Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune

"Oh, so do I, Alan, old son, I assure ye," Chute agreed. "Fair breaks me heart t'see a man that kind-a man that bloody rich!-be cuckolded s'soon. Faithless mort! Knew it straight off, Peter and me. Deserves better, he does. That's my thinkin'. I… Duck!"

Out came Fillebrowne, his hat far down over his brows, with left hand gripped on his sword scabbard to rein it in, with right hand out to plough pedestrians like Moses parting water with his staff, setting a brusque pace towards the waterfront; away from them, thankfully. It wasn't a minute later that Lucy appeared in the doorway, summoning her sedan-chair, to be jog-trotted off to the right down the narrower lane, back to her suite of rooms hard by the Grand Canal.

Smarmy bastard! Lewrie fumed, once they could rise to full height once more; an' bloody whore! He thought himself quite lucky for their teenage "cream-pot" love to have gone smash so long ago. What sort of Hades would he have been put through by now, had he wed her in the Caribbean? Even with all her daddy's gold as consolation? He felt a bit sad, too, that the entrancing, fascinating, so-full-of-promise Lucy from his memories had turned out to be so base.

Mean t'say, he thought; you were already a widow, with oceans of money from daddy's an' husbands estates. Could've removed t'London and rogered yourself stone-blind, like so many widows do. And thank God for 'em! he added, recalling flashes of youthful experience. Why marry at all, again… specially a decent man, when there's so many rakehells available? Was Sir Malcolm just too rich t'miss? And did ya plan t'be an "open beard" right off? Bah! He felt like spitting.

Fillebrowne, though… he'd flaunted a relationship with Phoebe Aretino, damn near to Lewrie's face. Whether it was true or not, or if he had tried to nettle him, to prove which of them was the chief crow-cock, well… it didn't signify. Now here he was, topping another of Alan's old flings. Lewrie had a sense of why; 'twould be the most impish deed for a smug rogue to do, a tripled joy. Bull a married woman, and always cock one eye and ear for discovery-a most delicious thrill, he knew. It was such an intriguing game, to keep the story straight, the blankly innocent demeanour in public… before the husband, under his very nose! And the older and richer the husband, the greater the thrill. Second, there was revenge, the thrill of the chase, the victory over another to savour. Seeing what a round-heel Lucy might have been over Lewrie, the coy flirtation she'd bestowed that dinner before. And beating him into the breech-and "Who's the better man, now, hey?" after he'd turned her offer down. Before he could reconsider and move on her himself!

Fillebrowne could make a name for himself in the Fleet. Lewrie squirmed, turning red. The man who stole quim from "Ram-Cat" Lewrie. Men would ever vie, over just about anything, but nothing caught their competitive heat quite as quick as the chance to stick it to a rival's wife, daughter or mistress!

Finally, there was Lucy herself, the prize. Still a fetchin' bit of fluff, short, springy and bouncy, soft and yielding (he suspected) as a feather mattress, now obviously an avid player at "the game," and time restraints would turn two blissful stolen hours with her into that sort of "all-night-in" that'd kill lesser men. For both of them, he told himself; out to top their last record, and make the most of their time.

"Ya know, Alan," Clotworthy sighed, striving to sound somewhat less amused than he obviously was, "were we a devious pair of fellows, I do allow there's a bit o' profit in this. Do ye despise Fillebrowne half'z much'z ye say, then a word in yer Charlton's ear'd put him in a pretty pickle, would it not? And to reveal all… to a certain party, mind, with a promise t'keep mum… for a gratuity, say…"

"You're right, Clotworthy." Lewrie grimly nodded. "There might be. Mine would be proper, though. He's remiss in his duties. I'd be very disappointed in you, Clotworthy, were you to try to exploit this with a certain party. Either party. Stick to what you're good at… bloom where you're planted, hmm?"

"But Alan, m'dear, I merely pointed out…!" Chute cried, in a fair approximation of righteous indignation, but retracting his intent. "Damme, sir. It's so meaty! And a juicy bit o' news like this doesn't come along just any day. There must be somethin' in it for me!"

"Gossip t'gloat over, Chute," Lewrie allowed, grinning slightly. "A zesty tale t'tell, in strict confidence at the wine-table. Does it get spread about, though, sooner or later it gets back to Sir Malcolm, and there's a good man made a laughingstock. And heartbroken."

"And her mint, too, mind," Clotworthy countered. "Given a welcome comeuppance. And well deserved."

Comeuppance, Lewrie mused for a moment; what a gladsome idea! "Clotworthy," he said carefully, "did you know that Commander Fillebrowne is dead-keen on art collecting? His whole damned family is mad for it. Reckons himself a most discernin sort, though. Or so he boasts."

"Is he, by God!" Clotworthy exclaimed, beginning to beam the beatific smile of a delighted child. "Hmm… why, just bless my soul!"

"Hope you enjoyed Venice as much as I did," Benjamin Rodgers sniffed, as they strolled along the shore of the tiny island that was alee of the main isle of Palagruza. "Came nigh t'killin' myself."

"Bit o' this, a bit o' that," Lewrie answered, gazing off into the small undeveloped harbour where Jester and Pylades lay to anchor. "Shopping, mostly, for the family. Go on a high ramble, did you, sir?"

"Like th' hands, 'Out o' Discipline,' " Rodgers confided. "An' a wife I in every port. Every time I turned my head, more-like. Three in two days," he slyly boasted, giving Lewrie a companionable nudge in the ribs. "Spent damn deep, I tell you… prize-money and me essence. Flowin' like th' town drains, an' thankee Jesus for a bachelor's life… a sailor's life. Doubt I drew a sober breath, from th' waterfront on, but not so 'barreled' I shan't have lovely mem'ries for me dotage."

"I stand in awe, sir!" Lewrie chuckled, batting a pine cone along with a driftwood stick. "Did Myrmidon come in?"

"Aye, yesterday. And just as quickly gone. Lionheart was at sea, just bout yonder, loafin' off-and-on," Captain Rodgers related, "and sicced her south, 'thout a chance t'anchor. They're t'cover Volona an' Durazzo, I believe was the idea. I'm for Corfu and the straits for a bit, then escort my prize back to Trieste. Mine an' whoever else's."

"See you took a singleton. Congratulations on good hunting."

"Not half so good as our last sweep, Alan," Rodgers shrugged with a rueful squint. "Those japes o' yours put th' fear o' God in 'em. Don't know as how there's a single continent French bowel in an hundred miles, lately. Timber cargo, outward bound. Like coal to Newcastle… not worth much at the Prize-Court. Sell off ship an' cargo… might be we take her again in a month'r two. Or th' damn' timber gets bought by a Venetian, an' run right back t'where I took it in th' first place!" Ben rasped, sullen and gloomy. "Tradesmen… only loyalty'z gold!"

"Did Captain Charlton leave any orders for Jester, sir?"

"Aye, he did," Rodgers nodded, trying to skip a smooth stone on the limp lee-coast waves beyond the beach. "Verbal orders. Hasn't put pen to paper in a fortnight. Damme, I used t'be good at that! You are to sail down to him, off Durazzo or Volona, an' report what our consul told you, an' what news ya heard latest at Venice. He said he dasn't wait for ya, with th' Balkan coast temporarily uncovered, and it'd be time th' Frogs would be gettin' over th' fright you gave 'em. Then I expect you'll be given a port t'watch. Inshore work."

"My sole joy in life, sir," Alan snickered without much mirth.

"So, t'quote the Bard… what is new on th' Rialto?" Rodgers asked, trying his hand with another flat stone, side-arming it.

"There's not much joy from our consul, sir. O' course. Says he expects to be hooted out of the hall, should he lay a complaint." Alan grimaced. "Won't even think of it 'til he's nosed about some more… and I 'spect that'll take 'til next Epiphany."

"Merchant, himself," Rodgers spat. "Might be up t'his neck in th' trade, too."

"Uhm… sir." Lewrie frowned over Rodgers's wintry cynicism. "I heard bad news 'bout the French. That new Austrian general, Wurmser, in the Alpine passes? Came down three of 'em, along the Adige River. His left-wing column as far east as Bassano and Verona. Nobody knows quite why, that'un. Right-wing marched on Brescia, round Lake Iseo, and his centre round below Lake Garda. Forty-five, perhaps fifty thousand men? The Frogs a lot less."

"Don't tell me," Rodgers growled, heaving another failure.

"Well, they had a bit of success early on. Scared the bejesus out of the Frogs, at first, 'til they concentrated on the Chiesa River. Then it all went t'Hell, sir," Lewrie said, sketching a rough map with his stick on the dirt-grey sand.

"Aye, seems t'do that a lot lately, don't it," Rodgers mused.

"Never got his eastern troops into it, sir," Lewrie pressed on, ignoring Rodgers's sarcasm. "French counterattacked near Brescia and Lake Iseo, Wurmser hared over to help out, and Bonaparte not only routed his tail-end, but smashed in his main force in the centre, round Castiglione, and ran him back up the passes. Five days of fighting, all told. Never got anywhere near Mantua to lift the siege. Might have something more, from his left-wing, at Bassano, in mind, but…" He shrugged, scraping northern Italy into a boot-crushed smear. "Bloody Austrians."

"Least ya run with successful people, Alan. Even if yer oF chum Bonaparte is a Frog. So what're th' Venetians doin'?'

"Absolutely nothing, sir. Business as usual. They're neutral, so nice and sweet and harmless, no one'd ever come after them. Some brief hand-wavin', then the cards were flutterin' again. Our consul said he hasn't seen one sign they're worried. Nothing stirring at the Arsenal, no troops called up, no standing-army drills, yet."

"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!"