Jester's Fortune

by Dewey Lambdin

  Jervis thought he could trust Charlton to handle this mission— and keep a wary weather eye on Fillebrowne, for Fillebrowne wasn’t the sort Sir John wished to have round him.

  “The last vessel I may spare is a tad more potent, sir,” Sir John said with a smack of his lips after a sip of wine. “HMS Jester. Another ship-sloop of eighteen guns. But French eight-pounders, which is to say, English nines, in our measurement. Just came in to water from the Genoa blockade. Hate to deprive Captain Nelson, but, needs must. Commander Alan Lewrie.”

  “Ah,” Charlton commented, frowning a bit. “Took her late in ’93, didn’t he, sir? Quite a feat, I heard tell. Being chased by a frigate and a brace of corvettes after Toulon? Took one for his own, dismasted the other and the rescue force took the frigate?”

  “That he did, sir,” Sir John agreed, with a matching frown.

  “Spot of bother, though, something ’bout cannonading civilians in a Genoese port he raided?” Charlton squirmed diplomatically.

  “Completely disproved, sir,” Admiral Jervis countered, though he continued to frown. “A gasconading lie put out by French spies and agents provocateurs. The matter was looked into and he was found entirely blameless.”

  “Didn’t he, uhmm . . . oh, some months ago, sir.” Charlton dared to quibble further. “Took a prize near Vado, then sailed her straight onto the beach and wrecked her, just so he could chase some Frenchman? Mean t’say, Sir John . . . a perfectly good prize?”

  “Rode inland and shot the fellow,” Jervis related, nodding slowly in agreement. “Two-hundred-yard shot, with a Ferguson rifle. And spared us no end of bother from this Frog Navy captain. Chief of all their coastal convoys, raiders and escorts, so I’ve been informed. A rather nasty customer. But he stopped his business most perfectly.”

  “A bit unconventional, though. Don’t ye think, sir?” Charlton essayed. He was not yet a Commodore, not yet one of the anointed, so well regarded by his commanding Admiral or London that he could veto a ship or captain. To be allowed to pick and choose, that was a favour granted only a remarkable few. And this was about as far as he could go, or ought to go, to suggest to Admiral Jervis that he would much prefer someone else; some other small ship. Taking a Frog corvette, being all dashing and brave—well, anyone could be brave, even the daft and foolhardy. Wrecking a valuable prize, going ashore and leaving one’s command, just to pot a Frog, well, that made this Lewrie sound as mad as a March hare!

  “Unconventional, hmm.” Sir John pondered over his claret. He rubbed his chin once more and then broke into an icy grin. “To say the least, sir! And, it doesn’t signify. After all, beggars can’t be choosers, hmm? But he’s all I have to spare. It may occur, sir, that Lewrie and Jester will prove useful to you. Above all, he knows how to fight! And he’s experienced in blockading with Captain Nelson’s squadron. And you’ll be hip-deep in supposedly ‘neutral’ merchantmen where you’re going.”

  “Of course, sir,” Charlton replied, aware that he’d just been taken down a peg by the Admiral’s “beggars can’t be choosers” remark.

  “You must first of all sweep that sea clean of French traders, warships and such, should they be there in force,” Jervis directed, back to business. “You are to completely estop the traffic in naval stores—Adriatic oak and Balkan pine—which supports the French fleet in the Mediterranean. You will stop and inspect every ship you meet, determining their bonafides, and whether they are laden with a contraband cargo or sailing to a French-held port.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Charlton replied firmly.

  “Further, you will liaise with our allies the Austrians and perform for them any task which a Royal Navy squadron may do to keep their friendship,” Jervis hammered out, though not without a slight sneer about Austrian “friendship.” “Have an eye toward strengthening or expanding what poor excuse they deem their Adriatic Squadron. As for Venice, well, make a port-call or two. Put a flea in her ear ’bout throwing in with us. Venice may be on her last legs, but she still is possessed of a substantial fleet of ships and useful bases in the Ionian Islands. The Foreign Office is working on that aspect now, and the presence of your squadron might just tip the scales in our favour, d’ye see. Escort and protect any and all British trade, as well. Goes without sayin’, hmm? And the merchant vessels of the Neapolitans, Papal States, Venice. . . and other. . . how do they put it? ‘Ships of those nations in amity with His Majesty’s Government’?”

  “I see, sir.” Charlton nodded soberly.

  “B’lieve ’twas Pitt the Elder,” Sir John mused, “but you must not quote me, sir, said that ‘trade follows the flag’? Well, this time round, perhaps the flag must follow trade, hmm?”

  “Of course, sir.” Charlton nodded again.

  “Pylades and Jester are here, at San Fiorenzo Bay, sir,” Sir John grumbled. It was rare that he made a jest, and he’d thought it a rare good’un; though Charlton hadn’t risen to it. “Myrmidon is down in Portoferrajo, on Elba. She escorted a troop-ship, so we could begin fortifying Elba and the isle of Capraia. At least protect the sea-lanes to Leghorn. And Corsica’s flanks. Close the Tyrrhennian Sea to French ships, at least, should they have a plan to seize those isles first, d’ye see.”

  With Genoa gone, her port city and capital now regarded as hostile, Tuscany was wavering, too, much like the Neapolitans. Admiral Jervis all but winced as he considered it. The Tuscans were leery of allowing Great Britain to base its fleet out of Porto Especia, or Leghorn, any longer. Garrisoning Capraia and Elba was a safeguard so that Tuscany did not think to put troops on them first!

  “You will sail as soon as the wind allows you, Captain Charlton,” he said. “And gather up Myrmidon on your way. Written orders and such will be aboard Lionheart no later than the end of the Second Dog-watch this evening. Along with copies of Admiralty and Foreign Office directives to me, too. To enlighten you. As much as Foreign Office despatches may enlighten anyone, hmm?”

  “Very good, Sir John,” Charlton said, rising. “And thankee for the opportunity, sir. For your faith in me. You shan’t regret it, I swear to you.”

  “I’d best not, sir,” Admiral Jervis cooed in reply, with that bleak and wintry smile of sardonic humour of his. “Good fortune, sir. And good huntin’, Captain Charlton.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Charlton nodded, wilting, in spite of the honour just done him. And vowing to himself that he would prove worthy of his awesome new trust—if he died in the attempt. Or had to kill somebody else to do it!

  In the great-cabins he’d just left, Admiral Sir John Jervis allowed himself a brief moment of leisure to savour the satisfaction he felt in having done himself, and Captain Nelson, a favour.

  This Lewrie fellow was a bit too much the “fly” character to suit him. A stallion more suited to the rare oval racecourse, or the neck-or-nothing dash cross winter fields in a steeple-chase. And the source of his information was the Foreign Office, their own spies, those who’d used Lewrie before. He was too headstrong to suit them as well. Too prone to take the bit in his teeth and gallop to suit the gallant Nelson.

  But perhaps Lewrie would be the perfect addition to Charlton’s ad hoc, understrength and isolated squadron. “Old Jarvy” might have just done the Captain a huge favour. Or the greatest harm. Only time, and events, might tell.

  And either way, he was shot of him!

  CHAPTER 2

  He was making good practice, well into a bawdy little tune of an earlier century: “Watkins’ Ale.” He sat on the aftermost taffrail flag-lockers, feet atop the edge of the coach-top built into the quarterdeck to give his great-cabins light and air. The skylights were open to air out those cabins, and his cox’n Andrews was supervising a working-party in repainting and touching up the ravages of two years’ active commission.

  Damme, but I’ve got rather good at this, he exulted, fingering a sprightly elaboration onto the basic melody, like grace-notes on a bagpipe. Should be good at it, he further pondered, as Mister Midshipman Hyde turned the pages of the songbook f
or them; after all, ’tis been ten bloody years I’ve been tootlin’ on this thing!

  A flageolet, some might call it, were they speaking classical. But really it was a tin whistle. He had no lip for a proper flute, fife or recorder, such as his wife Caroline played so well. To most of his ship’s people—his Irishmen, Welsh, his Lowland Scots and the West Country folk—it was called the lowly penny-whistle.

  But it felt like a penny-whistle day to Alan Lewrie, Commander, Royal Navy, and captain of HMS Jester.

  Caroline had bought the first one in the Bahamas, back in ’86, as a Christmas gift. That one he’d lost in ’93, when his mortar-boat went down in Toulon Harbour during the siege. And good riddance to bad rubbish had been most people’s opinion, for he’d been horrid at it. This new one Caroline had waiting for him when Jester returned to Portsmouth to refit and re-arm, spring of ’94, before her voyage back to the Mediterranean.

  The last year or so, the isolation enforced upon a captain— a proper captain—had turned him to playing, more and more. Until he’d come to a semblance of mastering one musical instrument, no matter how humble. Quite unlike a gentleman’s flute, it had few holes, and a limited, very Celtic scale. Hornpipes, Scottish ballads, Irish jigs and reels, old English country airs . . . he leaned more to those, anyway, of late.

  And if Mister Edward Buchanon, the Sailing Master, was right, Lewrie mused as he played— if the ancient Irish Celtic sea-god Lir had taken Jester and her captain into his watchful care, even down here in the Mediterranean, Jester and her captain paired as a “lucky” ship and lucky leader—then the Celtic scale of notes would be more than apt. And pleasing, should such thoughts not turn out to be a crock of moonshine!

  “Oh, here’s one, sir!” Mr. Hyde chuckled, once they were done with the curious old maid, done in at last and seduced by draughts of “Watkins’ Ale.” “A little slower, perhaps, but . . . ‘Barbara Allen’?”

  Mr. Hyde had bought himself a guitar the last time he’d gone ashore at Genoa and was getting decent at it; he had even dared to sit in with Jester’s amateur musicians among the hands, with their fifes and fiddles, and pluck or strum along as they played tunes for Morris dances or evening horn-pipes. Lewrie envied him: a captain had no chance to do anything more than clap along in time and watch such antics, taking pleasure in being a mere listener. A midshipman, as a petty officer, and aloft barefooted with the hands most of the time, could mingle without suffering a loss of dignity.

  “Aye, let’s give that ’un a go,” Lewrie said, chuckling. “Bit of an odd choice to include, though. The book is called Pills to Purge Melancholy!”

  “We could make a reel of it, sir.” Hyde grinned. “And I do know the words.”

  “Right, then.”

  A splendid penny-whistle day! A day without care. For the hands, it was “Make And Mend,” now that Jester was victualed proper.

  Except for the few hands and warrants in the harbour-watch and anchor-watch, most were free for once to “caulk or yarn” however they wished; to nap and catch up on lost sleep, gab and tell tall tales under the awnings spread below the course-yards. Carve wood or salt beef so old it could be made into snuff boxes, rings or combs! Or, simply whittle, chew tobacco, smoke a pipe or two on the upper decks, write letters home, or dictate letters to those who could write; read letters over again, or have them read to them by the literate. Some amused themselves playing with a pet bird, a cat or a puppy.

  The crew was free of what now seemed like a pointless, and disheartening, blockade of the Genoese Republic, free of escorting merchant convoys cross the Ligurian Sea, or patrolling for raiding French privateers or warships. HMS Jester lay serene at anchor, for once, and, for officers and hands alike, seemed to be at peace. Or was this a calm before a storm?

  Her yards were crossed and squared to geometric precision, her braces, halliards and lift-lines as taut as bowstrings, all her running rigging showpiece-perfect. Her boats were alongside, soaking seawater into planking too long kept dry on the boat-tier beams which spanned the waist. They nuzzled at both larboard and starboard entry-ports like contented piglets, lifted to thump softly like hungry barrows now and again by the slight wind and wavelets of San Fiorenzo Bay.

  Belying her “Bristol-Fashion” perfection, though, were laundry and loose-hung sails. Fresh water for washing clothing was a luxury rarely allowed; the ration was a gallon per man per day, and most of that went into the steep-tubs to boil rations. In port, they could use as much fresh water as they liked, for a water-hoy came alongside almost every morning to replenish Jester’s ready-use casks on the weather deck. So, during a “Make And Mend” day, sailors scrubbed the irritating, thread-grating salt from their clothing and hung it up to dry, so it wouldn’t sandpaper their hides or wear out, for a time.

  So, too, the suits of sails. Salt crystals, mildew, damp-rot or dry-rot could ruin her sails: the set she wore, or the set stored below as replacements, or the heavier storm-canvas suit. A spell in harbour was a priceless opportunity to change over completely, sluice them down with fresh water and scrub them with stiff brushes, go over each seam and patch, sew and mend, to avoid having them weaken, split or blow out during a gale. Then the men hoisted the sails aloft, bent them onto the yards and let them hang slack, to air-dry them properly before being stored away on the orlop again; or clewed up, brailed up and harbour-gasketed.

  Three days Jester had lain at her moorings, to her best bower and a stern kedge-anchor, and been cleaned “from keel to trucks,” and all the thousands of petty, frustrating things that could go amiss on a ship put right. Her huge water-casks were rowed ashore, scrubbed clean and refilled; cords of fire-wood and kindling were fetched aboard; bosun’s stores, spare gun-tools, new striker flints, powder and shot were fetched from the stores ship, old HMS Inflexible. Rice and pasta by the case, which now had almost totally replaced weevily ships’-biscuit, was piled on her stores-deck, along with pipes, kegs and barricoes of wine and rum for her beverage needs, and thousands of onions, scallions, leeks, garlic cloves and such for anti-scorbutics, which also made the poor rations palatable. Small orchards’ worth of lemons, oranges and other local acid-fruits, dried raisins, currants and plums were loaded; they were anti-scorbutic, too, so Jester’s people didn’t perish of scurvy. There were open-topped bins of fruit, including some rare apples, scattered round the main mast’s trunk, so the hands could eat as much as they liked, for once—even if dour, sardonic (and lately even more irritating) Ship’s Surgeon Mr. Howse denounced the whole idea of acid-fruits being allowed in a tropical climate. Brought on biliousness, and bilious fevers, so please you, he’d insisted! As if those could kill, instead of being quickly eased by a belch or a good fart, Lewrie thought sourly.

  “No, let’s start over,” Lewrie insisted after one verse. “It don’t sound right that fast, Mister Hyde. Let’s do the proper measure.”

  He tilted his head back, eyes closed; he knew “Barbara Allen” well enough by ear, anyway. His head was bare of his gold-laced cocked hat, his medium brown hair was bleached at the sides almost a taffy-blond by cruel sun, his neck-stock was cast aside and his shirt opened to mid-waist, and his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. The sun was nowhere near the torrid murderer of a high-summer day, when Corsica stewed under her infamous “Lion Sun,” felling ships’ companies and regiments down by dozens.

  There was just enough warmth to make it blessedly pleasant, and just enough of a light breeze from the Sou’east, up from Egypt or Cyrenaica, to hint at the heat to come as spring blossomed anew.

  An idle day of rest. He smiled round the mouthpiece of his tin whistle. A day to celebrate, too: mail from home, fresh livestock in the manger, and a rare Corsican yearling bullock already slaughtered, with a large joint saved out for his own supper. Fresh salad greens as well, and loaf-bread, for a change. Only local cheeses, but succulent and moist, not desiccated, worm-ridden Navy Issue, four months in-stores before they were even opened.

  And money!

  Say what y
ou would ’bout “Old Jarvy,” Alan pondered rather happily, but he’s put the fear o’ God into the Prize-Court! After a full year or more of wrangling over dotted i’s and crossed t’s, or a comma misplaced, they’d honoured Jester’s captures at last. He was moderately wealthy—on paper, at least. A tenth paid in specie to officers and men, the rest in certificates of exchange. Over £10,000 sterling, and his share two-eighths’ of that, or £2,500! With any good luck at all, the Prize-Court would cut loose of the rest, almost doubling his profits!

  Swaying a little, improvising on the third verse, he was feeling just over-the-moon with himself . . .

  “Oof!” He grunted, as Toulon landed in his lap. “Neglected, are we, puss? My playing that bad?”

  The black-and-white ram-cat’s tail was bottled up and lashing. He was here for commiseration, not a regular petting.

  “Chivvied out of your napping place, hey? Bad smells below, in your kingdom?” Lewrie chuckled, stroking his pet into a gentler mood. “Well, won’t be for long.”

  “Boat ahoy!” Mr. Midshipman Spendlove could be heard to shout over the side at an approaching rowboat. He was the unlucky one in the rotation for harbour watch on such a fine day.

  Couldn’t be, Lewrie puzzled to himself; though with half a hope, perhaps. More likely orders, an idle visitor off another warship. Or a letter from shore? He stood and tucked the penny-whistle in the waistband of his slop-trousers, giving the arid little port town of San Fiorenzo a wistful glance. There he and his mistress, Phoebe Aretino, had enjoyed such a blissful little house for so short a time. Hell, he could see it from the quarterdeck, plain as the nose on his face!

  She’d become known as La Contessa Phoebe, no matter she’d been a soapmaker’s and washerwoman’s daughter. And a naive courtesan in Toulon.

  No, he thought with a shake of his head; that was ended. She’d told him off proper, once and for all, after her unlookedfor visit at Leghorn, when they’d been on the outs already. After catching him with the leg over another woman.