"Cold, that's the bugabear, Lewrie," Twigg said in a petulant, business-like rasp. "Enough cold to keep the Danes', Swedes', and Russian fleets laid up in-ordinary, and unable to sail. The Thames here in London is already thawing below London Bridge, and the rest of the river is open to shipping. The passages into the Baltic are free of ice, and time is of the essence."
He promisin' me a command? Lewrie thought with spurred hope, of a sudden; That'd be of great int'rest t'me, like he wrote!
"I've met some other officers who know some who've served in the Russian Navy, sir," Lewrie told him. "Frankly, they don't sound so formidable… conscript crews, and all, and limited sailing seasons in which t'work their people up to competence. In the Baltic, at least."
"Quite true, yet… with the Russians combined with the Danes… as doughty fighters as the Dutch, and the Swedes with a very competent navy, things could get rather dicey, should they put to sea together. Their numbers would be daunting."
"So were the Spanish at Cape Saint Vincent," Lewrie scoffed. "I think 'Old Jarvy,' and Nelson, put paid to them, despite their numbers."
"You know that Bonaparte is behind all this," Twigg said with a sniff and a thin-lipped look of asperity.
"Anything to take pressure off France, and force us to squander our own advantages far afield, aye," Lewrie contentedly answered as he was handed a crystal snifter half full of amber bourbon, as Twigg got his own snifter of brandy from a silver tray. Both took a moment to swirl their drinks, study the "legs" of evaporating alcohol which resulted, and sniffed deep, as over a fine wine. Only after their first sips did Twigg continue.
"It's rather more devious than that, Lewrie," Twigg pointed out. "Does this so-called Armed Neutrality no longer recognise our right to stop and search their ships for contraband or materials of war, denying the existence of a blockade unless there is a Royal Navy warship off every bloody little piss-pot of a port, and limiting their concept of contraband to weapons, shot, and powder, Napoleon gets everything that he needs but cannon, round-shot, and powder with which to rebuild his own navy, and equip an even larger army, to the detriment of every nation in Europe… including us. Do but consider all that is exported from the Baltic, Lewrie… ''
Oh God, he's lecturin' his worst student! Lewrie thought with a silent groan; Hark t'this, stupid!… have ye the wits t'do so!
"Flax, and woven linen for sails," Twigg counted off with the fingers of his free hand, pontificating, as was his wont. "Pine timber for masts and spars, tar, pitch, rosin, and turpentine with which to maintain ships, not to mention fibres for ropes and cables."
Ye did mention it, didn't ye, Lewrie scoffed to himself.
"As well as the raw materials for gunpowder manufacture," Twigg said on, almost running out of fingers by then, "and the wool for uniforms, the leather from Russia's vast herds of cattle for boots, shoes, saddles, and harness, and soldiers' accoutrement pouches and belts… ''
"Swedish iron ore, aye," Lewrie stuck in, hoping to trump him on one item, at least; or, hustle him along to his main point.
"Em?" Twigg said, looking puzzled, for a rare once, and peering at Lewrie like he would at a talking cat. "Iron ore, yes. I must allow I had not thought of that, harumph."
Well, damme! Lewrie chortled in silence.
"All good reasons to squash this pestiferous League of the North as soon as possible," Twigg added, after another sip of his brandy.
"West to east, sir," Lewrie said, smiling, and crossing his legs with ankle upon knee. "The ice melts at Copenhagen first, and Karlskrona in Sweden, second. The Russian ports of Reval and Kronstadt thaw last, so… we should engage them in like order, as I'm sure that Admiral Nelson has already considered."
"You impress me, Lewrie," Twigg said in genuine wonder (or what passed for it, at least). "It would seem that you have not squandered your free time ashore in idle pleasures… not completely, hmm? You are, quite implausibly, still alive, despite running into the lovely Durschenko mort… her well-armed and tetchy father, more to the point."
"She seems t'be as well informed of my daily whereabouts as you seem t'be, Mister Twigg," Lewrie answered, shifting uneasily, changing one leg to cross for another. "She knows I'm married, since Cape Town, and went nose-high and disdainful of me for it, yet…" He shrugged.
"And the equally entrancing Widow Theoni Kavares Connor, she of the currant trade fortune," Twigg drawled with a simper. "Oh, yayss."
He took a deep sip of brandy, smiling, and, for such an imperious fellow, almost mellowing to a soft chuckle of amusement. "I'm told that she, rather uncannily, is present wherever you go, as well, Lewrie."
"As good an intelligence service as yours, I expect," Lewrie said, rather morosely, and took time to sip his drink.
"And, upon that head, I have news which shall astound you," Mr. Twigg mysteriously imparted in a harsh whisper, leaning closer. "Ah! Hudgins, my dear fellow… is our table ready?"
"It is, Mister Twigg," the dignified major-domo assured Twigg. "The one you requested, in the alcoves, for privacy. You gentlemen are ready to dine?"
"Yes, let us repair to our dinner," Twigg decided, rising with the sudden, leggy spring a very large and lean grasshopper might flex. "I would have requested you dine me in at the Madeira Club, Lewrie… though I doubt you would wish my discovery revealed on your home ground. Good as the kitchen is at the Madeira, as excellent as are its wine cellars, still… it has become a rather dull establishment."
A-bloody-men! Lewrie thought.
"Oh, good enough when first started," Twigg allowed, "when the squirearchy down to London were its principal lodgers-but Good God!-now it is all Trade and all these 'new-men,' those self-made fellows in God knows what enterprises… and rigourously humourless, to boot! Such a commercial and grasping yet suddenly respectable lot."
"Good for cleanin' up my father's odour in London Society, his partnering with Sir Malcolm Shockley, in it," Lewrie commented.
"And yours, for lodging there," Twigg could not help remarking.
Ouch, and ow, Lewrie could only complain in silence.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Twigg, like all know-it-alls who held information that one must know, or dearly wished to know, maddeningly kept his secrets through their repast; though Lewrie thought it a hellish-good repast, and well worth the wait. The sliding doors to their private alcove room swept open to reveal yet another splendid course; a chicken soup laced with tangy tarragon, followed by roast squabs with green beans in lieu of a springtime asparagus, though dressed with a cheesy Hollandaise sauce. A bottle of pinot gris came with the first two courses, and remained just long enough to accompany the mid-meal salad of hot-house brussel sprouts and lettuce with a drippy-bacon dressing. Then came the main entrйe, the sliced prime rib of beef with peas and frittered potatoes, all sloshed down with a fresh bottle (or two) of claret, and thickly sliced slabs of bread, buttered and toasted with garlic. White bread, and the recent law bedamned.
Apple pie, a sauterne in counterpoint, then port, cheese, and sweet biscuits followed all that, and a silver pot of coffee was put upon the small sideboard to await their pleasure.
"Now, to the matter at hand," Mr. Twigg said at last, as those doors were swept shut at his gestured command, making Lewrie thank a Merciful God that the trivial chattering, entertaining as it had been, was over. "Your anonymous tormentor, Captain Lewrie… your wife's tormentor, rather… my 'Irregulars' have smoaked out the identity of the author of those scurrilous letters."
"Who is it?" Lewrie demanded, perking up.
"When you delivered to me two letters at your ward's marriage in Portsmouth last year, or was it at my town home here in London? No matter the exact location, recall I did remark that the author of them was obviously a person of some means, possessed of a good, copper-plate hand, and the purse with which to purchase very fine, heavy bond paper."