"Bloody Venetians," Rodgers snorted. "Way this Bonaparte goes at people, they wouldn't have any more warnin' than we would the Second Comin'. 'Thief in th' night,' and he's renamin' yer streets, lootin' yer treasury an' tuppin' yer daughters 'fore ya can say 'knife'!" He turned and peered at Lewrie owl-eyed. "That all th' bad news?"
"Well, there's Tuscany," Lewrie replied. "French troops're now all over Leghorn and Porto Especia, where we used to wallow. A small squadron o' warships, and a fair number of transports. Emigre Corsi-cans among 'em. Haven't sailed yet, but everyone reckons it's going to be soon. That report came overland, so it's two weeks old, and who knows what's happened since. Doubt they've Elba in mind, either."
"Shorter sail, from Leghorn," Rodgers speculated, hands on his hips. "But with th' navy they've built up at Toulon by now, it'll be Corsica, most-like. Bastia, first? An' there goes San Fiorenzo Bay."
"There's a rumour the Spanish fleet is refitting, too, sir," Lewrie continued. "Shifting from Atlantic harbours to-"
"Enough!" Rodgers complained, throwing up his hands. He knelt and chose another stone. This one he flung savagely, and finally attained three grazes before it sank. "By Christ, 'tis such a dismal situation, it'd give a saint colic. An' here we are, coddlin' cutthroats… too scared t'put orders in writin'. Not doin' a damn' bit o' good, really. Frogs have as much compass-timber an' oak by now, they could build for th' next two years 'fore they ran short! An' more comin', no matter what we do t stop 'em. Too few, too late… allied with… shit!"
"Well, hardly, sir. We…" Lewrie tried to point out, but Rodgers's gloom was catching. "By the way, where are our jolly buccaneers, sir? There's only two of their smallest boats in the anchorage. Don't tell me they chucked it-pray Jesus!-and hied for home!"
"Lord, no, Alan, not a bit of it. They're like th' poor… 'they will be always with us,' don't ye know," Rodgers scoffed, turning to face him. "They went off North, t'scour th' Croatian isles. Petracic left these few poor cripples t'guard th' prisoners… tidy up th' lot. Winnowed 'em like David did Saul's army… lame o' limb, th' faint of heart? Them that knelt t'drink, stead o' lappin' from their hands? Least I think it was David… could've been Joshua, d'ye think?"
"You're the one so good at quotin' Scripture, Ben," Alan told him with a snicker. "And hellish-surprisin' that was. Thought you'd know."
"Oh, I do… but I forgot." Rodgers grinned. "It'll come back t'me, 'bout midnight'r so. Oh." He frowned of a sudden, turning bleak once more. "More o' Captain Charlton's verbal orders for ya. To take our Austrian hop-o'-my-thumb aboard Jester as you go. Neither he nor Fillebrowne'll be workin' anywhere close to Petracic, so you'll be most in need o' translations."
"Oh, damme" Lewrie groaned.
"Thought ya were quicker'n that, Lewrie," Rodgers teased, taking some small measure of delight to see him confounded. Or, as Lewrie felt, to see him buggered. "What port's left, 'cept Cattaro, farthest north? Our biblical patriarch, Saint Ratko the Red-Handed, didn't much care to swan about too far away… didn't much care for this new arrangement." "Bugger what he likes," Lewrie groused.
"Too near Dulcigno, an' all those Muslim corsairs, who do own a fleet o' fast ships," Rodgers went on. "Riskier'n he bargained for, hey? Anyway, yer to keep a chary eye on him, keep him out o' mischief. Yer Jesters shallow-draught, so yer better-suited than either frigate. And Captain Charlton said yer best-suited t'deal with th'… unforseen misfortunes which might arise. A lot better'n Fillebrowne."
"Might come up? Christ, might?" Alan roared. "Count on 'em!" "Said he thought Fillebrowne's not o' th' temperament, not like you," Rodgers all but cackled over this turn of Fortune. "Not quite as 'usefully unorthodox'r flexible' as you are, I believe he said."
"Mine arse on a band-box!" Alan spat. "I've buggered meself. Again!" "Aye, just too clever by half," Rodgers sighed, a tad whimsical. "You don't have to gloat like you enjoy it, Ben," Alan accused. "Don't, really," Rodgers answered, turning sombre. "Somebody has t'do it, though, and if not Fillebrowne, then that only leaves you, whether you were sly as a fox or no. You're junior enough. And we can t have post-captains seen triflin' with pirates an' murderers, now, can we. Least, not too close, anyway. You're not to operate with 'em … that's a direct verbal order. But ya are supposed to make sure it's hostile ships they take, 'fore they rape half of Albania or Montenegro, and pillage th' other half. Keep 'em at their proper duties, stead o' enterprisin' off on their own. I'm sorry, Alan. I really ami Maybe had ya played th' backbench dullard, it might notVe been. But there it is. And ya get right down to it… better you than me."
"Ah, but you are a post-captain, sir," Alan drolly pointed out.
"Why, so I am!" Rodgers grinned, turning his head to admire the gold-bullion epaulet on his right shoulder. "Fancy that! Ain't a deep-draught 5th Rate, an' seniority, just dev'lish-fine?"
"I'll let you know when I get 'em, sir." Lewrie sighed. "Well, might as well be at it. Where's Kolodzcy… 'board Pylades, still?"
"Buggerin' th' ship's-boys, 'far as I know. No, not really! I wish t'God ya could see th' look on yer phyz!" Rodgers hooted. "He's not a sodomite. Don't think! Just what he is, I haven't a clue, an' I expect I'd rather not care t'find out, either. Do ya keep him swozzled in drink, there's little harm in him."
"He knows about this? Or is that why we're having this little tete-a-tete on the beach, Ben?"
"Take joy!" Rodgers advised, with a cryptic smile. "Tell me later… how he took it. He was spectin' t'sail home with me, out o' this hare-brain shit. Runnin' out o' cologne an' unpressed beddin' by now. Oh, th' deprivation! What a cruel life!"
"He'll demand to see somethin' in writin', I'd suspect," Lewrie frowned.
"He won't get it. Just like th' rest of us," Rodgers pointed out.
"Here, you have a 'mad' on, or… I've not seen you in such low takings before, Ben," Lewrie commented. "Anything I can do?"
"Sink Petracic an' all his foul brood, that'd suit," Rodgers sighed, gazing far out to sea again. "Get us out o' this shitten business an' back to Corsica 'fore everything falls apart. Back t'th' Fleet, where we belong. I'd give ya my full rant, but that'd keep ya 'til sundown. An' I don't wish t'impose on yer friendship quite that bad. Start at today's sunrise, an' I'd still be spewin' at ya, dawn o' the next."
"Kick the steward, curse the cat?"
"God, I wish!" Rodgers glowered in heat. "When this squadron's duty Was straightforward… honest an' aboveboard, well…"
"Let's dine, then," Lewrie suggested. "I doubt a day's delay in getting niy arse south'd make that much difference. Nor do I care t'get pirate-turds on my boots that quick. Rant all you like."
"Well…" Rodgers wavered.
"Christ, Ben," Lewrie posed, "isn't that what friends are for? Or did I hear you wrong the last time?" he added, offering his hand.
"Ah… best not, after all," Rodgers sighed. "Th' offers'z good as th' deed. I'll just have me a roarin' good howl at Sunday Divisions."
"Well, then," Lewrie said reluctantly. He really would've liked to put off his future rencontre with Petracic and Mlavic, given Ben Rodgers an ear to pour his pent-up bile in, and vent some of his own spleen, too.
"Fair winds an' good huntin'," Rodgers said, shaking his hand. "Mind what I said 'bout our little Austrian powder-puff."
"Half-swozzled… breeches buttoned…"
"An' keep yer own fundament turned to an outboard bulkhead at all times. An' never bend over when he's around." Rodgers chuckled.
"I'll give him your undying love, sir."
"And it'll be th' last thing you ever do!"
Book V
"Omne," ait, "imperium natorumque arma meorem
cuncta dedi; quascumque libet nunc concute mentis!"
"All my power and all the armory of my sons have I
given thee," she says; "now make havoc
of what hearts thou wilt!"
Argonautica, Book VI, 475-476
Gaius Valerius Flaccus
CHAPTER 1
"Ships he s
ees are liddle, herr Lewrie," Lieutnant Kolodzcy supplied, "unt hold liddle ohf value. Dhey are full ohf vood only, so he say he burns dhem after lootink. 'Vhere are die big ships,' he is askink."
"Tell him…" Lewrie began, giving it a ponder as they stood upon the deck of Ratko Petracic's new "flagship," a sleek two-masted schooner-rigged vessel of about ninety feet in length. Ben Rodgers had done him proud by her taking-a Danish trading ship built for speed in the Caribbean. His galliot was nearby, along with a pair of his smaller felucca two-masters. "Tell him that word of his arrival on this coast frightened the big ships to stay in port. And we were here earlier, giving them another fright. Tell him about our small-boat work, the sheep and all. It will take the French time to work up courage again."
"ja, I tell him," Kolodzcy agreed.
And thank God for small favours, Alan thought as he waited while that was translated; that bastard Mlavic ain't about, and there's no one else in his band that knows English.
Lewrie looked over the larboard side to his Jester, about a cable off. He hadn't liked the idea of coming over to talk to Ratko Petracic on his own decks, but the fellow had been insistent. Perhaps Mlavic had told him he'd not been properly welcomed aboard the first time, and had refused to be insulted again. For whatever reason, Lewrie's greetings at the entry-port of the schooner had been bereft of honours, too. He felt naked and alone, even with Knolles and all those hefty guns available to aid him.
Rodgers had told him about taking the schooner, how they'd lured her in, what cargo she'd carried and how delighted Petracic had been to get her, for she'd been one of those rare-and-getting-rarer inward-bound vessels, full of dainties and trade-goods, in addition to her armaments. At least her large batwinged gaff-headed sails were somewhat akin to a pair of lateens, making the transition to her easier on his seamen. Or her master, Lewrie thought, espying the man he took to be Djindjic, under-captain or sailing master to the landsman Petracic, aft by the wheel. A total stranger now paced the tiny quarterdeck aboard the original galliot, which lay close by, alee as they sailed in a group well offshore of Korcula Island.
"He says, sir, dhat you are a crafty man," Leutnant Kolodzcy piped up, sounding a bit amused himself. "Dhat id vas a shrewd think, vhich makes grade terror… as he hess done to die Durks unt Muslims. Dhat you are a man afder his own heart."
"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 wesldt-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 cap-rails 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 schooners 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, bosuns-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 Us-cocchi, de Serb-murderink Croatian scum, he says, before he ist strong en
ough 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, byway of both east and west coasts of Italy? That might explain the sudden lack of good pickings in the Adriatic, too.
A Jester’s Fortune l-8 Page 35
