Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune
"Ah?" Charlton interrupted with a chary cough. It was quibblesome, that. He got that bland look again. "I don't see…"
"Well, sir…" Lewrie beamed, after polishing off his wine. Sure there'd not be another, the way Charlton was leaning his head back and staring fish-eyed down the length of his nose at him. "We'd sheared the sheep, then cut their throats and gutted 'em aboard those boats we'd purchased… in situ, so they'd bleed in-place. Bound them upright, at watch stations… the helm and such… and put the stocking caps on 'em, d'ye see, sir."
No doubt he does. Alan shivered. He's goin' bloody cross-eyed!
"So they'd faintly resemble French sailors, sir," Lewrie said, suddenly not finding it quite so clever a message. "And the roosters, sir? Old French folk symbol, I'm assured. Le Chanticlier, they call him? Pegged to the foredeck with a marling-spike… as a figurehead."
"Pegged…" Charlton grunted.
"Did I mention the frogs, sir? Balkan shore teemed with 'em, so we paid for the locals to harvest a bushel or two," Lewrie rushed to say, hoping they played better than the roosters or the sheep. "Had off the hind legs-rather good eatin', by the way!-floured, seasoned, then pan-fried, sir. And scattered 'em all about the decks, dead as mutton."
Charlton sat stock-still, but for putting his wineglass safely on his desktop. He folded his hands in his lap and breathed, off the top of his lungs, for a sombre moment or two.
Both hands free, Lewrie noticed with a sigh; he's goin't strangle me!
But then there was a faint twitch at either corner of Captain Charlton's prim mouth. A slight, purse-lipped upturning. His cheeks went ruddier under his sun-baked complexion, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. A faint grin appeared, like an ostrich chick fighting to leave a damn thick egg. Captain Charlton began to snicker. Then he threw back his head and roared!
With this encouraging sign to go by, Lewrie dared make free with the wine decanter and allowed himself to show his own amusement, merely a faint chuckle at first-whilst Captain Charlton began to bray, loud as Balaam's Ass. He rose from his seat and absolutely staggered aft to the transom settee, fighting for breath and slapping his thighs, clapping his hands over his aching stomach. Real tears could be seen coursing his cheeks! Though it would never do to appear to laugh at a jest one had made, Lewrie found it infectious and shook with silent sniggers. Though he still feared a sudden sobriety on Charlton's part, and a harsh tongue-lashing, once he was over his fit.
"Ah, dear me," Charlton said, though, a good three minutes later, as he dabbed at his eyes and blew his gone-cherry nose. "Oh, sir! I've not had reason to be amused since San Fiorenzo Bay. A moment more, I do beg, sir… to recover my wits. But I never heard the like! And those poor Frog seamen… t see such a sight, sailing right into… Dear Lord! Fresh-'spatched frogs all over the…! Oh, dear me. Whoo!"
He gulped for air and calmed, at last, and came back to the desk for his abandoned wineglass. "A toast with you, sir. A brimming bumper. Admiral Jervis gave me an inkling I might find you unorthodox, but he didn't speak the half of it. To your knacky wit, Commander Lewrie… and confusion-and fear-'mongst our foes."
"Confusion and fear, sir," Lewrie echoed, knocking back a savoury gulp.
A rather pacific, spent sort of minute went by then, with good Captain Charlton emitting the odd wheeze or two, the odd shake of his head in wonderment. Which put Lewrie in mind of that ipostcoital silence one spent with whores one'd never clapped eyes on before.
Well, wasn't that.. . nice? he smirked to himself; must run, bye… and where'd I drop me hat?
"Uhm… I s'pose this will result in the squadron shifting down south, sir?" Lewrie asked, as Charlton reached out for the decanter to top them up again. "Nothing we may do 'gainst the Venetians."
"Hmm, aye, Commander Lewrie, that is very much true," Captain Charlton allowed with a shrug as he did the honours. "And with only four main ports to watch now, our four vessels have much better odds of catching any runners. As long as we stand far enough out, so we do not appear to be blockading neutral Venetian ports. Hull-down, or our t'gallants only, showing."
"And the ship which watches over Corfu may also stand out to see what's doing in the straits, sir," Lewrie added, wondering if the time was now ripe. He decided that it was, and slyly launched the nub of his scheme. "That's rather far from the Serbs' usual haunts, sir. The few vessels they had aren't made to keep the seas for weeks at a time. Nor are they of a patient nature to do blockade work. Official or no. I wonder how much real use they'll be to us now. Given this change."
"There is that," Charlton allowed, patting his short hair with one hand. "Perhaps those smallest boats of theirs could still work as inshore scouts for us, though. Sniff out French ships which sail, and alert us. Some set of signals we may devise for them… their appearance near us, preceding any runners who put to sea."
"Quick as lateen-rig boats are, sir, they still can't run ahead of a well-run ship-rig with a longer waterline," Lewrie objected with a dismissive grin. "Be it a night signal-fusee, they'd give the French warning to put back in or alter course. Day signal or night, if they put back in, and put their heads together, they'd have to assume there is a blockade of Venetian ports. Then the Venetians would have to take note of it and complain formally, sir."
"Do they put in, though, at Durazzo or Cattaro, say…" Charlton counterposed, "seemingly innocent fishermen or coastal traders buying supplies, say… they could count noses for us, take note of those vessels readying for sea, and report back, Commander Lewrie."
"But not take active part in those vessels' seizure, sir?" Alan quibbled. "Then we would end up paying Petracic his tribute. Share in the take, sir, at no risk to himself."
"Then he must move his newest European ships, and his galliot and dhow, down nearer us, sir," Charlton suggested, adamant for his plans. "Those may keep the sea for weeks at a time. Perhaps he covers Cattaro and Durazzo, whilst we cover Volona and Corfu. Closer to the straits, as you say. Then, what we chase but fail to capture, he gets a crack at inshore, from inbound ships. Likewise, what outbound ships full of timber exports which he fails to bag, we get our crack at. With the smallest of his boats forming our eyes and ears, where we daren't go."
"Uhm…" Lewrie pretended to gnaw a thumbnail and give it an honest ponder. "Where could we base them, then, sir? Palagruza is too far off, then. They're Eastern Orthodox Serbs, sir. There'd be a lot of trouble with the Albanians or Montenegrans. Autonomous from Turkish rule or not, sir, they're still Muslim. I'd imagine the hate our Serbs feel for Muslims is warmly reciprocated 'mongst the Albanians. Given a chance to butcher some Serb infidels, finally, the local Muslim governments would simply drool over the opportunity, sir. And there aren't any convenient islands where-"
"In for the penny, in for the pound, I fear, Lewrie," Charlton told him, with the first hint of frost to his voice as he sat up much straighter in his chair, prim as a parson in the parlour. "We've made our bargain… you still think it a bad bargain, I know. I'm not that fond of it myself, but needs must, as they say. We're spread too thin to be choosy over from which corner help comes. So far, we've kept up our end of the bargain… gotten Captain Petracic two new ships, given him gold, arms, artillery… a very subtle gesture on your part, when you turned that brig over entire to Captain Mlavic, by the way."
Oh Christ, is that what it was? Lewrie wished he could grouse. "… does not care to move south, nor care for any alterations in our methods of operating, then so be it," Charlton blathered on. "We let him go his own way, only modestly reinforced or strengthened, make with it what he will. And free those prisoners now held 'pon Palagruza… take 'em to Trieste, and caution the Austrian authorities to hold them incommunicado as long as possible. Thank God the people off that brig were all French, and not from one of the so-called neutrals, whom they must free at once. There's a chance it will all fall apart, soon as I put it to him."
"I see, sir," Lewrie said with a nod, trying to sound properly perkish and obedient.
"You are correct in one respect, Commander Lewrie," the senior officer told him with a brief, complimentary grin, "as regards Serbian impatience. Piratical impatience, rather. They're not a disciplined or trained flotilla… merely a pack of freebooters. And I suspect, sir," Charlton said, tapping the side of his nose sagaciously, "no matter how fevered or high-flown Captain Petracic's pompous boasting, our Serbian 'brethren of the coast' are not the all-conquering heroes. It may turn out that 'twill not be impatience which scotches the arrangement, but their fear of leaving well-known waters. And putting themselves in the lion's mouth, 'mongst hostile Muslims, where they don't know the territory. Or know of a convenient bolt-hole, should things go awry."
"As Captain Nelson says, sir… 'bold talkers do the least, we see'?" Lewrie chirped, feeling some hopeful twinges.
"It's all fine and good to boast and rage of vengeance for the 'Field of Black Birds'… aye, I see by your face, we've heard the same rant, chapter and verse, aha," Charlton mused. "But quite another to actually sail off and do something about it on unfamiliar grounds. My God, sir! Build a church and pass the bread and wine, the night before a major battle? I can see that they might have needed spiritual armouring. Then get seventy-seven thousand men slaughtered? Doubt they had that many, first off. Generals always multiply their successes. Or invent excuses for their failures. Might not have been over forty thousand, and outnumbered by the Turks two or three to one, to begin with. Like Roman legions were swarmed and massacred by the Huns, Goths, Vandals or Franks. Knowing how badly the Turks outnumbered them, they surely had need of Divine Services, hmm? In the 1300s.. still large cavalry armies, with knights and horses in plate-armour. The Turks on swift Arabs, the Serbs on Clydesdale-sized monsters. Like so many battles of the later Crusades, they hadn't much of a chance to start with. To lose an entire army, empire and sense of identity in one fell swoop, well…! I suspect the tales grew with the years, like the numbers."
"And they had to have an excuse to soothe the soul, sir?" Alan ventured, wondering all over again just where Charlton stood on their arrangement with the Serbs; was he wholehearted, or grasping at whichever straw might seem to hold him atop deep water?
"Something very much like that, sir," Charlton purred. "This Petracic fellow. Remarkable. Bone-headed wrong or not, one must concede he's a shrewd leader of men. They seem to adore him."
"As long as he produces the loot and a successful raid or two, sir?" Lewrie suggested, not wishing to grant the brute a bit of good credit.
"Goes beyond that, Lewrie," Charlton sighed. "Eastern religion is f mystical. So emotional, they make our Methodist 'leapers' look like Cromwell's Puritans. Something from the heart and soul, the very gizzard… from the toes up… and not so much the head, like us. Captain Petracic is more a holy warrior to his men, or so Leutnant Kolodzcy explains. Once he nosed about. Catholic Croats encroaching on Old Serbia, trying to turn emotional Serbs into logic-paring Jesuits, or baptising at the point of a sword. Muslims, well… Petracic was a priest, d'ye see. A minister of the Serbian Orthodox Church. Still is, I s'pose. He's the spiritual leader of his band, as well as being their fiercest warrior. Captain Mlavic, the other so-called officers, his under-captain aboard his galliot, would follow him anywhere."
"His… under-captain, sir?"
"Oh, some fellow named Djindjic… or howsoever one translates that into sounds." Charlton chuckled, attempting to spell it. "He's the real captain of the galliot. Petracic was a partisan fighter from the mountains first, and a priest or whatever at some shrine built by Stefan I… Milutin, perhaps. Memory's rather hazy. Too much to take in at one go."
"That or their plum brandy, I'd expect, sir." Lewrie grinned.
"Gad, yes, ain't it?" Charlton replied with a breathless look. "Church of… hmm. Ah! Church of the Virgin of Grachanitsa. As much a holy temple to the old Serbian emperors as it was to God, I gathered from a chat with Kolodzcy. He's shrewd and knacky, for not having any experience at sea. Well, not much, at any rate. It may be Petracic is shrewd enough to know when he's bitten off more than he may chew. And will renege on our bargain, with some profit gained with no effort. I equally expect him to get that radiant look on his phyz and rally the troops for a sail south. For a chance to bash some Albanian Muslims."
"But that's the holy war we were wary of starting, sir."
"Start, end… continue," Charlton dismissed. "It doesn't signify,
Lewrie. We'll know more once I've gone down to Palagruza and 'fronted him direct. And released Pylades to cover one of the ports you discovered, while I take another. With or without Petracic."
"You said he's a priest, sir," Lewrie countered. "A bit of a mystic. Might that go as far as hearin' voices, sir? Daft as bats… and seein' snakes and centipedes? Might he-"
"I'd imagine the plum-brandy's the culprit, anent the snakes and centipedes, Lewrie." Charlton laughed out loud once more. "Damme, sir! You've done my spirits no end of good. Admiral Jervis hinted you were a bit of a wag, too, sir. And, again, didn't speak the half of it. I find you one of the most energetic and aggressive Sea Officers ever I've met, Lewrie. As I will note in my appreciation of your recent voyage, once I've read your whole report. Which, should I ever speak a British ship, I will despatch to Admiral Jervis, instanter."
"You might discover one at Corfu, sir," Lewrie told him. "The currants are ripe, and there are several of our merchantmen lading now." "Currant duff!" Charlton beamed, almost childlike in a sudden rapture. "Aye, that's where they come from, ain't it? Corfu, and the Isles of the Levant. A fresh currant duff, not stuffed with fruit six months in-stores. I've a relish for one of those, Lewrie. A most rapacious relish, of a sudden. As I'm certain my ship's people have, too."
He stood, his wineglass, and Lewrie's, now empty. Their little chat was ended. Like a good boy, Lewrie rose as well, knowing he still hadn't changed Charlton's mind about using Petracic and his pirates any further. And getting a fey feeling that, with all that he'd heard from Captain Charlton about the man, things could only get worse-very much worse!-before Charlton washed his hands of the matter.
"Well, do you not have need to put in at Trieste to intern prisoners, nor any captures for the Prize-Court," Captain Charlton breezed on, as he came round the desk to escort Lewrie to the forrud entry on Lionheart's gun-deck, "put in at Venice, there's a good fellow. Pick up the latest information regarding the French Army's doings. Take a bit of shore-leave for yourself, and your people. You've earned that twice over the last few days."
