A Jester’s Fortune

CHAPTER 2

He was making good practice, well into a bawdy little tune of an earlier century: 'Watkins' Ale.' He sat on the aftermost taffrail flag-lockers, feet atop the edge of the coach-top built into the quarterdeck to give his great-cabins light and air. The skylights were open to air out those cabins, and his cox'n Andrews was supervising a working- party in repainting and touching up the ravages of two years' active commission.

Damme, but I've got rather good at this, he exulted, fingering a sprightly elaboration onto the basic melody, like grace-notes on a bagpipe. Should be good at it, he further pondered, as Mister Midshipman Hyde turned the pages of the songbook for them; after all, 'tis been ten bloody years I've been tootlin' on this thing!

A flageolet, some might call it, were they speaking classical. But really it was a tin whistle. He had no lip for a proper flute, fife or recorder, such as his wife Caroline played so well. To most of his ship's people- his Irishmen, Welsh, his Lowland Scots and the West Country folk-it was called the lowly penny-whistle.

But it felt like a penny-whistle day to Alan Lewrie, Commander, Royal Navy, and captain of HMS Jester.

Caroline had bought the first one in the Bahamas, back in '86, as a Christmas gift. That one he'd lost in '93, when his mortar-boat went down in Toulon Harbour during the siege. And good riddance to bad rubbish had been most people's opinion, for he'd been horrid at it. This new one Caroline had waiting for him when Jester returned to Portsmouth to refit and re-arm, spring of '94, before her voyage back to the Mediterranean.

The last year or so, the isolation enforced upon a captain-a proper captain-had turned him to playing, more and more. Until he'd come to a semblance of mastering one musical instrument, no matter how humble. Quite unlike a gentleman's flute, it had few holes, and a limited, very Celtic scale. Hornpipes, Scottish ballads, Irish jigs and reels, old English country airs… he leaned more to those, anyway, of late.

And if Mister Edward Buchanon, the Sailing Master, was right, Lewrie mused as he played-if the ancient Irish Celtic sea-god Lir had taken Jester and her captain into his watchful care, even down here in the Mediterranean, Jester and her captain paired as a 'lucky' ship and lucky leader-then the Celtic scale of notes would be more than apt. And pleasing, should such thoughts not turn out to be a crock of moonshine!

'Oh, here's one, sir!' Mr. Hyde chuckled, once they were done with the curious old maid, done in at last and seduced by draughts of 'Watkins' Ale.' 'A little slower, perhaps, but… 'Barbara Allen'?'

Mr. Hyde had bought himself a guitar the last time he'd gone ashore at Genoa and was getting decent at it; he had even dared to sit in with Jester's amateur musicians among the hands, with their fifes and fiddles, and pluck or strum along as they played tunes for Morris dances or evening hornpipes. Lewrie envied him: a captain had no chance to do anything more than clap along in time and watch such antics, taking pleasure in being a mere listener. A midshipman, as a petty officer, and aloft barefooted with the hands most of the time, could mingle without suffering a loss of dignity.

'Aye, let's give that 'un a go,' Lewrie said, chuckling. 'Bit of an odd choice to include, though. The book is called Pills to Purge Melancholy!'

'We could make a reel of it, sir.' Hyde grinned. 'And I do know the words.'

'Right, then.'

A splendid penny-whistle day! A day without care. For the hands, it was 'Make And Mend,' now that Jester was victualed proper.

Except for the few hands and warrants in the harbour-watch and anchor-watch, most were free for once to 'caulk or yarn' however they wished; to nap and catch up on lost sleep, gab and tell tall tales under the awnings spread below the course-yards. Carve wood or salt beef so old it could be made into snuffboxes, rings or combs! Or, simply whittle, chew tobacco, smoke a pipe or two on the upper decks, write letters home, or dictate letters to those who could write; read letters over again, or have them read to them by the literate. Some amused themselves playing with a pet bird, a cat or a puppy.

The crew was free of what now seemed like a pointless, and disheartening, blockade of the Genoese Republic, free of escorting merchant convoys cross the Ligurian Sea, or patrolling for raiding French privateers or warships. HMS Jester lay serene at anchor, for once, and, for officers and hands alike, seemed to be at peace. Or was this a calm before a storm?

Her yards were crossed and squared to geometric precision, her braces, halliards and lift-lines as taut as bowstrings, all her running rigging showpiece-perfect. Her boats were alongside, soaking seawater into planking too long kept dry on the boat-tier beams which spanned the waist. They nuzzled at both larboard and starboard entry- ports like contented piglets, lifted to thump softly like hungry barrows now and again by the slight wind and wavelets of San Fiorenzo Bay.

Belying her 'Bristol-Fashion' perfection, though, were laundry and loose-hung sails. Fresh water for washing clothing was a luxury rarely allowed; the ration was a gallon per man per day, and most of that went into the steep-tubs to boil rations. In port, they could use as much fresh water as they liked, for a water-hoy came alongside almost every morning to replenish Jester's ready-use casks on the weather deck. So, during a 'Make And Mend' day, sailors scrubbed the irritating, thread-grating salt from their clothing and hung it up to dry, so it wouldn't sandpaper their hides or wear out, for a time.

So, too, the suits of sails. Salt crystals, mildew, damp-rot or dry-rot could ruin her sails: the set she wore, or the set stored below as replacements, or the heavier storm-canvas suit. A spell in harbour was a priceless opportunity to change over completely, sluice them down with fresh water and scrub them with stiff brushes, go over each seam and patch, sew and mend, to avoid having them weaken, split or blow out during a gale. Then the men hoisted the sails aloft, bent them onto the yards and let them hang slack, to air-dry them properly before being stored away on the orlop again; or clewed up, brailed up and harbour-gasketed.

Three days Jester had lain at her moorings, to her best bower and a stern kedge- anchor, and been cleaned 'from keel to trucks,' and all the thousands of petty, frustrating things that could go amiss on a ship put right. Her huge water-casks were rowed ashore, scrubbed clean and refilled; cords of firewood and kindling were fetched aboard; bosuns stores, spare gun-tools, new striker flints, powder and shot were fetched from the stores ship, old HMS Inflexible. Rice and pasta by the case, which now had almost totally replaced weevily ships'-biscuit, was piled on her stores-deck, along with pipes, kegs and barricoes of wine and rum for her beverage needs, and thousands of onions, scallions, leeks, garlic cloves and such for anti- scorbutics, which also made the poor rations palatable. Small orchards' worth of lemons, oranges and other local acid-fruits, dried raisins, currants and plums were loaded; they were anti-scorbutic, too, so Jesters people didn't perish of scurvy. There were open-topped bins of fruit, including some rare apples, scattered round the main mast's trunk, so the hands could eat as much as they liked, for once-even if dour, sardonic (and lately even more irritating) Ship's Surgeon Mr. Howse denounced the whole idea of acid-fruits being allowed in a tropical climate. Brought on biliousness, and bilious fevers, so please you, he'd insisted! As if those could kill, instead of being quickly eased by a belch or a good fart, Lewrie thought sourly.

'No, let's start over,' Lewrie insisted after one verse. 'It don't sound right that fast, Mister Hyde. Let's do the proper measure.'

He tilted his head back, eyes closed; he knew 'Barbara Allen' well enough by ear, anyway. His head was bare of his gold-laced cocked hat, his medium brown hair was bleached at the sides almost a taffy-blond by cruel sun, his neck-stock was cast aside and his shirt opened to mid-waist, and his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. The sun was nowhere near the torrid murderer of a high-summer day, when Corsica stewed under her infamous 'Lion Sun,' felling ships' companies and regiments down by dozens.

There was just enough warmth to make it blessedly pleasant, and just enough of a light breeze from the Sou'east, up from Egypt or Cyrenaica, to hint at the heat to come as spring blossomed anew.

An idle day of rest. He smiled round the mouthpiece of his tin whistle. A day to celebrate, too: mail from home, fresh livestock in the manger, and a rare Corsican yearling bullock already slaughtered, with a large joint saved out for his own supper. Fresh salad greens as well, and loaf-bread, for a change. Only local cheeses, but succulent and