"We shorten the trip, Kapitan," Count Rybakov assured him with an easy, wry grin. "After all, there are many peasants there, and for twenty kopeks each… perhaps five pence in your money… they will chop and saw a way for your boats to ice which will bear the weight. It is winter! They have nothing better to do. Fyodor has more than enough coin to arrange this, I saw to it."
Indeed, after a long palaver, perhaps a harangue from Fyodor, villagers came flooding off the shore, down the stairs to the landing stages, with axes and saws, and came out to the edge of the ice where the gig waited to begin their labours. Ashore, three sledges emerged from the stables on their runners, and horses were put into harness to pull them.
"Let's get the launch and cutter under way, Mister Ballard," Lewrie ordered. "Pass word for the gig to return, and stand ready to bear our passengers ashore, once the sleds are loaded. And warn the lookouts aloft to keep their eyes peeled for any sight of infantry or cavalry on the road."
Sestroretsk might look isolated and without a garrison of its own, but it was damned close to St. Petersburg, and God only knew how many regiments. It was surrounded by scrubby, winter-fallow fields, and a massive swath of pine forest, in which a brigade could lurk.
The serf labourers made quick work of cutting an inlet through the ice sheet, wide enough for a royal barge, and about thirty yards or so deep. Their breath steamed in the frigid air, but they grinned and stamped their booted feet and pounded or jabbed their tools on the ice to show that it was safe. Sure enough, by the time the first boat poled its way into the tiny man-made inlet, the first sledge was there, about fifteen yards back from the new edge, and the serf labourers, in a flurry of arms and legs and strong backs, toted the cargo from boat to troika as quickly as Thermopylae's people could manhandle it out.
"Russia has so many strong backs and hands, Kapitan Lewrie," Count Rybakov told him as the last of his light luggage was fetched to the gangway and entry-port by two sailors. "Millions of them. That is why no one will ever begin a war with us. It may not be modern, nor is brute strength and numbers elegant, but… it will suffice."
"I s'pose, my lord," Lewrie pretended to agree, though thinking of what a modern army with muskets and artillery could do to medieval peasant levies, poorly trained and led. Or, what the British Navy could do to what he'd seen so far of Russia's best, at sea.
"Almost… almost," Count Levotchkin muttered to himself with rising anticipation as he joined them by the entry-port. "Pachtee vryemya, Sasha. Pachtee vryemya, da?"*
"Da," his hulking manservant grunted back.
"Side-party to assemble for departing honours, Mister Ballard," Lewrie ordered. Thermopylae was at Quarters, with at least half the guns of the larboard battery, which faced the shore, and half of the starboard battery facing the sea, manned and ready. Marines were in full kit, and under arms, and all officers but Lewrie wore swords on their left hips. "And, there's the last of the second boat's cargo on the sledges, at last!" he exulted.
"I say dosveedanya, Kapitan Lewrie," Count Rybakov said offering his bared hand for a departing shake, "That is 'good-bye.' Adieu, and may God keep His eyes upon you, and grant you and your ship a safe and swift passage back to England. It is a grand thing you do for our countries, might I even say a holy thing, to keep peace between Russia and England!"
Before Lewrie could do a thing about it, Count Rybakov clasped his arms round him, bussed him on both cheeks, and danced Lewrie about the deck, jostling him like a child, with his boots in the air!
"Well, now, my lord… uhm!" Lewrie spluttered, to the amusement of his watching crew. Rybakov at last set him back down.
"A safe journey… short though it may be to Saint Petersburg, yourself, my lord," Lewrie offered, after he'd gotten most of his dignity back, and his hat re-settled on his head.
"Well, then… it is time," Count Rybakov said in conclusion as he stepped to the lip of the entry-port and looked down at the gig waiting at the bottom of the boarding-battens, and the main channels.
"Ship's comp'ny, off hats, and… salute!" Lt. Ballard barked in his surprisingly deep, carrying voice, doffing his own cocked hat by example, as the Marines stamped their boots and presented muskets, and the Bosun, Mr. Dimmock, and his Mate, Mr. Pulley, piped a departing call. The count turned inwards, back to the sea, and seized hold of the man-ropes to begin his cautious descent. Once Rybakov's hat was below the lip of the entry-port, Count Levotchkin went to the edge and turned to face inboard as the call continued, and the crew stood to attention, doffing their flat, tarred hats.
"Dosveedanya, Kapitan," Levotchkin said, giving Lewrie a final, mocking sneer, as pleased with himself, it seemed, as a cat who lapped the cream. "Enjoy your journey," Count Levotchkin added, his blue eyes alight.
What's he mean by that? Lewrie asked himself as he stood there, doffing his own hat. (though abhoring the required honour) and caught a faint shift in Levotchkin's gaze; over his shoulder at something.
"Seechas, Sasha!" Levotchkin snapped, his face going feral just as he began a spry descent down the frigate's side.
Seechas… "now"? Now, what? Lewrie wondered as he recognised the word, feeling an odd prickle up his spine that forced him to begin to turn to look behind him.
"Bloody Hell!" Marine Lt. Eades cried, the first, loudest voice of alarm, as the Bosuns' calls squealed to a sudden stop.
Midshipman Tillyard grasped Lewrie's left arm and pulled hard, sending him stumbling towards the nearest Marine private by the entry-port, who didn't try to catch his captain, but was busy bringing his musket down from Present Arms to Poise, lowering the muzzle in rough aim behind Lewrie. It was a second Marine who caught him before he stumbled through the open entry-port, to fall overside and drown, for, like most British tars, Lewrie could not swim.
"Ya bastard!" Lt. Eades snarled, swinging with his already drawn sword, from ceremony to combat, making somebody howl.
Sasha, the shave-pated burly manservant, was grasping his hand and roaring with both sudden pain and frustration. The dagger he had whipped out of his left overcoat sleeve was falling from his grip, its hilt bloodied from his thumb, half-severed by Lt. Eades's blade.
"Murder!" someone shouted in the din.
Not done yet, Sasha let out another bull-roar and shouldered his way forward, towards Lewrie, half-knocking Midshipman Tillyard off his feet, and taking hold of the young man's half-drawn dirk with his good hand!
"Weapon!" Lewrie demanded of the Marine who'd kept him from going overboard, ripping the Brown Bess musket from the fellow's shocked and nerveless grasp. It wasn't loaded, but the bayonet was fitted.
Marine Sgt. Crick and the first private met Sasha first, with readied bayonets, Sgt. Crick getting his blade in, though Sasha's pile-lined hide coat blunted Crick's thrust. Lt. Eades slashed at his back, but the coat acted like armour. It was the Marine private who jabbed at Sasha's eyes, then reversed his musket and delivered a forehead smash that finally brought the brute down to his knees, swinging wildly with Tillyard's dirk, and still trying to rise and finish his master's orders! Lt. Eades's next slash connected alongside the Russian's bald head, clipping off the top of his right ear, followed by a brass-bound musket butt right in the teeth from Sgt. Crick that sprawled Sasha on his back, spitting teeth and blood, half senseless, so he could be dis-armed.
"Get up, you son of a bitch!" Lewrie snarled, edging round inboard of the entry-port. He lowered the musket to level the bayonet at Sasha's chest as he groggily got back to his knees, half-crawling to face Lewrie, as if only death would dissuade him. "Sasha failed, Levotchkin!" Lewrie shouted to the boat alongside. "He let you down! Are you man enough t'come back up here and do your own dirty-work? Or are ye the same drunken butt-fucker ye were in London?"
Hmmm… bet that needs some explainin', Lewrie thought, hearing the buzz of confusion among his ship's people.
"Ye just couldn't use a fetchin' whore like Tess the right way, could ye, Levotchkin?" Lewrie taunted. "Your sort likes t'terrify 'em, and make it
hurt. Make it vile! What, ye get your first practice on sheep, or pigs, Levotchkin? Ye prefer the 'windward passage'?"
In the gig below, Count Levotchkin howled in rage, cursing back in Russian, French, and English so rapidly and heatedly that only a few choicer words could be made out.
"Get on your feet, ye murderin' scum," Lewrie urged Sasha with the glittering point of the bayonet.
"Put 'im in irons, sir?" Marine Sgt. Crick asked, bristling.
"No, not yet," Lewrie said. "I've something else in mind. Hoy! Levotchkin!" he shouted overside again. "Tess told me she damned near puked her guts out, ev'ry time ye showed up at the brothel. She hated ev'rything about you! Ye frightened her. Said for all she got out of it, ye might as well've stuck your puny prick down the neck of a wine bottle, all the way cross the room from her! So disgusted by ye, she couldn't even feign it with you. Come up here and face me, ye little poltroon!"
"Oh Lord, sir, you'll not…," Lt. Ballard exclaimed, sounding primly appalled. "Not again. It isn't…"
"I said, get on your feet, you… ya idysodar charochko,"* he spat at Sasha, jerking the bayonet tip upwards.
There was another strangled cry from the gig, and a hissing argument 'twixt Rybakov and Levotchkin, along with threats from Lewrie's Cox'n, Liam Desmond, and Stroke Oar, his mate Patrick Furfy. Whether to sit where he was, or be a man and scale the ship's side to face the consequences, it was hard to tell in all the shouting.
Sasha shook his head to clear it, spitting a couple more teeth and blood, swiping his rough hide coat sleeve to clear his eyes from his freely bleeding head wound, and managed to stagger and sway to his feet, still defiant, with an arrogant, pugnacious sneer on his face, breathing heavily through his nose like a bull in a Spanish fighting arena, still game to charge the cape.
"Sir, you cannot intend to simply kill him!" Lt. Ballard protested. "It's not within our jurisdiction, not-"
"Just rid the ship of trash, Mister Ballard," Lewrie flippantly said with a shrug of his shoulders, though his eyes, usually a merry blue, had gone as grey and cold as ice. He took a step forward, with the bayonet levelled at Sasha's chest. "Not coming, Levotchkin?" he shouted. He stamped forward another pace driving Sasha backwards.
"Mister Rybakov won't let 'im, sor!" Cox'n Desmond shouted back. "We're t'hold 'im, 'fore ye kill 'im, sure, says he!"
"And so I would, were he man enough," Lewrie loudly responded. "After all, he's the one who's been talkin' so long about challengin' me to a duel… for his own putrid honour. But too much a coward to face me, direct, Had t'sic his pet dog on me, instead. Hoy, Anatoli! Tess liked bein' with me! Wanted t'be under my protection, in a wee place of her own, and never see or hear of you again!"
Lewrie stamped forward once more, jabbing with the bayonet, and making Sasha back up towards the entry-port.
"Well, if ye won't come up and pay the piper, ye spineless, backgammoning little souse, I s'pose ye won't," Lewrie shouted a final time, looking disappointed. "I'll send your brute back to ya."
Sasha understood some English, and a smattering of proper laws. The Angliski Kapitan would rid the ship of trash? That irked, but he was surrounded by levelled, bayonet-tipped muskets, and officers with drawn swords, and could only swallow his rage at being bested. Someday he would have a second chance. He sends him back to Count Anatoli, as well? Because what the other Angliski officer said, that they did not have the legal right? His shattered mouth would heal, the cut on his head would heal, to match the other scars on his body. It was good!
"Get off my ship, Sasha," Lewrie growled, jabbing the bayonet at the man's eyes, and swiping that smug look from his face at last, and putting anger and caution in its place. Lewrie forced him to the very lip of the entry-port, facing inwards as the others had done their descents. Sasha's hands groped back behind him for the edge of the opened bulwark, fumbling on the cap-rails in search of the upper knots of the man-ropes. "I said… get off my ship!"
Stamp forward with the left foot, reversing the musket to smash the brass butt plate into Sasha's broad nose, making him "spout claret" in a fresh, red stream, and go cross-eyed!
Before his hands could get a grip on the man-ropes, the stout rope stays of the main-mast shrouds, or the bulwarks, Sasha teetered on the lip of the entry-port, arms flailing backwards in circles for balance, one foot behind him hoping for something solid that was not there. He over-balanced and went over the side backwards, roaring like a bear that had lost its grip in a tall tree, and was crashing to earth through the branches. Head and shoulders down, boot heels brushing the hull, there was a meaty thud, then a great splash as Sasha hit the gig, then the icy sea.
"Yob tvoyemat!" Count Levotchkin shrieked.
"Oh, my Lord!" Lt. Eades croaked as he and many others dashed to the bulwarks to peer over. Lewrie took out his pocket handkerchief and swung the Marine's musket barrel-down. He dipped the handkerchief into a gun-tub of slushy, half-iced-over water, and thorougly cleaned Sasha's blood from the butt-plate and buttstock, then went to the Marine from who'd he'd taken it, and handed it back.
"Thankee for the loan, Private… Leggett, is it?" he said in much calmer takings, almost as casually as if he'd merely taken it to inspect it, and had found no fault.
"Uh, aye sir… Leggett, sir," the stunned Marine stammered. "Uhm… thankee fer cleanin' it, sir."
"Get him! There he is! Haul him in! Quick, there!" a babble of voices cried instructions and encouragements, to which Lewrie paid no heed as he rinsed his handkerchief in the frigid water butt. Once somewhat clean and wrung out, Lewrie looked up to see Lt. Ballard goggling at him, deeply frowning.
"What, Mister Ballard?" Lewrie asked. "The son of a bitch tried t'murder me, at his lily-livered master's orders. You've a problem with that?"
"Where might one begin, sir?" Arthur Ballard gravelled, almost too disgusted to speak, his normally placid features a'twist in a grimace, and untypical emotion in his voice; as if he gazed upon a rotting pile of entrails and offal, aswarm with fat flies. "It was murder on your part, sir, and I-"
"Arthur, he had it coming," Lewrie pointed out.
"Do not presume to… excuse me, sir," Ballard said, choking back whatever objections he had before he became openly insubordinate to a senior officer. His face turned stony, his eyes indifferent and hooded. "I'll say no more for now, Captain Lewrie," he said, turning away to return to the quarterdeck from the gangway.
"Bastard's a goner, sir," Lt. Farley came back from the bulwarks to report, with a hasty doff of his hat. "Bashed his head in when he struck the stempost of the gig, then went under. Drowned, it appears, sir. That, or the ice-cold water finished his business. Serves him right, might I say, sir. God only knows what treachery foreigners are capable of!"
"Get your dirk back, Mister Tillyard?" Lewrie enquired, looking about the deck to his saviours. "Stout lad, and quick thinkin', t'tug me out of his reach. Thankee."
"My pleasure, sir," Midshipman Tillyard said, trying to come over all modest, as befitted British heroes.
"Lieutenant Eades, sir… my commendations to Private Leggett, Sergeant Crick, and Private… him, there," Lewrie continued with his praise. "Private Degan? Aye, and your quick actions sir. Lopped off his thumb, was it?"
"Aye, sir," Lt. Eades replied, more prone to preening than Tillyard, and all but buffing his fingernails on his red coat. "Fellow was perspiring, as cold as it is. I should have twigged to that, but put it down to his efforts to carry the last of our passengers' dunnage."
"No matter, Lieutenant Eades… you did for him," Lewrie said with a grin. "Thankee. Mister Ballard?"
"Sir?" the First Officer replied from the quarterdeck, turning to face Lewrie with his hands behind his back.
"Soon as the gig's back alongside, we'll rig the boats for towing astern," Lewrie instructed. "We've spent enough time close ashore what might soon become a hostile country. Once everyone is inboard, haul us in to short stays and get the ship under way. I wish us t'be as far west of Kronstadt as possible by the
end of the First Dog."
"Very good, sir," Lt. Ballard crisply replied, as though nought had passed between them.
Lewrie went to the shoreward bulwark to watch the gig pull for the town. Count Rybakov sat sullen and slumped on a thwart, looking deeply sad. Count Levotchkin sat on another, with Sasha's soggy body resting against his shins, and could have been weeping with his failure.
Wish it'd been him, not his man, Lewrie thought, feeling that the affair twixt him and that young fool would have to be finished, sometime in the future. Without Count Rybakov around the next time, or someone else as level-headed, and there would be no stopping that arrogant shit.
Lewrie raised his gaze. It was rapidly growing dark, as it did in such high latitudes; not even Five Bells of the Day Watch, and dusk was gathering, and with it, the cold and the wind. A wind from out of the Nor'east, a flesh-freezing wind from the North Pole, it felt like. An icy wind that perfectly matched Captain Lewrie's mood.
"Well, that was an exciting hour or so," Lt. Farley muttered as he and the other officers conferred forward of the binnacle cabinet as Thermopylae sprinted Westward from the Gulf of Finland in the darkness. Lt. Farley was about to conclude his stint of watch-standing, and his good friend Lt. Fox was about to take over at the end of the Second Dog Watch. Lt. Eades was there, as well, for one of the gifts Count Rybakov had left behind was several boxes of cigars, which the Captain had passed on to the gun-room; though they couldn't smoke them below.
"Wonder who this Tess they spoke of is?" Lt. Fox said with a roll of his eyes. "A cut above your run-of-the-mill seaport doxy, I'm bound. One might say she comes highly recommended, what? A Russian aristocrat… and the Captain, hmm?"
"Is he not married, though?" Lt. Farley pointed out.
"When did that ever stop a fellow?" Lt. Fox chuckled back.
"Now you are being crude, sir," Lt. Ballard, standing with them, cautioned.
"One may only hope, Mister Ballard," the irrepressible Lt. Fox rejoined.
"To be crude, sir?" Ballard snapped.
The Baltic Gambit l-15 Page 32
