"Fear nought, me lad," Lilycrop cautioned. "Corral enough men, ye'll get yer ship. Look at Bracewaight. There's rumours he'd done an arrangement… he fetches in 200 seamen, they give him an active commission. One-handed'r no, he's still a dev'lish sharp scaly-fish, an' just as wasted here'z ye are. There's a midshipman, down t'th' Nore, braggin' that his hundredth recruit'11 fetch his lieutenantcy! 'Course, he's a high-up Dockyard sea-daddy f r a patron, I'm told."

Two hundred pressed men, Lewrie almost gagged? At the rate I'm going, that'll take 'til next Christmas, and how long'll this war last?

And with just whom, exactly, did one make such a Devil's bargain?

He vowed to "smoke out" Bracewaight at the first opportunity. And write yet another pleading, weekly letter to the Admiralty.

Chapter 4

Old Bridey, the Mother Abbess, must have had decades of hard begrudgements to work off (or far costlier damage done to her establishment), for the next few days, and nights, were filled with raids.

The Impress Service dealt with deserters, both those who ran deliberately and stayed away, and those who "straggled." There were some who'd run, intent upon life-long escape from Navy service. And there were some who volunteered over and over again, collecting the Joining Bounty, then taking "leg-bail" to enlist under another alias. Their raids netted about a dozen of the worst offenders, and put the fear of capture in many others.

Then, there were the "stragglers." These were seamen who had missed their ship's departure, gone on unsanctioned "runs ashore" on a whim, gone adrift from working parties intent on a stupendous drunk, a mindless rut, with no thought for the morrow. Or long-term sailors with good records who'd been granted shore leave, but had been robbed or otherwise "delayed," who had a mind to rejoin, and were anxious to go back aboard. Hands didn't exactly join the national war effort, didn't sign up to fight "For King and Country"; they wanted to be aboard, and gave their primary loyalty to, specific ships and crews. Fellows from the same neighbourhood or village, the same shire, friends (or people they felt comfortable with). And the Impress Service was their clearinghouse.

Men who'd been put ashore sick or hurt into Greenwich Hospital, but had recovered, they were particularly vulnerable, for they owned pay certificates, or solid coin for once, and there were many jobbers and "sharks" who preyed upon them to buy up their certificates for a pittance, then turn them in at the Pay Office for full value. And get the released hospitallers drank, penniless and desperate. Desperate enough to fear returning to the Fleet, and sign aboard a merchantman or privateer.

So some of their raids were in the nature of rescue missions to reclaim those befuddled men before worse befell them; the Navy "getting its own back."

Tonight it was to be deserters, the genuine articles this time, not stragglers, and the "gang" was the round dozen of the toughest of hands. True deserters would face punishment, and would fight like a pack of badgers to stay free.

Their hideout was above an "all-nations," a dramshop serving a little bit of everything, at the back of a winding mews of dockyard warehouses. It was a mean and narrow building, dwarfed by the height of the warehouses, hard up against a blank brick wall which separated it from one of the worst "Bermudas" of Wapping, a slum so gruesome and crime-ridden, and its lanes and alleys so convoluted, that their escape from any threat would be assured, if they had warning.

"One door art th' back, sir," the crimp whispered in Lewrie's ear, his breath as foul as rotting kelp. "Winders'z bricked up, 'cept fer that'un ye c'n see. Winder Tax," he shrugged. "But I'd s'pect 'ey got 'em one jus' boarded over, 'bove th' wall, sir."

How Lilycrop, or Bridey, had talked the crimp into aiding them, Lewrie could not fathom. Crimps usually were in competition with the 'Press. The Navy had to use their own gangs, for locals stood a fair chance of being found beaten to a pulp, or dead, if they were spotted helping round up people for the Navy.

The old Mother Abbess, Lewrie decided, leaning away to escape the stench, must know where he buried the body! Took his clothes, too, no doubt; the crimp's body odour was, if anything, even more loathsome than his breath! He smelled like a corpse's armpit!

"Down to the end of the mews, bosun," Lewrie instructed, after giving it a long look. "Two hands atop the wall, either side of their bolt-hole window. You've placed two more at the back entrance?"

"Aye, sir. Snuck 'round a'hind th' warehouses."

"One to stop the front door, once we smash in."

"No need f r 'at, sir," the crimp muttered, producing a sack of tinny, clanking objects from within his greasy coat.

"You have a key?" Lewrie goggled.

"Manner o' speakin', like," the crimp chuckled softly, thumbing through a set of picks and tiny pry-levers, selecting them by feel in the dark, foggy gloom. "Best lock's on th' shop side, not th' stairs door. Been in afore, I has, an' nary a drap'd I get, th' knacky ol' whore-son!"

"Let's go, then," Lewrie murmured, changing his grip on his truncheon. They flattened themselves against the front of the warehouses, vague darker shadows in the night, in single file. Alan gave the dramshop another squint as they got closer. There was one door to the alley, offset to the left of the storefront, and the window, or bulkhead bay, that formed the majority of the narrow building's face, was tightly sealed by large barred shutters.

"I gets 'is lock t'op'm, sir…" the crimp informed him in a gay, professional afterthought, " 'Ey's a door t'th' right, 'at's th' shop. Pair-o'-stairs onna lef… that's y'r pigeon, sir. Up ye'll fly. I'll be waitin' backit th' corner. Ah, tha's me darlin'!" he wheezed as rusty tumblers clicked. A light thumb on the latch, and it was open. "Wait!" The crimp drew out a small flask of oil, and atomized the hinges of the door with as much loving care as a woman might, to apply her favourite, most alluring scent.

"On y'r own now, sir," the crimp bowed, and lightfooted his way to the far end of the alley, farthest from observation.

"We'll creep, far as we may, men," Lewrie ordered. "First sign of alarm, though, we go like blazes. Lanterns hooded, 'til I give the word. Right?"

They slunk into stygian blackness, feeling softly with toes for the first step of the riser, groping for a railing that was not there. And measuring the height of the subsequent steps, and their depth, one cautious tread at a time. Nine men, including Lewrie, his bosun and Cony, all trying to breathe, to climb as silently as possible; though to Alan's ears, they made as much noise as a like number of grunting, rasping hogs in that narrow, airless passage.

Lewrie held up one hand to warn his gang to pause for a moment, so he could listen. He thought he heard soft murmur-ings, a snatch of throaty laughter from above. Unfortunately, his men couldn't even see their hands in front of their own faces, much less his, so all he did was bunch them up to a chorus of grunts, subdued yelps of surprise, of awkward feet thunked on creaking boards, and the thud of truncheons on the peeling plaster walls.

"Hoy, wazzat?" came a cry from above.

"Go!" Lewrie screamed, almost on his hands and knees to grope upward quickly. "Lanterns! Go!"

There was a hint of light, so he could espy a tiny landing and an array of doors at the top of the steep stairs. One of them opened a crack, spilling more light, right ahead of him. Lewrie scrabbled to his feet and dove for the door, crashing into it before the people behind it could close and lock it. He stumbled through at waist level, avoiding the slash of a jack-knife above his head. Before the assailant could slash again, he was brought down by a truncheon smashing on his arm. The knife dropped from his numb fingers.

"In the King's name!" Lewrie howled, lunging at the startled young sailor on the cot before him. He used his truncheon like a pike to knock the breath from the lad, and curl him up like a singed worm around his bruised stomach, gasping for air.

There was more ruckus from the center room, as its denizens discovered that their escape route through the boarded-up window which let onto the stews was filled with press-gang hands.

"Jeez-Ms!" the bosun exclaimed with disgust. "Bloody…!"

"Got these, sir," Cony told him. "Christ!"

Lewrie turned about, taking his eyes off the younger sailor for a moment. His assailant was knelt on the floor, against the wall near a wardrobe. Cony and two more hands were already binding him in irons. Oh, he was a sailor, no doubt about it; tattooed and sun-baked, a ring in his ear in sign he'd survived a sinking sometime in his past. And as grizzled and stocky as a longtime bosun's mate. His clothes were sailors' "short clothing" and purser's slops-though the man was now bare-arsed nude, still sporting the remains of a prodigious cock-stand.

"Oh, bloody…" Lewrie muttered as he grasped the situation. He turned back to the younger sailor and ripped the filthy linen sheet away from him. He too was naked.

"Please, sir!" the lad whimpered, looking up with pleading in his large, doe-like eyes. Except for the usual ruddy sailor's tan, he was… pretty; pretty as some biddable young miss! "Please, sir!" he begged again, almost fluttering his lashes in hopes he could stir pity. "Warn' wot ya think, sir, I swears it! Warn' my fault, sir!"

"A Goddamned sodomite!" Lewrie almost gagged.

"Don' take me, sir… they'd flog me somethin' awful. They'd hang me, sir! I'm a good topman, sir, see… ain't never been flogged? Ain't been no trouble 'board ship, sir."

He reached out in supplication, tears rolling unashamedly down his face, and Lewrie flinched back from his touch, fended him off with the truncheon.

"Don' never mess 'board ship, sir," the young seaman began to blubber. "An' won' never 'appen agin, sir. Won' do h'it no more, I swears it. Fell in wif bad comp'ny, sir. Run outa money, an'… an' I needed money, sir. Drink an' bad companions, sir! Sir!"

"Irons here," Lewrie barked, snapping his fingers for his men.

"Oh, please mates, don' do h'it! I'll go back, swears I will. Ain't no trouble wif me messmates…!"

"Ain't no mate of yer'n, ya bugger," one of the gang growled as he advanced with a set of fetters. " 'Old still now… rrdssyl"

Lewrie stumped stiff-legged from the chamber, onto the landing, peeking into the other rooms for confirmation. He had not only stumbled onto a nest of deserters, he'd stepped right into a proper dungheap.

No wonder they'd run, he thought. Sodomy was one of the few of the thirty-six Articles of War, besides murder and mutiny, the Navy really did hang people for.

"Gawd, sir," his bosun spat, "ain't just deserters. This here be a boy-fucker's buttock-shop. Center room, sir… musta been seven 'r eight o' th'… things… t'gither when we busted in, as evil'z…anythin'! Not all of 'em seamen, though, Mister Lewrie. Dramshop owner, e'z one, too. Caught 'im in th' front room, we did. Had 'im a lad in 'ere no bigger'n me youngest boy Tommy, th' bastard. Two of 'em'z ship's boys. An' a coupla… gen'lmenl"

Lewrie took a look in the front room. It was much larger than the other two chambers, part bed-chamber and parlour, and quite well furnished compared to the rest. A chubby old reprobate sat unmanacled on the edge of the high bedstead, trying to cover part of his nudity by shrouding his groin with his hands, wide-eyed and high-browed, and striving to appear as sheepishly innocent as a dog might, caught licking the Sunday roast. But cowering up by the pile of pillows, weeping fit to bust, was a cherub of a boy, not over ten years old.

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