“But not take active part in those vessels’ seizure, sir?” Alan quibbled. “Then we would end up paying Petracic his tribute. Share in the take, sir, at no risk to himself.”
“Then he must move his newest European ships, and his galliot and dhow, down nearer us, sir,” Charlton suggested, adamant for his plans. “Those may keep the sea for weeks at a time. Perhaps he covers Cattaro and Durazzo, whilst we cover Volona and Corfu. Closer to the straits, as you say. Then, what we chase but fail to capture, he gets a crack at inshore, from inbound ships. Likewise, what outbound ships full of timber exports which he fails to bag, we get our crack at. With the smallest of his boats forming our eyes and ears, where we daren’t go.”
“Uhm . . .” Lewrie pretended to gnaw a thumbnail and give it an honest ponder. “Where could we base them, then, sir? Palagruza is too far off, then. They’re Eastern Orthodox Serbs, sir. There’d be a lot of trouble with the Albanians or Montenegrans. Autonomous from Turkish rule or not, sir, they’re still Muslim. I’d imagine the hate our Serbs feel for Muslims is warmly reciprocated ’mongst the Albanians. Given a chance to butcher some Serb infidels, finally, the local Muslim governments would simply drool over the opportunity, sir. And there aren’t any convenient islands where—”
“In for the penny, in for the pound, I fear, Lewrie,” Charlton told him, with the first hint of frost to his voice as he sat up much straighter in his chair, prim as a parson in the parlour. “We’ve made our bargain . . . you still think it a bad bargain, I know. I’m not that fond of it myself, but needs must, as they say. We’re spread too thin to be choosy over from which corner help comes. So far, we’ve kept up our end of the bargain . . . gotten Captain Petracic two new ships, given him gold, arms, artillery . . . a very subtle gesture on your part, when you turned that brig over entire to Captain Mlavic, by the way.”
Oh Christ, is that what it was? Lewrie wished he could grouse.
“. . . does not care to move south, nor care for any alterations in our methods of operating, then so be it,” Charlton blathered on. “We let him go his own way, only modestly reinforced or strengthened, make with it what he will. And free those prisoners now held ’pon Palagruza . . . take ’em to Trieste, and caution the Austrian authorities to hold them incommunicado as long as possible. Thank God the people off that brig were all French, and not from one of the so-called neutrals, whom they must free at once. There’s a chance it will all fall apart, soon as I put it to him.”
“I see, sir,” Lewrie said with a nod, trying to sound properly perkish and obedient.
“You are correct in one respect, Commander Lewrie,” the senior officer told him with a brief, complimentary grin, “as regards Serbian impatience. Piratical impatience, rather. They’re not a disciplined or trained flotilla . . . merely a pack of freebooters. And I suspect, sir,” Charlton said, tapping the side of his nose sagaciously, “no matter how fevered or high-flown Captain Petracic’s pompous boasting, our Serbian ‘brethren of the coast’ are not the all-conquering heroes. It may turn out that ’twill not be impatience which scotches the arrangement, but their fear of leaving well-known waters. And putting themselves in the lion’s mouth, ’mongst hostile Muslims, where they don’t know the territory. Or know of a convenient bolt-hole, should things go awry.”
“As Captain Nelson says, sir . . . ‘bold talkers do the least, we see’?” Lewrie chirped, feeling some hopeful twinges.
“It’s all fine and good to boast and rage of vengeance for the ‘Field of Black Birds’ . . . aye, I see by your face, we’ve heard the same rant, chapter and verse, aha,” Charlton mused. “But quite another to actually sail off and do something about it on unfamiliar grounds. My God, sir! Build a church and pass the bread and wine, the night before a major battle? I can see that they might have needed spiritual armouring. Then get seventy-seven thousand men slaughtered? Doubt they had that many, first off. Generals always multiply their successes. Or invent excuses for their failures. Might not have been over forty thousand, and outnumbered by the Turks two or three to one, to begin with. Like Roman legions were swarmed and massacred by the Huns, Goths, Vandals or Franks. Knowing how badly the Turks outnumbered them, they surely had need of Divine Services, hmm? In the 1300s . . . still large cavalry armies, with knights and horses in plate-armour. The Turks on swift Arabs, the Serbs on Clydesdale-sized monsters. Like so many battles of the later Crusades, they hadn’t much of a chance to start with. To lose an entire army, empire and sense of identity in one fell swoop, well! . . . I suspect the tales grew with the years, like the numbers.”
“And they had to have an excuse to soothe the soul, sir?” Alan ventured, wondering all over again just where Charlton stood on their arrangement with the Serbs; was he wholehearted, or grasping at whichever straw might seem to hold him atop deep water?
“Something very much like that, sir,” Charlton purred. “This Petracic fellow. Remarkable. Bone-headed wrong or not, one must concede he’s a shrewd leader of men. They seem to adore him.”
“As long as he produces the loot and a successful raid or two, sir?” Lewrie suggested, not wishing to grant the brute a bit of good credit.
“Goes beyond that, Lewrie,” Charlton sighed. “Eastern religion is mystical. So emotional, they make our Methodist ‘leapers’ look like Cromwell’s Puritans. Something from the heart and soul, the very gizzard . . . from the toes up . . . and not so much the head, like us. Captain Petracic is more a holy warrior to his men, or so Leutnant Kolodzcy explains. Once he nosed about. Catholic Croats encroaching on Old Serbia, trying to turn emotional Serbs into logic-paring Jesuits, or baptising at the point of a sword. Muslims, well . . . Petracic was a priest, d’ye see. A minister of the Serbian Orthodox Church. Still is, I s’pose. He’s the spiritual leader of his band, as well as being their fiercest warrior. Captain Mlavic, the other so-called officers, his under-captain aboard his galliot, would follow him anywhere.”
“His . . . under-captain, sir?”
“Oh, some fellow named Djindjic . . . or howsoever one translates that into sounds.” Charlton chuckled, attempting to spell it. “He’s the real captain of the galliot. Petracic was a partisan fighter from the mountains first, and a priest or whatever at some shrine built by Stefan I . . . Milutin, perhaps. Memory’s rather hazy. Too much to take in at one go.”
“That or their plum brandy, I’d expect, sir.” Lewrie grinned.
“Gad, yes, ain’t it?” Charlton replied with a breathless look. “Church of . . . hmm. Ah! Church of the Virgin of Grachanitsa. As much a holy temple to the old Serbian emperors as it was to God, I gathered from a chat with Kolodzcy. He’s shrewd and knacky, for not having any experience at sea. Well, not much, at any rate. It may be Petracic is shrewd enough to know when he’s bitten off more than he may chew. And will renege on our bargain, with some profit gained with no effort. I equally expect him to get that radiant look on his phyz and rally the troops for a sail south. For a chance to bash some Albanian Muslims.”
“But that’s the holy war we were wary of starting, sir.”
“Start, end . . . continue,” Charlton dismissed. “It doesn’t signify, Lewrie. We’ll know more once I’ve gone down to Palagruza and ’fronted him direct. And released Pylades to cover one of the ports you discovered, while I take another. With or without Petracic.”
“You said he’s a priest, sir,” Lewrie countered. “A bit of a mystic. Might that go as far as hearin’ voices, sir? Daft as bats . . . and seein’ snakes and centipedes? Might he—”
“I’d imagine the plum-brandy’s the culprit, anent the snakes and centipedes, Lewrie.” Charlton laughed out loud once more. “Damme, sir! You’ve done my spirits no end of good. Admiral Jervis hinted you were a bit of a wag, too, sir. And, again, didn’t speak the half of it. I find you one of the most energetic and aggressive Sea Officers ever I’ve met, Lewrie. As I will note in my appreciation of your recent voyage, once I’ve read your whole report. Which, should I ever speak a British ship, I will despatch to Adm
iral Jervis, instanter.”
“You might discover one at Corfu, sir,” Lewrie told him. “The currants are ripe, and there are several of our merchantmen lading now.”
“Currant duff!” Charlton beamed, almost childlike in a sudden rapture. “Aye, that’s where they come from, ain’t it? Corfu, and the Isles of the Levant. A fresh currant duff, not stuffed with fruit six months in-stores. I’ve a relish for one of those, Lewrie. A most rapacious relish, of a sudden. As I’m certain my ship’s people have, too.”
He stood, his wineglass, and Lewrie’s, now empty. Their little chat was ended. Like a good boy, Lewrie rose as well, knowing he still hadn’t changed Charlton’s mind about using Petracic and his pirates any further. And getting a fey feeling that, with all that he’d heard from Captain Charlton about the man, things could only get worse—very much worse!— before Charlton washed his hands of the matter.
“Well, do you not have need to put in at Trieste to intern prisoners, nor any captures for the Prize-Court,” Captain Charlton breezed on, as he came round the desk to escort Lewrie to the forrud entry on Lionheart’s gun-deck, “put in at Venice, there’s a good fellow. Pick up the latest information regarding the French Army’s doings. Take a bit of shore-leave for yourself, and your people. You’ve earned that twice over the last few days.”
“Aye, sir,” Lewrie agreed rather numbly.
“Should you speak Commander Fillebrowne, relate to him all you have discovered down south, and issue verbal orders from me that he is to bring Myrmidon down to Palagruza, to rendezvous with me. We’ve seen no sign that the French will yet dare send military supplies into the Adriatic to succour this General Bonaparte’s troops, last I spoke him myself.”
“Very good, sir,” Lewrie replied, essaying a cooperative grin and putting his best face on his disappointment.
“Uhm . . . might have a confabulation with our trade consul, once you’re ashore, Lewrie,” Charlton suggested, once they’d emerged upon the gun-deck, amid a flurry of Marine sentries and a stiffening side-party on the starboard gangway. “See does he have a clue as to which Venetian merchant-houses might be most involved in the illicit trade. Then he may be able to put a flea in some senator’s ear. They’re so weak, they may not care for their pose of strict neutrality violated. By anyone.”
“Prompting a silk-cord strangling in the Doge’s Prison, ’cross the Bridge of Sighs, sir?” Lewrie hinted.
“Be it spiritually justifiable to pray God, Lewrie.” Charlton laughed as he clapped on his hat at the foot of the gangway ladder. “I see you’ve been swotting up on the local geography, ha ha!”
“Aye, sir.” Lewrie shrugged.
“I’ve taken on more cast-off Austrian muskets and such. Do you have any suggestions as to future supplies for our allies, Lewrie?”
“Half a million rounds, sir,” Lewrie most sardonically said.
“Half a million made cartridges?” Charlton goggled.
“No, sir. Vowels,” Lewrie quipped. “The Serbs seem most in need of vowels than anything else.”
“Be off with you, you wag! You knacky scamp!” Charlton roared, clapping him on the back like he was an old school chum allowed such a closeness. “And dream up more ways to confuse our foes!”
“I’ll do that very thing, sir,” Lewrie agreed, just before he went up the ladder to the waiting side-party.
Though there’s foes, he thought, and then there’s foes!
CHAPTER 11
“Why ain’t I surprised?” Lewrie scoffed, once he’d heard from the hapless Lieutenant Stroud that Commander Fillebrowne was not to be found.
“He’s ashore, sir,” Stroud pouted, moonfaced and half abashed. “About the city.”
“Should I seek him in the art galleries, Mister Stroud?” Lewrie asked with a wry grin. “Or the knockin’-shops?”
“Ahum, well, sir,” Lieutenant Stroud said with a miserable expression, “he is that keen for a bargain, but . . . I do believe he said he might be dining with Sir Malcolm and Lady Shockley. A standin’ invitation? Or he might not, depending whether they were in and receiving today, sir.”
“What, they’re still here?” Lewrie scowled, even further irked. “Thought they were off for the Holy Land long since.”
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Lieutenant Stroud confessed in a meek voice.
“Does your captain come aboard whilst I’m ashore searching him out, then, Mister Stroud,” Lewrie snapped, “you’re to give him these verbal orders, direct from Captain Charlton. He is to up-anchor, sail to Palagruza and rendezvous with Lionheart, ‘with all despatch.’ The Frogs are up to something new, and we’ve just learned of it. Captain Charlton will further enlighten him once there, but the gist is that our ‘trade’ has settled in Balkan harbours, neutral ports, waiting for Venetian ships to fetch timber to them, and Captain Charlton wishes us to reassemble and concentrate against them. Has he any questions for me, he may come search me out before he sails. Got that, sir?”
“Aye aye, sir,” Stroud barked, glad to have a simple task.
“I’ll wood and water Jester, and sail a day after, tell him.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Stroud repeated briskly.
“I’ll be calling on Sir Malcolm myself. Or along the Rialto, round Saint Mark’s Square. Doing some shopping of mine own, tell him, should he wish me to elaborate on these orders before he departs, sir.”
“Very good, sir.” Lieutenant Stroud nodded, all but moving his lips as he committed all that last to memory.
“I’ll be on my way, then, Mister Stroud. Good day, sir.”
“See you to the entry-port, sir,” Stroud offered with relief.
Might’ve given Myrmidon leave t’stay longer, Lewrie fumed after his gig had landed him on the Molo before the Doge’s Palace across from the Dogana di Mare; after such arduous duties off Ravenna! he snorted in derision. Idle, foppish, cunny-thumbed “Whip-Jack” sham of a sailor! . . . Thin’z my lore is, I could circumnavigate the entire world, whilst he’s not fit t’pole a punt on his daddy’s duck-pond!
He just knew the Fillebrownes had a duck-pond. To set off whichever half-a-shire they used for their home-farm, so visitors could gawp on the long carriage ride in through “Fillebrowne Park”! Or to mirror the palace they lived in.
And I have t’waste half my own short shore-leave huntin’ up the bastard! Lewrie further griped.
He tried first at the Shockleys’ rented digs, a waterfront palace converted to suites of rooms near the Farsetti Loredan Palace, along the Grand Canal on the other side of Saint Mark’s, just by the Riva del Carbon. To hasten his progress—and spare his breath—he enjoyed the unwonted luxury of a sedan-chair.
No one was at home, though, he learned from the English servants; they had dined earlier but gone their separate ways. Sir Malcolm was off to look at some ironworks, Lady Lucy had gone shopping and they’d no idea where that amusing Commander Fillebrowne had gone.
“La, sir, the man’s a waggish wit, an’ all,” a chambermaid said, blushing prettily. “An’ such a fetchin’ gentleman!”
“Ah . . . really,” he’d drawled, quite skeptical.
“’Deed, sir! Most scandalous witty an’ charmin’!” was her opinion. She blushed again, and tittered into her raised work-apron.
“Ah . . . humphh!” was Lewrie’s comment to that. “Well, then. I will be off. Regards to the family . . . all that.”
He’d done what he could. He’d informed Stroud, and Fille-browne must go back aboard his ship sooner or later—by sundown at the latest. He climbed back into his hired sedan-chair and took himself off shopping.
There had finally been a partial adjudgement from the Prize-Court at Trieste. Before Jester and Lionheart had parted company, they’d sent it over to be doled out to officers and men. Still no sign of any award from their own at San Fiorenzo Bay, of course; frankly not a single word from them since they’d departed Corsica, at all! Lewrie’s two-eighths of the judgement represented nearly £1,200, £800 of that in rare coin, for
a wonder. Not anywhere near what he speculated he was due, but welcome, for the Austrians were proving to be as niggardly and obfuscating about prize-money as their own officials. Still, a tidy, reassuringly heavy sum to tote about for an orgy of Spending and Getting.
He discovered some fabulous fabrics for Caroline at a milliner-shop. Two bolts of ivory satin that, he was assured, would make her a fine gown, even in the older, fuller-skirted styles—whatever she had run up from it. To set it off, he bought lengths of elegant and most intricately detailed Burano lacework, scintillating with silvery silk thread, and heavy with wee sparkling Austrian crystals or awash in seed-pearls, as he’d seen on the gowns of those haughty Venetian ladies when he’d gone to the ridotto. There were two bolts of light particoloured cloth, hand-dyed in subtly shaded waves of umber, ochre, burgundy and peach, as iridescent as the marbled papers Venice was so famous for, as rich and regal as ancient Byzantine or Ottoman fineries.
In another shop, he found an amusing door-knocker for the house, a fanciful lion’s head the size of a dinner-plate, made of highly polished brass. For their dinner-table, too, a pair of brass candelabras, but so smooth and shiny they seemed to be silvered. They were happy, smiling dolphins that rose from a circle of waves, their bodies impossibly elongated like eels to twine about upright tridents that spread three tines to grasp nielloed silver candle-holders—four to each piece. And for himself, for his fireplace mantel, he couldn’t resist a pair of Trevisan seahorses in that high-gloss, silvery finish.
A toymaker’s was next, after hiring a two-wheeled cart to carry his loot—and the carter and his two small sons to guard his largesse. Toy boats, Carnival masques, string-puppets and Austrian clockworked harlequins, bears and Turkish warriors. For Charlotte, their youngest, he chose a porcelain-headed doll of a Venetian lady, accurate right down to the cunningly feathered hat and disguising capelet—the bauto.
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