A Jester’s Fortune

flutterings of the commissioning pendant high aloft as it streamed like a weathervane to steer by… the compass bedamned, from there on out. They cursed softly as they put their weight on it, judging by feel of the tiller-ropes' tension and the wind on their cheeks if they were coasting too close toward luffing; scanning the sea off the larboard bows for a contrary skeining of rivulets on the wavetops, or a glass-smooth patch of calm.

'Over, now, ye square-head!' Spenser grunted. 'Oh, ye lady, oh, ye sweet'un! 'At's our darlin' lass!'

'Rasmus!' Brauer hissed as he fed from the lee side to Spenser on the windward. 'Ach,ja! Lir… bitte!'

Christ, e'en the Germans're believers now! Lewrie grumbled to himself. Callin' on his old sea-god… and ours!

The brig was most nicely cooperating. As she rounded up, wearing close-hauled to the Sou'west, she lost ground to leeward and spent all her windward placement. Suddenly she was within a quarter mile off the starboard bows and nearly a cable to the right of Jester's course.

Should he charge up her larboard side? Lewrie smiled. They were not two hundred yards off! Mlavic? Hah! Stupid shit.

The brig s manoeuvre had thrown Mlavic off. Jester would reach her first and be between him and the prize. With a happily imagined eruption of head-fur as Mlavic tore his hair out, the dhow was hauling her wind and falling off to cross Jesters stern. If Mlavic couldn't catch her by passing left, he'd duck down and pass right, and assault the brig's leeward side. But that'd put him in the wind-shadow of Jester's tall masts and massive spread of sail, and rob him of the wind-strength he needed to hold his course or make his current speed, making his attack even later!

'Might be uncanny knacky t'keep finding us, Mr. Buchanon,' Lewrie noted. 'But he's not a clever sailor, is he?'

'What need have we o' such a 'no-sailor,' 'en, Cap'um?'

'Only God above-and Captain Charlton-knows, sir,' Lewrie replied. 'Mister Knolles? Ready to get our way off. Once we've fired her a cheery hello, be ready to fetch-to and get boats down.'

'Aye aye, sir!'

'Mister Hyde, still with us?' Lewrie asked, craning about.

'Here, sir,' the midshipman replied, stepping forward.

'Strike the French flag and hoist the proper colours,' Lewrie said, pacing to the forward edge of the quarterdeck. 'Mister Crewe? Warning shot, once we've our own colours aloft. Does she haul away, though, do you serve her a full broadside!'

And there the brig lay, just a bit ahead of abeam, within a long musket-shot, thrashing away to windward and safety frantically, with her captain and first mate by her windward rails with speaking-trumpets in their hands. Crewmen were waving tarred hats or long, red Frog stocking caps, giving their 'ally,' their 'rescuer,' a hearty Gallic cheer.

' 'Alloo!' the brig's captain shrilled. 'Bon matin, m'sieur!'

'Colour's aloft, sir!' Midshipman Hyde yelled from astern.

'Open the gun-ports and run out, Mister Crewe! Warnin' shot!'

With a deep thunderous growl of wooden truck wheels on oak decks, the guns of the starboard battery were hauled up to the ports, the same time as the port lids were swung up and out of the way, interrupting the pacific dark-green gunwale stripe with a chequer of blood-red interior bulwark paint as they hinged flat against Jester's side.

The starboard focs'le carronade erupted with a titanic belch of smoke and flame, placing an 18-pounder solid iron ball in the sea just fifty feet ahead of the brig's beak-head rails and figurehead, splashing a great pillar of spray as high as her fore-course yard, which sheeted on her foredecks as she sailed into it like a sudden summer sun- shower.

'And a bloody good morning t'you as well, m'sieur!' Lewrie cried across. It was difficult to shout, though; he was laughing too hard at the looks of utter disbelief on the Frenchmen's phyzes! 'Amenez-vous? Do you strike? Or do I blow you t'Hades?' he demanded, patting the cold iron barrel of the nearest quarterdeck carronade.

The brig's captain was stamping his feet and raging in a circle about his deck, like he was trying to kill an entire plague of roaches. He flung his speaking-trumpet at Jester-almost reached her, he was so exercised! But, after a final fist-shake and tearing off his hat-to do a furious stomping on that, too!-he howled at his after-guard.

And her Tricolour came sagging down.

CHAPTER 7

'Lie!' Dragan Mlavic accused, once he'd attained the gangways on the prize. 'Cheat! British, you cheat and lie! Take for self!'

'Sir,' Lewrie countered, icily civil, 'you were too far down to leeward. Understand… leeward? Too far off. You almost cost us the… our prize, by tacking too soon. Gave the game away.'

'So now you keep?' Mlavic raged, flexing knobby rough fingers about the hilt of his expensive scimitar. He'd been followed by three of his larger and most rakehellish accomplices, who couldn't follow a bloody word that was said, of course, but were willing to back Mlavic to the hilt against strangers.

'On the contrary… sir,' Lewrie replied, grinding his teeth to remain calm. It wasn't every day an English gentleman was told he was a liar or a cheat; those were dueling words, gentleman-to-gentleman, a cause for blood! 'You are entitled to a share of her goods, just as we agreed back at Mjlet with your leader.'

And however do ye really pronounce that? Alan wondered.

'And I'll thankee t'take your hand off your sword hilt, before I get angry. Sir,' Lewrie dared snap.

' 'Fore some'un gets bad hurt fo' insultin' ou' cap'um, heah me?' Andrews spoke up from Lewrie's right rear, with his right hand firm on the hilt of his slung cutlass. 'Ya un'erstan' 'hurt,' mon?' Andrews threatened, backed up by Midshipman Spendlove and five hands off Lewrie's gig. 'Be easy, now.'

Mlavic squinted his beady little eyes, screwing his face up like he'd caught a whiff of something rotten. For a second or two, he tried to puff out his chest like a pigeon, but thought better of it. Andrews was something out of his experience, a West Indies black seaman, sprung up like a vengeful djinn in Turkish tales, and as fearsome as an ogre. Wearing a coxswain's pipe, pistol and sword, and backed by other hands spoiling for a fight. With a raspy sigh, he deflated, cowed.

'Aye, let's be easy. A misunderstanding,' Lewrie allowed.

There was a vituperative, gargling diatribe in Serbo-Croat fired at Mlavic's backers. Sounded damn vituperative, anyway, Alan thought. But Mlavic let go the hilt of his scimitar, to cross his arms over his chest, and his escorts ostentatiously made their own hands go someplace inoffensive and unthreatening, rather self-consciously.

'That's better,' Lewrie said. 'Stand easy, Andrews. Lads.'

'Want guns,' Dragan Mlavic grumbled, sounding much abashed but still pigheaded determined to get his fair due. 'Guns, shot, powder.'

The brig mounted some small 2-pounder boat-guns for stern or bow-chasers, and no more than six 6-pounder carriage guns. All were rather rusty and badly cared for, the carriages looking as dry and fragile as abandoned barn planking. The ready-use shot in the rope garlands near the guns appeared welded together by a reddish oxide scale. Lewrie had no use for them, and if Mlavic could clean them up, paint and oil, file and sand them back into a semblance of proper maintenance, then he was more than welcome to them.

'They are yours, captain Mlavic,' Lewrie grandly offered. 'As we agreed. Courtesy of the Royal Navy.'

The thick-set pirate beamed at that news, turned to his sailors and told them of their bounty, which made them smile at last, and made Mlavic preen like a man just presented with a spanking-new silk coat.

'Anything else you wish, sir?' Lewrie said, trying to mollify the man further. 'Ihave her papers, here, and her