He's grown a lot since last I saw him, Lewrie thought, remembering the hen-headed, utterly landlubberly callow young cully who had stumbled over every ring bolt and coiled line, who, after one taste of adventure and mayhem ashore in pursuit of that French counterpart to Twigg-Gillaume Choundas-and their escape from the utter rout of the Austrian army, had been gulled into taking a more active part for King and Country than scribbling in ledgers and account books, to take employment, and training, under Twigg's, and Jemmy Peel's, arcane tutelage.
"Though, Mister Mountjoy, the presence of a British frigate to recall our ambassadors before the shootin' starts'd make 'em scramble t'snap us up," Lewrie cynically pointed out.
"Well, that would be an act outside the diplomatic niceties, sir," Mountjoy took delight in countering quickly, "as beyond the pale of conduct between civilised nations as would our arrest and imprisonment of their embassies and legations. It just isn't done, sir.
"Besides," Mountjoy continued, legs now crossed in clubman fashion, one ankle resting on the other knee, with Chalky up in his lap, and his cup and saucer balanced on the bent knee, as serene as a man taking high tea with his doting mother. "With the navies of the Armed Neutrality iced up in port, the odds of encountering any of their ships already brought out of ordinary, manned, and got to sea… perhaps by chopping open channels through a mile of three-foot-thick ice… are rather low, sir," he said with a charming grin. "Why, it'd take thousands of workers to get one ship out. A task better suited to the Egyptians piling up the Pyramids… or the Chinese erecting, well… whatever it was the Chinese built, with a round million coolies, what?"
"There is that." Lewrie cautiously allowed him the point, loath though he was to admit it. Thermopylae might run a greater risk from punching her hull open on a stray floe or berg, of foundering on some badly charted shoal or small island… of which the Baltic boasted an appalling plenty. Ice, once the sun rose, just naturally created fog, like London spewed coal smoke. "Slow as the fleet for the Baltic is gatherin', it might be different in a few weeks, but do we sail today, or before the end of the week…," he mused, shrugging. "Oh!
"That's the straightforward, naval mission, Mister Mountjoy," Lewrie said, once the other shoe figuratively dropped. "Go in, scout, then sail back out and meet Parker and Nelson somewhere in the Skagerrak, or the Kattegat, and report what we've seen. But ye said there is a diplomatic side to my orders? Are there letters to be delivered to foreign capitals?"
"Not… letters, sir, exactly," Mountjoy said, going all cutty-eyed and putting Lewrie back on his guard in a trice. "At least, not letters from Foreign Office that you will personally deliver, no. We have entrusted the plan for a possible peaceful solution to people who possess more influence with the Tsar and his court than our ambassador, John Proby, Lord Carysfort, at the moment. Well, actually…," Mister Mountjoy went on, squirming in a way that just naturally forced Lewrie to cross his own legs to protect his "nutmegs" against an imaginary boot.
"At this moment, His Majesty's Government does not have an ambassador resident in Saint Petersburg," Mountjoy confessed. "Lord Carysfort is our ambassador to Berlin, and the Russians, but… he's used to dealing with the Russians, even at long distance, by post."
"I'm to pick up Lord Carysfort and take him to Russia?" Lewrie asked. "Save him a long troika ride through the snow, is it? Spare him from the packs of wolves?" he added, the sarcasm in full flow.
"Ah, no sir. You are to embark a pair of eminent Russian nobles, who are to deliver His Majesty's offer for a peaceful solution to the Tsar themselves," Mountjoy explained. "Tsar Paul's recent affection for Napoleon, and France, his eager acceptance of support for his spurious claim to the island of Malta, and his acceptance of the title of Commander of the Knights of Saint John… a Catholic honour awarded by a very small, heretical batch of courtiers… well, it goes against the grain for nobles steeped in the Russian Orthodox Church, sir. And what France, and Bonaparte, stand for… Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality… are anathema to the structure of Russian society, sure to cause bloody revolution, the overthrow of aristocratic authority, rebellion of their millions of serfs nationwide, perhaps a wholesale slaughter of the rich, landed, and titled as vicious as the French Revolution, and The Terror which it engendered. There is great concern that the Tsar's recent capricious actions, and the Armed Neutrality, might present the Russian Empire with war on two fronts, and with our Navy allied with the Ottoman Turks in the Black Sea, they might lose all their conquests of the last hundred years, entire, sir. There is the possibility that, should the unofficial embassy you carry to Russia succeed in contacting key members of the Court, and swaying them to stand up to the Tsar…"
"But the Tsar is daft, Mister Mountjoy," Lewrie took great glee in quickly pointing out, "as mad as a hatter… as a March Hare! And anyone who gainsays him'd have t'be even crazier than he is. Or, have a desire t'have his head chopped off. I can't see anyone sane opposing the Tsar. Might as well insult a Genghis Khan with a toothache or a bad breakfast, and 'whop' goes your head."
"Well, it may be slim odds, sir, but there's always the hope," Mountjoy said, "and if the mission fails, then at least we tried. Lord Hawkesbury, our new Foreign Secretary, has determined that the avoidance of a costly new war in addition to the present one against France, is best in the long run."
"Hmm," Lewrie mused, puzzling that one out. Toulon climbed into his lap and kneaded for "pets," which Lewrie gave, distractedly. "The only snag, Mister Mountjoy, is, is the ice so thick that the Russians can't yet get out, how the Devil am I to get in with my passengers?"
"If Saint Petersburg, Kronstadt, Reval, or any major ports are unavailable, it is my understanding that any small fishing port will do, sir," Mountjoy told him. "Sleds could be summoned over the ice if even the small harbours are unreachable, and the embassy may proceed by land. Anyplace will suit, just so long as they are landed as close to Saint Petersburg as possible."
"And you'll be going along on this neck-or-nothing jaunt, Mister Mountjoy?" Lewrie asked. "To speed 'em on their way?"
"In point of fact, no, sir," Mountjoy answered, close to squirming again. "The presence of a British subject in company with the embassy would poison its chances of success, immediately," he was quick to explain, and for a second Lewrie could almost (but not quite) take that as believable. Yet…
"You'll sail with us, 'til landfall, at least, won't you?" he skeptically enquired.
"Sorry, sir," Mountjoy said with a stab at a dis-arming smile and a hapless shrug of disappointment to be missing a grand adventure. "I was instructed to escort them down from London, explain the matter to you, then return. Deliver them into your capable hands, then dash back to my superiors."
"Oh Christ," Lewrie gawped. "I smell a rat, Mountjoy. A great big, toothy, Twigg-scented rat."
"Rather… 'something rotten in Denmark,' sir? To quote the Bard," Mountjoy breezily replied, attempting a chuckle. "No, Mister Twigg, as I said, was consulted in this matter, only to the extent of advising Lord Hawkesbury as to who might best be approached in Saint Petersburg, and, who might best serve as the emissaries. Frankly, I'd he delighted to go along, sir. Working for our particular branch of the Foreign Office is not quite as exciting as Mister Peel made it out to be, when first he and Mister Twigg recruited me. I spend the most of my time office-bound in London, with only the occasional adventure."