Jester's Fortune

by Dewey Lambdin

  There was a feast for his eyes, an untold Alladin’s Cave of riches laid before him: artillery, muskets, swords, shot and powder . . . rope and timber, sails and blocks. Even Jester’s hatch-covers would be the sort of well-crafted wealth far beyond his wildest imaginings.

  Yet he put his hands on his hips, gazed upward at the height of the European main mast, bared another dazzling smile . . . and laughed out loud! Like a child overawed by a stroll down the Strand past the toymakers’, Lewrie could conjure, the fellow actually shook his head with what he took for a “Well, what’ll they think of, next?” marvelling.

  “I speak to him, unt bring him to you, sirs,” Kolodzcy offered primly, shooting his lacy shirt-cuffs and settling the hang of a dazzling fresh pale-blue waistcoat.

  The fellow didn’t wait for that, but, bouncing on his feet with impatience, sprang into action again and towed his com-patriot to the end of the gangway, then onto the quarterdeck, where he’d espied the better-dressed officers.

  “Ratko Petracic,” he boasted, thumping his chest and naming himself to them, as if it should mean something to them, before Leutnant Kolodzcy could even open his sour-pursed mouth. Petracic gave Kolodzcy a withering, amused once-over from head to toe, before turning to his companion of the bearish beard and goat-hair weskit and slithering out a comment that made them both chuckle.

  “Well, go on, sir,” Rodgers urged. “Say the bloody how-dedos. Name us to the bugger.”

  “Boog-er,” the bearded one parroted, then laughed, nudging his leader. “Ha, boog-er!”

  Kolodzcy smoothly performed the introductions, no matter what the pirates had said about him or how rowed he was. “Dey are, chentlemen, Kapitan Ratko Petracic, leader of dis seagoink bent. Unt, Kapitan Dragan Mlavic, who ist second-in-command . . . main leutnant of his . . . fleet.”

  “Fleet, mine arse,” Midshipman Hyde muttered to Spendlove, just loud enough to be heard, drawing a scathing glower from his captain.

  “Mine-eh arse,” the shorter pirate repeated once more. “Arse!”

  What is he, a bloody magpie? Lewrie wondered.

  He didn’t look quite sane, for starters. Dragan Mlavic had beady little black eyes that threatened to cross, did he leave them open too long, which made him blink rather a lot. His face was pockmarked and rough-textured, a tad swarthy and full—all round knobbiness to cheeks, nose and forehead. Lewrie gave him an up-and-down, with one brow cocked, as Kolodzcy garbled off some gilt-and-beshit politenesses. The short pirate chieftain could easily be dismissed, he thought. Mental defective, borderline loony . . . something like that? He’d traded a drab brown homespun knee-length smock this day for a white cotton one, gaudy with red and blue embroideries. Under that rank goat-hide waistcoat, o’ course. His very baggy pyjammy-trousers, which gathered below the knee like an Ottoman version of proper breeches, were the roughest sort of homespun. His shoes were little better than goatskin versions of Red Indian . . . what’d they call ’ems? . . . moccasins? There was a round knit skullcap . . . Well, the weapons, o’ course, jammed into a wide belt—a brace of all-metal Arabee flintlock pistols with barrels over a foot long, a very expensive-looking scimitar in a parrot-green leather scabbard, both sword and scabbard awash in brass, brads, inset ivories and . . . damme . . . gem-chips? Bolstering his arsenal, though, was a very plain butcher-knife of a dagger, with rough wood hilt, hardly a haft at all beyond a black-iron ring-guard, in a rough, hairy sheath.

  The other, Ratko Petracic, was an entirely different breed of cat, and Lewrie put him down as a damned dangerous customer. He was too self-possessed, too sure of himself by half. Too handsome and cocksure, this’un! He wore soft leather boots to the knee, made from a coral-red dyed hide; shimmery burgundy pyjammy-trousers, a flowing smock of startling white and sewn with gold thread, silver thread and ornate with sequins. His waistcoat was of hide, too, though of a very short-haired, very sleek fur. He sported no headgear, just a full, lush mane of shiny brown hair clubbed back at the nape of his neck. His weapons consisted of a pair of gold-inlaid Arabee pistols, a gem-studded scimitar in a red velvet scabbard set with gilt fittings and a magnificent dagger on his left hip in a silver-and-ivory, jewel-bedecked scabbard, which made an impossible forty-five-degree bend. Atop the hilt of the gilded dagger there was set an emerald the size of a robin’s egg, clutched in elaborately filigreed real-gold claws!

  Aye, he knew what a raffish, dangerous impression he was making, Lewrie realised; he’d planned it this way! Put on his best to overawe!

  “He asks me, are we de British Royal Navy vich hezz so vahry much silver to buy brot unt sheep,” Kolodzcy was explaining, leaning to and fro from translatee to translatee. “I tell him we are. He ist askink, do we fight de French. I say we do. He asks me, do ve dell de druth . . . ve take many rich ships, oud ad sea. I say ve dell druth, alvays, unt daht dhere are vahry many more rich ships . . . good bickinks. Kapitan Petracic is askink . . . he vould vahry much like de riches dhat we take. Uhm . . . Gott in Himmel, was ist das? Lächerlich! Umph!”

  Kolodzcy leaned away from the pirates.

  “De Kapitan Petracic sayink he ist master ohf dis goast . . . unt . . . unt!” Kolodzcy gargled, outraged. “Ve are owink him . . . tributes! His share!”

  “Tell ’im t’go buy a hat, shit in it an’ call it a brown tiewig,” Rodgers barked. “The bloody nerve o’ th’ man!”

  “Plenty . . . blood-ey . . . nerve, Ratko Petracic,” the short man hoorawed, as good a sycophant as Clotworthy Chute any day, Lewrie told himself. Once he got over his shock, o’ course. His shock of hearing English from the hairy churl— and the smug look of satisfaction on Ratko Petracic’s face. “Plenty bloody nerve,” indeed! Lewrie thought.

  CHAPTER 5

  “He speaks English?” Rodgers blanched, staring at Petracic.

  “Not bloody word,” Dragan Mlavic informed him soberly. “But I do. Little.”

  Least we can do ’thout this mincin’ pimp Kolodzcy from here on out, Alan silently hoped.

  There was a brief palaver between the smirking Ratko Petracic and his chief lieutenant. Then, “I listen careful, British man. Then I tell him what you say. But Captain Petracic says we will talk. In Serbian. Your . . .” Mlavic gave Leutnant Kolodzcy another of those scathing head-to-toe glances, as if he still couldn’t quite believe his eyes or that such creatures lived. “Your translator help us, da?”

  “Bud, ohf gourse,” Kolodacy seethed, though smiling rigidly.

  There was another brief outburst of Serbian—to Lewrie’s ears it seemed like gargling—from the handsome Petracic.

  “Captain say . . . rain, soon. We go below . . . talk, yes? You have good wine? We talk,” Dragan Mlavic urged. “No good sailing today.”

  “Inform the captain, uhm . . . Petracic,” Rodgers offered, turning a lot more civil, “that we will indeed repair below to the great-cabins and talk. But . . . there must be no more talk of paying him tribute.”

  “We see, British captain.” Mlavic smiled and lifted one chary brow. “We see.”

  The first hour of talking and swilling (Lewrie’s wine, with which Rodgers was damn liberal, and the Serbs putting it down like they were fresh-parched from Hell!) consisted mostly of boasting. Ratko Petracic told his listeners what a great seaman he was, how many villages he’d raided, how wealthy he’d become, how many throats he’d cut and how many Turks now roasted on Shaitan’s Coals because of his sword or the actions of his bold warriors. How Venetians gave him a wide berth when they saw his sails and took themselves elsewhere. How the fierce Ragusans shook in their boots and would not pursue him when he boldly raided one of the outlying ports. And blah-blah-blah . . . !

  “Unt de Croats?” Kolodzcy queried. “They run from you, too?”

  “Ha!” Dragan Mlavic sputtered. “Croats . . . poo!” He spat upon the black-and-white-chequered sailcloth deck covering, highly insulted.

  “Here, now,” Lewrie grumbled. “Have a care, tell him. Spit on his own damn deck . . . but not mine! Damme, was he bo
rn in a barn?”

  Kolodzcy posed the question to Ratko Petracic directly, resenting his role being usurped by the barely intelligible, and partisan, pirate. A babble ensued as Mlavic tried to ask the question in his place, and Petracic put up one hand to silence his lieutenant. Petracic put a noble expression on his face, one of deliberate musing, before replying.

  “He say . . .” Kolodzcy interpreted slowly, “he hess no fear ohf de Croats. Serbs are . . . fiercer fighters. He hates Croats! All true Serbs hate Croats, forever. Untrustvorthy . . . murderink . . . whores. ’Ungarian whores. Catholic. Uhm, suffice to say, sirs, he despise dhem. He make mahny vile accusations.”

  And ain’t you a good little Austrian Catholic yourself, Kolodzcy? Lewrie wondered. He was torn between the play of expressions of both Leutnant Kolodzcy and Petracic; one all but biting his cheeks to remain diplomatic, and the other— feigning, Lewrie was dead certain—noble long-suffering.

  Petracic got to his feet to pace and gesticulate, waving with both hands now, and beginning to sound gruff and rankled.

  “Well?” Rodgers demanded, as the diatribe continued.

  “Still rants, sir,” Kolodzcy replied, one ear tilted for a pithy bit. “He exblainink Balgan hizdory. Holy King Stefan Nemanja. Saint Cyril unt Saint Methodius, who conwert pagan Slavs to Christians, in de Orthodox Church, long ago . . . King Stefan, first of Nemanjas, build huge empire. Greater general dhan Byzantine, Belisarius. Son, Saint Sava the Wanderer found Serbian Orthodox Church. King Milutin Nemanja, he defeat fildy Bulgars . . . no bedder dhan slant-eye Tartars. Richer dhan Byzantine Empire. All of goast to Adriatic . . . far south into Macedonia unt Greece, conquer Albanians. Vould have conquer Constantinople, too, ’til de veak as vater cowards allow Durks across Hellespont. Unt Croats too stupid to be true Slavs . . . too jealous. Dhey look to Vienna, Rome . . . become Catholics. Whores to Budapest unt Vienna.”

  “Uhm . . . this’ll take long, d’ye think?” Rodgers softly wondered.

  “Ach, ja, herr Kapitan,” Kolodzcy said with a patient sigh. “He speak of Stefan Uros . . . Stefan Dushan . . . dushan meanink ‘soul.’ A last Nemanja, Uros. Daht ist vhen Durks come, unt he was veak. ’Ungarians from de vest svarm to take empire. Croats vit dhem. Comes final leader, elected prince . . . Knez Lazar.”

  “Aahh,” Dragan Mlavic uttered, sounding like a mourner at a funeral; and Lewrie was amazed to see tears moisten his hard little eyes as his lips trembled in genuine sorrow!

  “Comes time of Kossovo,” Leutnant Kolodzcy translated, as the fierce Ratko Petracic ranted on. “Grade baddle. Durks vin, Serbs killed. He recite poem to us.”

  “Jesus,” Lewrie whispered, pouring himself a glass of claret in frustration. “A long’un, I’d expect. ‘Hear me, Oh Muse’ . . .” he cited from The Iliad. In English, of course; he’d been bloody awful in Greek.

  “Grey bird fly from Jerusalem. Falcon. Really ist Saint Elijah, bearink Holy Book. Comes to de Tsar . . . Prince Lazar, unt asks ohf him vhat kingdom he vish . . . heavenly or earthly? Knez Lazar choose heavenly kingdom. He say:

  He built a church on Kossovo . . .

  Then he gave his soldiers the Eucharist . . .

  Then the Turks overwhelmed Lazar . . .

  And his army was destroyed with him,

  Of seven and seventy thousand soldiers.

  “Dhen, all vas Holy, all was honourable. Unt de guteness of God vas fulfilled,” Kolodzcy interpreted for them.

  Ratko Petracic stopped orating, arms out to his sides as if he were being crucified, his head hung, and unashamedly weeping.

  “Uhmph, I say . . .” Rodgers squirmed uneasily, and Lewrie felt the urge to look away. Such blatant public displays of tears were bred, or whipped, out of English gentlemen. Even Lewrie, who was more prone to expressing his enthusiasms or disasters (more proof, he thought, that he would never make a true gentleman if he lived an hundred years!) was not this open with his feelings. Why, it was unmanly . . . foreign, certainly!

  “Kossovo Polje,” Petracic said, looking up and lowering his arms to wipe away his tears on his sleeves.

  “Kossovo Polje,” Dragan Mlavic echoed, his voice broken.

  “De Field ohf Black Birds,” Kolodzcy said. “Durks leaf bodies naked, for carrion birds to devour. June twenty-eighth, 1389.”

  Petracic started speaking again, clearer, his voice infused with a low, bitter anger even after over four hundred years.

  “Grade Serb Empire dies, long before Byzantine, in 1453. No one come to help Serbs, he say,” Kolodzcy began translating again. “Every hand against us. Croat, Byzantine, ’Ungarian, Austrian. Beginnink ohf Durkey in Europe. Could heff sdopped, defeaded, but no. Too jealous. Vorld vish grade Nemanjic Serb kingdom to die. Zo dhey could pick our bones, like de black birds, he ist sayink. Grade, holy sacrifice de Serbs made. Zo daht Europe should live. Unt de Croats, de Slovenes, Albanians, Bulgars . . . take from Srpski Narod . . . Serb Beoble, effrydink dhey own. Some love conwersion to Islam, he say. Some are traitors . . . Catholic Croat traitors, who vish to make Serbs Catholic sheep.”

  “Ah.” Rodgers nodded as if it all made perfect sense.

  Petracic barked out a question. Kolodzcy took pause, recoiling back into his chair for a moment before replying, long, slow and wary.

  “He ask me, dese Frenchmen . . . dhey are Catholic, ja? I dell him dhey are. Danes, unt Batavian Dutch . . . Protestant. Like British. Bud, nod Slavs. More like Germans. Do ve vish him to kill dhem? I say no. Dake dhere ships only.”

  “Ah, perhaps we’re gettin’ somewhere?” Rodgers wished aloud.

  “He say to me, sir,” Kolodzcy interpreted another long ramble, “Serbs hate Croats, ’Ungarians, Durks. Dirdy Albanians, unt all Slavs who now are Muslim, who did nod come to Kossovo Polje. Dhey are now traitors, people forever apard. Or mongrels, nod drue Slavs. Unt for a price, he say he vill now hate Frenchmen, unt all dheir lackeys. A vahry high price. For to build new Serbian kingdom. Avenge de Field ohf Black Birds, someday.”

  “Right, then!” Rodgers beamed. “What sort of a price?”

  “He vish guns, sir,” Kolodzcy translated, as Petracic sat down at the table, his weeping quite forgotten. “Muskets, powder, unt shot. Unt artillery, to arm his men. Gold, to addract odders. Ships such as dhis one. You give him Jester?”

  “Like bloody Hell!” Lewrie snarled.

  “Tell him our sovereign King George III will not allow us to give him a sloop of war,” Rodgers ordered. “We may supply muskets, made cartridges, loose ball and powder. And accoutrements. We can get him swords and bayonets. We’ve pistols, too. But a warship? No, I’m sorry. But . . . once he’s better-armed, hey, he could take himself a European-style ship and convert her. Arm her.”

  “He say he ist sendink to his boat for brandy, sir,” Kolodzcy informed them. “British wine ist gnat’s-piss, he ist thinkink. Zorry. Unt, he say . . . dhat ist like chicken come before egg. Gannot get ship to conwert vidout strong ship in firsd blace. European ships pass by, dhey are armed vit cannon, unt he gannot fight dhem now. Too strong. For his smaller boats, too fast, alzo. Unt too far oud at sea. His four small boats gannot make long foyages. Only his galliot, unt dhat ship Mlavic command.”

  Rodgers drummed his fingers on the table as Mlavic returned with a stone crock and poured them all a brimming measure of a colourless, clear-water liquor.

  “Ve trink to bargain? he asks. To heart of bargain, he say. De Devil ist in details . . . unt ve have all rainy day to thrash dhem oud.”

  The Devil, indeed, Alan thought, trying not to frown; I’m sittin’ ’cross the bloody table from Old Nick this very minute! Petracic was smiling at them, a coy, “Captain Sharp-ish” grin, even sharing a glance to his chief lieutenant, Mlavic; all but tipping him the wink!

  “Boddom’s up, he broboze,” Kolodzcy said.

  Lewrie’s wineglasses were smallish, more suited to a port after a meal than the usual larger goblets that went with supper itself—to keep their rate of consumption down and save him a supply for later
in this voyage, if nothing else! At the rate Rodgers and Kolodzcy put it away, he’d be begging ’pon the gun-room’s charity, or reduced to rum and water before they put in at Corfu again.

  It looked harmless, that clear brandy. He shrugged and picked up his glass as the others did. Manfully, he slugged some back.

  “Holy . . . !” He wheezed, once his throat reopened. His brothers-in-law, Governour and Burgess Chiswick, had introduced him to American corn-whiskey during the siege of Yorktown; but it couldn’t hold a candle to this! Redolent of plums or grapes . . . fiercer even than Dago grappa! His eyes watered, and his stomach burned. Even Ben Rodgers looked amort for once, regarding his half-empty glass with a sort of religious awe.

  All the while Mlavic and Petracic laughed themselves silly, bent double and gasping for breath from sheer amusement at the knacky trick they’d played on strangers!

  Well, what else’d the Devil himself drink? Lewrie wryly asked of the aether, but liquid fire and brimstone?

  Then, slowly . . . as a sullen rain hammered down and seethed overhead on the decks and coach-top, through an entire afternoon of sipping their fierce plum brandy, the deal was struck. They’d go out and seize a small ship for Petracic to use. He’d get his muskets, powder and shot upon the morrow. They’d supply silver coinage, so he could recruit a larger band of dispossessed Serbs along the coast and among the isles. He’d strip crew from the smallest four of his “fleet” and man the new prize. Petracic would establish a base farther out to sea, for there were smaller islands near Bisevo or Susak where no one ever patrolled.