Jester's Fortune

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Thank him for me,” Lewrie replied, smiling a bit, and watching Ratko Petracic get a good guffaw out of his earlier antics. Petracic told his loafing crew of “Beau-Nasties,” who enjoyed such a ghoulish trick on an enemy as much as their master seemed to.

  “He egsblains vhy de big ships vit rich gargoes do nod appear,” Kolodzcy remarked, as they began to roar with laughter. “Dhey musd be patient, he says, for de Frenchmen to find dheir ‘stones’ again. He vill gif dhem grade wictories again, once dhey do. Gold . . . guns . . .”

  Petracic seemed almost boyish, almost likeable, for a moment, as he cajoled that fell gathering of cutthroats; a fellow in his mid-to late thirties, lean and muscular in the full flower of his manhood, and sharing a jollity like a well-respected smallholder among his peers on the village green on a Market Day back home—like a sport who’d just had a good game of bowls and was going to stake everyone to a pint to celebrate. He’d changed over to a pair of French trousers of pale grey, in a light hard-finish wool, this day, though he still clung to his old coral-red boots, red waist-sash, and white, embroidered shirt. And the glossy-furred weskit—sable? Lewrie idly wondered. Otter?

  That took some time, to caper ’mongst his men to buck up their spirits, though they didn’t look particularly dispirited to begin with. Share a word here, cuff a youngster’s unruly hair there.

  “He remints dhem how successful dhey heff been zo far, Kommandeur Lewrie,” Kolodzcy offered, offhandedly. “Bud I think he ist nod happy. Much artillery, he tells dhem . . . more powder unt shot dhan dhey need, zo dhey may pragdice. For de time dhey slay Durks unt Muslims.”

  “Hmphf,” was Lewrie’s comment to that.

  “Muskets . . . to arm de army dhey vill muster, zo Serbia vill be whole again . . . grade again,” Kolodzcy added, sounding almost bored.

  The schooner certainly mounted more guns, Lewrie took the time to note. There were a pair of 6-pounders on her small foc’s’le, a pair of 6-pounders right-aft for stern-chasers, too. Along her sides there were no less than ten artillery pieces, when she’d only been pierced for six originally—and, most-like, no heavier than 4-pounders or 6-pounders. They’d sawn embrasures for the extra four guns, right through the caprails of her bulwarks down to the scuppers, with no provisions for gun-ports. Surely that’d weakened her, Alan scowled in disapproval; after a time, she must begin to hog, to droop at bow and stern! Those embrasures were a tad too wide, too, for his liking. While it gave those guns a wider arc of fire, it lessened protection for the gunners, and spread the brutal shock of recoil on the breeching-ropes at too wide an angle. Without long baulks of seasoned timber bolted beneath the weather deck, the weight of the guns might slowly collapse the decking, let her start to hog more quickly. He doubted they’d even thought of strengthening.

  And he wasn’t going to be the one to mention it, either!

  He looked across to the galliot. She, too, had gotten modern guns—6-pounders—down her sides, in lieu of those ancient falconets she’d once sported. Too damn many guns again. He grimaced, and wished the worst sort of luck in their next blow. Perhaps the galliot might survive, but the schooner surely was now too top-heavy, with too much gun-weight above her center of gravity. On a severe angle of heel she’d ship tons of water cross her weather decks, right through the gaping embrasures.

  Nowhere near as beamy as she needs t’be, he speculated. Did they not get sail reduced quick, she’d be on her beam-ends, rolled through a complete circle and rip the “sticks” right out of her.

  “Kapitan Petracic inwites us below, sir. For brandy,” Kolodzcy interrupted his musings. “Plum brandy.” He shivered.

  “Tell him I’d be delighted,” Lewrie lied like a pleasant rug.

  It was a different story once they were below, after their first fiery slugs of that gin-clear evil. Petracic lost his “hail fellow well met” face, sat down behind the schooner’s former master’s desk and gave vent to a low, rumbling plaint. He was back to long-suffering nobility.

  “He gomblains, sir,” Kolodzcy abbreviated.

  “I’m sure he does,” Lewrie noted, deadpan, “complain.”

  “Zo few liddle ships, zo few ceptures . . . nod wort’ takink. One rich wessel only, unt his men are dis-sadisvied.”

  “But I see by his ships, sir, that he’s made the most of those he’s taken so far,” Lewrie pointed out. “He has a great amount of artillery, shot, powder . . . I see most of his crew ’board this schooner’ve armed themselves with good French St. Etienne Arsenal muskets, with all the accoutrements . . . good cutlasses, too. Infantry hangers and small-swords, a brace o’ modern pistols each.” He paused to let Kolodzcy do the translation, watching Petracic cock his handsome face over in leery disappointment. “He’s obviously taken a fair amount of money, too, in gold or silver specie. They don’t leave Dalmatian ports totally broke. There’s food, sailcloth, spare spars and rope, bosun’s-stores . . . European clothing, shoes. And wine, sir? My word, sir . . . so much he did not have just two weeks ago, remind him.”

  And trousers, Lewrie thought, hiding his smirk; many of his seamen—even Petracic—had plundered those bundles of Trousers, Used/Mended. Damme, that a darn’r two I saw on yer bum, sir?

  Lewrie waited out another translation, then Petracic’s replies, and Kolodzcy’s rendering into English, watching his features as he was forced to listen. Petracic was trying to be patient, but there was a bit too much nodding in agreement, his mouth set too grimly, for real patience. He was waiting for a chance to slip out his “buts”! Which came as soon as Kolodzcy took time to draw breath.

  “He dells his men, sir,” Kolodzcy said, “dhat ‘Rome vas nod made in a day’ . . . dhat die time ist gomink, but . . . ve lure him sout’, ve make grade promises ohf plunder, force him to take grade risks zo near de Uscocchi, de Serbmurderink Croatian scum, he says, before he ist strong enough to beat dhem. He accuses . . . dhat ve know area ist frightened unt svept clean. Dhat ist vhy ve send him to dhis goast. Bud . . . British covet gold unt rich gargoes ohf France, too. He accuses dhat our ships heff de gute areas, unt leaf him crumbs.”

  “Ask him, sir . . . does he wish to sail down to the straits and lie in wait off the Isles of Levant for first crack at incoming ships? If he’s so impatient to get rich, that’s where he should go, can he not plunder enough for his satisfaction here. We’d be quite happy to swap.”

  Kolodzcy paled. “I vill temper your vords, Kommandeur Lewrie. Zo he ist nod feelink his courage or his abilidy challenched. He ist vahry . . . uhm, toochy? Touchy? Ja, worse dhan usual, I think.”

  Come to think of it, Lewrie mused as he waited for Kolodzcy to translate cautiously, where are all the big ships? First off, back in the early days, we were chasing down full-rigged ships. Now it’s poor coasters!

  He thought that the squadron might have driven off or frightened off some of the trade, once rumours got back to French Mediterranean seaports—and the big-ship owners, with more to lose, lost their nerves.

  Grain convoys, too. The last three years since the war had begun the French had suffered poor harvests, or internal revolutions in grain-growing areas. It might be the right time of year to sail to the Barbary States or America and load up, if the Directory didn’t wish famine-induced revolutions to continue. The largest merchantmen might be tied up for that, he thought, leaving the smallest ships for the timber trade. Though it didn’t make much sense to him to transport heavy, bulky oak or pine baulks and masts in penny-packets. It was inefficient.

  Unless . . .

  Unless some large merchantmen in the Mediterranean were being held back for use as troop transports. For an invasion of Corsica? Or for a massive reenforcement of Bonaparte’s troops, by way of both east and west coasts of Italy? That might explain the sudden lack of good pickings in the Adriatic, too.

  Or perhaps the squadron had come too late, like Rodgers had groused, to make much of a dent in the trade, and the French shipyards had enough oak for everything they’d started, a full year’s supply be
yond that. And autumn and its gales were coming. Perhaps their fleet was large enough to suit even their timidity, and they must cross swords with Admiral Jervis before winter penned everyone in port.

  Or they know something we don’t he thought; those vague rumours of Spanish ships of the line moving from Vigo, Ferrol and Cadiz past Gibraltar. Should the Spanish throw in with the French, there’d be no more urgency to obtaining oak or building their own . . . oh, but surely not!

  But, he countered his own argument, should the Frogs get to sea, they’d need sailors. And where best to get sailors but from one’s own merchant marine? Large ships would be unable to hire sailors in proper numbers, but the smallest ships could still be worked by fewer hands.

  “Sir?” Kolodzcy coughed politely, rousing him from his thoughts.

  “Aye, sorry.”

  “De Field of Black Birds . . . ve are beck to dhat. He says he ist nod pirade by choice,” Kolodzcy told him. “Ist only vay to strike de butchers ohf his folk, unt pud heart in de Serb peoble. Id ist a holy think he does, to speed de day ohf revenge unt freedom. Unt make a new Serb Empire . . . regain vhat de Durks, de Croats, de Muslims, Bulgars unt . . . ’Ungarians, take from dhem. To lifd de yoke ohf obbression, he insisds.”

  Kolodzcy paused as Petracic put out a hand and began to orate to them. He rose to his feet to pace the low-ceilinged cabin, gesticulate wide, though his voice was low, gruff and almost ruggedly sing-song. A faint melody to it? Lewrie puzzled. Like another of those folk-poems . . . or a litany? Aye, he’d been a parson, a priest, first! He was crooning what sounded like an Eastern Orthodox liturgy! A Serbian Orthodox . . .

  “De time ist gomink, he says,” Kolodzcy went on. “Vord hess spread, many brave fighters heff been roust. De Durks heff grown too veak, unt de Croats are avay, fightink for Austria. Dhis war is de godsend. He says he gannot resd until he hess struck a blow, von a grade wictory . . . a sign ohf de begin-nink ohf de end to zenturies ohf torture, murder unt slavery, to all true Serbs. Takink French wessels ist gute, for id brings gold unt arms. Men flock to him for weapons . . . leadership . . . now a Serb . . . navy! . . . hess been born. Bud, id ist nod enough. Dhat ist earthly kingdom ohf Mammon. He musd raise a Serbian army, unt dhat vill require a grade wictory . . . vhich vill be de sign! More muskets, cannon . . . gold unt silver to recruit unt pay a new army. Foreign egsberts in artillery, drill, siegevork . . .”

  Petracic leaned over them for a bit, almost imploring, hands to his breast and his voice a coaxing sob; the next moment he was flailing his arms in a righteous rant, stalking about, petulant, demanding and angry.

  “If he does nod gain a wictory soon, he thinks, he ist fearink de loss ohf dhose men he now hess,” Kolodzcy resumed. “Dhose who are sadisvied vit liddle, who vill quit once dhey gain only earthly wealt’. Ach! He ist demandink us to find him a wictory . . . zomethink impressive! If noddink else, just one more rich ship, a big ship, to silence de small-minded, vhile he gadders de true patriots. Before it falls apart. If dhat means goink into ports vhere big ships hide, dhen dhat ist vhat ve musd do, vit him. In de holy cause, de holy name ohf de Srpski Narod!”

  “We dealin’ with a complete lunatick?” Lewrie whispered, while Petracic’s back was turned as he shouted at the bulkheads. Kolodzcy wiped sweat from his face with a lace handkerchief and shushed at him.

  “Tell him I strongly advise against a move like that,” Lewrie objected in the first pause for breath. “First off . . .”

  Wait a bit, Alan thought sourly; what the Devil do I care, does he get his arse knackered? And he will, sure as Fate, if he irritates one o’ the local Balkan powers. Even the Venetians could eat him up!

  “First off, tell him,” Lewrie went on, “the French are sheltered in neutral Venetian ports. Second, our agreement was to secretly cooperate, never to operate together right out in the open. To even be seen together like this, this close to shore, is risk enough already. Third, we . . . we counted on his assistance in our troubles, and now he’s ready to go off and do something on his own. Captain Charlton expects him to aid us first . . . then take care of his own affairs once his men are experienced and he’s grown strong enough to do both.”

  “He asks, does grade power like England vish his help? Ve heff done liddle to make him strong. Two small ships we heff given him so far. Unt for dhis, ve ask him to valk like a leasht dog. He says, if he reneges on our agreement, who vill England find dhat vill aid us?”

  “Why . . . no one, I’d expect,” Alan candidly admitted, after some furious thought. “Did we approach any Muslims? No. Did we ever think of the Croats? No,” he lied. “We came to the Serbs, and him, direct. We’d . . . heard of him. His bravery, his skill, his daring . . .”

  “Gendle him down, ja, I see. Vit fladdery.” Kolodzcy nodded. “You vill allow me to . . . gild die lily, zo to sbeak, herr Lewrie?”

  No, ya don’t see, Lewrie thought; but you will.

  “And make sure he knows this, sir,” Alan added. “England understands, and sympathises, with the plight of the Serb people. We see his desire . . . their desire for a free, independent and sovereign Serbia as natural, I’m certain. While there is little we may do, as long as we’re at war with France, to aid in his most holy cause, I’m sure our King George would wish them every success. Against the Turks.”

  “Ah, ja,” Kolodzcy simpered, hiding his cynical amusement.

  “We cannot overtly aid him, tell him. I have strict orders not to, no matter my own wishes,” Lewrie intoned carefully. “Until Serbia, or the Serb people, are so organised they could form formal, recognisable diplomatic relations with Great Britain, our hands are tied when it comes to aiding his cause. No matter how much England may wish to see the Ottoman Empire confounded and rolled back and an independent Serbia established . . . we cannot recognise what doesn’t yet exist.”

  Lewrie waited while Kolodzcy translated all that, observing the glint of interest, the unlooked-for hope that most suspiciously came to Petracic’s demeanour as he heard that vague assurance.

  “We ourselves haven’t discovered a large enemy merchantman the last few weeks, tell him. So I cannot whistle one up for him. That is up to him, and the diligence he uses to sweep this local sea. And as for what would best hold the allegiance of his less-dedicated men . . . what deed would bring in the wholehearted, or ignite the passions of Serbs ashore . . . inland . . . well, I’m certain he would know best as to that. I’ve always heard, ‘Fortune favours the bold.’ Does he have the wish to uphold his nation’s honour, kill his people’s enemies . . . make his country great once more, well . . . that’s as high a calling as I feel for England. I don’t fight for prize-money alone, like a pirate or privateer, tell him. Not just for fame or glory, either . . .”

  Bloody Hell, but you can trowel it on thick! he chid himself and his sudden noble noises; would’ve made a grand theatric orator!

  “Ahh . . . herr Lewrie?” Kolodzcy harshly injected. “Mein Gott, bitte! You do nod know vhat you do, sir! Dhey are zo easily aroust!”

  “M’favourite sort o’ woman, sir.” Lewrie gently smiled at him. “Go on. Tell him all I’ve said. ’Cept that bit about the women.”

  It took a bit of time, and Alan watched Ratko Petracic stiffen, his handsome face battle a smile of pleasure, his fathomless eyes turn misty. Petracic’s chest heaved with deep-drawn emotions. Charlton had told him that Eastern Orthodox people were more of the heart than the head, in religion and in life. Portents, omens, coincidences . . . that would all be playing in his heart that instant, weighing a pointless career of only faintly rumoured piracy, or a chance to strike, to rise, at last . . . and undying fame as an avenger.

  Lewrie ransacked his memory for something mystical, some ringing Classic’s declamation, that might tip Petracic over the edge. A noble, a clean poem—he didn’t know that many; it was a desperate rummaging. But could he goad Petracic into some deed, something insane and fraught with peril, they’d finally be shot of pirates.

  “He thinks, sir,” Kolodz
cy intoned, looking a trifle sick, “he hess earthly unt heavenly, in one. A blow struck for Srpski Narod vill also frighten foreign traders into leafink.”

  “It may, at that,” Lewrie quite cheerfully agreed, making free on the plum brandy, beginning to find some delight beneath its harshness, “though I’d advise him to think long and careful before he acts. Take time to sniff about . . . time to unite all his ships. His . . . squadron,” Lewrie deemed it without betraying an ounce of sarcasm, “with Mlavic’s squadron. And where is he, by the way?”

  “He says Dragan Mlavic ist avay . . . on his vay beck to Palagruza. To transbord de prisoners ohf dheir few brizes. Bud his squadron ist here, except for his brig. He leafs de dhow. Kapitan Petracic boasts he now hess dhis schooner, his galliot, de dhow, two feluccas, unt he hess a ceptured French brig alzo he did nod burn. All vell-manned unt vahry vell-armed. De small boats carry fighters, too, but nod guns ohf grade sdrength. Hundrets ohf vell-armed varriors. Unt he vill issue a call for more ad once. Ach, scheisse . . . he recites again,” Kolodzcy sighed. “Lasd orders ohf Knez Lazar to all Serbs. ‘Whoever ist a Serb, unt ohf Serbian birt’ . . . unt who does nod come to Kossovo Polje to do baddle against die Durks . . . led him heff neider a male nor a female offspring, led him heff no crop . . .’”

  Petracic was swaying, expostulating a litany of vengeance upon ancient foes, for massacres and tyranny, theft of lands, for rapes and murders, tortures so unspeakably vile . . . growing angrier and louder, the longer he spoke. It needed but little translation. A wincing moment later, though, he looked almost shamefaced, calming too quickly and growing very sad as he poured himself some brandy.

  “How long he hess waited for dhis,” Kolodzcy supplied. “Dhis may be de chance. Only a liddle aid, to tip de scales. Only liddle deed, berhabs . . . to tip his scales. He fears dhey vill be too few . . . vill you sail to Palagruza unt summon Dragan Mlavic? he asks. Dhen Dragan can brink more recruits . . . rouse de goast before he comes unt summon more fighters.”