at some 'rondy,' somewhere off the coast…"
Lt. Wyman did not wear disappointment well; he looked like he'd aged ten years in the last two days and was not as prone to appearing surprised or startled any longer. Most un-lieutenant-like, he slouched on the starboard-side upholstered settee with his legs out and his hands in his breeches pockets, like one of Hogarth's sketches of an idle roisterer with a killing "head," the morning after.
"And where do they think they'd get provisions, with every port closed to 'em, Mister Coote?" Lewrie fretted. "Aye, most-like they are well-provisioned for up to six months at sea. Gawd…!"
"Can't last that long, can it, sir?" Midshipman Adair queried. "Else the wind shifts, sooner or later, and the Dutch get out to sea. The French Fleet at Brest bound for Ireland… we've been fortunate in the weather so far, sir."
"That's so, sir." The Sailing Master nodded, stuffing tobacco into his clay church warden pipe. "But a man who'd depend on weather for his salvation is the hugest sort of fool. I cannot but think that the Merciful Hand of Providence has controlled the contrary winds this long during our travails, sirs-to grant His most favoured nation a space in which to save ourselves. But such Divine Mercy is not forever."
"A tiny space," Lewrie mused, mussing his hair as he came to a stop behind his desk, for a moment envying Mr. Winwood the comfort of his pipe and tobacco. He'd never taken up the custom, and the time he had been forced to smoke, with the Muskogee Indians during the Revolution, hadn't exactly made him a devotee of the Noble Weed. "Is it not true, Mister Winwood, that 'God helps those, who help themselves'? As you say, it's only the fools who lift their hands in supplication, depending on the Lord, not their own efforts, to save their skins."
"Well, there are some believers, sir," Winwood winced, "not in the Established Church, of course, who hold that is the Almighty truly 'almighty,' He can do anything, even for the weakest and most powerless. It has been my experience though, sir, that… was a man adrift at sea in a small boat amid a raging gale, the Good Lord might look down more kindly on the sort who'd strive in league with Divine Assistance, not lay whimpering in the bilge, sir. Though I must confess the Bible is replete with examples of the utterly hopeless being salved at the last moment, through no action on their part but deep, abiding faith and a fervent prayer." He puffed away quite contentedly, wreathing himself in aromatic blue fumes, after delivering what to Lewrie sounded mightily like a paradox: "This, but on the other hand…"
"Take the case of Abraham, sir, and the offering of his beloved son on the altar in the desert wilderness…" Mr. Winwood began to expound. "You've prayed fervently on this, I take it, Mister Winwood?" Lewrie asked him.
"Well… aye, sir!" Winwood admitted, as if surprised that anyone might suspect that he had not.
"And I take it that all of you gentlemen, as Christian, English gentlemen, have prevailed upon the Good Lord for guidance and succour, for victory over our foes, and a way out of our… wilderness?"
"Oh, of course, sir," they mumbled back, as if by rote, though looking a bit cutty-eyed that they had perhaps not, but were making the "proper" noises.
"Then we cannot fail." Lewrie thinly smiled, tossing in a stab at "Hardy, Noble Christian Gentleman" himself. "And, with Divine aid, we will retake Proteus … God willing," he piously concluded.
And thus endeth the epistle, he sourly thought, having no time for Win-wood's parson-like pontificating: or is it "here endeth"?
Damme I must pay more attention next time I'm in church! "But… how, sir? Now that…" Lieutenant Wyman waffled. "Aye, they're encouraged, Mister Wyman"-Lewrie grinned at him- "I'll grant you, for the nonce. I doubt though that these new-come ships are as radical as some. They've not been cut off from news from London and know of the Royal Pardon and the Acts. Their arrival here at the Nore is, I suspect, a temporary thing… their way of assuring themselves they're included in the terms, showing support for the Nore sailors who might appear to be excluded for the moment."
Don't know that at all, he admitted to himself; whistling past the graveyard… spinnin' fairy-shite!
"Doubt there's been much communication 'tween Great Yarmouth and the Nore either… they haven't had a chance to take their measure of our mutineers. Once they see what a pack of radicals they are, there's more than a good chance it'll make 'em queasy. We're still anchored out in the seaward row, close to the Queen's Channel. The new-comers are crowded in on either end. We're still dealing with the two ships anchored closest to us. And one of those came within a quim-hair of overpowering their mutineers. Now granted, the other one fired into us, but… if we continued sail-drill, making up to short stays before backing and filling, we can lull them to think nothing of it, just as we originally planned. We've most of the Marines on our side now… ready to act the next time."
"Sir, are you sure they're still with us now the mutiny's reenforced and their spirits lifted?" Mr. Coote worried aloud.
"A day or two's excitement," Lewrie said dismissively, hoping that he was right, feeling forced to be optimistic, if only to prevent his officers from sinking into the "Blue Devils." "A day or two more and they'll be back to their doubts and mis-givings, thinking of the courts-martial and gibbets. Here's what we should rumour about: The North Sea Fleet is here so they can be included in the Spithead terms and nothing more. There's no contact allowed with them either, so our hands won't know the diffrence."
"But they would, sir," Mr. Adair plumbed the fault to it quite quickly, "the Fleet Delegates will swear they're in agreement with all their terms."
"Unless they already are, sir," Midshipman Catterall gloomily pointed out.
"You are quite the font of cheer, Mister Catterall," Lewrie said rather frostily, delivering a withering glower. "Right, then… we say they've been deceived, now they're here, 'cause they've no wish to be against Crown and Country or be part of a Floating Republic forever! They're ready to sail to aid Admiral Duncan, even if the delegates, in the pay of foreign powers, wish to prevent it. Plausible?" he asked.