A Jester’s Fortune

Turks two or three to one, to begin with. Like Roman legions were swarmed and massacred by the Huns, Goths, Vandals or Franks. Knowing how badly the Turks outnumbered them, they surely had need of Divine Services, hmm? In the 1300s.. still large cavalry armies, with knights and horses in plate-armour. The Turks on swift Arabs, the Serbs on Clydesdale-sized monsters. Like so many battles of the later Crusades, they hadn't much of a chance to start with. To lose an entire army, empire and sense of identity in one fell swoop, well…! I suspect the tales grew with the years, like the numbers.'

'And they had to have an excuse to soothe the soul, sir?' Alan ventured, wondering all over again just where Charlton stood on their arrangement with the Serbs; was he wholehearted, or grasping at whichever straw might seem to hold him atop deep water?

'Something very much like that, sir,' Charlton purred. 'This Petracic fellow. Remarkable. Bone-headed wrong or not, one must concede he's a shrewd leader of men. They seem to adore him.'

'As long as he produces the loot and a successful raid or two, sir?' Lewrie suggested, not wishing to grant the brute a bit of good credit.

'Goes beyond that, Lewrie,' Charlton sighed. 'Eastern religion is f mystical. So emotional, they make our Methodist 'leapers' look like Cromwell's Puritans. Something from the heart and soul, the very gizzard… from the toes up… and not so much the head, like us. Captain Petracic is more a holy warrior to his men, or so Leutnant Kolodzcy explains. Once he nosed about. Catholic Croats encroaching on Old Serbia, trying to turn emotional Serbs into logic-paring Jesuits, or baptising at the point of a sword. Muslims, well… Petracic was a priest, d'ye see. A minister of the Serbian Orthodox Church. Still is, I s'pose. He's the spiritual leader of his band, as well as being their fiercest warrior. Captain Mlavic, the other so-called officers, his under-captain aboard his galliot, would follow him anywhere.'

'His… under-captain, sir?'

'Oh, some fellow named Djindjic… or howsoever one translates that into sounds.' Charlton chuckled, attempting to spell it. 'He's the real captain of the galliot. Petracic was a partisan fighter from the mountains first, and a priest or whatever at some shrine built by Stefan I… Milutin, perhaps. Memory's rather hazy. Too much to take in at one go.'

'That or their plum brandy, I'd expect, sir.' Lewrie grinned.

'Gad, yes, ain't it?' Charlton replied with a breathless look. 'Church of… hmm. Ah! Church of the Virgin of Grachanitsa. As much a holy temple to the old Serbian emperors as it was to God, I gathered from a chat with Kolodzcy. He's shrewd and knacky, for not having any experience at sea. Well, not much, at any rate. It may be Petracic is shrewd enough to know when he's bitten off more than he may chew. And will renege on our bargain, with some profit gained with no effort. I equally expect him to get that radiant look on his phyz and rally the troops for a sail south. For a chance to bash some Albanian Muslims.'

'But that's the holy war we were wary of starting, sir.'

'Start, end… continue,' Charlton dismissed. 'It doesn't signify,

Lewrie. We'll know more once I've gone down to Palagruza and 'fronted him direct. And released Pylades to cover one of the ports you discovered, while I take another. With or without Petracic.'

'You said he's a priest, sir,' Lewrie countered. 'A bit of a mystic. Might that go as far as hearin' voices, sir? Daft as bats… and seein' snakes and centipedes? Might he-'

'I'd imagine the plum-brandy's the culprit, anent the snakes and centipedes, Lewrie.' Charlton laughed out loud once more. 'Damme, sir! You've done my spirits no end of good. Admiral Jervis hinted you were a bit of a wag, too, sir. And, again, didn't speak the half of it. I find you one of the most energetic and aggressive Sea Officers ever I've met, Lewrie. As I will note in my appreciation of your recent voyage, once I've read your whole report. Which, should I ever speak a British ship, I will despatch to Admiral Jervis, instanter.'

'You might discover one at Corfu, sir,' Lewrie told him. 'The currants are ripe, and there are several of our merchantmen lading now.' 'Currant duff!' Charlton beamed, almost childlike in a sudden rapture. 'Aye, that's where they come from, ain't it? Corfu, and the Isles of the Levant. A fresh currant duff, not stuffed with fruit six months in-stores. I've a relish for one of those, Lewrie. A most rapacious relish, of a sudden. As I'm certain my ship's people have, too.'

He stood, his wineglass, and Lewrie's, now empty. Their little chat was ended. Like a good boy, Lewrie rose as well, knowing he still hadn't changed Charlton's mind about using Petracic and his pirates any further. And getting a fey feeling that, with all that he'd heard from Captain Charlton about the man, things could only get worse-very much worse!-before Charlton washed his hands of the matter.

'Well, do you not have need to put in at Trieste to intern prisoners, nor any captures for the Prize-Court,' Captain Charlton breezed on, as he came round the desk to escort Lewrie to the forrud entry on Lionheart's gun-deck, 'put in at Venice, there's a good fellow. Pick up the latest information regarding the French Army's doings. Take a bit of shore-leave for yourself, and your people. You've earned that twice over the last few days.'

'Aye, sir,' Lewrie agreed rather numbly.

'Should you speak Commander Fillebrowne, relate to him all you have discovered down south, and issue verbal orders from me that he is to bring Myrmidon down to Palagruza, to rendezvous with me. We've seen no sign that the French will yet dare send military supplies into the Adriatic to succour this General Bonaparte's troops, last I spoke him myself.'

'Very good, sir,' Lewrie replied, essaying a cooperative grin and putting his best face on his disappointment.

'Uhm… might have a confabulation with our trade consul, once you're ashore, Lewrie,' Charlton suggested, once they'd emerged upon the gun-deck, amid a flurry of Marine sentries and a stiffening side-party on the starboard gangway. 'See does he have a clue as to which Venetian merchant-houses might be most involved in the illicit trade. Then he may be able to put a flea in some senator's ear. They're so weak, they may not care for their pose of strict neutrality violated. By anyone.'

'Prompting a silk-cord strangling in the Doge's Prison, 'cross the Bridge of Sighs, sir?' Lewrie hinted.

'Be it spiritually justifiable to pray God, Lewrie.' Charlton laughed as he clapped on his hat at the foot of the gangway ladder. 'I see you've been swotting up on the local geography, ha ha!'

'Aye, sir.' Lewrie shrugged.

'I've taken on more cast-off Austrian muskets and such. Do you have any suggestions as to future supplies for our allies, Lewrie?'

'Half a million rounds, sir,' Lewrie most sardonically said.

'Half a million made cartridges?' Charlton goggled.

'No, sir. Vowels,' Lewrie quipped. 'The Serbs seem most in need of vowels than anything else.'

'Be off with you, you wag! You knacky scamp!' Charlton roared, clapping him on the back like he was an old school chum allowed such a closeness. 'And dream up more ways to confuse our foes!'

'I'll do that very thing, sir,' Lewrie agreed, just before he went up the ladder to the waiting side-party.

Though there's foes, he thought, and then there's foes!

CHAPTER 11

'Why ain't I surprised?' Lewrie scoffed, once he'd heard from the hapless Lieutenant Stroud that Commander Fillebrowne was not to be found.

'He's ashore, sir,' Stroud pouted, moonfaced and half abashed.

'About the city.'

'Should I seek him in the art galleries, Mister Stroud?' Lewrie asked with a wry grin. 'Or the knockin'- shops?'

'Ahum, well, sir,' Lieutenant Stroud said with a miserable expression, 'he is that keen for a bargain, but… I do believe he said he might be dining with Sir Malcolm and Lady Shockley. A standin' invitation? Or he might not, depending whether they were in and receiving today, sir.'

'What, they're still here?' Lewrie scowled, even further irked. 'Thought they were off for the Holy Land long