The Baltic Gambit

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Gravely ill, is Speaks?” Lewrie asked, motioning for the cabin boy, a snot-nosed twelve-year-old named Whitsell, to refill the glasses.

  “Mister Harward, the Surgeon, said it was pneumonia in both his lungs, sir, quite grave . . . aggravated by Captain Speaks’s recurring bouts of malaria, contracted long ago in the East Indies and African waters,” Ballard informed him, taking a small sip of his fresh glass of wine. “He has hopes a shore physician may bring him through, though.”

  “Which will take a long time for recovery,” Lewrie speculated aloud, assured that his posting would not be temporary. Speaks would not be popping up like a Jack-in-a-Box to reclaim his command anytime soon. “And pray God he does recover,” he added, hoping he didn’t sound too impious. “For now, though . . . much like old times, hey, Arthur?”

  “Of course, sir,” Ballard replied.

  His old First Officer into Alacrity ’tween the wars had changed very little. Arthur Ballard was a square-built fellow, about an inch shorter than Lewrie’s five feet nine, as fit and strong as a pugilist. His face was square, with a broad but regular nose, ending in a pronounced chin cleft. His hair was still as dark and wiry as Lewrie remembered, still cut close to his head, which had become the fashion of late; his brows were heavy and dark, as well, shading intelligent eyes of dark brown hue. Well, perhaps the frown lines either side of his mouth were deeper, and the crinkles round his eyes were more pronounced, and, perhaps, he had filled out and gained a little more weight than he had in the ’80s in the Bahamas, but he was the same watchful, sobre, and contained fellow he always had been. It was only his mouth that betrayed another nature, for his lips were full and almost sensual, the bottom lip slightly protruding whenever his face was in repose.

  Ballard had joined the Navy as a cabin servant at age nine, and had risen to Third Officer of a frigate in 1785 before she’d paid off, and he’d come aboard Alacrity as her Second, and only, Commission Sea Officer. What he’d done since 1789, when Alacrity had paid off, Lewrie would discover, mostly over suppers such as this one. They had written a few times to each other, then civilian matters had taken precedence, and they had lost contact shortly after the outbreak of the War of the First Coalition in February of 1793.

  Still a touch shabby, Lewrie noted of Ballard’s uniform; as he always was. Lived on his Navy pay, with no extras from his family, as I recall. For even if an invitation to dine with the new Captain was a formal affair, no matter their long acquaintance, Arthur Ballard’s best-dress coat was a bit worn, the gilt lace going dull, and his shirt a bit dingy.

  “Perry,” Lewrie said after a bite of bread roll and a sip from his wine glass. “I expect he feels lost without Captain Speaks aboard. And to lose his place as Cox’n to my man, Desmond. Might he be able to ‘strike’ for Quartermaster’s Mate, or some other post, Arthur?”

  “The poor fellow is mostly un-lettered, sir,” Ballard said with a sad shake of his head, “and lacks the mathematical skills required. He can barely add or subtract consistently.”

  “Best he goes ashore, then, to tend to his Captain,” Lewrie decided. “Unless Speaks’s wife objects to him, too?”

  “I believe both Captain Speaks and his wife regard Cox’n Perry as a ‘good work’ to perform, sir,” Ballard replied with a sly grin on his face. “Much as a parish church employs the village dullard as their Christian duty. He’s faithful and utterly loyal to them, so . . . sending Perry ashore would be best, sir. He’s a capital seaman, but we’ve more than enough of those aboard already.”

  “And, he takes the parrot with him,” Lewrie added.

  “Why, I do believe that Perry is immensely fond of the parrot, as fond as he is of Captain Speaks,” Ballard rejoined, bestowing a brief seated bow and nod for Lewrie’s decision. “I’ll tell him he’s free to go, before the Forenoon Watch begins tomorrow, if that will be suitable for you, sir?”

  “Damned right it’ll be,” Lewrie said, casting a wary glance over his shoulder towards the cage. Stocky black-and-white Toulon was still seated, mouth agape in anticipation of a bite of parrot, but the spryer Chalky had just completed a flipping-over leap of some prodigious height that had jostled the cage enough to quiet the bird. “Come, lads. Ham for supper! You can eat the bird later.”

  “Old William Pitt,” Ballard said in reverie of Lewrie’s original pet, a very surly and stand-off-ish yellow ram-cat inherited from HMS Shrike. “I would have thought, mean as he was, that he’d have put you right off all cats, sir.”

  “They grow on you,” Lewrie fondly said as the cats trotted over the table and leaped atop it. “And they’re wonderful and amusing companions. Thankfully, these two scamps are scads more affectionate than old Pitt, too. Just what a captain needs to relieve the loneliness of command, right, catlin’s?” he said, ruffling their fur and stroking them “bow-to-stern” as Pettus set out two saucers heaped with tiny bits of ham and peas and shredded rolls in gravy.

  Odd, Lewrie idly thought, as the cats seemed wary of eating too close to Ballard, though they’d usually make pests of themselves with any table guest, with those who disliked cats the most of all. He had to tempt them to settle onto their haunches and dig into their tucker. Lewrie looked over at Ballard, who was craning his neck over his shoulder, peering at the forward bulkhead above the side-board for a moment.

  “I know it’s not the done thing, Arthur, but . . . let’s say this is more a working supper,” Lewrie suggested, returning to his victuals. “We may be at sea within the week, and I’d like you to discover all ye may t’me about Thermopylae, and her people.”

  “Of course, sir,” Ballard said with another bow of his head, and a dab at his lips with his napkin. “All told, we’ve been in commission for about a year and a half, do you see . . .”

  The Second and Third Lieutenants, Farley and Fox, were as thick as thieves, having served together as Midshipmen long before, and were immensely competent, though both were possessed of a merry, prankster streak. The Sailing Master, Mr. Lyle, quite unlike most of his post, was also a cheerful soul, though quite exacting when on duty. Surgeon Harward was a bachelor in his mid-thirties, a bookish fellow intrigued by natural philosophy and science, who kept pretty much to himself even in the officers’ mess. His Surgeon’s Mates, Fortnum and Potter, were better-skilled and more conscientous than the run-of-the-mill “cunny-thumbed” surgeon’s mates one usually encountered; due to Harward’s demanding standards, and their continual tutelage under his watchful eyes.

  Their Purser, Herbert Pridemore, seemed more honest than the usual “Nip Cheese,” a married man with three children to support, though, so it was early days as to just how honest his measures and books were.

  The Marine Officer, Lt. James Eades, was a bit of a Martinet, a strict disciplinarian, though most thought him “firm but fair.” Young for his rank (he was only twenty-two), Eades was simmering-hot for glory, combat, and honour, almost as bad as an Army officer, and how he’d gotten his place without the benefits of a well-to-do family was still a mystery. Eades didn’t have the innate gentlemanly manners of the class of fellows who attained commissioned rank; he could, when irate, curse like a Bosun, and was rather loud and prone to drink in the gun-room.

  The Midshipmen . . . Sealey was the oldest at twenty-one, but he had failed his first oral examination for his lieutenancy, though he was good at his job. Furlow was eighteen, and very clever and sharp. Privette, the next youngest at sixteen, was just as competent, but a very dull sort. Oh, there was Tillyard, who was nineteen, and he was, Lt. Ballard tossed off as if it was no matter, or should not be, distant kin to him, but was shaping well as an officer-to-be. “I will not lavish him with undue praise to gain him favour with you, sir. Merely announce that we are cater-cousins,” Ballard stiffly admitted.

  The youngest lads, Mr. Pannabaker and Mr. Plumb, were fourteen, and, as was to be expected, had their good days and their bad days as petty officers, given their youth and middling amount of experience. Both could be slyly cheeky and pranskteri
sh, though not of late.

  “They are both Captain Speaks’s nephews, sir,” Ballard related. “He’s three sisters, all with large families, and second sons in need of careers. Normally, they’re lively and impish younkers, but without their uncle aboard, do you see . . . they are quite downcast.”

  “Cossetted, were they?” Lewrie asked.

  “A bit, I must admit, sir,” Ballard gravely said. “Good lads in the main, and the hands like them. And, obey them chearly,” Ballard pointed out. “They are no shrinking violets, or fools. With a firm rein on their sillier moments, and a sharp eye on their performance of their duties, they both show great promise.”

  As for those who held Admiralty Warrant, both the Bosun Mr. Dimmock, and the Bosun’s Mate, Mr. Pulley, were tough older “tarpaulin men,” and nothing escaped their attention. The Master Gunner, Mr. Tunstall, the Gunner’s Mate, Mr. Shallcross, and the Yeoman of the Powder, Bohanon, were equally capable, and that went for the Carpenter, Mr. Lumsden, the Quartermasters and their Mates, the Cooper, the Armourer, and the Sailmaker, Mr. Cable, and his Mate, Durham, to boot. The captains of the masts, the quarter-gunners, . . . almost everyone aboard, Ballard could find no real fault with.

  Oh, among the Able Seamen, the Ordinary Seamen, and Landsmen, there were the usual drunks, the unwillingly pressed men and scrapings from the county Assizes courts and gaols, due to the Quota Acts, which swept up the dregs that the Army had not gotten to first, but . . . all told, Thermopylae was crewed by as competent a ship’s complement as one could expect in wartime. Growl they sometimes might, but go they would, and, if well-led, they’d do their duty, and more.

  “I’ve only had time to flip through the punishment book,” Lewrie admitted as they sat and savoured hot coffee and brandy on the settee and chairs, once the table had been cleared. “I didn’t see all that many defaulters’ names, nor did I note that many lashes awarded. Was Captain Speaks a Tartar, or merely ‘firm but fair,’ Arthur?”

  “The Captain was, uhm . . . firm but fair, I would adjudge him, sir,” Ballard cautiously stated, for the Navy frowned on criticising senior officers, even ashore, and in strictest privacy among juniors. “He cared deeply for the welfare of the ship’s people, and was quite popular with them . . . though he in no wise ever cossetted or played a ‘Popularity Dick.’ He was . . . is a consummate sailorman, strict when necessary, yet a rather easy-going fellow most of the time,” Ballard further explained, sounding almost prim in his choice of words. “They recognised his care for them, sir, and responded with, dare I say it, outright affection.”

  “Ouch!” Lewrie barked with a small laugh. “I’ve always thought of myself as an easy-going sort, too, but, damme! These are going to be a tight pair o’ shoes t’fill. Well, perhaps as we rub together, the hands and I, we’ll sort it out. Right, Toulon?”

  After supper, and a brief romp with a couple of bottle corks, the cats had come to the settee, where Lewrie sat half-sprawled with a leg up on the cushions, Toulon to snuggle against his chest, and the other to drape himself across his thigh. Except for a brief sniff at his boot-shod legs, with their ears flat, both Toulon and Chalky had quite ignored Arthur Ballard, which was quite unlike their gregarious and curious natures, which again struck Lewrie as . . . odd. He was as good a fellow as any—Knolles of the Jester, Langlie of both HMS Proteus and Savage—and the arrival of supper guests from a First Officer to Midshipmen to a Marine messenger “passing the word” from a Watch officer was cause for glad, familiar greetings.

  “And we’ll be ready for sea, when, d’ye reckon, Arthur?” Lewrie lazily enquired, stifling a yawn. It had been a long and busy day, and his new-built bed-cot hanging aft, his usual “wide-enough-for-two” was calling. Pettus had filled some tin cylinders with boiling-hot water in lieu of ember-filled warming pans, and had even spread one of those furs atop the coverlet, so his bed would be toasty-warm.

  “All but last-minute stores are aboard now, sir,” Ballard said, head cocked over as he calculated. “Once Admiral Sir Hyde Parker issues sailing orders, I expect a full day for livestock, gun-room delicacies and such, to be fetched off . . . perhaps the coal as well, sir? After that, Thermopylae would be ready to sail, in all respects.”

  “Good,” Lewrie said with a nod. “The Admiral is already here in Great Yarmouth?”

  “I do not believe he is, as yet, sir,” Ballard told him.

  “Nelson?” Lewrie asked, faintly scowling.

  “His flagship has not yet come round from Plymouth, sir, though he is expected daily.” Ballard further informed him.

  “Damme, time’s wasting,” Lewrie grumbled. “The ice in the foe’s harbours could be melting as quick as our last snow. Is there anyone senior to talk to?”

  “There is Captain Riou, sir,” Ballard said. “He is the senior frigate captain present, and is expected to be named Commodore over all the Fifth and Sixth Rates in the expedition. He’s in the Amazon.”

  “The fellow who sailed Guardian back to Cape Town after hitting the iceberg?” Lewrie said in some surprise.

  “The very one, sir,” Ballard agreed in his usual grave way.

  That had been a tale! In 1789, Guardian, a partially dis-armed old 44-gun frigate, on her way to New South Wales with convicts, seeds, and £70,000 of stores aboard, had struck an iceberg in the fog east of Cape Town, and had come near to sinking. Despairing that she’d go down despite everyone, sailor or convict, manning the pumps round the clock, Riou had sent off all five ship’s boats to try to make it back to Cape Town, 1,200 miles off. One boat had foundered in heavy seas, drowning all aboard, but the other four had managed to row away. One boat had been rescued by a French merchantman; the others had vanished without a trace. Then, weeks later, Riou, with less than thirty brave men still aboard to plug, fother patches, and pump incessantly, sailed Guardian into port, saving ship, stores, seeds, and lives!

  “I look forward to meetin’ him, then,” Lewrie said, allowing a yawn at last. “I’ll have another peek at the old Order Book whilst I eat breakfast, and will let you know if there’s anything I wish changed, Arthur. Other than that, it sounds as if I’ve landed aboard a fine ship, with a fine crew.”

  “You have, sir,” Ballard said with a touch of pride.

  “And the very fellow I’d request for my First,” Lewrie added, lifting his cup of brandy-laced coffee in salute, and smiling widely.

  “I will endeavour to please, sir, as I did once before. Well, it’s lacking One Bell to Lights Out, and the Master At Arms, Mister Mackie, is a humourless stickler. Would there be anything else, sir? If not, I will take my leave, and let you get a good night’s sleep.”

  “None I can think of, Arthur,” Lewrie said, rising. “Do let me know the price of coal hereabouts . . . and just how often the stoves could be used on your previous winter cruises. I’ll consider it.”

  “Good night, then, sir,” Ballard said with a departing bow.

  “Good night to you, as well, Mister Ballard,” Lewrie replied in kind. “Perhaps our last sound sleep before things get exciting, hey?”

  “Indeed, sir,” Ballard said. He turned and walked forward to the door, glancing once more . . . at the dining-coach partition.

  “Will you be needing anything else, sir?” his new man, Pettus, asked as he gathered up the last cups, saucers, spoons, and glasses from the starboard-side seating area.

  “No more tonight, Pettus,” Lewrie told him, yawning again. “I think you and Whitsell can doss down for the night. Oh. The cook, Nettles.”

  “Aye, sir?”

  “Relay to him my thanks for a handsome supper,” Lewrie said. “I quite enjoyed it. Is that his customary talent, I expect I’ll dine as well as I would at a fine hotel.”

  “He’s probably in the galley with the ship’s cook, Sauder, sir,” Pettus said with a shy grin. “Keeping warm and nattering over a glass of rum, sir. I mean to say, uhm . . . not that he’s a drunkard exactly, sir, but . . . ,” Pettus stammered, thinking he’d blabbed too much.

&nbs
p; “He’s accommodated himself to life aboard a warship,” Lewrie said with a chuckle. “Warrants and petty officers will always have a flask stowed away, and will take an un-regulated nip now and then. It’s no matter, long as he can cook so well. I’ll turn in. You and Whitsell finish up, and turn in yourselves. I can undress myself.”

  Still savouring the last lingering tastes of ham, potatoes and peas, fresh butter and succulent white bread rolls, a spicy vegetable and bean soup, a fish course of smoked mullet, and a cherry jumble, he went aft to his wash-hand stand, scrubbed his teeth with powder pumice and a stiff-bristled brush, rinsed, and began to undress. Quickly, for the temperature was dropping, and a cabin aboard a ship at anchor was an icebox . . . a damp icebox.

  Lewrie usually slept nude, in better climes, but was thankful to note that Pettus had dug out a long flannel nightshirt for him, and had hung it on a row of pegs near the bed-cot. He kept his knee-high cotton stockings on, too, as he hefted himself over the railing of the bed-box and under the covers, where he found several patches of heat left by the tin warmers. Up to his chin went the blankets, a thick quilt his wife had made him long before, the heavy painted coverlet, and that fur rug, which reeked equally of camphor and . . . was it bear musk? North American bison?

  No matter, for Toulon and Chalky were entranced by the scent, and padded all over it, sniffing and pawing, pausing to glare at him with their jaws half-open and their eyes slit in exotic pleasure.

  “Do not pee on it, hear me?” Lewrie cautioned them.

  “Mrr,” Toulon said in ectasy; “Mrrf,” Chalky added, sneezing.

  “Good night, sir,” Pettus softly said from beyond the partition to the bed-space as he snuffed the last candles.

  “Night,” Lewrie replied.

  “Good night, ladies . . . good night, ladies. Good night, ladies, we’re going t’leave you now,” the parrot contibuted.