A Jester’s Fortune

moist, not desiccated, worm-ridden Navy Issue, four months in-stores before they were even opened.

And money!

Say what you would 'bout 'Old Jarvy,' Alan pondered rather happily, but he's put the fear o' God into the Prize-Court! After a full year or more of wrangling over dotted is and crossed t's, or a comma misplaced, they'd honoured Jester's captures at last. He was moderately wealthy- on paper, at least. A tenth paid in specie to officers and men, the rest in certificates of exchange. Over 10,000 pounds sterling, and his share two-eighths' of that, or Ј2,500! With any good luck at all, the Prize-Court would cut loose of the rest, almost doubling his profits!

Swaying a little, improvising on the third verse, he was feeling just over-the-moon with himself…

'Oof!' He grunted, as Toulon landed in his lap. 'Neglected, are we, puss? My playing that bad?'

The black-and-white ram-cats tail was bottled up and lashing. He was here for commiseration, not a regular petting.

'Chivvied out of your napping place, hey? Bad smells below, in your kingdom?' Lewrie chuckled, stroking his pet into a gentler mood. 'Well, won't be for long.'

'Boat ahoy!' Mr. Midshipman Spendlove could be heard to shout over the side at an approaching rowboat. He was the unlucky one in the rotation for harbour watch on such a fine day.

Couldn't be, Lewrie puzzled to himself; though with half a hope, perhaps. More likely orders, an idle visitor off another warship. Or a letter from shore? He stood and tucked the penny-whistle in the waistband of his slop-trousers, giving the arid little port town of San Fiorenzo a wistful glance. There he and his mistress, Phoebe Aretino, had enjoyed such a blissful little house for so short a time. Hell, he could see it from the quarterdeck, plain as the nose on his face!

She'd become known as La Contessa Phoebe, no matter she'd been a soapmaker's and washerwoman's daughter. And a naive courtesan in Toulon.

No, he thought with a shake of his head; that was ended. She'd told him off proper, once and for all, after her unlooked-for visit at Leghorn, when they'd been on the outs already. After catching him with the leg over another woman.

Surprise, surprise, he thought, a touch sarcastic; all for King And Country, that… to bed a Frog spy, under orders, mind! But he'd not been able to tell Phoebe that. Again, under strictest orders.

He imagined it'd turned out best; he sometimes consoled himself that losing the bewitching little minx was in the cards from the beginning. But had she come back to San Fiorenzo, to her native Corsica, to see to her many and varied small-business enterprises? Had she seen his ship at anchor and thought of him, as he still thought of her, now and again? God, it was bloody madness, but …!

'Lionheart!' was the returning hail from the longboat. And, as Alan went to the starboard quarterdeck bulwarks to watch, he could see the bowman raising four fingers, to indicate the grade of honour due their visitor. Four fingers-a bloody Post-Captain! And Alan couldn't recognise the fellow in the stern-sheets, the lean man wearing a pair of epaulets; a Post-Captain of more than three-years' seniority! Perhaps one of 'Old Jarvy's' minions, from the flagship?

'Bloody, bloody Hell!' he spat, feeling as if he'd just been caught on the 'jakes,' with his clothing round his ankles! Middle of a 'Make And Mend' day, though it wasn't the customary Sunday; the men were scattered and idle, and Jester was about as presentable as a Thames turd-barge at Dung Wharf! And himself with no time to go below and change, or way to delay a senior officer until he could!

And, like an omen, a bank of clouds scudded cross the sun, throwing sweeping shadows over the harbour. The fickle spring Sou'east breeze died away, replaced by a gust that swung about from the Nor'east, making the slight chop shiver into a million tiny wavelets, making Jester's shrouds keen, ghost-like.

A gusty land-breeze, off the Alps, down from the Nor'east. From Italy. Cool enough, for a moment, to make him shiver as well. Half his mind-the logical, experienced mariner half-told him it was sign of a change in weather. But the other half, which was almost beginning to believe the Sailing Master's superstitions, told tales of elder sea-gods and portents.

A peace 'tween storms, Lewrie decided grimly; indeed! And he had the odd fey feeling it was ended. Gone and done it again, he chid himself; I should know by now, whenever Life gets soft there's the Devil to pay in the offing!

'Side-party!' Lewrie bellowed. 'Sergeant Bootheby, turn out!'

' 'Tention on th' weather decks! Ship's comp'ny, fall in, face starboard an' off-hats!' Will Cony, the Bosun, was shouting.

'An ill wind, Mister Hyde?' Lewrie sighed, going forrud to meet their strange arrival, as the side-party mustered quickly, with even the Marines in their small-clothes, and no chance to toss on tunics.

'Ill winds never blow anyone any good, sir.' The eighteen-year-old frowned.

'My, my, sir! Such pessimism in one so young!' Lewrie teased.

Though he wasn't smiling when he did.

Nor when the Nor'east gust faded, the harbour waters calmed to a brief, glassy-stillness and the sun and the insistent, warmer Sou'east breeze returned.

CHAPTER 3

Palms slapped on Brown Bess muskets, and the Bosun and his new mate, Sadler, trilled their calls as the makeshift side-party assembled to greet the officer who'd clambered up the man-ropes and battens, ascending at last to the starboard gangway. Lt. Ralph Knolles was there, in the proper fig (and thank God for that! Lewrie thought) to present his sword in salute. On-watch crew members doffed their hats, while the off-watch 'Make and Menders' stood bareheaded, at some form of attention, anyway, amid all their flopping laundry.

Lewrie scampered forward, stuffing his voluminous shirttails into his casual slop-trousers, scuffing his old shoes as he all but hopped to roll down the trouser legs to his ankles.

'Captain Thomas Charlton, come aboard, sir!' he heard the man in the perfect uniform announce to Knolles. 'Your captain?'

'Sir!' Knolles almost barked, distracting Charlton's eye from Lewrie, until he'd gotten somewhat presentable. 'Welcome aboard, sir. Allow me to name myself to you-Lieutenant Ralph Knolles, sir, First Officer.'

'Captain Charlton, sir?' Lewrie said at last.

'Yer hat, sir!' his cabin-servant/valet Aspinall whispered at his side, proffering his abandoned headgear at the last instant. Alan clapped it on his head quickly, leaving a rebellious rogue's lock of slightly curly hair under the front brim over his forehead. 'Commander Lewrie, sir, your servant. Welcome aboard.'

'Ah,' Charlton replied primly, giving him a head-to-foot once-over, cocking a single sardonic eyebrow at what he beheld, as Lewrie doffed his hat in salute. Slop-trousers! Charlton sniffed to himself. No stockings on his ankles! Man's lucky to shew himself shod! Post-Captain Charlton's gaze went to the penny-whistle that Lewrie held in his left hand, along his side like a truncated small-sword. 'Ah,' he reiterated. 'So you're Lewrie.'

'Aye, sir,' Lewrie answered. 'Beg pardon, Captain Charlton, but we're having 'Make And Mend,' after a quick refit, and I wasn't expecting-'

'Quite.' Charlton nodded, seeming to relent a bit. 'Pardons to you, sir, for not prefacing my intention to visit with a note before I did so. Or simply sending you a summons aboard Lionheart. My ship, yonder.' Charlton pointed to the fine 5th Rate that lay farther out in the harbour. There was a note of pride in his voice. 'Well?'

Oh, Christ. Lewrie groaned to himself, feeling the urge to fidget. Bastard wants a glass o' something in my bloody cabins!

'You'll have to excuse the mess, Captain Charlton, but may I offer you a sip of something refreshing?' Lewrie