The Baltic Gambit

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Dear man, ’tis rare, the single man who comes here,” Tess said with a wry look and a toss of her hair, a stab at a smile before she turned pensive again. “I know how men are . . . how well I know, and how the world is. I just hoped . . . ‘’ She broke off and lowered her head to her knees, shielding her face with the spill of her hair.

  “That I could take you under my protection?” Lewrie softly asked, reaching out to stroke her head. In answer, she looked up for a second and jerkily nodded yes, before burying her face again.

  “There’s a fellow, though . . . ,” Lewrie had posed. “The slim man with me in the coffee-house? Peter Rushton, Lord Draywick. He’s rich as Croesus, and . . . he asked about you. I don’t know.” Lewrie sighed and shrugged lamely. “Really rich. Mad t’find where you were. Devil take me, but . . . I told him. He’s very amusing.”

  “He ain’t you!” she’d whispered, her urge to cry out muffled, and a bit sniffly, as if she wept.

  “But he could get you out of here, Tess . . . with grand lodgings of your own. But the one fool t’deal with, not . . . ,” Lewrie told her.

  “Hmph!” was her comment on that.

  “Did I have it in my power . . . was I free t’do so, I’d get you out of here,” he swore. “And . . . not just t’have you to myself.”

  “Ye really care that much about me?” she’d asked, lifting her head, brushing back her hair, and swiping her eyes free of tears once again. “Aye, I do wish someone would, sure. ’Tis not the life they promised back in Belfast.”

  “Some procurer?” Lewrie had asked.

  “I got in a speck o’ trouble,” Tess said, sitting upright, and smoothing the coverlet over her thighs. “We weren’t shanty-poor, like most in Ireland . . . but, poor enough for all th’ children t’know they must make their own way, soon as they could.” Another wry smile, or a rueful quick twist of her mouth that could pass for one. “Mum an’ Da was just scrapin’ by, an’ without th’ rest of us workin’ and sendin’ ‘em sixpence th’ month, they’d haveta sell their loom an’ go on th’ road, beggin’. Got me a place, a good’un, I thought, tattin’ lace . . . I’m clever with me hands, d’ye see, an’ quick. And Mum an’ Da taught me readin’ an’ cypherin’, so I had me numbers, an’ that’s why I thought th’ feller who run th’ shop moved me up. I was makin’ ten shillin’s a month, an’ sixpence sent home was no bother a’tall! An’ that with me room an’ board all found. ’Til th’ feller who run it, well . . . ye can guess why he paid me so well.”

  “How old were you, then?” Lewrie had asked, dreading her answer.

  “Fifteen,” Tess said with a slight sniff and a shrug. “Before, I was workin’ th’ looms with Mum an’ Da, but where we’d get enough to eat, all of us t’gither, was th’ problem, so I had t’go out on me own. Like th’ poor pig farmer’d say when th’ corn runs short . . . ‘root, hog, or die,’ d’ye see,” she said with a mirthless little laugh.

  “How long ago was that?” He had his fingers crossed.

  “Two year ago,” Tess told him. “Th’ feller promised more pay, an’ he come through with a bit of it, an’ . . . he wasn’t that bad a man. ’Twas his son was th’ real devil, him an’ his friend, brought in t’manage, who took advantage of th’ fetchin’ girls in th’ shop, an’ when his father lost int’rest in me for a new-come, that was when it got bad on me, an’ I schemed t’git outta there. That’s when I got in th’ trouble.”

  So she’s seventeen, round the age when a lot of poorer girls get married, Lewrie thought with a sense of relief. He put an arm out to her, and she gratefully slid into his embrace, cuddled up next to him. “What sort of trouble?” he asked.

  “What sorta trouble ya think a girl gets into, with two randy lads takin’ turns with her, ’bout ev’ry night?” Tess scoffed, sounding bitter, and a bit amazed by his seeming naïveté. “I caught a baby an’ was gonna be turned out with nothin’ but me wages paid ’til the end of the week, so . . . I dipped into th’ cash-box, an’ I run t’Belfast where I didn’t think they’d find me.”

  “The babe?” Lewrie pressed, stroking her back.

  “No one’d hire a pregnant girl, an’ th’ parish churches were no help, either,” Tess continued, ignoring his question. “Just wanted me t’move along t’th’ next’un, so I wouldn’t be a burden on their Poor’s Rate. Finally . . .’bout the time all me money’s gone, an’ I hadn’t et in nigh a week, I met this flash feller, who promised he’d take care o’ me . . . did I let him fetch me t’London, where he promised me th’ Moon, do I go on doin’ what I’d been a’doin’ fer tuppence. ’Til I begun to show too much, that is,” she frankly admitted, with a wry moue. “Got me a mid-wife, he did, but I never saw it, th’ day after. He swore he put it in th’ mercy box in th’ door of a parish church, but . . . next thing I know, he’s sold me t’Missuz Batson.”

  “Sold you?” Lewrie gawped.

  “Feller’d spent a lot on me keepin’, an’ th’ birthin’ an’ all,” Tess pointed out. “Then there’s what she spent on me, all the dresses an’ such t’get me started . . . hairdressers an’ makeup, an’ teachin’ me t’speak right an’ be charmin’?” Tess had said with a grin, as if it was the accepted way of the world. “Don’t rightly know how much she paid him, but she says I’ve worked it off, an’ only have her now t’repay.

  “I’ve even laid a little by for meself,” she’d naïvely boasted, “an’ sent a little t’Mum an’ Da, like before. And sent them bastards at th’ lace-works all o’ what I stole, so they can’t have me took up, can they? Mean t’say, I’ve made rec . . . recompense. ’Twas more than ten shillin’s, an’ they hang people who steal that much. In th’ main, I’m doin’ alright.” Tess had decided.

  “For now, but . . .’tis a hard life,” Lewrie had commiserated.

  “Nary so bad as most,” Tess had said with a little chuckle as she’d snuggled closer to him. “Did I come t’London, just another poor girl, I’d’a ended a maid’r tavern girl, not makin’ ten pound a year, an’ maybe gettin’ room, board, an’ one gown an’ pair o’ shoes at Boxin’ Day . . . an’ still be took advantage of, for nothin’ . . . a shillin’ at best!” Tess had said with a derisive snort. “No, Mother Batson’s is a good place, for now. Soon as I pay back what she spent on me, I’m to get a third o’ me earnin’s all for meself, she says! Then I can come an’ go as I please, maybe get a place o’ me own . . . without dependin’ on a feller like yer Lord Draywick, nor any man.”

  “And do what?” Lewrie had asked her.

  “Why, th’ same as I do now,” Tess had declared, looking up at him askance, as if he was daft, giggling a bit. “ ’Til I’ve raked me up a pile o’ ‘tin’ t’invest in th’ Three Percents. Who knows? I could remove t’another town an’ open a ladies’ shop o’ some sort, and turn respectable as anythin’. Find me a decent feller . . . a clerk or a farmer, an’ might even marry. Someplace where no one’ll know what I did, before.”

  “So . . . even though you don’t like the life, and do want to get out of here . . . you’ll stay with it?” Lewrie further asked, confused by her initial sadness, then her blunt acceptance.

  “What else is a poor lass t’do, Captain Alan? Tess had countered. “It’s not that hard a life, though it’s a hard world,” she’d said in conclusion, then had groped under the covers to stroke his nudity. “Well, if I can’t convince ye t’take me under yer protection, there’s th’ rest o’ th’ night left us. If you’re int’rested, o’ course . . . ,” she’d coyly whispered. “Do I not see ya again, I’d wish a last grand night t’remember ya by, ya darlin’, impressive man . . .”

  “Oh, darlin’, ye’re own self,” Lewrie had responded, passion rekindled in an eyeblink, hands caressing, lips kissing from her neck to . . .

  “Seen the papers, Captain Lewrie?” ex-Major Baird enquired as he sidled up to get a refill of hot tea. “Thought they might be of interest to you.”

  “Uhm?” Lewrie replied, snatched from his sad reverie.

  “The dock
yards . . . the Navy dockyard workers,” Baird chortled. “They had the nerve to send a delegation to town, demanding their pay be doubled, and Lord Saint Vincent sacked the lot of them, yesterday.”

  “Well, damn my eyes!” Lewrie exclaimed (rather a bit too loudly for the “Respectable” waiting for breakfast). “He said something like that would be his reaction. Good for ‘Old Jarvy’!”

  “Sent out orders for anyone who contributed to their trip, and anyone who joined in what he termed illegal combinations to be sacked, as well. The gall of the greedy . . . to threaten to walk out, just as our Navy is faced with another threat. Well, they got what they deserved.”

  “Hear, hear!” Lewrie heartily agreed.

  “Ahem . . . gentlemen,” the head butler intoned at the doors to the dining room, “breakfast is served.”

  “You spoke with Lord Saint Vincent?” ex-Major Baird enquired as they queued up to file in and take seats.

  “A few days ago . . . looking for a ship,” Lewrie told him, taking a bit of joy to be known among the powerful. “I was at the battle back in ’97. Followed Nelson when he countered the Spanish van, and met Admiral Jervis, after. At least he remembered me, but nought was promised. We’ll see. Ah, mullet kippers!”

  He was famished, for he and Tess had fallen asleep just a bit after midnight, and had not sent down for their usual cold collation. A pork chop, a couple of kippers, two slices of fatty and crisp bacon, with two fried eggs and a heap of fried diced potatoes, and even the brown bread was cut two fingers thick, and nicely, crunchily toasted, wanting only slavers of butter and currant jam.

  Didn’t even linger for coffee or tea when I left, Lewrie thought with a guilty wince at his cowardice. All that had needed to be said had been said; had he found a way to slip out before she woke, he just might have, but . . .

  “Excuse me, sirs . . . uhm, Captain Lewrie,” the day porter said in a soft voice, leaning close to his chair, “you’ve a letter from Admiralty, Captain Lewrie, and there’s a messenger awaiting your reply.”

  Ho . . . ly shit! Lewrie thought with a start, and a sudden flood of warmth; And just thankee Jesus!

  “You gentlemen will excuse me?” Lewrie said, tossing aside his napkin and sliding his chair back. Frankly, it felt rather good for the other lodgers to goggle at him and speculate in muted whispers as he stepped out into the central hall, and broke the wax seal upon the creamy bond paper, and read it.

  Sir,

  You are required and directed to report to Admiralty as soon as possible following receipt of this letter, here to declare your immediate availabilty to take upon yourself the charge and command of His Majesty’s Frigate, Thermopylae, now lying at Great Yarmouth. A brief written response pursuant to your acceptance of this posting, returned to us by Admiralty Messenger, should precede you. I am, sir,

  Sir Evan Nepean,

  1st Secty to Admiralty

  “You’re bloody-damned right I will!” Lewrie whooped with glee, practically bounding for the front desk, and the spare pen and ink. A quick scribbled “Yes!” and a glance towards the young messenger who stood with his hand out, and Lewrie was headed for the cellar stairs, where he hoped Liam Desmond and Patrick Furfy were loafing.

  “There ye are, my lads!” he cried, spotting them both chummily seated near the warm cooking fireplace and griddle stoves, devouring their own breakfasts with gusto. Furfy froze with a length of kipper in his mouth. “Round up all my chests from the storage down here, and the garret, and see I’ve all the keys handy. We’ve got a ship!”

  “Huzzah!” Desmond shouted. “D’ye hear, Pat? We’re goin’ back t’sea, and about time, too!”

  “I’ll go dress, and be back in a few hours,” Lewrie quickly told them. “Before nightfall, there’ll be a power o’ shoppin’ to do, so you two look lively now!”

  “Wot’s ’er name, sir?” Furfy called to his captain’s back as Lewrie hustled back up the cellar stairs.

  “Thermopylae!” Lewrie shouted over his shoulder. “A frigate!”

  “Wot’sorta name’s Therm . . . whativer, Liam?” Furfy asked his compatriot once Captain Lewrie had gone.

  “Why, ye great, ignorant spalpeen,” Desmond chid him as he cut two slices of bread for a last fatty-bacon sandwich, “ ’twas a famous battle from long ago, or a famous admiral o’ some sort o’ th’ Greeks or Romans. Iver hear th’ English name a ship fer anythin’ else? Get a move on, Pat . . . lash up an’ stow, me lad, for sure as God made th’ green apples fer a good purge, we’re off t’th’ Baltic with all o’ th’ others!”

  “Gonna fight th’ heathen Roosians, arrah!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  By mid-day the next morning, Lewrie and his small party were on the road east—London to Chelmsford, Chelmsford to Ipswich, and east to the coastal road to Great Yarmouth, where the fleet was gathering for the Baltic expedition. It was an expensive and long trip in a hired carriage, with a carting waggon following close behind which bore all of Lewrie’s stored furnishings, wine, and hastily bought supplies for God knew how long a time at sea.

  Wine by the case, whisky by the barricoe, brandy by the gallons; those damned furs, which, at such short notice, Lewrie could only purchase some used items, and those reeking of badly cured hides and camphor. Whatever they were actually pelts of, he had no idea at the moment. There were dried sausages and smoked fish for the cats . . . the requisite keg of dry beach sand he could find for their necessary box he could buy later . . . his crated-up plate and pewter service, his glasses and china, the collapsible settee and chairs, a tea-caddy freshly filled with coned suger, tea leaves, along with sacks of chocolate and coffee beans, the grinder, the pots, pans, grills, and utensils, and all the myriad of easily forgotten things that made life at least tolerable at sea. Boot-black and metal polish, spare uniforms and slop-trousers, dress and undress rigs, shirts and stockings, underdrawers and neck-stocks for every occasion from a howling winter gale to a presentation ball before foreign dignitaries, Lewrie thought he’d managed to gather the important things.

  There had also been Desmond’s and Furfy’s sea-chests and kits to re-stock, bills to be paid through his solicitor, money drafts for day-to-day voyaging expenses to be drawn, the quarterly sums to be set aside for his wife, Caroline, and his children, and the farm . . .

  And, letters to write! He’d gotten finger-cramp before he was done, informing his father, Sir Hugo, Sir Malcolm Shockley, Lord Peter, Caroline, Hugh, Sewallis, and Charlotte, that he’d gotten a new ship, and to address future letters in care of Admiralty . . . and, last of all, a note to Eudoxia Durschenko, then . . . one to Tess, the poor chit.

  And still he fretted as the coach rocked and jangled and thudded into the early evening that there might be something important that he’d forgotten, and might be unavailable in Great Yarmouth shops.

  “Uhm, sir . . . ,” Liam Desmond spoke up at last, after the boredom of watching the flat and depressing countryside of Essex rolling by in the gathering twilight. “What sorta frigate is this . . . Therm-diddle?”

  “Thermopylae?” Lewrie grunted, dragging himself back from a reverie of his night with Tess. “Ah, she’s a Fifth Rate of thirty-eight guns . . . eighteen pounders,” he explained, repeating what little he’d been told by Mr. Nepean. “They took her lines off the French Hebe, but she’s British-built, a little longer than the old ones . . . one hundred fifty feet on the range of the deck. So many of them coming into service, they’re callin’ her one of the Leda class. I’ve heard that they’re good, stable gun platforms, and handle extemely well. Over a thousand tons burthen.”

  “Wot’s it mean, though, sir, Therm . . . how ye say it?” Furfy pressed.

  “A very long time ago, the Persians tried to invade Greece with a million-man army, and a fleet of five hundred ships,” Lewrie replied. “The Greeks acted like the House of Commons on a bad day, and couldn’t agree to cooperate. . . . They were all a bunch of city-states, not a real country then, so . . . the Spartans under King Leonidas
set out to stop ’em. He picked a narrow pass right by the sea . . . high cliffs above, and a straight drop from the road, a place with a hot spring like at the resort of Bath that the Greeks called Thermopylae, which means a hot spring. And there they fought, for nigh on a week, with the Persians crammed into a narrow front, no more than twenty men wide, dyin’ by the thousands ’cause they couldn’t drive through the Spartans and their spears, shields, and swords. The Persian king, Xerxes, lost a tenth part of his soldiers. That gave time enough for the Athenians to beat the Persians in great sea-battles that destroyed most of the Persian fleet, and let the Greeks sort themselves out and raise their own army. Leonidas and the Spartans saved Greece . . . kept it from turning into a mess as bad as the Ottoman Empire, and saved the basis of our civilisation.”

  “Spartans, now!” Furfy enthused. “Ain’t there a Spartiate in the Navy, arready? Lotsa ships named for Greeks an’ Romans, both. I think there was even a Leonidas, too, weren’t there, Liam?”

  “Think I heard th’ name, Pat,” Desmond told his friend. “So, sir . . . once th’ Spartans saved th’ day, did they make this Leonidas king over all?”

  “Uh, no . . . ,” Lewrie had to confess. “A traitor showed the Persians a way round the mountains that was un-guarded, and took ’em from both ends, so . . . the Spartans died to a man.”

  “Oh” was Furfy’s shuddery comment. He looked as if he wished to cross himself, or spit for protection against bad geas.

  “They died gloriously, mind,” Lewrie added. “Famous to this day, same as Helen of Troy, Hector, and Achilles in The Iliad. Like Horatius at the bridge, and—”

  “Oh, like Horatio Nelson, then!” Furfy said, perking up.

  “Ain’t it a pity, Pat, that there’ll niver be frigates or ships o’ th’ line named after Irish heroes an’ such,” Lewrie’s Cox’n said. “Like Brian Boru, or the Battle o’ Clontarf.”

  “Cuchulain, or Conary Mör, the high king, aye,” Furfy supplied, his eyes alight, “or places like Tara.”