t'be int'restin'!
'… liked London Society so much that he stayed on nigh a year, sir,' Mountjoy was blathering on, cheerful as a magpie, 'after he sent his new horses on to his Russian estates. He got invited to country houses for fox-hunting and steeplechasing last Autumn. The Pytchley or the Quorn, I forget which, but he took a hedge badly during one of the 'cub-hunts' before the season started proper, and had to heal up. By then, he was back in London, just in time for the winter balls and such. Everybody likes him immensely, even the Prince of Wales. He's a lively dancer, too, especially at the contre-danses.'
'Who? Levotchkin?' Lewrie asked, taking another squint at the stiff-faced young twit clinging to the larboard stays of the barge's single mast.
'Oh no, sir, Count Rybakov!' Mountjoy corrected him. 'I don't know that much about Count Levotchkin… just met him before we took coaches here… seems a serious sort of sprog, to me, he does.'
'Well, does Rybakov dance well, I'll have the ship's band tune up, and let him try his hand at a horn-pipe,' Lewrie wryly said.
'Does Thermopylae actually have a band?' Mountjoy asked.
'No… but I've still my penny-whistle,' Lewrie told him with his tongue firmly planted in his cheek.
'Lord spare us,' Mountjoy said in a whispered sigh; echoed by Lt. Ballard, who had overheard, and had been a victim aboard Alacrity when Lewrie had first tried his hand at music. His talent had not improved appreciably when Mountjoy had been aboard HMS Jester, either.
With his servant's help, the elder noble clumsily mounted the gunn'l of the barge, trying to balance for a breath or two, using his gold-knobbed ebony walking-stick as a prop, before stepping out for the main-mast channel platform. A slight harbour scend raised up the barge just in time to make it an easy step. Rybakov was quick to seize hold of one of the thick dead-eyed main stays; as if catching his breath at his daring before essaying anything more strenuous, he looked up for the first time, glowering at the difficulty of battens and man-ropes.
'Should we have lowered a bosun's chair, d'ye think?' Mountjoy whispered. 'I know you always say it's undignified, but…'
'Might not have a clue,' Capt. Hardcastle opined. 'Might've got aboard a merchantman right off the pier, by gangway, sir.'
Lewrie stepped to the bulwarks, and leaned out the open entry-port. 'Might you require a chair-sling, sir?'
'How the Devil…?' Count Rybakov fumed back, waving one hand at the boarding battens, 'tiy idysodar charochko,' he added under his breath. 'Aah!' he spat right after, discovering that his expensively gloved right hand was sticky with tar.
'The boarding battens are like rungs on a ladder, sir,' Lewrie helpfully explained. 'The ropes strung through their outer ends, one holds onto as one ascends. Really, we can rig a sling…'
'Chort!' Count Rybakov snarled; whether he meant 'Damn' or did he intend 'Shit,' it was no matter. It was a quite useful word. He flung his walking-stick up at Lewrie, who, startled, barely managed to snag it as it twirled, else it would have gone into the waters between the hulls of the frigate and the barge, then stepped off the chain platform to the battens, took hold of the man-ropes with both hands, and made a slow way upwards; right foot up first, then he brought the left to meet it before moving up to the next batten. Once clear of the chain platform, the younger Count Levotchkin sprang up atop the gunn'l of the barge with ease, hopped across to the platform, then waited for the older man to clear the battens. He grinned, as if it was funny.
Lewrie couldn't make out what Rybakov was saying under his breath, but he could guess. Each deep exhalation sounded furious in some language. He's goin' to complain, I just know it, Lewrie thought; A stern letter to the Foreign Office, Admiralty, askin' for my head.
As the crown of Count Rybakov's stylish hat peeked above the lip of the entry-port, the Bosun and his Mate began to shrill a long duet call. Lt. Ballard cried for the crew to doff hats, and Lt. Eades barked for his Marines to bring their muskets to the Present, with loud and uniform slaps of hands on wood, and short boots stamping on oak decks.
Lewrie doffed his cocked hat with his right hand in salute, and tucked the walking-stick behind his left leg. 'Welcome aboard Thermopylae, my lord,' Lewrie said with a hopeful smile.
'Errr, Count Rybakov grumbled back, sounding very much like a pirate rolling off an angry 'Arr!' as he stripped off his thin gloves. Without caring where they went, he tossed them over his shoulder, then stuck out his right hand. For an eyeblink, Lewrie thought he wished to shake hands, but realised that Rybakov only wanted his walking-stick back.
By then, the younger noble had scampered up the battens to the deck, as the Bosun and his Mate continued their long, intricate call worthy of an Admiral being piped aboard.
'Welcome aboard His Majesty's Ship Thermopylae, my lord,' Lewrie repeated for him, doffing his hat once more. Count Levotchkin glared a very stern, chin-high look at one and all, slowly swivelling his head from bow to stern, and up and down the waiting row of officers and Midshipmen, who were 'toeing the line' of a deck seam with their hats off and lifted high in salute. The young sprog had seemed excited when he had stood by the barge's stays, looking up, almost in wonder and expectation, but now, he had put his 'aristocratic phyz' on, as if ordinary people and experiences were beneath him, and made no impression.
'Count Rybakov… Count Levotchkin, allow me to present to you Captain Alan Lewrie of his Britannic Majesty's Navy,' Mountjoy quickly intervened to make the formal introductions, 'an officer famed for his skill and courage. Captain Lewrie, I name to you Count Dmitri Rybakov and Count Anatoli Levotchkin.'
'Your humble servant, my lords,' Lewrie chimed in, bowing from the waist and making a 'leg' with his hat swept to his chest. 'May I present you to my officers, my lords? After all, we shall all be together for some time on our voyage.'
'Are any of them noble?' Count Levotchkin asked, giving them all a dubious up-and-down scanning, much like a tailor to the Crown might to a pack of new-come parvenus.
'Uhm, I don't believe…?' Lewrie said, looking to Lt. Ballard for help in that regard. Ballard gave his head a brief shake of no. 'No one, sorry.'
'Then it is of no matter,' Count Levotchkin said with a snobbish sniff. 'Where are our quarters? It is cold.'
'British sea-dogs,' Count Rybakov said more jovially, smiling broadly. ' England 's 'wooden walls,' yes? I would like to meet your officers, Kapitan Lewrie. Introduce me to them.'
'Of course, my lord,' Lewrie said, with a bit of relief that he was going to be friendlier than his colleague. Maybe he won't write complainin' letters, after all, he thought; hoped, rather.
Rybakov shot a stern glare in Levotchkin's direction before he went down the line of officers and Midshipmen with Lewrie, exchanging greetings. Thankfully, Lewrie could call all of them by name by then, right down to the youngest Mids, Pannabaker and Plumb. Levotchkin was forced to trail the elder man, bestowing short jerks of his head when each was named to him, obedient, but letting all know that he was very bored with the proceedings.
'Yes, our quarters, Kapitan Lewrie,' Count Rybakov said after the last introductions were done, and the manservants had clambered up to the gangway with the lighter luggage.
'This way, my lords,' Lewrie bade. 'Mister Ballard, you'll see their dunnage hoisted aboard? I will depend on your servants to show my First Officer which items are required for your everyday existence, and which of the bulkier items may be stowed below on the orlop, sir?'
'Yes, my man, Fyodor, and Sasha, know our wants,' Rybakov agreed.
Sasha! Lewrie twigged to the name; Isn't that the fellow Tess's Count called to for help, the night Mother Batson's bucks beat 'em all t'puddin'? God, this'll be really int'restin'!
'Aah… warmth!' Count Rybakov enthused, making a bee line to the Franklin stove to warm his hands, and unbuttoning his long overcoat.
'Take yer things, sir?' Pettus offered. Rybakov looked him over for a moment, as if sizing him up as worthy enough, before handing him his hat and walking-stick, and letting him remove that heavy fur coat. Once rid of his outer wear, Count Rybakov displayed a full head of hair atop his head, light grey, or dingy white, not a peruke, and worn in a modern style. His suit was dark green, waist-length in front with the long tails behind that were all the 'crack' in London that season, with snug matching breeches below, and white silk stockings and stout shoes with gilt buckles. There was a waist-coat of jacquard stripes in white and salmon to add a jaunty note to a sombre overall hue, as did his neck-stock, of dark red moire silk. Forgetting his aristocratic airs, Count Rybakov turned about and lifted the tails of his coat to warm his bum, the same as any man, sighing and smiling with pleasure to
