"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!
"Let 'em go?" Lewrie ranted upon his quarterdeck, once he'd read the letter that Charlton had sent aboard. "Mine arse on a band-box, sir, but… let 'em go? Well, damme!"
The older midshipman from Lionheart, a fellow in his mid-twenties named Birtwistle, cringed and took half a step back from Lewrie's sudden fit of pique at that unwelcome news from the Venetians.
"Well, sir…" Birtwistle said with a shrug, when he could get a word in. "Since the captain only requested a ruling from the Doge and the authorities ashore, it isn't as if we're bound by it. We never turned the ships over to them, so they're ours to deal with as we like, the captain said to tell you, sir. B'lieve the letter goes on to say-"
"And what did the Doge and his senators say to that, Mr. Birtwistle?" ' Lewrie fumed.
"Didn't ask 'em, sir," Birtwistle grunted. "The captain said he thought they'd most-like be wringing their hands over it. But it'd be all they'd do. Captain Rodgers is to take charge of them, and sail them back under escort to Trieste and a real Prize-Court."
"Well, that's more like it," Lewrie sighed, at least a trifle mollified. "Thankee, Mister Birtwistle, for deliverin' this."
"Captain Charlton also sent this, sir…" Birtwistle said, as he reached into his uniform coat's breast-pocket to produce another of those letters. "I'm to wait for a verbal reply, sir."
Lewrie wrenched the letter open, expecting more bad news, but was delighted to find that Captain Charlton wished the pleasure of his company, along with one of his officers or midshipmen, to accompany him ashore that evening for another of those diplomatic suppers.
"Ah," Lewrie said, eyes crinkling in delight. "Very good, sir. Pray, do you render to Captain Charlton my utmost respects and thanks for the invitation, and I will fetch along my First Officer, Lieutenant Knolles. We'll be aboard Lionheart by the start of the First Dog."
"I'll tell him, sir," Birtwistle assured him, doffing his hat and making an escape before something else set Commander Lewrie off.
Let 'em go, mine arse! Lewrie groaned.
After a day of repair work, the squadron had sailed for Venice, on a beautiful morning with a brisk little Easterly gushing down off the Balkan mountains. Twenty miles out to sea, they'd stood, outside anyone's territorial claims. It wasn't much of a voyage; seventy or so sea-miles to the west. But they'd come across several merchant-ships and had been forced to overhaul them and speak them, anyway. Two had been British, one a Maltese. But the last two had made sail and run as soon as they'd spotted them, and it had taken half a day for the swifter Jester and Myrmidon to come up to musket-shot of them and fire a warning under their bows.
