wake, and at least ten to twelve yards astern. And just thankee Jesus! Lewrie thought as the ship erupted in cheers; So long as I don't have t'do that twice in the same day… or year!
He brought the pistol to his face, blew across the muzzle, and smiled at Count Levotchkin, who had gone about cross-eyed in disappointment, then opened the pan and blew the last smoke and soot out of it, as well. Lewrie cocked one brow, then tossed the emptied pistol to the stunned young nobleman, who all but lost it overside before snagging a finger in the trigger guard.
'Lieutenant Eades… I'll thankee to discharge the rest of his pistols for me,' Lewrie said, turning to his Marine officer. 'And I must request, Count Rybakov, that any other firearms in my great-cabins are to be unloaded and locked away, my lord? I'd dislike for an accident to occur.'
'But of course, Kapitan Lewrie,' Count Rybakov gravely replied, taking a second to glare at his drunken young relation. 'You have my utmost assurance that it will be done.'
'Well, then,' Lewrie said, clapping his hands together, 'that'll do me for the day. Carry on with small arms practice, Mister Eades.'
'Aye-aye, sir!'
*'Droogoy shampanksa-yeh. Ya hachoo bolsheh. Davai!' = 'Another champagne, Sasha. I want another, quickly!'
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
HMS Thermopylae passed the long, narrow point of the Skaw in a light snowstrom, and altered course for the Sound under reduced sail; even so, with the wind blustering and shifting to the Nor-Nor'west she still scudded along at a good eight knots, all that next day and night, with the wind from out of the Arctic pressing her onwards into a grey, swirling mystery, with the horizon blanketed out from view aloft from the mast-top-lookouts, or the extra lookouts posted in the bows. Icy-cold sailors manned the lead lines, casting from the foremast channels for the shoaling water that would warn them of their nearness to the East-West lying island of Laeso, which they hoped to pass well clear to the East'rd of it. But… in the swirling snow as thick as a fog in the Thames Estuary at times, then clearing for tantalising minutes before closing down again like heavy window drapes, the best warning of anything ahead was limited to mere hundreds of yards.
Thermopylaesteered roughly Sou-Sou'east, by dead reckoning of course, as if in a phantasmical Christmas village. A ship sailing off the wind could rarely go any faster than the wind itself, so there was little of the usual keening and rushing from the running and standing rigging. In the smothering blanket of snow, even the usual sounds of the working hull, or the hiss-roar of her passage through the sea was muffled, and… the frigate was regularly dusted with fat and heavy wet flakes that softened her warlike nature. Even her brute-iron artillery bore an inch or more piled atop the barrels and wood carriages.
'Best we don't let it pile up, Mister Ballard,' Lewrie told his First Officer. 'I'd admire did ye break out brooms and such, and sweep her down, every hour.'
'I will see to it, directly, sir,' Lt. Ballard replied, gravely sombre and fo rmal, as usual.
A snowball came flying aft from the starboard gangway, near the foremast stays, and splatted Midshipman Pannabaker square in the chest. Midshipman Plumb, their cheekiest, whooped with glee over his aim.
'You may reply with one round, Mister Pannabaker,' Lewrie said. 'Mister Plumb, sir! Yes, you, sir! I saw that! Now stand still, and prepare to receive!'
Pannabaker quickly stooped to scoop up a heaping handful, packing and shaping it round and round in his mittened hands, much like a gun-captain would select the roundest and smoothest round-shot from the shot-racks or rope garlands for his first long-range broadside. This 'shot' would be a tad slushy, Lewrie noted, as Pannabaker drew back to throw. He got his fourteen-year-old cater-cousin, Plumb, just beneath the chin, nigh staggering him, and knocking his hat off.
'The next throw'll put the thrower at the mast-top 'til I feel like lettin' him come down,' Lewrie loudly warned. In a softer voice he said to Pannabaker, 'Good shot, young sir,' and tipped him a wink.
'No bottom t'this line!' the starboard leadsman cried out as he began to haul in his icy-wet coils of line, and the plumb weight.
As Lt. Ballard and the Bosun called for sweepers, Lewrie turned to walk to the large double-wheel, and the binnacle cabinet and chart pinned to the traverse board, where both Mr. Lyle, the Sailing Master, and Capt. Hardcastle fretted and 'ahummed.'
'No landfall yet, sirs,' Lewrie prodded them.
'Nossir,' Hardcastle commented, 'and I'm not sure why. Even by both our dead reckonings, we should be close to Laeso, but…'
'It might be prudent, sir, to alter course to East, Sou'east,' Mr. Lyle suggested. 'The Kattegat is both wide and deep enough for us to have sea-room all the way to the Swedish coast, which has enough depth for a Third Rate, quite close to shore. In that way, we could skirt well clear of this island, in all this snow.'
'Or, do like the Vikings did in their day,' Hardcastle said as he pulled a large red calico handkerchief from a pocket and blew his nose quite loudly.
'And what was it that the Vikings did, Captain Hardcastle?' Mr. Lyle asked, a dubious brow up in case he was being twitted.
'Oh, they lowered their sail, slow-stroked the banks of oars, and put a fellow in the bows a'hollering 'Odin!' 'til they got an echo off the shore,' Hardcastle told him with a grin.
'Mister Ballard,' Lewrie said, 'bring us round two points more to the East. And Mister Pannabaker? Go below and pass word for the Master Gunner, Mister Tunstall. He is to fetch up a swivel, and powder charges only, to mount up forrud.'
'Aye-aye, sir,' Midshipman Pannabaker replied, eyes wide in wonder at what his captain might have in mind. As he dashed for the starboard gangway ladder to the main deck, he almost collided with Count Rybakov, swathed in his heaviest furs, scarf, gloves, and felt hat.
'Permission to take the air on the quarterdeck, Kapitan Lewrie?' he asked.
'Come up, my lord,' Lewrie bade him with a grim smile, intent on peering forrud, as if he could squint hard enough to pierce the swirls of snow… and wondering who aboard had the stoutest lungs, should they be reduced to crying 'God Bless King George!' from the bows before Mr. Tunstall was ready.
'A thick day, my lord,' Lewrie commented to Rybakov.
'Oh, this is nothing, compared to a Russian winter, Kapitan,' Count Rybakov said with a laugh and a deprecating shrug. 'There, the winds howl days on end, and the snow comes down so quickly that a man who stands still for a minute or two can be buried in it, ha ha! Uhm, do you think it would permissible for me to smoke, Kapitan?' Rybakov asked, reaching deep into a side pocket of his sleek fur coat to pull out a cigar.
'Don't think there's much of a fire risk today, my lord. Do go ahead,' Lewrie told him.
'You will join me, Kapitan Lewrie?' Rybakov offered.
'Never developed the habit, thankee,' Lewrie replied, watching as Mr. Tunstall, with two more gunners and a powder monkey, emerged from the midships companionway ladder with a swivel, stanchion mount, and gun tools. Rybakov snapped bare fingers to summon his manservant, Fyodor, who produced a tinder-box, flashed the flint to raise sparks 'til the rag took light, then offered it to the tip of his master's cigar. Once it was afire, Fyodor bobbed a bow and scampered away.
'You will sound for the shore of Laeso Island, yes?' Rybakov enquired, happily puffing away and producing a flavourful cloud of tobacco smoke that only slowly drifted forward towards the cross-deck quarterdeck nettings and hammock storage. 'The Baltic is quite often foggy, in all seasons, so I recognise what you intend.'
'Louder than shoutin' 'Odin,' as Captain Hardcastle tells me the Vikings of old did, my lord,' Lewrie agreed.
'Who became the Russ, Kapitan,' Rybakov breezily babbled on, 'for it was Vikings who entered the rivers from the Baltic and founded my country, who brought the trade goods from all round the world which they sailed.'
'Mister Tunstall's duty, sir, and he says he is ready to fire,' Midshipman Pannabaker reported. 'Uhm… at what, sir?'
'At the snow off the starboard bows, Mister Pannabaker,' Lewrie told him. 'Slow and steady, and he's to listen
