A Jester’s Fortune

nothing-climbed a chair to escape a ravening rat, which had turned out to be a child's dormouse. Sweets strains of violins, harp and flutes-Domenico Scarlatti, a local boy-could be heard wafting from the interior to the boat landing. Patrons leaving the same time as the English were fanning themselves, swaying to the music in personal dazes of idle joy once more. Once more masked, cloaked anonymously in their bautos, and lost in the beautiful dream that was the city of Venice.

A little further on, Lewrie thought it changed to something airy and even sweeter from Vivaldi as they were stroked down the canals for the Bacino di San Marco, the dulcet notes almost shimmering as gossamer and light as the sparkling lamplight on the ebony waters as they went past another ridotto or palazzio filled with guests and languid merriment. As they stroked away from it, out to the beginnings of a night-breeze off the sea, the sound faded slowly, tantalisingly, like the calls of the Sirens.

Captain Charlton handed them some treats he had purchased somewhere on his circuitous and frustrating rounds of the hall-diavoloni, he called them, passing the ornate box around, sweet chocolates filled with creamy liqueurs or brandies. It was a most indolent way to end an evening, Lewrie thought. In a city without cares.

Then, as the concerto band faded at last, astern their gondolier began [; to croon, picking up the song of another, far across the Bacino at the Fondamenta di San Marco; the other a single tiny light in the gloom:

'Fummo un tempo fetid

Io amante ed amato,

voi amata ed amante in dolce stato …'

'Ees-uh Signore Tasso, signores,' he told them. 'Greatest of-ah them all. A true poet of-ah love! You come-ah to Venice… you find-ah love, signores!'

Christ, I bloody hope not! Lewrie yawned to the night.

CHAPTER 7

'Come!' the voice within HMS Lionheart's great-cabins bade.

Lewrie entered, hat under one arm and his clumsy, rolled bundle of charts under the other. Captain Charlton was in his shirtsleeves with his waistcoat open, sleeves rolled to the elbows and scrubbing his face at a wash-hand stand. Though the winds had come up from the south that day, and quite fresh, they'd brought a stifling, palpable humidity to a city lying that far north. A first sign of true summer-along with another flood in Saint Mark's!

'Ah, Lewrie… back with yer charts, I see!' Charlton beamed as he took a towel from his steward to complete his ablutions. 'Damn-all close ashore today. Winds or no. I'm fair parched… as I low you may be, also. A glass with me, sir?'

'Delighted, sir,' Lewrie replied, more than happy to be given a glass of something cooling.

'No Frog champagne, I fear, sir.' Charlton shrugged in apology as he rolled down his sleeves, redid his neck- stock and rebuttoned his waistcoat. 'Though this Austrian sekt I discovered ashore is just as sprightly, if a tad too sweet. Ah, well… 'twill serve, I trust.'

'Most nicely, sir,' Lewrie allowed, plunking into a comfortable padded chair at Charlton's genial insistence and accepting a glass of Austrian almost-champagne from the steward. It was very cool,

indeed.

'Metal bucket, sir,' Charlton informed him with an amiable grin to Lewrie's raised brow in query. 'Cool water to begin with, then salted heavily. Soak a bottle an hour or two, then… Now, sir. Did they have the charts we need?'

'I obtained a full set for every ship, sir,' Lewrie replied as he unrolled one for example. 'General chart of the Adriatic, and just as detailed as one could wish. Two more each, in smaller scale, dividing the Adriatic into upper and lower halves… one of the Ionian isles, and harbour charts for their principal ports. Not much on the Austrian or Hungarian littoral ports, though. And for the Turkish possessions they're rather sketchier. As though Venetian ships haven't gone close inshore in the last century, sir. The Balkan shores are by guess and by God, sir.'

'Yayss…' Charlton drawled lazily. 'Since the Treaty of Utrecht in 1714, they've written off any hopes of reclaiming lost territory over there. So why bother to correct one's charts concerning what one may not have, hmm? Terra incognita. 'Here be dragons,' that sort of thing. Out of sight, and out of mind. The Venetians are rather good at that, letting things slip their minds, if nothing can be done about them anyway. Or, rather, if they're too vexing to think about!'

'I take it things went well, ashore today, sir?' Lewrie asked.

'As much as could be expected, Commander Lewrie,' Charlton said with a weary, frazzled air, running a hand over his greying hair. 'We will be allowed to enter Venetian ports in the Ionians, their territory in Montenegro, Albania and such-for wood and water, only, d'ye see. And that for no more than twenty-four hours at a time, weather permitting. They've sent orders for their local governors and such to admit us as long as we pay scrupulous attention to their neutrality. Do we violate it, however, they'll deny us entry. With their full force of arms, was how they phrased it to me.'

'I shiver in my boots, sir,' Lewrie scoffed.

'How come you by that, sir?' Charlton snapped quickly.

'Beg pardon, sir, but… what force of arms?' Lewrie rejoined. 'At the Arsenal this morning, Captain Charlton. Lord, what a pot-mess! They've ships laid up in-ordinary, two-a-penny, aye, sir. But they're rotting at their moorings! Harbour watch and anchor watches set, with warrants and their families living aboard. Bearded with weeds, sir! Forecastles and waists built-over with huts or shacks, like receiving-hulks back home, sir. No seamen to be seen, and damn few naval officers. No ships under construction, sir… no ships being fitted out or repaired. Place was full, but idle as Sunday in Scotland. Hundreds of idlers loafing about, pretending to do some chores.'

'Like our own HM Dockyards, hmm?' Charlton posed.

'A thousand-fold worse, sir,' Lewrie scoffed. 'It's more like a series of palaces than a dockyard. Dependents of yard workers swarming like drone bees, but damn-all work being done. There are fountains in the Arsenal yards, sir. Wine fountains! Not temporary, for Carnival, but permanent stone fountains. Shift a couple of planks… go get yer cup o' wine. Tally salt-beef barrels… wet yer whistle again, sir. Then line up for dinner, sir… on the house, and take as much as you like. Then wash it down with more wine. All free, sir. Like a Roman dole. Bless me, Captain Charlton,' Lewrie concluded his accounting, 'they couldn't put a decent squadron together to overmatch ours were we to give 'em 'til Christmas!'

'Surely a seafaring nation, though, Commander…' Charlton said in puzzlement. 'Mean t'say, Mistress of the Seas for nigh on a thousand years! The Arsenal must be crammed with stores, just waiting-'

'Bare-bones, sir,' Lewrie interrupted. 'Mast-ponds half empty, very little timber seasoning… the rope-walks were idle, and I didn't see that much spare ropes or cable coiled up and ready. Mountains of shot piled up, hundreds of guns ashore… but more than a little rusty, from what I could see of 'em. I don't think the Venetians could sail out a force larger than the Austrians at Trieste could, sir.'

'Yet, after the news this morning…?' Charlton puzzled some more. 'Forgive me, sir… but I was able to confirm those rumours we heard at the ridotto. The French, under this new general Bonaparte, did beat the Austrians and the Piedmontese and split them apart. Even worse, so the Venetian authorities told me not two hours ago, they were not minor skirmishes, but all- out battles. The Austrians lost over six thousand men, sir, and were damn near routed! And there's been another battle with the Piedmontese… at Mondovi.'

Charlton gloomed up, took a sip of sekt, and wriggled his lips as if in distress, to be the bearer of even worse tidings.

'At Mondovi, Commander Lewrie,' Charlton intoned, 'may we trust the account, the Piedmontese were also routed. And an entire corps of their army captured. Their General Colli has asked for an armistice.. • and that was several days ago. It may have been signed by now. So you see what that means, sir?'

'Piedmont's defeated.' Lewrie gulped. 'Out of the war. Out of the Coalition. And all Italy west of the Po River is