Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune

"Then find a safe place to hide, Mister Howse," Lewrie ordered. "As far from the beach and the camp as you can. Have you a weapon of any kind with you? In your kit-box?"

"Damme, sir… I'm a surgeon, sir! Not a soldier," Mr. Howse blustered, indignant. "Have no need of a weapon."

"Just your bad luck, then," Lewrie wryly commented. "Find a place to hide. Do you find a log, a small boat, try to sneak out to the ship… long as no one sees you doing it. Don't know how safe you'd be with us… me and the herr leutnant Kolodzcy here. Unless you're a good swimmer, too, herr Kolodzcy?"

"An egzellend svimmer, herr Kommander," Kolodzcy answered to that, quite gaily. "Bud, alas… said vater ist nod gute on my boots or univorm. You heff need ohf company, I am thinkink. Should Mlavic ged engry enough, he loses his gommand ohf English… unt dhen vhere vill you be?" He laid a hand on the gilt hilt of his elegant small-sword and gave it a tug to assure himself it was loose enough to draw quickly. His mouth moved in a petulant little twitching, brows lifted as if to sketch the slightest, half-amused, "oh, what the devil" shrug.

"Right, then," Lewrie sighed. "Mr. Spendlove, you're to inform Lieutenant Knolles there's trouble in the camp. Do I not return soon… in an hour and a half, say? He's to assume that… well." Lewrie felt like gulping in fright at exactly what Knolles could assume. "Do I not return, he is to first board the prize-vessel and the brig. I doubt they've many hands aboard, with such a grand party ashore. He's to land the largest force possible, Marines in full kit, and the hands with pistols, muskets and cutlasses. Do they make a fight of it, he's to scour the camp with fire… grape shot and canister in the nine pounders… solid round-shot for the carronades."

"But, sir!" Spendlove protested. "You'd be right in the middle of it! In the line of fire, sir. I can't-"

"Then I'll just have to duck, won't I, young sir?" Lewrie said, laying a hand on Spendlove's shoulder and forcing himself to utter the tiniest of chuckling noises. "I'll not be a bargaining-chip, should they try that on. This may be a misunderstanding. Or it could be a bloody massacre. Does Mr. Knolles know definite that I… that anything happened to me, he's to exterminate 'em, root and branch. Root and branch, Mister Spendlove."

"Swear that, sir!" Spendlove shuddered.

"Be off, then. Mister Howse? Go to earth, delve yourself the deepest warren ever you did see," Lewrie ordered, "and pull it down over your ears."

"I…!" Howse demurred, casting a glance over his shoulder at the forest. But for the small encampment, it was stark, barren,, full of boulders and wind-gnarled pines, stirred to some mindless, brutal life by the leaping flames of the camp, making it writhe like a mythical Hydra. "But if it is a mistake, sir, I'll be alone… mean t'say, I'd have no way of knowing when to come out, 'less at dawn, after any assault. Should you be allowed to leave unharmed…"

Bloody miracle, most-like, Lewrie coldly realised.

"… I'd be denned up out yonder, no way to leave with you!" Howse concluded, sounding as if being alone, in a wild place, was his last wish, even if his other alternative was getting his throat cut.

"You could come with us, sir?" Alan suggested, tongue-in-cheek. "Mlavic assures me they've a splendid feed planned."

Howse glanced over his other shoulder, at Jester, lying out so safe and snug, her decks lit up with lanthorns; then at the waves on the gravelly beach, breaking slow and sullen and dark, like spilled oil on storm waters. Regretting he could not swim a lick.

"I'll come with you, if you do not mind, sir," Howse snapped, downright snippish.

"Mister Spendlove, still here, damn yer eyes?" Lewrie barked. "Give Mr. Howse your dirk and scabbard, sir."

Spendlove stripped the dirk off reluctantly; it was rather a nice 'un, a present from his parents. Howse took it gingerly, like a man being presented a spitting cobra. But he clipped it on his waistband and folded his coat over it.

Lewrie turned without another word and started striding back to the encampment, an icy, fey and echoing void building under his heart; one hand swinging fisted at his side, the other gripping his hanger by the upper gilt fitting below the hand-guard. He most devoutly wished there was a simple, an innocent, explanation for the absence of French prisoners… but he rather doubted it. Might he talk his way to the beach again? There'd be no other way out.

Asked him 'bout his prize, Lewrie recalled; twice, and he turned all cutty-eyed as a bag o' nails. Somethin' queer, there! Christ, I just wish Howse'd got to me 'fore I told the bastards those orders.

He turned to see Howse plodding along, stumbling a bit on tufts of tough shore grass, the odd shoe-sized rock, looking as miserable as a man on his way to the gallows to do a "Newgate-Hornpipe"!

Before, Mlavic might've been too shameful, Alan regretted; now, though… now I had t'be so gorfdamn' sly-boots an' stir 'em up…!

He was inside the flickering circle of light from the fires by then, elbowing past cavorting, singing, half-drunk pirates, ducking a clash of high-held blades of every cruel description, glittering keen and hungry. He approached the exultantly happy Mlavic…

"Captain Mlavic, sir!" he bellowed. "Want a word with you!"

CHAPTER 3

"Now, sir!" he demanded, once Mlavic had gone stock-still in his tracks and turned to face him, a displeased scowl on his face already.

"What you want? Supper?" Mlavic barked back.

"I want to know what happened to the French prisoners. I want to know why your men didn't let Mister Howse enter the stockade. And who all those women and children are up yonder, sir," Lewrie rasped, deciding to play it high-handed still. Cringing and hand-wringing as meek as a shop-clerk or a diplomat wouldn't suit at all, he thought. Dra-gan Mlavic was a hard man, a bloody-handed brute, and the only language his sort understood was the forceful approach.

"What?" Mlavic chuckled, looking about at his men, as if to say 'Are you crazy?' assuring himself he was in charge here, surrounded by his well-armed minions. "Too fast. My English. You have drink on me, hah? Go slow," he almost implored, shamming sheepish and dumb.

"Put it to him, herr Kolodzcy. In his own tongue."

"Go there," Mlavic snapped, pointing to his hut, wheeling about to exhort his men with a long, cheerful speech, which raised a huzzah. "Talk there. Eat first."

It seemed a tiny tad-bit safer, Lewrie allowed, pivoting on his heel to stalk to the log and fling himself down by his abandoned wine-chalice. Kolodzcy followed, not quite so fastidious this time, sitting without dusting. With his small-sword extending over the back of that log, a slim, dainty-fingered hand on the upper scabbard still. Dragan Mlavic had to follow or break into an unseemly lope to arrive ahead of them. He ended up tailing along behind. For that reason, he remained standing, to assert his questioned authority after they'd sat.

"Brandy?" Mlavic offered, still trying to play "Merry Andrew."

"Once we get this resolved, perhaps, sir," Lewrie said coldly. "Now, where are the French prisoners?"

"Frigate captain… dark hair? He come. Take them to Trieste." Mlavic shrugged, speaking in a deep, guarded voice, and his eyes just too disinterested for Lewrie to believe that.

"When?" Lewrie shot back. "Last I spoke to him, he was going back south, to the straits."

"Yesterday!" Mlavic snapped, going to his stone crock for more plum brandy, miming an offer to share; which was refused. "I come yesterday with prize, frigate man come same day. So many prisoner… I say be trouble, so he take. You go Trieste, ask him," he slyly hinted.

Damme, could be true, Lewrie puzzled; one more prize, and Pylades would have had to leave the straits. Or met up with Charlton, taken over their prizes, so… no! Not that many to take, lately. Spoke to him only five days ago… herel A day to gain the straits, a day back, even if he didn't run into the others… Mine arse on a band-box!

"How many shillings did he pay you, Captain Mlavic?" Lewrie asked. "At a silver shilling per prisoner."

"Three guinea!" Mlavic quickly bristled. "Three pieces of gold, he give."

"Sixty-three shillings… sixty-three prisoners?" Lewrie drawled. "A neat, round number, ain't it? No small change to mess with. Sounds rather too little, though… for the fifty-odd who were here five days ago. Plus the twenty or so from the prize he'd already taken, plus the thirty-five or forty off your latest capture? Closer to five pounds, I'd reckon it, hmm?"

"By God, he cheat me!" Mlavic exclaimed, sounding outraged and all but slapping his poor dumb forehead. "Here, good food. Serb food. You eat. We friends, da? Holy warriors, you… me. Kill many Turks together… kill many enemies together."

"Not in my brief, sorry," Lewrie primly pointed out, "killin' Turks. I'm not at war with Turks."

Some younger Serb lads, barely old enough to be cabin-boys, offered heaping wooden trenchers of food, still steaming from the spits and pots.

"Eat! Drink!" Mlavic urged, digging in with one hand, without utensils, and slurping a pawful down with another draught of brandy. "Is good," he tempted, like a governess with a willful toddler who'd turned his nose up at carrots. "Spice… Serbian, best in world."

Damn him! Alan groused, seeing Howse tentatively dig into his platter; not five minutes away from gettin' yer bowels ripped out and you'd go with a bellyful! Well… no need to be a total Tartar.

"Croat, Albanian… Greek," Kolodzcy whispered in Lewrie's ear. "Turkish!" He snickered. "All de same cuisine. Serb food! Hah!" "Didn't happen t steal some forks, did you?" Lewrie enquired. "Forks, da! Spoons, there," Mlavic said boisterously, indicating a small chest near the doorway of his hut.

Lewrie tried some food, poured himself a bumper of wine from that bottle he'd first opened. It was lamb, skewered on sticks with onion and garlic, some vegetables as well. Underneath was a gravied, fine-milled… tiny round rice-pellets? he wondered. A gnat-sized pasta? Rather infu-riatingly, it was good, heavy and piquant with spices.

"Cow come," Mlavic hinted. "Beef? Aha! 'Roast Beef of Old England.' Da, this I knowing," he said through a mouthful of food. "Or… want goat? Have pig, too. All good."

"Another question, sir…" Lewrie persevered. "Your men kept my surgeon from examining the prisoners in the stockade. Even so, he says he heard women and children up there. Saw women and children in the pen. Who are they, sir?"

"Too many question," Mlavic grumbled, shaking his head, masticating a chunk of bread. "Why too many question? No work. Is time for eat… sing. Flay game." He winked, ever the spirited host. "Who are they, sir?" Alan pressed.

"Be on ship… prize," Mlavic answered without looking up from his trencher, shoving a handful between bread and fingers. "We bring here. Pay way on ship… pass-en-ger? Many, oh many."

"So what have you got to hide, if they're passengers and such?" Lewrie wondered aloud. "Why didn't your guards let Mr. Howse in, as they have before? Women, children… old men… not too many sailors, Mr. Howse tells me. What's different about this lot, that your men kept him from tending to them?"

"No diff'rent," Mlavic insisted, still unable to match gazes with him. "Vhy does French ship engaged in smugglink," Kolodzcy stuck in with a whimsical tone to his voice, "carry passengers, Kapitan? Book vomen unt chiltren aboart, knowink dhere are British warships upon de Mare? Dhat sounts vahry foolish, to me. Vahry… quvestionable. Unt ve do nod see vomen unt chiltren on odder prizes, eider. Chust now."

"Aye, sir," Lewrie snapped. "You afraid word'd get back to yer Ratko Petracic, and he'd be displeased with you?"

"Ratko?" Mlavic bawled, suddenly hugely, frighteningly amused. He let go a belly laugh, had to set his trencher aside, he was laughing so hard he might have spilled it. "Petracic mad, Dragan? Oh, ahahah! Rakto, never! Be ver' please, Dragan. Laugh, too, I tell him. Make big joy, I tell him. Ship I take… well, may not be so please," he admitted with a sheepish shrug. "But people on ship, diff'rent. He have big joy I take them," he insisted, proudly thumping his chest. "And just why'd he be displeased over the ship, sir?" "Damned you!" Mlavic snarled, shoving his plate away, pressed beyond all enjoyment of food. "Too many question. I tell you, da.. . I tell you. Take Venetian ship, da? Give you big joy, know this? Pooh! Is Venetian ship… all rich, all big. See no good prize, see no ships days and days! She be ship I see, she is rich… I take!" He lurched into a furious outburst in his own language.

"To heff carnal knowledche ohf yourself," Kolodzcy translated, shaking his head at Mlavic s utter greed and stupidity. "To go to de Devil… for you to heff carnal knowledche ohf your mother…" "Oh, thankee for that," Lewrie muttered to Kolodzcy. He got to his feet, putting his sternest, iciest "captain's face" on as he waited for Mlavic to run out of expletives. "You know this is the end of our arrangement, Captain Mlavic. You gave your word, swore to us that neutral ships were strictly out-of-bounds, that any prisoners were to be treated decent," he accused. "Now you've broken your vow six ways from Sunday. Took a Venetian ship, most-like you killed her crew, too, didn't you… to spare yourself the trouble of keeping them here? Py-lades hasn't had time to get to the straits, here and back, to take the French prisoners off your hands, either. Did you murder them, too, 'cause you got tired of guarding them?"

Mlavic stood before him, a trifle hangdog, arms crossed over his chest, and glaring at Lewrie s shirtfront, like a defaulter come before "Captain's Mast" for peeing on deck.

"We thought we were dealing with trustworthy men, sir," Lewrie scoffed. "But it will be my unfortunate duty to inform Captain Charlton that you can't be trusted… that no matter Serbian bravery and skill, you can't be trusted out of sight."

Piss down his back a mite, Lewrie thought; maybe I can shame us back to Jester alive!

"No more help, sir. No more alliance. You're on your own, and whatever it is that Petracic does… even if he begins the liberation of all of Serbia… my country's king and government will never award you recognition, or aid, or… You're on your own, from this moment on."

"Serbs on own, ever!" Mlavic grunted, lifting his eyes at last. "Enemies everywhere… help, none. Pooh!" He spat on the ground. "I tell you, Serbs no need English help."