"Well, do you not have need to put in at Trieste to intern prisoners, nor any captures for the Prize-Court," Captain Charlton breezed on, as he came round the desk to escort Lewrie to the forrud entry on Lionheart's gun-deck, "put in at Venice, there's a good fellow. Pick up the latest information regarding the French Army's doings. Take a bit of shore-leave for yourself, and your people. You've earned that twice over the last few days."
"Aye, sir," Lewrie agreed rather numbly.
"Should you speak Commander Fillebrowne, relate to him all you have discovered down south, and issue verbal orders from me that he is to bring Myrmidon down to Palagruza, to rendezvous with me. We've seen no sign that the French will yet dare send military supplies into the Adriatic to succour this General Bonaparte's troops, last I spoke him myself."
"Very good, sir," Lewrie replied, essaying a cooperative grin and putting his best face on his disappointment.
"Uhm… might have a confabulation with our trade consul, once you're ashore, Lewrie," Charlton suggested, once they'd emerged upon the gun-deck, amid a flurry of Marine sentries and a stiffening side-party on the starboard gangway. "See does he have a clue as to which Venetian merchant-houses might be most involved in the illicit trade. Then he may be able to put a flea in some senator's ear. They're so weak, they may not care for their pose of strict neutrality violated. By anyone."
"Prompting a silk-cord strangling in the Doge's Prison, 'cross the Bridge of Sighs, sir?" Lewrie hinted.
"Be it spiritually justifiable to pray God, Lewrie." Charlton laughed as he clapped on his hat at the foot of the gangway ladder. "I see you've been swotting up on the local geography, ha ha!"
"Aye, sir." Lewrie shrugged.
"I've taken on more cast-off Austrian muskets and such. Do you have any suggestions as to future supplies for our allies, Lewrie?"
"Half a million rounds, sir," Lewrie most sardonically said.
"Half a million made cartridges?" Charlton goggled.
"No, sir. Vowels," Lewrie quipped. "The Serbs seem most in need of vowels than anything else."
"Be off with you, you wag! You knacky scamp!" Charlton roared, clapping him on the back like he was an old school chum allowed such a closeness. "And dream up more ways to confuse our foes!"
"I'll do that very thing, sir," Lewrie agreed, just before he went up the ladder to the waiting side-party.
Though there's foes, he thought, and then there's foes!
"Why ain't I surprised?" Lewrie scoffed, once he'd heard from the hapless Lieutenant Stroud that Commander Fillebrowne was not to be found.
"He's ashore, sir," Stroud pouted, moonfaced and half abashed.
"About the city."
"Should I seek him in the art galleries, Mister Stroud?" Lewrie asked with a wry grin. "Or the knockin'-shops?"
"Ahum, well, sir," Lieutenant Stroud said with a miserable expression, "he is that keen for a bargain, but… I do believe he said he might be dining with Sir Malcolm and Lady Shockley. A standin' invitation? Or he might not, depending whether they were in and receiving today, sir."
"What, they're still here?" Lewrie scowled, even further irked. "Thought they were off for the Holy Land long since."
"I wouldn't know, sir," Lieutenant Stroud confessed in a meek voice.
"Does your captain come aboard whilst I'm ashore searching him out, then, Mister Stroud," Lewrie snapped, "you're to give him these verbal orders, direct from Captain Charlton. He is to up-anchor, sail to Pala-gruza and rendezvous with Lionheart, 'with all despatch.' The Frogs are up to something new, and we've just learned of it. Captain Charlton will further enlighten him once there, but the gist is that our 'trade' has settled in Balkan harbours, neutral ports, waiting for Venetian ships to fetch timber to them, and Captain Charlton wishes us to reassemble and concentrate against them. Has he any questions for me, he may come search me out before he sails. Got that, sir?"
"Aye aye, sir," Stroud barked, glad to have a simple task.
"I'll wood and water Jester, and sail a day after, tell him."
"Aye aye, sir!" Stroud repeated briskly.
"I'll be calling on Sir Malcolm myself. Or along the Rialto, round Saint Mark's Square. Doing some shopping of mine own, tell him, should he wish me to elaborate on these orders before he departs, sir."
"Very good, sir." Lieutenant Stroud nodded, all but moving his lips as he committed all that last to memory.
"I'll be on my way, then, Mister Stroud. Good day, sir."
"See you to the entry-port, sir," Stroud offered with relief.
Might've given Myrmidon leave t' stay longer, Lewrie fumed after his gig had landed him on the Molo before the Doge's Palace across from the Dogana di Mare; after such arduous duties off Ravenna! he snorted in derision. Idle, foppish, cunny-thumbed "Whip-Jack" sham of a sailor…! Thin'z my lore is, I could circumnavigate the entire world, whilst he's not fit t'pole a punt on his daddy's duck-pond!
He just knew the Fillebrownes had a duck-pond. To set off whichever half-a-shire they used for their home-farm, so visitors could gawp on the long carriage ride in through " Fillebrowne Park "! Or to mirror the palace they lived in.
And I have t'waste half my own short shore-leave huntin' up the bastard! Lewrie further griped.
He tried first at the Shockleys' rented digs, a waterfront palace converted to suites of rooms near the Farsetti Loredan Palace, along the Grand Canal on the other side of Saint Mark's, just by the Riva del Carbon. To hasten his progress-and spare his breath-he enjoyed the unwonted luxury of a sedan-chair.
No one was at home, though, he learned from the English servants; they had dined earlier but gone their separate ways. Sir Malcolm was off to look at some ironworks, Lady Lucy had gone shopping and they'd no idea where that amusing Commander Fillebrowne had gone.
"La, sir, the man's a waggish wit, an' all," a chambermaid said, blushing prettily. "An' such a fetchin' gentleman!"
"Ah… really," he'd drawled, quite skeptical.
' 'Deed, sir! Most scandalous witty an' charmin'!" was her opinion. She blushed again, and tittered into her raised work-apron.
"Ah… humphh!" was Lewrie s comment to that. "Well, then. I will be off. Regards to the family… all that."
* * *
He'd done what he could. He'd informed Stroud, and Fillebrowne must go back aboard his ship sooner or later-by sundown at the latest. He climbed back into his hired sedan-chair and took himself off shopping.
There had finally been a partial adjudgement from the Prize-Court at Trieste. Before Jester and Lionheart had parted company, they'd sent it over to be doled out to officers and men. Still no sign of any award from their own at San Fiorenzo Bay, of course; frankly not a single word from them since they'd departed Corsica, at all! Lewrie's two-eighths of the judgement represented nearly Ј1,200, Ј800 of that in rare coin, for a wonder. Not anywhere near what he speculated he was due, but welcome, for the Austrians were proving to be as niggardly and obfuscating about prize-money as their own officials. Still, a tidy, reassuringly heavy sum to tote about for an orgy of Spending and Getting.
He discovered some fabulous fabrics for Caroline at a milliner-shop. Two bolts of ivory satin that, he was assured, would make her a fine gown, even in the older, fuller-skirted styles-whatever she had run up from it. To set it off, he bought lengths of elegant and most intricately detailed Burano lacework, scintillating with silvery silk thread, and heavy with wee sparkling Austrian crystals or awash in seed-pearls, as he'd seen on the gowns of those haughty Venetian ladies when he'd gone to the ridotto. There were two bolts of light parti-coloured cloth, hand-dyed in subtly shaded waves of umber, ochre, burgundy and peach, as iridescent as the marbled papers Venice was so famous for, as rich and regal as ancient Byzantine or Ottoman fineries.
In another shop, he found an amusing door-knocker for the house, a fanciful lion's head the size of a dinner-plate, made of highly polished brass. For their dinner-table, too, a pair of brass candelabras, but so smooth and shiny they seemed to be silvered. They were happy, smiling dolphins that rose from a circle of waves, their bodies impossibly elongated like eels to twine about upright tridents that spread three tines to grasp nielloed silver candle-holders-four to each piece. And for himself, for his fireplace mantel, he couldn't resist a pair of Trevisan seahorses in that high-gloss, silvery finish.
A toymaker's was next, after hiring a two-wheeled cart to carry his loot-and the carter and his two small sons to guard his largesse. Toy boats, Carnival masques, string-puppets and Austrian clockworked harlequins, bears and Turkish warriors. For Charlotte, their youngest, he chose a porcelain-headed doll of a Venetian lady, accurate right down to the cunningly feathered hat and disguising capelet-the bauto.
He was standing outside the toymaker's, watching his purchases being packed into the cart, when he saw a familiar figure striding up the street. He turned his shoulder to the man, hoping, but… "Alan, old son!" Clotworthy Chute panted happily. "I say!" Talk about pests showin' up when you least wish 'em! he thought when you're flush, and they most likely ain't. And he wondered how much he might be "touched" for.
But there was no way to ignore Clotworthy. A quick glance to assure himself that it was Chute had made eye contact, and he could not do the "cut direct," nor the "cut sublime." He was forced to turn and wave. "Heard yer ship was in!" Clotworthy boomed. "Well met!" "Clotworthy, still in Venice?" Lewrie was forced to say, wearing a suitably "fond" smile for an "old school chum." "And Peter. Where's he?"
"Off gettin' stuffed into his redheaded mutton," Chute brayed. "So I'm not welcome this afternoon, thankee very much. A true redhead, he assures me," Clotworthy added, making a subtle pass at the fork of his breeches. "Sylph-like young chit, what Peter calls… langourous, haw. S'pose that means she coils 'bout his member like a snake, what? Been arse-over-tit 'bout her since he met her, the last month entire! Hired doxy, but not too bad. Gracious damn manners, the once I dined with 'em. Does a body prefer langourous. Always liked some beef 'pon the bones, meself. Easier on the poor mort, hey?" He said, slapping his expansive belly. "What, some term Rubenesque. Cheaper quim, too, the bouncy'uns… not as in demand these days. And you, sir? Doin' a bit o' shoppin', hey? Well, Venice is a splendid spot for't. Do they let ya off from all that 'away boarderin'' and ' 'vast, me hearty-in'?"
"One day, at least," Lewrie fibbed, hoping Clotworthy might take a hint that he was too busy to deal with him today. Though, recalling their old days together, he hadn't been much on hint-taking before!
"Ah, let's see how you've done so far, Alan, me old. See have ya been gulled," Chute offered, going to the cart and pawing into the packages. "Not bad, not bad at all. Bit darin', this mottled fabric, though I'm told the fashions for "damn-near see-through and show off yer privates, lately. Does a woman still have a figure for it, I can feature this'd run up nice. Exotic. Allurin'. Entrancin'."
Christ, last thing I need, Alan groaned to himself, suddenly regretting his purchase of that cloth; "exotic" in England gets people pilloried! He was sure Caroline still had the figure for this, and wouldn't be quite that immodest with it. But she'd still get pelted with dung and mud by the Mob, should she trot it out on the town!
"Ah, some for the kiddies," Chute sighed dramatically. "Envy you, I do, old son. Family and all…" All but wiping a tear.
"God knows when I'll be able to ship all this home as presents," Lewrie told him. "I expect I'll be hard at it 'til supper. Shopping… then get it back aboard." He hoped once more Chute would just bugger off.
"Know yer way about?" Chute hinted.
"Well, no… but…"
"I do."
"Bless me, Chute, but… you would!" Lewrie chuckled wryly.
"Aye, give me but one week in a strange place, and I'll know it good as a native," Clotworthy boasted. "I dare say I know Venice just as good as a local pimp or pickpocket by now. Better!"
"I was surprised to hear the Shockleys are still here," Lewrie said, for want of something better. "But you and Peter, too? Been up to much mischief?"
"Oh, keepin' me hand in… so t'speak," Chute replied, leering and tapping his pate. "Bit o' this, a bit o' that. With Peter so quimstruck, I've bags o' free time t'work a fiddle or two, for pocket money. Still have the bulk o' me London money, never fear…"
Which was the last fear on Lewrie's mind!
"Use it for workin' capital… seed money. Here, now, Alan. Done any glassware yet? Oh, Venice has champion glassworks. You'll never again see the like anywhere else in the world. Now, I know a shop…"
Lewrie's hand flew to cover his coin-heavy purse, by its own volition!
"A particular friend of yours, this shopkeeper, Clotworthy?"
"Lord, no, nothin' like that!" Chute pooh-poohed. "Do ya crave fine art and such, then I'm yer man, me and my particular friends. Do ye get my meanin'l Shop's not far off. Care t'see it? Man's gettin' older by the minute, and no one t'carry on once he's gone. Sellin' up stock at knock-down prices, but he ain't on the local High Street, so's it's goin' cheap as fiddler's pay at a country dance."
"Well…" Lewrie hedged.
"Right, then. We're off!" Chute boomed, turning to spout fluent Italian at the carter and his lads in that slurring, syrupy Venetian dialect. "Two more items Venice is famed for, Alan, old son. Culture and quim. What else brings the young heirs to it on their Grand Tours? Well, straightaway I discovered that pimpin's out, even with fellow Englishmen. Dagoes have that market cornered, and a nudge and a wink in the right direction don't fetch me tuppence. And I don't feature havin' me throat cut or endin' up dead in a canal 'cause I poached on some garlic-breathed bravo's patch. And, it don't take much wit for a man t'flog quim, exactly, does it? Lord, Alan! Dagoes're all swagger, manly attitude and bad breath, but I doubt a dozen of 'em could muster the brains God only thought o promisin' a hedgehog. Well, with quim right-out, that leaves culture and art. The pimps're too slack-witted t'get into it, e'en though the profit's a thousand times better."
"And you're… profiting, Clotworthy?" Lewrie just had to ask.
"Profitin', aye." Chute most beatifically beamed at him. "You've heard the tales, 'bout how some mincin' foreign mountebank art dealers skinned some jingle-brains from home? So what's finer than meetin' up with a fellow Englishman… a refined and educated fellow, known among the best circles in London," Clotworthy boasted, shooting his cuffs as he preened and laid a hand on his heart, "able t'drop a dozen names in a single breath, and back it up with inside information, mind! Man who knows his Cellini chalice from a wood piggin? Knows his way round, one who can steer 'em from bad shops to good, from the forgers to the honest? And know the old and genuine from the run-up last week. Or discover what they want most and have the connexions to get it run-up and aged, after wearin' 'em to a frazzle lookin' at hum-drum."
