"My sole joy in life, sir," Alan snickered without much mirth.
"So, t'quote the Bard… what is new on th' Rialto?" Rodgers asked, trying his hand with another flat stone, side-arming it.
"There's not much joy from our consul, sir. O' course. Says he expects to be hooted out of the hall, should he lay a complaint." Alan grimaced. "Won't even think of it 'til he's nosed about some more… and I 'spect that'll take 'til next Epiphany."
"Merchant, himself," Rodgers spat. "Might be up t'his neck in th' trade, too."
"Uhm… sir." Lewrie frowned over Rodgers's wintry cynicism. "I heard bad news 'bout the French. That new Austrian general, Wurmser, in the Alpine passes? Came down three of 'em, along the Adige River. His left-wing column as far east as Bassano and Verona. Nobody knows quite why, that'un. Right-wing marched on Brescia, round Lake Iseo, and his centre round below Lake Garda. Forty-five, perhaps fifty thousand men? The Frogs a lot less."
"Don't tell me," Rodgers growled, heaving another failure.
"Well, they had a bit of success early on. Scared the bejesus out of the Frogs, at first, 'til they concentrated on the Chiesa River. Then it all went t'Hell, sir," Lewrie said, sketching a rough map with his stick on the dirt-grey sand.
"Aye, seems t'do that a lot lately, don't it," Rodgers mused.
"Never got his eastern troops into it, sir," Lewrie pressed on, ignoring Rodgers's sarcasm. "French counterattacked near Brescia and Lake Iseo, Wurmser hared over to help out, and Bonaparte not only routed his tail-end, but smashed in his main force in the centre, round Castiglione, and ran him back up the passes. Five days of fighting, all told. Never got anywhere near Mantua to lift the siege. Might have something more, from his left-wing, at Bassano, in mind, but…" He shrugged, scraping northern Italy into a boot-crushed smear. "Bloody Austrians."
"Least ya run with successful people, Alan. Even if yer oF chum Bonaparte is a Frog. So what're th' Venetians doin'?'
"Absolutely nothing, sir. Business as usual. They're neutral, so nice and sweet and harmless, no one'd ever come after them. Some brief hand-wavin', then the cards were flutterin' again. Our consul said he hasn't seen one sign they're worried. Nothing stirring at the Arsenal, no troops called up, no standing-army drills, yet."
"Bloody Venetians," Rodgers snorted. "Way this Bonaparte goes at people, they wouldn't have any more warnin' than we would the Second Comin'. 'Thief in th' night,' and he's renamin' yer streets, lootin' yer treasury an' tuppin' yer daughters 'fore ya can say 'knife'!" He turned and peered at Lewrie owl-eyed. "That all th' bad news?"
"Well, there's Tuscany," Lewrie replied. "French troops're now all over Leghorn and Porto Especia, where we used to wallow. A small squadron o' warships, and a fair number of transports. Emigre Corsi-cans among 'em. Haven't sailed yet, but everyone reckons it's going to be soon. That report came overland, so it's two weeks old, and who knows what's happened since. Doubt they've Elba in mind, either."
"Shorter sail, from Leghorn," Rodgers speculated, hands on his hips. "But with th' navy they've built up at Toulon by now, it'll be Corsica, most-like. Bastia, first? An' there goes San Fiorenzo Bay."
"There's a rumour the Spanish fleet is refitting, too, sir," Lewrie continued. "Shifting from Atlantic harbours to-"
"Enough!" Rodgers complained, throwing up his hands. He knelt and chose another stone. This one he flung savagely, and finally attained three grazes before it sank. "By Christ, 'tis such a dismal situation, it'd give a saint colic. An' here we are, coddlin' cutthroats… too scared t'put orders in writin'. Not doin' a damn' bit o' good, really. Frogs have as much compass-timber an' oak by now, they could build for th' next two years 'fore they ran short! An' more comin', no matter what we do t stop 'em. Too few, too late… allied with… shit!"
"Well, hardly, sir. We…" Lewrie tried to point out, but Rodgers's gloom was catching. "By the way, where are our jolly buccaneers, sir? There's only two of their smallest boats in the anchorage. Don't tell me they chucked it-pray Jesus!-and hied for home!"
"Lord, no, Alan, not a bit of it. They're like th' poor… 'they will be always with us,' don't ye know," Rodgers scoffed, turning to face him. "They went off North, t'scour th' Croatian isles. Petracic left these few poor cripples t'guard th' prisoners… tidy up th' lot. Winnowed 'em like David did Saul's army… lame o' limb, th' faint of heart? Them that knelt t'drink, stead o' lappin' from their hands? Least I think it was David… could've been Joshua, d'ye think?"
"You're the one so good at quotin' Scripture, Ben," Alan told him with a snicker. "And hellish-surprisin' that was. Thought you'd know."
"Oh, I do… but I forgot." Rodgers grinned. "It'll come back t'me, 'bout midnight'r so. Oh." He frowned of a sudden, turning bleak once more. "More o' Captain Charlton's verbal orders for ya. To take our Austrian hop-o'-my-thumb aboard Jester as you go. Neither he nor Fillebrowne'll be workin' anywhere close to Petracic, so you'll be most in need o' translations."
"Oh, damme" Lewrie groaned.
"Thought ya were quicker'n that, Lewrie," Rodgers teased, taking some small measure of delight to see him confounded. Or, as Lewrie felt, to see him buggered. "What port's left, 'cept Cattaro, farthest north? Our biblical patriarch, Saint Ratko the Red-Handed, didn't much care to swan about too far away… didn't much care for this new arrangement." "Bugger what he likes," Lewrie groused.
"Too near Dulcigno, an' all those Muslim corsairs, who do own a fleet o' fast ships," Rodgers went on. "Riskier'n he bargained for, hey? Anyway, yer to keep a chary eye on him, keep him out o' mischief. Yer Jesters shallow-draught, so yer better-suited than either frigate. And Captain Charlton said yer best-suited t'deal with th'… unforseen misfortunes which might arise. A lot better'n Fillebrowne."
"Might come up? Christ, might?" Alan roared. "Count on 'em!" "Said he thought Fillebrowne's not o' th' temperament, not like you," Rodgers all but cackled over this turn of Fortune. "Not quite as 'usefully unorthodox'r flexible' as you are, I believe he said."
"Mine arse on a band-box!" Alan spat. "I've buggered meself. Again!" "Aye, just too clever by half," Rodgers sighed, a tad whimsical. "You don't have to gloat like you enjoy it, Ben," Alan accused. "Don't, really," Rodgers answered, turning sombre. "Somebody has t'do it, though, and if not Fillebrowne, then that only leaves you, whether you were sly as a fox or no. You're junior enough. And we can t have post-captains seen triflin' with pirates an' murderers, now, can we. Least, not too close, anyway. You're not to operate with 'em … that's a direct verbal order. But ya are supposed to make sure it's hostile ships they take, 'fore they rape half of Albania or Montenegro, and pillage th' other half. Keep 'em at their proper duties, stead o' enterprisin' off on their own. I'm sorry, Alan. I really ami Maybe had ya played th' backbench dullard, it might notVe been. But there it is. And ya get right down to it… better you than me."
"Ah, but you are a post-captain, sir," Alan drolly pointed out.
"Why, so I am!" Rodgers grinned, turning his head to admire the gold-bullion epaulet on his right shoulder. "Fancy that! Ain't a deep-draught 5th Rate, an' seniority, just dev'lish-fine?"