Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune

"They ran like rabbits, Sir John?" Charlton dared interpose.

Jervis nodded. "Hence, no way to ship them the cash subsidies to fund their armies on the Rhine or in Italy. The Austrian Netherlands are lost, the Dutch and their navy are now French allies, and block the route down the Rhine, or overland through the Germanies. The only port left open to Austria is Trieste, on the Adriatic."

"I see, sir!" Charlton tensed, though filled with a well-hidden exuberance. This smacked of an independent command, of responsibility far from the everyday control of the flagship. Thirty years Charlton had served, in war or peace, from Gentleman Volunteer at age twelve, to Midshipman, then a commission, and years as a Lieutenant. Patrons had eased his climb up the ladder, had gotten him a brig o' war during the American Revolution, promotion to Commander, then at last a ship of his own and his captaincy. Where he'd languished since, even if he did have good patrons and was well connected. He'd not gotten a ship of the line when he'd been called back to the Colours in '93. He was just senior enough for a 5th Rate frigate, HMS Lionheart, one of the new 18-pounders of 36 heavy guns, plus chase-guns and carronades.

But what Sir John Jervis was offering him was a squadron, he speculated. Might it also include a promotion to commodore of the second class? Fly his own broad-pendant at long last, with a flag-captain under him to supervise the day-to-day functioning of his new ship? Perhaps exchange for a 3rd Rate 74, even an older 64, or one of the few ancient 50-gunned 4th Rates?

"You're to have a squadron, Captain Charlton," Sir John said, as if in answer to his every dream, that instant! "A thin 'un, given the paucity of bottoms we have at present, but a squadron nonetheless. It cannot come with a proper broad-pendant, I fear. That's the leap in rank reserved for Our Lords Commissioners to decide."

Of course, Charlton realised, deflating a little, though hiding his disappointment as well as he'd concealed his enthusiasm. An English gentleman was raised to be serene and stoic, no matter what! Admirals on foreign stations couldn't promote at will. But a good performance during a brief spell of detached duty could incline the Admiralty to reward him. If he made good, if he could safely steer a wary course 'tween diplomatic niceties, neutrals' rights and the zealous performance…

"There's your Lionheart," Admiral Jervis was saying. "Then I may spare Pylades. She's new-come from Chatham, a 5th Rate, thirty-two guns. A 'twelve-pounder,' being a tad older, of course. Benjamin Rodgers is her captain. A bit 'fly,' but a fighter. About as active as a hungry terrier in the rat-pit, I'm told. Only two others, d'ye see, ship-sloops, I'm sorry to say. But their shallower draught is certain to prove handy in the Adriatic 'midst all those islands. I may spare Myrmidon. An eighteen-gun, below the Rates. Six-pounders."

"A most felicitous choice, Sir John; thankee," Charlton said with a broad grin.

"Aye, her captain s known to you," Jervis stated, very flatly.

An admiral departing a foreign station was allowed several few promotions without Admiralty approval; one Midshipman to Lieutenant, without having to face an Examining Board of post-captains; one Lieutenant to Commander, and one Commander to Post-Captain. When Hotham left, he'd anointed Lt. William Fillebrowne from his own flag-ship's wardroom (the surest route to quick advancement, that) to Commander, and put him into Myrmidon, to replace another favourite who'd gotten the Departure Blessing to Post-Captain into a 6th Rate Frigate whose own captain had gone sick.

Charlton and Fillebrowne, both proteges of the same patron, were surely known to each other already, Jervis thought. Perhaps were from that same mould that Hotham thought most valuable to the Fleet. He had no wish to curry favour with Hotham in this regard-damn his blood!-but they might work together the better for being "dipped" in the same ha'porth of tar. Charlton he thought he might be able to trust. Fillebrowne, well…

Come to think on't, he mused as his cabin-steward poured them a top-up of claret, the one time he'd met Fillebrowne, he'd struck Jervis as a bit too suave, too cultured-too quick to smarm and try to "piss down his back." With the same Oxonian mumble as Hotham or Charlton. A very smooth customer, entirely. Tarry-handed, Jervis grudgingly allowed, but with cat-quick wits, and the amusedly observant air of the practiced rakehell, who went about with his tongue forever stuck in his cheek.

Jervis thought he could trust Charlton to handle this mission-and keep a wary weather eye on Fillebrowne, for Fillebrowne wasn't the sort Sir John wished to have round him.

"The last vessel I may spare is a tad more potent, sir," Sir John said with a smack of his lips after a sip of wine. "HMS Jester. Another ship-sloop of eighteen guns. But French eight-pounders, which is to say, English nines, in our measurement. Just came in to water from the Genoa blockade. Hate to deprive Captain Nelson, but, needs must. Commander Alan Lewrie."

"Ah," Charlton commented, frowning a bit. "Took her late in '93, didn't he, sir? Quite a feat, I heard tell. Being chased by a frigate and a brace of corvettes after Toulon? Took one for his own, dismasted the other and the rescue force took the frigate?"

"That he did, sir," Sir John agreed, with a matching frown.

"Spot of bother, though, something 'bout cannonading civilians in a Genoese port he raided?" Charlton squirmed diplomatically.

"Completely disproved, sir," Admiral Jervis countered, though he continued to frown. "A gasconading lie put out by French spies and agents provocateurs. The matter was looked into and he was found entirely blameless."

"Didn't he, uhmm… oh, some months ago, sir." Charlton dared to quibble further. "Took a prize near Vado, then sailed her straight onto the beach and wrecked her, just so he could chase some Frenchman? Mean t say, Sir John… a perfectly good prize?"

"Rode inland and shot the fellow," Jervis related, nodding slowly in agreement. "Two-hundred-yard shot, with a Ferguson rifle. And spared us no end of bother from this Frog Navy captain. Chief of all their coastal convoys, raiders and escorts, so I've been informed. A rather nasty customer. But he stopped his business most perfectly."

"A bit unconventional, though. Don't ye think, sir?" Charlton essayed. He was not yet a Commodore, not yet one of the anointed, so well regarded by his commanding Admiral or London that he could veto a ship or captain. To be allowed to pick and choose, that was a favour granted only a remarkable few. And this was about as far as he could go, or ought to go, to suggest to Admiral Jervis that he would much prefer someone else; some other small ship. Taking a Frog corvette, being all dashing and brave-well, anyone could be brave, even the daft and foolhardy. Wrecking a valuable prize, going ashore and leaving one's command, just to pot a Frog, well, that made this Lewrie sound as mad as a March hare!

"Unconventional, hmm." Sir John pondered over his claret. He rubbed his chin once more and then broke into an icy grin. "To say the least, sir! And, it doesn't signify. After all, beggars can't be choosers, hmm? But he's all I have to spare. It may occur, sir, that Lewrie and Jester will prove useful to you. Above all, he knows how to fight! And he's experienced in blockading with Captain Nelsons squadron. And you'll be hip-deep in supposedly 'neutral' merchantmen where you're going."

"Of course, sir," Charlton replied, aware that he'd just been taken down a peg by the Admiral's "beggars can't be choosers" remark.

"You must first of all sweep that sea clean of French traders, warships and such, should they be there in force," Jervis directed, back to business. "You are to completely estop the traffic in naval stores-Adriatic oak and Balkan pine-which supports the French fleet in the Mediterranean. You will stop and inspect every ship you meet, determining their bonafides, and whether they are laden with a contraband cargo or sailing to a French-held port."

"Aye aye, sir," Charlton replied firmly.

"Further, you will liaise with our allies the Austrians and perform for them any task which a Royal Navy squadron may do to keep their friendship," Jervis hammered out, though not without a slight sneer about Austrian "Friendship." "Have an eye toward strengthening or expanding what poor excuse they deem their Adriatic Squadron. As for Venice, well, make a port-call or two. Put a flea in her ear 'bout throwing in with us. Venice may be on her last legs, but she still is possessed of a substantial fleet of ships and useful bases in the Ionian Islands. The Foreign Office is working on that aspect now, and the presence of your squadron might just tip the scales in our favour, d'ye see. Escort and protect any and all British trade, as well. Goes without sayin', hmm? And the merchant vessels of the Neapolitans, Papal States, Venice… and other… how do they put it? 'Ships of those nations in amity with His Majesty's Government'?"

"I see, sir." Charlton nodded soberly.

"B'lieve 'twas Pitt the Elder," Sir John mused, "but you must not quote me, sir, said that 'trade follows the flag'? Well, this time round, perhaps the flag must follow trade, hmm?"

"Of course, sir." Charlton nodded again.

"Pylades and Jester are here, at San Fiorenzo Bay, sir," Sir John grumbled. It was rare that he made a jest, and he'd thought it a rare good'un; though Charlton hadn't risen to it. "Myrmidon is down in Portoferrajo, on Elba. She escorted a troop-ship, so we could begin fortifying Elba and the isle of Capraia. At least protect the sea-lanes to Leghorn. And Corsica 's flanks. Close the Tyrrhennian Sea to French ships, at least, should they have a plan to seize those isles first, d'ye see."

With Genoa gone, her port city and capital now regarded as hostile, Tuscany was wavering, too, much like the Neapolitans. Admiral Jervis all but winced as he considered it. The Tuscans were leery of allowing Great Britain to base its fleet out of Porto Especia, or Leghorn, any longer. Garrisoning Capraia and Elba was a safeguard so that Tuscany did not think to put troops on them first!

"You will sail as soon as the wind allows you, Captain Charlton," he said. "And gather up Myrmidon on your way. Written orders and such will be aboard Lionheart no later than the end of the Second Dog Watch this evening. Along with copies of Admiralty and Foreign Office directives to me, too. To enlighten you. As much as Foreign Office despatches may enlighten anyone, hmm?"

"Very good, Sir John," Charlton said, rising. "And thankee for the opportunity, sir. For your faith in me. You shan't regret it, I swear to you."

"I'd best not, sir," Admiral Jervis cooed in reply, with that bleak and wintry smile of sardonic humour of his. "Good fortune, sir. And good huntin', Captain Charlton."

"Aye aye, sir!" Charlton nodded, wilting, in spite of the honour just done him. And vowing to himself that he would prove worthy of his awesome new trust-if he died in the attempt. Or had to kill somebody else to do it!

In the great-cabins he'd just left, Admiral Sir John Jervis allowed himself a brief moment of leisure to savour the satisfaction he felt in having done himself, and Captain Nelson, a favour.

This Lewrie fellow was a bit too much the "fly" character to suit him. A stallion more suited to the rare oval racecourse, or the neck-or-nothing dash cross winter fields in a steeplechase. And the source of his information was the Foreign Office, their own spies, those who'd used Lewrie before. He was too headstrong to suit them as well. Too prone to take the bit in his teeth and gallop to suit the gallant Nelson.

But perhaps Lewrie would be the perfect addition to Charlton s ad hoc, understrength and isolated squadron. "Old Jarvy" might have just done the Captain a huge favour. Or the greatest harm. Only time, and events, might tell.

And either way, he was shot of him!

CHAPTER 2

He was making good practice, well into a bawdy little tune of an earlier century: "Watkins' Ale." He sat on the aftermost taffrail flag-lockers, feet atop the edge of the coach-top built into the quarterdeck to give his great-cabins light and air. The skylights were open to air out those cabins, and his cox'n Andrews was supervising a working-party in repainting and touching up the ravages of two years' active commission.

Damme, but I've got rather good at this, he exulted, fingering a sprightly elaboration onto the basic melody, like grace-notes on a bagpipe. Should be good at it, he further pondered, as Mister Midshipman Hyde turned the pages of the songbook for them; after all, 'tis been ten bloody years I've been tootlin' on this thing!

A flageolet, some might call it, were they speaking classical. But really it was a tin whistle. He had no lip for a proper flute, fife or recorder, such as his wife Caroline played so well. To most of his ship's people- his Irishmen, Welsh, his Lowland Scots and the West Country folk-it was called the lowly penny-whistle.

But it felt like a penny-whistle day to Alan Lewrie, Commander, Royal Navy, and captain of HMS Jester.

Caroline had bought the first one in the Bahamas, back in '86, as a Christmas gift. That one he'd lost in '93, when his mortar-boat went down in Toulon Harbour during the siege. And good riddance to bad rubbish had been most people's opinion, for he'd been horrid at it. This new one Caroline had waiting for him when Jester returned to Portsmouth to refit and re-arm, spring of '94, before her voyage back to the Mediterranean.

The last year or so, the isolation enforced upon a captain-a proper captain-had turned him to playing, more and more. Until he'd come to a semblance of mastering one musical instrument, no matter how humble. Quite unlike a gentleman's flute, it had few holes, and a limited, very Celtic scale. Hornpipes, Scottish ballads, Irish jigs and reels, old English country airs… he leaned more to those, anyway, of late.

And if Mister Edward Buchanon, the Sailing Master, was right, Lewrie mused as he played-if the ancient Irish Celtic sea-god Lir had taken Jester and her captain into his watchful care, even down here in the Mediterranean, Jester and her captain paired as a "lucky" ship and lucky leader-then the Celtic scale of notes would be more than apt. And pleasing, should such thoughts not turn out to be a crock of moonshine!

"Oh, here's one, sir!" Mr. Hyde chuckled, once they were done with the curious old maid, done in at last and seduced by draughts of "Watkins' Ale." "A little slower, perhaps, but… 'Barbara Allen'?"

Mr. Hyde had bought himself a guitar the last time he'd gone ashore at Genoa and was getting decent at it; he had even dared to sit in with Jester's amateur musicians among the hands, with their fifes and fiddles, and pluck or strum along as they played tunes for Morris dances or evening hornpipes. Lewrie envied him: a captain had no chance to do anything more than clap along in time and watch such antics, taking pleasure in being a mere listener. A midshipman, as a petty officer, and aloft barefooted with the hands most of the time, could mingle without suffering a loss of dignity.