A Jester’s Fortune

CHAPTER 5

"Mlavic, you black-hearted sonofabitch!" Lewrie snarled at him, turning to face him and grabbing his arm. "She's English. British, do ya hear? Maybe the Venetians're too puny to hunt you down for murderin' and rapin' their people, but you can wager yer last penny England won't wring their hands and let you get away scot-free. There'll be a bloody fleet out for you, same as they did for Bligh's mutineers."

"Is Greek," Mlavic dismissed, leaving off gnawing on his girl's teats. "I hear Greek."

"You can hear English, too, you simpleton, do you get the dung out yer ears!" Lewrie railed, daring to rise off the log. This time, when Mirko tried to drag him down, he turned, glared at him, and jabbed a warning finger at him. "Who was your husband, Mistress Connor?" he shouted over his shoulder to her. "Tell this fool plain."

"Patrick Connor, of Bristol!" she shot back. "He and his father were in the currant trade, with the English House on Zante. We were married six years ago, when his father Sean retired to England."

"Husband dead, she still Greek," Mlavic quibbled, though with the beginnings of a worried look on his face. "Greeks dirty people."

"Makes no matter, fool," Lewrie thundered. "Wife of a British subject becomes British. You may be lawless, but that's King's Law."

Mlavic dumped his girl to the ground, tossing her away like he might a fruit-rind as he rose. He snarled a question to Mrs. Connor in Demotic Greek. Lewrie saw her tremble, look away furtively, licking her lips before she answered.

"Catholic," Kolodzcy groaned, despairing. "Vas married in husbant's faith. Deat'-sentence."

Connor, aye, Lewrie winced, Patrick Connor, surely Irish in the beginning. Which does Mlavic hate worse, Greek Orthodox or Catholic?

"Bad as Croat… Catholic, pooh!" Mlavic spat. He strode across to take a closer look at her, while his terrified girl tried to flee. She didn't get far; two of the guards snagged her and carried her kicking and wailing into the darkness beyond the firelight.

Mistress Connor shivered as Mlavic circled her slowly, stood her ground and determined to play-up brave, though her mouth and chin worked in sudden fear or loathing. He leaned close to blow in her ear, making her shy away, stroked back her hair to admire her neck, taunting her with a crooning sing-song in Serbo-Croat.

"What's he sayin'?" Lewrie rasped, getting frantic.

"… rich man's whore," Kolodzcy mercilessly supplied. "A Greek whore who leafs de Orthodox Church to wed rich, turn stinkink Catholic. Rich, soft-skinned, faithless traitor whore. Ach, nein!Scheisse!"

Mlavic seized her right wrist to drag her away, back to his seat on the logs, his little black-haired Bosnian victim quite forgotten in the light of this finer choice, sure he was going to take vengeance on a three-in-one. But he drew back the bauto to discover the child!

He roared with surprise and sudden delight, grabbing the young lad by the scruff of the neck and parting mother and son, though she screamed and tore at him, hauling the boy aloft to shake before his pirates like a filthy rag. And laughing fit to bust!

"Hands off, damn you!" Lewrie barked, so loud he stilled that rabble s heathen howls for a moment. "You put that English boy down… you get your filthy hands off an English lady!"

"You make me? Or what you do, pooh! I have power, you no. I take her." Mlavic spat. "Be fucking English… lady, ahahaha!"

Do something! she mutely pleaded.

Like what? Alan wondered.

"They're for sale, ain't they, Mlavic?" he shouted of a sudden, feeling something nigh to inspiration. "She's for sale? Her, and her boy? That's what you dragged these women down for, wasn't it? Offer 'em up for a good knock-down price? Well, I'll buy 'em. Didn't you offer to let me bid on a woman a little while ago?"

"Da," Mlavic allowed cagily. "Other woman. This, I keep."

"Selfish bastard!" Lewrie cried. "Kolodzcy, help me here, put it to 'em. Leader gets first choice free, hey? What're the rules of the house after that, though? Mlavic gets first pick, then they're all up for grabs? He's had his first pick. Now he should bid, same as everybody else. Else he's a selfish bastard… a cheap, greedy bastard!"

"Oh, shit!" Spendlove could be heard to mutter, burying his face in his hands. "God, sir, please don't… he's rowed enough!"

And please let 'em be so drunk by now, they think I make sense! Alan silently pled; seen sailors do "Oo shall 'ave this'un, then?" I have, every time a ship's out o' Discipline an' the whores come aboard. Sailors… even this lot… surely have a fair streak; can't stand for officers t'put it over on 'em. Nice little show, ya bastards, a spirited auction? String it out long enough, Knolles wakes his sorry arse up and comes t'save us…? "Dhey fint it… just, sir!" Kolodzcy marveled. "Vish to see us con-founted. Bud vish to see Mlavic confounted, too. He does nod heff military control ofer dhem. He may not like it, bud he musd go along."

There was a change in mood round the central fire and its horrid scene of slaughter now, Lewrie sensed. The boos and catcalls sounded less threatening, more like good-natured taunting, which forced Mlavic to smile, nod and placate them with raised hands in allowance.

Two guards off rapin' that poor girl, Lewrie noted; several women auctioned off to small groups, and they're busy, too. Could we? He wondered, a rising hope filling him. Gull 'em peaceable, then take us a hostage'r two… Mlavic?… and get down to the beach? There's your biter bit, by God!

"How much do you have on you?" Lewrie whispered, rifling into his purse, where he found but Ј30 and change. "Mister Howse? Mister Spendlove? Quick sums, then hand your purses over."

"Surely, sir, you'd not countenance white slavery, allow these cutthroats the slightest bit of credulity?" Howse huffed, getting his indignant demeanour back. "Mean tsay, English or no…!"

"Do you not, sir, and Mlavic wins, I'll slit yer throat first chance I get and blame it on them!" Lewrie hissed. Howse tossed over a fullish purse, and slumped down into another miserable sulk. Lewrie did a quick addition; not near enough! Spendlove had a miserly eighteen shillings and some pence. Kolodzcy, however, offered up an embroidered poke simply stiff with "chink."

"De equivalend ohf your seventy pounds, sir," Kolodzcy said.

"Listen, then.,. we get into the spirit of things, they'll drop their guard, we can stand and move about a few feet," Lewrie schemed in a harsh mutter as they put their heads together. "If it looks like we've lost, and Knolles still hasn't come, then we take what chance we may, and grab Mlavic and a few others, get some weapons and the woman, and head for the beach. Hear me? It may be our only chance. The men at your backs are thinned, might stay thinned! Others are off havin' themselves a bare-belly romp, or they're three sheets to the wind. If a chance comes… I'll give you sign."

He looked at their glum, frightened faces, then turned away for the final addition. He'd garnered nearly Ј130 and change. Best start low, he thought… string it out as long as he could.

"Right, then… you miserable excuse for a man," Lewrie shouted with an avid smile. "I'll bid three guineas."

"Five guinea!" Mlavic grinned back, just as evilly, still with a firm grip on both woman and child.

"The management instructs you, sir… kindly unhand the merchandise 'til the last bid's in!" Lewrie cajoled, elbowing Lieutnant Kolodzcy to say that to all observers. The pirates found that hugely amusing.

"Six guineas… you foul lump of shit!"

"Ten!" Mlavic countered, but letting them go and stepping off.

"Eleven… you ditch-dropped whelp of a Turk hedge-whore."

"Bosun Mister Cony… SAH!" the Marine sentry right-aft by the passageway to the gun-room cried, stamping his boots and musket-butt.

"Enter," Knolles said, sopping up the last gravy on his plate with a crust of fresh-baked bread and motioning for their steward-Sprinkle-to have away his plate, the water-glasses and the tablecloth. With Mr. Howse away, the gun-room had fed more than well this evening, with fewer to share a whole leg of roast pork. Mister Buchanon, Mister Giles and Midshipman Mister Hyde completed the table, looking sated but eager for the sweet biscuit, the last of the Venetian-bought confections and the port.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but th' wind's shiftin'," Cony told them hat-in-hand. "An' that prize-ship's but 'er best bower out. No kedge'r stream-anchor t'check 'er swingin'. 'Er stern's comin' round towards our bows, an' 'er 'arbour-watch'z drunker'n Davy's Sow, sir. Can't raise a 'hollo' from 'em, Serb or English."

"Damn sloppy folk, pirates," Buchanon grumbled. "Ha! Did a Bora take her, she could just as well swing aground onshore."

"Very well, Mister Cony, well be up directly," Lieutenant Knolles sighed, savouring a last sip of wine before rising. "Belay the port and biscuit, Sprinkle. Might summon a boat-crew to row over, Bosun. Take in on her anchor rode, if her watch is blind-drunk, I s'pose."

"Aye aye, sir," Cony replied, backing out and loping easy for the com-panionway ladder to the weather decks.

Once on the quarterdeck, Knolles eyed the captured ship. Sure enough, she was swinging to stream alee of the wind, which had come more Sou'westerly. Jester was anchored fore-and-aft from first bower and kedge, with springs on the cables to heave her round, should some enemy ship loom out of the night from the east; a prudent caution.

"Hasn't dragged, has she, Mister Tucker?" He enquired of the Quartermaster's Mate.

"Don' think so, sir… swingin', though. Looked t'have 'er at middlin' 'stays.' Forty foot o' water, yonder, so she couldn't have let out more'n five-to-one scope-say, a hun'r'd eighty t'two hun'r'd foot o' rode, sir?"

" At'd be cuttin' it damn fine, sir," Buchanon groused, with a thumb lifted to measure her. "I think she'll come aboard us… into th' bowsprit do we not look sharp."

"Right, then!" Knolles snapped. "Mister Cony, cutter away to the prize-ship! Boat's crew, plus six more hands for muscle on their capstan, should her watch be as drunk as you suspect. Keep ours sober, hear me?"

"Aye, sir!" Cony shouted back, having mustered a boat-crew upon the gangway already, and snagging the first available hands of the duty-watch he could lay hands on.

"Might even have to row a kedge out for 'em, too!" Lieutenant Knolles added, seeing them scramble over the side. "Idle bastards," he murmured under his breath.

"Havin' 'emselves a rare ol' time, aren't they, sir?" Buchanon pointed to the leaping flames ashore, the faint shouts, the yells of merrymaking. "Wonder what 'ey fed th' cap'um an' 'em?"

"Mister Sadler?" Knolles called for the Bosuns Mate. "Do you pipe 'All Hands.' We may have to fend that old bitch off, should she come close enough. Muster forrud. Spare spars and rig fenders!" "Aye, sir!"

They went forward along the starboard gangway themselves, as the off-duty crew boiled up on deck, up as far as the cat-head, which poised the second heavy bower horizontally. That three-master now lay aslant the starboard bows, looking uncomfortably close and tall, at a forty-five-degree angle, just as Cony's working-party reached her main-chain platform. And there was still no response from her, no matter how they shouted from the cutter, or Jesters forecastle.

"Drunks'z lords, sir," Buchanon sighed. "Dear God!" "She'll collide?" Knolles quailed, assuming that the Sailing Master had worked out the angles in his head already and was certain the two ships would entangle. And pleading with God why such a thing had to happen on his watch, with the captain away and him in temporary command!

"Her transom-board, sir!" Buchanon gasped, pointing to the ornately carved, gilded nameplate which was flickering with faint light as her stern swung enough to bare it to them. Below her master's windows and stern-walk, above her wardroom's windows, she bore a name: Nostra Signora di Santa Maria Delle Salute, amid wee angels and cherubs.

"By God, Mister Knolles!" Buchanon gasped. " 'At's a Venetian cathedral's name. Lay ya, sir… 'ere's somethin' queer 'bout 'is!"

"A Venetian ship, sir?" Knolles gawped. "Damme, they'd dare to take a Venetian?" He cast a wild stare shoreward. The crudely erected huts teemed with movement, the shadows of campfire flames wavered and flagged in the trees, upon the rocks. Crude shouts could be heard and some laughter, now the wind had shifted to fetch sound seaward. There were no answers, though, no…! Knolles cupped his hands and bellowed over to the ship, which now looked immense, her tall poop towering over Jester s bows. "Ahoy! Cony! Hoy, the ship!"

There came another sound, a most welcome sound from the capstan, as Navy hands breasted to the bars and began to haul taut on the anchor cable, harsh clackings of pawl-by-pawl progress.

"Heavin' 'er shorter, sir!" Cony yelled back, atop the poop and barely sixty feet off by then. "These pirates, sir… nary a one of'em on 'is feet! Think we'll keep her off, sir!"

Bosun's Mate Sadler and a quarter of the crew were ready with a selection of spars thrust out to hold her off, should Cony fail, with rope mats and hurriedly scavenged heavy-weather royals and t'gallants up from the sail-room to hang like spongy bags of laundry over-side as protection.

"Cony… is… she… Venetian?" Knolles queried.

" Ang on, sir, lemme 'ave a squint!" He dropped from sight, to magically appear in her stern-windows a minute later, then came out on her captain's stern-gallery waving a sheaf of papers. "Aye, sir, that she be'. Venetian, right-enough! Christ A'mighty, sir!"

"Put her people in irons, Cony! Mister Hyde!" Knolles shouted.

"Here, sir," Hyde said, right by his coattails; he hadn't needed to shout.

"Gig and launch, sir, at once. Sergeant Bootheby? We're going to board the brig. If they make a fight of it, then slaughter the bastards." Knolles cast another glance ashore, wondering if sound would carry that far, against the wind. "Pass the word. Beat to Quarters… no drums, no noise. Mister Crewe?"

"Aye, sir," the Master Gunner barked from the darkness.

"Man the starboard battery, best you're able, 'til we've secured the brig. I'm mustering a landing-party, so you'll be short-handed."

"We'll cope, sir, never ya fear!" Crewe assured him.

Though it would never do for a gentleman, a Sea Officer, to trot when he could stroll or amble proudly, Lieutenant Knolles tore aft, desiring a telescope that instant. He ripped one of the night-glasses from a rack by the binnacle and extended it, trying to focus it, trying to interpret its up-side-down-backwards image. Pirates all 'round the central fires; sway-ing-drunk, or firelit-swaying? Only a cable to shore, perhaps no more than a hundred yards beyond that to the huts, but… naked bodies… naked women, by God. Tits, by God! he gasped; he was sure he saw tits! And held against their will, he could barely make out; captain'd not hold with force. He couldn't see faces or discover identities that far off, had no way to discern uniforms, either. But there was something olid and evil going on ashore, he was dead certain of it, like some pagan Hell, something satanic and heathen done beneath blood-soaked oaks, like tales of witches' covens.

"Women and… children?" he softly exclaimed. "My oath!" How could he employ the guns, if women and children were in the line of fire? he shuddered. And how could he save his captain?

"Ninety-five guineas, you pus-gut," Lewrie despaired, putting a brave face on it, though, as Mlavic smirked at him, blowing a premonitory kiss towards Mrs. Connor. He was coming close to his limit; slow as he'd drawn it out, he couldn't continue this farce much longer. Mlavic looked tired of the game, too. In the beginning, he'd played up right-mocking, taking pleasure from his crew's reactions, and the hopes and fears that played teeter-totter on Mrs. Connor's countenance. Lewrie was beginning to run low on insults, too.

"Hun'red!" Mlavic roared, mopping his face with a rough hand. "Hun'red guinea!" He leered at her, thrust his hips and grimaced.

"And ten," Lewrie retorted. "One hundred and ten, you low-bred Barbary ape!"

"Hun'red fifty!" Mlavic bristled, finally getting tired of Lewrie s insults. A few more, Lewrie speculated, and Mlavic would cry off the game, stick his butcher-knife in his ribs, take the woman, and declare himself the winner.

"Two hundred," Lewrie drawled, affecting to study his fingernails. Perversely, the Serbs whistled and catcalled, cheering with a muttering like the House of Commons on a testy day. Mlavic paused, as one hand went to his purse by its own volition, as if he had to assure himself he had that much. That drew more cheers, of the mocking sort, which made the pirate chieftain whirl about, glowering them to silence.

Aye, had enough o' the game, Lewrie bitterly told himself; and enough o' bein' hooted by his own side, too! It's all up.

"Five hun'red, British boy-fucker!" he spat, a triumphant grin on his face. "Show me! Show guinea, now!"

"Six hundred," Lewrie countered, stepping forward and hefting his heavy wash-leather purse, jouncing it like a juggler's ball. "All two-guinea coins, Venetian ducats, Austrian guilders…" Mirko the guard didn't follow, and Kolodzcy, Howse and Spendlove had been allowed on their feet long since to root for him bid-by-bid. Far enough away from their captors, he wondered? This ain't goin' t'work, but…!

Lewrie turned, a mocking, jeering smile on his phyz, one brow raised in celebration, to face them. He winked and nodded, slow and significant, jutting his chin up slantwise towards the nearest armed men. Spendlove went pasty-pale, and Howse began to tremble. From Lieut-nant Kolodzcy there was a fatalistic bow of his head, and a quirky grin. "Bid was six hundred guineas to you, Mlavic," Lewrie taunted, stepping within a long arm's reach. "Put up or fold."

"Fun with me, hah? Fun with Dragan, hah?" Mlavic roared, and fumbled for his heavy money-bag. He ripped it open and spilled money on the ground in a glittering golden shower. "One t'ousand guinea, I say! You no got that much, you…!"

Lewrie tensed, ready to spring, planning to go for one of those pistols first* then for Mrs. Connor. Shoot Mlavic in the belly, then take his scimitar or his butcher-knife? Mlavic half turned, though, of a sudden, raising his arms to jeer and show his empty purse to his men, who began that hackle-raising wolf howling song.

BOOOMMM! though. The harsh barking of a 9-pounder! The Rwarkk! of livened timbers by the beach. Mlavic turned to face it, goggling at the sight of one of his forty-footer boats in midleap after being struck by round-shot and grape in a froth of spray and splintered wood, blown clean from the water!

His back was to Lewrie. In that split second before he could turn, Alan dove forward, stung into sudden motion without thought. He got hold of both pistols by the butts and leaped free, levering back their dogs-jaws with his wrists. "To me!" he howled, backpedaling towards where he thought Mrs. Connor had been. He collided with her, as she was of the same mind and had rushed to him, almost knocking them both off their feet. He had a quick glance to see Howse cowering away, Kolodzcy smashing a handy bottle over a guards head and seizing his sword arm and wrist. Spendlove was kicking the angelic-looking tormentor in his "nutmegs" and lifting his knee in a rough-and-tumble "Dutch Kiss," a trick he'd obviously learned on the lower decks from the hands.

And BOOOMMM! again, and the second boat was leaping skyward.

"Stay at my back, don't let go of me or the boy!" Alan warned Mrs. Connor as he turned to face Mlavic. His sword was drawn, and he was crouching to fight! Lewrie leveled a pistol at his heart and began backing away towards that hut. Mlavic sneered at the threat, pacing forward slowly, just out of sword-reach.

"No loaded, British," Mlavic sing-songed.

"We'll find out, then, won't we?" Lewrie grinned back, praying he was lying. "Care to lay a guinea on it? What's your bid now, hey?"

At Mlavic's beck, a pirate rushed from the right, sword back for a head-lopping slash, and Lewrie aimed, pulled the trigger as the child and Mrs. Connor screamed. It fired! And the man pitched over backwards!

"One!" Mlavic laughed. "Have one left."

BOOMM! BOOMM! BOOMM! Sweet music, those three more shots from Jesters 9-pounders, this time loaded with grapeshot and canister, and fired a tad high, Lewrie took time to note. The trees and bushes on the desiccated island thrashed with the impact of a thousand musket balls or plum-size shot, a bit over the height of a man. But they drove nearly everyone to their faces or knees-Mlavic, too!

"Run!" Lewrie cried, dropping the empty pistol and grasping Mrs. Connor by the hand in the short moment of grace that partial broadside had bought them. He made it to Kolodzcy and clubbed down one of the guards from behind, freeing the Austrian to pick up a sword and that man's pair of pistols. A moment more and they were with Spendlove, who was hewing about with a cutlass, keeping two at bay. A quick shot and one was down with a bullet in his kidneys, and their swords were clashing. Spendlove, freed, turned his attention to the other and began the cutlass drill… left foot stamp and down-left slash, right foot stamp and back-slash right, balance step and recover. He beat the Serbian's scimitar aside and round-housed a back-slash that laid the man open.

"The hut!" Lewrie shouted, stooping to retrieve a Turk-style sword.

"Out of the line of fire… go!"

BOOMM! BOOMM! BOOMM! This time, aimed lower, and men who had leaped back to their feet were swept away in a howling, shrieking horror. Not just pirates, unfortunately, but some of their victims as well, who'd been dashing about witless. Mlavic had dropped once more to his belly, barely ten paces behind. He was up in a flash, bellowing orders and trying to muster his chaotic, half-drunk men into a fighting force. They came from the woods or huts where they'd been sporting, down from the stockade, running for stands of muskets, then drew swords and began to form a rough protective line above the beach.

This kept Mlavic too busy to deal with Lewrie, for a moment. They dashed for the hut, Alan dragging the woman almost off her feet in his haste, now they had another shot-bought moment of grace. A pistol lit off and Lewrie turned to see another pirate spin about and drop, just by the hut's side. Kolodzcy growled something in German and cocked his other pistol. And there went the little fifteen-year-old girl Mlavic had his eye on at first, stark-naked and screaming up the hill for the prison.

Howse leaped to his feet, almost under Lewrie's, to run whining ahead of them, still weaponless. Spendlove had armed himself with two more pistols by then, and shoved one at Howse, who took it in passing, still intent on some dubious safety. "Can't find more pistols, sir," Spendlove confessed as Lewrie reached him.

"Three shots, then," Lewrie noted, looking to the beach for a sign of a landing-party. Could they hide somewhere? But where would be safe? And where the hell was Knolles? Surely…!

"Four… I reload dhese," Kolodzcy panted. "Ged our swords, I beg you, sir. Gif me your pistol. Herr Spentluff unt I, ve vill hold dhem off."

Lewrie ducked into the hut, tearing away the flimsy sailcloth door, and scrounged about for weapons, leaving Mrs. Connor and her boy shivering outside, the boy crying incessantly. He found his sword and Mr. Spendlove's prided dirk, the elegantly ornate small-sword Kolodzcy wore. But no more firearms.

"Down to the beach, ma'am," he urged as he came out. "Take the boy and go, now, while there's time. Our landing-party-"

"If the pirates are between here and there…?" she whinnied in a breathless pant, half out of her wits with terror, but fighting hard to master herself. "We all should go?"

"Might as well, we've ruined supper!" Lewrie cracked, happy to have his hanger once more in his hand. He looked at her, and was most surprised to see her smiling! She still shivered with fright, but she was smiling, tittering on the verge of semi-hysterical humour, like a doomed man who'd rather not weep, thankee.

And noticed for the first time, by the amber light of Mlavic s camp-fire, what a stunningly handsome woman she was! So exotically high-cheeked, with a squarish jaw that tapered to a pert chin and a wide, full-lipped mouth. Large amber eyes aslant like almonds, heavy-lashed and browed…! Her classically sculpted little nose…!

Damme! he goggled. Splendid poonts, tool 'Bout t'be knackered or no, and I'm gone calf-eyed over-

"Whatever shall we do now, sir?" Mr. Howse interrupted, coming from God knew where, which apparently he hadn't deemed completely safe. Lewrie had the thought he could hear that worthy's teeth knocking together. But the man had a pistoll

"Mr. Howse, make yourself useful. See Mrs. Connor and the lad down toward the beach. Take that harem pig-sticker yonder and gimme your pistol." Howse stooped for a massive chopper of a blade, handed the pistol to Lewrie-who winced as the fool offered it half-cocked and barrel-first, with a hellish-shaky finger still on the trigger!

, Thank God for small miracles, Alan thought wildly; my own side hasn't gut-shot me! Yet, he amended.

"We'll be close behind you, fending 'em off. Now go, sir!" He turned to face the pirate camp, which was sorting itself out at last, with Mlavic the loudest and fiercest, about thirty yards off. And felt a light tap on the back of his coat collar. He turned…

"Patrick always said…"-she shuddered, looking achingly lovely for someone who could still get chopped-"Have a 'touch for luck.' Touch a sailors collar. Thank you!" She smiled once more.

"Hope it works, Mistress Connor… for somebody." He grinned. Then she was gone, gathering up her half-stunned and wailing child, to join Mr. Howse by some low bushes further down the slope to the beach.

"Achtung, eine Angriff kommen!" Kolodzcy warned. "Mlavic!"

With most of his men sorted out, Mlavic had turned his attention to them again, him and a dozen others, coming at the trot.

"Captain, I kill you!" Mlavic howled. "Kill you slow!"

"Carefully… aimed fire," Lewrie ordered, leveling his first pistol at full-cock, waiting 'til they got within ten paces. Furious for blood or not, the pirates shied a bit, none of them wishing to be in the lead, with Mlavic howling and driving them on.

BANGG! The harsher, chuffing bark of a 2-pounder boat-gun down near the beach, spewing canister in an expanding cloud of lead pellets. BANGG! came a second, slashing at the centre of the pirates' camp and flinging men off their feet. The landing-party was within yards of the shore, Alan most gratefully realized, the small guns mounted in the bows of their boats! Those shots raised a wailing from the wounded, behind and to Mlavic's rear, and froze his men for a second to peer or check their progress, wondering what new deviltry was coming.

Lewrie took aim and fired, and one pirate dropped his weapons to grab at his shattered thigh, but Lewrie had been aiming at his chest! He tossed that one away, brought up his last. Spendlove fired but missed, then Kolodzcy lit off his first, taking one man in the throat and throwing his blood-spouting body back into another.

But then they were dashing forward again, and Lewrie fired that last pistol as Kolodzcy did his. One went whirling down, with a wound in his shoulder, Lewrie's target screamed rabbity as he was plumbed in his stomach; Lewrie had been aiming for his upper chest!

So much for Arabee pistols, Alan thought, tossing away his last pistol and drawing his hanger. The odds were better, though, he told himself grimly; four down-that's eight-to-three.

Lewrie took stance, hanger held low before his middle at Tierce, and it took an unthinking second to go from Third into a box-defence, then riposte, and sweep his keen Gill's across his first opponent, to rip his belly open! There was a shrill scream from his right, as one more pirate came lurching backwards, pedaling to stay upright, clutching his skewered stomach to plop and thrash. Then it was Mlavic before him, stepping over that mortally wounded man and snarling defiance!

At low Third again, the first engagement ringing, Mlavic beginning with a slash down from high-right, easily parried, turned over by a flying cut-over, then a lunge low, and Mlavic was backpedaling, too, suddenly wary. He came on as Lewrie stamped forward a foot or two, with a back-slash from his left, again easily parried. Mottled Damascus met British Gill's, sparks flying from edge-to-edge, and that curving blade singing as it carved the air!

No swordsman, Alan exulted, already panting for air. A quarter-circle scimitars made for cuttin', not the point… get inside! And he don't know anything else.

"Marines!" Came a distance-thinned bray from Sergeant Bootheby, on the beach at last. "Cock yer locks… lev-el? By volley.. .fire!" Then the welcome rattle of musketry, and over Mlavic's right shoulder Lewrie could see Serbs falling back in disorder, right to the edges of their encampment, even as he and Mlavic still fought, their hands and eyes performing without conscious thought in furious melee. Lewrie hoped Mlavic might turn his head for a squint, but it wasn't to be.

A thin cry to his left, which Lewrie also ignored, but there was Spendlove in the corner of his eye, in full whirl, having downed one for himself. His ear caught a cessation of tinkering to his right as a heavy body thudded to the ground without a cry.

"Vier!" Kolodzcy hooted in triumph, even as he engaged another. Almost decent odds now, Alan thought, beating out a box-defence by rote, jabbing with his straighter Gill's for an inner-arm cut or a thigh-cut, an eye-jab, which made Mlavic retreat steadily, now wheezing with anger and effort as his slashes and clumsy lunges were made nought. Lewrie made his face a feral grin, to discomfit him.

But then Mlavic leaped backwards, spry for such a heavy man-to draw that wicked black-iron butcher-knife from its sheath, and come back to the attack with a blade in each hand, slashing or stabbing like a two-headed monster! Lewrie had to give ground, grunting hoarse as he fought to meet both. And it was Mlavic's turn to gloat!

Now, where's help when I need it? Alan groaned. Marines, sailors, a knife… bloody table-fork, anything! He searched for a stick, some discarded weapon, a blazing brand from one of the fires…!

"Funf!" Kolodzcy shouted; another of his foe-men down. Then a grunt from the left as a pirate staggered away, clutching at a torn sword-arm where Spendlove had laid him open. Yards away, though; he'd been lured out towards the centre of the camp. A fainthearted Serb went har-ing by, dashing for the far shore, all the fight scared out of him.

Mlavic's scimitar was coming, this time not in a slash, but with a straight-armed lunge, wrist inverted and cutting-edge up! Lewrie swept to parry off low and left, flail it over high and right, slide down and slash at his arm with the edge to slow him down-quick, for his knife from the right…! He met the knife's blade, parried that wide and away… swordl Down and slashing with his tip, he nicked the pirate on the chin, through that tangled mat of beard, felt his hanger clang as he continued down and to his left onto the scimitar, but…

He was off balance, wrong-footed, counter-lunging to fend that bastard back for some stumbling room. A feint from the knife, though, and he was ducking to his left, and Mlavic stepped back, and Alan felt a searing pain on his left outside calf, a drawing stroke! Buggered! he gibbered.

He retreated on his right leg, a three-foot leap, but as soon as his weight came down on his left leg, he was sprawling on his back, as it folded on him like a shoddy stool. And Mlavic was on him before he could blink! Lewrie feebly put his hanger up to ward him off.

Clang! though.

Suddenly there was a sword above him, horizontal, whirling silvery in parry, jabbing and darting as Lieutnant Kolodzcy stepped over him and forced Mlavic away! Dancing sidewise in little, fitful hops and jumps almost too swift to be followed, to circle large round the hunkering, wary bear-shuffle of a stunned Mlavic, drawing him off toward the fire in the middle of the camp.

By God, that hurt! Lewrie felt like screaming. His calf was ablaze with pain, and blood gushed freely, making him wonder how near to bleeding to death he was, how close to losing his lower leg, even did he get the bleeding stopped! "Ah, Christ!" he yelped, going light-headed, faint, feeling that weak swoon that always seized him after a fight. And hearing an immense waterfall-ringing in his ears.

Then hands were on his body, lifting him by his shoulders, and someone large and hulking was kneeling near his left leg. There came a painful bout of rasping as something rough went taut below his knee that squeezed and squeezed.

"Be fine, sir, be fine, swear it," he heard from his left, and there was Spendlove, disheveled, nicked and bleeding, perspiring like a Canton coolie, but whole. A scent in his nostrils, like a spiced tea… rosemary and thyme, attar of some flowers, too? No, soap, rosemary and thyme, clean hair.

Couldn't be Spendlove, he thought weakly.

He lolled his head right, to try and focus on Mrs. Connor, who sat by his right shoulder, supporting him, felt a cool, soft hand on his brow, stroking so gently…

The hulking form was back, pawing him and prodding vigourously. There came the thud of a wooden box, the tinkle of gleaming, silvery things. More fire in his calf as something wet and stinging was laved over it, and he caught the sweet-and-sulfur tang of West Indies rum on the air. Then came a single blazing-red star from somewhere not that far away, wavering and sputtering, nearing…

"… see this, ma'am. Cover his ears, perhaps?" someone said. It was the hulking thing, shuffling on its knees upward to peer into his face. Surgeon Mister Howse!

"Bite on this," he said, offering a folded leather strop, all foetid, dried and mangled as old shoes, and bitten by the teeth of an hundred prior sufferers. "Think of something pleasant."

Then the pain went indescribable, and his leg was burning, all active flames, smoke and sizzle, and charring black, he could imagine; like he'd taken a tentative dip into a red-hot stream of lava!

"Oh, you bloody bastard!" Lewrie gritted through the gag, quivering tense as a sword-blade. "Enjoy that, do yyaaa? Shit!"

Over the child's redoubled wailings, he could hear Mrs. Connor shusshing and making crooning noises, holding his head in her hands to stop the sounds and sights, rocking the boy on her lap. Rocking him.

"Best way to stop the bleeding, sir," Mr. Howse said, looming up in his face again. "Tourniquet, then a cautering iron. Rum for a fuel, as it were, to encourage the searing. Did he not nick a major vein, you may recover. Sir," Howse lowed, sounding disappointed he might be successful. "I'll dress it now, sir."

"Marines, level! By volley.. . fire!" And the crash of another avalanche of musketry, quite near the camp, at last. "At 'em, Jesters! Sword and steel!" he heard Lieutenant Knolles cry, followed by a roaring of pagan joy. And still the clash and clang of blades. "Bayonets! At th' double-quick… cold steel, an' skin the bastards!"

"Help me up," Lewrie ordered. He was now wide awake, in too much pain to swoon, too angry (it must be admitted), and looked out to see his seamen and Marines sweeping into the camp, battering what bit of fight the pirates had left from them. And there were Mlavic and Leut-nant Conrad Kolodzcy, still going at it, hammer-and-tongs. Kolodzcy had acquired a swept-hilt dagger for his off-hand, and was two-handing it in the elegant old Spanish rapier-and-poignard style. His balance was exquisite, his every move liquid and graceful, the minimum of effort to parry, defend… then burst into furious motion, all threatening swiftness, like a horde of aroused bees. A pirate came to save Mlavic, dashing in from Kolodzcy's left, and Kolodzcy lunged at the pirate chieftain to take room, pivoted on one heel, and that pirate was stumbling past, his sword gone and his bowels spilling over his hands as he pitched onward to trip and die with a hideous screech.

"Damme, he's good!" Lewrie breathed in awe.

Driving Mlavic back to the middle of the camp, both too intent on murder to think of safety, of retreat. Lewrie heard a yelp from Kolodzcy as some seamen neared: "Nein, he ist mine!"

Back across the blood-soaked earth, Mlavic stumbling back over his tortures, his dead and dying victims; teeth still bared in a ferocious snarl of defiance, Mlavic fought to the death, knowing he'd be killed right after, should he win, but so fired, so forged by hate…!

Tripped! Seized on the ankle by the groveling Albanian woman who'd been savaged nigh to death, who lashed out grief-blinded, hatred-blinded! Mlavic lost his balance, tried to recover, to shake loose of her as she clawed at him.

"Unt, ja!" Kolodzcy cried thin and high, slipping inside guard and driving his dagger into Mlavic's right forearm, to turn it, wring it, and force his nerveless fingers to let go his scimitar. Slip his small-sword's narrow blade into Mlavic's throat in the same movement, then let go the hilt and lever the plunging, thrashing knife-hand off until his opponent began to weaken. "Sterbe, schweinhund! Ich bin nicht der madchen-haft-mann! Ich bin dein tod!"

Mlavic gargled and coughed, drowning, lowering his knife-hand.

"Die, pig-dog… die!" Kolodzcy screamed, ramming his dagger hilt-deep under Mlavic's heart.

And Dragan Mlavic complied, his knees buckling as Kolodzcy gave a great heave and flung him back, right to the edge of the central fire, where his head and shoulders draped over the shimmering-hot stones, and his hair and his beard and his goat-hair weskit caught fire. Where, a moment later, the broken and bleeding Albanian woman crawled, to pound him weakly with a short bit of kindling, screaming and weeping all the while as that brutes face blazed and sizzled like pork-cracklings. Kolodzcy turned, grinned his weary delight and raised the hilt of his sword to his face in a formal salute to Lewrie-with a double-click of his heels and a short head-bow, for good measure. Alan lifted his own hanger and sketched what salute he could in reply. "And thank God for him," he breathed.

"Sir, you hurt?" Lieutenant Knolles was asking, kneeling down by his side. "Sorry, sir, but I wasn't to know, 'til-"

"You did damn fine, Mister Knolles," Lewrie assured him, with a pat on his shoulder. "Know or not, your timin' was splendid. You've done yourself proud. They break?"

"Run off into the woods, sir, t'other side of the island." "See to the stockade, then, Mister Knolles," Lewrie said as he heaved himself up to a sitting position, no matter the pain. "There's sure to be some they didn't bring down to torture 'fore… get every civilian or Venetian sailor off the island, back aboard their ship. I think we'd best leave our pirates in the woods 'til dawn tomorrow, or we'd lose some of our men to 'em, floundering about in the dark. And I doubt they'll be much of a threat, now we have their ship and their boats. Call everyone back near the beach and we'll fort up. Clean up this slaughterhouse in the morning, too."

"Aye, sir." Knolles nodded, taking time to look about, bewildered. "God, what'd they do, sir? How could they-"

"Speak of it, tomorrow, sir," Lewrie cut him short, not caring to dwell on it much, either.

"You're not too sore hurt, are you, sir?"

"Spot o' wine, and I'll be dancing, most-like." Alan chuckled, hoping that was true, that he wasn't slowly puddling blood inside that seared-shut gash. "Oh… where're my manners? Mistress Connor? Mistress Theoni Connor, allow me to name to you my First Officer, Mr. Ralph Knolles. Mister Knolles, Mrs. Patrick Connor. Her husband was late of' Bristol, byway of Zante. Her son… and what's your name, sprout?" "He's Michael," the lady supplied, cosseting the little lad a bit more, rocking him as he sat on her lap. Rocking her hip on Alan's side, too. The lad had calmed down, was no longer crying hysterically, but he didn't look far from a fresh bout. "And I am honoured to know you, sir… Lieutenant Knolles. Another of my saviours." She smiled at him, wilting young Knolles to an aspic; but with a significant eye for Lewrie, too, openly adoring.

"Should I get you something, Captain Lewrie?" she offered, in a maternal sort of way. "A brandy, to restore you?"

"Had my fill o' plum brandy, thankee," Lewrie said with a grimace. "Some wine, sir. I'll fetch it," Spendlove volunteered. And there was one of those silver chalices again, brimming with restorative red wine. Lewrie took a deep draught, and felt much better. "Something I have to do," he decided, after several more. "I won't be a minute. If you'd help, Mister Spendlove? You've a young back, and there's something I have to see to."

He got to his feet, wincing. But with Spendlove under his left arm for support, so he'd not put weight on his leg, he hobbled slowly to the centre of the camp, near the fire, to gaze down on Mlavic. The Marines had dragged him out to lessen the reek of roasting man, built up the fire to illuminate the forest where foes still hid. But the Marines stood gagging at the sights they beheld, the incredible amount of blood that had flowed, the rivened victims' corpses. Pragmatically though, they half knelt to pluck those gold coins Mlavic had strewn in boast. The Marines froze, turned away, pretending they weren't looting as Lewrie and Spendlove hove up.

"No matter, lads," Lewrie told them. "No head-money in this for us… just justice. So take what you may find. Corporal Summerall? Could you find five guineas for me? Just five guineas."

"Aye, sir. No problem, sir!" he replied, relieved that Lewrie would look the other way. He brought them after a quick search, rubbing off the drying blood with his musket cleaning rag. He laid them on Lewrie s palm. Lewrie peered down at them, glittering and clean again. Then folded his hand and shoved them deep into a pocket of his breeches.

"Now get me back aboard Jester, if you'd be so good, Spendlove," Lewrie sighed. "Away from this…"

And limped away… with his four guineas recovered for the wine- and the last to pay for all.