"Well, sir, with the Russian Baltic fleet iced up in harbour," Mountjoy pointed out, looking for the best face on things, "there may not be all that great a need for immediate expertise on their navy."
"We must delay our sailing?" Count Rybakov asked, a tad agitated upon hearing of it.
"I think not, my lord," Lewrie told him, puffing out his cheeks and lips in frustration, though putting the best face on it himself. "Mister Mountjoy is correct… does the ice keep your Baltic fleet in port a month or so longer, it's slim odds we'll run into any of them at sea, before we land you at the nearest ice-free port to Saint Petersburg, so Lieutenant Rick's presence would make no difference to us. I expect, soon as the wind's come Westerly, to set sail. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow, dawn."
"I am gratified to hear it, Kapitan Lewrie," Count Rybakov said with relief. "Our diplomatic mission, and the hope of a reconciliation between our two great nations, before a war can be set in motion, from which no one can prosper but the odious French tyrant, Bonaparte, must not be hindered."
No wonder everybody likes him, Lewrie thought.
"Most gratifying to the Foreign Office, as well," Mountjoy said with an open, relieved grin.
"By dawn, we could be on our way, Anatoli," Rybakov cheerfully said. "Does that not sound pleasing?"
"Da… yes, it does," Count Anatoli agreed, sitting up a little straighter, showing his first sign of any emotion other than bored-to-tears. "Urr-rah!" he cried, right after tossing his drink down in one gulp. It did not help his welcome aboard, though, that right after he had drunk, he threw the glass at the pierced metal grate door of the stove, where it shattered.
And no wonder everyone despises you! Lewrie thought, wincing at the mess, and the loss of one of his better glasses; He keeps that up, he'll be drinkin' from cupped hands… we all will. I'd wager he has hosts o' people lined up, waitin' t'slap him silly.
Count Levotchkin smirked at their reactions to his action, and tossed off a small shrug that was all they would get by way of apology. He rose to go to the wine-cabinet for a fresh glass, perhaps a taste of something else more pleasing, while his kinsman, Count Rybakov, looked at Lewrie and rolled his eyes as if to say "what may one do with these youngsters?" while nodding and blinking a silent apology for him. Whitsell, Lewrie's runty cabin boy, went for a broom and dust-pan.
"One of our customs, Kapitan Lewrie," Rybakov said. "Whenever an oath is pledged, or a toast of significance to us, we break the glasses in the hearth, or on the floor, to seal its importance… so that no one may re-use those glasses, and renege, later. That is how urgent our… peace mission is to us… to Anatoli, you must understand."
Lewrie looked over his shoulder to the young man in question to see him opening another decanter and sniffing it, and young Whitsell by his side, as if to deter him from causing any more mayhem.
Anatoli Levotchkin, were one not aware of his cruelty and perversity, really did appear as a handsome, well-set-up fellow; tall, slim and with the build of a courtier, or a light cavalryman. He had close-cropped dark blond hair, with the typical blue Slavic eyes in a lean scholar's face, framed by sideburns to below his earlobes, and brushed forward almost in Frenchified fashion. Lewrie imagined he was rich as Croesus, or the Walpoles, but Levotchkin was dressed in scholar's drab; a black doubled-breasted coat over a grey waist-coat, with the collars of his shirt turned up to his jaws, with a bright yellow neck-stock at his throat. Dark buff, snugly-cut trousers and top-boots completed his suiting. Lawyers dressed more colourfully.
Levotchkin might be taken for a well-off young student about to take his final exams, and Blues for brilliance, or an off-leave cavalry officer in a fashionable regiment; he could be mistaken for a typical "Merry Andrew," yet…
Cavalry, for certain, Lewrie decided to himself; Only cavalry's that top-lofty, and dim. Lord, make this a short voyage!
He turned back to look at Rybakov again, and stroked his cats, who had each taken a thigh on which to sprawl and knead his waist-coat for attention and comfort.
"Tea, sir," Pettus announced, returning from the galley with a large pewter pot held in folded towels. "Boiling hot as you requested."
"Ah, tea!" Count Rybakov exclaimed, clapping chilled hands.
"Capital!" Lewrie heartily agreed as Pettus set the pot on the stove top and went for a tray of cups and saucers.
"Urr-rah" was Levotchkin's sneer, back to the laconic sulker he'd been when he'd first come aboard.
I'll not shove him overboard, th' first dark night, Lewrie vowed; I'll not!
CHAPTER THIRTY
As if in answer to Lewrie's prayer for a short voyage, the wind came round more Sutherly by sunset, prompting him to send word ashore for a harbour pilot to attend Thermopylae at first light, in the expectation that the prevailing Westerlies would be in full force by dawn. He also directed Lt. Ballard to dismantle and stow away the stoves by Eight Bells of the Middle Watch, at 4 A.M., when the crew was roused out to swab decks, stow hammocks and bedding, and clear away.
"Sir… sir," a sleepy Pettus said, tapping the wood side of his hanging bed-cot. "Eight Bells, sir."
"Very well, Pettus," Lewrie said with a grunt. The quilts and furs really had made a pleasingly snug and warm cocoon, and coming up from it was like a dive into cold water. "Clothes… quick."
"Pot of coffee is on your side-board, sir," Pettus told him as he left the small partitioned-off sleeping space, closing the slat door. He'd left a lit lanthorn over which Lewrie warmed his fingers, once he had donned his thickest wool stockings, a set of underdrawers, a pair of slop-trousers, and his tasselled boots. Two shirts, his neck-stock, and waist-coat quickly followed, topped with his heaviest old uniform coat, hastily doubled over and buttoned against the chill. Over that he threw a dressing robe to hoard his body's warmth 'til the very last second before he would have to appear on the quarterdeck.
Some hasty attention to Toulon and Chalky, who seemed glad that they could nestle together on the furs once he'd gone, and he was out with the lanthorn in his hand to light his way to the dining-coach for a welcome cup of coffee, which Pettus had already sugared for him.
"Christ," Lewrie snapped, as one booted foot thumped against one of his passengers' chests.
"First off'cah… SAH!" the Marine sentry by the outer door announced in a loud, thunderous basso, with the requisite thud of a musket butt on the deck.
"Come," Lewrie bade, glad for at least one friendly face.
"Good morning, sir," Lt. Ballard said, hat in hand. "The wind is come round to West-Sou'west. Once the hands have eat, the ship is ready for sea, in all respects."
"Very good, Mister Ballard," Lewrie said. "Coffee?"
"Most welcome, sir," Ballard agreed. As Pettus poured him a cup, Ballard gazed about the great-cabins. "May I say, sir, that your quarters now more resemble the hold of a coasting brig."
"Barely enough room t'swing a cat, aye," Lewrie agreed, grumbling over the rim of his cup, which he held between both hands. "How I am expected t'land all this flotsam and jetsam with 'em, I don't know. Heard from the pilot, have we, Arthur?"
"We have, sir," Ballard replied, all grim business, as was his wont when on duty. For a moment, Lewrie could almost imagine that Lt. Ballard's tone of voice held a note of reproof for the casual use of his Christian name. "He assures us that his boat will be alongside at six, and suggested, in his note of reply, that our best course would be to depart through the Saint Nicholas Gat channel, which will lie to leeward of the winds… and is most-recently re-buoyed and marked, sir."
"I'd dig a channel through the shoals and bars, does it get us on our way soonest," Lewrie said back. "Lord, what a chore they are!"
"Our 'live-lumber,' I take it that you mean, sir," Ballard said with only the faintest smirk.
"One a talkative wind-bag, t'other a gloomy, drunken 'sponge,' " Lewrie griped. "Before Mister Mountjoy departed us, he told me it was part of my 'diplomatic' duty to dine 'em proper… play the tactful host, hah! I'd rather have the
other officers and Mids in, and get a feel for 'em, but I can't do that with our passengers at-table at the same time. I can have a few of 'em in each meal, but, only for their amusement," he said, jerking his head aft in the direction of his sleeping guests. He spoke low, as well, so as not to wake them. No matter, for the sounds of hundreds of sailors opening and slamming sea chests, their shoes thundering on the decks and companionway ladders, and the thuds and squeaks of wash-deck pumps being set up and drawing sea water… followed by the rasp of holystones and "bibles" on those decks for the morning's scrub-down to pristine whiteness, which could be conjured as the wheezing breath of a great dragon at times, was sure to awaken them, sooner or later; even Levotchkin, who had been poured into his swaying bed-cot by his servant, Sasha, as drunk as a lord.
"The stoves stowed away?" Lewrie asked, pouring himself half a cup of coffee, to warm up the rest in his mug.
"No fuel added since the start of the Middle Watch, sir, and the embers are now in the process of being cast overside," Lt. Ballard replied. "They shall be dismantled and stowed away on the orlop directly."
"Very well," Lewrie said with a sigh, "Damned shame, really. I fear the people will be half-frozen, by the time we're under way."
"Top up your coffee, Mister Ballard?" Pettus offered.
"Aye, thank you, Pettus," Ballard agreed.
"Whaa?" came a strangled cry from aft, and the creak of a swaying cot as its occupant sat up too quickly. "Stop that noise at once! You disturb my… chort! Yob tvoyemat!" followed by thud as whichever of the nobles fell out and hit the deck. "God damn you!"
"They're such a joy, Mister Ballard," Lewrie said in a sarcastic drawl. "I will join you on deck. D'ye need your manservant, sir?" he called aft in a louder voice.
"Da, send Sasha to me, so… Bulack!" Count Levotchkin yelled, just before all the liquor and wine he'd taken aboard re-arose, and he "cast his accounts to Neptune." Lewrie hoped he had enough wit to find a handy bucket.
"Get a mop, sir?" Pettus asked with distaste and trepidation.
"No, get his bloody manservant," Lewrie said. "I expect his man has bags of experience, cleanin' up after him. I'll breakfast once we are through the Gat, and made our offing, Pettus. A stale roll, with some jam… and a lot more coffee… will serve 'til then."
"Aye, sir," Pettus replied with a relieved grin.
Once through St. Nicholas Gat, past the barely awash barrier isles and shallow belt of shoals and bars, ghosting along under jibs, tops'ls, and winged-out driver, and about four miles offshore, the harbour pilot's single-masted cutter came alongside, and their guide departed, leaving HMS Thermopylae free to make her own way.
"Make her fly, Mister Ballard," Lewrie bade with a broad grin, elated beyond all measure to be back at sea. "Show me what our ship's capable of. All but the fore course, t'keep her bow lifted."
"Aye-aye, sir," Ballard was happy to agree, and began bawling out orders through a brass speaking-trumpet. Lieutenants Farley and Fox, with wolfish grins, cheered the hands on to lay aloft and trice up, with half the Midshipmen scampering up the rat-lines with the topmen to cast off harbour gaskets and brails, and loose canvas.
Half an hour later, at Seven Bells of the Morning Watch, "all plain sail" had been set, and Thermopylae was pounding roughly to the Nor'east over a fine-wrinkled steel-grey sea, flecked with rollers and "sea horses" topped with white spume.
"Eight and three-quarter knots, sir!" Midshipman Privette, the dullish one, cried from the taffrails where he and two men of the Afterguard had plied the minute glass and the chip-log.
"How does she steer, off the wind?" Lewrie asked the Quartermaster of the watch, who, with one of his Mates, manned the large helm.
"Sweet, Cap'm sir," Beasley replied, shifting his tobacco quid to the other side of his mouth, away from Lewrie. "She's a lady at any point o' sail, almost."
"Mister Lyle?" Lewrie asked the Sailing Master. "D'ye think we could free the last reef line of the t'gallants? Or does your experience with the weather in the North Sea suggest against it?"
" 'Tis a fine morning, sir, and no hint of storm," Mr. Lyle replied, looking as if he relished speed as well, after a long spell in harbour. "I see no problem with such."
"Full t'gallants, Mister Ballard," Lewrie ordered, strolling to the starboard bulwarks to take hold of the after-most mizen mast stays and the cap-rail of the bulwark with mittened hands. With the winds almost right up the stern, there was no windward side, at present, to be reserved for him alone. He leaned far out to look forward, beaming a foolish grin of pleasure to eye Thermopylae's wake as it creamed along her hull; a great kerfuffle of white spray where her cutwater and forefoot sliced ocean, a churning, white-foamy waterfall curving back and upwards in a slight swell from the bows to almost amidships, where it sloughed downwards to bare a glittering peek at her coppered quick-work before rising and spreading further aft, where it grew out into a broad bridal train of pale green and white that pointed astern towards the coast as straight as an arrow, so disturbed that it lingered long after the frigate had created it. The ship thumped, thudded, and drummed as it met each oncoming roller, flinging short columns and curtains of spray as high as the anchor cat-heads and the forecastle bulwarks, misting aft in a shivery, cold rain that dappled the quarterdeck like the first, fat drops of a storm.
And it was glorious!
Eight Bells chimed from the forecastle belfry in four twin tings to end the Morning Watch and begin the Forenoon. Almost in unison to the last double-ding, Midshipman Privette's last cast of the log, and his last official act of his watch, was to call out "Nine and a quarter knots, sir! Nine and a quarter!"
"We'll reef t'gallants, should the wind come fresher, Mister Ballard," Lewrie called out over the loud bustle of the sea, and the sounds of creaking masts, timbers, and the groan of standing rigging. "But… does it ease, we'll go 'all to the royals'!"
"Very good, sir," Lt. Ballard soberly answered, though Lewrie's last thought seemed to please the officers and hands who manned the quarterdeck. They had a captain who was willing to press if weather allowed, and let their frigate, of which they were justifiably proud, run like a thoroughbred.
"Who's the lucky devil who'll stay here and freeze?" Lewrie asked with a merry smile on his face, and tongue in his cheek.
"Me, sir," Lt. Farley piped up. "I've the Forenoon."
"Stay warm, Mister Farley, God help ye," Lewrie japed. "I will be below. Is there need for a pot of coffee round Four Bells, do you send for it, t'keep the people of your watch thawed out. Practice on the guns at Two Bells, weather permitting, mind."
"Aye-aye, sir!" Lt. Farley replied, looking eager and thankful for the kind offer.
Pettus helped him shed his hat, muffler, mittens, and heavy fur coat once he'd taken one last look about the decks with an experienced (if rusty) eye, before trooping down the starboard gangway ladder to the upper deck, then aft to the great-cabins.
He found one of his passengers, Count Rybakov, still seated at the dining table, sipping tea which, in the chilly cabins, was visibly steaming. He had been up on deck, once they'd gotten the anchors up and stowed, and had made their way into the St. Nicholas Gat, standing well aft by the taffrail lanthorns and flag lockers, out of the way of working sailors, to experience the departure. His servant, Fyodor, was fussing about him with some sweet biscuits from his personal stores.
"A good beginning, Kapitan Lewrie?" Rybakov jovially enquired.
"A splendid beginning, sir… my lord," Lewrie told him as he took a seat at the other end of the table. Another cup of coffee was set before him, along with a plate of scrambled eggs speckled with bacon crumbles, diced onion, and melted cheese. With it was a piping-hot heap of shredded fried potatoes, and a goodly slice of the roast beef on which they'd dined the night before. On a separate, smaller plate lay two thick slices of buttered toast, and the jam pot was close by.
Lewrie rubbed his hands together, to warm them as much as welcome his breakfast, before spreading jam on his
bread. He took a first bite, tastebuds tingling in anticipation, and looked up at Rybakov for a second.
Dammit, this'll get tryin', Lewrie thought, feeling irked that anyone shared his table. Captains of His Majesty's warships were, by dint of authority, required to live apart from the rest of their crews and officers; inviting them in for a meal only so often, and spending the bulk of their time at sea in enforced isolation. Frankly, there were times that one could relish such isolation, and this was one of them. It was rare that Lewrie had anyone in for breakfast, and he was used to eating by himself as the ship's day began. Now, here was this interloper that Admiralty and Foreign Office had foisted off on him!
A sip of very hot coffee, a forkful of eggs, then a bite of the roast beef, sauced with a bit of potatoes, a second bite of bread, and he could almost dismiss the nobleman's presence, if he made it plain he was concentrating on his victuals, and wanted to be left in peace.
"I was just thinking, Kapitan Lewrie…," Rybakov began to say.
Burn in Hell! Lewrie silently fumed.
"I am hungry," Count Levotchkin complained, emerging at last from his sleeping space, and stumbling towards the table. He looked like Death's Head on a Mop-Stick, and his elegant clothing was rumpled.
"Bonjour, cher cousin," Count Rybakov cheerily greeted him, reverting to a Russian aristocrat's preferred French.
"You ate without me?" Levotchkin petulantly groused as he reeled into a chair with a dizzy thump. "We are moving? At sea? Damn. You, boy," he said, snapping fingers at Pettus. "I will have what the Kapitan is having. First, fetch me tea."
Pettus got a squinty, clench-mouthed look, and Lewrie, recalling why he'd been sacked by his last employers, worried that the tea might end in Levotchkin's hair. He gave Pettus a warning look.
"You rose late, Anatoli," Rybakov gently chid him. "Yes, we are at sea… on our way, at last. You slept through it? Amazing."
"I'll send word to the galley," Lewrie offered, "though, I fear there'll be a delay, if the galley fires've been curbed. And you'll have to supply my cook with the makings. Whitsell, run tell Nettles he's another breakfast to prepare, and the goods are on the way."
The Baltic Gambit l-15 Page 25
