Jester's Fortune

by Dewey Lambdin

  “A gewürztraminer, Commander Lewrie.” Charlton beamed back at him, quite pleased that his officers liked his wine selection. “That is, I am told, German for ‘spiced’ . . . gewürz. Not too sweet on your palates, gentlemen?”

  “Not at all, sir!” Commander Fillebrowne was quick to reassure his superior. “My word, sir, you must tell me the name of the shop you got it from. Have to have a case’r two of this aboard. Tastier than a proper port. Lighter, too,” Fillebrowne toadied on.

  “Right fine, sir,” Rodgers told him. “Kinder on th’ tongue than ‘Miss Taylor,’ nor half as raw. Doesn’t pucker ya like a hock or Rhenish. Aye, I’d take a case’r two aboard, as well, sir.”

  Not all in one sitting, Lewrie thought with a secret grin. Rodgers was born with a hollow leg, holds his guzzle better’n any I ever did see, but Lord . . . what a packet he can stow away, and give no sign of!

  “Perhaps the nicest bit come off from shore, sirs,” Charlton said, turning moody and a touch fretful. “Sweeter by far than what I read in your report, Captain Rodgers, of what you and Lewrie learned of the poor state of Venetian defences, for certain. I would never have expected to see them let things get in such a shoddy fix.”

  “‘Lo, how the mighty are fallen,’ sir, aye. Something like that,” Commander Fillebrowne cited with a commiserating shrug and head-shake.

  “Something very much like that, sir.” Captain Thomas Charlton grimaced. “S’pose it’d do no good to alert the Venetian senate to what venal situation obtains on Corfu, do you? Do no good to . . . tattle?”

  “I doubt the Venetians would appreciate it, sir,” Lewrie replied when it looked like no one else would rise to it. “There must be hundreds of their nobility profiting from some other corruption already. To alert ’em would cause just enough grief for them to resent us.”

  “And,” Fillebrowne pointed out with a raised finger, “since the provveditore down yonder, and the others, are nobles recorded in their so-called Golden ‘Stud’ Book, they’re untouchable.”

  “Don’t know, sir,” Rodgers countered with a sly look. “Venice is known f’r cleanin’ up scandals quiet-like. Th’ odd body dumped in a canal, anonymous stabbin’s in the streets by hired bravos . . . stranglin’ th’ overgreedy with a silk noose in prison. Beats th’ cost of a trial—an’ th’ public embarrassment—all hollow.”

  “Onliest thing is, Captain Rodgers”—Charlton brightened, wryly amused—“they’ve a tradition of killing the messenger who brings ’em the bad tidings, too!”

  “Well, there is that, sir,” Rodgers allowed with a wry grin.

  Charlton set his glass on the dining table and smoothed down his unruly, wiry grey hair—hair, Lewrie noted, that had been more pepper than salt just scant months before they’d sailed for the Adriatic.

  “I was ashore, gentlemen,” Charlton announced, folding his hands in his lap and working his lips from side to side, as if trying to find a comfortable fit. “There are two items of note. One merely bad—and one utterly appalling. S’pose we should get the worst out of the way first. That old acquaintance of yours, Lewrie, this Bonaparte—”

  “Oh, aye, did Latin verbs together, sir,” Lewrie sniggered.

  Charlton gave him a beetle-browed glare, which shushed him, and his too-quick wit, much like an irate tutor.

  “Seems he’s given the Austrians more woes, according to what the good Major Simpson told me,” Charlton went on, after a last glare, for assurance that Lewrie was properly chastened and would make no more amusing comments. “Crossed the Po River into Lombardy round the beginning of May. Ignored their fortress-city of Pavia and found an unguarded stretch where no one ever would have thought to look for him—at Piacenza. Fillebrowne, you’re still our expert on Italian geography. Do you unroll that map for us, sir . . . there’s a good fellow? Ah, just here . . . far east of Pavia. Marched or flew, I don’t know which would be harder to credit, from Turin in bare days.” Charlton looked gloomy, a hand waving over the general vicinity, once Fillebrowne had dutifully displayed the map and began to anchor it with glasses.

  “Marshal Beaulieu, I’m told, had planned to entrench behind the Ticino River and the Po, anchoring things with Pavia, but with the French threatening him from the east and Milan wide open, the Austrian Army was forced to retreat. Abandoning Pavia, and part of its garrison— and all the supplies gathered there—same as happened before, when they had to abandon Alessandria,” Charlton related with a disappointed sniff. “Now, here . . . the Adda River, at a place called Lodi . . . Bonaparte caught up with Beaulieu’s rear guard. Fought his way across the narrow bridge under heavy fire and cut up the rear guard. Rather handily, I must say . . . or so Major Simpson related it to me.”

  “And that, rather reluctantly, I should expect, sir,” Fille-browne quipped with a derisory smirk.

  “Quite, sir,” Charlton snapped, turning his frosty humour on Fillebrowne for a welcome change, and glaring his smarminess to scorn. “I am also told—reluctantly or not, Commander Fillebrowne—that Milan fell to French troops about the middle of the month . . . not five days after this battle at Lodi, and Marshal Beaulieu and his Austrians—what’s left of ’em, mind—have scuttled back to Mantua to regroup. And what that means, sirs, is that the western half of Lombardy is now lost!”

  “But, that’s . . .” Captain Rodgers spluttered in disbelief. “Why, that’s nigh impossible, sir! To move so quick ’gainst such a force. Mean t’say, surely—”

  “And that was just the doings in the merry month of May, sirs,” Charlton snapped, as if he were taking cruel amusement from the hapless antics of their allies—or enjoyed shredding Rodgers’s last illusions concerning the invincible Austrian Army. Lewrie, though, thought their squadron commander’s bile was more the instinctive variety; that utter disgust for the doings of “soldiers,” who were little better than gaudy “jingle-brains,” idle fops and boasting coxcombs.

  “Now, here’s the real salt in the wounds, sirs,” Captain Charlton sighed, recovering his glass of wine and taking a sip with a shrug. It seemed to calm him. “I am also told that Lewrie’s old compatriot . . .”

  Damme, I wish he’d stop sayin’ that! Alan rankled to himself.

  “. . . has come down as far as Parma, to the south.” Charlton hunched forward over the map. “This past month, he’s taken Modena, then Bologna. Marched into the north-ernmost Papal States, took on the Papal Army—eighteen thousand or so— still runnin’, I’m assured, all the way back to Rome! Just scattered ’em. Then he turned on Tuscany. Took Ferrara and Florence, their capital city. Sent troops to Porto Especia, and . . . Leghorn.”

  “Good God!” It was Lewrie’s turn to gasp in disbelief. “Sir, if he has Leghorn, then—well, ’cept for Naples, do they not panic!—we haven’t a friendly port left anywhere in Italy which would base or victual the fleet! Well, Gibraltar, but that’s a long slog . . .”

  “Exactly, Commander Lewrie,” Charlton grunted, taking another tidy sip of wine. “Got it in one. No more repairs or naval stores to be had from them . . . no more wine, pasta or fresh meat on the hoof . . .”

  “Which means the fleet must live on salt-meats,” Rodgers discovered. “No way to prevent scurvy, sooner or later. I’d suppose no more onions or such, either, ’cept what little grows on Corsica. Naples—”

  “We know how shaky was Naples’ allegiance to the Coalition ere this,” Charlton responded with a grimace. “The Pope and Tuscany . . . so the rumour goes . . . have dug deep into their treasuries and their art collections to buy off the French. Better to be a dirt-poor but still independent nation than a starving, ravaged and conquered one, hmm? I’d expect Naples to do likewise, weak as they are. And that, soon.”

  “Their art collections, sir?” Fillebrowne gawped, looking ashen.

  “May they not fulfill the French tribute in gold or silver, sir,” Charlton told him. “Valuable paintings, statues and such could make up the difference. There was talk ashore that this Bonaparte has explicit orders to gather sp
ecific works of art from palaces and museums, as well as solid specie. Paris has a complete list of required items by name.”

  “My word, sir!” Fillebrowne groaned. “But that is a barbarous . . . why, I never heard the like! To loot . . . !” He passed a hand over a very pale brow, as if presented with tales of Atilla’s Huns using Virgil’s library scrolls for bum-fodder. Or, more likely, Lewrie speculated, he was wondering what would be left for him, at any price, once the French had stripped the country clean! Lewrie didn’t think many valuable artworks stood a ghost of a chance to escape the French sentry posts, along the roads on which those wealthy refugees Fillebrowne had crowed about fled.

  “Book o’ Revelations warned us ’bout this,” Rodgers reminded them. “‘An’ I saw three unclean spirits— like Frogs — come out th’ mouth o’ th’ dragon, an’ out th’ mouth o’ th’ Beast, an’ out th’ mouth o’ . . . oh! . . . ’th’ false prophet. F’r they’re th’ spirits o’ devils, workin’ miracles, an’ . . . which go forth unto th’ kings o’ th’ Earth.’ Somethin’ ’long that line, any-way.”

  Ben Rodgers . . . quotin’ Scripture? Lewrie gawped! Must be damn deep in his gewürz-traminer, if that’s so!

  “You’ve been reading books again, haven’t you, sir?” Lewrie simply had to chide him in mock severity, commingled with a touch of sadness.

  “Well, just th’ one, Lewrie.” Rodgers chuckled bashfully, with a hint of throat-hitching remorse as he ducked his head. “Sorry. An’ I won’t let it happen again.” And he manfully stifled a snigger.

  “Gentlemen, really!” Charlton grumbled, nigh to prim outrage.

  “I still don’t understand, sir,” Lewrie stuck in quickly, hoping to defuse him before he burst like a bomb. “Bonaparte came south, leaving his new conquests wide open. Leaving his rear wide open to a countermove. Surely . . . in the last month or so . . .”

  “Beaulieu was beaten, sir,” Charlton snapped, rounding on him as if he could still explode. “Without a real fight. That’s the way soldiers think. Slither about like dancing-masters and won’t fight ’til they’ve everything arranged neat and tidy to their satisfaction. And Major Simpson said he was probably waiting for reinforcements to come. There’s a new general, some fellow named Wurmser, due down from their armies on the Rhine. But it’d take him a month or more to march through the passes in the Alps. I doubt the Austrians thought there’d be much threat in the meantime. Not with Mantua so strong, and plumb in the centre of all these little lakes, marshes and such. No way to get at them . . . no easy way, rather.”

  “Only were Bonaparte willing to do the usual thing and try to besiege, sir,” Lewrie puzzled aloud, rising from his chair in a half-crouch to study the map where Charlton’s fist was rested.

  Well, mine arse on a band-box! he thought; Ferrara’s not thirty-five miles from Italy’s eastern coast—’bout sixty-five or seventy to Venice! That’s, what . . . four days’ march? Jesus, with this Bonaparte make it three. He’s south of the Po, the Adige rivers, south and east of Mantua. Usin’ the rivers as shields, so he can play silly buggers all he wishes, till the Austrians’re forced to cross and attack him. Which is probably just what the arrogrant little shit wants!

  “Seems to me, sir,” Lewrie concluded, “while the Austrians are waiting for General Wurmser to arrive, Bonaparte could come down from Ferrara to the coast. There’s this Lake Comacchio. He could take the town by the inlet, and land all the supplies he wants there. Or up at Ravenna . . . that might be safer. Out of reach of the garrison at Mantua. And safe behind the Po and all, even after Wurmser arrives.”

  “Stretch him thin, would it not, though, sir?” Fillebrowne enquired, after getting over his vapours at the thought of priceless artworks being taken out of his reach; or the reach of his purse.

  “Doesn’t seem to bother him much . . . not yet, anyway,” Rodgers snorted. “Like a Robin Hood, or a famous highwayman back home. He’s here, he’s there, everywhere. Three coaches robbed ’fore sunrise . . . in three different counties, and all that outlaw’s doin’.”

  “And Wurmser, sir,” Lewrie went on, feeling the need to cross to the sideboard and top up his glass, then fetch the bottle back to fill the others up. “Coming from the Rhine armies, you said? Hellish risk, to strip the Rhine of men and guns, ain’t it? Makes it easier for Frog troops to go tramplin’ into Bavaria? . . .”

  Damme, they look as if I’d just let a fart! Lewrie thought as he saw the sudden, gape-mouthed expressions on their faces.

  It was one thing to hear that the largest, most lavishly equipped and most rigourously trained army in Europe—an army supported by the mightiest and most populous empire in the world—was having a few bad bouts . . .

  Well, Lewrie qualified to himself, there’s China, but they’re not in this equation. And there is Roosia, but they’re lucky to stand upright on a good day, so I’m told!

  But, to contemplate the tag-rag-and-bobtail French actually defeating Austria . . . invading Austrian possessions . . . well!

  Well, hadn’t they just? Lewrie qualified again. The Arch-duchy of Milan and Lombardy are Austrian possessions. So what’s special ’bout Bavaria goin’, too? And if they can do that . . . !

  That sneaking, queasy, gut-wrenching worry was on every face of a sudden. Lewrie poured their top-ups in total, astonished and funereal silence, like they’d just been told of their monarch being murdered. Or that hushed silence of Maundy Thursday in church, when the fine trappings are stripped in mournful quiet.

  “Ahum . . .” Charlton grunted, breaking their silence, taking his newly full glass at last. “Thankee, Lewrie. Now, sirs. That’s the appalling lot; here’s the merely bad. Admiral Jervis had sent us new instructions. He is of a mind that, should the French try to cut the Italian peninsula and gain the eastern coast, our presence in the Adriatic will be more important than ever. We are to keep a closer eye on the Italian coast, now Bonaparte controls the Papal States’ shores. We must prevent any succour reaching him by sea. We are to prevent any warships formerly controlled by those nations now paying tribute to the French from being appropriated and incorporated into their navy . . . prevent them from sailing, or destroy them should they do so. And we’re to continue our interdiction of the timber and naval stores from the Adriatic, of course, hence delaying the presence of substantial numbers of French warships along their newly gained Italian coast. We must . . . uhm, ‘soldier’ on, for the nonce.”

  They nodded dumbly at that directive.

  “For us to remain in the Adriatic, sirs, is not bad news, and I do not wish you to draw any negative connotations from my characterisations of our expanded orders,” Charlton was quick to warn them. “I refer, rather, to the local situation, anent the Austrians. It seems . . . hmm . . . the local authorities, the town fathers of Trieste, as well as the Austrian Naval and War Ministry at Vienna have, uhmm . . .”

  He took another bracing sip of wine, screwing his mouth to one side as if he’d developed a sudden distaste for the spicy, sweet drink.

  “Perhaps we’ve been a tad too successful, too quickly. Or the Austrians now expect miracles from us, as a matter of course,” Captain Charlton posed, essaying a rather grim chuckle, with no real humour in it, “I know not which. Sweep their seas clean for ’em . . . muck out the Augean Stables for ’em, like Hercules as a hired labourer did. But . . . given their parlous situation ashore, Vienna has shifted funds from the Trieste Squadron and given them to their hard-pressed armies. And the town council of Trieste have seen fit to reduce their contributions to Major Simpson’s squadron. Cut him in half, just about. So he will not be completing his seven new gun-boats, and will barely be able to maintain what few vessels he already possesses. That, of course, precludes his conversion of any of our seaworthy prizes into warships which might have reinforced us, as we had originally discussed. He’d have to buy a ship in, first, arm her, strengthen her, then man her. And where he’d get a tenth of the funds necessary for that, God only knows. So here we are, still completely ‘on
our own bottoms,’ sirs.”

  “Well, what about the Hungarian Squadron, sir?” Lewrie enquired. “Though we haven’t met ’em yet, weren’t they more aggressive at . . . ?”

  “I’m told it’s much the same with them, Lewrie, the same text, chapter, and verse,” Charlton rejoined. “In point of fact, their infantry regiments which form their marines have been given orders to go west, to Mantua. They put great stock in Croat soldiers. Devilish-good fighters, I’m told. They’re laying up their fleet, too, stripping it to the bone, ’til the problem with Bonaparte has been settled. On the land . . . over in Lombardy. ’Til then, the only naval worries they might have would be along the upper Rhine and the Danube.”

  “Th’ French get so far’z t’threaten Trieste,” Captain Rodgers quipped, “then th’ Austrians’ve far greater problems’n ya could shake a stick at, anyway.”

  “Quite so, Captain Rodgers,” Charlton was forced to agree.

  “Never even met the Hungarians yet, sir,” Fillebrowne sniffed primly. “Nor any help from their little squadron of coasters.”

  “Doin’ main-well so far, sir,” Rodgers grumbled. “An’ ’thout a jot o’ Austrian aid, either! We’ll manage fine . . . way I see it.”

  “Ah, but should the traffick increase, sirs,” Charlton warned them sternly, “should the French take over even a few well-armed small ships . . . we can’t be everywhere at once. Nor, unless we sail together, be of sufficient strength. Guard the straits only, and the French may play merry Hell on the Italian east coast. Shift patrols over there, closer to Ravenna and Venice, and the straits become a thoroughfare to smugglers and French merchantmen. We’re badly in need of reinforcement. I tell you, sirs, badly. Did we have a third frigate and sloop of war, we might— might, mind—just barely cope. One group for the straits down south, one for the Balkan coast, and one patrolling higher up in the Adriatic . . . keeping an eye on Ravenna and such.”