A Jester’s Fortune

ya. Oinkin', an' all! Damme'f I ain't envious, sir. Mind, ya might strain somethin', puttin' th' leg that far over. But think what a tale ya'll have t'tell, sir.'

'Handsome and dashing sort, such as yourself, Commander,' Lewrie could not resist cruelly jibing, 'must surely expect to be oinked at.'

'Uhm,' Fillebrowne commented, his eyes slitted in well-hidden anger over Lewrie's barb, 'hah, sir!'

* * *

Supper was an ordeal. The four British captains were seated in a sea of Trieste 's finest, far apart from each other, and pent in with people who could not, or would not, speak a word of English. The linen, china, centrepieces and silverware were gorgeous enough, and there were nigh a whole platoon of servants in livery, one for every two diners, a la Russe. It was a heavy feed, though: potato soup, very greasy goose, a bland fish course that resembled mullet, the salad wilted, dry and fleshed out with what Lewrie took to be grass clippings. Roast venison, jugged hares, a whole roast hog, all made the rounds before it was done, topped with gargantuan, toothachy piles of sweets. And with Trieste 's finest tucking in like they'd just come off forty days aboard the Ark!

Finally, after circulating amid the coffee, chocolate and tea drinkers, after listening politely to some untalented musicians and a male soloist doing some incomprehensible (and stultifyingly boring) lieder in German, they were allowed to ascend a wooden staircase for the first floor and were ushered into a smaller chamber, where they were delighted to find cheese, biscuit, shelled nuts and port waiting on a bare-topped mahoghany table.

'Welcome to the gun-room, gentlemen,' their host said with an anxious smile of welcome. 'Or as close as you'll find, this side of Portsmouth.' And he said it in English, with a Kentish accent!

'Major Simpson, my thanks, sir,' Captain Charlton said with some pleasure as he was shown to a seat near the head of the table and was presented with the port decanter and a goodly-sized glass. 'The major, had you not already gathered from the receiving line introductions,' he said to the others, 'is the senior naval officer here in Trieste. One of the most senior navy officers of the Austrian Empire, rather.'

'That's true, sir,' Major Simpson replied. 'Oh, there's a man over the Danube flotilla senior to me, but…' He was nigh preening. 'Do allow me to name to you, sirs, my officers…'

It was von Something-umlautish-von-Glottal-Stop something other. Half the officers wore the same pale blue breeches, waistcoat and cuffs that Simpson sported; the rest were from the Liccaner or Ottochaner regiments of Border Infantry, who formed the Austrian Marine Corps, dressed in tobacco-brown coats with sky-blue cuffs, breeches and waistcoats.

Major George Simpson, Lewrie soon learned, was the genuine article, an authentic Royal Navy officer, one of those thirtyish lieutenants of ill-starred fortune when it came to patronage, prize-money or promotion. The Russians, Turks, every foreign power with hopes to build a navy had hired them on to smarten up their own landlubberly officers and crews. Christ, the Russians had even taken the Rebel John Paul Jones to lead their Black Sea fleet at one time!

'Can't tell you what a joy it was, to see a proper squadron of British ships come to anchor, sir,' Simpson told them. 'You'll be in the Mare long… or is this simply a port-call?'

'We'll be operating out of the Straits of Otranto, mostly, sir,' Charlton told him. 'With the odd patrol to sweep up French or French-sponsored mercantile traffick. And to cooperate with your Emperor… Franz Us squadron 'gainst the French. Lend you every assistance to ready your ships for any future action which may occur this season? Urge Admiral Sir John Jervis, our new commander-in-chief in the Mediterranean, to write to London on your behalf, anent supplies, arms and such. Ships and crews, hmm?'

'Now, that would be wondrous fine, sir!' Simpson exclaimed, and translated that news in German for his compatriots. 'The annual naval budget, d'ye see, is rather limited of late. Austria 's a land power, mostly. Keep control of the Danube River, and protect Trieste. A lion's share of the military budget goes to the army up on the Rhine, or over in Piedmont and Lombardy. Every little bit is welcome.'

'Now, sir…' Charlton purred after a sip of port, 'tell me how you stand. What's your strength? Besides the vessels in port at this moment.'

'Uhm, d'ye see, sir…' Simpson blushed, 'this is the Austrian Navy, sir. All of it.'

'Aha,' Charlton said, raising an expressive brow in surprise.

Thought so, Lewrie told himself, sharing a weary frown over the table with Captain Ben Rodgers, who was all but rolling his eyes.

'We've he Ferme, sir, the brigantine, and two feluccas… armed merchant ships, really,' Major Simpson confessed, wriggling about in his chair like a hound might circle on a fireplace mat. 'We've those two schebecks… brace of twenty-four-pounders in the bows, and some light side guns, and the Empire has authorised me to increase the number of gunboats from seven to sixteen. The same sort as was so useful during the siege of Gibraltar.'

'Nothing else, uhm… cruising the coasts, or…?' Charlton asked with a hopeful, but leery, tone to his voice.

'Sorry, sir, that's the lot.' Simpson grimaced. 'And it's been the very Devil to get the city of Trieste to see their way clear to giving me funds enough to start the new gunboats. The governor of the port, and the mayor… the burgomeister, sir? You see, uhm…'

Here comes another, Lewrie warned himself; that 'you see, uhm' sounds like a bloody dirge already! You see, uhm… I'm poxed?

'The naval budget is very small, sir,' Simpson went on, wearing a sheepish smile, which he bestowed on the British captains, hoping for a single shred of sympathy. 'And a fair portion of it… sixty thousand guilden a year… comes from the port of Trieste itself. And they'll not pay for more navy than they think is necessary for their own defence, sir.' 'These seagoing gunboats, Major Simpson?' Ben Rodgers prodded, stumbling over the unfamiliar, and most un-nautical, rank. 'Uhm, d'ye see, sir…' Major Simpson began to say. Bloody Hell, another'un. Lewrie groaned to himself, pouring his glass brimming with port when his turn came.

'Harbour defence, mostly, sirs,' Simpson admitted, palms up and out like a Levant rug-merchant. 'Point of fact, save for La Ferme, our brigantine, the vessels here at Trieste are almost useless unless there is a calm sea and a light breeze. I've written again and again to the Naval Ministry in Vienna, sketching what vessels'd prove more useful. mean t'say, sirs, that's why they hired me on, hey? For my deepwater experience? But…' He tossed them another palm-up shrug. 'The Hungarians have a better flotilla.'

'Aren't the Hungarians part of the Empire, though, sir?' Lewrie just had to ask.

'Oh, aye, they are, sir! An important part,' Simpson assured him. 'Hundreds of years ago, the Hungarians advanced to the coast, the Croat lands, and the Croats were most eager to make alliance with them, then with Austria. Then Austria became dominant over the Hungarians, though they keep a certain measure of semi- autonomy. Most of the coast, that is the Hungarian Littoral. Fiume, Zara, Spalato, Ragusa… it extends quite far. Well, sort of Spalato and Ragusa, d'ye see. They're still either Venetian ports or independent. There's the independent Republic of Ragusa, quite old. Genoese or Spanish enclaves on the Dalmatian coast-hated Venice since Hector was a pup, so they've played everyone off against the other. Though Turkey still claims them, they're mostly Catholic, Venetian or at least Italian.'

'Ah, hmm!' Captain Charlton purred, wriggling in his own chair, as thoroughly puzzled as the rest by then. 'Perhaps, sir, you might fill us in on the eastern shore's doings? Its nature?'

'Well, sir,' Simpson replied slowly, 'it's rather complicated, d'ye see, uhm…'

First had come the Roman Empire, so Simpson carefully related to them; then the Eastern Byzantine Empire had held sway, punctuated by a series of local princedoms or kingdoms that had aspired to be empires- Macedonians, Albanians, Serbs, then Bulgars or Hungarians, what had been the Dark Ages. All had been swept away quite bloodily by another, finally by the all-conquering Turks; back when they had been all-conquering, of course. Venice, Genoa, Spain, the Italian city-states all had nosed about, warring with each other until Venice had become great and had carved out a province that had run the entire length of the eastern shore. Only to be lost, except for a few remaining bits of coasts round harbours, to the Turks, at last, in the 1400s.