Dewey Lambdin - The Baltic Gambit

Nelson was carrying on an affair (grand, to some; infamous to others) with Lady Emma Hamilton, doting over her like a calf-headed cully in "cream-pot love" right out in public, and with her doddering old husband, Sir William Hamilton, by their side. Lewrie had heard he snubbed his long-suffering wife, Fannie, leaving her to trail behind like a maidservant. At an Admiralty supper back in November, she had sat mum, watching her husband spoon and gush over the bouncy, buxom Emma's every word; she'd shelled some walnuts for him and put them in a glass, which Nelson had so brusquely brushed aside that the glass had been broken, and it couldn't have been blamed on his blinded eye.

Gentlemen of the aristocracy and squirearchy had been having mistresses and affairs time out of mind; it was almost considered the proper thing, once male heirs were assured upon the wife… though an affair was not usually so overt, with the husband tagging along, and a fuming wife in tow! Most British gentlemen would hardly cock an eye over such; the man was a fighter and won battles, by God!

The common people, and the Mob, loved him, and, with their usual waggon-load of common sense, cheered him like Billy-Oh, and if a naked romp with Emma Hamilton in the middle of the Strand took place at noon, they'd chortle and snigger and call him a Hell of a fellow, huzzah!

Maybe I should let folks know how Caroline and I stand, Lewrie idly mused; or, that I rantipoled the mort in Naples, long before him! Any odds ye wish, the suppers I'm invited to would be from a livelier set! 'Had Emma too, did ye? Why, ye could dine-out on that for years!'

His toast done, and with a fresh cup of coffee poured and milked and sugared to his taste, Lewrie read on through the pile of papers. An item in The Morning Post spoke of armaments being carried on in Swedish and Danish ports, a "rupture" with the new Northern League, and "it is daily expected that orders will be issued for capturing the vessels of those nations." Tit for tat; seize our merchantmen, we'll seize yours.

And, from The Times on the thirteenth of January, there was even more lunacy. "Yesterday, Lord Nelson took his leave of the Lords of the Admiralty, and this morning his Lordship will positively leave town to hoist his flag… We have reason to believe to know his destination is NOT the Baltic."

"My God, they can't be that clumsy!" Lewrie muttered. "Not the Baltic? Who do they think they're fooling, I ask you?"

"Who, indeed, sir," a fellow in Navy uniform scoffed as he and two others took seats at the next table over; he was a Lieutenant, and with him was a Midshipman, and an older fellow in civilian clothes. "I beg pardon for intruding, but, how open may our press be, to speculate or publish rumours, of things that should remain secret, so freely. I saw in The Times on the sixth that Admiral Nelson was to be sent to the Dardanelles, to chastise the Russians there. What foolishness!"

"With Admiral Lord Keith already in the Med with a strong fleet?" Lewrie said, with one mocking brow up. "Nothing for Nelson there, if we wish t'swat the bear's nose. Lord Keith, allied with the Ottoman Turks since Napoleon invaded the Holy Lands, can kick the Russians in the fundament, while Nelson goes for their throat in the Baltic, soon as the ice melts. Good morning to you, Lieutenant, young man… sir?"

"God, your manners, George," the elder fellow chid him. "Allow me to name my nephew to you, sir, for you sound like a Navy man. This is George Follows. The younker here is my youngest son, Roger Oglesby… soon to go aboard his first ship, and I am William Oglesby."

"Captain Alan Lewrie, sirs," Lewrie said, rising to shake hands with them all.

"B… Black Alan Lewrie?" the Midshipman gushed.

"Guilty," Lewrie said with a chuckle, though he felt like wincing over that sobriquet. "Or, as the court recently decided, not, ha! A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Oglesby, Mister Follows, Midshipman Oglesby. Will you join me at my table, sirs? What ship?" he asked as they moved over to sit with him.

"Ehm… I'm to go aboard the Trojan, sir… seventy-four," Midshipman Oglesby shyly said. "With cousin George."

"I'm Fifth Officer into her, Captain Lewrie," Lt. Follows said, eyes alight with glee to be introduced to an officer with a reputation in the Fleet as a scrapper, who went after enemies with the ferocity of a howling Tom; hence the name Follows more-likely knew, the "Ram-Cat"; that, or as Lewrie sarcastically suspected, to run into a lucky thief in the flesh! "I convinced my captain that Trojan needed another gentleman-in-training… the more the merrier, hey?"

"We've spent the last two days purchasing the lad's sea-chest and such, the elder Oglesby told Lewrie, with a wink. "George, here, supervised, so Roger'd not go to sea with an hundredweight of useless fripperies. Tomorrow we'll all coach down to Portsmouth."

"And the very best of good fortune go with you, sirs," Lewrie wished them as the waiter arrived to take their orders. "Why, with any luck, Trojan'll be in the thick of it by mid-March."

"And you, Captain Lewrie?" Lt. Follows enquired. "Will you be with us, do you imagine?" He sounded eager enough for a good fight.

"I had to give up command of Savage before Christmas," Lewrie was forced to admit, "the trial, and all, d'ye see, and… so far, I have not yet heard from Admiralty as to any new openings. One hopes for another frigate, even one half as fine, but… '' He ended with a shrug, as if it was only a matter of time before he received a fresh active commission, though in his heart he was dead-certain that Hell would freeze over before Lord Spencer or Evan Nepean would consider him "Decent" enough to command another King's ship.

"Dev'lish-odd, this Russian business," the elder Oglesby said as he spooned sugar into his tea. "Thought we were allies not all that long ago. Now, this nonsense. That Tsar of theirs must be daft if he thinks he can take on England."

"Man's got a huge army already, and millions more peasants to conscript if he feels like it," Lt. Follows remarked as he stirred up his own tea. "Big as the French Army is reputed to be, with that levйe en masse of theirs, I expect the Russians could field three times as many men. And wouldn't that be grand to see… the Tsar and Bonaparte going at each other hammer-and-tongs!"

"He can parade an army," Lewrie said, "but I doubt he's any experience with ships. Strong as the Russians are on land, I doubt anyone'd try to invade, so they really don't have much need of a fighting fleet, and don't expect their navy to have much of a role to play, if anyone did. What did the Russians do at sea back when they beat the Swedes, early last century? Galleys and gunboats rowed up coves and marshes… round the maze of islands? Up the rivers?"

"Well, they did send a strong squadron alongside us when we went at the Dutch, in '98," Mr. Oglesby pointed out. "Don't recall all that much action at sea, then."

"Another fleet from the Black Sea," Lt. Follows added, "sailed round the Aegean, and the Med. And their Black Sea fleet has gained a lot of experience 'gainst the Turks over the years. When Catherine the Great was still alive, she knew to maintain an efficient navy… even if about half the officers were really British, or Americans."

"Like John Paul Jones!" Midshipman-to-be Oglesby dared to contribute to an adult conversation.

"I've met some fellows who served with the Russians," Follows told them, "when they couldn't find a post in our Navy. Promotion is quicker in Russian service, and the rates of pay are more lucrative, though… I never heard them say much good of their ships, or their men."

"How so, sir?" Lewrie prompted, waving for a fresh coffee.

"The way they told it, Captain Lewrie, is… when the Russians need warships, they go level several forests and set up shipyards on the banks of the nearest river to the sea. They round up just any old sort of carpenters, and put them to work in work-regiments, using green wood with no more seasoning or drying than the timbers get coming down to the banks from the woods on waggons! And they conscript their men the same way. Turn Army regiments into sailors overnight… conscript serfs from the nearest estates and drill them like parade ground soldiers on facsimiles of masts and decks ashore whilst their ships are still building. Good for part of the year, but when their northern ports freeze up, they're crammed into infantry barracks ashore, in unutterable squalor 'til they're needed again, and it's a wonder half of them don't perish. And by the time they're ready to go aboard in the Spring, it's good odds their assigned ship has already rotted and must be replaced.