Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune

"The hut!" Lewrie shouted, stooping to retrieve a Turk-style sword.

"Out of the line of fire… go!"

BOOMM! BOOMM! BOOMM! This time, aimed lower, and men who had leaped back to their feet were swept away in a howling, shrieking horror. Not just pirates, unfortunately, but some of their victims as well, who'd been dashing about witless. Mlavic had dropped once more to his belly, barely ten paces behind. He was up in a flash, bellowing orders and trying to muster his chaotic, half-drunk men into a fighting force. They came from the woods or huts where they'd been sporting, down from the stockade, running for stands of muskets, then drew swords and began to form a rough protective line above the beach.

This kept Mlavic too busy to deal with Lewrie, for a moment. They dashed for the hut, Alan dragging the woman almost off her feet in his haste, now they had another shot-bought moment of grace. A pistol lit off and Lewrie turned to see another pirate spin about and drop, just by the hut's side. Kolodzcy growled something in German and cocked his other pistol. And there went the little fifteen-year-old girl Mlavic had his eye on at first, stark-naked and screaming up the hill for the prison.

Howse leaped to his feet, almost under Lewrie's, to run whining ahead of them, still weaponless. Spendlove had armed himself with two more pistols by then, and shoved one at Howse, who took it in passing, still intent on some dubious safety. "Can't find more pistols, sir," Spendlove confessed as Lewrie reached him.

"Three shots, then," Lewrie noted, looking to the beach for a sign of a landing-party. Could they hide somewhere? But where would be safe? And where the hell was Knolles? Surely…!

"Four… I reload dhese," Kolodzcy panted. "Ged our swords, I beg you, sir. Gif me your pistol. Herr Spentluff unt I, ve vill hold dhem off."

Lewrie ducked into the hut, tearing away the flimsy sailcloth door, and scrounged about for weapons, leaving Mrs. Connor and her boy shivering outside, the boy crying incessantly. He found his sword and Mr. Spendlove's prided dirk, the elegantly ornate small-sword Kolodzcy wore. But no more firearms.

"Down to the beach, ma'am," he urged as he came out. "Take the boy and go, now, while there's time. Our landing-party-"

"If the pirates are between here and there…?" she whinnied in a breathless pant, half out of her wits with terror, but fighting hard to master herself. "We all should go?"

"Might as well, we've ruined supper!" Lewrie cracked, happy to have his hanger once more in his hand. He looked at her, and was most surprised to see her smiling! She still shivered with fright, but she was smiling, tittering on the verge of semi-hysterical humour, like a doomed man who'd rather not weep, thankee.

And noticed for the first time, by the amber light of Mlavic s camp-fire, what a stunningly handsome woman she was! So exotically high-cheeked, with a squarish jaw that tapered to a pert chin and a wide, full-lipped mouth. Large amber eyes aslant like almonds, heavy-lashed and browed…! Her classically sculpted little nose…!

Damme! he goggled. Splendid poonts, tool 'Bout t'be knackered or no, and I'm gone calf-eyed over-

"Whatever shall we do now, sir?" Mr. Howse interrupted, coming from God knew where, which apparently he hadn't deemed completely safe. Lewrie had the thought he could hear that worthy's teeth knocking together. But the man had a pistoll

"Mr. Howse, make yourself useful. See Mrs. Connor and the lad down toward the beach. Take that harem pig-sticker yonder and gimme your pistol." Howse stooped for a massive chopper of a blade, handed the pistol to Lewrie-who winced as the fool offered it half-cocked and barrel-first, with a hellish-shaky finger still on the trigger!

, Thank God for small miracles, Alan thought wildly; my own side hasn't gut-shot me! Yet, he amended.

"We'll be close behind you, fending 'em off. Now go, sir!" He turned to face the pirate camp, which was sorting itself out at last, with Mlavic the loudest and fiercest, about thirty yards off. And felt a light tap on the back of his coat collar. He turned…

"Patrick always said…"-she shuddered, looking achingly lovely for someone who could still get chopped-"Have a 'touch for luck.' Touch a sailors collar. Thank you!" She smiled once more.

"Hope it works, Mistress Connor… for somebody." He grinned. Then she was gone, gathering up her half-stunned and wailing child, to join Mr. Howse by some low bushes further down the slope to the beach.

"Achtung, eine Angriff kommen!" Kolodzcy warned. "Mlavic!"

With most of his men sorted out, Mlavic had turned his attention to them again, him and a dozen others, coming at the trot.

"Captain, I kill you!" Mlavic howled. "Kill you slow!"

"Carefully… aimed fire," Lewrie ordered, leveling his first pistol at full-cock, waiting 'til they got within ten paces. Furious for blood or not, the pirates shied a bit, none of them wishing to be in the lead, with Mlavic howling and driving them on.

BANGG! The harsher, chuffing bark of a 2-pounder boat-gun down near the beach, spewing canister in an expanding cloud of lead pellets. BANGG! came a second, slashing at the centre of the pirates' camp and flinging men off their feet. The landing-party was within yards of the shore, Alan most gratefully realized, the small guns mounted in the bows of their boats! Those shots raised a wailing from the wounded, behind and to Mlavic's rear, and froze his men for a second to peer or check their progress, wondering what new deviltry was coming.

Lewrie took aim and fired, and one pirate dropped his weapons to grab at his shattered thigh, but Lewrie had been aiming at his chest! He tossed that one away, brought up his last. Spendlove fired but missed, then Kolodzcy lit off his first, taking one man in the throat and throwing his blood-spouting body back into another.

But then they were dashing forward again, and Lewrie fired that last pistol as Kolodzcy did his. One went whirling down, with a wound in his shoulder, Lewrie's target screamed rabbity as he was plumbed in his stomach; Lewrie had been aiming for his upper chest!

So much for Arabee pistols, Alan thought, tossing away his last pistol and drawing his hanger. The odds were better, though, he told himself grimly; four down-that's eight-to-three.

Lewrie took stance, hanger held low before his middle at Tierce, and it took an unthinking second to go from Third into a box-defence, then riposte, and sweep his keen Gill's across his first opponent, to rip his belly open! There was a shrill scream from his right, as one more pirate came lurching backwards, pedaling to stay upright, clutching his skewered stomach to plop and thrash. Then it was Mlavic before him, stepping over that mortally wounded man and snarling defiance!

At low Third again, the first engagement ringing, Mlavic beginning with a slash down from high-right, easily parried, turned over by a flying cut-over, then a lunge low, and Mlavic was backpedaling, too, suddenly wary. He came on as Lewrie stamped forward a foot or two, with a back-slash from his left, again easily parried. Mottled Damascus met British Gill's, sparks flying from edge-to-edge, and that curving blade singing as it carved the air!

No swordsman, Alan exulted, already panting for air. A quarter-circle scimitars made for cuttin', not the point… get inside! And he don't know anything else.

"Marines!" Came a distance-thinned bray from Sergeant Bootheby, on the beach at last. "Cock yer locks… lev-el? By volley.. .fire!" Then the welcome rattle of musketry, and over Mlavic's right shoulder Lewrie could see Serbs falling back in disorder, right to the edges of their encampment, even as he and Mlavic still fought, their hands and eyes performing without conscious thought in furious melee. Lewrie hoped Mlavic might turn his head for a squint, but it wasn't to be.

A thin cry to his left, which Lewrie also ignored, but there was Spendlove in the corner of his eye, in full whirl, having downed one for himself. His ear caught a cessation of tinkering to his right as a heavy body thudded to the ground without a cry.

"Vier!" Kolodzcy hooted in triumph, even as he engaged another. Almost decent odds now, Alan thought, beating out a box-defence by rote, jabbing with his straighter Gill's for an inner-arm cut or a thigh-cut, an eye-jab, which made Mlavic retreat steadily, now wheezing with anger and effort as his slashes and clumsy lunges were made nought. Lewrie made his face a feral grin, to discomfit him.

But then Mlavic leaped backwards, spry for such a heavy man-to draw that wicked black-iron butcher-knife from its sheath, and come back to the attack with a blade in each hand, slashing or stabbing like a two-headed monster! Lewrie had to give ground, grunting hoarse as he fought to meet both. And it was Mlavic's turn to gloat!

Now, where's help when I need it? Alan groaned. Marines, sailors, a knife… bloody table-fork, anything! He searched for a stick, some discarded weapon, a blazing brand from one of the fires…!

"Funf!" Kolodzcy shouted; another of his foe-men down. Then a grunt from the left as a pirate staggered away, clutching at a torn sword-arm where Spendlove had laid him open. Yards away, though; he'd been lured out towards the centre of the camp. A fainthearted Serb went har-ing by, dashing for the far shore, all the fight scared out of him.

Mlavic's scimitar was coming, this time not in a slash, but with a straight-armed lunge, wrist inverted and cutting-edge up! Lewrie swept to parry off low and left, flail it over high and right, slide down and slash at his arm with the edge to slow him down-quick, for his knife from the right…! He met the knife's blade, parried that wide and away… swordl Down and slashing with his tip, he nicked the pirate on the chin, through that tangled mat of beard, felt his hanger clang as he continued down and to his left onto the scimitar, but…

He was off balance, wrong-footed, counter-lunging to fend that bastard back for some stumbling room. A feint from the knife, though, and he was ducking to his left, and Mlavic stepped back, and Alan felt a searing pain on his left outside calf, a drawing stroke! Buggered! he gibbered.

He retreated on his right leg, a three-foot leap, but as soon as his weight came down on his left leg, he was sprawling on his back, as it folded on him like a shoddy stool. And Mlavic was on him before he could blink! Lewrie feebly put his hanger up to ward him off.

Clang! though.

Suddenly there was a sword above him, horizontal, whirling silvery in parry, jabbing and darting as Lieutnant Kolodzcy stepped over him and forced Mlavic away! Dancing sidewise in little, fitful hops and jumps almost too swift to be followed, to circle large round the hunkering, wary bear-shuffle of a stunned Mlavic, drawing him off toward the fire in the middle of the camp.

By God, that hurt! Lewrie felt like screaming. His calf was ablaze with pain, and blood gushed freely, making him wonder how near to bleeding to death he was, how close to losing his lower leg, even did he get the bleeding stopped! "Ah, Christ!" he yelped, going light-headed, faint, feeling that weak swoon that always seized him after a fight. And hearing an immense waterfall-ringing in his ears.

Then hands were on his body, lifting him by his shoulders, and someone large and hulking was kneeling near his left leg. There came a painful bout of rasping as something rough went taut below his knee that squeezed and squeezed.

"Be fine, sir, be fine, swear it," he heard from his left, and there was Spendlove, disheveled, nicked and bleeding, perspiring like a Canton coolie, but whole. A scent in his nostrils, like a spiced tea… rosemary and thyme, attar of some flowers, too? No, soap, rosemary and thyme, clean hair.