A Jester’s Fortune

give 'er a last sweep-down should anyone come callin'. Mr. Knolles, I'll have the quarterdeck awnings rigged. It looks very much like rain 'fore sunset. Mr. Cony, do you get all the boats down. The Austrians will be taking charge of our prizes, and I want our prize-crews back aboard as soon as they do. Pipe a late rum issue, then hands to dinner, Mr. Knolles.'

'Excuse me, sir?' Mr. Giles, the Purser, harrumphed to gain his attention. Their rather 'fly' bespectacled young 'Pusser,' along with his newest 'Jack-in-the-Breadroom,' Lawless, were almost wringing their hands in anticipation of a run ashore in search of fresh victuals and such. 'Could we have a boat, sir? Once the Bosun s done?'

'Of course, Mister Giles,' Lewrie agreed. 'Boat crew will not await you ashore, though. Remember last time, hmm?'

Giles wasn't a naval officer, exactly; not in the chain of command. He was a civilian hireling, bonded and warranted. The last time, at Leghorn, he'd taken most of a boat's crew inland to help fetch and tote. Half had snuck off from him and had gotten stupendously drunk in a raucous quarter hour before the cox'n could collar them!

'No grappa in Trieste, sir.' Giles winced into his coat collar. 'Nor rum, neither, pray Jesus.'

'Indeed, sir,' Lewrie intoned. 'By the way, I've a taste for turkey. Should you run afoul of one…'

' Turkey, sir, aye,' Giles replied, making a note on a shopping list. 'So close to the Turkish Empire, one'd think, hah? Thankee, sir. Come on, Lawless. Perhaps Mister Cony may row us ashore, once he's done squaring the yards and all.'

'Aye aye, sir,' his lack-witted new clerk mumbled.

'Shoulda flown th' French flag, all o' us, Cap'um,' Buchanon said with a sigh, looking at the fort, which had gone back to its well-deserved rest and now looked as forlorn as a fallen church. ' 'At'd lit a fire under 'em. Or fetched in 'at frigate.'

'Well, we didn't, so there it is, Mister Buchanon,' Alan spat.

Bad luck, all-round; inexplicably, instead of a last broadside fired for the honour of the flag and a quick surrender, the French hadn't struck, as they seemed most wont to do these days in the face of superior force. They'd gone game to the last, losing more masts and spars, shot through and riddled, but still firing back, until a lazy-fuming spiral of whitish smoke had risen from her amidships. A fire had broken out belowdecks, and then it was sauve qui pent, as the Frogs said-'save what you can.' They left her like rats diving off a sinking grain-coaster. Far astern, round sunset, Lewrie could see a tiny, kindling-like spark of flames, then a sullen bloom of red and amber as the fire, accidentally or intentionally set, reached her magazines and blew her to atoms.

'Signal from the flag, sir,' Spendlove called, intruding upon his broodings over all that lost prize-money. ' 'Send Boats,' sir. For the French prisoners, I'd expect.' Lionheart had taken aboard most of the frigate's survivors, after plucking them from the sea, and a gaol ashore in a port now at war with France was the best place for them…

'Very well, Mister Spendlove. Mister Cony? Belay your squaring the yards. Or Mr. Giles's trip ashore. Lower every boat and row to Lion-heart to transport prisoners ashore. Sergeant Bootheby, your Marines to form an escort-party… pistols and hangers'd be better in the boats, I'd presume.'

'Aye aye, sir… pistols and hangers,' that stalwart baulk of ramrod-stiff oak replied crisply; though Lewrie was sure by the glum expression on his face that Bootheby would much prefer muskets tipped with gleaming spike- bayonets, to show the sluggard Austrian garrison what real soldiers were supposed to look like… all 'pipe-clay, piss an'

gaiters.'

'You'll see to the rum issue, once the boat crews have returned aboard, Mister Knolles, then their dinner,' Lewrie prompted.

'Aye, sir. And the awnings are ready for rigging.'

'Very well, I'll be below, sir. Out of the way.'

Which was where he stomped for, irked that a sensible routine of a single ship would forever be altered and amended by the presence of a squadron commander, and a day-long flurry of signal flags. And feeling just glum enough to resent the constant intrusions a bit!

There'd been no turkeys available, no decent geese, either. Mr. Giles had returned with some fresh-slaughtered and skinned rabbits, and Aspinall had jugged them in ship's-issue red wine. It may have been a Tuscan or Corsican, but it was commonly reviled as the Pusser's Bane- 'Blackstrap'-thinned with vinegar, and about as tasty as paint.

Fortunately, a boat had come from Lionheart about four bells of the Day Watch, bearing an invitation-more like an order, since it was from Captain Charlton-to dine ashore that evening, as guests of the Austri-ans. Number One full-dress uniform, clean breeches, waistcoat and linen, well-blacked shoes with silver buckles (gilt if they owned a pair), presentation swords (were they so fortunate, etc.). Hair to be powdered and dressed, and blah-blah-blah… Captain Charlton was determined to impress their allies if it killed him.

'Aspinall, heat me up a bucket of fresh water,' Lewrie told him. 'And hunt up that bar o' soap. We're to shine tonight. Or else!'

Boats crews in neat, clean, matching slop-clothing took them to the quays, landing them in strict order of precedence. Carriages waited to bear them townward to what Lewrie took for a medieval guild-hall of a place, a towering, half-timbered Germanic cuckoo-clock horror of a building, simply dripping with baroque touches, right down to the leering gargoyles at the eaves and carved stags and hunting scenes round the doorway, with sputtering torches in lieu of lanthorns to light the street and antechambers. He expected one of those bands he'd seen in London, so loved by his Hanoverian monarchy, whose every tune sounded very much like 'Oomp-pah-pah- Crash/bang.' That or drunken Vikings!

A very stiff reception line awaited them, made up of civilian, military, and naval members. The men glittered in satins or heavy velvets or gilded wool, no matter how stuffy it was, with sweat running freely to presage the expected rain. The women… Lord, he'd never seen such a fearsome pack of chick-a- biddies, all teeth and teats, all bound up pouty-pigeon-chested in lace-trimmed gowns as heavy as drapery fab-! rics, with double or even triple chins declining over scintillating brilliants, diamonds or pearl necklaces. Everyone's hair was powdered to a tee, pale blue or starkest white, and how he kept from sneezing his head off during all the bowing and curtseying, he couldn't fathom.

'Permittez-moi, m'sieurle capitaine Charlton,j'ai Vhonneure… pre-sentez-vous, le burgomeister, uhm… le maire …' An equerry said with a simper, a suppressed titter and a languid wave of his hand.

'Thought they were Germans,' Rodgers muttered from the side of his mouth. 'What's all this Frog they're spoutin'?'

'Court-language, sir,' Lewrie whispered back. 'Prussians and Russians, looks like the Austrians, too. Can't bloody stand their own tongue. Not elegant enough, I s'pose. Ah! Madame Baroness… oui, baroness? von Kreutznacht, enchante. Simply enchante!' He bowed to a particularly porcine old biddy who sported a rather impressive set of whiskers and moustache under all her powders, paints, rouges and beauty marks. She resembled a hog in a tiara.

'M'sieur le Capitaine, uhmm…!' She tittered; or tried one, at any rate. She had a husky voice as forbidding as a bosun's mate, and was about five stone too heavy to be seen tittering. She offered her hand, and Lewrie pecked dry lips on the back of it, looking for a spot free of jewelry or liver-spots. He heard the clash of heels in the line, the double-snap of bootheels thrummed together, combined with a short bow from the waist. He didn't think he'd try that, no matter what they thought of his manners.

'Swear to God,' Fillebrowne grated between bared teeth in a rictus of a grin. 'But that last 'un, sirs… she oinked at me.'

'Which 'un?' Rodgers asked him, now they were down among those lesser lights of the receiving line. 'Oh, the baroness, Fillebrowne?'

'Aye, sir. Her. A definite oink.'

'That sound lascivious, Lewrie.' Rodgers smirked. 'D'ye think?'

'Oh, quite, sir!' Lewrie replied gayly. 'Were she merely being polite, 'twould have been more a husky grunt. But, an oink, now…!'

'You lucky young dog, sir!' Rodgers wheezed softly. 'Not a dogwatch ashore, an' a baroness throwin' herself at