A Jester’s Fortune

, Thank God for small miracles, Alan thought wildly; my own side hasn't gut-shot me! Yet, he amended.

'We'll be close behind you, fending 'em off. Now go, sir!' He turned to face the pirate camp, which was sorting itself out at last, with Mlavic the loudest and fiercest, about thirty yards off. And felt a light tap on the back of his coat collar. He turned…

'Patrick always said…'-she shuddered, looking achingly lovely for someone who could still get chopped-'Have a 'touch for luck.' Touch a sailors collar. Thank you!' She smiled once more.

'Hope it works, Mistress Connor… for somebody.' He grinned. Then she was gone, gathering up her half- stunned and wailing child, to join Mr. Howse by some low bushes further down the slope to the beach.

'Achtung, eine Angriff kommen!' Kolodzcy warned. 'Mlavic!'

With most of his men sorted out, Mlavic had turned his attention to them again, him and a dozen others, coming at the trot.

'Captain, I kill you!' Mlavic howled. 'Kill you slow!'

'Carefully… aimed fire,' Lewrie ordered, leveling his first pistol at full-cock, waiting 'til they got within ten paces. Furious for blood or not, the pirates shied a bit, none of them wishing to be in the lead, with Mlavic howling and driving them on.

BANGG! The harsher, chuffing bark of a 2-pounder boat-gun down near the beach, spewing canister in an expanding cloud of lead pellets. BANGG! came a second, slashing at the centre of the pirates' camp and flinging men off their feet. The landing-party was within yards of the shore, Alan most gratefully realized, the small guns mounted in the bows of their boats! Those shots raised a wailing from the wounded, behind and to Mlavic's rear, and froze his men for a second to peer or check their progress, wondering what new deviltry was coming.

Lewrie took aim and fired, and one pirate dropped his weapons to grab at his shattered thigh, but Lewrie had been aiming at his chest! He tossed that one away, brought up his last. Spendlove fired but missed, then Kolodzcy lit off his first, taking one man in the throat and throwing his blood-spouting body back into another.

But then they were dashing forward again, and Lewrie fired that last pistol as Kolodzcy did his. One went whirling down, with a wound in his shoulder, Lewrie's target screamed rabbity as he was plumbed in his stomach; Lewrie had been aiming for his upper chest!

So much for Arabee pistols, Alan thought, tossing away his last pistol and drawing his hanger. The odds were better, though, he told himself grimly; four down-that's eight-to-three.

Lewrie took stance, hanger held low before his middle at Tierce, and it took an unthinking second to go from Third into a box-defence, then riposte, and sweep his keen Gill's across his first opponent, to rip his belly open! There was a shrill scream from his right, as one more pirate came lurching backwards, pedaling to stay upright, clutching his skewered stomach to plop and thrash. Then it was Mlavic before him, stepping over that mortally wounded man and snarling defiance!

At low Third again, the first engagement ringing, Mlavic beginning with a slash down from high-right, easily parried, turned over by a flying cut-over, then a lunge low, and Mlavic was backpedaling, too, suddenly wary. He came on as Lewrie stamped forward a foot or two, with a back-slash from his left, again easily parried. Mottled Damascus met British Gill's, sparks flying from edge-to-edge, and that curving blade singing as it carved the air!

No swordsman, Alan exulted, already panting for air. A quarter-circle scimitars made for cuttin', not the point… get inside! And he don't know anything else.

'Marines!' Came a distance-thinned bray from Sergeant Bootheby, on the beach at last. 'Cock yer locks… lev-el? By volley.. .fire!' Then the welcome rattle of musketry, and over Mlavic's right shoulder Lewrie could see Serbs falling back in disorder, right to the edges of their encampment, even as he and Mlavic still fought, their hands and eyes performing without conscious thought in furious melee. Lewrie hoped Mlavic might turn his head for a squint, but it wasn't to be.

A thin cry to his left, which Lewrie also ignored, but there was Spendlove in the corner of his eye, in full whirl, having downed one for himself. His ear caught a cessation of tinkering to his right as a heavy body thudded to the ground without a cry.

'Vier!' Kolodzcy hooted in triumph, even as he engaged another. Almost decent odds now, Alan thought, beating out a box-defence by rote, jabbing with his straighter Gill's for an inner-arm cut or a thigh-cut, an eye-jab, which made Mlavic retreat steadily, now wheezing with anger and effort as his slashes and clumsy lunges were made nought. Lewrie made his face a feral grin, to discomfit him.

But then Mlavic leaped backwards, spry for such a heavy man-to draw that wicked black-iron butcher-knife from its sheath, and come back to the attack with a blade in each hand, slashing or stabbing like a two-headed monster! Lewrie had to give ground, grunting hoarse as he fought to meet both. And it was Mlavic's turn to gloat!

Now, where's help when I need it? Alan groaned. Marines, sailors, a knife… bloody table-fork, anything! He searched for a stick, some discarded weapon, a blazing brand from one of the fires…!

'Funf!' Kolodzcy shouted; another of his foe-men down. Then a grunt from the left as a pirate staggered away, clutching at a torn sword-arm where Spendlove had laid him open. Yards away, though; he'd been lured out towards the centre of the camp. A fainthearted Serb went har-ing by, dashing for the far shore, all the fight scared out of him.

Mlavic's scimitar was coming, this time not in a slash, but with a straight-armed lunge, wrist inverted and cutting-edge up! Lewrie swept to parry off low and left, flail it over high and right, slide down and slash at his arm with the edge to slow him down-quick, for his knife from the right…! He met the knife's blade, parried that wide and away… swordl Down and slashing with his tip, he nicked the pirate on the chin, through that tangled mat of beard, felt his hanger clang as he continued down and to his left onto the scimitar, but…

He was off balance, wrong-footed, counter-lunging to fend that bastard back for some stumbling room. A feint from the knife, though, and he was ducking to his left, and Mlavic stepped back, and Alan felt a searing pain on his left outside calf, a drawing stroke! Buggered! he gibbered.

He retreated on his right leg, a three-foot leap, but as soon as his weight came down on his left leg, he was sprawling on his back, as it folded on him like a shoddy stool. And Mlavic was on him before he could blink! Lewrie feebly put his hanger up to ward him off.

Clang! though.

Suddenly there was a sword above him, horizontal, whirling silvery in parry, jabbing and darting as Lieutnant Kolodzcy stepped over him and forced Mlavic away! Dancing sidewise in little, fitful hops and jumps almost too swift to be followed, to circle large round the hunkering, wary bear-shuffle of a stunned Mlavic, drawing him off toward the fire in the middle of the camp.

By God, that hurt! Lewrie felt like screaming. His calf was ablaze with pain, and blood gushed freely, making him wonder how near to bleeding to death he was, how close to losing his lower leg, even did he get the bleeding stopped! 'Ah, Christ!' he yelped, going light-headed, faint, feeling that weak swoon that always seized him after a fight. And hearing an immense waterfall-ringing in his ears.

Then hands were on his body, lifting him by his shoulders, and someone large and hulking was kneeling near his left leg. There came a painful bout of rasping as something rough went taut below his knee that squeezed and squeezed.

'Be fine, sir, be fine, swear it,' he heard from his left, and there was Spendlove, disheveled, nicked and bleeding, perspiring like a Canton coolie, but whole. A scent in his nostrils, like a spiced tea… rosemary and thyme, attar of some flowers, too? No, soap, rosemary and thyme, clean hair.

Couldn't be Spendlove, he thought weakly.

He lolled his head right, to try and focus on Mrs. Connor, who sat by his right shoulder, supporting him, felt a cool, soft hand on his brow, stroking so gently…

The hulking form was back, pawing him and prodding vigourously. There came the thud of a wooden box, the tinkle of gleaming, silvery things. More fire in his calf as something wet and stinging was laved over it, and he caught the sweet-and-sulfur tang of West Indies rum on the air. Then came a single blazing-red star from somewhere not that far away, wavering and sputtering, nearing…

'… see this, ma'am. Cover his ears, perhaps?' someone said. It was the hulking thing, shuffling on its knees upward to peer into his face. Surgeon Mister Howse!

'Bite on this,' he said, offering a folded leather strop, all foetid, dried and mangled as old shoes, and bitten by