It looked harmless, that clear brandy. He shrugged and picked up his glass as the others did. Manfully, he slugged some back.
"Holy…!" He wheezed, once his throat reopened. His brothers-in-law, Governour and Burgess Chiswick, had introduced him to American corn-whiskey during the siege of Yorktown; but it couldn't hold a candle to this! Redolent of plums or grapes… fiercer even than Dago grappa! His eyes watered, and his stomach burned. Even Ben Rodgers looked amort for once, regarding his half-empty glass with a sort of religious awe.
All the while Mlavic and Petracic laughed themselves silly, bent double and gasping for breath from sheer amusement at the knacky trick they'd played on strangers!
Well, what else'd the Devil himself drink? Lewrie wryly asked of the aether, but liquid fire and brimstone?
Then, slowly… as a sullen rain hammered down and seethed overhead on the decks and coach-top, through an entire afternoon of sipping their fierce plum brandy, the deal was struck. They'd go out and seize a small ship for Petracic to use. He'd get his muskets, powder and shot upon the morrow. They'd supply silver coinage, so he could recruit a larger band of dispossessed Serbs along the coast and among the isles. He'd strip crew from the smallest four of his "fleet" and man the new prize. Petracic would establish a base farther out to sea, for there were smaller islands near Bisevo or Susak where no one ever patrolled.
Grudgingly, Petracic had sworn to imprison the captured passengers and crews, to keep them decently fed and watered; though he was much of the same mind as Kolodzcy-that "dead men tell no tales." He'd get a shilling, or its local equivalent, per head for live captives. They'd only pay after a decent head count.
Rodgers offered Petracic the right to pick over any captures they made themselves, for small-arms or artillery, before they took them off to the Prize-Court at Trieste. That was flat against the formal usages.
However, Lewrie pointed out, feeling only a faint twinge of ancient guilt for his sins of the past, that the Articles of War did allow a tad of flexibility, that Article the Eighth stated:
No person in or belonging to the Fleet shall take out of any Prize, or Ships seized for Prize, any Money, Plate, or Goods, unless it shall be necessary, for the better securing thereof, or for the necessary Use and Service of any of His Majesty's Ships or Vessels of War…
"Long as we fetch in all her papers, sir, we could write what we share with Captain Petracic off," Lewrie rather boozily allowed, "as necessary for our use and service."
"Uhm, ahh?" Rodgers blearily muttered. "Aye, I spose…" And, lastly, Petracic was cautioned that their arrangement would survive as long as they didn't go beyond their brief. The Coalition was not at war with Venice, with Ragusa, Naples or the various Italian states that faced the Adriatic. Ships of those nations were off limits, as were Austrian ships, since they were allies. As were British vessels, though there were few still working the Adriatic trade-routes. Petracic would have to obey some civilised rules, after all! Ships they chased to him, ships he caught close inshore that were hostile, aye… and the best of hunting to him, then. Petracic might hold those he took by mistake, and Pylades or Jester would turn up sooner or later to adjudge them, then "rescue" them, should he err.
"More cause t'keep 'em alive an' kickm'," Rodgers had intoned. "Don't even rough 'em up. Harm a hair… hie!… o'their heads. Hey?"
"He hear you," Mlavic had grunted, both of them turning drunkenly truculent at such a long list of cautions. "Not babies. Men! Serb men! No need, teaching."
Petracic had at last risen, after a final glass of naval rum, as his stone crock had at last been drunk to the dregs. He wavered like a tall oak in a gale of wind, but he stood and shook hands all about with them. Even with Kolodzcy, though he applied more pressure there than he did with the others, making the poor Austrian wisp wince and cringe.
"He goes," Kolodzcy announced. "Vill get his guns tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Rodgers promised, holding onto the edge of the table, but upright. Cross-eyed, but upright, Lewrie noted.
Then they went. Rodgers, Lewrie and Kolodzcy shambled out onto the gun-deck to see them off, doffing their hats automatically, now that they'd netted their new allies. With difficulty, they even attained the larboard gangway, though it was a struggle for Rodgers and Kolodzcy.
It was still raining, though warmer, as it got on for the end of the First Dog Watch, near six p.m. Lewrie left his hat off after the two pirates had stumbled into their waiting felucca, letting the rain sluice on his reeling head, into his mouth and half-focused eyes.
"Success, then, gen'lemen… Lewrie," Rodgers groaned.
"S'pose one could call it that, sir," Lewrie replied.
"Good God, but I've never been so 'in the barrel'!" Rodgers confessed. "Drunk'z a lord. No, drunk'z a bloody emperor! Christ, I need a lie-down."
"Y'll dine aboard then, sir," Lewrie presumed, figuring Ben Rodgers wouldn't survive a row across to Pylades. It would be a right comic miracle could either of them manage to get into the gig! Bleakly, Alan saw himself stuck with them another night, and in an hour or so, might they be so recovered as to require "hair of the dog" for restoration?
"Swear t'Christ, there's bloody three o'ya, Alan, old son! An' th' one'z too damn many, already." Rodgers swayed. "No, thought I'd go…"
"Ah," Lewrie said, mopping his face on his sleeve. "Pity. Bosun?"
"Aye, sir?" Cony replied, coming to his side as Lieutnant Kolodzcy put his head on Lewrie s left shoulder, with one arm about Rodgers, and began to sing and kick one dainty booted foot; some Austrian mountain nonsense that involved a stab at yodeling, though it came out more a whimpering.
"Chair-sling for Captain Rodgers, and… get off me!"
"Cap'um, uh… How me t'suggest a cargo net?" Cony tittered.
Lewrie managed to steer Kolodzcy to lean on Rodgers; or Rodgers to lean on Kolodzcy. They looked like a pair of mast-hoisting sheer-legs, or a two-legged stool… sure to go smash any minute.
"No…" Lewrie sighed, after a long, difficult stab at thought. "Can't insult the dignity of guest, Cony. Chair sling, starboard side. Lots o' frappin', to keep 'em in, mind. Do they get in."
"Oh aye, sir," Cony said straight-faced, knuckling his brow with three fingers. "Dignity."
Lewrie turned back to behold Leutnant Kolodzcy stumbling through steps of a slow minuet, still singing that lively country song in a cracked voice. Ben Rodgers was hanging on his shoulder with a death-grip, and forced to follow in a shambling dance of his own. He was barking and howling like a hound on a hot scent for a commentary-when he wasn't cackling like an inmate in Bedlam over his canine insult to Kolodzcy's singing.
"Mister Knolles," Lewrie croaked. "Here, sir."
"Utmos' compliments to ya, sir," Lewrie slurred, "an' would I be so 'bliged… well, someone should, hey? You render debarkin' honours for me? Be below. Dyin', it feels like."
"Ah. De-barking honours, sir." Lieutenant Knolles guffawed as loud as discipline would let him as Rodgers threw his head back and crooned like a famished wolf. "Directly, Captain."
Lewrie sighed, wondering how funny it might feel in the painful light of morning, and stumbled off aft, lifting his feet almost knees-up to avoid the odd ring-bolt, to the gay air of a Tyrol tune and the hoarse growls and howls of a "music critic."
"Lemme help ya, sir… 'at's the way," Aspinall offered.