Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune

• Название: A Jester’s Fortune
• Автор: Dewey Lambdin
• Жанр: Морские приключения

The year is 1796 and the soil of Piedmont and Tuscany runs with blood, another battle takes shape on the mysterious Adriatic Sea. Alan Lewrie and his 18-gun sloop, HMS Jester, part of a squadron of four British warships, sail into the thick of it. But with England's allies failing, Napoleon busy rearranging the world map, and their squadron stretched dangerously thin along the Croatian coast, the British squadron commander strikes a devil's bargain: enlisting the aid of Serbian pirates.

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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.