A Jester’s Fortune - Dewey Lambdin

Uncanny, it was. Surely, Lewrie thought, the Adriatic, narrow as it was, still held room enough to lose the bitch in! But no. There she was, hull-down to the East'rd. Could she be any other dowdy two-masted coaster, since the Adriatic teemed with them? Time and again, though, and hope against hope, they'd recognise her dun brown sails with the odd patches of new canvas they'd been forced to give Mlavic, which ; formed a stylised lightning-bolt pattern on her foresail! Until the very sight of that accidental emblem made every man-jack groan with disgust, as if a penniless relation had shown up to sponge off them, just after they had been paid in coin, for a rare once.

"Damme, how does he do it, Captain?" Lieutenant Knolles spat, lifting his hat for dne of his irritated blond hair-rufflings.

"Luck o' th' Devil, he, Mister Knolles," Buchanon decided. "An' th' Devil's Brood has 'eir master's luck."

"Thought we'd sailed him under, the last Sou'west tack, sir," Lieutenant Knolles carped on. "He hasn't the 'nutmegs' to sail over to Italy. He'd get his silly arse knackered over there. Does he idle in the middle? Do a dash down to where he thinks we'll be, and wait?"

"Aloft, there!" Lewrie demanded of the lookouts. "She alone?"

"Aye, sir!"

"Hasn't tried to take a ship himself, then." Lewrie frowned.

"Like a kite, sir. Waitin' 'til braver beasts'z made 'eir kill," the Sailing Master harrumphed. " 'En he'll have a bite'r two."

"Deck, there!" Came another shout from the lookouts. "Sail ho!"

"Where away?" Knolles howled impatiently.

"Four point off th' starb'd bows! Brig! Runnin' free!"

Lewrie scrambled aloft to the cat-harpings of the mizzen to have a gander. There was no more than seven miles' visibility with all that wind-borne African haze on the Sutherly horizon, and the strange vessel was already showing a hint of tops'ls as well as all of her t'gallants. Sailing dead off the wind, he took note, with "both sheets aft." She'd pass astern of Jester should they both stand on as they were, perhaps a good two miles apart. He could tack right away, he schemed, go back to larboard tack headed Sou'west, and cut her off as she loped North, fat, dumb and happy. Running as she was, she could sail no faster than the winds blew, and that felt like only a ten- to twelve-knot breeze today, he reckoned. Less, for she'd surely be heavily laden, snuffling bows-down with a breeze right up her transom, even with the fore-course reduced, and the lifting effect of the fore-tops'l to ease her. And she didn't look particularly big, either, an average brig of about eighty-five feet overall, with a chunky seventy-foot waterline.

Yet, should she take fright, she'd alter course, just on general principles, and claw up to the wind and beat inshore for safety in the neutral Venetian port of Durazzo. She was now about six miles a'weather of them. Make it five, he plotted in his head, once we've tacked, losing way… same for her. Dammit, she could just barely make it in, one step ahead!

Lewrie clambered down and stowed his telescope in the rack by the binnacle cabinet. "We'll stand on as we are for now, Mister Knolles. I don't wish to scare her off 'til she's come down closer to us, within a mile or two. Then, do we haul our wind or tack, we'll fall down on her, and keep ourselves 'tween her and the safety of a neutral port."

"Very good, sir," Knolles replied.

"Deck, there!" The lookout cried. "Dhow, sir! Tackiri!"

Mlavic had been loafing along on the starboard tack, pointing up higher on the winds, even so, than Jester ever could, presaging a close-aboard reunion, unless Lewrie had ordered them to come about to stand aloof of his dhow. Suddenly, though, she racked over to larboard tack, bearing Sou'west, still pointing high and expanding the size of her lateen sails to full size. Mlavic had spotted the strange brig and was going after her with every stitch of canvas aloft!

"Damn him. Just damn him!" Lewrie rasped.

"He'll scare her off!" Midshipman Hyde exclaimed, outraged.

Mlavic had been off Jester's larboard quarter and only two sea-miles to leeward. On her new course, he'd close them before sweeping past, crossing Jester's stern and surging upwind of her. Mlavic, it appeared, had found some courage for the chase at last-but at the very worst possible moment!

"Greedy bastard," Lewrie commented sourly. "Hmm… aloft, there!

What is the brig doing?"

"Standin' on, sir! Courses 'bove th' horizon, runnin' free!"

"They've seen us by now, surely. Might not be able to see that pirate yet," Knolles muttered. " 'Til he crosses our stern, sir."

"Or do 'ey not keep a proper lookout, like most merchantmen, sir, Buchanon added. "Nought t'fear so far, e'en do 'ey."

Lewrie looked aft. To save wear-and-tear, Jester only flew her national colours when challenged or when doing the challenging. With her courses above the horizon already, the brig couldn't be more than a scant four miles up to windward, and still held to her off-wind slide. She didn't yet acknowledge Jester as a warship, since she'd made no move to close her, but was standing on Sou'east, on a diverging course as if bound for Durazzo herself.

The line of sight, Alan thought, looking to windward once more; aye, Mlavic is hidden below us now, blotted out by our hull and sails, even did they spot him earlier. Might be the brig's whey-faced innocent, or a I neutral, but he had to stop her and speak her to ascertain that. To run up the flag now might spook her, either way, and they'd waste half a day running her down for nothing.

And best we fetch her first. Alan shivered. God knows what that pig-eyed fool'd do, neutral prize or no! Fight us for her?

"Mister Hyde," Lewrie decided. "Fetch out that Frog flag of ours. Bend it on and hoist it to the mizzen peak. Mister Knolles, prepare to come about to larboard tack. We'll see what answering hoist we receive… then we'll pretend to run from those terrible Serb pirates yonder… and unmask 'em to her, as we come about. See what she makes of that!"

"Oh, I see, sir!" Knolles chuckled. "Eek eek, a mouse, Captain? Bosun! Pipe 'Stations for Stays'!"

"Once round, Mister Knolles…" Lewrie added. "Beat to Quarters."

Scant minutes later, all had altered. Jester was thrashing windward, hobby-horsing over the long but steep sets of waves. Their pirate dhow's way had been blocked, as Lewrie had flung his ship squarely across her course, and was now pitching and rolling dead in Jester's wake-as if she truly were pursuing her-working her way up to windward of them, certainly, since fore-and-aft rigged lateeners could pinch up much closer to the eye of the wind any day.

And the brig…!

She'd taken one look, hoisted a matching French flag, and turned away, wearing herself to a broad reach, with the Sirocco winds large on her larboard quarter, headed Nor-Nor'west. She was steering directly for a meeting with Jester!

Comin' tsave me, are you? Lewrie speculated with a sneer, as he glanced astern and ahead in a constant mental juggling act of courses and speeds; me, a fellow Frog? Damn brave of you. Or d'ye think your own safety lies in numbers… two armed merchantmen 'gainst one pirate?

"A mile, I make her, sir," Mr. Buchanon suggested.

"We'll stand on a bit more, 'fore…" Lewrie mused, turning for another peek at what Mlavic was doing. Which, he imagined, might involve tearing his hair out in frustration at the moment. His dhow had worked her way back windward of Jester, out on her larboard quarter again. And no more than a mile astern, down to leeward. Edging out to pass, but he'd be just a bit too late. Depending on what the brig did, of course. Then Lewrie turned to peer forward once more.

"Three-quarter mile," Buchanon speculated, sounding excited. "Ah!" "Uhum!" Lewrie beamed. The brig was turning, bearing more Westerly and bracing her yards round, hauling taut as she swung in a wide arc to put herself on the wind on the same tack as Jester! Nowhere near as fast, she planned to match courses and let Jester-a "fellow countryman"-surge up to her so their firepower was concentrated. Should he speak her, captain-to-captain, and plan what they could do to "save" themselves?

"Pinch us up, quartermasters. Luff up, and nothing to loo'rd." Lewrie snapped. "Mister Crewe, ready with the starboard battery!"

The wheel-drum groaned as Spenser and Brauer fought it for two or three more spokes of lee helm to take their ship up to the very edge of the winds, clawing out another fifty yards of advantage. Then they backed off only one or two spokes, at most, as the fickle wind shifted, eyes on the luff of the main-course and main-tops'l, the flutterings of the commissioning pendant high aloft as it streamed like a weathervane to steer by… the compass bedamned, from there on out. They cursed softly as they put their weight on it, judging by feel of the tiller-ropes' tension and the wind on their cheeks if they were coasting too close toward luffing; scanning the sea off the larboard bows for a contrary skeining of rivulets on the wavetops, or a glass-smooth patch of calm.

"Over, now, ye square-head!" Spenser grunted. "Oh, ye lady, oh, ye sweet'un! 'At's our darlin' lass!"

"Rasmus!" Brauer hissed as he fed from the lee side to Spenser on the windward. "Ach,ja! Lir… bitte!"

Christ, e'en the Germans're believers now! Lewrie grumbled to himself. Callin' on his old sea-god… and ours!

The brig was most nicely cooperating. As she rounded up, wearing close-hauled to the Sou'west, she lost ground to leeward and spent all her windward placement. Suddenly she was within a quarter mile off the starboard bows and nearly a cable to the right of Jester's course.

Should he charge up her larboard side? Lewrie smiled. They were not two hundred yards off! Mlavic? Hah! Stupid shit.

The brig s manoeuvre had thrown Mlavic off. Jester would reach her first and be between him and the prize. With a happily imagined eruption of head-fur as Mlavic tore his hair out, the dhow was hauling her wind and falling off to cross Jesters stern. If Mlavic couldn't catch her by passing left, he'd duck down and pass right, and assault the brig's leeward side. But that'd put him in the wind-shadow of Jester's tall masts and massive spread of sail, and rob him of the wind-strength he needed to hold his course or make his current speed, making his attack even later!

"Might be uncanny knacky t'keep finding us, Mr. Buchanon," Lewrie noted. "But he's not a clever sailor, is he?"

"What need have we o' such a 'no-sailor,' 'en, Cap'um?"

"Only God above-and Captain Charlton-knows, sir," Lewrie replied. "Mister Knolles? Ready to get our way off. Once we've fired her a cheery hello, be ready to fetch-to and get boats down."

"Aye aye, sir!"

"Mister Hyde, still with us?" Lewrie asked, craning about.

"Here, sir," the midshipman replied, stepping forward.

"Strike the French flag and hoist the proper colours," Lewrie said, pacing to the forward edge of the quarterdeck. "Mister Crewe? Warning shot, once we've our own colours aloft. Does she haul away, though, do you serve her a full broadside!"

And there the brig lay, just a bit ahead of abeam, within a long musket-shot, thrashing away to windward and safety frantically, with her captain and first mate by her windward rails with speaking-trumpets in their hands. Crewmen were waving tarred hats or long, red Frog stocking caps, giving their "ally," their "rescuer," a hearty Gallic cheer.

" 'Alloo!" the brig's captain shrilled. "Bon matin, m'sieur!"

"Colour's aloft, sir!" Midshipman Hyde yelled from astern.

"Open the gun-ports and run out, Mister Crewe! Warnin' shot!"

With a deep thunderous growl of wooden truck wheels on oak decks, the guns of the starboard battery were hauled up to the ports, the same time as the port lids were swung up and out of the way, interrupting the pacific dark-green gunwale stripe with a chequer of blood-red interior bulwark paint as they hinged flat against Jester's side.

The starboard focs'le carronade erupted with a titanic belch of smoke and flame, placing an 18-pounder solid iron ball in the sea just fifty feet ahead of the brig's beak-head rails and figurehead, splashing a great pillar of spray as high as her fore-course yard, which sheeted on her foredecks as she sailed into it like a sudden summer sun-shower.

"And a bloody good morning t'you as well, m'sieur!" Lewrie cried across. It was difficult to shout, though; he was laughing too hard at the looks of utter disbelief on the Frenchmen's phyzes! "Amenez-vous? Do you strike? Or do I blow you t'Hades?" he demanded, patting the cold iron barrel of the nearest quarterdeck carronade.

The brig's captain was stamping his feet and raging in a circle about his deck, like he was trying to kill an entire plague of roaches. He flung his speaking-trumpet at Jester-almost reached her, he was so exercised! But, after a final fist-shake and tearing off his hat-to do a furious stomping on that, too!-he howled at his after-guard.

And her Tricolour came sagging down.

CHAPTER 7

"Lie!" Dragan Mlavic accused, once he'd attained the gangways on the prize. "Cheat! British, you cheat and lie! Take for self!"

"Sir," Lewrie countered, icily civil, "you were too far down to leeward. Understand… leeward? Too far off. You almost cost us the… our prize, by tacking too soon. Gave the game away."

"So now you keep?" Mlavic raged, flexing knobby rough fingers about the hilt of his expensive scimitar. He'd been followed by three of his larger and most rakehellish accomplices, who couldn't follow a bloody word that was said, of course, but were willing to back Mlavic to the hilt against strangers.

"On the contrary… sir," Lewrie replied, grinding his teeth to remain calm. It wasn't every day an English gentleman was told he was a liar or a cheat; those were dueling words, gentleman-to-gentleman, a cause for blood! "You are entitled to a share of her goods, just as we agreed back at Mjlet with your leader."

And however do ye really pronounce that? Alan wondered.

"And I'll thankee t'take your hand off your sword hilt, before I get angry. Sir," Lewrie dared snap.

" 'Fore some'un gets bad hurt fo' insultin' ou' cap'um, heah me?" Andrews spoke up from Lewrie's right rear, with his right hand firm on the hilt of his slung cutlass. "Ya un'erstan' 'hurt,' mon?" Andrews threatened, backed up by Midshipman Spendlove and five hands off Lewrie's gig. "Be easy, now."

Mlavic squinted his beady little eyes, screwing his face up like he'd caught a whiff of something rotten. For a second or two, he tried to puff out his chest like a pigeon, but thought better of it. Andrews was something out of his experience, a West Indies black seaman, sprung up like a vengeful djinn in Turkish tales, and as fearsome as an ogre. Wearing a coxswain's pipe, pistol and sword, and backed by other hands spoiling for a fight. With a raspy sigh, he deflated, cowed.