A Jester’s Fortune

manifest. She carries wine, cheese, flour, pasta, brandies, various manufactured goods… understand 'manifest'?'

'Manifest, da.' Mlavic nodded vigourously. 'This I knowing. I see?' He peered at the offered lists Lewrie held out to him, head over to one side and running a tar-stained finger down the top one. Breathing hard.

Can he read a manifest in French? Lewrie wondered. Or can this oak stump read at all? He pointed to an entry-Trousers: 12 Bundles,Used/Mended.

'Any use for this, sir?' Lewrie queried, tongue-in-cheek. 'Quite a tasty assortment for you and your men. Various flavoured brandies.'

'Brandy, da.' Mlavic nodded again, eyes almost crossing with the intensity of his pondering, but glowing piggishly delighted. 'Captain brandy? Or, ratafia.. . serve crew? No good, ratafia, pooh!' he spat.

No, he can't read it! Lewrie exulted. Got you!

''Why don't you just tick off what you wish, hmm?' he offered, feeling sly-boots. 'Then boat your choices over to your ship, hey?'

Now worm yer way out o' that'un, ya poxy clown! Lewrie thought.

'What you want?' Mlavic countered with a suspicious glint in his eyes. 'You pick. Send, your ship. We take rest, da?'

Baited me right back, by God, thought Lewrie, still smiling as if he didn't wish to strangle the hairy bastard that instant.

The winds hadn't picked up considerably, but the seas still long-rolled over seven to eight feet, and Jester, the captured brig and the dhow were pitching, rolling and slatting in a continual clatter as they lay fetched-to. To manhandle cargo up from the holds onto the deck and then down into ship's boats would be pluperfect buggery. Only the very smallest or lightest items could make the journey without getting hands injured or drowned; not much beyond what people could carry in a canvas sea-bag of plunder, and not much beyond a couple of hundredweight into each boat at a time, making the transfer an entire day's drudgery, and a danger-fraught steeplechase for crewmen in wildly tossing boats.

Mr. Giles and his Jack-in-the-Breadroom were standing by, nigh salivating over the goodies the brig held. He could replenish Jester to a fair approximation of Royal Navy standard rations with the stored flour, rice, dried beans and salt-meats. They might be short of issue rum by then, but the brig's vin ordinaire would more than suffice, and the best part of the situation was that whatever he could transship to Jester was absolutely scot-free, taken from a prize for nothing, instead of having to k cough up his personal funds, or Navy Board funds, for them. The purser would still charge for their issue, though, making his five percent. He already had several small crates or chests laid out, Lewrie saw. Tobacco twists for those who chewed, snuff for those that preferred it that way and loose shag tobacco for the smokers. Twelve percent profit on that, along with his slop-goods. Lewrie thought Giles might even desire one of those bundles of Trousers, Used/Mended!

'There are some few things we could use, Captain Mlavic.' Alan shrugged. 'To allow Jester to keep the seas.'

'Good. You take. We keep ship,' Mlavic announced. 'What?'

'Promise ship. Here is ship,' Mlavic pointed out.

'But Captain Rodgers was to capture a ship for you. For Captain Pe-tracic, rather,' Alan objected. 'Surely he's done that by now.'

'Ship, Ratko, da,' Mlavic sniggered, doggedly insistent. 'Want ship, Dragan. My ship.'

'You have a ship there,' Lewrie said, pointing at the dhow.

'Want ship.' Mlavic frowned. 'This ship. More men come, sail both.'

'Don't have more men now,' Lewrie countered. 'Too few to man this ship and yours at same time. French crew, you'll have to guard.'

Damme, now he's got me jabberin' pidgin! Lewrie fretted; all that lovely wine aboard, and damned if I ain't short!

'I take ship,' Mlavic announced, like a petulant child. Lewrie thought he was ready to stick out his lower lip or hold his breath 'til he

turned blue!

'And can you handle a brig, sir?' Lewrie quibbled. 'It's not like your lateener, not-'

'When boy, go to sea,' Mlavic shot back, nettled that his professional skills were being questioned. 'Go Ragusa, work Venetian ship. Go Corfu, work Naples' ship. Go Malta, work Maltese ship. Go Genoa… work ship, bilander, poleacre, brig… all same. Work Trieste, Venice, Cadiz, Lisbon, all over. Topman, helm, bosun mate… even work Zante… British traders come for currants, da? Go Pool of London, once. Hand, reef and steer, da? Handle brig, da! You give brig. Take some cargo. We keep rest.'

Christ, next he'll say he was Able Seaman, R.N.! Alan sighed.

'You have, what… forty hands?'

'Half for dhow, half for brig.'

'Mind, you'll have to guard the French prisoners, too.'

'No, you take.'

'Captain Mlavic, I can't.' Lewrie sighed again. 'Lookee here, sir. The agreement was for us to operate separately. Secretly. Now, do I turn up at Trieste with French prisoners, the word gets out that I took her and turned her over to you, d'ye see? If she's your prize, then I'm afraid you're stuck with 'em. You'll have to take 'em back to Palagruza and dump 'em in that prison stockade your Captain Petracic was to build.'

'No,' Mlavic pouted.

' 'Fraid you'll have to. Can't continue your cruise with a brig and a dhow both half- manned,' Lewrie pointed out. 'All of 'em, mind. In good health,' he added, wondering if Mlavic was not above killing them and dumping the bodies over the side like 'blackbirders' did with sickly slaves. 'I have a list of their names, and, as we agreed, I'll pay you an English shilling a head, right now, for their well-being. You'll be able to feed 'em with the stores aboard.'

Lewrie snuck a glance at the small knot of French prisoners by the foremast. Government-hired by the French or a speculative voyage, even the French shipmasters were averse to hiring on any more hands than was absolutely necessary. There were only nineteen men, including the cook and the snot-nosed cabin servants, aboard her.

'Now, we'll put in somewhere, find a calm lee behind some island and transfer some supplies to Jester, sir,' Lewrie pressed. 'But if you want this brig, then you'll have to take them, into the bargain.'

Then sail back to Palagruza and outa my hair, please Jesus? he thought hopefully, eager to be shot of the bastard.

'Take brig, da,' Mlavic grunted, broken-hearted, piggish. 'Take prisoners, da. No hurt them, da. I agree.'

'Good, then,' Lewrie breathed out, quite pleased of a sudden.

'Go now, Palagruza.' Mlavic beamed. 'Srpski narod, poor. Have nothing, year and year. British, rich navy, have much. Dragan, he take all. Now,' Mlavic said, looking as if he were ready to start weeping over the plight of his people all over again.

Well, if that's what it takes to make him go, then fine! Lewrie silently mused; and may he have joy of it! God, 'fore he blubbers up!

'Very well, sir,' Lewrie relented, doffing his hat and forcing himself to look 'shit-eatin' ' pleasant. 'She's yours. Good hunting-'

'Nineteen shilling,' Mlavic interrupted, hand out like a Mother Abbess in a knockng-shop. 'Nineteen prisoner, I hear say. I knowing. Nineteen shilling. Knowing shilling, too.'

And Lewrie was forced to dig into his breeches pockets and rummage about for coins. With no need of purse or