"Keep the ship's rats in check," Mr. Lyle dourly allowed.
"Then what'd the Midshipmen eat?" Lewrie japed, rolling Chalky over to give him belly rubs, and engage in a contest to see which was faster, his hand, or sharp little teeth and half-sheathed claws.
Crash! went something made of glass from aft of the great-cabin.
"Droogoy shampanska-yeh, Sasha!" Count Levotchkin demanded. "Ya hachoo bolsheh. Davai, Sasha, davai!"*
"Christ," Lewrie swore under his breath. "By my reckonin', it's his third bottle since breakfast. Must live on champagne." Of a certainty, the number of crates scattered round the cabins had diminished noticeably since departing Yarmouth Roads, most of them filled with an assortment of bottles, from sherry to schnapps to vodka.
"Another for Mister Eades's Marines for target practice, sir," Mr. Lyle said with distaste. "And the wood's welcome in the galley." Lt. Eades had snapped up any bottle he could find, from their guests and the gun-room, to hang at the end of the tops'l yardarms, and let his Marines try their eye at them with single shots, not volleys, at practice at small arms. Even with a smooth-bore Short Navy Pattern Tower musket, Lt. Eades had proved himself to be a fine shot, and expected every one of his Marines to be, as well. Or else.
"It's been my experience, sir, that Russians have a grand capacity for spirits," Capt. Hardcastle said, intent upon the pleasant chore of stroking Toulon, the bigger black-and-white tom, who was now purring loud enough to beat the band, and squirming in utter delight.
"It keeps 'em warm in winter, I'd imagine," Lewrie jested.
"Or, too addled to notice the cold," Mr. Lyle added, smirking.
"That young Count's man, that Sasha?" Capt. Hardcastle said. "I seen his sort before. A real Russian peasant… the sort who boasts he never buttons his coat to the throat, no matter how cold it gets. And, like all of 'em, meaner than a den full of bears when in drink. A run ashore in Russia during the trading season is done warily, Captain Lewrie, and polite smiles to one and all, else some raging drunk takes umbrage, and rips your liver out."
"Don't imagine we'll have that pleasure, this voyage," Lewrie said back, putting the box of navigation instruments away. "Hark. I think Lieutenant Eades is already at practice."
Sure enough, overhead on the quarterdeck, came a ragged volley; fired from the taffrails at something tossed overboard and bobbing in the frigate's wake, by the sound of it. "Second rank, level!" Eades cried, and they could hear the shuffling of booted feet as the front rank of ten fell back to re-load and re-prime, whilst the second rank of ten stepped forward to take aim. "Second rank… fire! Dammit!"
If their Russian guests' private quarters did not take up most of the after portions of the great-cabins, Lewrie might have been tempted to dash to the transom sash-windows to see how they were doing… evidently none too well by the exasperation in Lt. Eades's voice.
"Let's go on deck and watch the show," Lewrie suggested.
"Third rank, present… level… and don't shoot like you've emptied the bottle first… ready… fire!" Eades was snapping. Ten Brown Bess muskets barked, and a flurry of small waterspouts erupted within a couple of feet of the empty bottle, now slowly bobbing further astern, almost out of accurate range of a musket, which even on solid ground ashore could not attain much more surety of shot than fifty or sixty yards. "Damn!" Lt. Eades spat again, brought up his own musket, took quick aim, and fired. The dog's jaws holding the flint snapped against the frizzen's raspy surface, the powder in the priming pan went Pop! and, an eyeblink later, the fire in the pan transmitted down the tiny hole to the barrel, where the main charge exploded with a louder Bang! Eades's lead ball plunked only inches to the right of the empty bottle. "Damn!" he muttered in frustration, though that sort of accuracy from a moving ship at a moving target so small would have allowed Lt. Eades to hit an enemy anywhere he wished, in chest, bowels, or the head, in "musket shot" range between ships.
"There'll be another bottle coming, Mister Eades," Lewrie drolly assured him. "Courtesy of our Russian gentlemen. Damned close shootin', by the by."
"Thankee, sir, though I should've made allowance for the wind," Lt. Eades said, pulling his lowered musket to half-cock to re-load for himself.
"Captain, sir?" Midshipman Tillyard said, doffing his hat as he approached them at the taffrails. "Mister Fox's duty, and he asks, may Count Rybakov come to the quarterdeck, sir?"
Lewrie turned to look forrud, and spotted the elegantly, warmly dressed Count Rybakov just peeking over the deck edge, a few steps up the larboard gangway ladder, with an expectant smile on his face, brows up in query… and a long firearm slung over one shoulder.
"My compliments to Mister Fox, and aye, Count Rybakov may mount the quarterdeck," Lewrie told him.
"Good morning, Kapitan Lewrie," Count Rybakov cheerfully said as he reached them, right-aft. "I hear the shooting, and I cannot resist the wish to practice. I may be allowed?"
"But of course, my lord," Lewrie agreed. "Lieutenant Eades is exercising his men, ten at a time, so I hope you don't mind firing as they re-load, 'tween volleys."
"Ah, but I must re-load myself, Kapitan… at leisure, for I am not drilled to speed, as are your Marines," Rybakov graciously admitted, "and my rifled piece takes more time. I would be delighted to observe the slight delay, ah ha!"
Lewrie and Eades marvelled over the rifled weapon that Rybakov took down from his shoulder, and let them paw over. It was based upon a German jaeger hunting rifle, though made by one of the most skilled gunsmiths in Paris. The barrel was a highly polished blue octagon of almost four feet length, with gilt inlays and a gold bead for aiming. The barrel bands, the ramrod, and the lock plate, the pan, frizzen, and dog's jaws were bright steel, also elaborately engraved and inlaid with gold, and all was set into a stock of highly polished and glossy burlwood, with a steel patch-box built into the right-hand side of the butt.
"A most handsome piece of work, sir," Lt. Eades said in awe, and with a hint of severe envy. "What calibre, may I ask?"
"Sixty-nine calibre, the same as a French musket," the merry count replied, beaming with pride of ownership. "Sadly, most of my hunting at home in Russia does not involve a rifle, except for bears. Wild boar is our main quarry, and that is done on horseback, with the lance. With the sword for the coup de grвce… and a pair of large pistols, does the boar un-horse me, ha ha! There are not as many of the great stags as there were before, in my youth, and with them I must use the rifled hunter."
"French-made, you say, sir?" Eades asked. "One hopes that they do not become enamoured of rifled weapons for general issue to their armies."
"There's not an army in the world can afford them," Lewrie said. "Slow to load, as the good Count says, might mean only one volley per minute, and, to rifle an hundred thousand barrels would make them too expensive, and slow their delivery to the troops in the field. Think of my own breech-loading Ferguson rifle-musket…"
"You have one, sir?" Lt. Eades openly gawped in wonder. "Why, I doubt there were a thousand ever made!"
"My late father-in-law in North Carolina, and Major Patrick Ferguson, were acquaintances, and Mr. Chiswick bought enough to equip a regiment… more like a half-battalion, really… of North Carolina Loyalist Volunteers. I got mine at Yorktown, during the siege," he told them.
"You have it here, aboard ship, sir?" Eades asked, in lust.
"Aye, I do," Lewrie said. "Mister Tillyard?" he called to the senior Midshipman of the Watch. "Pass word for my Cox'n, Desmond, for him to fetch up my Ferguson rifle, and all the necessaries. In the meantime, though, Lieutenant Eades… Count… do continue with target practice. I'll jump in when Desmond brings mine up."
Over the taffrails went another empty bottle of champagne, most-like Count Levotchkin's latest "dead soldier," along with a wee barrel not much larger than a mop-bucket, now drained of an ordinary wine.
"First rank… level," Lt. Eades ordered as the targets bobbed astern, to about thirty yards. "Take aim… fire! Much better!" he congratulat
ed, as the small barrel was bracketed by balls, and set to spinning by two actual hits.
"Ahem," Count Rybakov announced as he raised his jaeger to his shoulder, took careful aim, and squeezed the surely-light trigger. A split second later, the flash in the pan, and the explosion of the powder charge went Pop-Bang almost together, and the wood barrel leaped as it was hit, one narrow stave driven completely in.
"Huzzah!" the Marines and onlookers could not help exclaiming at the old fellow's accuracy.
"Oh, it is no great thing," Rybakov modestly said as he lowered the rifle, and drew the lock back to half-cock. "At fourty yards, that is still an easy shot. Now, when the little barrel is further away… that is the challenge, n'est-ce pas? Not so?"
"Yer rifle an things, sor," Desmond announced, as the second rank of Marines tried their eye at the receding barrel.
"Carry on, Mister Eades," Lewrie urged, wishing them to continue whilst the bottle and barrel were still within range, and not waste any precious time gawking over his Ferguson. Lewrie pulled the lock back to half-cock and tore the top fold-over flap of a paper cartridge with his teeth, to sprinkle a small amount into the pan. One turn round went the trigger guard and hand-grip, rotating the large screw below the end of the barrel, into which he crammed the paper cartouche, the ball-end first. Another single turn to raise the screw upwards, and the barrel was sealed and ready for firing.
The second rank of Marines had fired at the barrel, now bobbing and rocking about sixty yards astern. Lewrie brought the Ferguson up to his cheek, pulled the lock to full-cock, took aim, drew one breath and slowly let it out, then gently squeezed the trigger, hoping for the best, in point of fact, for it had been months since he had fired a single shot at practice, and nigh a year since he had even thought of using the Ferguson. Pop!-Bang! and his shot was in the wind.
"Good'un, sir!" Eades enthused, for Lewrie had clipped the barrel right on the top, raising a tiny cloud of wood splinters.
Encouraged, and in a mood to show off, Lewrie went through the loading process again, showing how a breech-loader could get off at least three or four rounds a minute. Within fifteen seconds, his second shot went off, with the barrel over seventy-five yards astern this time. And he hit it again!
"Pardon!" Count Rybakov cried, stepping up to the taffrails for a shot of his own almost at once, and clipping the barrel's lid, driving a large, visible hole in the thin slab of wood. "Ah ha!"
"We're forgettin' the bottle, sir," Lewrie said, rapidly loading for a third shot. "It's what… an hundred yards, by now?"
"One of your guineas, Kapitan?" Rybakov teased, going red in the face as he primed his pan, poured powder down the barrel, and set a lead ball atop a paper-thin oiled leather patch at the muzzle of his jaeger, and strained to drive it down to rest against the powder.
Why the Devil not? Lewrie asked himself, ready to fire again; I can afford a little flutter. And plead Navy-pay poverty, if he's as good as I think he is.
"A guinea, d'ye say, my lord? Done, and done," Lewrie replied with a grin and a shrug. "First honours to you, when you're ready."
"Ha!" Count Rybakov laughed with glee for his wager to be accepted, as he stepped to the taffrails and brought his jaeger rifle up to his shoulder once more. "Over one hundred yards, now, so…" Count Rybakov seemed to mutter cautions to himself in French, taking his own sweet time before barely touching that over-sensitive trigger.
Pop!-Bang! and a tiny feather of spray arose, barely a foot or so short of the champagne bottle, grazing over the neck, and clipping the mouth of the bottle off!
"My stars, sir, what a shot!" Lt. Eades whooped.
"Your turn, Kapitan," Rybakov said, quite pleased with himself, and his moment of adulation.
"Well, all right then," Lewrie said, frowning in concentration as he stepped to the taffrails and took aim. Rybakov's shot had set the bottle rocking like a lunatic duck, and it was nigh 150 yards astern, by then. He held a touch high, loosening his knees, to spring with the motion of the ship and absorb all the uncertainties in his lower body. Here goes my guinea he told himself, firing at last.
"Dead on, my word!" Lt. Eades shouted. "Shot the neck, not the body, clean off, sir!"
"Well, I was aimin' for the biggest part," Lewrie said in seeming modesty, though secretly amazed that he'd hit it at all.
"Another bottle, my lord?" Lewrie asked the Count.
"No, Kapitan Lewrie!" Rybakov guffawed. "I cede the field to a sharper eye than mine," he said, digging into a waist-coat pocket for a coin, and handing over a golden guinea. "Did we continue, I imagine you would end up winning even my jaeger rifle, when I am reduced to a sad state of poverty! Urrah!" he cried, taking Lewrie in a bear hug and dancing him round the deck.
"Another bottle, da!" someone snarled. "I have it here. Will you match shots with me, Angliski Kapitan?" Count Levotchkin had come on deck, had mounted to the quarterdeck despite Lt. Fox's cautions to not do so without permission, and had shoulder-bludgeoned his way past the after-guard and the rear ranks of Marines. Instead of a rifle, he held a bottle of champagne in each hand, and his man, Sasha, behind him carried two polished wood boxes of pistols.
"Empty, are they?" Lewrie asked with one brow up in mockery.
"Does not matter," Lovotchkin snapped, swaying more than necessary to the motion of the ship. One bottle was open, and he raised it to his lips to drink from the neck.
"No one ever drinks spirits on deck, my lord," Lewrie told him with sterness. "And most especially never in front of the crew, when they're limited to their rum rations at set times. Count Rybakov, do oblige me to inform your compatriot that he is violating the discipline of my ship, and should take himself, and his champagne, below at once."
Whatever Count Rybakov urgently, angrily, said to his younger relative mattered no more than water to a duck's back, for Levotchkin just sneered, swayed, and took another deep drink. "Pistol, Sasha!" he demanded, reaching behind his back without looking. His manservant handed him a sleek duelling pistol, taking the off-hand champagne bottle in exchange, so Levotchkin could cock it with the back of his wrist, then throw the bottle from which he'd drunk high into the air. With a feral cry, the young Count rushed to the taffrails, shoving people out of his way, frankly making everyone scamper to avoid the cocked pistol which he handled so breezily and dangerously. He looked astern, then took a duellist's stance, feet wide apart, one hand on his hip, body turned sideways to make the slimmest target for an opponent, and fired. The bottle, about twenty yards astern, was hit, of course, and Count Levotchkin turned to look at Lewrie with triumph on his face, cruelly smiling, To make his drunken point, he raised the empty pistol to his mouth and blew across the muzzle, then pointed it directly at Lewrie, and barked "Pom!" to imitate the bark of a pistol.
"Now see here, you!" Lt. Eades shouted. "Put him in irons, sir? Threaten our Captain, will you?"
"A bottle, Sasha," Lewrie said, raising a hand to still the ire of his crew. "And a pistol." He looked at the brute, who glared back 'neath heavy, beetled brows, snorting at the effrontery. Sasha looked to his master, matching Levotchkin's top-lofty sneer.
"Seechas, yob tvoyemat!" Lewrie barked in a fair approximation of Eudoxia's father; "Now, fuck your mother!" he added in English so everyone would know what he'd said in poor Russian.
Lewrie jerked his gaze from Sasha to Levotchkin, savouring the looks of utter surprise on their faces. The manservant looked again to his master for instruction; the Count shrugged and nodded, sure of himself… or, too drunk to care. With a growl of displeasure, the servant opened the box and handed Lewrie the mate to Levotchkin's pistol. It, too, was French, Lewrie took note as he quickly examined it; long-barreled and slim, and worth a fortune in its own right. The mouth of the barrel revealed the crisp-cut rifling. Lewrie drew the lock back to half-cock, freed the frizzen and pan cover, and saw that it was already primed. "You keep loaded weapons in my cabins, sir?" he asked in a voice loud enough to carry to every curious ear, from officer to cabin boy. "T
hat is something else I will not tolerate from a guest, Count Levotchkin. Hear me plain, do ye, sir?" he demanded. That was met by yet another sneer. "Bottle, if you please," he said to Sasha. "No, don't hand it to me… toss it high and hard as you can. Understand? Ponyimayu?"
And for God's sake, don't fuck this up, Lewrie chid himself as the brute drew his arm back. He'd always been a better-than-average wing-shot, and when up the Mississippi to spy out Spanish New Orleans, he'd reaped his share of wild ducks with a musket; had even tried his eye at potting turtles resting on logs on the banks, and shooting off-hand at thrown bottles with that trading fellow with the Panton, Leslie and Company.
"Throw it!" Lewrie snapped. Sasha gave a great heave worthy of a weighted messenger line or a grapnel 'tween ships. The bottle soared aloft and astern, tumbling end-for-end. Lewrie raised his pistol and took aim, leading it as it fell, and…
Pa-Bang! as the pistol bucked in his hand, and the ball hit the bottle, shattering it ten feet above the ship's wake, and at least ten to twelve yards astern. And just thankee Jesus! Lewrie thought as the ship erupted in cheers; So long as I don't have t'do that twice in the same day… or year!
He brought the pistol to his face, blew across the muzzle, and smiled at Count Levotchkin, who had gone about cross-eyed in disappointment, then opened the pan and blew the last smoke and soot out of it, as well. Lewrie cocked one brow, then tossed the emptied pistol to the stunned young nobleman, who all but lost it overside before snagging a finger in the trigger guard.
"Lieutenant Eades… I'll thankee to discharge the rest of his pistols for me," Lewrie said, turning to his Marine officer. "And I must request, Count Rybakov, that any other firearms in my great-cabins are to be unloaded and locked away, my lord? I'd dislike for an accident to occur."
"But of course, Kapitan Lewrie," Count Rybakov gravely replied, taking a second to glare at his drunken young relation. "You have my utmost assurance that it will be done."
"Well, then," Lewrie said, clapping his hands together, "that'll do me for the day. Carry on with small arms practice, Mister Eades."
The Baltic Gambit l-15 Page 27
