“Ya know, Alan,” Clotworthy sighed, striving to sound somewhat less amused than he obviously was, “were we a devious pair of fellows, I do allow there’s a bit o’ profit in this. Do ye despise Fillebrowne half’z much’z ye say, then a word in yer Charlton’s ear’d put him in a pretty pickle, would it not? And to reveal all . . . to a certain party, mind, with a promise t’keep mum . . . for a gratuity, say . . .”
“You’re right, Clotworthy.” Lewrie grimly nodded. “There might be. Mine would be proper, though. He’s remiss in his duties. I’d be very disappointed in you, Clotworthy, were you to try to exploit this with a certain party. Either party. Stick to what you’re good at . . . bloom where you’re planted, hmm?”
“But Alan, m’dear, I merely pointed out . . . !” Chute cried, in a fair approximation of righteous indignation, but retracting his intent. “Damme, sir. It’s so meaty! And a juicy bit o’ news like this doesn’t come along just any day. There must be somethin’ in it for me!”
“Gossip t’gloat over, Chute,” Lewrie allowed, grinning slightly. “A zesty tale t’tell, in strict confidence at the wine-table. Does it get spread about, though, sooner or later it gets back to Sir Malcolm, and there’s a good man made a laughingstock. And heartbroken.”
“And her ruint, too, mind,” Clotworthy countered. “Given a welcome comeuppance. And well deserved.”
Comeuppance, Lewrie mused for a moment; what a glad-some idea!
“Clotworthy,” he said carefully, “did you know that Commander Fillebrowne is dead-keen on art collecting? His whole damned family is mad for it. Reckons himself a most discernin’ sort, though. Or so he boasts.”
“Is he, by God!” Clotworthy exclaimed, beginning to beam the beatific smile of a delighted child. “Hmm . . . why, just bless my soul!”
CHAPTER 12
“Hope you enjoyed Venice as much as I did,” Benjamin Rodgers sniffed, as they strolled along the shore of the tiny island that was alee of the main isle of Palagruza. “Came nigh t’killin’ myself.”
“Bit o’ this, a bit o’ that,” Lewrie answered, gazing off into the small undeveloped harbour where Jester and Pylades lay to anchor. “Shopping, mostly, for the family. Go on a high ramble, did you, sir?”
“Like th’ hands, ‘Out o’ Discipline,’” Rodgers confided. “An’ a wife in every port. Every time I turned my head, more-like. Three in two days,” he slyly boasted, giving Lewrie a companionable nudge in the ribs. “Spent damn deep, I tell you . . . prize-money and me essence. Flowin’ like th’ town drains, an’ thankee Jesus for a bachelor’s life . . . a sailor’s life. Doubt I drew a sober breath, from th’ waterfront on, but not so ‘barreled’ I shan’t have lovely mem’ries for me dotage.”
“I stand in awe, sir!” Lewrie chuckled, batting a pine cone along with a driftwood stick. “Did Myrmidon come in?”
“Aye, yesterday. And just as quickly gone. Lionheart was at sea, just ’bout yonder, loafin’ off-and-on,” Captain Rodgers related, “and sicced her south, ’thout a chance t’anchor. They’re t’cover Volona an’ Durazzo, I believe was the idea. I’m for Corfu and the straits for a bit, then escort my prize back to Trieste. Mine an’ whoever else’s.”
“See you took a singleton. Congratulations on good hunting.”
“Not half so good as our last sweep, Alan,” Rodgers shrugged with a rueful squint. “Those japes o’ yours put th’ fear o’ God in ’em. Don’t know as how there’s a single continent French bowel in an hundred miles, lately. Timber cargo, outward bound. Like coal to Newcastle . . . not worth much at the Prize-Court. Sell off ship an’ cargo . . . might be we take her again in a month’r two. Or th’ damn’ timber gets bought by a Venetian, an’ run right back t’where I took it in th’ first place!” Ben rasped, sullen and gloomy. “Tradesmen . . . only loyalty’z gold!”
“Did Captain Charlton leave any orders for Jester, sir?”
“Aye, he did,” Rodgers nodded, trying to skip a smooth stone on the limp lee-coast waves beyond the beach. “Verbal orders. Hasn’t put pen to paper in a fortnight. Damme, I used t’be good at that! You are to sail down to him, off Durazzo or Volona, an’ report what our consul told you, an’ what news ya heard latest at Venice. He said he dasn’t wait for ya, with th’ Balkan coast temporarily uncovered, and it’d be time th’ Frogs would be gettin’ over th’ fright you gave ’em. Then I expect you’ll be given a port t’watch. Inshore work.”
“My sole joy in life, sir,” Alan snickered without much mirth.
“So, t’quote the Bard . . . what is new on th’ Rialto?” Rodgers asked, trying his hand with another flat stone, sidearming it.
“There’s not much joy from our consul, sir. O’ course. Says he expects to be hooted out of the hall, should he lay a complaint.” Alan grimaced. “Won’t even think of it ’til he’s nosed about some more . . . and I ’spect that’ll take ’til next Epiphany.”
“Merchant, himself,” Rodgers spat. “Might be up t’his neck in th’ trade, too.”
“Uhm . . . sir.” Lewrie frowned over Rodgers’s wintry cynicism. “I heard bad news ’bout the French. That new Austrian general, Wurmser, in the Alpine passes? Came down three of ’em, along the Adige River. His left-wing column as far east as Bassano and Verona. Nobody knows quite why, that’un. Right-wing marched on Brescia, round Lake Iseo, and his centre round below Lake Garda. Forty-five, perhaps fifty thousand men? The Frogs a lot less.”
“Don’t tell me,” Rodgers growled, heaving another failure.
“Well, they had a bit of success early on. Scared the be-jesus out of the Frogs, at first, ’til they concentrated on the Chiesa River. Then it all went t’Hell, sir,” Lewrie said, sketching a rough map with his stick on the dirt-grey sand.
“Aye, seems t’do that a lot lately, don’t it,” Rodgers mused.
“Never got his eastern troops into it, sir,” Lewrie pressed on, ignoring Rodgers’s sarcasm. “French counterattacked near Brescia and Lake Iseo, Wurmser hared over to help out, and Bonaparte not only routed his tail-end, but smashed in his main force in the centre, round Castiglione, and ran him back up the passes. Five days of fighting, all told. Never got anywhere near Mantua to lift the siege. Might have something more, from his left-wing, at Bassano, in mind, but . . .” He shrugged, scraping northern Italy into a boot-crushed smear. “Bloody Austrians.”
“Least ya run with successful people, Alan. Even if yer ol’ chum Bonaparte is a Frog. So what’re th’ Venetians doin’?”
“Absolutely nothing, sir. Business as usual. They’re neutral, so nice and sweet and harmless, no one’d ever come after them. Some brief hand-wavin’, then the cards were flutterin’ again. Our consul said he hasn’t seen one sign they’re worried. Nothing stirring at the Arsenal, no troops called up, no standing-army drills, yet.”
“Bloody Venetians,” Rodgers snorted. “Way this Bonaparte goes at people, they wouldn’t have any more warnin’ than we would the Second Comin’. ‘Thief in th’ night,’ and he’s renamin’ yer streets, lootin’ yer treasury an’ tuppin’ yer daughters ’fore ya can say ‘knife’!” He turned and peered at Lewrie owl-eyed. “That all th’ bad news?”
“Well, there’s Tuscany,” Lewrie replied. “French troops’re now all over Leghorn and Porto Especia, where we used to wallow. A small squadron o’ warships, and a fair number of transports. Emigré Corsicans among ’em. Haven’t sailed yet, but everyone reckons it’s going to be soon. That report came overland, so it’s two weeks old, and who knows what’s happened since. Doubt they’ve Elba in mind, either.”
“Shorter sail, from Leghorn,” Rodgers speculated, hands on his hips. “But with th’ navy they’ve built up at Toulon by now, it’ll be Corsica, most-like. Bastia, first? An’ there goes San Fiorenzo Bay.”
“There’s a rumour the Spanish fleet is refitting, too, sir,” Lewrie continued. “Shifting from Atlantic harbours to—”
“Enough!” Rodgers complained, throwing up his hands. He knelt and chose another stone. This one he flung
savagely, and finally attained three grazes before it sank. “By Christ, ’tis such a dismal situation, it’d give a saint colic. An’ here we are, coddlin’ cutthroats . . . too scared t’put orders in writin’. Not doin’ a damn’ bit o’ good, really. Frogs have as much compass-timber an’ oak by now, they could build for th’ next two years ’fore they ran short! An’ more comin’, no matter what we do t’stop ’em. Too few, too late . . . allied with . . . shit!”
“Well, hardly, sir. We . . .” Lewrie tried to point out, but Rodgers’s gloom was catching. “By the way, where are our jolly buccaneers, sir? There’s only two of their smallest boats in the anchorage. Don’t tell me they chucked it—pray Jesus!— and hied for home!”
“Lord, no, Alan, not a bit of it. They’re like th’ poor . . . ‘they will be always with us,’ don’t ye know,” Rodgers scoffed, turning to face him. “They went off North, t’scour th’ Croatian isles. Petracic left these few poor cripples t’guard th’ prisoners . . . tidy up th’ lot. Winnowed ’em like David did Saul’s army . . . lame o’ limb, th’ faint of heart? Them that knelt t’drink, ’stead o’ lappin’ from their hands? Least I think it was David . . . could’ve been Joshua, d’ye think?”
“You’re the one so good at quotin’ Scripture, Ben,” Alan told him with a snicker. “And hellish-surprisin’ that was. Thought you’d know.”
“Oh, I do . . . but I forgot.” Rodgers grinned. “It’ll come back t’me, ’bout midnight’r so. Oh.” He frowned of a sudden, turning bleak once more. “More o’ Captain Charlton’s verbal orders for ya. To take our Austrian hop-o’-my-thumb aboard Jester as you go. Neither he nor Fillebrowne’ll be workin’ anywhere close to Petracic, so you’ll be most in need o’ translations.”
“Oh, damme,” Lewrie groaned.
“Thought ya were quicker’n that, Lewrie,” Rodgers teased, taking some small measure of delight to see him confounded. Or, as Lewrie felt, to see him buggered. “What port’s left, ’cept Cattaro, farthest north? Our biblical patriarch, Saint Ratko the Red-Handed, didn’t much care to swan about too far away . . . didn’t much care for this new arrangement.”
“Bugger what he likes,” Lewrie groused.
“Too near Dulcigno, an’ all those Muslim corsairs, who do own a fleet o’ fast ships,” Rodgers went on. “Riskier’n he bargained for, hey? Anyway, yer to keep a chary eye on him, keep him out o’ mischief. Yer Jester’s shallow-draught, so yer better-suited than either frigate. And Captain Charlton said yer best-suited t’deal with th’ . . . unforseen misfortunes which might arise. A lot better’n Fillebrowne.”
“Might come up? Christ, might?” Alan roared. “Count on ’em!”
“Said he thought Fillebrowne’s not o’ th’ temperament, not like you,” Rodgers all but cackled over this turn of Fortune. “Not quite as ‘usefully unorthodox’r flexible’ as you are, I believe he said.”
“Mine arse on a band-box!” Alan spat. “I’ve buggered meself. Again!”
“Aye, just too clever by half,” Rodgers sighed, a tad whimsical.
“You don’t have to gloat like you enjoy it, Ben,” Alan accused.
“Don’t, really,” Rodgers answered, turning sombre. “Somebody has t’do it, though, and if not Fillebrowne, then that only leaves you, whether you were sly as a fox or no. You’re junior enough. And we can’t have post-captains seen triflin’ with pirates an’ murderers, now, can we? Least, not too close, anyway. You’re not to operate with ’em . . . that’s a direct verbal order. But ya are supposed to make sure it’s hostile ships they take, ’fore they rape half of Albania or Montenegro, and pillage th’ other half. Keep ’em at their proper duties, ’stead o’ enterprisin’ off on their own. I’m sorry, Alan. I really am! Maybe had ya played th’ back-bench dullard, it might not’ve been. But there it is. And ya get right down to it . . . better you than me.”
“Ah, but you are a post-captain, sir,” Alan drolly pointed out.
“Why, so I am!” Rodgers grinned, turning his head to admire the gold-bullion epaulet on his right shoulder. “Fancy that! Ain’t a deep-draught 5th Rate, an’ seniority, just dev’lishfine?”
“I’ll let you know when I get ’em, sir.” Lewrie sighed. “Well, might as well be at it. Where’s Kolodzcy . . . ’board Pylades, still?”
“Buggerin’ th’ ship’s-boys, ’far as I know. No, not really! I wish t’God ya could see th’ look on yer phyz!” Rodgers hooted. “He’s not a sodomite. Don’t think! Just what he is, I haven’t a clue, an’ I expect I’d rather not care t’find out, either. Do ya keep him swozzled in drink, there’s little harm in him.”
“He knows about this? Or is that why we’re having this little tête-à-tête on the beach, Ben?”
“Take joy!” Rodgers advised, with a cryptic smile. “Tell me later . . . how he took it. He was ’spectin’ t’sail home with me, out o’ this hare-brain shit. Runnin’ out o’ cologne an’ unpressed beddin’ by now. Oh, th’ deprivation! What a cruel life!”
“He’ll demand to see somethin’ in writin’, I’d suspect,” Lewrie frowned.
“He won’t get it. Just like th’ rest of us,” Rodgers pointed out.
“Here, you have a ‘mad’ on, or . . . I’ve not seen you in such low takings before, Ben,” Lewrie commented. “Anything I can do?”
“Sink Petracic an’ all his foul brood, that’d suit,” Rodgers sighed, gazing far out to sea again. “Get us out o’ this shitten business an’ back to Corsica ’fore everything falls apart. Back t’th’ Fleet, where we belong. I’d give ya my full rant, but that’d keep ya ’til sundown. An’ I don’t wish t’impose on yer friendship quite that bad. Start at today’s sunrise, an’ I’d still be spewin’ at ya, dawn o’ the next.”
“Kick the steward, curse the cat?”
“God, I wish!” Rodgers glowered in heat. “When this squadron’s duty was straightforward . . . honest an’ aboveboard, well . . .”
“Let’s dine, then,” Lewrie suggested. “I doubt a day’s delay in getting my arse south’d make that much difference. Nor do I care t’get pirate-turds on my boots that quick. Rant all you like.”
“Well . . .” Rodgers wavered.
“Christ, Ben,” Lewrie posed, “isn’t that what friends are for? Or did I hear you wrong the last time?” he added, offering his hand.
“Ah . . . best not, after all,” Rodgers sighed. “Th’ offers’z good as th’ deed. I’ll just have me a roarin’ good howl at Sunday Divisions.”
“Well, then,” Lewrie said reluctantly. He really would’ve liked to put off his future rencontre with Petracic and Mlavic, given Ben Rodgers an ear to pour his pent-up bile in, and vent some of his own spleen, too.
“Fair winds an’ good huntin’,” Rodgers said, shaking his hand. “Mind what I said ’bout our little Austrian powderpuff.”
“Half-swozzled . . . breeches buttoned . . .”
“An’ keep yer own fundament turned to an outboard bulkhead at all times. An’ never bend over when he’s around.” Rodgers chuckled.
“I’ll give him your undying love, sir.”
“And it’ll be th’ last thing you ever do!”
BOOK V
“Omne,” ait, “imperium natorumque
arma meorem cuncta dedi; quascumque
libet nunc concute mentis!”
“All my power and all the armory of my sons have I
given thee,” she says; “now make havoc
of what hearts thou wilt!”
Argonautica, Book VI, 475–476
Gaius Valerius Flaccus
CHAPTER 1
“Ships he sees are liddle, herr Lewrie,” Leutnant Kolodzcy supplied. “Unt hold liddle ohf value. Dhey are full ohf vood only, so he say he burns dhem after lootink. ‘Vhere are die big ships,’ he is askink.”
“Tell him . . .” Lewrie began, giving it a ponder as they stood upon the deck of Ratko Petracic’s new “flagship,” a sleek two-masted schooner-rigged vessel of about ninety feet in length. Ben Rodgers had done him proud by her t
aking—a Danish trading ship built for speed in the Caribbean. His galliot was nearby, along with a pair of his smaller felucca two-masters. “Tell him that word of his arrival on this coast frightened the big ships to stay in port. And we were here earlier, giving them another fright. Tell him about our small-boat work, the sheep and all. It will take the French time to work up courage again.”
“Ja, I tell him,” Kolodzcy agreed.
And thank God for small favours, Alan thought as he waited while that was translated; that bastard Mlavic ain’t about, and there’s no one else in his band that knows English.
Lewrie looked over the larboard side to his Jester, about a cable off. He hadn’t liked the idea of coming over to talk to Ratko Petracic on his own decks, but the fellow had been insistent. Perhaps Mlavic had told him he’d not been properly welcomed aboard the first time, and had refused to be insulted again. For whatever reason, Lewrie’s greetings at the entry-port of the schooner had been bereft of honours, too. He felt naked and alone, even with Knolles and all those hefty guns available to aid him.
Rodgers had told him about taking the schooner, how they’d lured her in, what cargo she’d carried and how delighted Petracic had been to get her, for she’d been one of those rare-and-getting-rarer inward-bound vessels, full of dain-ties and trade-goods, in addition to her armaments. At least her large batwinged gaff-headed sails were somewhat akin to a pair of lateens, making the transition to her easier on his seamen. Or her master, Lewrie thought, espying the man he took to be Djindjic, under-captain or sailing master to the landsman Petracic, aft by the wheel. A total stranger now paced the tiny quarterdeck aboard the original galliot, which lay close by, alee as they sailed in a group well offshore of Korcula Island.
“He says, sir, dhat you are a crafty man,” Leutnant Kolodzcy piped up, sounding a bit amused himself. “Dhat id vas a shrewd think, vhich makes grade terror . . . as he hess done to die Durks unt Muslims. Dhat you are a man afder his own heart.”
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