“Definitely not a Venetian flotilla,” he decided.
He lowered his telescope. The nearest xebec was standing on in pursuit, doggedly intent on catching up with the merchantman, in spite of the presence of two Western ships.
“Mister Crewe?” Lewrie called. “Give that ’un a broadside! Not a warning shot, mind.”
“Aye, sir! Number one gun . . . as you bear . . . fire!”
Jester’s 9-pounders began to bark, lurching inboard in recoil as they lit off one by one down her larboard side, billowing great stinking clouds of spent powder. Feathers of spray leaped from the sea, so close to the xebec’s hull the pillars wetted her sails as they collapsed. At a quarter-mile range, they could hear the wrenching thonks! of timbers being ravaged by solid strikes.
As the gun-smoke trailed alee and they could see once more, it was a gratifying sight they beheld. The nearest xebec or light galley had whirled away, stern-on to Jester, her lateen yards hauled in taut and almost fore-and-aft, to beat out of range towards Brac, up north. The other three had turned tail and were beating up-channel for that mutton-shoulder point, all thought of pursuit or confrontation beaten—or shot—out of them.
“Secure, Mister Crewe. And good shooting!” Lewrie congratulated. “Mister Knolles, once the guns are bowsed up, we’ll wear ship, end up running off-wind, on starboard tack. To close that merchantman.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Put th’ wind up you, I’d wager!” Benjamin Rodgers wheezed with glee, once Lewrie was aboard Pylades and seated in the great-cabins, a glass of wine in his paws. “Not often a Chase comes about and charges ye, an’ there’s the biter, bit . . . by God! Think she was a frigate for a moment there, did ye, Lewrie?”
“Damn right I did, sir,” Lewrie felt free to admit. In strictest privacy, with a good friend who wouldn’t retell the story on him with a bit of spite. Well, of course, he’d retell it, Lewrie then realized. He’d dine out on it for bloody years, more-like! But at least it wouldn’t be harmful to his reputation. “Though, sir . . .” he felt he had to quibble, “would you have signaled me, since you could see up that channel to what she was doing better from seaward, well! . . . That would o’ been welcome.”
“Batavian Dutch merchantman,” Rodgers breezed on, top-ping up his own and Lewrie’s glasses. “Cleared from a French port, Marseilles, to fetch timber. General cargo aboard, tasty Frog exports all. Care for a dozen-dozen o’ champagne f’r yer lazarette, hey? Pipe’r two o’ tasty claret? Almost into port at Spalato—Split, whatever—where they’d pick up oak, pine, naval stores and compass-wood for the Frog Navy. So close and yet so far, hey? Poor bastards.”
“Damnation to Venice, I say, sir,” Lewrie offered, proposing the toast with a raised glass. “To trade with a dangerous enemy.”
“Aye, ’stead o’ usin’ their timber t’refit their own ships,” Rodgers echoed a like sentiment. “Can’t they see, the French win in Lombardy, and the damn war comes t’them, whether they like it or no? Been sittin’ safe an’ snug too long, with th’ Austrians playin’ constable for ’em. You can be sure, Lewrie . . . th’ Frogs beat Austria this summer, there’ll be French ships all over th’ Adriatic, an’ then where are the Venetians, if they’re as unprepared as you told Charlton?”
“Up shit’s-creek, sir.” Lewrie shrugged. “Old Frog expression.”
“By God, sir, but Captain Ten Bosch was glad t’see you!” Captain Rodgers hooted. “Thought he’d be knacky, an’ duck north round Brac, an’ then run up th’ coast inside Venice’s three-mile limit. Didn’t think o’ runnin’ foul o’ pirates, haw haw!”
“Those Croatian pirates we heard of in Trieste, sir? Those . . . Uscocchi?” Lewrie asked.
“No, this ain’t their bailiwick,” Rodgers countered. “Christ, though . . . just like the old days. Toss tuppence in the gutter, an’ up pops all th’ damn’ pirates ya’d ever wish t’see. Serbs, Greeks, Turks workin’ for some rebel Pasha . . . it don’t signify. They’ve more buccaneers in these waters than a soldier’s got lice, anyway. ’Least we put the fear o’ God in ’em this mornin’. Whichever god they wail to, at any rate. This might work t’our advantage, Lewrie.”
“How so, sir?” Alan enquired dubiously. He’d had more than his fill of pirates in the Far East and the Bahamas.
“All our worries ’bout pursuit ’mong these islands.” Rodgers winked. “Or goin’ too close inshore. Did we see a Venetian warship, today, I ask you, sir? And I’ll lay you any odds you want, we’ll not see theirs, nor anyone else’s, all th’ way south t’th’ Ionians, nor th’ Straits of Otranto. We’ve a free rein, in th’ first instance. And, were I a merchantman, I’d be more afraid of gettin’ took by pirates’n I’d ever be o’ bein’ took by us. We don’t cut their damn throats!”
“So they’d be afraid of getting close enough in to get taken,” Lewrie realised, “that they’d be fair game for us, sir?”
“Exactly, Lewrie.” Rodgers smirked. “Like that fellow Ten Bosch said this mornin’ . . . we’re the fryin’ pan, the pirates’re the fire. You stick your bowsprit inside the islands, go within spitting distance o’ th’ coastline, and you’re sure t’get took. An’ butchered like a steer ’cause yer th’ wrong damn’ religion, wrong damn’ eye colour . . . by God, Lewrie! We’re rescuin’ angels in comparison!”
CHAPTER 2
For a backwater of the war, the Adriatic teemed with shipping. Farther on south, Pylades and Jester encountered another enemy merchantman, just west of Ragusa, and seaward of Pylades, in deep water. A fine two-masted brig became their prize, a prize that temporarily put up the French Tricolour flag before striking at the sight of Pylades and her open gun-ports.
By dusk of the same day, they’d met another, this one inshore of them, and beating hard to flee into the protection of Ragusa’s fortress guns. Jester had begun the chase badly out of position, a bit too far Sou’west of her to cut the angle, this time, and had been forced to go right for her stern, only weathering her the slightest bit. It was the longest sort of chase, and they’d lost the race in the end. Once more, a French merchant ship had hoisted their blue-white-red Tricolour flag.
This time, however, it was in derision, as they sailed almost into spitting distance of Ragusa’s well-armed fortifications before making the larboard dogleg turn that would take them into the harbour proper.
And, as Lewrie continued to close the coast to within a mile of the fortifications, with his gun-ports closed, all thoughts of fruitful pursuit gone . . . the French crew hoisted their bare arses over the rails and jeered their failure!
Dawn found Jester well south of Ragusan territory, and south of the tiny Venetian enclave of Cattaro, loafing along under all plain sail to a slight Easterly wind off the shore, a Levanter. Though a Levanter was usually a sign of bad weather—in this part of the world, nothing good ever came from the un-Christian East!—it seemed rather a benign beginning for a new day. And it was not as chilly as that Bora which had dominated on the previous day, from the North or Nor’west.
“Bar, sir,” the Sailing Master intoned.
“Where away?” Lewrie frowned in sudden dread. Could those damn Venetian charts be trusted, or not?
“No, sir.” Mr. Buchanon chuckled. “Bar, meanin’ th’ name o’ th’ town, sir. Off our larb’d beam, now, Captain.”
“Ah.” Lewrie reddened, irked that he’d taken fright of running his Jester onto an uncharted bar. “Just so. Now, Mister Buchanon . . . would that be a Montenegran Bar? Or is that the Albanian Bar? I mind the border’s somewhere over yonder.” He japed his way out of embarrassment.
“Think it’s still Montenegran, sir,” Lieutenant Knolles supplied, full of good cheer that morning. “Had a peek at the charts, just ’fore the change of watch. That rebel Pasha of Scutari the Austrians told us of? He’s inland, somewhere just abaft of abeam. And the port of Dulcigno, sir? Where the Corsairs lurk? Allies, I’d suspect. Somewhere yonder, at any rate. Ah, coffee! Capital!”
Aspinall came up from the
great-cabins with a set of mugs upon a hank of twine and a pot of coffee for them all. With him, unfortunately, came Lewrie’s new clerk, Padgett, with a selection of ledgers under his arm. And up from the waist came the Purser Mr. Giles, grinning in a dangerous fashion, with his own new clerk, his “Jack in the Breadroom,” Lawless. When a purser grinned, it could put the fear of God in even the greatest sinners, and Lewrie felt a sour shudder take him. It would be one of those mornings, then, all hen-scratches and receipts, all finger-cramp, eye-strain, and ink-smuts.
“Bloody . . .” Lewrie whispered, as he sipped his hot coffee black and unsweetened. Trying to make it last so long that perhaps Mr. Giles and his pettifogging ledgers might go away.
“Sail ho!” The main mast lookout halloed. “One point abaft th’ larboard beam! Bilander! Sailin’ large!”
“Ah, too bad, Mister Giles,” Lewrie cooed, trying not to sound too gleeful at this most-welcome interruption. “Later in the day, sir? Or tomorrow? Same for you, Mr. Padgett, ’less there’s something very urgent?” Lewrie more than strongly suggested.
“No, sir. ’Scuse me, sir.” Padgett nodded and heading aft for the narrow, after-captain’s companionway ladder. He wasn’t half the man Lewrie’s former clerk, Mr. Mountjoy, was; a taciturn, silent plodder of a fellow. Though he was miles more competent.
“Mister Knolles, once you’ve enjoyed your coffee, I’d admire you put us nearer the wind . . . say, Sou-Sou’east, to intercept. Plain sail will do, for now. No need to spook her too soon. And no colours.”
“Aye aye, sir. Quartermaster? . . .” Knolles burbled, trying both to obey at once and finish a rather well-brewed cup of a very good Venetian coffee.
“Deck, there!” The lookout halloed, again. “Two sail! Bilanders both! One point abaft the larb’d beam, an’ sailin’ large!”
Lewrie set his cup down to rub greedy palms together. Two vessels to pursue, and both bilanders! They were hellish-ugly ships, bad as any hermaphrodite brig, with a large lateen mains’l aft and square sails on the foremast. From two years’ service in the Mediterranean, he couldn’t recall seeing that antique rig much, except on the French Provence coast, round Marseilles, Toulon and in convoys running the Riviera to supply the French army last year. Short, squat, round as Dutch butter-tubs . . . and not particularly fast or weatherly, either! Meat on the table?
He certainly hoped so.
So far Pylades had taken the honours, furnishing prize-crews for both their captures, and it was time Jester held up her end of the bargain. Both captures had been sizable vessels, requiring larger prize-crews to guard the sailors and mates they’d taken and to work their ships for them. It was quite likely that Pylades had given up over 30 hands from her crew already! Even a 5th Rate frigate had only so many hands to spare, before safeguarding prizes took so many people that she would be ill-served should they run across an enemy warship.
“Mister Spendlove?” Lewrie barked.
“Aye, sir?”
“Signal to Pylades. Inform her we’ve sighted two strange sail to the east’rd, and are closing the coast to stop and inspect them,” Alan said quickly, even as Jester heeled as she took the Levanter more upon her larboard bows as she turned Sou-Sou’east.
He finished his coffee, begrudging his breakfast, which would be cooling and congealing below. But he didn’t think, this time, to go to his cabins for it. No, he’d stay on deck to oversee every moment of their closure and possible pursuit. After Ragusa, and the sight of all those pale, round fundaments aimed at him, he’d be damned if he’d let a prize slip away again! Or let a Frenchman have reason to insult or jeer him!
It promised to be a clear, fine day. The sun rose a little higher over the forbidding inland mountain chains, casting its glow over the waters like the raising of a stage curtain. For a precious half hour it left Jester in murky shadows, alee of the dawn. And, for that precious half hour, Jester ranted and rolled, even under all plain sail, closing swiftly on a course almost at right angles to the unsuspecting merchantmen, with the knotlog’s every cast showing over eight knots or better. The hands were spared the daily deck-sluicing and holystoning, sent down to their breakfasts early—so they could come back on deck, rig the guns for action and wait . . . completely ready for whatever came.
“Deck, there! Chases go close-hauled on larb’d tack!”
Turning upwind, Lewrie fretted, gnawing on a thumbnail corner. They’re turning on the same course we’re steering— Sou’-Sou’east. But close! Not four miles between us, now they’ve finally spotted us! Not like yesterday, Christ, no! Slow, wallowing . . . a scant wind . . .
Christ, pray not, he amended a moment later, still fretting, even though he could see that Jester was pinching up close-hauled a full half point, about six degrees higher to windward than the bilanders.
“Mister Knolles, Mister Cony!” he snapped. “Get t’gallants set!”
Bosuns’ calls shrilled high and eerie and insistent, piping hands aloft, as Will Cony and his mate, Sadler, drove them by dint of call and the sight of their stiffened rope “starters” in their hands—an unspoken threat for the slow and clumsy.
Up the ratlines, out over the futtock shrouds and past the fighting tops to the upper masts they went. Spry young teenage topmen and wary top-captains scampered up, then out, along the arms of the t’gallant yards, even as the hands on the deck tailed on the jears and halliards to hoist those heavy yards up from their resting positions to far above the crosstrees. Men stood ready, freeing clew-lines and buntlines as gaskets were cast off. More wind-greedy canvas began to appear as the t’gallants were drawn down, bellying and flagging as crisp as gunfire. And Jester moaned as she heeled even more, masts groaning and hull-timbers resettling as she set her starboard shoulder to the sea and surged forward. T’gallant sails shivered into taut stillness, arced outward and alee by the force of the winds, set more fore-and-aft than the tops’ls, or the courses, in a proper spiral.
A rogue wave, a placid little three-footer, broke under her bows on her cutwater, and she drummed as she shattered it to foam. Another and then another, soggy crashes and hull-drummings, which turned to hisses and sibilance as Jester stretched her legs and began to lope, shrouds and rigging beginning a faint, atonal but eager hum.
“Nine and a quarter knots, sir!” One of the afterguard shouted after another cast of the log.
“Go, lady!” Buchanon muttered to their ship. “Go it, darlin’! Ah, th’ joy o’ it, sir! A fine mornin’ f’r a neck-or-nothin’ chase.”
“It is, indeed, sir,” Lewrie heartily agreed, springing at the knees, feet spread wide, to ride her as she galloped windward.
“Like she’s hungry, sir,” Buchanon extolled further. “Like ol’ Lir’s hungry with her. Not twelve mile more, an’ ’ose bilanders’ll be hard aground, do ’ey hold ’is course, sir.”
Lewrie looked aft. Once more, there was Rodgers’s Pylades back to leeward, a touch to starboard of Jester’s stern, should one of the Chases haul her wind and run Sou’west.
And that’d be about all they could do, Lewrie pondered; it made no tactical sense to try and tack this far offshore, to run northerly. Even the finest-handled warship—5th or 6th Rate, or sloop—could not tack quickly enough without losing a horrendous amount of speed for a long minute or two, then a long minute or two more to accelerate back to her original speed. Should the bilanders turn, should one or both of them try and tack once they got closer ashore, Jester would be nose-deep in their transoms before they could say “Merde alors!”
Rising, swooping, her wake almost sizzling as it creamed along her quarters, Jester strode toward the two bilanders. Three miles, then two miles off. Then one mile and almost within Range-To-Random-Shot, with that ruggedly beautiful coast looming up higher and higher: stark, dramatic, green but seemingly desolate.
“Coasters!” A lookout called down. “Small ships t’wind’rd. A point off t’sta’b’d bows!”
“Damme, not again!” Lewrie growled, all but stomping his feet in an
ger. With a telescope to his eye, he could see a gaggle of sails off to their Sou’east, at least half a dozen. More damned pirates?
The bilanders weren’t waiting round to find out. In the blink of an eye, the left-hand of the pair tried to begin a tack, whilst the right-hand bilander, which was leading by perhaps a half mile, hauled her wind suddenly, almost laying herself on her beam-ends as she swung abeam the wind, pivoting about to run off the wind to the Sou’west. A quick glance astern told Lewrie that Pylades was well up by then and could deal with the one trying to run off the wind.
“Mister Knolles, we’ll tack ship. Mister Crewe? Once we’re on starboard tack and settled down, be ready with the starboard battery!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
And, once settled down, after a breathless burst of energy from the hands to cross the eye of the wind, there the bilander was off the starboard side, just a bit forward of abeam, and within a quarter mile of Jester’s guns!
“Ready, Mister Crewe!” Lewrie alerted him again. “We’ll haul off a point, to let the entire battery bear. Helm up, quartermaster.”
“Aye aye, sir. Helm up a point. Steerin’ Nor-Nor’east.”
“Starb’d batt’ry! . . .” Crewe bellowed over the rush of the wind in the sails and rigging. “Wait for it! Fire!”
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