Jester's Fortune

by Dewey Lambdin

  Rolling slightly, rising slightly, atop the scend of the sea and stable for a moment—“on the up-roll”—the guns erupted. Great hot gouts of smoke and embers burst forth, to be quickly winged away alee; a full dozen long-guns or carronades flung solid shot at the struggling old bilander, and she disappeared in a furious froth of spray and pillars of foam, close-aboard her larboard side. That grotesque lateen mains’l, whose boom stretched from her amidships to far over her stern, shattered by the main mast trunk to come sagging alee like a broken goose’s wing, as she shivered to the impact of 9-pounder and 18-pounder iron. She rolled hard to starboard in recoil, against the press of wind on her remaining sails, before rolling again, this time so far to larboard they could look down on her main deck. Without the balance of that lateen mains’l, and with square-sails and lateen jibs up forward close-hauled, she fell off fast, slowing in a welter of snuffled foam. Crippled.

  Aha! Lewrie exulted to himself, seeing the Tricolour soar up her damaged main mast. She was a Frog, just as I thought! He then gave vent to a real, audible cheer as that flag was just as quickly hauled down, in sign she’d struck to them . . . to Jester.

  “Mister Hyde,” Lewrie called for his eldest midshipman, “do you take a party aboard her. With Mr. Sadler, the Bosun’s Mate, as senior hand. My cox’n Andrews to assist. Mr. Knolles, fetch to! Mr. Cony, we’ll fetch to! And hoist a boat off the beams for the boarding party!”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  “Mister Crewe!” Lewrie crowed. “Damn’ good shootin’, sir, as you always do! Two guns to remain manned until the boarding party’s aboard her. Secure the rest.”

  There were dozen things to do at once; take in sail, cock Jester up to the wind and rig out the falls and tackle to hoist a boat off the waist tier which spanned the amidships. And all the while he kept a wary eye on their supposedly helpless prize, which was now also cocked up into the wind, her yards nearly bare of canvas and her crew slumping hangdog and dejected at her rails.

  It was a full quarter hour later that Lewrie had a moment to spare for what else was going on, and he was only called away from his own concerns by the sound of more gunfire down to the Sou’east.

  Pylades had stood on, close-hauled on the larboard tack, chasing after the second bilander. She was three miles further inshore by then. Without her prize, it seemed, and venting her anger over it upon a host of local feluccas and small xebecs. The pirates had the bilander not only surrounded, but under way and heading inshore for Bar, snapping back with light artillery like a pack of starving wolves guarding their first kill in weeks from a rogue lion.

  Lewrie raised his telescope to take a good gander, standing by the starboard quarterdeck ladder to the waist.

  “Sir, it’s Hyde!” Midshipman Spendlove intruded. Lewrie swung his ocular leftward, re-focusing on the figure of a grinning Midshipman Hyde on the captured bilander’s larboard bulwarks, waving at them. The bilander had fallen down off-wind to Jester in the meantime and was now a bit less than a cable’s distance—or 240 yards—off, and within hailing. He could see that the prize-crew had erected a spare fore-tops’l yard on her, aft, fitted with a longboat’s lug-sail for a spanker, so she would have some drive and some leverage to counter her foresails for steerage.

  “Speaking-trumpet, Mister Spendlove,” Lewrie bade, trading telescope for the open-ended brass cone. “Mister Hyde!” He bellowed across the distance. “Follow in my wake! We’ll head out to sea!” He gestured with one emphatic wave of his left arm westward.

  “Aye aye, sir!” Came the answering wail, thin and reedy. “We’ll follow you out!”

  There was more gunfire from the Sou’east, thin and flat. A final fit of pique, it seemed, for Pylades was hauling her wind, turning away from the coast to make her own way out to deep water. Denied her prize.

  Another quick exchange of telescope and speaking-trumpet with Mr. Spendlove and Lewrie could see even more boats had come out from shore—tiny fishing smacks, small coasters, feluccas or light galleys—just about anything that could bear sails or oarsmen. The second unfortunate French bilander was in the centre, within a mile of the shore, hemmed in closely between her original half dozen captors. Had Pylades contested them for her, Lewrie realised, she’d have been swamped on every hand by six dozen craft bearing hundreds, perhaps upwards of a thousand bloodthirsty pirates or half-starved villagers. They would look upon the coming of a European ship laden with rare goods like the inmates at Bedlam would the arrival of a drunken pieman in their midst, his trays heaped with piping-hot treats. Neutral Montenegran or Albanian villagers, he reminded himself with a snort of frustration, people they had no plaint against, nor any business fighting!

  Were they as poverty-stricken as Major Simpson suggested back in Trieste, one scruffy bi-lander would represent a king’s ransom, with all her nails, iron bolts, blocks, rope, furniture, guns and powder, as well as her canvas and cargo. And they’d fight to the last tooth and nail before they’d let her go, as fiercely as a she-bear defending her cubs. But it looked, from where he was standing, much like a horde of rats savaging a side of beef left unguarded!

  “We’ll not go inshore and cut her out, sir?” Spendlove asked.

  “Doubt it, Mister Spendlove.” Lewrie grimaced as he lowered his telescope. “Mister Knolles? Make sail, and shape a course Due West for now. We’ll escort our prize out, and close Pylades.”

  “I mean, sir . . .” Spendlove gently insisted. “Mr. Buchanon says this stretch of coast is Muslim. Ottoman Turk. And she’s French, so . . .”

  “Want t’die, young, sir?” Buchanon sneered, having heard his name cited, as they plodded back toward the helm. “See some o’ th’ hands die t’save Frogs? Or a ship ’at’d be mostly looted ’fore dark anyways?”

  “Well, no, sir, but . . . mean t’say, sirs . . . Frogs or no, they are fellow Christians. Even if they are Papists.” Spendlove reddened. “I just wondered . . . what would happen to them, do we not . . .”

  “Fetch a pretty penny.” Mr. Buchanon sighed, rubbing the side of his nose. “Per’aps th’ most value o’ ’at prize, do ’ey sell ’em in a slave-market. Blue-eyed, white-skin Christians’re valuable. Do ’ey not cut a few throats first, mind. Nor rough ’em up too vicious.”

  “As the old saying goes, Mister Spendlove,” Lewrie said, as he slammed the tubes of his telescope shut and stored it in the binnacle-rack, “‘God help the French,’ sir. And it was their choice. Run in that close to a piratical shore to escape us? Well, on their heads be it, Mister Spendlove.”

  “An’ ’ey are Frogs, after all, young sir,” Buchanon reminded the midshipman. “Like you say, Cap’um . . . ‘God help th’ French.’ For ’ere’s ought we could do for ’em, now, ’thout gettin’ dozens o’ men o’ our own killed t’save ’em. Poor motherless bastards.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Captain Benjamin Rodgers, too, was of the opinion of “God help the French,” and agreed with Lewrie that “on their own heads be it” if an enemy merchantman escaped their clutches only to stagger into even greater harm among the savages of the coasts.

  “Look at it this way, Alan,” he said, chortling, as they put their heads together just shy of Corfu. “It’s a bit less prize-money for us, but do th’ damn pirates get her, she’s a dead loss for th’ Frogs just th’ same. One less bloody cargo t’help ’em build their navy ’gainst us!”

  “Just so long as they only take outward-bound ships, sir,” Lewrie reluctantly agreed with him, leaning forward to snag the neck of the claret bottle on the table between them as they celebrated aboard Pylades in shirtsleeves and unbuttoned waistcoats, their neck-stocks undone and comfortable. “Oh, I’d ’llow the locals as many of the timber or naval stores cargoes as they wish. Good huntin’ to ’em, I say, but I’ll—”

  “Cargoes already bought an’ paid for, mind, so ’tis double their loss,” Rodgers interrupted, as had ever been his energetic wont. “May e’en be triple th’ loss . . . do th’ Frogs still have a maritime insurance fund, like Mr.
Lloyd at his coffee-house in London. Or have a sou left in it? By God, sir . . . the grief! Their poor ships’-husbands an’ owners . . . weepin’ an’ wailin’ ev’rytime their little Lutine Bell rings! Haw!”

  “But I’ll fight tooth and nail for an inbound ship, sir,” Lewrie persevered with a much-put-upon sigh well hidden from Rodgers. Falling back into old, forgotten habits, he consoled himself with a wry chuckle; it was difficult to get a word in edgewise when Benjamin Rodgers was full of himself and “chirping wordy”!

  “Aye, poor wine ’board an outbound ship,” Rodgers hooted, full of mirth, retrieving that bottle for his own enjoyment. “After they’ve drunk up all their ‘bubbly.’ Mean t’deprive me, th’ surly bastards.”

  “All their export goods, sir,” Lewrie rejoined in good humour. “They don’t have that good an economy, that much silver or gold specie with which to pay for—”

  “Amen and amen t’that, Alan old son!” Rodgers guffawed, banging the bottle on the table in his exuberance. “Aye, short as they are for solid coin, why . . . an’ how many other nations’ bankers’ll honour any o’ their Letters of Exchange, ’cause they’re paper promises . . . not worth th’ paper they’re written on!”

  “Bills of credit, but based on what, sir?” Lewrie said quick as he could, before Rodgers went on another tear. “Redeemed when, if ever—”

  “An’ ev’ry inbound vessel we take, then, is another nail in th’ coffin for ’em,” Rodgers exulted, getting to his feet to pace. “They have t’buy grain or starve, from th’ Barbary States or their old chums th’ Americans. Must be in bad debt with them already! Most o’ their merchant fleet already swept clean off th’ seas, blockaded.”

  “A huge drain, sir . . . on an already thin-stretched economy. Or treasury. Worst drain may be right here in the Adriatic. Can’t win a war without a navy . . . can’t build or maintain their navy without stores from the Adriatic. And can’t purchase—”

  “That’ll be something t’tell Captain Charlton, next time we cross his hawse, wouldn’t it, Alan?” Rodgers speculated. “That we’re doin’ a power more t’hurt th’ Frogs than anyone else at th’ moment. Makin’ ’em bleed through th’ nose for want o’ timber. Might bankrupt ’em. By God, we could! Bankrupt ’em . . . d’ye think?”

  “Very possibly, sir.” Lewrie grinned. “And make a tidy profit in prize-money, in captured silver and gold for ourselves, with every inbound ship we take. As for the outbound, we might as well let the pirates have ’em. Or burn ’em, since—”

  “Hellish waste, though.” Rodgers sobered for a moment. “So far, we’ve seen some damn’ handsome ships, for th’ most part. Worth a lot to the Austrian Prize-Court. Not a third th’ value of th’ inbound, but . . .”

  “Word might get round, sir,” Lewrie suggested. “Might give pause to Frog shipmasters . . . those neutrals, too, who’d profit by smuggling for ’em. Word of Dalmatian pirates takin’ their ships’d put the fear of God in ’em, too, sir. Wonder if there’s a way to start a rumour . . .”

  “We’ll find that out tomorrow, Alan,” Rodgers stated levelly, with a cunning leer on his phyz. “When we put into Corfu. Or rather, when you put into Corfu, in my stead.”

  “Once burned, twice shy, sir?” Alan snickered. “Still holding Charleston ’gainst me?”

  “A bit, I must own.” Rodgers chuckled. Years before, Rodgers had come aboard Alacrity in the pursuit of a murderous pirate and criminal who’d fled the Bahamas in a swift three-masted lugger after looting a private bank of all its assets. They’d followed almost right into harbour in the port of Charleston, South Carolina, where a Royal Navy ship wasn’t exactly welcome so soon after the Revolution. They’d shot her to matchwood and taken her, right on the Charleston Bar, under the guns of the forts. And it had been Commander Rodgers who’d had to talk their way out and explain their doings, leaving Lieutenant Lewrie free to search their capture and arrest or kill the notorious John Finney. They’d gotten away by the skin of their teeth, without creating a diplomatic incident or starting a new war—but it had been a damn close affair.

  “Just after dawn, Alan . . .” Rodgers decided. “We’ll transfer all the foreign crews and prisoners to Jester. You take ’em into harbour an’ land ’em. Into Venetian custody. They can’t refuse you, bein’ so bloody neutral an’ all. Make it easier for us to safeguard th’ prize ships, too. No sense in holdin’ so-called ‘neutral’ Danes an’ Dutch ’til we go back to Trieste. Nor reason t’hold French merchant sailors, either, who’d be set loose an’ sent home sooner’r later, any-way.”

  “And should there be any smuggling vessels or French ships . . .”

  “Aye, old son.” Rodgers twinkled. “There’s yer couriers f’r a damn’ fine rumour o’ piracy an’ pillage. An’ news o’ Royal Navy ships sweepin’ th’ Adriatic clean as a tabletop. Make a sham o’ waterin’ . . . firewood an’ water, th’ usual sort o’ port visit. No longer’n twenty-four hours, mind. Whilst I stay seaward t’guard th’ prizes we have so far. Should there be a French warship in th’ offin’, my 5th Rate’d be more dauntin’ than yer Jester. And with our prisoners gone, I reduce th’ number o’ hands needed to man th’ prizes. Makin’ Pylades almost up t’full complement again. An’ my guns better served.”

  “Sure you don’t relish a run ashore, sir?” Lewrie offered. “You didn’t get your shot at Venice, and Trieste’s a dead bore, so—”

  “I’ll get my quill dipped sooner’r later, no fear, Alan. Venice is still there for me,” Rodgers countered, coming to pour them both up to brimming “bumpers.” “From what you an’ Charlton told me of it, it’s not all it’s reputed to be, though. Though th’ sportin’ ladies do sound fetchin’. Griggs?” he called to his manservant. “Trot out another o’ this claret ’fore supper. You’ll dine aboard, o’ course, Alan?”

  “Only if you swear you won’t get me thunderin’ drunk, Benjamin,” Lewrie scoffed. “How could I start our rumour and do all you expect with a thick head tomorrow?”

  “Seen you in action afore, sir. Thick head or no, you’ll be up for it. Griggs, damn yer eyes? Smartly, now!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Corfu was another mountaintop risen from the sea, so close to the Albanian, Ottoman-ruled mainland that the eastern pass by the old fortress of Kassiópi, which guarded Corfu’s northern strait, was within heavy gun-range of the Balkan shore. They went south, skirting along the western coast instead, all the way to Cape Asprókavos before sailing north again for Corfu Town.

  The island was shaped like an irregular hammer; the northern end and Mount Pandokrátor formed the peen. It then tapered, trending southeast in an undulating series of wiggles, before the final eastward hump round Cape Asprókavos. In the middle of the island’s eastern side was a cockspur, and upon that easterly-jutting cockspur’s tip was Corfu Town, well sheltered from the fierce Boras of the Adriatic and those shrieking Levanters out of Turkey.

  The harbour proper was on the north side of the cockspur peninsula, further protected by a massive breakwater and fortified seawall, under the towering battlements and gun apertures of the New Fort, which lay on the harbour’s west. At the very tip of the peninsula was another fortress—the Citadel. The town lay between those two forts, crammed between the hills and the fortress walls. It was walled, itself, along the sea sides, and probably walled on the west and sou’west, too—quite sensibly—due to the island’s importance to Venice for hundreds of years, and its proximity to their ancient foes just across the narrow straits.

  Pylades, with her prizes, stood off-and-on in Garitsa Bay, south of the town and cockspur, slowly idling along under reduced sail as far south as the southern cape and back. She stayed well outside that newfangled three-mile limit of sovereignty that Venice claimed.

  There were two small ships anchored in Garitsa Bay. And, did the colours they flew not lie, they were both Venetian traders—one a very shabby European-style brig, and the other a much older down-at-the-heels felucca. Neither seemed alarmed to see British warships
on the offing.

  Jester entered harbour under reduced tops’ls, jibs and spanker, ghosting along on a light zephyr of a morning wind that barely gave her steerageway. In port, along the ancient stone quays, lay more vessels: more feluccas, more dhow like coasters, a clutch of single-masted boats for inter-island travel to Ithaca and Paxos, called caiques. And there were fishing boats, of course. Another brace of Venetian merchant ships, too. And three foreign ships, one a Batavian Dutchman, a supposedly neutral Dane, and the last an outright French merchantman! These did show alarm as Jester came in between the harbour moles; even more alarm as she rounded up to the wind, which bared her starboard sides to the town and the ships as if she were about ready to open fire on them.

  Lewrie smirked at the sight of them. And what was coming!

  “Mister Crewe, open your starboard gun-ports!” He called down to the waist. “Ready, the salute! Eleven guns, no more.”

  “Aye aye, sir! ’Leven guns! Ready, number one starboard?” Mister Crewe shouted back. “Fire! If I weren’t a gunner, I wouldn’t be here . . . number two gun . . . fire! I’ve left my home, my wife an’ all that’s dear . . . number three gun . . . fire!”

  The governor-general of the Ionians, what the Venetians termed the provveditore di Isoli del Levant, rated no more than an eleven-gun salute—the proper reply to what they might take as a 6th Rate would be a salute of eleven back. Noisy, stinky . . . but hardly dangerous.

  “Christ, lookat ’em scamper!” Will Cony hooted, nudging Andrews in the ribs. “Like puttin’ up a flock o’ partridge, hey?”

  “Fin’ ’emselves a safe place ashoah, I’d wager, Will!” The cox’n grunted in like humour, to see the crewmen of the three merchant ships dash about like chickens with their heads cut off. And a fair number were discovering vital errands they suddenly had—in town!

  “Mark that Dane, sir.” Lieutenant Knolles snickered. “Her sailors are just as shy of us as the Frog sailors. A dead giveaway they’re up to no good, too!”