A Jester’s Fortune

more westward of Jester, and seaward. Both ships were trundling along under all plain sail-courses, tops'ls and top gallants-with the wind on their larboard quarters. Dead Reckoning of the hourly cast of the chip-log during the night placed them about level with the port of Spalato, in Venetian Dalmatia. Before the bows were the large islands of Hvar and Vis, barely visible above the sea. There was a good channel between those two isles, possibly one that this full-rigged ship, this obviously Western vessel, had used during the night, were she bows-on to them, and only one point to the right of their own bows. 'Mister Knolles? Think we might have ourselves a bit of fun this morning, sir. Does she thread the islands…'

'Whereas an innocent trader would chart his course far west of them, sir?' Knolles smirked with sudden insight. 'Out to sea of that cluster of islands… Bisevo? Or however one may pronounce them?'

'Very possibly, Mister Knolles.' Lewrie grinned. 'Pipe hands to breakfast, now, while-'

'Signal, sir!' Midshipman Hyde yelled from the starboard mizzen-mast stays. 'Pylades makes… 'Pursue Chase More Closely' 'Inshore' is her second hoist, sir!'

'Bend on and hoist an 'Affirmative,' Mister Hyde,' Lewrie replied. 'Quartermaster, down-helm. Lay us two points closer to the wind, on a soldier's wind. Mister Knolles, duty-watch to the braces.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Then we'll make sure everyone's had a solid meal before closing yon stranger,' Lewrie decided. 'Gruel, this morning, if I'm not mistaken, sirs? With a dollop of treacle? A princely dish for a hard morning's work.'

'Oh, aye, sir!' the watch-keeping staff on the quarterdeck said with a droll roll of their eyes. 'Princely!'

'I'll have a bowl, myself, sirs,' Lewrie insisted with mock seriousness. 'Once I've gone aloft to 'smoak' our new arrival. Mr. Knolles, you have the deck. Keep my mush hot for me, now.'

Once in the mizzen-top, he could see for miles, even with mists rising from a chill morning along the coast, shrouding the isles with a thin blanket of fog. The Chase was a full-rigged, three-masted ship; her top-s'ls or t'gallants were already above the horizon, as she beat into the wind, laid over on starboard tack, and came roughly along a reciprocal course to jester-North by West. Once she espied a brace of warships off her bows, Lewrie imagined, she'd turn and run back the way she came, through the Hvar-Vis channel. She could tack and swing eastward, and run into Venetian waters eventually; perhaps into Spalato itself to take shelter in a neutral port. She could haul off the wind and flee West-no, he groused, that'd lay her open to Pylades or getting entangled in that chain of isles round Bisevo.

And just how did you pronounce 'em? Lewrie wondered, grinning.

Cut between Hvar and Brae, thread the narrow gut between Brae and Solta, should the wind shift? They'd never catch her, then. But, from what he recalled of his last peek at those new Venetian charts, Jester had deep water anywhere she went in pursuit.

Another long minute went by, and still the merchantman stood on her course, as if her lookouts were blind as bats. He could determine that he was looking at t'gallant sails, now with a hint of her tops'ls showing below them- not twelve miles away, and she still didn't see them?

Finally! And it took ya long enough, ya simple bastard! Alan thought smugly. She was hauling her wind, swinging her masts in line with each other and pointing her jib-boom directly at Jester, as if to flee Westward, dodge round the lee of the Bisevo chain, brushing off pursuit. But still blind, Lewrie realized; she hadn't spotted Captain Rodgers's Pylades yet! And when she did…! There! Even close to twelve miles off, he could see her sway, as if startled by a mouse, as she realised the Westerly escape route was blocked by a second warship. And came back hard on the wind once more, putting her masts in line… was she? Yes, Lewrie decided, seeing the first rippling of her canvas… she was going to tack across the wind and flee Easterly!

'Mister Knolles?' Lewrie bellowed down. 'A point more to windward. Hands aloft… shake out royals!'

Jester sailed the longer leg of an intersecting triangle between the wind, the Chase, and escape. But she had a long, clean waterline, and the winds pressed clear from the Nor'east, Leading winds or Fair at times, her best points of sail. The Chase was closer to the eye of the wind, Beating. While it felt faster, with a ship's speed combined with the wind's speed, they were fighting against it. The island of Brae lay before her bows, the narrow dogleg channel between Brae and Solta even closer to the wind's eye. She'd have to tack to stand into it, then do another tack to roughly her original course, to follow its winding into safety, all of which would slow her.

Cool, clear morning air, brisk and bracing, filled Jester's sails drumhead taut. The Adriatic was running seas of not over three or four feet, and Jester loped over them, pressed over less than ten degrees from upright, her forefoot and cutwater slicing through them as finely as the keenest butcher's blade, creating a rumbling, hissing, seething clash of foam, a slight yawing and lifting of her stern when the foresails, which lifted the bows, were now and then blanketed by those of the main and the mizzen. But she was gaining… relentlessly. And pointing before the Chase s bows, so that longer leg of intersection she sailed would meet with her long before she gained the islands' shelter.

'Haulini' the lookout shouted. 'Chase'z haulin' 'er wind!'

Just shy of the isle of Brae, she was coming about, falling off the wind and showing them her stern. Lewrie stood at the lee bulwark on the starboard side, telescope to his eye, and another mug of tea in peril. He suspected the winds off the Balkan mountains had swung foul farther south, where the Chase lay-were come more Easterly with less Northing, or were altered by the headlands and hills of the islands from the Nor'easterly they enjoyed. She couldn't make the narrow channel without tacking at once, which would run her right back into gun-range! Lewrie turned to espy Pylades, now about three miles alee of Jester, and astern of her starboard quarter, blocking any attempt to turn and run back out the wider channel to the south between Hvar and Vis.

She was, however, well placed for a run through another channel, a little South of East, between Brae's southern shore and the north shore of Hvar! South of Venetian dominion, and safety!

'Half a point free, Mister Knolles. Pursue her more directly,' Alan directed. 'Mister Buchanon? The local chart, please, sir?'

'Here, sir,' that cautious stalwart from the Blackpool fisheries all but chortled in glee. 'Oh, 'ey've chose poor, sir. See here…' he said, happily spreading the chart on the traverse board near the binnacle cabinet, amidships by the wheel. ' 'Is Hav… Huw… 'is 'break-teeth' island's long an' narrow, nigh on fifteen leagues, end t'end, an' less'n a mile'r two off th' mainland, at th' end of it, if she wishes t'turn the far point, and run back down its southern coast. With 'is wind t'day, I doubt she'd turn North, f'r Brae, or Spalato… same problem she had with 'at other channel. She's sailin' inta th' sack, sir. Her master must know ought o' 'ese waters.'

'Or possess Austrian charts.' Lewrie snickered as he turned one more time to look astern and alee for Pylades. The signal flags she'd first hoisted still flew; for Jester to pursue closely, and inshore. A flicker of canvas, a slight turn, and Pylades was slowing, well short of the entrance to that southerly channel. She cocked her bows up into the wind, some sails still trimmed to drive ahead, the rest backed or cross-sheeted to check forward motion, as if she'd failed to make it across on a tack-fetched-to, to wait for Jester to take that Chase, or to stay where she could dash off north of Solta, or below Hvar, to intercept if the strange merchantman emerged.

Here we go again, Alan Lewrie thought with a sigh, and recalled times in the Bahamas when Benjamin Rodgers had stood off safe, while he'd been forced to tiptoe through coral reefs with his little gun-ketch, Alacrity. There was no danger here of ripping Pylades' hull open. But someone must be the blocking force. And full post-captains got what they wanted, when compared to a lowly commanders wishes.

It wasn't navigational perils that worried Lewrie this time, no. Diplomatic, perhaps, should he run afoul of a Venetian patrol ship deep in their waters-what Charlton had warned him about. Or be separated from heavier guns in support, a full forty-five miles, should there be a French warship lurking at the far, unseen end of that channel. What other reason could this Chase's captain have to flee East into a sack, unless he expected some help at the far end of it? Lewrie pondered.

'Growl we may, but go we must,' Lewrie whispered, lowering his telescope. 'Quartermasters… make for midchannel.'

The merchant ship went out of sight for a few minutes, slipping into the narrow Brac-Hvar channel before them,