A Jester’s Fortune

There were two small ships anchored in Garitsa Bay. And, did the colours they flew not lie, they were both Venetian traders-one a very shabby European-style brig, and the other a much older down-at-the-. heels felucca. Neither seemed alarmed to see British warships on the offing.

Jester entered harbour under reduced tops'ls, jibs and spanker, ghosting along on a light zephyr of a morning wind that barely gave her steer-ageway. In port, along the ancient stone quays, lay more vessels: more feluccas, more dhowlike coasters, a clutch of single-masted boats for inter-island travel to Ithaca and Paxos, called caiques. And there were fishing boats, of course. Another brace of Venetian merchant ships, too. And three foreign ships, one a Batavian Dutchman, a supposedly neutral Dane, and the last an outright French merchantman! These did show alarm as Jester came in between the harbour moles; even more alarm as she rounded up to the wind, which bared her starboard sides to the town and the ships as if she were about ready to open fire on them.

Lewrie smirked at the sight of them. And what was coming!

'Mister Crewe, open your starboard gun-ports!' He called down to the waist. 'Ready, the salute! Eleven guns, no more.'

'Aye aye, sir! 'Leven guns! Ready, number one starboard?' Mister Crewe shouted back. 'Fire! If I weren't a gunner, I wouldn't be here… number two gun.. .fire! I've left my home, my wife an' all that's dear… number three gun… fire!'

The governor-general of the Ionians, what the Venetians termed the provveditore di Isoli del Levant, rated no more than an eleven-gun salute-the proper reply to what they might take as a 6th Rate would be a salute of eleven back. Noisy, stinky… but hardly dangerous.

'Christ, lookat 'em scamper!' Will Cony hooted, nudging Andrews in the ribs. 'Like puttin' up a flock o' partridge, hey?'

'Fin' 'emselves a safe place ashoah, I'd wager, Will!' The cox'n grunted in like humour, to see the crewmen of the three merchant ships dash about like chickens with their heads cut off. And a fair number were discovering vital errands they suddenly had-in town!

'Mark that Dane, sir.' Lieutenant Knolles snickered. 'Her sailors are just as shy of us as the Frog sailors. A dead giveaway they're up to no good, too!'

'Aye, Mister Knolles.' Lewrie chuckled. 'We'll ask of her when we go ashore. Ready to let go, forrud! Hands aloft there! Brail up, all!'

'Hands on the braces… back the fore-tops'l, back the main tops'l!' Knolles contributed. 'Lower away fores'ls… smartly, now!'

And Jester came to a stop, her sails disappearing quickly, just as the last gun of the salute barked forth, the tops'ls trying to wrap themselves round the masts as they braked her 'gainst the light winds.

'Let go!' Knolles added, followed by the roar and rumble of the best bower cable thundering through the larboard hawse-hole, the splash of the heaviest anchor as it plummeted into the harbour depths. Boats were being hauled to the entry-ports to larboard or starboard-to row out a kedge anchor from the stern, a slightly lighter cable mated to it. Deckhands stood by the after capstan-head, the heavy pawls in place, to drum her round once the kedge was set. Jester then faced the town with her starboard side, aligned lengthwise in the long west-to-east harbour channel between shore and breakwater, instead of lying foul of other traffic.

Gun-port lids were lowered and secured, the guns swabbed out and bowsed secure to the starboard side once more with tompions in. The bower cable was wrapped round the fore bitts, frapped and stoppered to it with lighter line, and the messenger cable to the fore-capstan was put back below on the cable-tiers. Sails were by then completely furled and gasketed, bound neatly to the jib-boom and bowsprit, or the lower boom of the spanker, aft on the mizzen. Sail-tending lines were flaked or flemished, or hung in huge bights along the pin-rails and fife-rails. A quick glance aft showed their cutter returning, with Mr. Hyde waving to signal that it was clear of the sagging bight of the kedge-cable. The men at the after-capstan could begin to haul it in and swing about the stern, which had paid off sou'west and eater-cornered.

'Well, damme…' Mister Buchanon swore. 'Again! Slower'n treacle! Where's our salute, I ask ye?'

Neither fort-the New Fort nor the Citadel-showed the slightest sign of activity. It was Trieste all over again. Worse. At least at Trieste they'd gotten a reply to their salute-late and clumsy as it had been performed. Corfu, it seemed, couldn't even be bothered with replying. The only things that stirred atop their walls were the flags!

'Ship's proper-anchored, Captain,' Knolles reported about fifteen minutes later. 'Your gig's below the starboard entry-port.'

'Thankee, Mister Knolles.' Lewrie nodded to him, doffing his hat in salute to Knolles's lifted hat. 'I'll go ashore, then. Wish I had Mister Mountjoy aboard. At least he could speak some Italian.'

'All that's wanting is to rig quarterdeck awnings, sir. And I'll see to that, soon as you've left the deck,' Knolles promised.

'Very well, Mister Knolles. You are in charge until I return. Whenever that might be. I'll send word 'bout the prisoners soon as I get permission to land 'em,' Alan told him, tugging his clothes neat. 'Assuming there really are some Venetian authorities to talk with.'

'Might be some saint's day, sir,' Knolles opined as he walked with him to the entry-port. 'Or they extend Carnival longer here.'

'Might be they're blind and stupid into the bargain, Mr. Knolles,' Lewrie hooted, doffing his hat to take the departure salute from his men.

'Oh… d'ye mean Venetian, sir?' Knolles japed back.

Corfu Town, though, was a most pleasant place, he had to admit: well-wooded, shaded, and park-like, with several wide, open squares and wide, collonaded main thoroughfares. A seeming maze of lanes and narrower streets, nicely stepped and flagstoned, climbed inland and towards either fort-some buildings rising to five or seven stories. They were rather plainly wrought, but well plastered and painted in pastels or natural shades. Perhaps the sea-wind swept most of the noisome stinks of town away before they registered, he thought, for Corfu had a pleasant aroma of countryside dust, olive and fig trees heavy with spring blooms in the hinterlands and jasmine, broom rose, wisteria and orange-trees in the bright little gardens. Pines, scrub oaks and even cypress trees sang a pleasant, continual rustling lullaby.

He'd gotten a tour of the place from the provveditore, a man who fortunately possessed some English, and an aide from Zante who was very fluent. Atop one of the defensive land-side walls, he'd seen greater bucolic splendours, as if some great lord of the realm had decreed long before that the entire island become a decorative park. The hills were bright green with budding olive groves, vineyards and orchards. Every holding he could see from atop the wall, whether a great-house or a more modest country farm villa, was as well landscaped as any estate back in England. The cypresses paraded alongside the dusty roads, while on the hills were silver fir, myrtle, holly-leaved kermes oaks, silver poplar and God only knew what else. And where the fields were not yet tilled or were left fallow for a season, they swayed fragrant with blue or white thistles or asphodels.

Now, standing on the stones of the harbour jetty, his clothing and hair ruffled by a scant but refreshing wind, he could admire every fine but plain aspect of Corfu Town: the wispy, cloud-laced sky against the ivory hues and faint weather-washed pastels of the houses and apartment blocks, the Venetian-style belltowers and church spires, or those forts made of Istrian limestone of a darker, rosier hue. Northward lay the rugged little island of Lazaretto, an ivory and green jumble. And all surrounded by a sea that was almost a peacocks-wing blue. Even farther off on the Turk-held mainland were the Albanian mountains, shading off to a distant purple, capped here and there with stark white snow.

The provveditore had assured him that all the holt del Levant-or Ionians, to their Greek inhabitants-were almost as pretty, though none as fair as Corfu, and Lewrie wished he could stay longer than twenty-four hours to savour their beauty.

He almost wished, for a fond moment, that a man could settle there! The Navy and his wars had taken him to an hundred places that most Englishmen would never see except in black-and-white woodcuts or charcoal etchings, all grander, more exotic, more beguiling than a foggy, rainy and grimy England. He marveled to imagine that, were the world not besotted with hacking away at each other in this war, he'd still be captive upon 160 acres of Surrey smallholding-a rented smallholding!-in wee Anglesgreen, where nothing exciting would