'Aye-aye, sir,' Ballard was happy to agree, and began bawling out orders through a brass speaking-trumpet. Lieutenants Farley and Fox, with wolfish grins, cheered the hands on to lay aloft and trice up, with half the Midshipmen scampering up the rat-lines with the topmen to cast off harbour gaskets and brails, and loose canvas.
Half an hour later, at Seven Bells of the Morning Watch, 'all plain sail' had been set, and Thermopylae was pounding roughly to the Nor'east over a fine-wrinkled steel-grey sea, flecked with rollers and 'sea horses' topped with white spume.
'Eight and three-quarter knots, sir!' Midshipman Privette, the dullish one, cried from the taffrails where he and two men of the Afterguard had plied the minute glass and the chip-log.
'How does she steer, off the wind?' Lewrie asked the Quartermaster of the watch, who, with one of his Mates, manned the large helm.
'Sweet, Cap'm sir,' Beasley replied, shifting his tobacco quid to the other side of his mouth, away from Lewrie. 'She's a lady at any point o' sail, almost.'
'Mister Lyle?' Lewrie asked the Sailing Master. 'D'ye think we could free the last reef line of the t'gallants? Or does your experience with the weather in the North Sea suggest against it?'
' 'Tis a fine morning, sir, and no hint of storm,' Mr. Lyle replied, looking as if he relished speed as well, after a long spell in harbour. 'I see no problem with such.'
'Full t'gallants, Mister Ballard,' Lewrie ordered, strolling to the starboard bulwarks to take hold of the after- most mizen mast stays and the cap-rail of the bulwark with mittened hands. With the winds almost right up the stern, there was no windward side, at present, to be reserved for him alone. He leaned far out to look forward, beaming a foolish grin of pleasure to eye Thermopylae's wake as it creamed along her hull; a great kerfuffle of white spray where her cutwater and forefoot sliced ocean, a churning, white-foamy waterfall curving back and upwards in a slight swell from the bows to almost amidships, where it sloughed downwards to bare a glittering peek at her coppered quick-work before rising and spreading further aft, where it grew out into a broad bridal train of pale green and white that pointed astern towards the coast as straight as an arrow, so disturbed that it lingered long after the frigate had created it. The ship thumped, thudded, and drummed as it met each oncoming roller, flinging short columns and curtains of spray as high as the anchor cat-heads and the forecastle bulwarks, misting aft in a shivery, cold rain that dappled the quarterdeck like the first, fat drops of a storm.
And it was glorious!
Eight Bells chimed from the forecastle belfry in four twin tings to end the Morning Watch and begin the Forenoon. Almost in unison to the last double-ding, Midshipman Privette's last cast of the log, and his last official act of his watch, was to call out 'Nine and a quarter knots, sir! Nine and a quarter!'
'We'll reef t'gallants, should the wind come fresher, Mister Ballard,' Lewrie called out over the loud bustle of the sea, and the sounds of creaking masts, timbers, and the groan of standing rigging. 'But… does it ease, we'll go 'all to the royals'!'
'Very good, sir,' Lt. Ballard soberly answered, though Lewrie's last thought seemed to please the officers and hands who manned the quarterdeck. They had a captain who was willing to press if weather allowed, and let their frigate, of which they were justifiably proud, run like a thoroughbred.
'Who's the lucky devil who'll stay here and freeze?' Lewrie asked with a merry smile on his face, and tongue in his cheek.
'Me, sir,' Lt. Farley piped up. 'I've the Forenoon.'
'Stay warm, Mister Farley, God help ye,' Lewrie japed. 'I will be below. Is there need for a pot of coffee round Four Bells, do you send for it, t'keep the people of your watch thawed out. Practice on the guns at Two Bells, weather permitting, mind.'
'Aye-aye, sir!' Lt. Farley replied, looking eager and thankful for the kind offer.
Pettus helped him shed his hat, muffler, mittens, and heavy fur coat once he'd taken one last look about the decks with an experienced (if rusty) eye, before trooping down the starboard gangway ladder to the upper deck, then aft to the great-cabins.
He found one of his passengers, Count Rybakov, still seated at the dining table, sipping tea which, in the chilly cabins, was visibly steaming. He had been up on deck, once they'd gotten the anchors up and stowed, and had made their way into the St. Nicholas Gat, standing well aft by the taffrail lanthorns and flag lockers, out of the way of working sailors, to experience the departure. His servant, Fyodor, was fussing about him with some sweet biscuits from his personal stores.
'A good beginning, Kapitan Lewrie?' Rybakov jovially enquired.
'A splendid beginning, sir… my lord,' Lewrie told him as he took a seat at the other end of the table. Another cup of coffee was set before him, along with a plate of scrambled eggs speckled with bacon crumbles, diced onion, and melted cheese. With it was a piping-hot heap of shredded fried potatoes, and a goodly slice of the roast beef on which they'd dined the night before. On a separate, smaller plate lay two thick slices of buttered toast, and the jam pot was close by.
Lewrie rubbed his hands together, to warm them as much as welcome his breakfast, before spreading jam on his bread. He took a first bite, tastebuds tingling in anticipation, and looked up at Rybakov for a second.
Dammit, this'll get tryin', Lewrie thought, feeling irked that anyone shared his table. Captains of His Majesty's warships were, by dint of authority, required to live apart from the rest of their crews and officers; inviting them in for a meal only so often, and spending the bulk of their time at sea in enforced isolation. Frankly, there were times that one could relish such isolation, and this was one of them. It was rare that Lewrie had anyone in for breakfast, and he was used to eating by himself as the ship's day began. Now, here was this interloper that Admiralty and Foreign Office had foisted off on him!
A sip of very hot coffee, a forkful of eggs, then a bite of the roast beef, sauced with a bit of potatoes, a second bite of bread, and he could almost dismiss the nobleman's presence, if he made it plain he was concentrating on his victuals, and wanted to be left in peace.
'I was just thinking, Kapitan Lewrie…,' Rybakov began to say.
Burn in Hell! Lewrie silently fumed.
'I am hungry,' Count Levotchkin complained, emerging at last from his sleeping space, and stumbling towards the table. He looked like Death's Head on a Mop-Stick, and his elegant clothing was rumpled.
'Bonjour, cher cousin,' Count Rybakov cheerily greeted him, reverting to a Russian aristocrat's preferred French.
'You ate without me?' Levotchkin petulantly groused as he reeled into a chair with a dizzy thump. 'We are moving? At sea? Damn. You, boy,' he said, snapping fingers at Pettus. 'I will have what the Kapitan is having. First, fetch me tea.'
Pettus got a squinty, clench-mouthed look, and Lewrie, recalling why he'd been sacked by his last employers, worried that the tea might end in Levotchkin's hair. He gave Pettus a warning look.
'You rose late, Anatoli,' Rybakov gently chid him. 'Yes, we are at sea… on our way, at last. You slept through it? Amazing.'
'I'll send word to the galley,' Lewrie offered, 'though, I fear there'll be a delay, if the galley fires've been curbed. And you'll have to supply my cook with the makings. Whitsell, run tell Nettles he's another breakfast to prepare, and the goods are on the way.'
'Aye, sir.'
'My tea!' Levotchkin demanded, head in both hands. He looked round for his manservant. 'Sasha, tea, davai. Vite vite!' he snapped.
The big, burly bald manservant went to the side-board, poured a cup, and placed it before his master. But… just before he did so, he peered long and hard at Lewrie, as if undergoing an epiphany; not a glad one, from the way he frowned. As Count Levotchkin was having his first restorative sip, Sasha bent down to whisper in his ear, all the while with his eyes glued on Lewrie, who was irked with such effrontery, and put down his utensils to glare back.
'Mumble mumble London… argey-bargey Panton ooleetsa,' Lewrie could barely make out. 'Hiss-hiss-whisper chi magazeena…'
Ooleetsa that's 'street,' chi, that's 'tea,' Lewrie translated from his thin stock of Russian words in his head; but what the Hell's a magazeena?
'Buzzle-muzzle Strand…,' Sasha imparted in a raspy whisper as Count Levotchkin stiffened and sat up