A Jester’s Fortune

did nod burn. All veil-manned unt vahry veil-armed.

De small boats carry fighters, too, but nod guns ohf grade sdrength. Hun-drets ohf veil-armed varriors. Unt he vill issue a call for more ad once. Ach, scheisse … he recites again,' Kolodzcy sighed. 'Lasd orders ohf Knez Lazar to all Serbs. Whoever ist a Serb, unt ohf Serbian birt'… unt who does nod come to Kossovo Polje to do baddle against die Durks… led him heff neider a male nor a female offspring, led him heff no crop

Petracic was swaying, expostulating a litany of vengeance upon ancient foes, for massacres and tyranny, theft of lands, for rapes and murders, tortures so unspeakably vile… growing angrier and louder, the longer he spoke. It needed but little translation. A wincing moment later, though, he looked almost shamefaced, calming too quickly and growing very sad as he poured himself some brandy.

'How long he hess waited for dhis,' Kolodzcy supplied. 'Dhis may be de chance. Only a liddle aid, to tip de scales. Only liddle deed, berhabs… to tip his scales. He fears dhey vill be too few… vill you sail to Palagruza unt summon Dragan Mlavic? he asks. Dhen Dragan can brink more recruits… rouse de goast before he comes unt summon more fighters.'

'Tell him I will, with pleasure, sir,' Lewrie soberly agreed. 'Ef'ry chourney begins vit bud a single sdep, he says. Even if dhey are too few to do grade deed ad once, id ist de 'single sdep,' ' Kolodzcy rather morosely uttered as Petracic poured them more brandy, almost fatalistically cheerful. 'Strike vhere our enemies, unt his… vill be most affecded. Nod a Venetian port, he assures. He fears-' Few! That's it, by God! Lewrie brightened. That's the one. 'Then let me tell him an ancient poem of England, Kolodzcy,' Alan interrupted. 'Long, long ago, when England was just the one isle, weak and small, facing the might of… Catholic France, 'cross our narrow seas. And we'd told the Pope in Rome to stuff it. Founded the Established Church of England. Protestant…'

Christ, Henry V-VIII-who gives a damn, Lewrie told himself; he don't know our history, and it makes a better tale!

'Outnumbered five-to-one, theirs a huge cavalry army, armoured and all. Ours much smaller, infantry and country farm lads with nought but bows and arrows. Long, long ago, there was a field… a battlefield… and they called it… Agincourt. Our Kossovo Polje… our doom, or our salvation,' he crooned, like the tales he told Sewallis and Hugh 'fore they were tucked in for the night. 'And but for our proud young king, our bold and merry King Harry, we'd have been lost. Exterminated and England's bones left to the crows.'

So it happened in France when we invaded, he silently quibbled; a minor falsehood in a good cause.

'Every English lad learns this, and it goes like this. Ahem!

'If we are marked to die today, we are enow… enough!… to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honour. Gods Will! I pray thee wish not one man more. By Jove I am not covetous for gold, nor care I who feeds… who doth feed!… upon my cost…'

'Was? Was wovon reden sie… 'doth'?' Kolodzcy stammered. ' 'Does feed upon my cost.' Now stop yer gob an' translate!' 'Jawohl.'

'… such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be sin to covet honour, I am the most offending man alive!'

Lewrie declaimed, forced to his feet to stimulate his memory word-perfect. He could see it already had an affect on Petracic. He began to sway to the mesmerising meter of the old Bard of Avon, no matter it was garbled and 'mar-text' through Kolodzcy's mouth into Serb. Wouldn't old Cogswell-'Hogswill'-be proud o' me now, Alan thought with a smile, reciting; no call for his switch on my shins, no caning for muffing a word. God, t'think that Eton, Westminster School and Harrow came in handy!

'… and this story shall the good men tell their sons, and Saint Crispin's Day shall never go by, from this day… 'til the ending of the world!-but we, in it, shall be remembered. We few-we happy few!-we band of brothers! …'

There came a faint snuffling sound as Petracic wiped his nose on his sleeve, hunched forward like a schoolboy at his first theatregoing, one hand waving like an orchestra leader's, for even Serbo-Croat could not take away all the magic. His eyes glowed wet and righteous.

'… gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here… and hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks… that fought with us, on this Saint… Crispin's… Day!'

He concluded, flourishing one hand sword-thrusted aloft, crying out the last line in his best quarterdeck voice, as he imagined Harry had, to rally his troops-remembering he'd gotten switched, anyway, for being a tad too emotional for a proper English public-school gentleman. 'Hooray for England, Harry and Saint George!' he added.

He reached out for his plum brandy, tossed it off in one go… and strove right-manful not to spew or gasp for air.

'And, 'Rule Britannia,' by Christ!' he stuck on for good measure, slamming the empty glass top-down on the desk between them, showing he'd taken it down past 'heel-taps.'

Petracic stared pony-eyed at him for a moment, then rose with a roar of his own, a harsh, guttural battle-cry, and poured them all refills. So they could toast.

'Dhere vill be grade slaughder,' Kolodzcy mused, once they were back aboard Jester, standing seaward towards the Sou'-Sou'west. 'He vill be ad firsd wictorious. Bud dhen, he rousts die Uscocchi or Croats… unt dhey musd destroy him. Dhere ist no hope for dhem. Nod now, nod effer, perhabs.'

'Would have happened sooner or later anyway, wouldn't it?' Alan snapped, watching the pirate flotilla slowly wane tinier as they left them astern. 'After we had no need for 'em? Isn't that what you said, back at Trieste? They're disposable, expendable, once we've had a good use out I of 'em. 'Dead men tell no tales,' right? Secret's safe, no blot on our escutcheon. Wasn't that the whole idea of takin' 'em on?'

'Ja, id vas,' Kolodzcy uneasily agreed. 'You send dhem to dheir deat's. Far too early.'

'You really give a damn?'

'Bud ohf gourse nod,' Kolodzcy sniffed primly. Then dared to snicker. 'You make Ratko Petracic a vahry happy man, sir. He vill be a mardyr. Anodder Saint Sava… a legent like Knez Lazar. As famous as King Stefan Milutin, Stefan Dusha…'

'Then all will be holy… all will be honourable,' Lewrie said.

' 'Unt de guteness ohf Gott vill be fulfilled.' Again.' Kolodzcy nodded, smiling catlike and inscrutable. 'Unt ve are free of dhem… unt dhis… schtupit idea ist over.'

'You can go back to Trieste,' Lewrie pointed out, 'with your difficult duty done. Not our fault if our hired cutthroats went off on a personal tear. Didn't order him t'do it, now, did we.'

'You vill, ah… find Kapitan Charlton unt inform him ohf dhis… unforeseen change in ewents?' Kolodzcy asked, shooting his cuffs.

'Ah… no.' Lewrie frowned, appalled at the risk he'd run, to rid them of contact with such a foul brood. 'Seems we promised to go find Mlavic first and fetch him and his reenforcements. Then we'll inform Captain Charlton.'

'Our hents are clean,' Kolodzcy surmised, looking like he might begin to hum, or whistle, with satisfaction.

'Well, not really, when you-'

'Verbal orders… or suggestions, sir… gannod be documented,' Kolodzcy hinted with a world-weary wink. 'Unt your Kapitan Charlton, so fond ohf verbal orders… noddink in writink? Unt, who knows, herr Lewrie? Petracic may ewen be successful. Dhen he lives long enough to cepture more French ships. Raise de goastal Serbs. Like a gute courtier… a man may glaim gredit eider vay, nicht wahr?'

'And that, sir,' Lewrie spat, 'is why I so despise 'war on the cheap.' Like my fights clean, I do. No skulking about. No weaselin'. Nor any of the utter cynicism which lies beneath it.'

'Bud you are zo gute ad id, herr Lewrie, I thought…!' The little Austrian simpered.