Mr. Mountjoy entered the great-cabins, sidling past two sailors lugging yet another bloody-great leather round-topped trunk, and made his bows to the nobles, before leaning down to Lewrie.
"It would seem that Lieutenant Ricks will not be available, sir."
"Why not, Mister Mountjoy?" Lewrie said with a frown.
"He, ah… was taken up for debts the morning our party left London, sir," Mountjoy mournfully said, "and is now most-like held in the Fleet prison 'til he's repaid his creditors."
"Well, damme," Lewrie groused. "Can't Admiralty pay 'em for him, so he's available?"
"They are his personal debts, sir," Mountjoy explained, "and not any sums he might have run up in active British commission. Recall, he was on half-pay to Admiralty, the last three years, and was in Russian service 'til late last Autumn, so…"
"And, I s'pose there's no one else available?" Lewrie asked, and answered his own question. "No, of course there isn't… not in time t'do us any good. Might take a week t'whistle up another'un, and he'll take the best part of the next week t'come join us here in Yarmouth."
"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.