Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune
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," Kolodzcy 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 veil-manned unt vahry veil-armed.
De small boats carry fighters, too, but nod guns ohf grade sdrength. Hun-drets ohf veil-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."
"Tell him I will, with pleasure, sir," Lewrie soberly agreed. "Ef'ry chourney begins vit bud a single sdep, he says. Even if dhey are too few to do grade deed ad once, id ist de 'single sdep,' " Kolodzcy rather morosely uttered as Petracic poured them more brandy, almost fatalistically cheerful. "Strike vhere our enemies, unt his… vill be most affecded. Nod a Venetian port, he assures. He fears-" Few! That's it, by God! Lewrie brightened. That's the one. "Then let me tell him an ancient poem of England, Kolodzcy," Alan interrupted. "Long, long ago, when England was just the one isle, weak and small, facing the might of… Catholic France, 'cross our narrow seas. And we'd told the Pope in Rome to stuff it. Founded the Established Church of England. Protestant…"
Christ, Henry V-VIII-who gives a damn, Lewrie told himself; he don't know our history, and it makes a better tale!
"Outnumbered five-to-one, theirs a huge cavalry army, armoured and all. Ours much smaller, infantry and country farm lads with nought but bows and arrows. Long, long ago, there was a field… a battlefield… and they called it… Agincourt. Our Kossovo Polje… our doom, or our salvation," he crooned, like the tales he told Sewallis and Hugh 'fore they were tucked in for the night. "And but for our proud young king, our bold and merry King Harry, we'd have been lost. Exterminated and England's bones left to the crows."
So it happened in France when we invaded, he silently quibbled; a minor falsehood in a good cause.
"Every English lad learns this, and it goes like this. Ahem!
"If we are marked to die today, we are enow… enough!… to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honour. Gods Will! I pray thee wish not one man more. By Jove I am not covetous for gold, nor care I who feeds… who doth feed!… upon my cost…"
"Was? Was wovon reden sie… 'doth'?" Kolodzcy stammered. " 'Does feed upon my cost.' Now stop yer gob an' translate!" "Jawohl."
"… such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be sin to covet honour, I am the most offending man alive!"
Lewrie declaimed, forced to his feet to stimulate his memory word-perfect. He could see it already had an affect on Petracic. He began to sway to the mesmerising meter of the old Bard of Avon, no matter it was garbled and "mar-text" through Kolodzcy's mouth into Serb. Wouldn't old Cogswell-"Hogswill"-be proud o' me now, Alan thought with a smile, reciting; no call for his switch on my shins, no caning for muffing a word. God, t'think that Eton, Westminster School and Harrow came in handy!
"… and this story shall the good men tell their sons, and Saint Crispin's Day shall never go by, from this day… 'til the ending of the world!-but we, in it, shall be remembered. We few-we happy few!-we band of brothers! …"
There came a faint snuffling sound as Petracic wiped his nose on his sleeve, hunched forward like a schoolboy at his first theatregoing, one hand waving like an orchestra leader's, for even Serbo-Croat could not take away all the magic. His eyes glowed wet and righteous.
"… gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here… and hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks… that fought with us, on this Saint… Crispin's… Day!"
He concluded, flourishing one hand sword-thrusted aloft, crying out the last line in his best quarterdeck voice, as he imagined Harry had, to rally his troops-remembering he'd gotten switched, anyway, for being a tad too emotional for a proper English public-school gentleman. "Hooray for England, Harry and Saint George!" he added.
He reached out for his plum brandy, tossed it off in one go… and strove right-manful not to spew or gasp for air.
"And, 'Rule Britannia,' by Christ!" he stuck on for good measure, slamming the empty glass top-down on the desk between them, showing he'd taken it down past "heel-taps."
Petracic stared pony-eyed at him for a moment, then rose with a roar of his own, a harsh, guttural battle-cry, and poured them all refills. So they could toast.
"Dhere vill be grade slaughder," Kolodzcy mused, once they were back aboard Jester, standing seaward towards the Sou'-Sou'west. "He vill be ad firsd wictorious. Bud dhen, he rousts die Uscocchi or Croats… unt dhey musd destroy him. Dhere ist no hope for dhem. Nod now, nod effer, perhabs."
"Would have happened sooner or later anyway, wouldn't it?" Alan snapped, watching the pirate flotilla slowly wane tinier as they left them astern. "After we had no need for 'em? Isn't that what you said, back at Trieste? They're disposable, expendable, once we've had a good use out I of 'em. 'Dead men tell no tales,' right? Secret's safe, no blot on our escutcheon. Wasn't that the whole idea of takin' 'em on?"
"Ja, id vas," Kolodzcy uneasily agreed. "You send dhem to dheir deat's. Far too early."
"You really give a damn?"
"Bud ohf gourse nod," Kolodzcy sniffed primly. Then dared to snicker. "You make Ratko Petracic a vahry happy man, sir. He vill be a mardyr. Anodder Saint Sava… a legent like Knez Lazar. As famous as King Stefan Milutin, Stefan Dusha…"
"Then all will be holy… all will be honourable," Lewrie said.
' 'Unt de guteness ohf Gott vill be fulfilled.' Again." Kolodzcy nodded, smiling catlike and inscrutable. "Unt ve are free of dhem… unt dhis… schtupit idea ist over."
"You can go back to Trieste," Lewrie pointed out, "with your difficult duty done. Not our fault if our hired cutthroats went off on a personal tear. Didn't order him t'do it, now, did we."
"You vill, ah… find Kapitan Charlton unt inform him ohf dhis… unforeseen change in ewents?" Kolodzcy asked, shooting his cuffs.
"Ah… no." Lewrie frowned, appalled at the risk he'd run, to rid them of contact with such a foul brood. "Seems we promised to go find Mlavic first and fetch him and his reenforcements. Then we'll inform Captain Charlton."
"Our hents are clean," Kolodzcy surmised, looking like he might begin to hum, or whistle, with satisfaction.
"Well, not really, when you-"
"Verbal orders… or suggestions, sir… gannod be documented," Kolodzcy hinted with a world-weary wink. "Unt your Kapitan Charlton, so fond ohf verbal orders… noddink in writink? Unt, who knows, herr Lewrie? Petracic may ewen be successful. Dhen he lives long enough to cepture more French ships. Raise de goastal Serbs. Like a gute courtier… a man may glaim gredit eider vay, nicht wahr?"
"And that, sir," Lewrie spat, "is why I so despise 'war on the cheap.' Like my fights clean, I do. No skulking about. No weaselin'. Nor any of the utter cynicism which lies beneath it."
"Bud you are zo gute ad id, herr Lewrie, I thought…!" The little Austrian simpered. "De vay you played his desires…"
"What fur was Petracic's weskit made of, herr Leutnant Kolodzcy?" Lewrie interjected suddenly.
"Sealskin, I belief."
"Ah." Lewrie brightened. "Damme, I hate that. I like seals."
"You know zomethink, Herr Lewrie," Kolodzcy said. "You are a devious basdart." He doffed his hat in formal salute, bowed from the waist and double-clicked his bootheels. "I heff gome to like you!"
CHAPTER 2
The anchorage at the small, uninhabited islet was quite busy, for a change, as Jester swept in. Mlavic's new brig was there, along with a three-masted merchant ship of about 120 feet overall, tall, and bluff-sided as a two-decker man-o'-war. Two smaller boats, those 40-footers, were unloading near the beach, piled high with grain or flour sacks, teeming with sheep, goats, puny cattle or pigs. The shore was working alive with nearly one hundred Serb sailors or fighters, that Jester's crew could see, all cheerfully at their labours at beach or camp.
At the sight of all that luscious nutrition-on-the-hoof, Giles the purser positively salivated, and begged to go ashore to buy some. Lewrie grudgingly acceded, and added Mr. Giles to his shore-party of Surgeon Mister Howse-to check on the prisoners' needs-along with Leutnant Kolodzcy, both midshipmen and Andrews, in two boats, the heavier cutter and his gig.
"Leas' some'un have good luck t'fin' a prize, sah," Andrews commented once they'd grounded on that muddy grey strand. "Dot's some raght-han'some ship… do some'un give her a lick o' paint an' a good sweep-down."
"Aye, she is, Andrews," Lewrie remarked, studying her. "Just wonder how they stumbled across her. Mr. Howse, on your way. Report back to me, soon as you can. Take Spendlove with you."
"Oh. Very good, sir," Howse intoned, sounding put-upon, with his usual ponderously miserable voice. "Come along, younker."
Lewrie settled the hang of his sword before he began the short walk to the tree line, where the Serbs had established a rude encampment of huts built from pine boughs, spare ship-timbers and scraps of captured sailcloth. Axes rang as men split logs for firewood, and the smell of well-spiced meat roasting on several spits was intriguing. A jangly, tinkly sort of music was being played on odd-shaped instruments somewhat akin to lutes or guitars, accompanied by handheld drums and the eerie, almost Asian fhweeping of panpipes. If Lewrie felt he was walking naked into a lion's den, then at least the pride of lions seemed to be a well-fed and playful lot.
"Captain!" Dragan Mlavic shouted from the circular commons of his new-founded encampment. He waved a dark-green glass bottle aloft, sloshing some red wine on his new shirt and bestowing upon them a wide smile of welcome. "Come… drink! We celebrate!"
"Delighted, sir," Lewrie lied, noting how many of Mlavic's men had already gotten halfway toward the "staggers," swilling direct from bottles or crocks. There were hacked-topped brandy kegs into which the exultant pirates dipped mugs or cups, innumerable pale wooden crates on every hand with their lids torn back, revealing the slender necks with the sheet-lead seals of wines good enough to bottle, instead of being casked as vin ordinaire.
"More than enough, sir," Giles exclaimed. "Case'r two for the gunroom, case'r two for meself… and for you, sir? Along with livestock and such? Price is certain to be reasonable, in their state…"
