Grudgingly, Petracic had sworn to imprison the captured passengers and crews, to keep them decently fed and watered; though he was much of the same mind as Kolodzcy—that “dead men tell no tales.” He’d get a shilling, or its local equivalent, per head for live captives. They’d only pay after a decent head count.
Rodgers offered Petracic the right to pick over any captures they made themselves, for small-arms or artillery, before they took them off to the Prize-Court at Trieste. That was flat against the formal usages.
However, Lewrie pointed out, feeling only a faint twinge of ancient guilt for his sins of the past, that the Articles of War did allow a tad of flexibility, that Article the Eighth stated:
No person in or belonging to the Fleet shall take out of any Prize, or Ships seized for Prize, any Money, Plate, or Goods, unless it shall be necessary, for the better securing thereof, or for the necessary Use and Service of any of His Majesty’s Ships or Vessels of War . . .
“Long as we fetch in all her papers, sir, we could write what we share with Captain Petracic off,” Lewrie rather boozily allowed, “as necessary for our use and service.”
“Uhm, ahh?” Rodgers blearily muttered. “Aye, I ’spose . . .”
And, lastly, Petracic was cautioned that their arrangement would survive as long as they didn’t go beyond their brief. The Coalition was not at war with Venice, with Ragusa, Naples or the various Italian states that faced the Adriatic. Ships of those nations were off limits, as were Austrian ships, since they were allies. As were British vessels, though there were few still working the Adriatic trade-routes. Petracic would have to obey some civilised rules, after all! Ships they chased to him, ships he caught close inshore that were hostile, aye . . . and the best of hunting to him, then. Petracic might hold those he took by mistake, and Pylades or Jester would turn up sooner or later to adjudge them, then “rescue” them, should he err.
“More cause t’keep ’em alive an’ kickin’,” Rodgers had intoned. “Don’t even rough ’em up. Harm a hair . . . hic! . . . o’ their heads. Hey?”
“He hear you,” Mlavic had grunted, both of them turning drunkenly truculent at such a long list of cautions. “Not babies. Men! Serb men! No need, teaching.”
Petracic had at last risen, after a final glass of naval rum, as his stone crock had at last been drunk to the dregs. He wavered like a tall oak in a gale of wind, but he stood and shook hands all about with them. Even with Kolodzcy, though he applied more pressure there than he did with the others, making the poor Austrian wisp wince and cringe.
“He goes,” Kolodzcy announced. “Vill get his guns tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Rodgers promised, holding onto the edge of the table, but upright. Cross-eyed, but upright, Lewrie noted.
Then they went. Rodgers, Lewrie and Kolodzcy shambled out onto the gun-deck to see them off, doffing their hats automatically, now that they’d netted their new allies. With difficulty, they even attained the larboard gangway, though it was a struggle for Rodgers and Kolodzcy.
It was still raining, though warmer, as it got on for the end of the First Dog-watch, near six p.m. Lewrie left his hat off after the two pirates had stumbled into their waiting felucca, letting the rain sluice on his reeling head, into his mouth and half-focused eyes.
“Success, then, gen’lemen . . . Lewrie,” Rodgers groaned.
“S’pose one could call it that, sir,” Lewrie replied.
“Good God, but I’ve never been so ‘in the barrel’!” Rodgers confessed. “Drunk’z a lord. No, drunk’z a bloody emperor! Christ, I need a lie-down.”
“Y’ll dine aboard then, sir,” Lewrie presumed, figuring Ben Rodgers wouldn’t survive a row across to Pylades. It would be a right comic miracle could either of them manage to get into the gig! Bleakly, Alan saw himself stuck with them another night, and in an hour or so, might they be so recovered as to require “hair of the dog” for restoration?
“Swear t’Christ, there’s bloody three o’ya, Alan, old son! An’ th’ one’z too damn many, already.” Rodgers swayed. “No, thought I’d go . . .”
“Ah,” Lewrie said, mopping his face on his sleeve. “Pity. Bosun?”
“Aye, sir?” Cony replied, coming to his side as Leutnant Kolodzcy put his head on Lewrie’s left shoulder, with one arm about Rodgers, and began to sing and kick one dainty booted foot; some Austrian mountain nonsense that involved a stab at yodeling, though it came out more a whimpering.
“Chair-sling for Captain Rodgers, and . . . get off me!”
“Cap’um, uh . . . ’llow me t’suggest a cargo net?” Cony tittered.
Lewrie managed to steer Kolodzcy to lean on Rodgers; or Rodgers to lean on Kolodzcy. They looked like a pair of mast-hoisting sheer-legs, or a two-legged stool . . . sure to go smash any minute.
“No . . .” Lewrie sighed, after a long, difficult stab at thought. “Can’t insult the dignity of guest, Cony. Chair-sling, starboard side. Lots o’ frappin’, to keep ’em in, mind. Do they get in.”
“Oh aye, sir,” Cony said straight-faced, knuckling his brow with three fingers. “Dignity.”
Lewrie turned back to behold Leutnant Kolodzcy stumbling through steps of a slow minuet, still singing that lively country song in a cracked voice. Ben Rodgers was hanging on his shoulder with a death-grip, and forced to follow in a shambling dance of his own. He was barking and howling like a hound on a hot scent for a commentary—when he wasn’t cackling like an inmate in Bedlam over his canine insult to Kolodzcy’s singing.
“Mister Knolles,” Lewrie croaked.
“Here, sir.”
“Utmos’ compliments to ya, sir,” Lewrie slurred, “an’ would I be so ’bliged . . . well, someone should, hey? You render debarkin’ honours for me? Be below. Dyin’, it feels like.”
“Ah. De -barking honours, sir.” Lieutenant Knolles guffawed as loud as discipline would let him as Rodgers threw his head back and crooned like a famished wolf. “Directly, Captain.”
Lewrie sighed, wondering how funny it might feel in the painful light of morning, and stumbled off aft, lifting his feet almost knees-up to avoid the odd ring-bolt, to the gay air of a Tyrol tune and the hoarse growls and howls of a “music critic.”
“Lemme help ya, sir . . . ’at’s the way,” Aspinall offered.
“Some hot coffee, then yer supper, sir. Make a new man o’ ya.”
“Not up to solids, Aspinall. Don’t think.”
“Soup an’ toast, sir. Get somethin’ on yer stomach. Soak up—”
“Aye, we have, ain’t we?” Lewrie at last grinned as he was led into his great-cabins and dumped onto the starboard-side settee, sprawling like a loose bale of rag-picker’s goods. “Soaked up.”
“Be back in a tick, sir,” Aspinall assured him.
Crossly, Lewrie managed to get one boot off, got the hilt of his sword out from under his left buttock and kidney, but that was about as much as he could manage on his own.
Lord, what’ve we gotten ourselves into? he wondered to himself as he began to drift forrud, towards the edge of the settee, with his legs feeling as if they belonged to someone else; and an uncooperative swine, at that. Pirates, for God’s sake. Bloody lunatick pirates! Holy sacrifice . . . vengeance. Holy war, ’gainst ev’rybody else on God’s green ol’ earth! Lord, what’ve we bloody started?
His fundament met the turkey carpet and the chequered deckcloth, legs sprawled at a wide angle, with his head now resting so far back on the settee cushions a sober observer might think him neck-broke.
His gaze swam about, cockeyed as if Jester were heaving, pitching, yawing and rolling in a hurricane under bare poles. There, in the dining coach, over the table on the forrud bulkhead, he found something to focus on. His wife Caroline’s portrait. All sunny and radiant in a wide-brim straw bonnet, smiling so eye-crinklin’ pleased, before their first house in the Bahamas, with East Bay and the shipping behind her.
He screwed one eye shut, to peer more intently.
“Needs o’ th’ Service
, m’dear,” he apologised. “Ne’er seen me bung-full, I know. Bloody barbarians . . . in f’r dinner an’ drink. Had t’keep up th’ side, don’ y’see? King an’ Country . . . ?”
He thought of crawling over for a closer, fonder look. Damme, though; was that a frown in her forehead . . . right where she wrinkled in those times she was vexed with him? Or was she laughing at him, at his ludicrous condition?
“Ben’s fault, damn yer eyes,” he whispered. Peering took too much out of him, so he shut the other eye, too, and let his head loll.
Aspinall returned with a mug of soup and some piping-hot toast, but he was too late. His captain’s top-lights had been extinguished for the evening. With Andrews’s help, they removed his coat, sword-belt and stock, the other fancy Hessian boot, and slung him gently into bed, with a swaddling coverlet atop.
Where he dreamed the most vivid and disturbing plum-brandy dreams. Of blood and crows, of a vast plain of bones, of biblical patriarchs with swinging swords, red-eyed vengeance, rapine and slaughter.
And of whispering seals whose voices were too soft to understand, or be heeded.
CHAPTER 6
South of the isle of Susak, smack in the middle of the Adriatic, lay a small cluster of rocky, barely inhabited islets round a larger, which was named Palagruza. Pylades and Petracic’s galliot sailed there, to establish a camp, from which they would then go back to the Balkan mainland so Petracic could have a chance to raise his fellow Serbs. Ben Rodgers would capture him that suitable European ship, too.
Dividing their forces once again, Lewrie and Jester were sent off toward the Straits of Otranto. He was free of Rodgers, but most especially was he free at last of Leutnant Conrad Kolodzcy. Forced to beat against a persistent Sutherly, the Sirocco, for several days, he zigzagged his way down the Adriatic, quartering it thoroughly on-passage and hunting for prey once more.
The weather was hot, now it was late July, and the sere wind up from Africa was no refreshing relief, sometimes hazed with gathered dust or sand particles, reducing visibility. The seas, forced up the narrows into the cul-de-sac of the Adriatic, humped long, folding waves of seven or eight feet. Jester bowled over them surefooted, though, swooping on their faces and cleaving them in delightful bursts of spray with a quick, lively and satisfied motion. As if their warship felt as free as they—as liberated from their dubious dealings, and fresh-washed in proper Royal Navy business.
No, the only fly in their ointment was the presence of the dhow off their larboard quarters, for Dragan Mlavic had been sent off by his master Petracic to glean what pickings he could from Jester’s successes. He’d fade back whenever they stood on larboard tack towards Italy. But, like a nemesis, they’d espy her again when forced over to starboard tack and angle for the Albanian or Montenegran shores.
Uncanny, it was. Surely, Lewrie thought, the Adriatic, narrow as it was, still held room enough to lose the bitch in! But no. There she was, hull-down to the East’rd. Could she be any other dowdy two-masted coaster, since the Adriatic teemed with them? Time and again, though, and hope against hope, they’d recognise her dun brown sails with the odd patches of new canvas they’d been forced to give Mlavic, which formed a stylised lightning-bolt pattern on her foresail! Until the very sight of that accidental emblem made every man-jack groan with disgust, as if a penniless relation had shown up to sponge off them, just after they had been paid in coin, for a rare once.
“Damme, how does he do it, Captain?” Lieutenant Knolles spat, lifting his hat for one of his irritated blond hair-rufflings.
“Luck o’ th’ Devil, he, Mister Knolles,” Buchanon decided. “An’ th’ Devil’s Brood has ’eir master’s luck.”
“Thought we’d sailed him under, the last Sou’west tack, sir,” Lieutenant Knolles carped on. “He hasn’t the ‘nutmegs’ to sail over to Italy. He’d get his silly arse knackered over there. Does he idle in the middle? Do a dash down to where he thinks we’ll be, and wait?”
“Aloft, there!” Lewrie demanded of the lookouts. “She alone?”
“Aye, sir!”
“Hasn’t tried to take a ship himself, then.” Lewrie frowned.
“Like a kite, sir. Waitin’ ’til braver beasts’z made ’eir kill,” the Sailing Master harrumphed. “’En he’ll have a bite’r two.”
“Deck, there!” Came another shout from the lookouts. “Sail ho!”
“Where away?” Knolles howled impatiently.
“Four point off th’ starb’d bows! Brig! Runnin’ free!”
Lewrie scrambled aloft to the cat-harpings of the mizzen to have a gander. There was no more than seven miles’ visibility with all that wind-borne African haze on the Sutherly horizon, and the strange vessel was already showing a hint of tops’ls as well as all of her t’gallants. Sailing dead off the wind, he took note, with “both sheets aft.” She’d pass astern of Jester should they both stand on as they were, perhaps a good two miles apart. He could tack right away, he schemed, go back to larboard tack headed Sou’west, and cut her off as she loped North, fat, dumb and happy. Running as she was, she could sail no faster than the winds blew, and that felt like only a ten-to twelve-knot breeze today, he reckoned. Less, for she’d surely be heavily laden, snuffling bows-down with a breeze right up her transom, even with the fore-course reduced, and the lifting effect of the fore-tops’l to ease her. And she didn’t look particularly big, either, an average brig of about eighty-five feet overall, with a chunky seventy-foot waterline.
Yet, should she take fright, she’d alter course, just on general principles, and claw up to the wind and beat inshore for safety in the neutral Venetian port of Durazzo. She was now about six miles a’weather of them. Make it five, he plotted in his head, once we’ve tacked, losing way . . . same for her. Dammit, she could just barely make it in, one step ahead!
Lewrie clambered down and stowed his telescope in the rack by the binnacle cabinet. “We’ll stand on as we are for now, Mister Knolles. I don’t wish to scare her off ’til she’s come down closer to us, within a mile or two. Then, do we haul our wind or tack, we’ll fall down on her, and keep ourselves ’tween her and the safety of a neutral port.”
“Very good, sir,” Knolles replied.
“Deck, there!” The lookout cried. “Dhow, sir! Tackin’!”
Mlavic had been loafing along on the starboard tack, pointing up higher on the winds, even so, than Jester ever could, presaging a close-aboard reunion, unless Lewrie had ordered them to come about to stand aloof of his dhow. Suddenly, though, she racked over to larboard tack, bearing Sou’west, still pointing high and expanding the size of her lateen sails to full size. Mlavic had spotted the strange brig and was going after her with every stitch of canvas aloft!
“Damn him. Just damn him!” Lewrie rasped.
“He’ll scare her off!” Midshipman Hyde exclaimed, outraged.
Mlavic had been off Jester’s larboard quarter and only two sea-miles to leeward. On her new course, he’d close them before sweeping past, crossing Jester’s stern and surging upwind of her. Mlavic, it appeared, had found some courage for the chase at last—but at the very worst possible moment!
“Greedy bastard,” Lewrie commented sourly. “Hmm . . . aloft, there! What is the brig doing?”
“Standin’ on, sir! Courses ’bove th’ horizon, runnin’ free!”
“They’ve seen us by now, surely. Might not be able to see that pirate yet,” Knolles muttered. “’Til he crosses our stern, sir.”
“Or do ’ey not keep a proper lookout, like most merchantmen, sir,” Buchanon added. “Nought t’fear so far, e’en do ’ey.”
Lewrie looked aft. To save wear-and-tear, Jester only flew her national colours when challenged or when doing the challenging. With her courses above the horizon already, the brig couldn’t be more than a scant four miles up to windward, and still held to her off-wind slide. She didn’t yet acknowledge Jester as a warship, since she’d made no move to close her, but was standing on Sou’east, on a diverging course as if bound for Du
razzo herself.
The line of sight, Alan thought, looking to windward once more; aye, Mlavic is hidden below us now, blotted out by our hull and sails, even did they spot him earlier. Might be the brig’s whey-faced innocent, or a neutral, but he had to stop her and speak her to ascertain that. To run up the flag now might spook her, either way, and they’d waste half a day running her down for nothing.
And best we fetch her first. Alan shivered. God knows what that pig-eyed fool’d do, neutral prize or no! Fight us for her?
“Mister Hyde,” Lewrie decided. “Fetch out that Frog flag of ours. Bend it on and hoist it to the mizzen peak. Mister Knolles, prepare to come about to larboard tack. We’ll see what answering hoist we receive . . . then we’ll pretend to run from those terrible Serb pirates yonder . . . and unmask ’em to her, as we come about. See what she makes of that!”
“Oh, I see, sir!” Knolles chuckled. “Eek eek, a mouse, Captain? Bosun! Pipe ‘Stations for Stays’!”
“Once round, Mister Knolles . . .” Lewrie added. “Beat to Quarters.”
Scant minutes later, all had altered. Jester was thrashing wind-ward, hobby-horsing over the long but steep sets of waves. Their pirate dhow’s way had been blocked, as Lewrie had flung his ship squarely across her course, and was now pitching and rolling dead in Jester’s wake—as if she truly were pursuing her—working her way up to windward of them, certainly, since fore-and-aft rigged lateeners could pinch up much closer to the eye of the wind any day.
And the brig . . . !
She’d taken one look, hoisted a matching French flag, and turned away, wearing herself to a broad reach, with the Sirocco winds large on her larboard quarter, headed Nor-Nor’west. She was steering directly for a meeting with Jester!
Comin’ t’save me, are you? Lewrie speculated with a sneer, as he glanced astern and ahead in a constant mental juggling act of courses and speeds; me, a fellow Frog? Damn brave of you. Or d’ye think your own safety lies in numbers . . . two armed merchantmen ’gainst one pirate?
“A mile, I make her, sir,” Mr. Buchanon suggested.
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