Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune

" At'd be cuttin' it damn fine, sir," Buchanon groused, with a thumb lifted to measure her. "I think she'll come aboard us… into th' bowsprit do we not look sharp."

"Right, then!" Knolles snapped. "Mister Cony, cutter away to the prize-ship! Boat's crew, plus six more hands for muscle on their capstan, should her watch be as drunk as you suspect. Keep ours sober, hear me?"

"Aye, sir!" Cony shouted back, having mustered a boat-crew upon the gangway already, and snagging the first available hands of the duty-watch he could lay hands on.

"Might even have to row a kedge out for 'em, too!" Lieutenant Knolles added, seeing them scramble over the side. "Idle bastards," he murmured under his breath.

"Havin' 'emselves a rare ol' time, aren't they, sir?" Buchanon pointed to the leaping flames ashore, the faint shouts, the yells of merrymaking. "Wonder what 'ey fed th' cap'um an' 'em?"

"Mister Sadler?" Knolles called for the Bosuns Mate. "Do you pipe 'All Hands.' We may have to fend that old bitch off, should she come close enough. Muster forrud. Spare spars and rig fenders!" "Aye, sir!"

They went forward along the starboard gangway themselves, as the off-duty crew boiled up on deck, up as far as the cat-head, which poised the second heavy bower horizontally. That three-master now lay aslant the starboard bows, looking uncomfortably close and tall, at a forty-five-degree angle, just as Cony's working-party reached her main-chain platform. And there was still no response from her, no matter how they shouted from the cutter, or Jesters forecastle.

"Drunks'z lords, sir," Buchanon sighed. "Dear God!" "She'll collide?" Knolles quailed, assuming that the Sailing Master had worked out the angles in his head already and was certain the two ships would entangle. And pleading with God why such a thing had to happen on his watch, with the captain away and him in temporary command!

"Her transom-board, sir!" Buchanon gasped, pointing to the ornately carved, gilded nameplate which was flickering with faint light as her stern swung enough to bare it to them. Below her master's windows and stern-walk, above her wardroom's windows, she bore a name: Nostra Signora di Santa Maria Delle Salute, amid wee angels and cherubs.

"By God, Mister Knolles!" Buchanon gasped. " 'At's a Venetian cathedral's name. Lay ya, sir… 'ere's somethin' queer 'bout 'is!"

"A Venetian ship, sir?" Knolles gawped. "Damme, they'd dare to take a Venetian?" He cast a wild stare shoreward. The crudely erected huts teemed with movement, the shadows of campfire flames wavered and flagged in the trees, upon the rocks. Crude shouts could be heard and some laughter, now the wind had shifted to fetch sound seaward. There were no answers, though, no…! Knolles cupped his hands and bellowed over to the ship, which now looked immense, her tall poop towering over Jester s bows. "Ahoy! Cony! Hoy, the ship!"

There came another sound, a most welcome sound from the capstan, as Navy hands breasted to the bars and began to haul taut on the anchor cable, harsh clackings of pawl-by-pawl progress.

"Heavin' 'er shorter, sir!" Cony yelled back, atop the poop and barely sixty feet off by then. "These pirates, sir… nary a one of'em on 'is feet! Think we'll keep her off, sir!"

Bosun's Mate Sadler and a quarter of the crew were ready with a selection of spars thrust out to hold her off, should Cony fail, with rope mats and hurriedly scavenged heavy-weather royals and t'gallants up from the sail-room to hang like spongy bags of laundry over-side as protection.

"Cony… is… she… Venetian?" Knolles queried.

" Ang on, sir, lemme 'ave a squint!" He dropped from sight, to magically appear in her stern-windows a minute later, then came out on her captain's stern-gallery waving a sheaf of papers. "Aye, sir, that she be'. Venetian, right-enough! Christ A'mighty, sir!"

"Put her people in irons, Cony! Mister Hyde!" Knolles shouted.

"Here, sir," Hyde said, right by his coattails; he hadn't needed to shout.

"Gig and launch, sir, at once. Sergeant Bootheby? We're going to board the brig. If they make a fight of it, then slaughter the bastards." Knolles cast another glance ashore, wondering if sound would carry that far, against the wind. "Pass the word. Beat to Quarters… no drums, no noise. Mister Crewe?"

"Aye, sir," the Master Gunner barked from the darkness.

"Man the starboard battery, best you're able, 'til we've secured the brig. I'm mustering a landing-party, so you'll be short-handed."

"We'll cope, sir, never ya fear!" Crewe assured him.

Though it would never do for a gentleman, a Sea Officer, to trot when he could stroll or amble proudly, Lieutenant Knolles tore aft, desiring a telescope that instant. He ripped one of the night-glasses from a rack by the binnacle and extended it, trying to focus it, trying to interpret its up-side-down-backwards image. Pirates all 'round the central fires; sway-ing-drunk, or firelit-swaying? Only a cable to shore, perhaps no more than a hundred yards beyond that to the huts, but… naked bodies… naked women, by God. Tits, by God! he gasped; he was sure he saw tits! And held against their will, he could barely make out; captain'd not hold with force. He couldn't see faces or discover identities that far off, had no way to discern uniforms, either. But there was something olid and evil going on ashore, he was dead certain of it, like some pagan Hell, something satanic and heathen done beneath blood-soaked oaks, like tales of witches' covens.

"Women and… children?" he softly exclaimed. "My oath!" How could he employ the guns, if women and children were in the line of fire? he shuddered. And how could he save his captain?

"Ninety- five guineas, you pus-gut," Lewrie despaired, putting a brave face on it, though, as Mlavic smirked at him, blowing a premonitory kiss towards Mrs. Connor. He was coming close to his limit; slow as he'd drawn it out, he couldn't continue this farce much longer. Mlavic looked tired of the game, too. In the beginning, he'd played up right-mocking, taking pleasure from his crew's reactions, and the hopes and fears that played teeter-totter on Mrs. Connor's countenance. Lewrie was beginning to run low on insults, too.

"Hun'red!" Mlavic roared, mopping his face with a rough hand. "Hun'red guinea!" He leered at her, thrust his hips and grimaced.

"And ten," Lewrie retorted. "One hundred and ten, you low-bred Barbary ape!"

"Hun'red fifty !" Mlavic bristled, finally getting tired of Lewrie s insults. A few more, Lewrie speculated, and Mlavic would cry off the game, stick his butcher-knife in his ribs, take the woman, and declare himself the winner.

"Two hundred," Lewrie drawled, affecting to study his fingernails. Perversely, the Serbs whistled and catcalled, cheering with a muttering like the House of Commons on a testy day. Mlavic paused, as one hand went to his purse by its own volition, as if he had to assure himself he had that much. That drew more cheers, of the mocking sort, which made the pirate chieftain whirl about, glowering them to silence.

Aye, had enough o' the game, Lewrie bitterly told himself; and enough o' bein' hooted by his own side, too! It's all up.

"Five hun'red, British boy-fucker!" he spat, a triumphant grin on his face. "Show me! Show guinea, now!"

"Six hundred," Lewrie countered, stepping forward and hefting his heavy wash-leather purse, jouncing it like a juggler's ball. "All two-guinea coins, Venetian ducats, Austrian guilders…" Mirko the guard didn't follow, and Kolodzcy, Howse and Spendlove had been allowed on their feet long since to root for him bid-by-bid. Far enough away from their captors, he wondered? This ain't goin' t'work, but…!

Lewrie turned, a mocking, jeering smile on his phyz, one brow raised in celebration, to face them. He winked and nodded, slow and significant, jutting his chin up slantwise towards the nearest armed men. Spendlove went pasty-pale, and Howse began to tremble. From Lieut-nant Kolodzcy there was a fatalistic bow of his head, and a quirky grin. "Bid was six hundred guineas to you, Mlavic," Lewrie taunted, stepping within a long arm's reach. "Put up or fold."

"Fun with me, hah? Fun with Dragan, hah?" Mlavic roared, and fumbled for his heavy money-bag. He ripped it open and spilled money on the ground in a glittering golden shower. "One t'ousand guinea, I say! You no got that much, you…!"

Lewrie tensed, ready to spring, planning to go for one of those pistols first* then for Mrs. Connor. Shoot Mlavic in the belly, then take his scimitar or his butcher-knife? Mlavic half turned, though, of a sudden, raising his arms to jeer and show his empty purse to his men, who began that hackle-raising wolf howling song.

BOOOMMM! though. The harsh barking of a 9-pounder! The Rwarkk! of livened timbers by the beach. Mlavic turned to face it, goggling at the sight of one of his forty-footer boats in midleap after being struck by round-shot and grape in a froth of spray and splintered wood, blown clean from the water!

His back was to Lewrie. In that split second before he could turn, Alan dove forward, stung into sudden motion without thought. He got hold of both pistols by the butts and leaped free, levering back their dogs-jaws with his wrists. "To me!" he howled, backpedaling towards where he thought Mrs. Connor had been. He collided with her, as she was of the same mind and had rushed to him, almost knocking them both off their feet. He had a quick glance to see Howse cowering away, Kolodzcy smashing a handy bottle over a guards head and seizing his sword arm and wrist. Spendlove was kicking the angelic-looking tormentor in his "nutmegs" and lifting his knee in a rough-and-tumble "Dutch Kiss," a trick he'd obviously learned on the lower decks from the hands.

And BOOOMMM! again, and the second boat was leaping skyward.

"Stay at my back, don't let go of me or the boy!" Alan warned Mrs. Connor as he turned to face Mlavic. His sword was drawn, and he was crouching to fight! Lewrie leveled a pistol at his heart and began backing away towards that hut. Mlavic sneered at the threat, pacing forward slowly, just out of sword-reach.

"No loaded, British," Mlavic sing-songed.

"We'll find out, then, won't we?" Lewrie grinned back, praying he was lying. "Care to lay a guinea on it? What's your bid now, hey?"

At Mlavic's beck, a pirate rushed from the right, sword back for a head-lopping slash, and Lewrie aimed, pulled the trigger as the child and Mrs. Connor screamed. It fired! And the man pitched over backwards!

"One!" Mlavic laughed. "Have one left."

BOOMM! BOOMM! BOOMM! Sweet music, those three more shots from Jesters 9-pounders, this time loaded with grapeshot and canister, and fired a tad high, Lewrie took time to note. The trees and bushes on the desiccated island thrashed with the impact of a thousand musket balls or plum-size shot, a bit over the height of a man. But they drove nearly everyone to their faces or knees-Mlavic, too!

"Run!" Lewrie cried, dropping the empty pistol and grasping Mrs. Connor by the hand in the short moment of grace that partial broadside had bought them. He made it to Kolodzcy and clubbed down one of the guards from behind, freeing the Austrian to pick up a sword and that man's pair of pistols. A moment more and they were with Spendlove, who was hewing about with a cutlass, keeping two at bay. A quick shot and one was down with a bullet in his kidneys, and their swords were clashing. Spendlove, freed, turned his attention to the other and began the cutlass drill… left foot stamp and down-left slash, right foot stamp and back-slash right, balance step and recover. He beat the Serbian's scimitar aside and round-housed a back-slash that laid the man open.