Mr. Giles and his Jack-in-the-Breadroom were standing by, nigh salivating over the goodies the brig held. He could replenish Jester to a fair approximation of Royal Navy standard rations with the stored flour, rice, dried beans and salt-meats. They might be short of issue rum by then, but the brig's vin ordinaire would more than suffice, and the best part of the situation was that whatever he could transship to Jester was absolutely scot-free, taken from a prize for nothing, instead of having to k cough up his personal funds, or Navy Board funds, for them. The purser would still charge for their issue, though, making his five percent. He already had several small crates or chests laid out, Lewrie saw. Tobacco twists for those who chewed, snuff for those that preferred it that way and loose shag tobacco for the smokers. Twelve percent profit on that, along with his slop-goods. Lewrie thought Giles might even desire one of those bundles of Trousers, Used/Mended!
"There are some few things we could use, Captain Mlavic." Alan shrugged. "To allow Jester to keep the seas."
"Good. You take. We keep ship," Mlavic announced. "What?"
"Promise ship. Here is ship," Mlavic pointed out.
"But Captain Rodgers was to capture a ship for you. For Captain Pe-tracic, rather," Alan objected. "Surely he's done that by now."
"Ship, Ratko, da," Mlavic sniggered, doggedly insistent. "Want ship, Dragan. My ship."
"You have a ship there," Lewrie said, pointing at the dhow.
"Want ship." Mlavic frowned. "This ship. More men come, sail both."
"Don't have more men now," Lewrie countered. "Too few to man this ship and yours at same time. French crew, you'll have to guard."
Damme, now he's got me jabberin' pidgin! Lewrie fretted; all that lovely wine aboard, and damned if I ain't short!
"I take ship," Mlavic announced, like a petulant child. Lewrie thought he was ready to stick out his lower lip or hold his breath 'til he
turned blue!
"And can you handle a brig, sir?" Lewrie quibbled. "It's not like your lateener, not-"
"When boy, go to sea," Mlavic shot back, nettled that his professional skills were being questioned. "Go Ragusa, work Venetian ship. Go Corfu, work Naples' ship. Go Malta, work Maltese ship. Go Genoa… work ship, bilander, poleacre, brig… all same. Work Trieste, Venice, Cadiz, Lisbon, all over. Topman, helm, bosun mate… even work Zante… British traders come for currants, da? Go Pool of London, once. Hand, reef and steer, da? Handle brig, da! You give brig. Take some cargo. We keep rest."
Christ, next he'll say he was Able Seaman, R.N.! Alan sighed.
"You have, what… forty hands?"
"Half for dhow, half for brig."
"Mind, you'll have to guard the French prisoners, too."
"No, you take."
"Captain Mlavic, I can't." Lewrie sighed again. "Lookee here, sir. The agreement was for us to operate separately. Secretly. Now, do I turn up at Trieste with French prisoners, the word gets out that I took her and turned her over to you, d'ye see? If she's your prize, then I'm afraid you're stuck with 'em. You'll have to take 'em back to Palagruza and dump 'em in that prison stockade your Captain Petracic was to build."
"No," Mlavic pouted.
" 'Fraid you'll have to. Can't continue your cruise with a brig and a dhow both half-manned," Lewrie pointed out. "All of 'em, mind. In good health," he added, wondering if Mlavic was not above killing them and dumping the bodies over the side like "blackbirders" did with sickly slaves. "I have a list of their names, and, as we agreed, I'll pay you an English shilling a head, right now, for their well-being. You'll be able to feed 'em with the stores aboard."
Lewrie snuck a glance at the small knot of French prisoners by the foremast. Government-hired by the French or a speculative voyage, even the French shipmasters were averse to hiring on any more hands than was absolutely necessary. There were only nineteen men, including the cook and the snot-nosed cabin servants, aboard her.
"Now, we'll put in somewhere, find a calm lee behind some island and transfer some supplies to Jester, sir," Lewrie pressed. "But if you want this brig, then you'll have to take them, into the bargain."
Then sail back to Palagruza and outa my hair, please Jesus? he thought hopefully, eager to be shot of the bastard.
"Take brig, da," Mlavic grunted, broken-hearted, piggish. "Take prisoners, da. No hurt them, da. I agree."
"Good, then," Lewrie breathed out, quite pleased of a sudden.
"Go now, Palagruza." Mlavic beamed. "Srpski narod, poor. Have nothing, year and year. British, rich navy, have much. Dragan, he take all. Now," Mlavic said, looking as if he were ready to start weeping over the plight of his people all over again.
Well, if that's what it takes to make him go, then fine! Lewrie silently mused; and may he have joy of it! God, 'fore he blubbers up!
"Very well, sir," Lewrie relented, doffing his hat and forcing himself to look "shit-eatin' " pleasant. "She's yours. Good hunting-"
"Nineteen shilling," Mlavic interrupted, hand out like a Mother Abbess in a knockng-shop. "Nineteen prisoner, I hear say. I knowing. Nineteen shilling. Knowing shilling, too."
And Lewrie was forced to dig into his breeches pockets and rummage about for coins. With no need of purse or money at sea, all that could be found was a single stray golden guinea.
"Ah!" Mlavic exclaimed as it appeared. "I owe you two shilling. Good luck, gold guinea."
His hand was out again, and Lewrie was forced to plop the coin on Mlavic's callused paw.
"Ahem, well," Lewrie said, flummoxed. "Mister Spendlove? We're off. Hands down and into the boat."
"Now, sir? But…" The lad frowned.
"Now, Mister Spendlove," Lewrie smouldered. "Very well, sir. Cox'n? Mr. Giles?"
'Scuse me, Captain, but I thought we'd be taking more supplies aboard," Mr. Giles intruded, joggling his square-lensed spectacles in dismay. "There's the salt-meats, the flour and dried fruits for-" "Now, Mister Giles, dammit!" Lewrie rasped. "Aye aye, sir." Giles wilted. "This tobacco, though…?" "Fetch along what you can carry, sir. But stir yerself."
As the gig stroked back to Jester, breasting and swooping with a sickening motion over the tumultuous sea, the brig's yards were already being braced about, and the dhow was slow-ghosting into motion, falling off to the West on larboard tack, both beginning to gather way.
Lewrie turned to watch them go, wishing them bad cess; the worst old Irish cess a body ever met. Storms, lashings of gales, whirlpools and maelstroms, sea-monsters with teeth the size of carriage-guns, with mouths as big as an admiral's barge! Eat the bastard, somebody!
His gig held a few quickly gathered items, mostly half-filled sea-bags or small chests. In the beginning, the cutter had crossed over to augment the boarding-party, too, and he knew that Mr. Giles had already gotten a fair portion of "goodies" transferred before Mlavic had caught up with them. He had the prize's documents rolled up in a thick round bundle in one coat pocket. He drew them out and looked over the manifest once more, mourning the loss of those brandies, those pipes and kegs of wine. If they didn't put in at Corfu or Trieste after Rodgers and Kolodzcy had drunk him dry, he'd be reduced to the crew's rum-and-water!
"Begging your pardon, sir, but… why'd we depart so quickly?" Midshipman Spendlove asked in a soft voice. And Lewrie imagined that he could hear Andrews his coxswain, six oarsmen and the bow-hook man all grunt a muffled "Arrhh?" a moment after.