Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune

Four little ships, Lewrie pondered as he chewed on a chocolate biscuit and waited for the port decanter to make its larboardly way. Only four ships, far from aid, unless the Austrian Navy was a whole lot better than he'd seen off Vado Bay last year. A week's voyage, too, should the winds be contrary, for orders or information. There were too many Republican plotters, too many spies and their agents to trust a message sent overland ever arriving. Or being true.

"You frown, Commander Lewrie," Charlton noted.

"Sorry, sir. Wishing there were more of us."

"A wish every senior British officer shares of late, Lewrie," Charlton agreed with a faint smile. "Had I my way, there'd be a good dozen ships. Half dozen of the line, and a half dozen sloops of war and frigates to scout. But then a more senior man would have charge of 'em, not me. And we'd miss this grand opportunity of ours."

He shook his head with a sheepish chuckle. "Had I my way," Charlton went on jovially, "I'd wish for it all! Be a full Admiral of the White, richer'n the Walpoles, maybe next-but-one in line for King! But we must play the hands we're dealt, and there it is."

"Growl we may, sir," Nicholson chimed in, "but go we must?"

"Aye, there's that saying, too, Charles, my lad."

" Venice, hmm…" Rodgers mused aloud. "D'ye think we would be puttin' in at Venice sooner or later, sir?"

"Of a certainty, Captain Rodgers," Charlton assured him.

Rodgers all but rubbed his horny palms together in glee. "I've heard good things 'bout Venice. Carnival and, well, hmm! That it's a paradise for sailormen. Fiddlers Green and Drury Lane together!"

"Show the flag, of course, sir," Charlton assured them. "Do a short port-call now and again. See if Venice, and her navy, which I am assured is still quite substantial, might be available, should a further French offensive on land threaten her interests, certainly."

"Well, right, then!" Rodgers boomed, beaming like a landsman being offered his first off-ship leave in a year.

Lewrie thought of Venice as well, his mood brightening; to actually see Venice ! Rough or no, you can't beat a sailor's life when it comes to seein' the sights! Even if I still don't know if I half care for this transfer, 'course, everyone knows how leery I am. Chary of free victuals, half the time, damme if I ain't! Still…

"What is that old saying, sirs?" Nicholson posed, looking for all the world as if Charlton's in vino veritas ruse had succeeded only with his very own First Lieutenant, who was (since he was so full of platitudes) in-the-barrel, took with barrel-fever, in his cups, three sheets to the wind, in-irons, most cherry-merry-that is to say, nigh half drunk.

Too bad, old son; should've warned you first, Lewrie thought with a smirk.

"Which old saying is that, sir?" Charlton enquired.

" 'Bout Venice, sir. Something… 'see Venice and die'?"

"Bloody-" Rodgers gawped.

" Naples," Lewrie corrected him quickly. "That's 'see Naples and die,' Mister Nicholson."

"Never could keep those straight, sir, thankee," the Lieutenant replied.

"I've seen Naples," Lewrie added. "And it hasn't killed me yet, I assure you. Left me a tad flea-ridden, mind, but-"

"I do believe it refers to the city's beauty, Mr. Nicholson," Charlton grunted, sternly glaring at his First Officer. "And not to a curse for any who lay eyes on it. That Naples is so lovely, a man who goes there has seen all that life could offer, so-"

"Fleas, my God!" Rodgers hooted. "Alan, you still have that tatty old yellow ram-cat, what the Devil was his name?"

"William Pitt?" Lewrie replied. Damme if I care for all this talk o' dyin', either! he thought.

"Aye, that was his name. Never took to me, I can tell you."

"He passed on, I'm sorry to say, sir," he had to admit.

"He has a new'un," Charlton told Rodgers. "And I doubt he'll take to me, either, hey, Lewrie? Protective damn puss, he was!" he added, trying to cajole the sudden morbid turn in conversation away.

Lewrie grinned back. "His glare is worse than his nip, sir. He's a scaredy-cat at heart. I doubt he could take a bread-room rat two rounds out of three. But he'd win the race by a furlong should the rat take after him!"

Charlton almost nodded approval at Lewrie's light touch. He opened his pocket-watch. "Speaking of platitudes, gentlemen, and of playing the hand one is dealt… it lacks a quarter hour 'til ten. Time enough for a rousing round of whist before we adjourn?"

Whist? Lewrie all but gagged. Bloody… rousing… whist? It was a damn' slow game, to his lights, and one had to actually pay attention! Nothing like Loo. His in-laws, damn 'em, and Caroline were all mad for it, of late; he'd be happier down at the Old Ploughman, staking the next pint on Shove, Ha'penny, if there was nothing else to do on a slow afternoon.

"Do we have a slant of wind in the morning, sir, I think I'd best return to Jester and alert my people. Have a last look-round, while Inflexible is within reach," he lied most plausibly.

"Ah, what a pity, then. Rodgers? No? Oh, well." Charlton shrugged. "Speaking of, Lewrie, our fourth ship, Myrmidon, is at Portoferrajo, on Elba. Should the wind come fair, I'll require you to sail first and dash on ahead, carrying my orders to her and her captain, Commander Fillebrowne. Expect us off Elba's western cape. Stand off-and-on, should we be delayed. Then it's off on our great new adventure!"

"Certainly, sir," Lewrie replied, rising as Charlton did. "At first light, without fail."

Odd, he called it "our grand adventure," Lewrie thought as they gathered up hats and swords; but damme if the old cock ain't rubbin' his own hands in glee, like Ben, at the notion. Free of the Fleet and an independent squadron to command; only four of us, even together, "In Sight" when a prize was taken, and there must be hundreds of contraband vessels to take, too! Might be a duke s ransom in prize-money out of this, after all! And seein' Venice into the bargain! 'Less Charlton is lookin' forward to puttin' the leg over half the Venetian whores in all Christendom, too?

"My thanks for a most enjoyable evening, sir," Alan told his host. "And for such a splendid meal. I can't recall when I've ever dined so well 'board ship. Even in a well-stocked harbour."

'Twas nothing, really, sir," Charlton purred, all modest. "Perhaps our next rencontre will allow us time for cards, hey? Keeps the mind sharp, does whist. Once we're established-"

"But of course, sir," Lewrie lied most flawlessly.

Only on a very cold day in Hell, he promised himself, though. Whiste Mine arse on a band-box!

Portoferrajo was a military engineer's dream, a small city at the tip of a long, rugged and narrowing peninsula, east of Gape D'Enola, with its harbour held on its southwest side, well sheltered and surmounted by more headlands, separate from the wider bay, as if held between a lobster's tough pincers. It bristled with forts.

Fortunately, Jester didn't have to enter the port proper, but sail up near the harbour moles near the Torre del Martello, where she discovered an old two-decker 74, and HMS Myrmidon, at anchor.

The old two-decker was en flute, most of her guns removed, so she could carry a full battalion of British troops. Which troops were still aboard her, Lewrie could see, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder upon her upper decks; with all her boats alongside but idle.

"Damned odd," Lewrie said aloud, once Lieutenant Knolles informed him that their ship was firmly anchored. "I'd think they'd be ready to go shooting their way ashore by now."

"Anything to get off that old scow, sir," Knolles replied with an agreeing grin. Troopers were more sanitary, less crowded than slave ships- but not by much-and a good officer wouldn't let his men be penned aboard one a second longer than necessary.

"Cutter's alongside, sir," Bosun Will Cony announced, knuckling his brow. "An' Mister Spendlove's mustered wi' yer Cox'n an' th' boat crew. Well-kep' lil ship-sloop, she is, sir."

Lewrie turned his gaze upon Myrmidon.

"Not half as handsome as our Jester, though, hey, Will-Mister Cony?"

He corrected quickly. Cony had begun as his hammockman when he was a midshipman during the American War, then his manservant, Cox'n, and senior hand during a whole host of adventures. And misadventures.

"Not 'alf, sir, but…" The thatch-haired fellow smiled back.

"But sleepy, damn em," Mister Buchanon, the laconic Sailing Master, observed in his West Country lilt. Sure enough, Myrmidon hadn't shown much interest in their arrival.

Lewrie felt an urge to get some of his own back, to make up for how badly he'd been caught wrong-footed the other day by Captain Charlton. He briefly considered having Mr. Midshipman Hyde hoist "Captain Repair On Board." This Fillebrowne, Lewrie had learned, was one of Hotham's Departure Promotions, hence about the least senior on Admiralty List, barely dry from being "wetted down." He'd have to take a preemptory summons from another warship, even one almost a sister to his own, as Holy Writ! Come aboard half shaved and half dressed?

I say "Leap!," you ask "How high?" on yer way up, Alan thought. Something to be said for a single shred of seniority, when I'm feelin' spiteful an' roguish, he mused most happily over the prospects. Or, better yet, oh dear Lord, yes!

"Bosun," he barked, giving Mr. Cony his due this time. "Trot out the jolly-boat and a crew for Mr. Spendlove. He's to go over to the transport and enquire what the delay in landing is. Respectfully, mind. I'll go aboard Myrmidon myself."

"Oh, aye aye, sir!" Cony grinned, knowing his captain's moods from a long, and entertaining, association. "Side-party! Muster on th' starb'd gangway fer th' cap'um!"

"Welcome aboard, sir," a harassed-looMng young Lieutenant said after he'd taken Myrmidons welcoming salute; a most impressive turnout, that, Lewrie noted. "I am Stroud, sir. First Officer."

"And your captain, Mister Stroud?" Lewrie posed, with an eyebrow cocked in what he felt was a most Charlton-esque demand.

"Uhm, sir, uh… Captain Fillebrowne is ashore, sir," Stroud stammered, having trouble sheathing his sword in fumbling nervousness. He was one of those frank, open, pudding-faced young fellows, a typical naval nonentity who had, most likely, clawed his way up the Navy's career ladder by sheer perseverance, not wit.

It was barely gone seven bells of the Morning Watch, about half past seven a.m. Jester had had a lucky slant of wind round the tip of the town and into the anchorage, making landfall at "first-sparrow-fart."

Lewrie made a production of extracting his watch from a waistcoat pocket, opening it with a flick of his thumb and peering at its face, as if to confirm the time, his eyebrow even higher.

"Portoferrajo in the business of early -rising, Mister Stroud?" he asked, masking the cruel glee he felt. This was even better than catching this Fillebrowne with his hair mussed or with shaving soap round his ears! The fellow'd slept ashore the previous evening, Alan was dead certain. "Or is your captain?" he asked in a lazy drawl.

"I sent a boat, sir," Stroud replied, sounding about as miserable as he looked under Lewrie's withering, knowing glare. "Soon'z we saw you rounding the point, er, Commander…?"

"Lewrie, sir. Alan Lewrie. HMS Jester," he informed him as archly as he might. From long and embarrassing remembrance of being the butt of such doings in the past, his "arch" was worthy of a round of applause from the theatregoers in Drury Lane. "It really is too bad, Mister Stroud. I bear despatches from Admiral Jervis and Captain Thomas Charlton, who is, I am given to believe, standing off-and-on the western shore this very instant, ordering Myrmidon to put out to sea and join him instanter." Stroud, a much-put-upon junior officer, winced as if someone had just trod on his feet. "I sent a boat, sir," he insisted for a second time. "Captain should be returning…"