The Baltic Gambit

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Free him, pray God!” some feminine voice was heard to utter.

  “We, the jury, find, in the matter of Beauman et al. versus Captain Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy, that the defendant is not guilty.”

  “Halleluah!” a male spectator shouted, a second before womanly shrieks of relief and joy, and a general “hoo-raw” and chorus of “huzzahs!” mixed with a tidal wave of bright chattering and glad laughter. Sailors behind the Defence table raised “three cheers”!

  Holy shit! Lewrie thought, dumbstruck, and nigh-shaking with unutterable relief himself; ready to break out in maniacal laughter as well! What a marvellous thing it was, to know that one would not be cashiered, that one would not hang, and . . . that one did not owe one’s lawyer tuppence! Not guilty! Well, not innocent, exactly, but it’ll more than do, Lewrie thought; more . . . what did MacDougall call it? Jury nullification? Emotion ruled, not logic . . . and thank God for’t!

  He goggled round the courtroom at the spectators, the powerful and dedicated to abolition, the enthusiastic, and the mere lookers-on who’d come to any notorious trial. Lewrie spotted wee Rev. Wilberforce and his coterie, all looking about to break into unaccustomed dances of glee (for such an earnest and usually dour crowd), and confessed to himself that he’d let them down badly that night, for it was better than fair odds that he’d be drunk as a lord . . . drunk as an emperor by God! . . . by midnight!

  Lord Justice Oglethorpe was gavelling away, had been for several minutes in point of fact, before the crowd in the courtroom subdued to a level where in he could make himself heard.

  “Captain Alan Lewrie,” Oglethorpe solemnly intoned in a loud voice, looking as stolid as ever he might had the jury gone the other way. “A jury of your peers having found you not guilty of the crime with which you were charged, I now declare you a free man.”

  Which formal declaration only served to set the crowd off once more. Oglethorpe banged away for order, now looking “tetched” by the interruptions.

  “Last year, when first you appeared before this court, Captain Lewrie, you put up a surety bond to guarantee your future appearance, which your presence today fulfilled,” Oglethorpe announced, “in the amount of one hundred pounds. Such sum I now order returned to you. These proceedings I now declare at an end, and you are free to depart. Court is . . . dismissed!” he said, with one final bang of his gavel.

  An hundred pounds? Lewrie thought as he exited the dock; Orgy! A fête champêtre, a roast steer, and barrels and lashin’s o’ drink!

  “I told you!” MacDougall was chortling as he came to take hands with his “brief” and shake away vigourously. “I told you t’would be a complete exoneration! The jury found slavery guilty, as I planned.”

  “Nullification, d’ye mean? Wasn’t it risky?” Lewrie asked, though in no mood to disagree with the verdict.

  “Exactly so, sir,” MacDougall crowed. “But no one ever went ‘smash,’ over-estimating the sway of emotions ’pon a jury, the pluck of the heartstrings, ’stead of the dry, paper rustlings of cold, hard logic. Congratulations to you, Captain Lewrie, ’pon your freedom, and for how far this case has advanced the noble cause of emancipation of all slaves in the British Empire. Mind, I’d not suggest you do such again, ha ha!”

  “If I do, I’ll engage only you, Mister MacDougall!” Lewrie teased. “Allow me to extend my hearty congratulations to you, as well, sir! For the notoriety of this will surely be the making of you . . . though, I dare say your name was already made. Congratulations, and my utmost thanks for being my attorney, Mister MacDougall. I am forever in your debt. Have I another son someday, I’ll name him Andrew in honour of you.”

  Don’t trowel it on that thick! Lewrie chid himself; And Christ spare me fresh spit-ups and drool . . . legitimate or otherwise, but . . .

  “So, ye dodged the hangman, have ye? Huzzah!” Lewrie’s father, Sir Hugo came forth to celebrate. “The Devil might have ye yet, but not this day, haw haw!”

  Then there were his former officers and sailors to surround him, to clasp hands or knuckle brows, and, before the Sir Samuel Whitbreads and Sir Malcolm Shockleys, Lord Peter Rushtons, and fiery-eyed Abolitionists seized upon him, his Cox’n Desmond and his mate Furfy, Landsman Jones Nelson and the rest of his Black sailors hoisted him up and bore him in triumph from the courtroom; out through the double doors into the hallways to the massive entry halls (someone had enough wit to gather up his hat, sword, and boat-cloak) and outside to the steps overlooking the street, where people took up “Hail, the Conqu’ring Hero Comes” and “Three Cheers and a Tiger.” Where, with his sheathed sword in one hand and his hat hastily clapped far back on his head, Lewrie felt free enough—free!—to wave with his right hand to all in sight, and “Huzzah!” right back at them.

  Hope they get me to a carriage quick, though, he had to think; Someone’s got my cloak, and it’s perishin’ damn’ cold!

  BOOK 1

  Juno:

  Tellus colenda est, paelices caelum tenent.

  Juno:

  I must dwell on earth, for harlots hold the sky.

  —LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA

  HERCULES FURENS, 5–6

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I’m the wrong sort o’ hero, Lewrie thought with a yawn as he tossed back the covers at the fashionable hour of 10 A.M., a gentlemanly time to rise just a few years back. He hurriedly slipped his feet into a pair of ankle-high bearskin slippers, slung a floor-length dressing robe about his body, and dashed for the ebbing fire in the grate of his room at the Madeira Club.

  Proper heroes got a servant to intrude—damned quietly!—to lay fresh kindling and sea-coal in the fireplace, so they could sleep in well-earned peace ’til noon, and awake in a toasty-warm chamber, too! Lewrie was certain. Proper heroes were not lodged amidst the earnest and dedicated, either; the sounds of early risers stamping about, taking their ablutions, opening and slamming chest lids, opening and slamming doors on their way belowstairs to the dining room for a hellish-early breakfast—clattering their shoes and boots on the steps and greeting each other with cheery bleats, to boot!—had made Lewrie’s attempts at sleep all but impossible, since before 8 A.M.

  The right sort of British hero (someone like Horatio Nelson, say) would be roused to the accompaniment of a steaming cup of coffee, cocoa, or tea, with buttered toast and jam, or rusks, too; but Lewrie saw no signs of such luxuries, and doubted ringing for their fetching would result in their prompt delivery. The kitchens and dining room closed at nine, not to open again ’til dinnertime.

  Nelson’d be roused by Emma Hamilton’s tits, too, Lewrie sourly thought as he “whizzed” away into the chamberpot. He gave the cooling bed a fond look for a moment; now the morning stampede of Respectable gentlemen was done, the lodging house would be quiet enough for a nap ’til the dining room re-opened, but . . . he’d made a late night of it, was dearly in need of sustenance, and, at that moment, could have killed someone for a cup of coffee. After a shave and a perfunctory wash-up, he threw on his civilian suitings, pulled up his own boots, tied his own stock, and grabbed hat, boat-cloak, and walking stick, and headed for a warm and cozy coffee-house.

  It wasn’t that his recent fame (or notoriety, if one prefers) denied Lewrie of a hero’s panache. It was the sort of people with whom one was invited out to dine. Oh, there were a few cheerful souls from Parliament, in Commons and Lords, eager to have him in, but, in the main, the bulk of the invitations he had received the last week were of the grim, dour, and “Respectable” stripe, to whom a witty comment, a double entendre, or a glass of wine above strict necessity would be simply appalling. Abolitionists, social reformers, anti-hunting and anti-gaming enthusiasts; those grimly intent upon the eradication of prostitution (in London, for God’s sake!) and the reclamation of the “poor, soiled doves” engaged upon it; those who fretted and wrung their hands over the sad lack of morals, the absence of evangelising among England’s sailors, soldiers, and Marines. Why, there had been people who’d seemed in possession of all their wits,
at first, earnestly dedicated to the eradication of Demon Rum, Ruinous Gin, and Soul-Sucking Brandy, and so enthusiastic about their Noble Cause as to appear quite fanatical.

  For the last week, Lewrie couldn’t even leer at a promisingly bulging chest, admire a graceful neck, or ogle a fetching female face. Not if he wished to maintain the good will of those who’d paid all his legal fees, he couldn’t! A praiseful comment on “The Mouth of the Nile” playing at the Covent Garden Theatre in honour of the 1798 battle and Adm. Nelson, or conversation, about the overly melodramatic “Pizarro” in Drury Lane, had been received with odd pursings of mouths, much as if Lewrie had lifted a cheek and shot off a “cheeser.” To his earnest hosts and hostesses, the only good thing about “Pizarro” were the moral lessons of the drama. Lewrie wasn’t sure what those were, exactly—slaughtering umpteen thousands of Inca pagans, spreading Christianity with fire and sword, and raking up mountains of gold and gems was a good thing? That being a Spanish conqueror resulted in final tragedy, as opposed to, say, Clive of India, who’d done pretty much the same thing, but was so thoroughly British that he came home smelling like Hungary Water in comparison? Or was it the new fashions and colours that “Pizarro” had sprung upon a drab London winter? Purple, yellow, puce, and scarlet, along with spangled hair nets and fifteenth-century hats as big and floppy at throw-pillows (or exaggerated French berets) for women? Anyway, it was only the stylish, the “flash,” and the young sybarites who sported such togs; pointedly not his hostesses, who were as staid as throw-backs to Cromwell’s Puritans.

  The first night right after his acquittal, there had been his former officers to roister with, but they had departed the day after, back to HMS Savage at Torbay, taking burly Landsman Jones Nelson with them, for he sorely missed his fellow Black mates and felt lost without them. Next to go, not a day after, was Aspinall!

  “Em, sir, ah . . . ,” Aspinall had stammered, red-faced, that morning. “I wonder could I raise a point with ya, Captain Lewrie.”

  “Aye,” Lewrie had said over his cocoa and jam (the last time he had had personal service in his rooms at the Madeira Club). “Say on.”

  “ ’Tis me mother, sir,” Aspinall had explained, all but wringing his hands. “The people she does for, they’ve been most generous, an’ lenient with her, th’ last few years, sir, but her ailments ain’t gettin’ better. My sister, Rose sir . . . she’s in service with another household, an’ can’t see to her as she should, so . . . well, I’ve alla my prize-money, an’ I’ve thought I could purchase a wee place f’r all of us . . . make her last years comfy, in a place of her own, d’ye see, sir? I woz wond’rin’ . . . might ya write Admiralty for my Discharge on fam’ly grounds, sir?”

  “You’d leave my employ as well?” Lewrie had said, stunned and feeling sudden loss; Aspinall had been with him damned-near forever, and where would he get a cabin servant, steward, and cook as good as Aspinall? Someone as understanding and “comfortable”?

  “Fear I must, sir,” Aspinall had gloomed. “Same thing, really. I’m that sorry t’let ya down, sir, an’ I’ll stay on ’til ya finds yer new man, but . . .”

  “No no, Aspinall,” Lewrie had assured him. “I’ll look around. For a while, I may depend upon the staff at the Madeira. I’ll write Admiralty at once. Humph. ’Tis good odds Hell’d freeze over before they wish to employ me, in future, so I doubt I’d need anyone with so many skills as you possess. But . . . whatever shall you do to earn a living, Aspinall? Prize-money’s fine, but it won’t last forever.”

  “Uhm nossir,” Aspinall had related, a lot more cheerfully, “I know a man in th’ publishin’ business, int’rested in my journals, an’ those songs I collected aboard ship . . . along with amusin’ anecdotes ’mongst the lads, an’ such. He thinks we can sell a lot of them to lads intent on volunteering’.”

  Aspinall and his publishing partner had been a bit more aspiring than that; was the first volume successful, there were plans for a guide to a world of useful sailors’ knots, along with a companion book on the making of sennet-work “small stuff” into rings, bracelets, necklaces, and doilies, the sort of things that sailors wove for loved ones in their off-duty hours or “Make and Mend” Sundays. All lavishly illustrated, of course, for Aspinall had always been a dab-hand sketch artist, saving the cost of hiring one. There’d be a guide to the various parts of a ship, the standing, and most especially, the running rigging that controlled the sails . . . all an eager lubber needed to find his way through the mysterious world of the sea and its arcane language, for there would be a lexicon of all the former and current slang and jargon decyphered for the complete neophyte!

  It had been with some measure of surprise, and a great deal of reluctance, for Lewrie to wish Aspinall and his family well, offer to write Admiralty that very day, obtain his Discharge and final reckoning of his pay, and, to be gracious, offer his name as a subscriber to all the future works; even pen a recommendation to introduce the first one . . . assuming the use of his name would not drive purchasers away from it.

  Wife reclused from him, in high dudgeon, in Anglesgreen down in Surrey, and his daughter Charlotte clinging to Caroline’s skirts, and her spites; Sewallis and Hugh both back at their public school now Hilary Term was begun and Christmas holidays were over, and busy with their lessons; his brother-in-law (the one who’d still talk to him) Burgess Chiswick was head-over-heels in love, newly affianced to the lovely (and rich!) Theodora Trencher, and also busy with his newly purchased Majority in a foot regiment . . . the only people left to Lewrie from family, in-laws, or contemporaries in the Navy was his slyly Irish Cox’n, Liam Desmond, and Desmond’s old comrade, the simple but strong Patrick Furfy—neither of whom could butler, valet, or even boil a pot of water, far as he knew of their civilian skills.

  Both those worthies, much like his cats Toulon and Chalky, did seem more than happy to remain with him, for several very good reasons; firstly, they were not presently at sea, and could stay warm and dry for a change; secondly, the quality of their victuals beat Navy issue food all hollow; thirdly, there were thousands of pubs and taverns in which to slake their thirsts, and at Lewrie’s expense; and, fourthly, said taverns were in London, where there were women by battalions for them to ogle, flirt up, and serve Jack Sauce, or manage to put the leg over, by finagling or the offer of a shilling or three.

  And London was so full of theatres, music halls, exhibits and pleasure gardens, and street rarees that Desmond and Furfy likely felt they’d gained the sailors’ paradise, “Fiddler’s Green,” where every lass was comely and obliging, the music never ceased, rum and ale flowed round the clock, and publicans never demanded the reckoning!

  Stout fellows, in the main, the both of them, but . . . like his cats, they weren’t good conversationalists . . . they weren’t Aspinall.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Admiral Boscawen Coffee House, at the corner of Oxford Street and Orchard Street (site of the present day Selfridge’s) was just the sort of warm and cozy place that Lewrie needed after a brisk stroll from the corner of Duke Street and Wigmore Street. There was a blue-aproned lad to take his hat, cloak, and walking stick, a man to see him to a table of his own, not too far from one of the two blazing hearths, and yet another young man to fetch him his first cup of coffee with cream and sugar. Before toast, butter, and jam could be fetched, there were piles of newspapers from which to choose, as well, and Lewrie, who had been rather busy at saving his arse the last week or so, was glad to find some back numbers so he could catch back up with the latest doings.

  “Brown bread fer toast, only, sir . . . sorry t’say,” the waiter apologised after laying a plate before Lewrie. “Th’ Lord Mayor’s gotta down on white bread, ’long with the Crown.”

  “It’s been banned?” Lewrie had to gawp.

  “Bad harvest, they say, sir,” the waiter said with a shrug. “Th’ war, an’ all. Anything else, sir?”

  “Not for the moment, no,” Lewrie told him. At least there was still more than enough fre
sh butter, and a full pot of lime marmalade. Truth to tell, Lewrie rather liked brown bread, so the ban on fine white bread was not much bother. He was hungry enough, by then, to chew sawdust. And the coffee was decently hot, for a rare wonder; which was one reason why he preferred the Admiral Boscawen.

  In The Times, there was a reprint of the King’s address to the closing session of Parliament on New Year’s Eve, which had featured King George escorted from the Presence Chamber by both Admiral Hood and Nelson to the throne, and Lewrie stopped chewing long enough to read:

  “The detention of property of my subjects in the ports of Russia contrary to the most solemn treaties, and the imprisonment of British sailors in that country, have excited in me sentiments in which you and all my subjects will, I am sure, participate . . .”

  Far from English waters most of the previous year, off the foe’s shores in the mouth of the Gironde River, and weeks from fresh papers from home, he’d missed most of the dust-up with the Danes.

  British and Danish warships had tangled in the Mediterranean in the summer, the Danes insisting that their convoys and independent merchant ships were not subject to stopping for inspection for contraband that might aid the French. A Danish frigate, the Freya, had traded a few shots off the English coast later on, striking her colours to protect another small convoy.

  Just before Christmas, the Danes, Swedes, Russians, and even the mostly land-locked Prussians, who had hardly a navy or merchant marine to speak of, had resurrected their former Armed Neutrality, which they had insisted upon (none too strenuously!) during the Seven Years’ War and the American Revolution. Russia had gone even further, seizing nigh three hundred British merchantmen in their ports, and force-marching nearly a thousand British captains, mates, and sailors off to the wilds of Siberia, just as winter was coming on.