“Very well, sirs,” Charlton said, after topping up their wine as reward for their agreement. “Here is what we’ll do. For the nonce, we will sail more independent of each other . . . in three groups as Commander Lewrie posed. Though perhaps not the same pairings, however . . .”
Toss me a bone, aye, Alan begrudged; good doggie!
“I will take Lionheart down to the Straits of Otranto again,” Charlton schemed aloud. “Should French warships come from Toulon with succour for this Bonaparte by sea or take advantage of his gains, our best-armed and strongest ship should be placed to counter them. Even alone, I believe I could. Now, Commander Fillebrowne . . .”
“Aye, sir?” Fillebrowne perked up.
“Yours will be the roving brief, sir,” Charlton outlined. “A cruise nearer to Venice, high up the Adriatic to the west. Especially those harbours of the Papal States which are now in thrall to Bonaparte. Look into them, within your abilities . . . and the diplomatic niceties . . . for French ships. And look for warships that might be taken into service by the French Navy . . . what state of readiness for sea, d’ye see, sir. As far suth’rd a cruise as Rimini, Pescara and Ancona would do admirably well. And this inlet Lewrie mentioned, Lake Comacchio.”
“Of course, sir!” Fillebrowne replied, all bright-eyed eager. To sail free and independent of senior officers’ eyes was every junior captain’s dream of perfect freedom.
“Captain Rodgers, you and Commander Lewrie will repeat your previous voyage . . . a slow jog down the Balkan coasts. Seeking merchantmen, it goes without saying. But enquiring of local authorities as to the whereabouts of—and most covertly, the suitability of—any pirate bands amenable to working with us.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Rodgers nodded heavily.
“Major Simpson said that he could supply us with an officer of his squadron,” Charlton continued, “should we have decided to espouse such allies as we . . . erm, discussed. Someone with local knowledge of the coast, conversant in the various dialects, and—hhmmph!—which freebooters have the strength, the suitability, the ah . . . civility, rather”—Charlton all but winced—“useful to our cause.”
“Aye, sir,” Rodgers repeated, his moon face a dark-complexioned blank, as if giving Charlton no more than heavy-lidded, rote obedience.
Or he’s took by “barrel-fever” by now, Lewrie thought, seeing as how we’re on our fourth bottle of wine ’twixt the four of us. And nought but Ben’s been sippin’ steady.
“Well, that should do it, I think, sirs.” Charlton beamed, with a cock of his head towards a calendar hanging in his chart-space beyond. “We’ll meet up here at Trieste again in, say, three weeks? First week of August at the latest, depending on what occurs on your various duties and how depleted you are for prize-crews. You run into anything dangerous, and you scoot back here for shelter. Or come south to me, in the straits. Or, should I need saving, sirs”—Charlton posed, hands out in a helpless expression—“should the Frogs come in strength, then you’ll see me first. Flying afore ’em, with stuns’ls aloft and alow! Captain Rodgers, you’ll have your Austrian liaison aboard soon. Once I’ve sent word to Major Simpson, ashore. Uhm . . .”
Charlton had been acting very relieved, almost joyful at times, since they’d acceded to his plans—though, now and then, a touch rueful and hesitant. Now he almost blushed.
“Before you sail, you’d best take aboard a small cargo of arms and such, sirs . . . the both of you,” Charlton added. “Do you succeed in discovering suitable temporary allies, then why not, uhm . . . ?”
“Aye aye, sir,” Rodgers agreed once more, even more heavily.
° ° °
“Off ashore, sir?” Lewrie asked Rodgers, once they were on deck and queuing up for their gigs to arrive, in strict order of seniority. “S’pose you’re about due for a tear. Even among what poor amusements Trieste has to offer. Not a patch on Venice, after all . . .”
“I might,” Rodgers allowed. Almost snippish, though.
Truculence? Lewrie wondered. A guilty conscience? Or pissed as a newt? Damn’ standoffish, I must say!
“And you, sir?” Rodgers queried.
“Seen it, sir.” Lewrie chuckled. “Hellish boresome. Letters to write, that sort of last-minute thing. Cargo to load,” he drawled with a sarcastic note. “For our noble ‘Christian’ friends, don’t ye know.”
That officer lined up and ready to assist their search, a cargo of arms all but crated and ready to stow below . . . Lewrie was now wondering just how really debatable the scheme had been before they’d been called aboard Lionheart to discuss it.
And Charlton’s parting shot! A last admonition, nothing written, a verbal order tossed off as if it were a matter that had slipped his mind. “Make certain you only engage Christian pirates, sirs!” And it had been a wonder to watch him not twitch in embarrassment for uttering such a statement!
Christian pirates, my God! Lewrie groaned; sort of like merging “Army” and “Intelligence”! Find ’em, most-like, by followin’ the smell o’ incense burnin’ in their censers . . . whilst they’re at prayers!
“Quite th’ change th’ years’ve made of us, Lewrie,” Rodgers said of a sudden, in a very soft, conspiratorial voice. “You, turned into an upright family man. An’ me . . . a coward.”
“You, sir? A coward?” Lewrie hooted. “Hardly!”
But thinking that he was, in a way, just the same.
“Oh, stop yer gob, sir!” Rodgers spat. “You know what I mean.”
“Well, sir”—Lewrie frowned at the vehemence of Rodgers’s bile—“I didn’t think he was that dead-set for it, straightaway. Thought did we argue him out of it . . . two-to-two. Can’t count on Fillebrowne . . .”
“Nothin’ we could’ve said’d change his mind, Lewrie. Nor made a tinker’s damn worth o’ diff’rence. And you should’ve seen it,” Rodgers accused. “’Stead o’ goin’ off half-cocked . . . like ya always do.”
“Sir?” Lewrie huffed, cocking his head in perplexity.
“There’s some, Commander Lewrie, as’ve piled up enough ‘tin’ to weather rocky times, an’ some as’ve not,” Rodgers grumbled from a side of his mouth, half turned away to watch the approach of his gig.
“I don’t understand, Ben.”
“Captain Rodgers, sir!” Rodgers snapped so harshly that Lewrie felt like flinching back from him.
“Excuse me, sir, but—”
“Estate, prize-money . . . farm income,” Rodgers pushed on. “An’ Navy career bedamned, should things go cross-patch. Think we’re all so fortunate, sir, t’risk our careers so easy? Think we’ve all yer tidy shore livin’ t’fall back on?”
“I never thought . . . I don’t see . . . !”
“Course ya don’t, Lewrie!” Rodgers muttered. “You never do. Never see anything but your way . . . an’ how t’get it. An’ thinking I’m t’shout ‘amen’ whenever ya leave off prosin’. Course it’s a hellish idea, t’get mixed up with local pirates . . . d’ye think I like it a whit more’n you? I do not! But we said our piece, then he gave us orders. Whether we care for ’em or no. But ya never know when t’leave be an’ when t’quit wheedlin’. Just too bloody clever by half. But not clever enough t’see th’ end result o’ bein’ so sly-boots. Not for yer-self, or any ya drag down with ya.”
Rodgers lifted his hat briefly to air his scalp, to resettle it further down over his eyes, still gazing towards the clutch of boats.
“You asked me did I recall Charleston,” Rodgers began again, as he turned back to face Lewrie. “An’ did I still resent all th’ shit I was dumped into, ’cause o’ yer actions. Well, I did and I do, Lewrie. You always talked me into folly . . . Charleston, and both times at Walker’s Cay, when we were after ‘Calico Jack’ Finney. Resent things now, too. Resent ya peerin’ at me, all promptin’ an’ shiny-eyed t’support ya an’ damnin’ me do I not.”
“Sir, I never! . . .”
Well, aye . . . maybe I did. Alan winced with chagrin. And took a half step back from Rodgers
’s hissing fury. “Ben?” He pled once more.
“That’s ‘sir,’ t’ya, Lewrie,” Rodgers warned. “Caution ya, now. I’m half-seas-over. Cherry-merry. But not’z cherry-merry’z I intend t’be by midnight. It’ll be ‘sir’ t’day . . . an’ most-like ‘sir’ t’me tomorrow, too, ’cause I plan t’have a dev’lish thick head. An’ do ya know why that’ll be, Lewrie?”
“No, sir,” Alan replied warily, feeling betrayed after all the times they’d served together, after how close he’d thought they’d been.
“’Cause I’m scared o’ puttin’ mine arse on th’ choppin’-block as easy as you. Scared o’ rowin’ Captain Charlton with objections that’d make a poor report on me when Pylades pays off an’ it’s time to get a new commission, ’cause I’m not blessed with yer shore livin’ t’count on should I get beached on half-pay. Scared t’say what I really did mean t’say ’bout this half-arsed scheme o’ his. An’ maybe I’ll be ‘in th’ barrel’ ’cause I don’t much care for m’self for not sayin’ it, at th’ moment, either! But then . . . I never have to, do I? You’ll always leap up an’ say it first, won’t ya? Tie me to yer words, link me with yer objections, expect me t’back ya . . . an’ there I am, tarred with that same old brush. Now an’ again, Lewrie . . . it gets old, d’ye see?”
“I . . .” Lewrie opened his stunned mouth to respond.
“I get tired o’ bein’ led into folly . . . get tired o’ followin’ yer lead, Lewrie,” Rodgers said with a weary, embittered sigh. “Even if ya are right most o’ th’ time, God help us. Tired o’ bein’ used, whenever ya think yer th’ onliest one that knows best. Knew we were t’serve t’gether again, I’d hopes you’d’ve mellowed, learned some caution, but . . .” He shook his round head in long-pent despair. “An’ do ya know how hard it is t’deal with a man such’z yerself, Lewrie? How hard it is t’play gun-dog to ya, an’ do yer biddin’ when ya whistle or snap yer fingers?”
“I never knew you felt this way, sir,” Alan grunted. “I thought we worked well together, that—”
“Aye, we do, Lewrie, that’s th’ rub,” Rodgers whispered, hands up to scrub his face into some bit of sobriety. He swelled up, bloated on too much sweet wine, perhaps too much bitterness. And let out a hearty belch at last.
At least he turned his head for that, Lewrie thought inanely.
“So . . . ?” he enquired.
“Ah, devil take it,” Rodgers sighed, looking as if there was one more ripe eructation where that one had come from, still to be freed. “You tread wary round me a day’r two . . . it’ll be Alan and Ben by dawn o’ th’ second, I’d expect. A takin’ o’ th’ moment, and nothin’ permanent. No real lastin’ spite, d’ye see, but . . . by God, sir! Sometimes ya make me so . . . !”
“Furious?” Lewrie asked. “Aye. Never bored, though, are you?” he added with a hopeful grin.
“Aye, furious,” Rodgers echoed, all but swaying as Lieutenant Nicholson came over to tell him that his gig was at last thumping against the hull, just below the starboard entry-port. “Exasperatin’, that’s what ya are, Commander Lewrie. Exasperatin’ as the very Devil. But never borin’. Damn yer eyes.”
“May I take that as a vote of confidence, then, sir?” Lewrie asked with a wider smile as he walked with Rodgers to the entry-port.
“Not really!” Ben drawled rather archly. “You let me take th’ lead, and try t’stifle yerself, when ya feel a fit o’ cleverness comin’ on. I’m not certain my career could take too many more o’ yer brighter moments.”
“I stand admonished, sir,” Lewrie soberly told him. “Really!”
“Ya bloody do not!” Rodgers scoffed. “An’ ya never will.”
But he offered his hand and they shook, before stepping back to doff hats to each other; friends first—formally courteous naval officers second.
“Thankee, sir,” Lewrie said, just as he turned to go.
“For what . . . a hidin’?” Rodgers peered close at him.
“For still being a friend, exasperated or no, sir,” Lewrie said.
“What do ya think friends are for?” Rodgers sighed, then gave him a wink as he turned to doff his hat to the side-party’s salute, and make his way, arse-out, down the battens and man-ropes to his gig.
CHAPTER 7
The Austrian liaison officer assigned to them was a low-ranking Leutnant zur See Conrad Kolodzcy, a minor figure from one of the minor navies. His rank, however, was the only thing humble about him for he had a very high opinion of himself, which was apparent right from his arrival aboard Pylades with no less than two body-servants, two large sea-chests and a clutch of luggage that held—so he haughtily told them—the bare necessities of life, without which no true gentleman would dare to travel.
Lewrie wasn’t so sure Kolodzcy wasn’t an out-of-work instructor of dancing, masquerading—some rude jape the Austrians had foisted on them—and was more than happy that Rodgers was the one forced to deal with him on a daily basis and share his august company.
Leutnant Kolodzcy was a touch leaner than courtier-slim, as thin as a high-strung whippet or greyhound. He displayed such elegant, languid mannerisms that he could have taught refinement to the Venetians, making them look like lumbering dockyard drunks by comparison. He stood three inches shorter than Lewrie’s five-foot-nine—and that with the help of a pair of glossy black Hessian boots with heels so tall they were suited to cavalry stirrups. And they were adorned with more gaudy gilt cord and tassels than post-captains were allowed on an entire coat!
His hair was dark, almost raven-black, and cut in that new-fangled Frog fashion . . . brushed forward over the ears and forehead, and lacking that long, plaited queue particular to real sailor-men. He sported soft brown puppy eyes set in a rather pale face of such startling regularity that he was almost effeminately pretty, with cheekbones any fashionable lady might kill for, a pert little drawer-knob of a chin, and lips quite bee-stung, or as cherubically bowed as Cupid’s. When he didn’t have ’em set in a disbelieving pout or moue, that is, over how real navies lived!
And Leutnant zur See Conrad Kolodzcy wore scent . . . rather a lot of scent. Lewrie suspected his family was in the trade and kept him stocked with a constant supply of the family product, as a fashion adjunct or as a walking advertisement. That Hungary Water or Cologne wasn’t used in the manner most folks used it—to cover the reek of unwashed flesh and clothing—for Leutnant Kolodzcy had fetched along a portable, collapsible canvas bathtub as part of his “absolutely essential” kit, and had been appalled to learn that his daily allotment of water for shaving and bathing would be the same as a British officer’s—a bare pint a day!—barring what they could sluice into water-butts when it rained. He had been most vocal in expressing his horror over that; that, and the lack of proper chefs, proper bedsteads, clean bed-linen daily, decent wine to drink, or the dreadful hours he’d be expected to rise or retire, or the fact that tea, coffee or chocolate couldn’t be whistled up from the galley on a whim.
Fortunately for their mission, he could express his horrors in English, French, German, Italian, Hungarian, Albanian or Serbo-Croat, or a smattering of both Turkish or Demotic Greek. Un fortunately for nerves or patience, he did this in a thin, high, irritatingly lazy whine!
“Look, Lewrie, erm . . .” Rodgers said, once he’d directed Kolodzcy below to settle in, “since you’ll be so close inshore, first to make a contact with pirate bands—”
“But would his dignity not be mortally offended, sir?” Lewrie said most quickly in rebuttal, as soon as he saw which way the wind was blowing. “Fobbed off on a junior officer? On a minor vessel with less room? My word, sir! Just what would the Austrian court make o’ that? The diplomatic tussle that’d cause . . . tsk-tsk. Why, I shudder to think.”
“I could make it an order, Lewrie,” Rodgers said with a gloomy look.
“And of course you could, sir,” Lewrie agreed, struggling to keep his countenance whey-faced innocent of guile, yet tinged with honest concern. “Though our orders from Admiral
Jervis were to make every effort to honour and accommodate our Austrian allies and give no offence which might undo the Coalition. Who knows what ear at Court in Vienna this fellow whispers into, though? Then, as senior officer of our ad hoc squadron, sir . . . after all, can’t let the side down, sir. All for old England . . . an’ all that?”
“Yer bein’ exasperatin’ again, Lewrie.” Rodgers all but wept.
“Just pointing out the consequences, sir.” Lewrie shrugged, daring to let a “sympathetic” grin tweak his mouth, elevate his brow.
“Damn yer eyes, Lewrie. Just damn yer eyes,” Rodgers sighed.
“Very good, sir!”
“Vahl, ahz you heff learn-ed,” Leutnant Kolodzcy drawled, seated in one of Rodgers’s armchairs, legs primly crossed at the knees, idly holding a slim Spanish cigarillo in one hand and a tall flute of Capt. Rodgers’s best champagne in the other, “dere are many pirade bants on de Balgan goast, chentlemen.”
He just say “Balgan ghost”? Lewrie asked himself, head over in perplexity as he tried to decypher Kolodzcy’s extremely tortured English. Oh! Balkan coast! Pirate-bloody-bants . . . bands! Gawd . . . !
“Aye, we’ve encountered some,” Rodgers allowed.
“Ja!” Kolodzcy exclaimed, somewhat like the “Yipp!” an excited lapdog might make. He paused to take a dainty sip of champagne, then curl his left wrist inward for a puff of cigar smoke. He threw back his head to shoot smoke at the overhead, and then shot his cuff to return the cigarillo to “Run-in, Load” position. It was most elegantly, though foppishly done.
“Though mine family ist frohm de easz . . . Transylwania . . . ’Ungarian, do you see?” Kolodzcy languidly explained, “I am many yahrs upon de Balgan goast, and am knowink it guite intimadely, sirs. Unt I dell you now, chentlemen, dat dhere are only vahry few pirade bants awailable to you.”
“Beg pardon?” Rodgers said, having to ask for a repeat before he grasped all that Kolodzcy had lisped out. “And why is that, sir?”
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