Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune

"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!

"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 since."

"I wouldn't know, sir," Lieutenant Stroud confessed in a meek voice.

"Does your captain come aboard whilst I'm ashore searching him out, then, Mister Stroud," Lewrie snapped, "you're to give him these verbal orders, direct from Captain Charlton. He is to up-anchor, sail to Pala-gruza and rendezvous with Lionheart, 'with all despatch.' The Frogs are up to something new, and we've just learned of it. Captain Charlton will further enlighten him once there, but the gist is that our 'trade' has settled in Balkan harbours, neutral ports, waiting for Venetian ships to fetch timber to them, and Captain Charlton wishes us to reassemble and concentrate against them. Has he any questions for me, he may come search me out before he sails. Got that, sir?"

"Aye aye, sir," Stroud barked, glad to have a simple task.

"I'll wood and water Jester, and sail a day after, tell him."

"Aye aye, sir!" Stroud repeated briskly.

"I'll be calling on Sir Malcolm myself. Or along the Rialto, round Saint Mark's Square. Doing some shopping of mine own, tell him, should he wish me to elaborate on these orders before he departs, sir."

"Very good, sir." Lieutenant Stroud nodded, all but moving his lips as he committed all that last to memory.

"I'll be on my way, then, Mister Stroud. Good day, sir."

"See you to the entry-port, sir," Stroud offered with relief.

Might've given Myrmidon leave t' stay longer, Lewrie fumed after his gig had landed him on the Molo before the Doge's Palace across from the Dogana di Mare; after such arduous duties off Ravenna! he snorted in derision. Idle, foppish, cunny-thumbed "Whip-Jack" sham of a sailor…! Thin'z my lore is, I could circumnavigate the entire world, whilst he's not fit t'pole a punt on his daddy's duck-pond!

He just knew the Fillebrownes had a duck-pond. To set off whichever half-a-shire they used for their home-farm, so visitors could gawp on the long carriage ride in through " Fillebrowne Park "! Or to mirror the palace they lived in.

And I have t'waste half my own short shore-leave huntin' up the bastard! Lewrie further griped.

He tried first at the Shockleys' rented digs, a waterfront palace converted to suites of rooms near the Farsetti Loredan Palace, along the Grand Canal on the other side of Saint Mark's, just by the Riva del Carbon. To hasten his progress-and spare his breath-he enjoyed the unwonted luxury of a sedan-chair.

No one was at home, though, he learned from the English servants; they had dined earlier but gone their separate ways. Sir Malcolm was off to look at some ironworks, Lady Lucy had gone shopping and they'd no idea where that amusing Commander Fillebrowne had gone.

"La, sir, the man's a waggish wit, an' all," a chambermaid said, blushing prettily. "An' such a fetchin' gentleman!"

"Ah… really," he'd drawled, quite skeptical.

' 'Deed, sir! Most scandalous witty an' charmin'!" was her opinion. She blushed again, and tittered into her raised work-apron.

"Ah… humphh!" was Lewrie s comment to that. "Well, then. I will be off. Regards to the family… all that."

He'd done what he could. He'd informed Stroud, and Fillebrowne must go back aboard his ship sooner or later-by sundown at the latest. He climbed back into his hired sedan-chair and took himself off shopping.

There had finally been a partial adjudgement from the Prize-Court at Trieste. Before Jester and Lionheart had parted company, they'd sent it over to be doled out to officers and men. Still no sign of any award from their own at San Fiorenzo Bay, of course; frankly not a single word from them since they'd departed Corsica, at all! Lewrie's two-eighths of the judgement represented nearly Ј1,200, Ј800 of that in rare coin, for a wonder. Not anywhere near what he speculated he was due, but welcome, for the Austrians were proving to be as niggardly and obfuscating about prize-money as their own officials. Still, a tidy, reassuringly heavy sum to tote about for an orgy of Spending and Getting.