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.
'First off'cah… SAH!' the Marine sentry by the outer door announced in a loud, thunderous basso, with the requisite thud of a musket butt on the deck.
'Come,' Lewrie bade, glad for at least one friendly face.
'Good morning, sir,' Lt. Ballard said, hat in hand. 'The wind is come round to West-Sou'west. Once the hands have eat, the ship is ready for sea, in all respects.'
'Very good, Mister Ballard,' Lewrie said. 'Coffee?'
'Most welcome, sir,' Ballard agreed. As Pettus poured him a cup, Ballard gazed about the great-cabins. 'May I say, sir, that your quarters now more resemble the hold of a coasting brig.'
'Barely enough room t'swing a cat, aye,' Lewrie agreed, grumbling over the rim of his cup, which he held between both hands. 'How I am expected t'land all this flotsam and jetsam with 'em, I don't know. Heard from the pilot, have we, Arthur?'
'We have, sir,' Ballard replied, all grim business, as was his wont when on duty. For a moment, Lewrie could almost imagine that Lt. Ballard's tone of voice held a note of reproof for the casual use of his Christian name. 'He assures us that his boat will be alongside at six, and suggested, in his note of reply, that our best course would be to depart through the Saint Nicholas Gat channel, which will lie to leeward of the winds… and is most-recently re- buoyed and marked, sir.'
'I'd dig a channel through the shoals and bars, does it get us on our way soonest,' Lewrie said back. 'Lord, what a chore they are!'
'Our 'live-lumber,' I take it that you mean, sir,' Ballard said with only the faintest smirk.
'One a talkative wind-bag, t'other a gloomy, drunken 'sponge,' ' Lewrie griped. 'Before Mister Mountjoy departed us, he told me it was part of my 'diplomatic' duty to dine 'em proper… play the tactful host, hah! I'd rather have the other officers and Mids in, and get a feel for 'em, but I can't do that with our passengers at-table at the same time. I can have a few of 'em in each meal, but, only for their amusement,' he said, jerking his head aft in the direction of his sleeping guests. He spoke low, as well, so as not to wake them. No matter, for the sounds of hundreds of sailors opening and slamming sea chests, their shoes thundering on the decks and companionway ladders, and the thuds and squeaks of wash-deck pumps being set up and drawing sea water… followed by the rasp of holystones and 'bibles' on those decks for the morning's scrub-down to pristine whiteness, which could be conjured as the wheezing breath of a great dragon at times, was sure to awaken them, sooner or later; even Levotchkin, who had been poured into his swaying bed-cot by his servant, Sasha, as drunk as a lord.
'The stoves stowed away?' Lewrie asked, pouring himself half a cup of coffee, to warm up the rest in his mug.
'No fuel added since the start of the Middle Watch, sir, and the embers are now in the process of being cast overside,' Lt. Ballard replied. 'They shall be dismantled and stowed away on the orlop directly.'
'Very well,' Lewrie said with a sigh, 'Damned shame, really. I fear the people will be half-frozen, by the time we're under way.'
'Top up your coffee, Mister Ballard?' Pettus offered.
'Aye, thank you, Pettus,' Ballard agreed.
'Whaa?' came a strangled cry from aft, and the creak of a swaying cot as its occupant sat up too quickly. 'Stop that noise at once! You disturb my… chort! Yob tvoyemat!' followed by thud as whichever of the nobles fell out and hit the deck. 'God damn you!'
'They're such a joy, Mister Ballard,' Lewrie said in a sarcastic drawl. 'I will join you on deck. D'ye need your manservant, sir?' he called aft in a louder voice.
'Da, send Sasha to me, so… Bulack!' Count Levotchkin yelled, just before all the liquor and wine he'd taken aboard re-arose, and he 'cast his accounts to Neptune.' Lewrie hoped he had enough wit to find a handy bucket.
'Get a mop, sir?' Pettus asked with distaste and trepidation.
'No, get his bloody manservant,' Lewrie said. 'I expect his man has bags of experience, cleanin' up after him. I'll breakfast once we are through the Gat, and made our offing, Pettus. A stale roll, with some jam… and a lot more coffee… will serve 'til then.'
'Aye, sir,' Pettus replied with a relieved grin.
Once through St. Nicholas Gat, past the barely awash barrier isles and shallow belt of shoals and bars, ghosting along under jibs, tops'ls, and winged-out driver, and about four miles offshore, the harbour pilot's single-masted cutter came alongside, and their guide departed, leaving HMS Thermopylae free to make her own way.
'Make her fly, Mister Ballard,' Lewrie bade with a broad grin, elated beyond all measure to be back at sea. 'Show me what our ship's capable of. All but the fore course, t'keep her bow lifted.'
