"Sleepy damn' place," Lewrie observed dryly, giving Trieste a good look-over once Jester had made-up to a permanent Austrian naval mooring, and had rowed out a single kedge to keep her from swinging afoul of the other ships in port.
British ships, mostly, he noted. Trieste was Austria 's one and only naval base, home of their own small East Indies Trading Company to the Far East. But it was remarkably empty and inactive. Buoys dotted the glass-calm waters, but very few were taken, and the network of quays and warehouses were bare of bustle. He'd expected a busy seaport, just as full of commercial doings as Plymouth… damn, even a faded Bristol! Nowhere near a Liverpool, or the Pool of London, of course, but…!
There were damned few warships flying the horizontal red-white-red crowned flag of Austria, either. There was a trim little gun-brig sporting a commissioning pendant, a pair of feluccas, such as he'd come to know from his Mediterranean experience. There were even a brace of what looked to be xebecs, long, lean and low to the water, like Barbary Corsair raiders. What looked to be a 6th Rate frigate now careened on a mud flat, mastless and abandoned, half rotted to pieces. And there were galleys! Small galleys with only one short lateen mast, lateener-rigged, with spars as long as they were; with row-boxes built out like "camels" on either beam, and pierced for dozens of oars or sweeps on either side. There were even more ashore, run up on launch ramps, and partially sheltered from the weather by open-sided sheds, such as he'd read in Homer's Iliad was the Greek fashion, back in the ancient days of Athens' glory two thousand years or more before!
Scabrous, too, that half dozen afloat, as if ships' timbers were prone to leprosy; and like the xebecs, they were armed only at the bows with what he took for heavy artillery, and only empty swivel-gun brackets lining their sides. Except for small harbour-watch or anchor-watch parties, they were as abandoned as ships laid up in-ordinary, though their guns hadn't been landed.
To top it off, completing Lewrie's disappointment with his first sight of fabled Trieste, it was a grey and gloomy day, with low clouds clinging to the grim-looking surrounding hills, and barely a breath of wind once inside the breakwaters and moles.
Lionheart was last to come to anchor, to make-up to a red nun-buoy. She was doing it handsomely, reducing sail, brailing up, turning up, with "buoy-jumpers" under her figurehead as she ghosted to a stop within feet of the buoy-and firing a Royal, 21-gun salute to Austria and her Emperor, Franz II, as she did it! Even as a boat was got down off the falls and rowed her kedge anchor-out astern.
Then they waited for a reply. Then waited some more. Every sailor in the squadron began to titter, speculate aloud and roll his eyes as they waited a long piece more.
Finally, some activity could be espied along the ramparts of a harbour fort. Half-dressed soldiers shrugging into coats and clayed belting, tossing shakoes to each other as if they'd picked up someone else's in their rush, or simply forgotten them. Muzzles emerged from a row of embrasures, and the first shot in reply bellowed out.
"An' here I always thought 'twas th' Spanish who were slipshod," Mr. Buchanon snickered. " 'Ese fellers put siesta t' shame, sir!"
"Delivered twenty-one… was received of…" Knolles chuckled, rocking on the balls of his feet as they counted them. "Was that five and six, together? My wordl There's seven… well, come on, eight…"
"Of eleven," Lewrie said after it appeared that the last shot had been fired. Or the gunners had fallen asleep from sheer boredom, he thought sarcastically. Since Captain Charlton did not fly a broad pendant of the blue from his masthead as even a Commodore of the Second Class, the fort had saluted with the number due a mere Captain… though a captain with four warships should have gotten thirteen, with or without broad pendant. That was simple logic. And good manners!
A rather ornate oared barge, fit for a full admiral, or Lord Commissioner of the Admiralty back home, at last appeared, stroking a leisurely way out from a stone quay to Lionheart. There was an officer in the stern-sheets, almost awash in gold-lace fripperies, wearing a dark blue coat, with pale blue cuffs and turn-backs, pale blue waist coat and breeches. Lewrie snorted with derision at the bouquet-sized egret plume arrangement on his cocked hat. 'Bout fifty birds perished for that, he thought with a dismissive shrug.
"Right, then, gentlemen," Lewrie snapped. "Bosun over-side to. square the yards, break out the brooms and give 'er a last sweep-down should anyone come callin'. Mr. Knolles, I'll have the quarterdeck awnings rigged. It looks very much like rain 'fore sunset. Mr. Cony, do you get all the boats down. The Austrians will be taking charge of our prizes, and I want our prize-crews back aboard as soon as they do. Pipe a late rum issue, then hands to dinner, Mr. Knolles."
"Excuse me, sir?" Mr. Giles, the Purser, harrumphed to gain his attention. Their rather "fly" bespectacled young "Pusser," along with his newest "Jack-in-the-Breadroom," Lawless, were almost wringing their hands in anticipation of a run ashore in search of fresh victuals and such. "Could we have a boat, sir? Once the Bosun s done?"
"Of course, Mister Giles," Lewrie agreed. "Boat crew will not await you ashore, though. Remember last time, hmm?"
Giles wasn't a naval officer, exactly; not in the chain of command. He was a civilian hireling, bonded and warranted. The last time, at Leghorn, he'd taken most of a boat's crew inland to help fetch and tote. Half had snuck off from him and had gotten stupendously drunk in a raucous quarter hour before the cox'n could collar them!
"No grappa in Trieste, sir." Giles winced into his coat collar. "Nor rum, neither, pray Jesus."
"Indeed, sir," Lewrie intoned. "By the way, I've a taste for turkey. Should you run afoul of one…"
" Turkey, sir, aye," Giles replied, making a note on a shopping list. "So close to the Turkish Empire, one'd think, hah? Thankee, sir. Come on, Lawless. Perhaps Mister Cony may row us ashore, once he's done squaring the yards and all."
"Aye aye, sir," his lack-witted new clerk mumbled.
"Shoulda flown th' French flag, all o' us, Cap'um," Buchanon said with a sigh, looking at the fort, which had gone back to its well-deserved rest and now looked as forlorn as a fallen church. " 'At'd lit a fire under 'em. Or fetched in 'at frigate."
"Well, we didn't, so there it is, Mister Buchanon," Alan spat.
Bad luck, all-round; inexplicably, instead of a last broadside fired for the honour of the flag and a quick surrender, the French hadn't struck, as they seemed most wont to do these days in the face of superior force. They'd gone game to the last, losing more masts and spars, shot through and riddled, but still firing back, until a lazy-fuming spiral of whitish smoke had risen from her amidships. A fire had broken out belowdecks, and then it was sauve qui pent, as the Frogs said-"save what you can." They left her like rats diving off a sinking grain-coaster. Far astern, round sunset, Lewrie could see a tiny, kindling-like spark of flames, then a sullen bloom of red and amber as the fire, accidentally or intentionally set, reached her magazines and blew her to atoms.
"Signal from the flag, sir," Spendlove called, intruding upon his broodings over all that lost prize-money. " 'Send Boats,' sir. For the French prisoners, I'd expect." Lionheart had taken aboard most of the frigate's survivors, after plucking them from the sea, and a gaol ashore in a port now at war with France was the best place for them…
"Very well, Mister Spendlove. Mister Cony? Belay your squaring the yards. Or Mr. Giles's trip ashore. Lower every boat and row to Lion-heart to transport prisoners ashore. Sergeant Bootheby, your Marines to form an escort-party… pistols and hangers'd be better in the boats, I'd presume."
"Aye aye, sir… pistols and hangers," that stalwart baulk of ramrod-stiff oak replied crisply; though Lewrie was sure by the glum expression on his face that Bootheby would much prefer muskets tipped with gleaming spike-bayonets, to show the sluggard Austrian garrison what real soldiers were supposed to look like… all "pipe-clay, piss an'
gaiters."
"You'll see to the rum issue, once the boat crews have returned aboard, Mister Knolles, then their dinner," Lewrie
prompted.
"Aye, sir. And the awnings are ready for rigging."
"Very well, I'll be below, sir. Out of the way."
Which was where he stomped for, irked that a sensible routine of a single ship would forever be altered and amended by the presence of a squadron commander, and a day-long flurry of signal flags. And feeling just glum enough to resent the constant intrusions a bit!
There'd been no turkeys available, no decent geese, either. Mr. Giles had returned with some fresh-slaughtered and skinned rabbits, and Aspinall had jugged them in ship's-issue red wine. It may have been a Tuscan or Corsican, but it was commonly reviled as the Pusser's Bane- "Blackstrap"-thinned with vinegar, and about as tasty as paint.
Fortunately, a boat had come from Lionheart about four bells of the Day Watch, bearing an invitation-more like an order, since it was from Captain Charlton-to dine ashore that evening, as guests of the Austri-ans. Number One full-dress uniform, clean breeches, waistcoat and linen, well-blacked shoes with silver buckles (gilt if they owned a pair), presentation swords (were they so fortunate, etc.). Hair to be powdered and dressed, and blah-blah-blah… Captain Charlton was determined to impress their allies if it killed him.
"Aspinall, heat me up a bucket of fresh water," Lewrie told him. "And hunt up that bar o' soap. We're to shine tonight. Or else!"
Boats crews in neat, clean, matching slop-clothing took them to the quays, landing them in strict order of precedence. Carriages waited to bear them townward to what Lewrie took for a medieval guild-hall of a place, a towering, half-timbered Germanic cuckoo-clock horror of a building, simply dripping with baroque touches, right down to the leering gargoyles at the eaves and carved stags and hunting scenes round the doorway, with sputtering torches in lieu of lanthorns to light the street and antechambers. He expected one of those bands he'd seen in London, so loved by his Hanoverian monarchy, whose every tune sounded very much like "Oomp-pah-pah-Crash/bang." That or drunken Vikings!
A very stiff reception line awaited them, made up of civilian, military, and naval members. The men glittered in satins or heavy velvets or gilded wool, no matter how stuffy it was, with sweat running freely to presage the expected rain. The women… Lord, he'd never seen such a fearsome pack of chick-a-biddies, all teeth and teats, all bound up pouty-pigeon-chested in lace-trimmed gowns as heavy as drapery fab-! rics, with double or even triple chins declining over scintillating brilliants, diamonds or pearl necklaces. Everyone's hair was powdered to a tee, pale blue or starkest white, and how he kept from sneezing his head off during all the bowing and curtseying, he couldn't fathom.
"Permittez-moi, m'sieurle capitaine Charlton,j'ai Vhonneure… pre-sentez-vous, le burgomeister, uhm… le maire …" An equerry said with a simper, a suppressed titter and a languid wave of his hand.
"Thought they were Germans," Rodgers muttered from the side of his mouth. "What's all this Frog they're spoutin'?"
"Court-language, sir," Lewrie whispered back. "Prussians and Russians, looks like the Austrians, too. Can't bloody stand their own tongue. Not elegant enough, I s'pose. Ah! Madame Baroness… oui, baroness? von Kreutznacht, enchante. Simply enchante!" He bowed to a particularly porcine old biddy who sported a rather impressive set of whiskers and moustache under all her powders, paints, rouges and beauty marks. She resembled a hog in a tiara.
"M'sieur le Capitaine, uhmm…!" She tittered; or tried one, at any rate. She had a husky voice as forbidding as a bosun's mate, and was about five stone too heavy to be seen tittering. She offered her hand, and Lewrie pecked dry lips on the back of it, looking for a spot free of jewelry or liver-spots. He heard the clash of heels in the line, the double-snap of bootheels thrummed together, combined with a short bow from the waist. He didn't think he'd try that, no matter what they thought of his manners.
"Swear to God," Fillebrowne grated between bared teeth in a rictus of a grin. "But that last 'un, sirs… she oinked at me."
"Which 'un?" Rodgers asked him, now they were down among those lesser lights of the receiving line. "Oh, the baroness, Fillebrowne?"
"Aye, sir. Her. A definite oink."
"That sound lascivious, Lewrie." Rodgers smirked. "D'ye think?"
"Oh, quite, sir!" Lewrie replied gayly. "Were she merely being polite, 'twould have been more a husky grunt. But, an oink, now…!"
"You lucky young dog, sir!" Rodgers wheezed softly. "Not a dogwatch ashore, an' a baroness throwin' herself at ya. Oinkin', an' all! Damme'f I ain't envious, sir. Mind, ya might strain somethin', puttin' th' leg that far over. But think what a tale ya'll have t'tell, sir."
"Handsome and dashing sort, such as yourself, Commander," Lewrie could not resist cruelly jibing, "must surely expect to be oinked at."
"Uhm," Fillebrowne commented, his eyes slitted in well-hidden anger over Lewrie's barb, "hah, sir!"
* * *
Supper was an ordeal. The four British captains were seated in a sea of Trieste 's finest, far apart from each other, and pent in with people who could not, or would not, speak a word of English. The linen, china, centrepieces and silverware were gorgeous enough, and there were nigh a whole platoon of servants in livery, one for every two diners, a la Russe. It was a heavy feed, though: potato soup, very greasy goose, a bland fish course that resembled mullet, the salad wilted, dry and fleshed out with what Lewrie took to be grass clippings. Roast venison, jugged hares, a whole roast hog, all made the rounds before it was done, topped with gargantuan, toothachy piles of sweets. And with Trieste 's finest tucking in like they'd just come off forty days aboard the Ark!
Finally, after circulating amid the coffee, chocolate and tea drinkers, after listening politely to some untalented musicians and a male soloist doing some incomprehensible (and stultifyingly boring) lieder in German, they were allowed to ascend a wooden staircase for the first floor and were ushered into a smaller chamber, where they were delighted to find cheese, biscuit, shelled nuts and port waiting on a bare-topped mahoghany table.
"Welcome to the gun-room, gentlemen," their host said with an anxious smile of welcome. "Or as close as you'll find, this side of Portsmouth." And he said it in English, with a Kentish accent!
"Major Simpson, my thanks, sir," Captain Charlton said with some pleasure as he was shown to a seat near the head of the table and was presented with the port decanter and a goodly-sized glass. "The major, had you not already gathered from the receiving line introductions," he said to the others, "is the senior naval officer here in Trieste. One of the most senior navy officers of the Austrian Empire, rather."
"That's true, sir," Major Simpson replied. "Oh, there's a man over the Danube flotilla senior to me, but…" He was nigh preening. "Do allow me to name to you, sirs, my officers…"
It was von Something-umlautish-von-Glottal-Stop something other. Half the officers wore the same pale blue breeches, waistcoat and cuffs that Simpson sported; the rest were from the Liccaner or Ottochaner regiments of Border Infantry, who formed the Austrian Marine Corps, dressed in tobacco-brown coats with sky-blue cuffs, breeches and waistcoats.
Major George Simpson, Lewrie soon learned, was the genuine article, an authentic Royal Navy officer, one of those thirtyish lieutenants of ill-starred fortune when it came to patronage, prize-money or promotion. The Russians, Turks, every foreign power with hopes to build a navy had hired them on to smarten up their own landlubberly officers and crews. Christ, the Russians had even taken the Rebel John Paul Jones to lead their Black Sea fleet at one time!
"Can't tell you what a joy it was, to see a proper squadron of British ships come to anchor, sir," Simpson told them. "You'll be in the Mare long… or is this simply a port-call?"
"We'll be operating out of the Straits of Otranto, mostly, sir," Charlton told him. "With the odd patrol to sweep up French or French-sponsored mercantile traffick. And to cooperate with your Emperor… Franz Us squadron 'gainst the French. Lend you every assistance to ready your ships for any future action which may occur this season? Urge Admiral Sir John Jervis, our new commander-in-
chief in the Mediterranean, to write to London on your behalf, anent supplies, arms and such. Ships and crews, hmm?"
"Now, that would be wondrous fine, sir!" Simpson exclaimed, and translated that news in German for his compatriots. "The annual naval budget, d'ye see, is rather limited of late. Austria 's a land power, mostly. Keep control of the Danube River, and protect Trieste. A lion's share of the military budget goes to the army up on the Rhine, or over in Piedmont and Lombardy. Every little bit is welcome."
"Now, sir…" Charlton purred after a sip of port, "tell me how you stand. What's your strength? Besides the vessels in port at this moment."
"Uhm, d'ye see, sir…" Simpson blushed, "this is the Austrian Navy, sir. All of it."
"Aha," Charlton said, raising an expressive brow in surprise.
Thought so, Lewrie told himself, sharing a weary frown over the table with Captain Ben Rodgers, who was all but rolling his eyes.
"We've he Ferme, sir, the brigantine, and two feluccas… armed merchant ships, really," Major Simpson confessed, wriggling about in his chair like a hound might circle on a fireplace mat. "We've those two schebecks… brace of twenty-four-pounders in the bows, and some light side guns, and the Empire has authorised me to increase the number of gunboats from seven to sixteen. The same sort as was so useful during the siege of Gibraltar."
"Nothing else, uhm… cruising the coasts, or…?" Charlton asked with a hopeful, but leery, tone to his voice.
"Sorry, sir, that's the lot." Simpson grimaced. "And it's been the very Devil to get the city of Trieste to see their way clear to giving me funds enough to start the new gunboats. The governor of the port, and the mayor… the burgomeister, sir? You see, uhm…"
A Jester’s Fortune l-8 Page 10
