"Franklin-pattern iron stoves are not carried on our books as naval property, sir, and must be removed ashore," the official pressed. "If, as you say, the former captain purchased them at his own expense, then they remain his property, and should quite properly be sent on to him, wherever he may be."

Oh, good God! Lewrie thought, wondering how much that'd cost, for he had no idea whether Captain Speaks had survived his pneumonia, or where he resided if he had. Lands' End, John O' Groats? Lewrie speculated, worrying what the carting fee would be for four heavy metal stoves all that way. His own carting charges would be steep enough, to bear away all his furniture, wine and spirits remaining, his tableware, chests, and boxes… and, there were all the luxury goods, the dainties that those Russian counts, Rybakov and Levotchkin, had left aboard when he'd landed them close to St. Petersburg. They'd bought as if preparing for a six-month voyage to China on an Indiaman, not a two-week dash up the Baltic, and Devil take the cost, to boot. There were two-gallon stone crocks, five-gallon wooden barricoes, and costly cased bottles of vintage wines and champagnes, crocks of caviar, bags of coffee beans, cocoa beans, and assorted caddied tea leaves by the ten-pound lot,… along with lashings of vodka and gin, of course; so much that he might clear a nice profit in selling most of it off once he got to London. Why, the brandies, the rarely seen, expensive liqueurs could fetch a-

"Shall we say, for now, sir, that the stoves are of a piece with your personal stores, and will be removed when yours are landed, sir?" the rotund older fellow decided for them with an oily little smile.

"Just damn my eyes," Lewrie muttered, but had to nod an assent. Were the stoves still aboard a week from now, after his own departure, there'd be Hell to pay, and a full two years' worth of angry letters flying back and forth 'til someone claimed them.