A Jester’s Fortune l-8

by Dewey Lambdin

  "Aye aye, sir! Mister Cony? Pipe 'All Hands on Deck'!"

  As the bosuns' calls, the "Spithead Nightingales," sang their urgent song, Lewrie turned to gaze out to sea a little more Easterly of Jesters thrashing bows, riding spring-kneed to her motion, feeling the power in her, the thrum and dance of her-vibrant, alive and onrushing. And closing the distance with each loping, hobbyhorsing bound over the brine.

  "Hungry 'is mornin', she is, sir," Mr. Buchanon said from his side, a little inboard in deference to a captain's sole right to the windward side of the quarterdeck. "He be, too, sir. Yer permission, sir?" At Lewrie's nod, Buchanon stepped up to the bulwarks, put his own hands on the cap-rail, and stared down into the rushing, creaming wake close-aboard-a wake that was already becoming a sibilant, impatient hissing roar, tumbling in snowfall whiteness. His lips moved, and he smiled.

  Lewrie cocked a wary eye at Buchanon; the Sailing Master was becoming even more superstitious lately. He put it down to Jester being ordered into an alien sea, one Buchanon had never sailed, never studied.

  Surgeon Mr. Howse, saturnine and laconic as ever, came on deck by the larboard ladder from the waist, his terrierlike Surgeon's Assistant, Mr. LeGoff, in tow, again as ever.

  "Some bustle this morning, sir?" Howse enquired gloomily, as if fearing a justification for his presence aboard. "Should we lay out the surgery? In expectation of battle, Captain?"

  How could a reasonable question rankle him so? Lewrie wondered. Howse always had a way of shading or inflecting even "please pass the port" to sound like a retort, a challenge-a sneer!

  "There'll be no need, 'til we beat to Quarters, Mister Howse," Lewrie told him. "We haven't identified our three strange sail yet."

  "Sharp scalpels, sir," Buchanon interjected, frowning, pursing his lips in sadness. "As a caution. 'Ey's blood-hunger on th' wind."

  "Smell it, did you, Mister Buchanon?" Howse puzzled, cocking his head and all but nudging LeGoff in the ribs to clue him to a jape. "Or did your sea-god Lir speak to you directly?"

  "Hands at stations, sir… ready to come about," Lieutenant Knolles reported.

  "Very well, Mister Knolles. Helm alee, at your discretion."

  "Aye aye, sir. Quartermasters…?"

  "A man'd go through Life so cocksure, sir…" Mr. Buchanon was sputtering in frustration, not so educated as to be able to spar with Howse s droll disdain of what was, to him, a matter of fact and deadly-dangerous bit of sea-lore, "wi' eyes t' see, an' ears t' hear, but-"

  "I put my faith in Science, sir," Howse declared. "And, do I put stock in a god, He'd be the Great Jehovah… not some creaky old peasants' legend."

  "Enough, sir," Lewrie snapped. "This quarterdeck is not… my quarterdeck is not the proper place for philosophical disagreement. The both of you," he was forced to add. "Attention to duty, sirs."

  "But sir," Howse deigned to protest, though with much humour, "to render equal by comparison, in the guise of philosophy, a myth of pagan arising and-"

  "Hard of hearing, Mr. Howse?" Lewrie boomed, feeling happy to have a valid reason to vent his spleen on the obstreperous, trimming bastard, who was never happy but when made unhappy, martyred once more by a witless world, an unappreciative Navy. "Damn my eyes, Mr. Howse, get yourself below, if you can't take a hint and shut up!"

  "Very good, sir," Howse purred, bowing his way backwards, his hand on his heart, his dark eyes burning with righteous indignation. Lewrie was afraid he'd made the bloody man's day for him, given him a noble new scar, at which he would most happily pick for weeks!

  "Bloody-minded man, sir," Buchanon sighed. "Thankee."

  "Didn't do it for you, Mr. Buchanon," Lewrie told him.

  "He's with us still, Cap'um, sir. Have no fear on 'at score. But, like I said, sir… he be hungry," Buchanon stated slowly. "A fight we'll have, 'is mornin'… do 'ey have th' stomach f r it."

  "Thankee for telling me, Mr. Buchanon," Lewrie replied in slow gravity, not quite knowing what to think. Though he'd heard and seen stranger, this commission, aboard this ship.

  This Fate-chosen ship, Lewrie added to himself, to hear Buchanon tell it! What sign'z he seen, what portent did he…?

  It could have been the quartermasters on the helm, Spenser, and his fellow, the Hamburg-German, Mr. Brauer, easing Jester a half-point free, off the wind a touch, to gather speed to carry her through that difficult thoroughbred-leap of tacking 'cross the power of the winds.

  It could have been a rising of the winds, too, that caused such an eerie keening in the rigging as she increased her pace, as Knolles waited for the perfect moment, the perfect combination of a wave from the quarter-sea under her bows, along with a tiny backing of the wind, to put her about. The deck thrust upward as she set her stiff shoulder to the sea, heeled a bit more and clove it with a dragonlike roar as she neared what felt like eleven knots.

  "Helm alee!" Knolles bellowed at last, and her bows swung up toward the eye of the wind, and Lewrie knew it would be a clean'un. He eyed his hands on the deck below; well drilled-overdrilled-by now, as they leaned to take a strain on weather braces and sheets to cup that power until the very last moment, while others tailed on flaccid lee-side rigging to catch her, meet her, once she'd thundered through stays.

  Fully roused, her upthrust jib-boom and bowsprit speared the horizon as Jester swept round, rising to another lifting wave, canted to the winds new direction as she tacked, barely losing a yard leeward or a single beat of her swift pace.

  If there's to be a feast, he thought, half accepting the superstition as a talisman, she's ready for it! A good sign, that tack. A good sign, indeed… for starters.

  CHAPTER 2

  "Deck, there!" The foremast lookout shouted. "Two Chases… go close-hauled! Larb'd tack!"

  They'd seen Myrmidon and Jester first, back when they'd still been "Strange Sail," and had continued running South, perhaps bearing a bit more to windward as Jester had loomed up over the horizon. The sight, though, of two frigates looming up had settled the matter. A hoist of flags, answered by the strange ships, had shown them to be French. Now they were officially enemy vessels, "Enemies Then Flying," or Chases. Two of them, at least. The third, which looked to Lewrie like a large frigate, had maintained her Sutherly course, interposing herself between the squadron and the pair on the wing.

  "Might even be one of their big forty-fours," Lewrie commented after scrambling down the ratlines from the windward mizzen mast. He'd gone at least as high as the cat-harpings for a better view, without playing spider on the futtock-shrouds to gain the mizzen top platform.

  "And that makes whoever she's escorting damn valuable, sir!" Mr. Knolles chortled with glee. "They wouldn't waste one of their best for nothing." Valuable, as in costly for the French to lose in battle. But also valuable as in worth a pretty penny at the Prize-Court, enriching the meagre purse of a lieutenant with large dreams for the future.

  "Deck, there! Myrmidon! Tackin', sir!"

  Hull-down by now, only five or six miles off, Lewrie could see her from the deck as she altered from a quarter-view to broadside-on.

  "Now let's see what Monsieur Frog will do, Mister Knolles. A tack to

  deal with Fillebrowne? Or stand on, to deal with us? Mister Hyde? Mister Spendlove?" Lewrie speculated, prompting his midshipmen to do some tactical thinking.

  "I'd tack, sir," Spendlove declared quickly. "Force him to go about, to show us his stern and deal with Myrmidon."

  "Before our frigates come up, sir, aye," Hyde stuck on, put out that he hadn't been the first to speak…

  "Before those prizes get too far up to windward, sirs?" Lewrie japed, looking astern. Pylades was leading the two-ship column, closing to within nine miles. Beating to weather always took such a long time that a ship too far upwind was usually as safe as houses, with a hopelessly long lead against any pursuit. It was a mere five miles, perhaps, to those escorted vessels beyond, which had just gone hard on the wind; and it might take Jester the rest of the daylight to catch them up. The French frigate
was boxed, and if she didn't shift herself and run in the wake of her two charges, soon she'd have Jester off her starboard bows, with Myrmidon off her larboard quarter.

  Might have twenty-eight 18-Pounders on her gun-deck, Lewrie told himself; another ten 8-Pounders on the quarterdeck, and chase-guns at bow and stern-might even have some carronades to match ours. But she can't run the risk of fighting us too long. Her rigging gets cut up, and the frigates'll finish her, sure as Fate!

  Much as he disliked the notion of facing I8-Pounder broadsides with Jester's frailer flanks, it might come to it. Mr. Buchanon might get his "bloody" morning, after all. And Mr. Howse, one more reason to despair at the futility of war. As if death and dying were Lewrie s willful doing!

  "Deck, there! Frigate's tackin'!"

  "Stations for Stays, Mr. Knolles, quick as you can!" Alan snapped. "So we don't lose a single yard on her!"

  Once more, Jester came about, heading a touch east of Nor'East. Pointed almost daggerlike at Myrmidon, which was on the opposing tack and crossing her bows. Lewrie went aloft once more with his telescope.

  Shammin' it, are you? he asked the distant French captain. Do a sloppy tack, just then, to reel us into gun-range? Make us cocky?

  The big frigate hadn't been well handled, had luffed about as she'd come up to Stays, and had slowed to a crawl. They'd gained a full half mile on her before she was back up to speed bound Nor'east.

  Myrmidon would still pass astern of her, though, slant-wise; and Pylades and Lionheart were still too far alee to matter much for the time being. Close enough to worry her, though?

  "Mister Knolles!" he shouted down. "Hoist the main and mizzen t'~ gallant stays'ls! Get every stitch of canvas on her shell bear!"

  And the winds… still out of the Sou'east, a backing Levanter. A sign of a weather-change, perhaps, he thought, lowering the telescope for a moment. He turned to look a'weather, over the arm threaded into the mizzen shrouds to maintain his perch. It was a clear horizon with no high-piled clouds to become thunderheads, no haze of a squall line. But there were cat's-paws and seahorses out there, faint wispy white irregularities that presaged a stronger breeze, winking at him from a slowly rolling sea.

  "More wind coming, Mister Knolles!" he called down, then swung about to descend, to end up jumping from the bulwarks to the deck, and go to the wheel to peer into the compass binnacle. "Might back on us, half a point, pray Jesus. We might be able to carry those t'gallant stays'ls. And half-reefed royals, too!"

  "Aye, pray God, sir," Knolles echoed.

  Half an hour more, and Myrmidon had crossed the French frigate's stern, still two tantalising miles shy, even as Jester had gained one. The frigate was slowly slipping to larboard of Jester's bows, becoming hidden from the quarterdeck by the heads'ls and forecourse. Jester was weathering her, pointing a precious half or quarter point closer to the wind, even with all that sail aloft.

  "She's heeled too much, sir," Buchanon noted. " 'Ey all three are, you'll note. Sailin' too much on th' shoulder, not th' keel. A long chase, but 'less she does somethin'…"

  "Deck, there! Myrmidon's firm'!"

  The pristine outline of the other ship-rigged sloop was smudged by a ragged haze of powder smoke, which ragged astern in a spreading, thinning pall, ragged alee and almost hid her from sight before they heard the faint, dull foomph of firing over the keen and roar of the wind and sea. It was a hopeless, impatient gesture at two miles or more distance. Even with the quoins full out from beneath the gun-barrels, they could never elevate high enough, not even with all the heel of Myrmidon going close-hauled.

  Then, as Myrmidon sailed clear of her gun-smoke, she turned to show Jester her stern, turning up onto the wind to tack. And all that smoke, which was now reaching them, was flying 'cross Jester's bows at a faster rate.

  "Here's that wind, Mister Knolles," Lewrie warned. "Backing!"

  "Helm alee, meet it, Quartermaster!" Knolles cried. "Nothing to loo'rd, and mind your luff!"

  Just as the shrill wind in the rigging could begin to rise in pitch, Jester wheeled slightly to meet it, to conform to it without a falter… and rise on a wave of that quartering sea under her cut-water to aim herself a bit to starboard of the French ship.

  'At wind-shift didn't reach her first?" Buchanon puzzled to the quarterdeck staff. "Ah, 'ere she comes!"

  The frigate heeled, as the change in direction and strength got to her at last. Really heeled, as if she'd been overcanvased, with a bit of her starboard side showing, trying to round up into it, nigh a broach! Myrmidon had completed her tack successfully, and now lay off her starboard quarter, with Jester just about dead astern. Close, too, Lewrie noted with a grin; well, closer. Her falter had cost her a quarter mile of her lead.

  And those two beyond she was protecting-they were heavily laden or poorly managed. Merchantmen, without a doubt, both of whom were rapidly being overtaken by their own escort and her pursuers. After a long glance, Lewrie didn't reckon that they were more than two miles to windward of the frigate-and she was now within two miles' range of Myrmidon, with Jester a mere two miles astern of that.

  "We'll allow Commander Fillebrowne the windward side, Mister Knolles," Lewrie said. "Stand on as we are. Long as this breeze holds, that is."

  Another half hour passed, every ship thrashing and panting for the far horizon, but with the British warships closing the range, and the French frigate getting close enough to run down her charges. On her present course, she'd pass between them, risking being "winded" by the massive spread of sail on the right-hand of the pair, slowing her even more. Every now and then, the impatient Commander Fillebrowne lit off his larboard bow-chaser, whenever Myrmidon's bows were on the rise. The shot still fell far short in the frigates wake; a poor old 4-Pounder, Lewrie supposed, one that wouldn't even smudge her paint, should it score a hit.

  Still too far apart to beat to Quarters, Lewrie had the rations fetched up, with one man from every six-man mess dashing below to the berthing deck to bring up what had been abandoned. Today, like every Friday, it was a "Banyan Day," so the hands weren't missing much. A portion of cheese, some ship's biscuit, what remained of their mushy peas and their beer. More hop-flavoured water, that, than a genuine beer, a mere gnat's piss; but it kept longer in-cask than unhopped water did, and was never reduced in amount, like real water was. A sailor, ship's boy or bosun got a gallon a day of it.

  "Yer Shrewsbury, sir," Aspinall offered, fetching his plate to the taffrail flag-lockers, where Lewrie could dine in a semblance of privacy.

  " Sandwich," Lewrie countered.

  "Not th' way I heard tell it, sir," Aspinall countered, getting his little laugh again; his former master in London had told him that it had been Lord Shrewsbury who'd first ordered cold meat on a split half-loaf, creating the first "sandwich" at the gaming-tables, too avid on a winning streak to break it, and not Lord Sandwich

  "Cold pork, sir, sorry. Mustard, a slice o' mozzarella, with sweet gherkin… Shrewsbury, sir," Aspinall tittered, after turning "mozzarella" into a short aria.

  "Oh, do bugger off, Aspinall," Lewrie growled in good fettle.

  "Very good, sir!" His manservant crisply replied, as if he'd never left a great-house's employ. "Uhm, sir…? Do we catch these ships, d'ya think there'd be a payout soon, sir?"

  "Knowing the lethargy of our Prize-Courts, Aspinall, I'd not hold my breath waiting." Lewrie sighed between wolfish bites and blissful chewing. "Why? You're not 'skint,' are you? In debt?"

  "Nossir, nothin' like that. Just like t'have somethin' t'hand, like… t'send home now an' again," Aspinall was quick to assure him. "Never told my ma I was signin' 'board a warship, 'til it was done."

  "She poorly?" Lewrie enquired.

  "A tad creaky, sir. Had a good place, when I left, but… never know when her people's position might change, or they take on someone younger t'do fer 'em."

  "Better this than go for a soldier, if you couldn't find some house yourself, to do for," Lewrie told him. "Aye, I'll see what the Prize-Court
's up to, if you're worried."

  Aspinall was such a quiet fellow, always sidling about below on his chores, that he'd never given him much thought. "Creaky"… that could mean rheumatic and feeble, all but unemployable when he signed aboard, and that was two years ago and more! His old clerk, Mr. Mountjoy, had written the lad's letters for him, read the one or two he'd gotten in reply, which were surely penned for his mother by a literate neighbour, shopkeeper or fellow house-servant.

  Just like a ship, Lewrie thought with a sigh, washing down a bite of… by God, it's a sandwich, damme'f it ain't, and no matter what Aspinall heard it called! with a swig of small-beer; right on the verge of a fight, and there's an hundred niggling things a captain has to give an ear to!

  "Yea!" Midshipman Hyde exulted. "Think he hit her that time!"

  Lewrie gnawed off a larger bite and set the plate down, to get to his feet and go forward for a better look. The frigate was lashing along, but still overpressed, within a half mile of her merchantmen. Myrmidon was up to Range-To-Random-Shot with her bow-chaser. And his own ship would be, in another ten minutes, should she stand on as she was. Time enough for a well-practiced ship to get herself ready.

  "Ahem, Mister Knolles," he said, swallowing. "Kindly beat us to Quarters. I think we're close enough, at last."

  "Aye aye, sir! Bosun, Sergeant Bootheby, turn out your drummers! Beat to Quarters!"

  Gun crews closed up, starboard ports open and great-guns run out, Jester was up to within two miles of her foe, off her larboard quarters, after weathering her all day. Myrmidon was up to windward, pelting away upon her starboard quarters. The French frigate must turn and fight, Lewrie thought. Which of us, though? He sketched a tack to head Sou'east, should she turn on Myrmidon. But she'd have to tack herself to do that.

  Might haul her wind, and let fly with her larboard batteries 'gainst Fillebrowne, he speculated. Point herself straight at us if he does, and…