they did not see how his face clouded. 'I will say this and no more, and let there be an end to such.' He paused for a long moment, carefully choosing his words, so he would not be guilty of the same violation. 'Captain Lewrie has ever had a… mercurial streak. You, sirs, have no idea of how many parts is Captain Lewrie made.'
*P B Q ›*= almost time.
*ya idysodar charochko = (roughly) you son of a whore mother.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Uncannily, the winds, perhaps the sea gods, turned perverse to Thermopylae once clear of the Gulf of Finland. A Sou'Westerly gale sprang up and blew for days of spitting snow, sleet, icy rains, and stinging spray, forcing the frigate to tack away Sutherly to claw off the maze of isles and shoals of southwest Finland; 'short-boarding' to the West-Nor'west for a single watch, to gain enough sea-room for a 'long Board' on the opposite tack round South by East for two watches, each leg bashed out 'close-hauled' under reduced sail, with the coasts of the Russian- occupied provinces of Latvia, Lithuania, and Poland a dreaded risk before the bows. Even after the storm blew itself out, they still relied on Dead-Reckoning, with no clear idea of where they were, and the sun hidden behind a continual low overcast. Even Capt. Hardcastle, experienced as he was in the Baltic, could not even hazard a guess. And when all concurred that they might be near the 56th line of latitude, and could finally steer West, a Westerly wind arose that smacked them square in the face, forcing them to short-tack their way along the 56th Latitude (perhaps), with the rocky coast of Sweden off their starboard side… somewhere out there in the haze and morning fogs.
To everyone's amazement, the wind at last went round to the Nor'west and the skies cleared, so that, a little after dawn of the twenty-eighth of March, they found themselves within two leagues of a tiny archipelago of wee, barren islets off Sweden. Capt. Hardcastle was beside himself in joy, for he recognised them.
'We are at the Sou'east corner of Sweden, sir!' Capt. Hardcastle exclaimed, 'just about to enter the Hanц- Bukten. That means we're not fifteen miles from the main channel to their naval port of Karlskrona!' he said with an urgent jab at the chart pinned to the traverse board.
'Let's stand in closer ashore, then, Mister Ballard, and 'smoak' 'em out,' Lewrie exulted. 'Do what we came for, by God!'
Which they did, fetching-to within two miles of the entrance to look the place over with their strongest telescopes, discovering that the Swedes, too, had readied their fleet for war, with masts set up and yards crossed, with sails bent on. Well, part of their fleet, for they could only espy ten ships of worth that appeared ready for sea, none of the powerful First or Second Rates, with all but one looking as short and bluff as older Third Rate 64s, and three of the readied ships were frigates!
'Don't seem to have their hearts in it, do they, sir?' Lewrie commented to Lt. Ballard after he'd come down from the fighting top of the main-mast. 'The Swedes could've put over twenty-five ships to sea, were they of a mind. So I heard from earlier accounts of naval action in the Baltic.'
'I'm sure I do not know why so few, sir,' Ballard replied, his lips pursed. He showed a remarkable lack of curiosity in the matter. 'I suppose we should be grateful.'
'They're still iced in,' Lewrie informed him.
'Good, sir,' from Ballard.
'No one's blastin', burnin', or, choppin' them a channel out,' Lewrie further said. 'Must be a lack o' peasants, yonder.'
Arthur Ballard nodded, feeling prompted to respond somehow.
'A lot of ice-skatin' bears in the entrance channel, though.'
'Sir?' Lt. Ballard asked with a raised brow, as if he'd only been half-listening.
'Never mind, Mister Ballard,' Lewrie said with a wave of his hand, though he was fuming inside. 'Do you launch the cutter and send them to the edge of the ice, for samples. Perhaps Captain Hardcastle may employ his expertise with such, and tell us how much longer they will be cooped up in harbour.'
'Very good, sir!' Ballard said, perking up with a clear order, and a duty to perform.
And damn yer eyes, Arthur Ballard! Lewrie thought, highly irked, and just about ready to call his conduct Mute Insubordination; What's got into him? he asked himself for the thousandth time.
From then on, the fickle weather and winds turned more benign. As they stood away from Karlskrona, the Westerlies backed Nor'westerly, so they could run with the wind on Thermopylae's starboard quarter to sail South of Bornholm Island. And, once they had Bornholm abeam, the winds swung right round to the North, allowing them a long beam reach towards Denmark, even close-reaching at West by North, then 'beating' to weather at West- Nor'west as they closed the coast, and the sun made its appearance just often enough over the next four days to give them a much more accurate position to plot, each Noon.
Towards sundown of that last evening, both Mr. Lyle and Capt. Hardcastle could agree that the land that smeared the forrud horizon was the point below Kioge Bay, a large anchorage below Copenhagen.
So now we'll see if the war's started while we were away, Lewrie grimly told himself, lowering his telescope and compacting it, segment by segment, with slow clicks; and if we'll get out of the Baltic, back to the Fleet… wherever the Devil they are… in one piece!
'Time to tack, sir?' the Sailing Master prompted.
'Aye,' Lewrie decided aloud. 'Though there's not much room for us to make a board over towards Sweden. We'll not weather the Holland Deep on short tacks. Might have to come to anchor and wait for a wind shift.'
'Don't see us towing the ship up the Sound with our boats, aye, sir,' Mr. Lyle said with a glimmer of dry humour, hands in the small of his back and rocking on his shoe heels. 'Not if the Danes object to us tweaking their noses a second time. Perhaps Captain Hardcastle's two-knot current to carry us along, but against a Northerly-'
'Deck, there!' a lookout shouted down through cupped hands with a phlegmy rasp from too many days of foul weather, and evenings below decks in damp, sodden clothing, clammy bedding, and the close, airless fug of close quarters. 'Ships, ahead! War-ships! Three points off the starb'd bows! Anchored, with ridin' lights an' taffrail lanthorns lit!'
'God help us, if the Danes have got their ships out,' Mr. Lyle whispered, scrambling for a telescope.
'Mister Furlow?' Lewrie called for one of the Midshipmen of the watch. 'Aloft with you, and report.'
'Aye-aye, sir!' Furlow replied, dashing for the weather shrouds of the main-mast. Lewrie extended his own glass and crossed over to the starboard side, to the mizen-mast stays, and clambered atop one of the quarterdeck carronades, then to the top of the bulwarks, with one arm lopped through the stays. Yes, there were ships to the North near what he took for the entrance to the King's Deep, East of Amager Island and perhaps sheltering under the Danish batteries there. One or two of them stood out like whales compared to the rest; big, towering three- deckers of the First or Second Rates; most definitely warships.
No, Lewrie told himself; not under Amager Island. They're just off the lower tip of the Middle Ground, outside the reach of the guns ashore. Whose, dammit? Do the Danes have that many? Do they own any First Rate three- deckers?
'Sir!' Midshipman Furlow shouted down from his perch atop the cross-trees, above the main mast fighting top. 'Our flags, sir! Blue Ensign on the biggest, Red on another! They're our fleet, sir!'
'Very good, Mister Furlow!' Lewrie shouted upwards, collapsing his telescope again, and hopping down as spryly as he suddenly felt. 'Mister Ballard, Stations to come about to the larboard tack, and we will short-tack to join our ships, yonder. Have my gig and boat crew ready, soon as we come to anchor. I'll row over to the flagship and report.'
'Aye-aye, sir.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
