They were two big, fine three-masted ships, almost large enough to be mistaken for 4th Rate 50-gunners or very large but older two-deck frigates, and their arrival in the Austrian port of Trieste, with the British ensign atop their mizzen masts, might have led an observer on shore to think them part of a powerful squadron at first glance. A closer inspection, though, would have shown the French Tricolour flag flown lower, from their stern gaffs. Led by a pair of sloops of war, followed by two unmistakably British frigates, the six vessels swept into harbour about midday, their eighth on-passage, after calling for pilots beyond the bar, then standing off-and-on until someone in authority woke up and took notice of their arrival.
"Sleepy damn' place," Lewrie observed dryly, giving Trieste a good look-over once Jester had made-up to a permanent Austrian naval mooring, and had rowed out a single kedge to keep her from swinging afoul of the other ships in port.
British ships, mostly, he noted. Trieste was Austria 's one and only naval base, home of their own small East Indies Trading Company to the Far East. But it was remarkably empty and inactive. Buoys dotted the glass-calm waters, but very few were taken, and the network of quays and warehouses were bare of bustle. He'd expected a busy seaport, just as full of commercial doings as Plymouth… damn, even a faded Bristol! Nowhere near a Liverpool, or the Pool of London, of course, but…!
There were damned few warships flying the horizontal red-white-red crowned flag of Austria, either. There was a trim little gun-brig sporting a commissioning pendant, a pair of feluccas, such as he'd come to know from his Mediterranean experience. There were even a brace of what looked to be xebecs, long, lean and low to the water, like Barbary Corsair raiders. What looked to be a 6th Rate frigate now careened on a mud flat, mastless and abandoned, half rotted to pieces. And there were galleys! Small galleys with only one short lateen mast, lateener-rigged, with spars as long as they were; with row-boxes built out like "camels" on either beam, and pierced for dozens of oars or sweeps on either side. There were even more ashore, run up on launch ramps, and partially sheltered from the weather by open-sided sheds, such as he'd read in Homer's Iliad was the Greek fashion, back in the ancient days of Athens' glory two thousand years or more before!
Scabrous, too, that half dozen afloat, as if ships' timbers were prone to leprosy; and like the xebecs, they were armed only at the bows with what he took for heavy artillery, and only empty swivel-gun brackets lining their sides. Except for small harbour-watch or anchor-watch parties, they were as abandoned as ships laid up in-ordinary, though their guns hadn't been landed.
To top it off, completing Lewrie's disappointment with his first sight of fabled Trieste, it was a grey and gloomy day, with low clouds clinging to the grim-looking surrounding hills, and barely a breath of wind once inside the breakwaters and moles.
Lionheart was last to come to anchor, to make-up to a red nun-buoy. She was doing it handsomely, reducing sail, brailing up, turning up, with "buoy-jumpers" under her figurehead as she ghosted to a stop within feet of the buoy-and firing a Royal, 21-gun salute to Austria and her Emperor, Franz II, as she did it! Even as a boat was got down off the falls and rowed her kedge anchor-out astern.
Then they waited for a reply. Then waited some more. Every sailor in the squadron began to titter, speculate aloud and roll his eyes as they waited a long piece more.
Finally, some activity could be espied along the ramparts of a harbour fort. Half-dressed soldiers shrugging into coats and clayed belting, tossing shakoes to each other as if they'd picked up someone else's in their rush, or simply forgotten them. Muzzles emerged from a row of embrasures, and the first shot in reply bellowed out.
"An' here I always thought 'twas th' Spanish who were slipshod," Mr. Buchanon snickered. " 'Ese fellers put siesta t' shame, sir!"
"Delivered twenty-one… was received of…" Knolles chuckled, rocking on the balls of his feet as they counted them. "Was that five and six, together? My wordl There's seven… well, come on, eight…"
"Of eleven," Lewrie said after it appeared that the last shot had been fired. Or the gunners had fallen asleep from sheer boredom, he thought sarcastically. Since Captain Charlton did not fly a broad pendant of the blue from his masthead as even a Commodore of the Second Class, the fort had saluted with the number due a mere Captain… though a captain with four warships should have gotten thirteen, with or without broad pendant. That was simple logic. And good manners!
A rather ornate oared barge, fit for a full admiral, or Lord Commissioner of the Admiralty back home, at last appeared, stroking a leisurely way out from a stone quay to Lionheart. There was an officer in the stern-sheets, almost awash in gold-lace fripperies, wearing a dark blue coat, with pale blue cuffs and turn-backs, pale blue waist coat and breeches. Lewrie snorted with derision at the bouquet-sized egret plume arrangement on his cocked hat. 'Bout fifty birds perished for that, he thought with a dismissive shrug.
"Right, then, gentlemen," Lewrie snapped. "Bosun over-side to. square the yards, break out the brooms and give 'er a last sweep-down should anyone come callin'. Mr. Knolles, I'll have the quarterdeck awnings rigged. It looks very much like rain 'fore sunset. Mr. Cony, do you get all the boats down. The Austrians will be taking charge of our prizes, and I want our prize-crews back aboard as soon as they do. Pipe a late rum issue, then hands to dinner, Mr. Knolles."
"Excuse me, sir?" Mr. Giles, the Purser, harrumphed to gain his attention. Their rather "fly" bespectacled young "Pusser," along with his newest "Jack-in-the-Breadroom," Lawless, were almost wringing their hands in anticipation of a run ashore in search of fresh victuals and such. "Could we have a boat, sir? Once the Bosun s done?"
"Of course, Mister Giles," Lewrie agreed. "Boat crew will not await you ashore, though. Remember last time, hmm?"
Giles wasn't a naval officer, exactly; not in the chain of command. He was a civilian hireling, bonded and warranted. The last time, at Leghorn, he'd taken most of a boat's crew inland to help fetch and tote. Half had snuck off from him and had gotten stupendously drunk in a raucous quarter hour before the cox'n could collar them!
"No grappa in Trieste, sir." Giles winced into his coat collar. "Nor rum, neither, pray Jesus."
"Indeed, sir," Lewrie intoned. "By the way, I've a taste for turkey. Should you run afoul of one…"
" Turkey, sir, aye," Giles replied, making a note on a shopping list. "So close to the Turkish Empire, one'd think, hah? Thankee, sir. Come on, Lawless. Perhaps Mister Cony may row us ashore, once he's done squaring the yards and all."
"Aye aye, sir," his lack-witted new clerk mumbled.
"Shoulda flown th' French flag, all o' us, Cap'um," Buchanon said with a sigh, looking at the fort, which had gone back to its well-deserved rest and now looked as forlorn as a fallen church. " 'At'd lit a fire under 'em. Or fetched in 'at frigate."
"Well, we didn't, so there it is, Mister Buchanon," Alan spat.
Bad luck, all-round; inexplicably, instead of a last broadside fired for the honour of the flag and a quick surrender, the French hadn't struck, as they seemed most wont to do these days in the face of superior force. They'd gone game to the last, losing more masts and spars, shot through and riddled, but still firing back, until a lazy-fuming spiral of whitish smoke had risen from her amidships. A fire had broken out belowdecks, and then it was sauve qui pent, as the Frogs said-"save what you can." They left her like rats diving off a sinking grain-coaster. Far astern, round sunset, Lewrie could see a tiny, kindling-like spark of flames, then a sullen bloom of red and amber as the fire, accidentally or intentionally set, reached her magazines and blew her to atoms.
"Signal from the flag, sir," Spendlove called, intruding upon his broodings over all that lost prize-money. " 'Send Boats,' sir. For the French prisoners, I'd expect." Lionheart had taken aboard most of the frigate's survivors, after plucking them from the sea, and a gaol ashore in a port now at war with France was the best place for them…
"Very well, Mister Spendlove. Mister Cony? Belay your squaring the yards. Or Mr. Giles's trip ashore. Lower every boat and row to Lion-heart to transport prisoners ashore. Sergeant Bootheby, your Marines to form an escort-party… pistols and hangers'd be better in the boats, I'd presume."
"Aye aye, sir… pistols and hangers," that stalwart baulk of ramrod-stiff oak replied crisply; though Lewrie was sure by the glum expression on his face that Bootheby would much prefer muskets tipped with gleaming spike-bayonets, to show the sluggard Austrian garrison what real soldiers were supposed to look like… all "pipe-clay, piss an'
gaiters."
"You'll see to the rum issue, once the boat crews have returned aboard, Mister Knolles, then their dinner," Lewrie prompted.
"Aye, sir. And the awnings are ready for rigging."
"Very well, I'll be below, sir. Out of the way."
Which was where he stomped for, irked that a sensible routine of a single ship would forever be altered and amended by the presence of a squadron commander, and a day-long flurry of signal flags. And feeling just glum enough to resent the constant intrusions a bit!
There'd been no turkeys available, no decent geese, either. Mr. Giles had returned with some fresh-slaughtered and skinned rabbits, and Aspinall had jugged them in ship's-issue red wine. It may have been a Tuscan or Corsican, but it was commonly reviled as the Pusser's Bane- "Blackstrap"-thinned with vinegar, and about as tasty as paint.
Fortunately, a boat had come from Lionheart about four bells of the Day Watch, bearing an invitation-more like an order, since it was from Captain Charlton-to dine ashore that evening, as guests of the Austri-ans. Number One full-dress uniform, clean breeches, waistcoat and linen, well-blacked shoes with silver buckles (gilt if they owned a pair), presentation swords (were they so fortunate, etc.). Hair to be powdered and dressed, and blah-blah-blah… Captain Charlton was determined to impress their allies if it killed him.
"Aspinall, heat me up a bucket of fresh water," Lewrie told him. "And hunt up that bar o' soap. We're to shine tonight. Or else!"
Boats crews in neat, clean, matching slop-clothing took them to the quays, landing them in strict order of precedence. Carriages waited to bear them townward to what Lewrie took for a medieval guild-hall of a place, a towering, half-timbered Germanic cuckoo-clock horror of a building, simply dripping with baroque touches, right down to the leering gargoyles at the eaves and carved stags and hunting scenes round the doorway, with sputtering torches in lieu of lanthorns to light the street and antechambers. He expected one of those bands he'd seen in London, so loved by his Hanoverian monarchy, whose every tune sounded very much like "Oomp-pah-pah-Crash/bang." That or drunken Vikings!
A very stiff reception line awaited them, made up of civilian, military, and naval members. The men glittered in satins or heavy velvets or gilded wool, no matter how stuffy it was, with sweat running freely to presage the expected rain. The women… Lord, he'd never seen such a fearsome pack of chick-a-biddies, all teeth and teats, all bound up pouty-pigeon-chested in lace-trimmed gowns as heavy as drapery fab-! rics, with double or even triple chins declining over scintillating brilliants, diamonds or pearl necklaces. Everyone's hair was powdered to a tee, pale blue or starkest white, and how he kept from sneezing his head off during all the bowing and curtseying, he couldn't fathom.
"Permittez-moi, m'sieurle capitaine Charlton,j'ai Vhonneure… pre-sentez-vous, le burgomeister, uhm… le maire …" An equerry said with a simper, a suppressed titter and a languid wave of his hand.
"Thought they were Germans," Rodgers muttered from the side of his mouth. "What's all this Frog they're spoutin'?"
"Court-language, sir," Lewrie whispered back. "Prussians and Russians, looks like the Austrians, too. Can't bloody stand their own tongue. Not elegant enough, I s'pose. Ah! Madame Baroness… oui, baroness? von Kreutznacht, enchante. Simply enchante!" He bowed to a particularly porcine old biddy who sported a rather impressive set of whiskers and moustache under all her powders, paints, rouges and beauty marks. She resembled a hog in a tiara.
"M'sieur le Capitaine, uhmm…!" She tittered; or tried one, at any rate. She had a husky voice as forbidding as a bosun's mate, and was about five stone too heavy to be seen tittering. She offered her hand, and Lewrie pecked dry lips on the back of it, looking for a spot free of jewelry or liver-spots. He heard the clash of heels in the line, the double-snap of bootheels thrummed together, combined with a short bow from the waist. He didn't think he'd try that, no matter what they thought of his manners.
"Swear to God," Fillebrowne grated between bared teeth in a rictus of a grin. "But that last 'un, sirs… she oinked at me."
"Which 'un?" Rodgers asked him, now they were down among those lesser lights of the receiving line. "Oh, the baroness, Fillebrowne?"
"Aye, sir. Her. A definite oink."
"That sound lascivious, Lewrie." Rodgers smirked. "D'ye think?"
"Oh, quite, sir!" Lewrie replied gayly. "Were she merely being polite, 'twould have been more a husky grunt. But, an oink, now…!"
"You lucky young dog, sir!" Rodgers wheezed softly. "Not a dogwatch ashore, an' a baroness throwin' herself at ya. Oinkin', an' all! Damme'f I ain't envious, sir. Mind, ya might strain somethin', puttin' th' leg that far over. But think what a tale ya'll have t'tell, sir."
"Handsome and dashing sort, such as yourself, Commander," Lewrie could not resist cruelly jibing, "must surely expect to be oinked at."
"Uhm," Fillebrowne commented, his eyes slitted in well-hidden anger over Lewrie's barb, "hah, sir!"
Supper was an ordeal. The four British captains were seated in a sea of Trieste 's finest, far apart from each other, and pent in with people who could not, or would not, speak a word of English. The linen, china, centrepieces and silverware were gorgeous enough, and there were nigh a whole platoon of servants in livery, one for every two diners, a la Russe. It was a heavy feed, though: potato soup, very greasy goose, a bland fish course that resembled mullet, the salad wilted, dry and fleshed out with what Lewrie took to be grass clippings. Roast venison, jugged hares, a whole roast hog, all made the rounds before it was done, topped with gargantuan, toothachy piles of sweets. And with Trieste 's finest tucking in like they'd just come off forty days aboard the Ark!
Finally, after circulating amid the coffee, chocolate and tea drinkers, after listening politely to some untalented musicians and a male soloist doing some incomprehensible (and stultifyingly boring) lieder in German, they were allowed to ascend a wooden staircase for the first floor and were ushered into a smaller chamber, where they were delighted to find cheese, biscuit, shelled nuts and port waiting on a bare-topped mahoghany table.
"Welcome to the gun-room, gentlemen," their host said with an anxious smile of welcome. "Or as close as you'll find, this side of Portsmouth." And he said it in English, with a Kentish accent!
"Major Simpson, my thanks, sir," Captain Charlton said with some pleasure as he was shown to a seat near the head of the table and was presented with the port decanter and a goodly-sized glass. "The major, had you not already gathered from the receiving line introductions," he said to the others, "is the senior naval officer here in Trieste. One of the most senior navy officers of the Austrian Empire, rather."
"That's true, sir," Major Simpson replied. "Oh, there's a man over the Danube flotilla senior to me, but…" He was nigh preening. "Do allow me to name to you, sirs, my officers…"
It was von Something-umlautish-von-Glottal-Stop something other. Half the officers wore the same pale blue breeches, waistcoat and cuffs that Simpson sported; the rest were from the Liccaner or Ottochaner regiments of Border Infantry, who formed the Austrian Marine Corps, dressed in tobacco-brown coats with sky-blue cuffs, breeches and waistcoats.
Major George Simpson, Lewrie soon learned, was the genuine article, an authentic Royal Navy officer, one of those thirtyish lieutenants of ill-starred fortune when it came to patronage, prize-money or promotion. The Russians, Turks, every foreign power with hopes to build a navy had hired them on to smarten up their own landlubberly officers and crews. Christ, the Russians had even taken the Rebel John Paul Jones to lead their Black Sea fleet at one time!
"Can't tell you what a joy it was, to see a proper squadron of British ships come to anchor, sir," Simpson told them. "You'll be in the Mare long… or is this simply a port-call?"
"We'll be operating out of the Straits of Otranto, mostly, sir," Charlton told him. "With the odd patrol to sweep up French or French-sponsored mercantile traffick. And to cooperate with your Emperor… Franz Us squadron 'gainst the French. Lend you every assistance to ready your ships for any future action which may occur this season? Urge Admiral Sir John Jervis, our new commander-in-chief in the Mediterranean, to write to London on your behalf, anent supplies, arms and such. Ships and crews, hmm?"
"Now, that would be wondrous fine, sir!" Simpson exclaimed, and translated that news in German for his compatriots. "The annual naval budget, d'ye see, is rather limited of late. Austria 's a land power, mostly. Keep control of the Danube River, and protect Trieste. A lion's share of the military budget goes to the army up on the Rhine, or over in Piedmont and Lombardy. Every little bit is welcome."
"Now, sir…" Charlton purred after a sip of port, "tell me how you stand. What's your strength? Besides the vessels in port at this moment."
"Uhm, d'ye see, sir…" Simpson blushed, "this is the Austrian Navy, sir. All of it."
"Aha," Charlton said, raising an expressive brow in surprise.
Thought so, Lewrie told himself, sharing a weary frown over the table with Captain Ben Rodgers, who was all but rolling his eyes.
"We've he Ferme, sir, the brigantine, and two feluccas… armed merchant ships, really," Major Simpson confessed, wriggling about in his chair like a hound might circle on a fireplace mat. "We've those two schebecks… brace of twenty-four-pounders in the bows, and some light side guns, and the Empire has authorised me to increase the number of gunboats from seven to sixteen. The same sort as was so useful during the siege of Gibraltar."
"Nothing else, uhm… cruising the coasts, or…?" Charlton asked with a hopeful, but leery, tone to his voice.
"Sorry, sir, that's the lot." Simpson grimaced. "And it's been the very Devil to get the city of Trieste to see their way clear to giving me funds enough to start the new gunboats. The governor of the port, and the mayor… the burgomeister, sir? You see, uhm…"
Here comes another, Lewrie warned himself; that "you see, uhm" sounds like a bloody dirge already! You see, uhm… I'm poxed?
"The naval budget is very small, sir," Simpson went on, wearing a sheepish smile, which he bestowed on the British captains, hoping for a single shred of sympathy. "And a fair portion of it… sixty thousand guilden a year… comes from the port of Trieste itself. And they'll not pay for more navy than they think is necessary for their own defence, sir." "These seagoing gunboats, Major Simpson?" Ben Rodgers prodded, stumbling over the unfamiliar, and most un-nautical, rank. "Uhm, d'ye see, sir…" Major Simpson began to say. Bloody Hell, another'un. Lewrie groaned to himself, pouring his glass brimming with port when his turn came.
"Harbour defence, mostly, sirs," Simpson admitted, palms up and out like a Levant rug-merchant. "Point of fact, save for La Ferme, our brigantine, the vessels here at Trieste are almost useless unless there is a calm sea and a light breeze. I've written again and again to the Naval Ministry in Vienna, sketching what vessels'd prove more useful. mean t'say, sirs, that's why they hired me on, hey? For my deepwater experience? But…" He tossed them another palm-up shrug. "The Hungarians have a better flotilla."
"Aren't the Hungarians part of the Empire, though, sir?" Lewrie just had to ask.
"Oh, aye, they are, sir! An important part," Simpson assured him. "Hundreds of years ago, the Hungarians advanced to the coast, the Croat lands, and the Croats were most eager to make alliance with them, then with Austria. Then Austria became dominant over the Hungarians, though they keep a certain measure of semi-autonomy. Most of the coast, that is the Hungarian Littoral. Fiume, Zara, Spalato, Ragusa… it extends quite far. Well, sort of Spalato and Ragusa, d'ye see. They're still either Venetian ports or independent. There's the independent Republic of Ragusa, quite old. Genoese or Spanish enclaves on the Dalmatian coast-hated Venice since Hector was a pup, so they've played everyone off against the other. Though Turkey still claims them, they're mostly Catholic, Venetian or at least Italian."
"Ah, hmm!" Captain Charlton purred, wriggling in his own chair, as thoroughly puzzled as the rest by then. "Perhaps, sir, you might fill us in on the eastern shore's doings? Its nature?"
"Well, sir," Simpson replied slowly, "it's rather complicated, d'ye see, uhm…"
First had come the Roman Empire, so Simpson carefully related to them; then the Eastern Byzantine Empire had held sway, punctuated by a series of local princedoms or kingdoms that had aspired to be empires-Macedonians, Albanians, Serbs, then Bulgars or Hungarians, what had been the Dark Ages. All had been swept away quite bloodily by another, finally by the all-conquering Turks; back when they had been all-conquering, of course. Venice, Genoa, Spain, the Italian city-states all had nosed about, warring with each other until Venice had become great and had carved out a province that had run the entire length of the eastern shore. Only to be lost, except for a few remaining bits of coasts round harbours, to the Turks, at last, in the 1400s.
Below the Hungarian Littoral was the Independent Republic of Ra-gusa, which Turkey still claimed but was too weak to conquer any longer, and let it go in semi-autonomous bliss, long as tribute was paid to the Sultan, while all inland was Muslim-Slavic, termed Bosnia or Herzegovinia. South of there was Montenegro, another semi-autonomous province of the Turkish Empire, but which still held a small Venetian enclave with a fine harbour, called Venetian Cattaro. Montenegro was almost totally Muslim, too. The Turks still ruled Albania, even more mountainous and forbidding than Montenegro; but that too was pretty much in name only, and Venice still clung like weary leeches to the harbours of Durazzo and Volona, with shallow, narrow coastal lands, as Venetian Albania.
Venice still held the Ionian islands, down at the mouth of the Straits of Otranto, off the Albanian coast: Corfu, Cephalonia, Zante and Cerigo, plus some appendages only goats could love. Off the lower Io-nians, the Turks owned the Morea, which was their name for the Greek Peloponnesus, famed in Homer's works, part of the long-ago exterminated Byzantine Empire.
"The coast is mostly Catholic… Hungarian, Croat and Venetian," Simpson related over a second decanter of port. "Inland, though, they are Muslim, all down through Albania and the Morea. Forcibly converted long ago, though you couldn't tell a Balkan Slav Muslim from a European. Now, you still have some Greeks, Eastern Orthodox Church, down in the islands, the far southern lands… sheltered by the Venetians. Betwixt Venetian ports and such, the coast is Muslim, so it's rather tricky, depending on where you go ashore. Far inland, there are many Eastern Orthodox Serbs, still clinging to their mountaintops. Turks never could get at 'em easily. Toppled their empire in a night and a day, Lord… four hundred years past. They've a Serbian Orthodox Church of their own, stead o' looking to Roosia or wherever other Slavs look to as the seat o' their religion. Oh, lowermost Montenegro, there's the port of Dulcigno. Muslim, independent, home of the Dulcigno Corsairs. Just behind them, by the Albanian border, is the Rebel Pasha of Scutari. Not quite as bad as the Barbary Corsairs, but they're aspiring people. Split off, like the Mamelukes who rule old Egypt? 'Tis a hellish stew, the Balkans and Dalmatia."
"It sounds very much like it, sir," Charlton grunted.
"Well, worse than that, sir. D'ye see, uhm…"
Don't tell me, they're cannibals! Lewrie scoffed in quiet derision; and they ate Captain Cook! He needed more port. Badly!
"So much trampling back and forth, Captain Charlton," Simpson grimly mused. "All of 'em were great, one time or another. Even with the Turks ruling most of it, the people're so intermixed. Every little valley… all those peoples, religions, languages in some places. Any slightest thing sets 'em off, and then it's holy war, neighbour 'gainst neighbour. They take their tribal backgrounds and their religions damn' serious in the Balkans, they do, sir. Red-Indian, massacreing serious. Give 'em a wide berth, that's my best advice to you."
"Yet where does the best Adriatic oak come from, sir?" Rodgers enquired. "From the eastern shore? Or from higher up, round Trieste, or Fiume?"
"Bit o' both, but mostly from the north, Captain Rodgers," the good major allowed. "From Venice and Trieste. What the Hungarians do, in spite of orders from Vienna…" He gave them a hopeless shrug.
"So we must investigate that shore, I take it, sir? In spite of the problems?" Lewrie asked, not liking the sound of it. "The Venetian ports, too?"
"Aye, the Venetians." Charlton perked up like a spaniel at the sight of a fowling-piece. "I'm told their fleet is still a factor in this region. What's their strength, and where do they base?"
"Well, sir… officially that is," Simpson told him, "they have twenty ships of the line, still. Two-decker 68's, what we'd take for an under-gunned 3rd Rate 74. Some 60s, same as an overgunned 4th Rate 50? Smallish. Ten real frigates, again smaller'n we're used to, most of them like our 6th Rates, and shallow-draught. Fixty or sixty sloops, brigs o' war, xebecs or oared galleys, all told. Laid up, in the Lido at Venice, the various ports… most of 'em in-ordinary with their guns landed. Haven't seen much of them at sea since their last war with the Tunisian Corsairs back in '92, just before their Admiral Angelo Emo died."
"And the Turks, sir?" Charlton wondered.
"Lord, sir! The Turks?" Simpson laughed, as did the rest of the Austrian officers. "In the Black Sea, to keep an eye on the Roosians, mostly. What else is left, and that ain't worth much, mind… is anchored inside the Golden Horn below the Sultan's shore-guns, should they turn mutinous on him. At best they patrol the Dardanelles, to keep out tricky folk like we infidels, so the world may leave 'em be, sir."
"So we wouldn't encounter any off the Balkans, sir?" Fillebrowne enquired. "Not even a revenue cutter or two?"
"Not in a month of Sundays, sir." Simpson chuckled. "Balkans are so poor to start with, there's little revenue to protect! And the local pashas, however they style themselves, too weak to collect or enforce it. Should there be some money scraped up, it never goes beyond a pasha's purse, you may be certain… the Sultan bedamned."
"Seeraьbers," one of the Austrians sneered. "Der pirates, Ja? Sehr viele… zo mahny ist, meinen herren kollegin?"
"The kapitan refers to you as his colleagues, sirs," Simpson translated. To Lewfie's ears, even hearing the man's name for a second time, it still sounded hellish like "Von Glottal-Stop/Atchoo"!
"He warns there are many pirates on the coast," Simpson added, "like the Corsairs of Dulcigno. With the Turks sunk so low they can't, or no longer have the will to guard their coasts, some local buccaneers have gotten into the game. Albanian, Montenegran, Bosnian, some Greeks from the Morea…"
"Die Uscocchi," Kapitan Von Glottal-Stop growled, as morose as a drunken badger; the fourth bottle of port was making the rounds, with some local stuff, too-a gin-clear paint remover. "Ja, danke herr kapitan."
Simpson squirmed, turning a furious eye on the fellow for a second. "Croatian pirates, d'ye see, sirs. Their rulers, the Hungarians, try to keep 'em in line, but…"
"Ungarischen, pah!" Herr Kapitan Von Gargle-Umlaut-Argey-Bargey spat in anger from the other side of the table. "Arschlochen! Die Ungarischen Kriegsmarine, die Godtverdammte Uscocchi, ist!"
"He says the Hungarians don't try too hard to rein 'em in, sir," Simpson unraveled for them, blushing. "Being so "new to the sea, Croats make up a fair number of their sailors so far."
"Like good English smugglers, Major?" Lewrie japed. "The best seamen in time of war? Worth your time to snare 'em… 'pressed, or as volunteers?"
"May one catch them first, Commander Lewrie," Simpson agreed, a touch bleary. He wasn't feeling any pain himself by then. "I must confess our compatriots the Hungarians have recruited many for their flotilla. Or turn a blind eye to their doings, at times. For their continuing goodwill. After all, the Uscocchi are stronger than most of the freebooter bands. Damn near own the myriad of islands along the coast, d'ye see. And their presence keeps the other raider bands out of Hungarian waters. I told you, 'twas a hellish stew in the Balkans. There's hardly a coastal community safe from piracy or slaughter. Not much to loot, d'ye see, though… 'tis mostly tribal or religious grudges being worked off. Greeks 'gainst Turks, Turks 'gainst anyone Christian, Croats 'gainst Bosnians or Serbs, and vice versa. And 'gainst Moslems, which is pretty much everybody else down the coast. Your best hope, Captain Charlton, is to see that British merchantmen keep well out to sea, over towards the Italian shores. Venetian waters are safe enough, and down 'round the Straits, Naples keeps a lid on things. The Papal States, though… in the middle of the western shore… not much of a navy, these days. Nor army, either! So you'll see raids over there now and again. Though even the Uscocchi don't stray far from their home waters in the islands. Too easy to hide 'mongst 'em, sir."
"Uhmm, yahyss…" Charlton drawled, suppressing a yawn. "Now, as to those prizes we fetched in, Major Simpson… or any others we may take, once we hit our stride, hmm? Does Trieste support a Prize-Court, since Austria is a belligerent 'gainst France?"
"But of course, sir!" Simpson beamed. "Survey, inspect and valuate any prize you fetch in. Imprison or parole any passengers or crews who are French, allied with them or shipping contraband. We've already discussed it, the governor, the burgomeister, and I. All are most enthused at the opportunity. Once condemned and purchased, those ships and their cargoes will be most welcome on Trieste's markets."
"Supplies, sir," Charlton pressed gently, "victuals, firewood and water. Perhaps the odd cask of gunpowder, stand of shot… naval stores and your famed Adriatic oak for repairs… now and again?"
"Well, uhm, sir, d'ye see…" Simpson shrugged helplessly. "At present, uhm…"
Useless bastards, Lewrie groaned silently; some allies!
'Well, perhaps we could meet again, sir," Charlton suggested, hiding his disappointment rather well. "We must spend at least a day more at anchor, making repairs from onboard stores. Your people to take charge of the prizes, freeing our prize-crews aboard at present? Oh, excellent, sir, thankee. Would tomorrow be convenient? There's so much for us to discuss, before we sail for Venice, to announce our presence… Splendid! Well, sir. It's quite late, I see. And this has been a most enjoyable evening, but…"
"Shoddy sorts, Lewrie," Rodgers growled as they stood apart, waiting for the carriages to bear them back to the quay. That rain had finally come, sullen, chill and depressingly steady. "Not worth a tinker's damn, they are. 'Less there's more to 'em than we've seen today. Or tonight." Rodgers yawned, too, digging out his watch to peer at the time. "By Jesus, half past midnight!"
"Well, sir," Lewrie agreed softly as a coach clattered up at last. "I'd suspect, long as we're about the Adriatic, they'll not be sticking their noses out to sea. Didn't sound as if they'd seen the sea-side of the breakwater in a dog's age."
"All they're good for is swillin' an' drinkin', it seems." Ben Rodgers chuckled. "Lord!"
"Well, sir… a man's got to be good at something!" Lewrie smirked.
"Least Charlton sounds as if he knows what he's about. Smooth as silk, did ya mark him? A perfect diplomat. And a fine hand when it comes to fightin', thank God. At pistol-shot range. By the way… thankee for cripplin' that bastard frigate, you an' Myrmidon. Might've been a real scrap if you hadn't."
"Well, I've got to be good at something, don't I, sir?" Lewrie laughed as a liveried catch-fart opened the door and lowered the step for them so they could hop into the coach.
"Aye, ya always were a scrapper, Lewrie," Captain Rodgers said as he settled in the rear seat, forcing Lewrie to take the forward one. They were both relieved to be free of the estimable Captain Charlton, though; he and Fillebrowne would ride in the second. "Prize-money to start with, bags of honour with Old Jarvy, right off. Well, four of us 'In-Sight'… may not be that grand a share-out, but it's a start. I'd hope we could cruise together, Pylades and Jester. Like the old days… me a bit offshore, you further in. We made a hellish pair o shit-stirrers, 'deed we did, sir."
"I'd admire that, too, sir," Alan truthfully said. "Aye, like the high old times."
"Here, this Fillebrowne," Rodgers puzzled, after another giant yawn. "Know much of him? One o' Hotham's 'newlies,' ain't he?"
"Well, sir…" Lewrie said, suddenly guarded. And feeling that flush of embarrassed irritation all over again! "But so is Charlton in a way." And, as the coach rattled and swayed over the poorly cobblestoned road, he related his first meeting with Fillebrowne at Elba, and what a first impression he'd formed. Without being too spiteful-sounding, he hoped!
"They come up so fast these days, Lewrie," Rodgers sighed, a fist over his mouth to cover another yawn. "So did we, come to think on't. Nicest, gentle-mannered Lieutenant in th' world, jumped out of th' gun-room or wardroom, onto his own bottom, well… there's always a few turn into th' worlds biggest bastards. Never know what a com-mand'll do to a fellow. And the newest, Lord… did ya ever note it? Get such big heads, 'tis a wonder there's a hat'd fit 'em! Scared o' makin' an error at th' same time, too. I'd expect Fillebrowne needs half a year o' command t'gain his confidence. That'll take all th' toplofty starch out o' th' lad. New shoes pinch sorest, 'til ya break 'em in. An' captain's shoes th' snuggest."
"I'd s'pose there's something in what you say, sir," Lewrie had to admit. Hadn't he been half terrified, his first day aboard Alacrity? Whole-terrified 'board Shrike, when he'd been jumped to First Officer, fresh from an Examining Board in '82, and knew just enough to be dangerous… but nothing near what a Lieutenant should?
Even if Fillebrowne had schemed, even murdered, to gain his promotion and his command, the sudden strain, the sense of isolation aft in the great-cabins and the immense, unpredictable and everlasting burden of total responsibility would turn a saint grumbly!
"Perhaps I should find him a kitten, sir," Lewrie chuckled in the dark interior of the coach. But Ben Rodgers wasn't listening to him any longer. He was awkwardly draped across the opposite leather seat, legs asprawl to either corner and his head tucked over sidewise like a pigeon would, to tuck his head under a wing to roost. Hat on sidewise, too, almost over his nose, and beginning to snore about as loud as an un-| greased bilge-pump chain.
"Oh, Christ!" Alan sighed, tweaking his nostrils shut as Ben Rodgers relieved his heavy Teutonic supper at last. A belch or two of stentorian loudness, that put a throaty gargle to his snores for a moment; then the sort of fart that'd make most producers sigh aloud with delight and pride. And make the rest envious.
"Dignity of command," Lewrie reminded himself in a soft voice, as Rodgers produced another that quite turned the air blue. The coach-horses couldn't do a finer! he thought. This'un now, was ripe and pungent beyond all imagining, making Lewrie grope for the sash-window's release strap to let it down so he could stick his head out!
His own supper sat heavy, his breeches as tight as a g utted tick, so.. well two can play this game, he thought. And Rodgers, lost in a creamy, Teasy, alcoholic stupour, had the gall to wriggle his nose at the result. But, he snored on, most thoroughly oblivious.
Well, damme, Lewrie thought; the nerve!