Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune

"God forbid, sir." Fillebrowne all but shivered. "It's quite like what that Scotsman, Burns, said in one of his poems, sir. That a 'man's a man, for a' that'? No matter his land of birth."

"Exactly, Fillebrowne!" Charlton smiled thankfully, relieved that at least one of his officers sounded supportive. "Exactly. No matter where one goes, people are people, when you get right down to it, with the same way of thinking, of deciding right from wrong. I'd take issue with your Burns, or anyone else, though, who professes that a day-labourer from the stews might be the equal of a proper gentleman… mean t'say, isn't that why we fought the Colonies? Are now embroiled in war with France, hey? Birth, class, privilege and education, and a sound religious upbringing by sober, dependable parents, make the difference-for European, Christian folk, at least. Just look at us!"

Oh, aye, look at us! Lewrie felt like groaning aloud; one a toad-eatin' swindler-to-be, one a feckless womaniser with a hollow leg, and me… an adulterous bastard! Fine lot we are, for examples!

"Wouldn't that make the French, or the Rebels, decent folk, then… at bottom, sir?" Lewrie couldn't help asking. "Sensible, peaceful Christians, sprung of European stock?"

"But deluded, sir, by rabble-rousing, leveling Jacobinist cant," Charlton growled. "No different from us, I will allow Just dead-wrong in their thinking. And now intent on spreading their creed of the Common Man being the equal of a king, by force of arms. Using guns to settle the question which would be more suited to an intellectual wrangle than a war. And most hypocritically using their pious cant to justify taking territory they've always coveted, by conquest!"

Charlton was huffing hard, in high dudgeon and colour, his wind wheezing in and out through constricted nostrils like a forge-bellows.

"Now, sir…" he demanded, "do you have any other pertinent comments to make, or care to share with us, Commander Lewrie?"

"Uhm…"

"So you are settled in your mind that we should approach Balkan pirates and attempt to form a temporary arrangement?" Charlton pressed. "Well, not completely settled, sir. After all…" Lewrie sighed. "Fillebrowne?" Charlton snapped, wheeling on him. "It's a most unusual, and as you said yourself, sir," Fillebrowne trimmed, coughing into his fist, "a most onerous proposition. But one I feel is absolutely necessary. And you would not have proposed it had you not given it much difficult consideration, sir. I am at your total disposal. Game for anything you deem worthy, sir. At your orders."

Havin' it both ways, Lewrie thought furiously; objectin' so meek and mild, but goin' along, in spite of yer… reservations! Damme, he's askin', not orderin'! Nows the time to scotch it! "Captain Rodgers, sir?" Charlton gruffed.

"Well, sir… Lewrie an' me," Ben wheedled, "we've had dealin's with pirates, an' like Lewrie said, sir… no good ever came of it. In the Bahamas… once we set one pack atop th' rest? Have t'arm 'em, I'd expect? Give 'em an advantage o'er th' others, sir? An what they'll do to each other with decent numbers o' modern arms after, well…"

"The only reason the Balkans haven't thrown off their Turkish masters, sir, is lack of arms," Charlton purred. "That, and the utter brutality of Turkish repression. Even were there not a revolt brewing, I'm told the Turks roam their territories and slaughter a village or a region just to keep 'em cowed! Chosen by sheer caprice, sir! To show them what'd happen should they even think of rising up. I'd expect they would turn on their oppressors first, Captain Rodgers, not each other. Serbs, Croats, whoever… they've seen the Ottoman Empire weaken. Seen the Barbary States, the Mamelukes of Egypt, strike out on their own… that Pasha of Scutari as the closest-to-home example. The Greek people in the Morea… good God, sir! Founders of Western civilisation, of all we hold dear-politics, poetry, logic, debate. Ground under the heel of brutal, un-Christian conquerors. Do we light a powder-train in the Balkans, Captain Rodgers, perhaps it may be a train which leads to the long-buried powder-keg of rebellion. They may throw off the Turks and drive them out, make of themselves what they will afterwards. And sirs, mark me well," Charlton cautioned, close to a sly smile of pleasure, "once free of the Turks, might they recall and be thankful to England? Resulting in British control of the Adriatic and the Aegean Seas? Of the profitable Eastern trade, hah?"

"Well, there's that, sir…" Rodgers admitted, glancing down in a sheepish, confounded way. "Might be a fine thing, that."

Lord, Ben! Lewrie all but cried aloud. Peyton Boudreau at Nassau had the right of it, you always were a slender reed. God knows, back then I talked you into enough shit. You always espoused the loudest argument… or the last'un you heard! Do be a man, for once, though. Stand up on yer own hind legs, an'…!

"We could try, sir," Ben Rodgers allowed. "Feel 'em out down south. Contact several bands. It may be they'd have no part of it, or none'd prove usable. Then, if nothing comes of it…" He tailed off with a helpless shrug. And, Lewrie noted, Captain Charlton gave him a glad, rewarding nod of approval.

"Very well, then," Charlton sniffed. "Lewrie, we know what you think of this."

Not 'til I've had a real rant, you don't, Lewrie left unspoken. A real rant, though… say what I really wish to say, and I'd be clapped in irons.

He looked round, to Commander Fillebrowne, who wore a smug look on his face, as if he'd herded Lewrie to the edge of a cliff and would most happily goad him to leap, and bedamned. To Rodgers, who was most pointedly sipping wine and staring off into the nether-regions, unable to meet his gaze. Then to Charlton, who was… waiting. Smirking?

"I don't like pirates much, sir," Lewrie began to respond, slowly and cautiously. "Never have. They don't play by civilised rules, sir, even the 'well-schooled' ones. The Rackhams, Bonnets, Teaches and Morgans… English gentlemen all, sir, yet…" He shrugged.

Charlton's firm expression faltered, whether to Lewrie s jibe or to an innate loathing for his own plan, some deep-down caution.

No, he ain't smirkin', Lewrie decided; at bottom, he knows what a horror we might start, and no way t'end it. Bothers him as much as me. No wonder he didn't just scribble us some orders and have done. He's a decent man, caught on the prongs of a shitten cleft stick. God help him… us!

"Needs must, I s'pose, though, sir," Lewrie grunted, deep from his gut, and tossed off another shrug to express reluctant acceptance. "Do you order it so, then we'll do the best we're able."

"I never considered anything less from you, Commander Lewrie," Charlton softly replied, relenting from his grim glower, and tossing him a bone of approbation. Though there was still a hesitancy to him, as if he'd relish being argued out of his decision. It was rare, but not completely unheard-of, for a quorum of captains to weight their options and come to a mutually agreed decision, when very far from higher authorities. He could have been as dictatorial, as domineering and irrationally unreasonable as the last post-captain who had had command over Lewrie-Howard Braxton of the ill-starred Cockerel frigate. For not being such a toplofty tyrant, Lewrie felt at least a slight bit of gratitude towards Charlton.

"Very well, sirs," Charlton said, after topping up their wine as reward for their agreement. "Here is what we'll do. For the nonce, we will sail more independent of each other.. in three groups as Commander Lewrie posed. Though perhaps not the same pairings, however…" Toss me a bone, aye, Alan begrudged; good doggie! "I will take Lionheart down to the Straits of Otranto again," Charlton schemed aloud. "Should French warships come from Toulon with succour for this Bonaparte by sea or take advantage of his gains, our best-armed and strongest ship should be placed to counter them. Even alone, I believe I could. Now, Commander Fillebrowne…" "Aye, sir?" Fillebrowne perked up.

"Yours will be the roving brief, sir," Charlton outlined. "A cruise nearer to Venice, high up the Adriatic to the west. Especially those harbours of the Papal States which are now in thrall to Bonaparte. Look into them, within your abilities… and the diplomatic niceties… for French ships. And look for warships that might be taken into service by the French Navy… what state of readiness for sea, d'ye see, sir. As far suth'rd a cruise as Rimini, Pescara and Ancona would do admirably well. And this inlet Lewrie mentioned, Lake Comacchio."

"Of course, sir!" Fillebrowne replied, all bright-eyed eager. To sail free and independent of senior officers' eyes was every junior captain's dream of perfect freedom.

"Captain Rodgers, you and Commander Lewrie will repeat your previous voyage… a slow jog down the Balkan coasts. Seeking merchantmen, it goes without saying. But enquiring of local authorities as to the whereabouts of-and most covertly, the suitability of-any pirate bands amenable to working with us."

"Aye aye, sir." Rodgers nodded heavily.

"Major Simpson said that he could supply us with an officer of his squadron," Charlton continued, "should we have decided to espouse such allies as we… erm, discussed. Someone with local knowledge of the coast, conversant in the various dialects, and-hhmmph!-which freebooters have the strength, the suitability, the ah… civility, rather"-Charlton all but winced-"useful to our cause."

"Aye, sir," Rodgers repeated, his moon face a dark-complexioned blank, as if giving Charlton no more than heavy-lidded, rote obedience.

Or he's took by "barrel-fever" by now, Lewrie thought, seeing as how we're on our fourth bottle of wine 'twixt the four of us. And nought but Ben's been sippin' steady.

"Well, that should do it, I think, sirs." Charlton beamed, with a cock of his head towards a calendar hanging in his chart-space beyond. "We'll meet up here at Trieste again in, say, three weeks? First week of August at the latest, depending on what occurs on your various duties and how depleted you are for prize-crews. You run into anything dangerous, and you scoot back here for shelter. Or come south to me, in the straits. Or, should I need saving, sirs"-Charlton posed, hands out in a helpless expression-"should the Frogs come in strength, then you'll see me first. Flying afore 'em, with stuns'ls aloft and alow! Captain Rodgers, you'll have your Austrian liaison aboard soon. Once I've sent word to Major Simpson, ashore. Uhm…"

Charlton had been acting very relieved, almost joyful at times, since they'd acceded to his plans-though, now and then, a touch rueful and hesitant. Now he almost blushed.

"Before you sail, you'd best take aboard a small cargo of arms and such, sirs… the both of you," Charlton added. "Do you succeed in discovering suitable temporary allies, then why not, uhm…?"

"Aye aye, sir," Rodgers agreed once more, even more heavily.

"Off ashore, sir?" Lewrie asked Rodgers, once they were on deck and queuing up for their gigs to arrive, in strict order of seniority. "S'pose you're about due for a tear. Even among what poor amusements Trieste has to offer. Not a patch on Venice, after all…"

"Thought I might," Rodgers allowed. Almost snippish, though.

Truculence? Lewrie wondered. A guilty conscience? Or pissed as a newt? Damn' standoffish, I must say!

"And you, sir?" Rodgers queried.

"Seen it, sir." Lewrie chuckled. "Hellish boresome. Letters to write, that sort of last-minute thing. Cargo to load," he drawled with a sarcastic note. "For our noble 'Christian' friends, don't ye know."