A Jester’s Fortune

CHAPTER 2

He was making good practice, well into a bawdy little tune of an earlier century: "Watkins' Ale." He sat on the aftermost taffrail flag-lockers, feet atop the edge of the coach-top built into the quarterdeck to give his great-cabins light and air. The skylights were open to air out those cabins, and his cox'n Andrews was supervising a working-party in repainting and touching up the ravages of two years' active commission.

Damme, but I've got rather good at this, he exulted, fingering a sprightly elaboration onto the basic melody, like grace-notes on a bagpipe. Should be good at it, he further pondered, as Mister Midshipman Hyde turned the pages of the songbook for them; after all, 'tis been ten bloody years I've been tootlin' on this thing!

A flageolet, some might call it, were they speaking classical. But really it was a tin whistle. He had no lip for a proper flute, fife or recorder, such as his wife Caroline played so well. To most of his ship's people- his Irishmen, Welsh, his Lowland Scots and the West Country folk-it was called the lowly penny-whistle.

But it felt like a penny-whistle day to Alan Lewrie, Commander, Royal Navy, and captain of HMS Jester.

Caroline had bought the first one in the Bahamas, back in '86, as a Christmas gift. That one he'd lost in '93, when his mortar-boat went down in Toulon Harbour during the siege. And good riddance to bad rubbish had been most people's opinion, for he'd been horrid at it. This new one Caroline had waiting for him when Jester returned to Portsmouth to refit and re-arm, spring of '94, before her voyage back to the Mediterranean.

The last year or so, the isolation enforced upon a captain-a proper captain-had turned him to playing, more and more. Until he'd come to a semblance of mastering one musical instrument, no matter how humble. Quite unlike a gentleman's flute, it had few holes, and a limited, very Celtic scale. Hornpipes, Scottish ballads, Irish jigs and reels, old English country airs… he leaned more to those, anyway, of late.

And if Mister Edward Buchanon, the Sailing Master, was right, Lewrie mused as he played-if the ancient Irish Celtic sea-god Lir had taken Jester and her captain into his watchful care, even down here in the Mediterranean, Jester and her captain paired as a "lucky" ship and lucky leader-then the Celtic scale of notes would be more than apt. And pleasing, should such thoughts not turn out to be a crock of moonshine!

"Oh, here's one, sir!" Mr. Hyde chuckled, once they were done with the curious old maid, done in at last and seduced by draughts of "Watkins' Ale." "A little slower, perhaps, but… 'Barbara Allen'?"

Mr. Hyde had bought himself a guitar the last time he'd gone ashore at Genoa and was getting decent at it; he had even dared to sit in with Jester's amateur musicians among the hands, with their fifes and fiddles, and pluck or strum along as they played tunes for Morris dances or evening hornpipes. Lewrie envied him: a captain had no chance to do anything more than clap along in time and watch such antics, taking pleasure in being a mere listener. A midshipman, as a petty officer, and aloft barefooted with the hands most of the time, could mingle without suffering a loss of dignity.

"Aye, let's give that 'un a go," Lewrie said, chuckling. "Bit of an odd choice to include, though. The book is called Pills to Purge Melancholy!"

"We could make a reel of it, sir." Hyde grinned. "And I do know the words."

"Right, then."

A splendid penny-whistle day! A day without care. For the hands, it was "Make And Mend," now that Jester was victualed proper.

Except for the few hands and warrants in the harbour-watch and anchor-watch, most were free for once to "caulk or yarn" however they wished; to nap and catch up on lost sleep, gab and tell tall tales under the awnings spread below the course-yards. Carve wood or salt beef so old it could be made into snuffboxes, rings or combs! Or, simply whittle, chew tobacco, smoke a pipe or two on the upper decks, write letters home, or dictate letters to those who could write; read letters over again, or have them read to them by the literate. Some amused themselves playing with a pet bird, a cat or a puppy.

The crew was free of what now seemed like a pointless, and disheartening, blockade of the Genoese Republic, free of escorting merchant convoys cross the Ligurian Sea, or patrolling for raiding French privateers or warships. HMS Jester lay serene at anchor, for once, and, for officers and hands alike, seemed to be at peace. Or was this a calm before a storm?

Her yards were crossed and squared to geometric precision, her braces, halliards and lift-lines as taut as bowstrings, all her running rigging showpiece-perfect. Her boats were alongside, soaking seawater into planking too long kept dry on the boat-tier beams which spanned the waist. They nuzzled at both larboard and starboard entry-ports like contented piglets, lifted to thump softly like hungry barrows now and again by the slight wind and wavelets of San Fiorenzo Bay.

Belying her "Bristol-Fashion" perfection, though, were laundry and loose-hung sails. Fresh water for washing clothing was a luxury rarely allowed; the ration was a gallon per man per day, and most of that went into the steep-tubs to boil rations. In port, they could use as much fresh water as they liked, for a water-hoy came alongside almost every morning to replenish Jester's ready-use casks on the weather deck. So, during a "Make And Mend" day, sailors scrubbed the irritating, thread-grating salt from their clothing and hung it up to dry, so it wouldn't sandpaper their hides or wear out, for a time.

So, too, the suits of sails. Salt crystals, mildew, damp-rot or dry-rot could ruin her sails: the set she wore, or the set stored below as replacements, or the heavier storm-canvas suit. A spell in harbour was a priceless opportunity to change over completely, sluice them down with fresh water and scrub them with stiff brushes, go over each seam and patch, sew and mend, to avoid having them weaken, split or blow out during a gale. Then the men hoisted the sails aloft, bent them onto the yards and let them hang slack, to air-dry them properly before being stored away on the orlop again; or clewed up, brailed up and harbour-gasketed.

Three days Jester had lain at her moorings, to her best bower and a stern kedge-anchor, and been cleaned "from keel to trucks," and all the thousands of petty, frustrating things that could go amiss on a ship put right. Her huge water-casks were rowed ashore, scrubbed clean and refilled; cords of firewood and kindling were fetched aboard; bosuns stores, spare gun-tools, new striker flints, powder and shot were fetched from the stores ship, old HMS Inflexible. Rice and pasta by the case, which now had almost totally replaced weevily ships'-biscuit, was piled on her stores-deck, along with pipes, kegs and barricoes of wine and rum for her beverage needs, and thousands of onions, scallions, leeks, garlic cloves and such for anti-scorbutics, which also made the poor rations palatable. Small orchards' worth of lemons, oranges and other local acid-fruits, dried raisins, currants and plums were loaded; they were anti-scorbutic, too, so Jesters people didn't perish of scurvy. There were open-topped bins of fruit, including some rare apples, scattered round the main mast's trunk, so the hands could eat as much as they liked, for once-even if dour, sardonic (and lately even more irritating) Ship's Surgeon Mr. Howse denounced the whole idea of acid-fruits being allowed in a tropical climate. Brought on biliousness, and bilious fevers, so please you, he'd insisted! As if those could kill, instead of being quickly eased by a belch or a good fart, Lewrie thought sourly.

"No, let's start over," Lewrie insisted after one verse. "It don't sound right that fast, Mister Hyde. Let's do the proper measure."

He tilted his head back, eyes closed; he knew "Barbara Allen" well enough by ear, anyway. His head was bare of his gold-laced cocked hat, his medium brown hair was bleached at the sides almost a taffy-blond by cruel sun, his neck-stock was cast aside and his shirt opened to mid-waist, and his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. The sun was nowhere near the torrid murderer of a high-summer day, when Corsica stewed under her infamous "Lion Sun," felling ships' companies and regiments down by dozens.

There was just enough warmth to make it blessedly pleasant, and just enough of a light breeze from the Sou'east, up from Egypt or Cyrenaica, to hint at the heat to come as spring blossomed anew.

An idle day of rest. He smiled round the mouthpiece of his tin whistle. A day to celebrate, too: mail from home, fresh livestock in the manger, and a rare Corsican yearling bullock already slaughtered, with a large joint saved out for his own supper. Fresh salad greens as well, and loaf-bread, for a change. Only local cheeses, but succulent and moist, not desiccated, worm-ridden Navy Issue, four months in-stores before they were even opened.

And money!

Say what you would 'bout "Old Jarvy," Alan pondered rather happily, but he's put the fear o' God into the Prize-Court! After a full year or more of wrangling over dotted is and crossed t's, or a comma misplaced, they'd honoured Jester's captures at last. He was moderately wealthy- on paper, at least. A tenth paid in specie to officers and men, the rest in certificates of exchange. Over 10,000 pounds sterling, and his share two-eighths' of that, or Ј2,500! With any good luck at all, the Prize-Court would cut loose of the rest, almost doubling his profits!

Swaying a little, improvising on the third verse, he was feeling just over-the-moon with himself…

"Oof!" He grunted, as Toulon landed in his lap. "Neglected, are we, puss? My playing that bad?"

The black-and-white ram-cats tail was bottled up and lashing. He was here for commiseration, not a regular petting.

"Chivvied out of your napping place, hey? Bad smells below, in your kingdom?" Lewrie chuckled, stroking his pet into a gentler mood. "Well, won't be for long."

"Boat ahoy!" Mr. Midshipman Spendlove could be heard to shout over the side at an approaching rowboat. He was the unlucky one in the rotation for harbour watch on such a fine day.

Couldn't be, Lewrie puzzled to himself; though with half a hope, perhaps. More likely orders, an idle visitor off another warship. Or a letter from shore? He stood and tucked the penny-whistle in the waistband of his slop-trousers, giving the arid little port town of San Fiorenzo a wistful glance. There he and his mistress, Phoebe Aretino, had enjoyed such a blissful little house for so short a time. Hell, he could see it from the quarterdeck, plain as the nose on his face!

She'd become known as La Contessa Phoebe, no matter she'd been a soapmaker's and washerwoman's daughter. And a naive courtesan in Toulon.

No, he thought with a shake of his head; that was ended. She'd told him off proper, once and for all, after her unlooked-for visit at Leghorn, when they'd been on the outs already. After catching him with the leg over another woman.

Surprise, surprise, he thought, a touch sarcastic; all for King And Country, that… to bed a Frog spy, under orders, mind! But he'd not been able to tell Phoebe that. Again, under strictest orders.

He imagined it'd turned out best; he sometimes consoled himself that losing the bewitching little minx was in the cards from the beginning. But had she come back to San Fiorenzo, to her native Corsica, to see to her many and varied small-business enterprises? Had she seen his ship at anchor and thought of him, as he still thought of her, now and again? God, it was bloody madness, but …!

"Lionheart!" was the returning hail from the longboat. And, as Alan went to the starboard quarterdeck bulwarks to watch, he could see the bowman raising four fingers, to indicate the grade of honour due their visitor. Four fingers-a bloody Post-Captain! And Alan couldn't recognise the fellow in the stern-sheets, the lean man wearing a pair of epaulets; a Post-Captain of more than three-years' seniority! Perhaps one of "Old Jarvy's" minions, from the flagship?

"Bloody, bloody Hell!" he spat, feeling as if he'd just been caught on the "jakes," with his clothing round his ankles! Middle of a "Make And Mend" day, though it wasn't the customary Sunday; the men were scattered and idle, and Jester was about as presentable as a Thames turd-barge at Dung Wharf! And himself with no time to go below and change, or way to delay a senior officer until he could!

And, like an omen, a bank of clouds scudded cross the sun, throwing sweeping shadows over the harbour. The fickle spring Sou'east breeze died away, replaced by a gust that swung about from the Nor'east, making the slight chop shiver into a million tiny wavelets, making Jester's shrouds keen, ghost-like.

A gusty land-breeze, off the Alps, down from the Nor'east. From Italy. Cool enough, for a moment, to make him shiver as well. Half his mind-the logical, experienced mariner half-told him it was sign of a change in weather. But the other half, which was almost beginning to believe the Sailing Master's superstitions, told tales of elder sea-gods and portents.

A peace 'tween storms, Lewrie decided grimly; indeed! And he had the odd fey feeling it was ended. Gone and done it again, he chid himself; I should know by now, whenever Life gets soft there's the Devil to pay in the offing!

"Side-party!" Lewrie bellowed. "Sergeant Bootheby, turn out!"

" 'Tention on th' weather decks! Ship's comp'ny, fall in, face starboard an' off-hats!" Will Cony, the Bosun, was shouting.

"An ill wind, Mister Hyde?" Lewrie sighed, going forrud to meet their strange arrival, as the side-party mustered quickly, with even the Marines in their small-clothes, and no chance to toss on tunics.

"Ill winds never blow anyone any good, sir." The eighteen-year-old frowned.

"My, my, sir! Such pessimism in one so young!" Lewrie teased.

Though he wasn't smiling when he did.

Nor when the Nor'east gust faded, the harbour waters calmed to a brief, glassy-stillness and the sun and the insistent, warmer Sou'east breeze returned.