A Jester’s Fortune

'Well, there is the information 'bout which ports they're going to use, sir… and Venetian complicity,' Knolles said. Gloomily.

'Aye, there is, Mister Knolles.' Lewrie nodded. 'But after we inform Captain Charlton of this new arrangement, just what in Hades may he do about it? We haven't a full ambassador at Venice, just a consul for trade matters, so how high may our consul-a merchant himself!-take a complaint? And it ain't a formal complaint from the Crown or the Foreign Office, so Venice can listen, make soothing noises at him, then forget it, and it's business as usual. It's not as if we'll begin to stop and inspect Venetian ships, either. Ships bound for Venetian ports, carrying perfectly innocent cargoes?'

'Well, there is that, sir, but…' Knolles frowned.

'Timber borne for sale on speculation, with nothing in writing to tie them to French buyers, Batavian buyers… anyone,' Lewrie said with a sneer. 'Nothing our… auxiliaries, the Serbs, could do about it, either, less we want to turn 'em loose on a neutral country. It might work for a few times, but sooner or later word'd get out, and England would be dumped in the quag right up to her eyebrows. God help us, it might even stir those comatose Venetians into arming and fitting their fleet to chase us out of the Adriatic! 'Fore they do for Petracic and his cutthroats, mind.'

'Aye, sir,' Knolles replied. 'Cleft stick, hmm?'

'Perhaps.' Lewrie sighed, taking another sip of wine. 'Perhaps not. You gentlemen recall last year, off the Genoese Riviera, and much the same sort of problem with Tuscan and Genoese traders? And neutrals hand-in-glove with the Frogs? How did our former squadron commander, Captain Nelson, handle it? Recall what he said about acting upon his own initiative, did he determine his actions were contrary to orders or the lack of 'em… but best for Navy, King and Country, in the long run.'

He saw a whole new set of expressions on their phyzes. Curiosity he'd hoped for; but a sudden wariness, a trepidation that his comments presaged some insubordinate, high-handed, lunatick freebooting? Some deed as mad as a March Hare?

Pretty much what they've come t'expect, 'board this barge, Alan told himself with a well-hidden smirk.

'Our first duty would, at first, seem to be to dash off and tell Captain Charlton,' he continued. 'That's the safe and dutiful. Toss this lit shell into his lap, wave a cheery 'ta-ta,' and leave it up to him t'snuff it out 'fore it blows up in his face.'

'Beg your pardon, sir, but… ain't that why they pay him a lot more than us?' Lieutenant Knolles japed. Though Lewrie saw that his hands had a damn firm death-grip on the edge of the table and his wineglass.

'Normal custom and usages of the Fleet, Mister Knolles.' Lewrie chuckled. 'Plod on, deaf and dumb, well to windward of risk.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Knolles said in dumb agreement, but his expression said something else, though his face was taut and unreadable. Lewrie knew that sound, and that look. Had he not used it himself to a senior officer-a dozen or more?-the last sixteen years? Bleat 'Aye aye' and put on your gambler's mask, cross your legs and hope when the other dirty shoe dropped, it didn't turn out half as horrible as you expected?

'For now, we're the only ship on-station, sirs,' Lewrie said to them all, explaining carefully. 'Now, if this information of ours does Captain Charlton no immediate good, then we aren't exactly bound to tear off and give it to him… immediately. How long may it take to find him… a week or more? Leaving the straits wide open for two weeks or more? No, I had something else in mind we could do for the next few days. Mr. Knolles? At dawn, I'd admire did we alter course. Let's sail over for a peek into Cattaro. We haven't seen it yet, and it's closest for any French ship to get its load of timber. Shortest voyage for a Venetian supplier, too. Right up to the harbour mole. You'll inform the Sailing Master, so he'll know to have his charts selected.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Knolles dutifully piped. Rather calmly, Alan decided; even allowing for a bit of 'crisp' to his voice, that shudder he hid so well, that look of 'Oh shit, where s this all going?' as he contemplated a quick end to a rather promising career should he be implicated.

'Then we'll have us a stroll down to Volona, then a quick dash back to Durazzo, too.' Lewrie smiled wolfishly. 'Corfu last. That'd be best, I think. Unpredictable movements.'

'I see, sir,' Knolles parroted; even if he didn't.

Odd, Knolles thought; all this time I knew he had the scar on his right cheek. Old sword slash or something. So faded-or me so used to it- I barely mark it, these days.

But m the flickering light from the candles on the sideboard and from the gently swaying pewter lanthorn on the overhead deck-beams every now and then a trick of their shadows made it stand out. Darker a bit more ruddy and fresh-more prominent.

More ominous. For someone, Knolles thought.

CHAPTER 9

'Dawn by my reckonin'll be half an hour yet, Cap'um,' Mister Bu-chanon promised. 'False dawn within five minute.'

'And our position, Mister Buchanon?' Lewrie asked in a hushed tone, stalking his quarterdeck, swaddled in his boat-cloak against the brisk chill that swept down from the East-Nor'east. They'd had Bora winds during the night, though clocking Easterly as the Middle Watch had wound down. It might veer enough to form a Levanter by midday. 'Can you assure me of our position as positively, sir?'

' 'At light astern, sir, 'at's th' beacon on th' breakwater, by th' entrance in th' harbour mole. Light t'th' Nor'west by North, 'at's Vido Island. Smallest, yonder… 'at's Lazaretto. We're makin' barely a knot o' drift inshore, fetched-to as we are. E'en so, sir, call it a touch less'n four miles off. A bit o' sunrise'U tell me true,' the Sailing Master assured him. In the light of the candles in the binnacle cabinet he tapped a finger on an accurate Venetian chart, right beside an irregular penciled-in trapezoid-a 'cocked hat' of reckoning from what few shore marks they'd been able to spot with the long night telescopes, which showed everything upside down, unfortunately.

Lewrie left the binnacle and wheel to pace aft to the taffrail, between the two brightly lit lanthorns at Jesters very stern. Golden ripples bal-leted off the ebony sea, far aft and to either beam, as she lay cocked up to weather, waiting for the sun. The wind kissed a part of her sails to sail her forward, caressed the backed jibs to lock her in place as if anchored. A touchy balancing act, against a Bora wind that gusted and muttered, then sighed more softly. With Knolles now gone…

Lewrie looked down over the taffrail, to watch the water break round her rudder and transom post, below the overhang of the gun-room and his great-cabins. His cabin lights were lit, too, and there was Toulon, for a moment, with his nose snuffling the panes of a window, below him. No drift, he thought; well, not much. Gurgling, plashing, sucking sounds arose from the idled hull. A kelpy aroma of weed and slime, a clammy, mussely tinge of a barnacled bottom met his nostrils, along with the faint seashore smell of the not-so-distant land. And the piney, loamy tang of forest on the wind from across the narrows, off the bows, stroking his cheeks as he turned his head from side to side and faced forrud. To weigh them and guess whether Jester needed a pull or a bracing-in to maintain her immobile station 'til dawn.

Fetched-to or not, she moved under his feet with a steady rise and fall, her timbers complaining, and blocks aloft clacking and groaning, her masts working gently as she swayed, pitched easy or fell a bit bows-down as the wind-driven waves in the channel flowed round her like she still had a way on.

He went back forrud to peer into the well-lit compass bowl, to determine had her head fallen off; to blink glim- spotted eyes aloft and strain to make out details of masts, sails and ropes against the skies.

There! No longer ghost-grey, but darkening, beginning to silhouette against a barely lighter greyness, stood the sails. He could see the catheads by the forecastle, make out the brutish humps of the carronades and almost espy the rising, quivering thrust of the jib-boom and bowsprit. A few men could be espied, spectrelike, up forrud.

'False dawn, sir,' Buchanon exulted, 'six minute. Not 'at far off my guess o' five.'

'Close, indeed, Mister Buchanon,' Lewrie congratulated. 'Hmmm. Under the circumstances, let's say…