Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune

His fundament met the turkey carpet and the chequered deckcloth, legs sprawled at a wide angle, with his head now resting so far back on the settee cushions a sober observer might think him neck-broke.

His gaze swam about, cockeyed as if Jester were heaving, pitching, yawing and rolling in a hurricane under bare poles. There, in the dining coach, over the table on the forrud bulkhead, he found something to focus on. His wife Caroline's portrait. All sunny and radiant in a wide-brim straw bonnet, smiling so eye-crinklin' pleased, before their first house in the Bahamas, with East Bay and the shipping behind her.

He screwed one eye shut, to peer more intently.

"Needs o' th' Service, m'dear," he apologised. "Ne'er seen me bung-full, I know. Bloody barbarians… in f r dinner an' drink. Had t'keep up th' side, don' ysee? King an' Country…?"

He thought of crawling over for a closer, fonder look. Damme, though; was that a frown in her forehead… right where she wrinkled in those times she was vexed with him? Or was she laughing at him, at his ludicrous condition?

"Ben's fault, damn yer eyes," he whispered. Peering took too much [out of him, so he shut the other eye, too, and let his head loll.

Aspinall returned with a mug of soup and some piping-hot toast, but he was too late. His captain's top-lights had been extinguished for the evening. With Andrews s help, they removed his coat, sword-belt and stock, the other fancy Hessian boot, and slung him gently into bed, with a swaddling coverlet atop.

Where he dreamed the most vivid and disturbing plum-brandy dreams. Of blood and crows, of a vast plain of bones, of biblical patriarchs with swinging swords, red-eyed vengeance, rapine and slaughter.

And of whispering seals whose voices were too soft to understand, or be heeded.

South of the isle of Susak, smack in the middle of the Adriatic, lay a small cluster of rocky, barely inhabited islets round a larger, which was named Palagruza. Pylades and Petracic s galliot sailed there, to establish a camp, from which they would then go back to the Balkan mainland so Petracic could have a chance to raise his fellow Serbs. Ben Rodgers would capture him that suitable European ship, too.

Dividing their forces once again, Lewrie and Jester were sent off toward the Straits of Otranto. He was free of Rodgers, but most especially was he free at last of Leutnant Conrad Kolodzcy. Forced to beat against a persistent Sutherly, the Sirocco, for several days, he zigzagged his way down the Adriatic, quartering it thoroughly on-passage and hunting for prey once more.

The weather was hot, now it was late July, and the sere wind up from Africa was no refreshing relief, sometimes hazed with gathered dust or sand particles, reducing visibility. The seas, forced up the narrows into the cul-de-sac of the Adriatic, humped long, folding waves of seven or eight feet. Jester bowled over them surefooted, though, swooping on their faces and cleaving them in delightful bursts of spray with a quick, lively and satisfied motion. As if their warship felt as free as they-as liberated from their dubious dealings, and fresh-washed in proper Royal Navy business.

No, the only fly in their ointment was the presence of the dhow on their larboard quarters, for Dragan Mlavic had been sent off by his master Petracic to glean what pickings he could from Jester's successes. He'd fade back whenever they stood on larboard tack towards Italy. But, like a nemesis, they'd espy her again when forced over to starboard tack and angle for the Albanian or Montenegran shores.

Uncanny, it was. Surely, Lewrie thought, the Adriatic, narrow as it was, still held room enough to lose the bitch in! But no. There she was, hull-down to the East'rd. Could she be any other dowdy two-masted coaster, since the Adriatic teemed with them? Time and again, though, and hope against hope, they'd recognise her dun brown sails with the odd patches of new canvas they'd been forced to give Mlavic, which ;formed a stylised lightning-bolt pattern on her foresail! Until the very sight of that accidental emblem made every man-jack groan with disgust, as if a penniless relation had shown up to sponge off them, just after they had been paid in coin, for a rare once.

"Damme, how does he do it, Captain?" Lieutenant Knolles spat, lifting his hat for dne of his irritated blond hair-rufflings.

"Luck o' th' Devil, he, Mister Knolles," Buchanon decided. "An' th' Devil's Brood has 'eir master's luck."

"Thought we'd sailed him under, the last Sou'west tack, sir," Lieutenant Knolles carped on. "He hasn't the 'nutmegs' to sail over to Italy. He'd get his silly arse knackered over there. Does he idle in the middle? Do a dash down to where he thinks we'll be, and wait?"

"Aloft, there!" Lewrie demanded of the lookouts. "She alone?"

"Aye, sir!"

"Hasn't tried to take a ship himself, then." Lewrie frowned.

"Like a kite, sir. Waitin' 'til braver beasts'z made 'eir kill," the Sailing Master harrumphed. " 'En he'll have a bite'r two."

"Deck, there!" Came another shout from the lookouts. "Sail ho!"

"Where away?" Knolles howled impatiently.

"Four point off th' starb'd bows! Brig! Runnin' free!"

Lewrie scrambled aloft to the cat-harpings of the mizzen to have a gander. There was no more than seven miles' visibility with all that wind-borne African haze on the Sutherly horizon, and the strange vessel was already showing a hint of tops'ls as well as all of her t'gallants. Sailing dead off the wind, he took note, with "both sheets aft." She'd pass astern of Jester should they both stand on as they were, perhaps a good two miles apart. He could tack right away, he schemed, go back to larboard tack headed Sou'west, and cut her off as she loped North, fat, dumb and happy. Running as she was, she could sail no faster than the winds blew, and that felt like only a ten- to twelve-knot breeze today, he reckoned. Less, for she'd surely be heavily laden, snuffling bows-down with a breeze right up her transom, even with the fore-course reduced, and the lifting effect of the fore-tops'l to ease her. And she didn't look particularly big, either, an average brig of about eighty-five feet overall, with a chunky seventy-foot waterline.

Yet, should she take fright, she'd alter course, just on general principles, and claw up to the wind and beat inshore for safety in the neutral Venetian port of Durazzo. She was now about six miles a'weather of them. Make it five, he plotted in his head, once we've tacked, losing way… same for her. Dammit, she could just barely make it in, one step ahead!

Lewrie clambered down and stowed his telescope in the rack by the binnacle cabinet. "We'll stand on as we are for now, Mister Knolles. I don't wish to scare her off 'til she's come down closer to us, within a mile or two. Then, do we haul our wind or tack, we'll fall down on her, and keep ourselves 'tween her and the safety of a neutral port."

"Very good, sir," Knolles replied.

"Deck, there!" The lookout cried. "Dhow, sir! Tackiri!"

Mlavic had been loafing along on the starboard tack, pointing up higher on the winds, even so, than Jester ever could, presaging a close-aboard reunion, unless Lewrie had ordered them to come about to stand aloof of his dhow. Suddenly, though, she racked over to larboard tack, bearing Sou'west, still pointing high and expanding the size of her lateen sails to full size. Mlavic had spotted the strange brig and was going after her with every stitch of canvas aloft!

"Damn him. Just damn him!" Lewrie rasped.

"He'll scare her off!" Midshipman Hyde exclaimed, outraged.

Mlavic had been off Jester's larboard quarter and only two sea-miles to leeward. On her new course, he'd close them before sweeping past, crossing Jester's stern and surging upwind of her. Mlavic, it appeared, had found some courage for the chase at last-but at the very worst possible moment!

"Greedy bastard," Lewrie commented sourly. "Hmm… aloft, there!

What is the brig doing?"

"Standin' on, sir! Courses 'bove th' horizon, runnin' free!"

"They've seen us by now, surely. Might not be able to see that pirate yet," Knolles muttered. " 'Til he crosses our stern, sir."

"Or do 'ey not keep a proper lookout, like most merchantmen, sir, Buchanon added. "Nought t'fear so far, e'en do 'ey."

Lewrie looked aft. To save wear-and-tear, Jester only flew her national colours when challenged or when doing the challenging. With her courses above the horizon already, the brig couldn't be more than a scant four miles up to windward, and still held to her off-wind slide. She didn't yet acknowledge Jester as a warship, since she'd made no move to close her, but was standing on Sou'east, on a diverging course as if bound for Durazzo herself.

The line of sight, Alan thought, looking to windward once more; aye, Mlavic is hidden below us now, blotted out by our hull and sails, even did they spot him earlier. Might be the brig's whey-faced innocent, or a I neutral, but he had to stop her and speak her to ascertain that. To run up the flag now might spook her, either way, and they'd waste half a day running her down for nothing.

And best we fetch her first. Alan shivered. God knows what that pig-eyed fool'd do, neutral prize or no! Fight us for her?

"Mister Hyde," Lewrie decided. "Fetch out that Frog flag of ours. Bend it on and hoist it to the mizzen peak. Mister Knolles, prepare to come about to larboard tack. We'll see what answering hoist we receive… then we'll pretend to run from those terrible Serb pirates yonder… and unmask 'em to her, as we come about. See what she makes of that!"

"Oh, I see, sir!" Knolles chuckled. "Eek eek, a mouse, Captain? Bosun! Pipe 'Stations for Stays'!"

"Once round, Mister Knolles…" Lewrie added. "Beat to Quarters."

Scant minutes later, all had altered. Jester was thrashing windward, hobby-horsing over the long but steep sets of waves. Their pirate dhow's way had been blocked, as Lewrie had flung his ship squarely across her course, and was now pitching and rolling dead in Jester's wake-as if she truly were pursuing her-working her way up to windward of them, certainly, since fore-and-aft rigged lateeners could pinch up much closer to the eye of the wind any day.

And the brig…!

She'd taken one look, hoisted a matching French flag, and turned away, wearing herself to a broad reach, with the Sirocco winds large on her larboard quarter, headed Nor-Nor'west. She was steering directly for a meeting with Jester!

Comin' tsave me, are you? Lewrie speculated with a sneer, as he glanced astern and ahead in a constant mental juggling act of courses and speeds; me, a fellow Frog? Damn brave of you. Or d'ye think your own safety lies in numbers… two armed merchantmen 'gainst one pirate?

"A mile, I make her, sir," Mr. Buchanon suggested.

"We'll stand on a bit more, 'fore…" Lewrie mused, turning for another peek at what Mlavic was doing. Which, he imagined, might involve tearing his hair out in frustration at the moment. His dhow had worked her way back windward of Jester, out on her larboard quarter again. And no more than a mile astern, down to leeward. Edging out to pass, but he'd be just a bit too late. Depending on what the brig did, of course. Then Lewrie turned to peer forward once more.

"Three-quarter mile," Buchanon speculated, sounding excited. "Ah!" "Uhum!" Lewrie beamed. The brig was turning, bearing more Westerly and bracing her yards round, hauling taut as she swung in a wide arc to put herself on the wind on the same tack as Jester! Nowhere near as fast, she planned to match courses and let Jester -a "fellow countryman"-surge up to her so their firepower was concentrated. Should he speak her, captain-to-captain, and plan what they could do to "save" themselves?