A Jester’s Fortune - Dewey Lambdin

Berthier cocked a weary brow himself, made a sad moue.

So clever, the general, he thought; in everything but Life. So observant towards all but his vexing wife!

Massena openly frowned, like an ill-tempered eagle who had just spotted a rabbit far below. A sardonic shrug, a theatrical lift of two gloved hands in despair was Augereau's comment.

"Not even a handsome whore," Berthier whispered to himself, and tried to put himself in a better frame of mind to rejoin his entrancing new mistress, to have her all to himself, apart from those "hot rabbits," Massena and Augereau, who'd couple with a snake could they find hips. "The poor little bastard."

"… winter, I am certain," that "poor little bastard" was now saying, a firmly fixed expression of unwavering certainty on his face, as he made his prediction; not a boast, but a prediction. "By winter, my army will be on the Austrian frontiers. We'll own all of Italy and even Venice, perhaps. And Austria will be beaten. I will beat them."

Berthier shook his head again. What could one say to something like that?

CHAPTER 2

"Good charts," Sailing Master Edward Buchanon opined gruffly. "Marvels Pr accuracy, sir, 'ese Venetian charts."

"By God, they'd best be, hadn't they, Mister Buchanon?" Lewrie replied, gruff with his own worries for Jesters quick-work the past few days. "Very well, then, Mister Knolles. Round her up to the wind and bring-to. Prepare to anchor."

"Aye aye, sir," Knolles answered, almost hanging over the lee bulwarks for any sign of shoaling. He lifted his hat to swipe at his hair nervously before going to the helmsmen to issue his orders.

It was Lieutnant Kolodzcy's studied opinion that the very sort of Serb pirate they wished could be found in this netherland of coast controlled by no one, pretty much-this stretch of disputed or ignored shore between Venetian Spalato in the north and independent Ragusa to the south.

They'd been near their quest before without knowing it, when they'd sailed close to the large islands of Hvar and Brae in pursuit of a prize. For this was where the claimed territory of the ancient and defeated Serbian princedoms came closest to the sea, shoved like a knife-blade between the Croatian or Venetian lands and the now-Muslim, Turk-ruled Bosnians.

South of Hvar, which ran east-west, lay other isles, some smaller and less important, where many displaced, rootless peoples sheltered. The large isles of Korcula and Mjlet, the long, narrow isle that paralelled the coastline-Peljesac-and lay within spitting distance but totally removed from anyone's grasp. The smaller islets of Lastovo and Susak were farther out from the shore in deep water and favourably near the main shipping route for hostile merchantmen and smugglers. All, Kolodzcy assured them, were isolated, rarely visited by patrols of any local power, completely ignored by the greater powers, and the ownership up for grabs from one decade to another, depending on who'd put in for firewood and water last. And those grudging claims were forgotten by everyone involved once they'd sailed away.

For days, Jester and Pylades had sailed these waters, no matter the shoals, feeling their way with lead-line, preceded sometimes by a cutter or launch to probe the depths. They'd anchored near poor seaside villages or hardscrabble harbours, shamming the need for firewood and water, fresh lamb or goat, eggs and butter; and paying liberally in solid silver for their purchases, too. They'd taken Kolodzcy ashore to negotiate, where he'd dropped hints that they were British, at war with the French and any who'd aid them; that there were many ships passing by far out to sea, laden with treasure, and that even the mighty Royal Navy might need help in taking all of them. Powerful as they were, they had only two ships and could not catch every vessel they espied.

Now, here-at the low-lying northernmost tip of Mjlet-they came to anchor once more, near a settlement that couldn't quite aspire to be deemed a proper village at all. It looked to be a scattering of rude huts among rough clearings in the ever-present, brooding forest, clinging to the rocks above the muddy shoreline, where crude fishing boats rested half on the shore and half in the waters, bedraggled and abandoned.

There was no one to be seen, of course. Wherever they'd gone, the appearance of a real warship flying what was to these crude people a strange-alien-flag sent them tumbling inland, sure that they would be slaughtered. It would take hours, Lewrie thought wearily, to see even a few timorous watchers show their faces once curiosity, and the lack of activity on the part of the warships, got the better of them. He thought it much like what Captain Cook had experienced from the timid South Sea savages the first time he'd put Endeavour in some never-before-visited lagoon and given them a first sight of white men.

A quarter mile farther out, Pylades had already come to anchor in slightly deeper water.

Lewrie turned inboard as the heavy splash of Jesters best bower drew his attention. He looked aloft to see topmen taking in the last of the tops'ls and t'gallants, strung out like beads on a string along the footropes as they breasted over the yardarms to gather in canvas and gasket it. Blocks squealed as jibs and spanker deflated, rustled into untidy billows on the foredeck and the boom over his head above the quarterdeck. Men stood by under Cony's supervision, who'd soon be at the halliards and jears to lower the yards to resting positions. A party below the quarterdeck nettings, in the waist, even stood by with quarterdeck awnings. But not anti-boarding nets.

"Christ!" was his sour comment. Should they find a pack of pirates, a damn large one, who proved too greedy to listen and swarmed Jester like they had that merchantman off Bar, the last patrol, they'd be defenceless! The pirates would be up and over the rails before anyone aboard could say "Knife!" And, he thought, casting another begrudging glance seaward to Pylades, there'd be little aid from that quarter, until it was too damn late!

"Anchored, sir," Knolles reported. "Sail taken in, gasketed and furled."

"Very well, Mister Knolles." Lewrie nodded. Then, "Christ!" again. There was a boat coming from Pylades. And in the stern-sheets he could see Captain Rodgers, with that pestiferous Lieutnant Kolodzcy in all his overdone Austrian finery by his side!

"Ever and amen, sir," Lieutenant Knolles softly sighed. "Alert your steward, Aspinall, sir? To uncork a half dozen o' bubbly?"

"Best fetch his own, by God," Lewrie spat. "It's poor claret or nothin', his palate bedamned. I'm savin' it for a special time."

"Such as, sir?" Knolles grinned.

"Bloody Epiphany, Mister Knolles. E-bloody-piphany." Lewrie snickered, without much real mirth, though. "Very well, then. Stand down the hands, and set the harbour and anchor watch. Lookouts aloft, though. And Sergeant Bootheby and his Marines to stand-to, uniforms and muskets in proper order. Stand easy… but stand-to."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Ach, ad lasd!" Kolodzcy exclaimed, perhaps almost two hours later, as the lookouts reported movement in the seemingly abandoned village. A few braver souls had drifted down from the forest to stand out in the open, at the back of the clearings, though well short of the huts or shore. Men first-and Lewrie could see, even from a cable's distance, how white-knuckled were their hands round their cudgels or farm implements. Next came children, whose curiosity was greater. At last came the women, clucking after the children, in concern for their safety, perhaps… to stand shaky-legged and marvel at this intriguing apparition tossed up from the sea.

"Zey heff to, you zee, ja!" Kolpdzcy crowed. "Goat musd milk. Brot musd be baken, for supper. Dere hearthfires heff gone oud, unt id grows late. Curiozidy? Nein. Necessidy."

"Deck, there!" A foremast lookout cried, shading his eyes and pointing down the eastern shore. "Boat! Three point orf th' starb'd bows! Comin' inta harbour… headed 'is way!"

"Aloft, there!" Lewrie shouted back, cupping his hands instead of taking the time to seize a speaking-trumpet. "Small boat?" "Small two-master!" Was the equivocal answering hail. "Doesn't know we're here, perhaps," Rodgers fretted. "Might go about, once she sees us. Damme, another bloody day wasted."

"Probably seen us already, sir," Lewrie countered, filled with hope that they'd resolve their quest, one way or another, this morning, loath as he was about the entire business. "Low as this coast is hereabouts, they've probably seen our top-masts the last hour. And there is Pylades, anchored out in plain sight, too, sir."

"Ja, herr Kapitan Rodgers," Leutnant Kolodzcy concurred. "Comes nod de zimple fishink boat, I am thinkink. Comes nod de fearful willager to his anchorage. Dhere hess been time for frightened willagers to go find help, alert zomeone. I am thinkink only a brave man, one vit more guriosity dhan fear, comes. De seeraiiber, berhaps? De pirades?"

"Or a damned fool," Rodgers sighed, half to himself as he paced off his concerns, and his impatience.

Half an hour more, and the fishing boat was close enough to eye with their telescopes, though she seemed intent on passing by, sailing due North, slowly… a wary mile and a half off, out of gun-range from shore and the warships. She mounted two short masts and wore two fore-and-aft lateen sails-a typical Eastern Mediterranen, Ottoman craft, low to the water with scant freeboard, built with a high-pinked stern and long, tapering, squarish bow, like an ancient Egyptian dhow. Lewrie didn't think her much over fifty feet long. Would she be built in Arabee fashion? he speculated as he watched her. Planked together with pegs and rope, and fragile as a porcelain teacup to gunfire? Or, this close to Venice and Europe, would she be more clinker-built, over ribs and beams, and more solid? Local construction… stolen…?

And, most important, was she armed?

His telescope revealed perhaps no more than eight or nine hands aboard her, and he thought that too large a number for a simple fisherman returning to his village and fearful of entering. Most fishine boats they'd seen got by on two or three, at best. And, this dhowlike boat was a touch too large, compared to the majority of the netters they had come across. Much larger, of a certainty, than the poor gaggle of old single-masted boats that lay on the local shore, and too heavy to haul up in that fashion at night, too. As for artillery, there was none to be seen, yet swivels or 2-pounder boat-guns could be hidden…

"Haulin' 'er wind, sir," Buchanon grunted.

Abeam of Jester, the dhowlike boat fell off the light Easterly breeze and began to stand in towards them, though still warily angled, as if to pass between Jester and Pylades, her lateens now winged out.

"Fair turn o' speed, e'en off th' wind, you'll note, Cap'um."

"Aye, Mister Buchanon," Lewrie agreed.

Onward, she stood, halving the distance rapidly, coming within gun-range, until she was perhaps five hundred yards off Jester's larboard stern before putting her helm over. Her crew sprang to the masts, to swing the lateen yards end-for-end to gybe her to the opposing tack, in the blink of an eye.

"Oh, smartly done, I say!" Knolles allowed.

"Show-off," Lewrie muttered.

Now the dhow angled in towards Jester on larboard tack, closing the distance until she was no more than two hundred yards off, aimed for a collision with Jesters bows if she held her course.

"Smell like a fisherman to you, sir?" Rodgers enquired.

"Hard to tell, sir," Lewrie replied quickly. "Over the stink of her crew. Well-dressed pack o' scoundrels, hey?" he japed.

Several of the hands aboard her wore nothing but rough wool tunics or loose smocks over baggy, Hmdoo-pyjammy-type knee-length trousers, or no trousers at all. A couple, including the helmsman or master aft by the tiller, had added goat-hair or goatskin vests, which even at that longish range reeked like wet badgers.

"Well, then." Rodgers grimaced, drumming his fingers on the cap-rail of the bulwark. "They're here, so speak 'em, somebody."

Leutnant Kolodzcy stepped to the rails, cupped his hands about his lips and hallooed them in some local tongue. The helmsman cupped a hand at his ear and shook his head as if unable to hear or understand. Their liaison officer tried several other words, though clewing taut to one… which sounded like "Serpska."

The helmsman barked one harsh word, and the dhow shied away as if stung, of a sudden, heeling hard-over as she swung up towards the winds on a close reach, and accelerating like a greyhound as her crew leapt to haul the fore-ends of her lateen yards inboard and low to the deck. The helmsman did turn, once she was well in hand, wave, flash a brief, white-toothed smile in his bearded, sea-tanned face and shout a message.

"Arschloch!" Leutnant Kolodczy yelped. "Affesohn!"

Lewrie heard a snicker from the base of the larboard quarterdeck ladder and turned to see Yeoman of the Powder Room Rahl, turning beet-red and quivering, silently laughing fit to bust.

"De fildy peasant," Kolodzcy carped. "He call me…! Veil, id ist not matter vaht, nein. I am askink de hiiresohn for Serpski, unt he play de liddle game. Firsd, in Durkish, dehn Serbo-Croat. Say dhat he ist loyal Durkish subwect, unt gute Muslim… unt gannot risk pollutink himself by contact vit infidels."

"Ah, I see," Captain Rodgers sighed, visibly deflating. The wind was dying, and it appeared they'd be stuck in their miserable anchorage for the rest of the day, perhaps 'til the next dawn, if it didn't return. And with nothing to show for their efforts. "Damn! And double-damn!"

"He ist liar, herr Kapitan," Kolodzcy added, though, with a clever snicker. "I am thinkink he vas Serpska, in shite of vaht he say."

"Oh, I see!" Rodgers brightened. "We've just been scouted out, then. For others. Do we lay here at anchor, sooner or later, someone will work up enough nerve to contact us, d'ye mean, Leutenant Kolodzcy?"

"I am zertain of dhis, herr Kapitan" Kolodzcy said with a short formal bow and a self-satisfied click of his heels. "By de dime ve gomplete dinink, I am thinkink."

"What was that the fellow said, Mister Rahl?" Lewrie enquired of his Prussian ex-army artillerist, once Rodgers and Leutnant Kolodzcy had taken themselves below to his great-cabins for drinks in celebration.

"Herr Kapitan"-Rahl blushed-"de herr leutnant calls him de 'bastard'… de whore-son, unt son of an ape. De fisherman, he calls herr Leutnant Kolodzcy de 'Ostereicher Schwule.' In Cherman, he says dis, herr Kapitan. De zierlich Ostereicher Schwule."