H. M. S. Cockerel, page 18
“Uhm, hah . . .” Lewrie flummoxed.
“I alarm you, sir?” Acton all but simpered. “I was born of English parentage, but in France. Naval matters . . . diplomatic duties . . . I am regretful to say, I have never been in England. I served also with the Tuscan and the Neapolitan navies as well, before rising to the office of prime minister here in Naples. Tell me, Lieutenant Lewrie, did your gallant Lord Hood also entrust you—your captain, pardon—with any messages to His Majesty, King Ferdinand the Fourth?”
“Uhm, no sir . . . Your Excellency . . . none I’m aware of, unless a letter is in that package, to be relayed to you through Sir William.”
Lewrie felt a sudden urge to fan himself with his hat and tug at his too-tight neckstock. So much for “sportin’ showy,” he sighed.
“Ah, surely, though,” Sir John sighed in concert, all but biting his thumbnail, and turning a hopeful eye on Sir William. “As events develop . . . but no? How distressing.”
“Sir John, old fellow, Admiral Lord Hood would certainly not be guilty of presuming to speak beyond his brief,” Sir William assured the younger man. Lewrie thought Acton was in his late thirties or early forties; Sir William Hamilton in a spry sort of sixties. “Events are, as you say, developing quite nicely, in point of fact. Our ambassador to His Most Catholic Majesty in Madrid, Lord St. Helens, encloses his latest success. The Spanish are in, at last.”
“Aha!” Sir John smiled, gaining enthusiasm.
“We were given signal books, so we might speak any Spanish ship we met, Sir William,” Lewrie offered.
“And did you meet any, Leftenant Lewrie?” Sir William smiled.
“Aye, sir . . . a whole fleet of them. Seventeen sail of the line, with frigates, on our passage here. On the second of July.”
“Already at sea, aha!” Sir John exclaimed.
“Uhm, on their way back to Cartagena, Your Excellency. Their hoist said they had scurvy aboard, and were running short of rations. They’d been at sea a little less than two months.”
“Aha,” Sir William sighed, much less cheered by that news. In point of fact, quite deflated.
Lewrie shrugged his comment; what could one expect of Dons? A damn’ fine-looking fleet of ships, but the men . . . ! The officers, and such. Scurvy? After less than two months at sea? Puhl-lease!
“Yet Admiral Lord Hood is by now, surely, off Toulon and Marseilles,” Sir William continued. “To blockade the ports, bottle up the French Mediterranean fleet in Toulon . . . or bring it to battle, should they come out. He has succeeded in joining his scattered squadrons and uniting them as one. Twenty-two sail of the line. And, Sir John, we both know, as does Leftenant Lewrie, that when the Royal Navy gets to sea, there they stay. I am most confident the Spanish fleet will, after replenishing stores at Cartagena, be able to join him off Cape Cicie, creating an irresistible force. Or carry ashore, as . . . hmm.”
“Une flotte respectable, Sir William, mon cher . . .” the prime minister blathered on for a moment, “as we tentatively agreed.”
Oops, ah shit, Lewrie cringed; time for me to scamper. They want to talk something secret, and I shouldn’t be privy to it. Aye, look at the scowl on Hamilton’s phiz.
“Your Excellencies, I think I’d best take my leave now. Our ship will of course remain at Naples until you may have dispatches for us to carry to Lord Hood, Sir William. May one of your aides introduce me to your embassy’s shore agent? I would like to arrange for wood and water, and for our purser to replenish stores.”
“Leave for your crew here in Naples, as well, Leftenant?”
“Well, uhm . . .”
There came a knock on the door, and the flunky reappeared, most hideously humble, bowing and scraping. “Excuse me, Your Excellencies, but this note just came for the naval person? Quite urgent, I think.”
The naval person, indeed, Lewrie fumed as he opened the note!
“Christ,” he whispered, wiping his brow. Mr. Pruden had looked in on Captain Braxton, and his prognosis was grim. The captain needed a physician, instanter, else . . .
“Trouble aboard your ship, sir?” Sir William asked.
“The captain, Sir William,” Lewrie had to confess. Damnit all, he would be the very last to miss Braxton, should he pass over . . . do a little hornpipe of grief, perhaps? . . . but he couldn’t ignore this. That’d be as much as if he’d murdered the man, by neglect!
“He is ill, Sir William. Our surgeon urgently requests a physician, someone experienced with malaria. An old fever, come back—”
“Aha, so that is why you present yourself in his stead!” Acton exclaimed with sudden understanding, clapping his hands, foreign-like. “You wished to save his honour, not knowing how sick he was. Hoping he is better on the morrow, hein? You must be très. . . very loyal to him, I am thinking. How admirable. Does he not appear so, Sir William? And to inspire such loyalty . . . what a remarkable man his captain must be!”
Bloody Hell, are you dense as marble, Lewrie gawped to himself.
“Such loyalty toward one’s superior is a given, which goes in our Royal Navy without notice, Sir John,” Ambassador Hamilton boasted gruffly, though with a soft twinkle in his eyes. “I do allow, though, that such a touching and fiercely protective loyalty as the leftenant manifests toward his captain may only be construed as the merest indication of Leftenant Lewrie’s true qualities. Which I find, sir, are as commendable and admirable as ever I did see in an English gentleman.”
“But, I merely . . .”
Shut UP, fool, he warned himself! Aye, give a dog a good name! They want to think well o’ me, then who am I to complain?
“I merely . . . you are too kind, Sir William,” he said instead, all but scuffing a toe in modesty, as he strove to evince a seemly and humble blush. The irony of the situation, and that too-tight neckstock, helped, as he ducked his head like a stableboy.
“I insist, Sir William, that you allow me to suggest the offices of Signer Dottore Spadolini to see to your captain,” Acton offered.
“Your court physician?” Sir William posed dubiously. “Surely, with Her Majesty so near her time, ahem . . . still racked with grief over the death of her dear sister . . . perhaps it might be better were my own physician, Dottore Granuzzo, to attend him. Else, we might lose an heir to the throne. We could have him moved here, to Palazzo Sessa.”
“Perhaps it might be best, Sir William, to have your physician come out to the ship first,” Lewrie countered, fighting a smile over the thought of Braxton being physically removed from his ship, of coming to his senses ashore, and wondering if Cockerel had mutinied once more, and sailed off and left him! “He may be too ill, for a time, to be moved.”
“I will see to it, at once, Leftenant,” Sir William announced, picking up a tiny china bell to ring for a servant. “In either case, your ship will remain in port, anent your captain’s health . . . and how certain pending matters of state . . . uhm, develop. And what dispatches I may have, regarding those selfsame developments, for Lord Hood.”
“I, and Cockerel, are at your disposal, Sir William,” Alan said.
“And for your generosity of spirit, Lieutenant Lewrie,” Sir John rejoined, “Naples is yours to command. What service may our kingdom do the Royal Navy? There was talk of shore leave, before we were interrupted.”
“Well, milord, there’s firewood and water, the usual plaint,” Alan replied with a small grin. “Our purser, Mr. Husie, would always wish to go ashore, to replenish stores, purchase livestock for fresh meat and such. I had hoped, once we’d provisioned, to allow our crew out of discipline for a day or two. Not shore leave, though . . .”
“Send your purser to our shipyard, sir,” Sir John offered with a grand, expansive spread of his arms. “Your ship purchases nothing. We will gladly offer you the bounty of Naples. Fresh meat and bread, vino. . .”
“God bless you, Your Excellency, I am overcome by your generosity,” Lewrie declared happily. Sure, too, that Mr. Husie would also be turning St. Catherine’s wheels over free victuals.
“And for yourself, sir?” Sir John went on, tapping himself on the side of his nose cagily. “I know what sailors most desire, having once served in deprivation, aha . . . you see?”
“To sample the cuisine of Naples, Your Excellency. To try some new dishes. Eat my way back aboard ship, I should think,” Lewrie said, beaming now, happy as a pig in the corn-crib. “I’ve simple needs.”
“Then you shall do so, as our honoured visitor,” Acton promised, with another, cagier look. “Perhaps you should sample some fried fish, hein , Sir William?”
“Ah. Perhaps that may . . . uhm, advance matters,” the ambassador agreed, almost tipping the prime minister a conspiratorial wink. “Yes, I daresay it might. After a certain period of, uhm . . . briefing?”
A briefing on how to eat fried fish? Right! And both of ’em as cozy as a pair of housebreakers, Lewrie wondered. At least it sounds like there’s a free meal in it. But, dear as he wished it, that very instant . . .
“Your Excellencies will excuse me, I trust, but I must return to our ship. There are matters to arrange, and duties in my captain’s stead which I must see to, first.”
“You have a competent wardroom, sir?” Acton inquired.
“Aye, sir.”
Well, damn his eyes, Lieutenant Braxton was good at his job. Can’t be faulted professionally. Just personally. Scott to keep an eye on him, and Dimmock, Bosun Fairclough . . .
“An hour or so? I quite understand, Lieutenant Lewrie,” Acton nodded, and gave him a shrug of nautical cameraderie. “We both know, and appreciate, how so akin are the demands of a beautiful ship, such as your frigate, and the demands of a beautiful woman, n’est-ce pas? ”
“Quite, Your Excellency,” Lewrie smiled in return.
“Uhm,” Sir William frowned, peering at a distant clock of impressive dimensions and baroque gilding. “It is now half-past nine or so. Do you return to Palazzo Sessa by . . . half-past eleven? Will that be time enough, sir? Good. You are turned out reasonably well. Your current uniform and toilette will suffice. I do not believe there is need for anything more formal, not today at any rate. From here, we may all coach together. Do you concur, Your Excellency?”
“Absolutely, Sir William,” Acton agreed.
“My physician will be along presently. You may coach together to the quays,” Hamilton decided, getting to his feet, creaking in the effort; for all his urbane grace and patrician leanness, he was an old man. He put his hands in the small of his back and leaned backward.
“Aye, Sir William, and thankee again. I cannot express how much I am indebted to you. One thing before I go, however. Uhm . . . exactly where will we be coaching to? ”
“Why, to introduce you to Neapolitan cuisine, Lieutenant,” Sir John Acton smirked, sharing another of those maddening conspiratorial grins with the ambassador. “You may try some fried fish. And be presented to His Majesty, King Ferdinand the Fourth. The King of Naples.”
C H A P T E R 4
Now, he’ll not stand on much ceremony or formality, beyond a natural courtesy, d’ye see, sir,” Sir William Hamilton tutored on the short carriage ride from Palazzo Sessa. “The King of Naples is . . . uh . . . you’ve never been presented at Court back home, sir?”
“No, Sir William,” Lewrie had to admit.
“He does carry himself well, though, Hamilton, does he not? And you told me not half an hour ago that his deportment toward you and Sir John lacked for nothing,” Lady Emma Hamilton teased.
Informal or not, Lewrie had scrubbed himself as clean as could be expected aboard a ship, donned his best uniform, and was now perched on tenterhooks on a plush-velvet coach bench, facing rearward toward Sir William and his wife. His very much younger and hellish-fetching wife. At the moment he felt, diplomacy be-damned!
“Uhm . . .” Sir William allowed. “True. True, my dear.”
“Neapolitans call him Il Re Lazzarone, sir,” Lady Hamilton went on. “That means king of the commoners. He’s adored by the common folk. By all, but . . . by all but the very rich and most pretentious. Those with titles who were born expecting more respect for their dignity.”
She snorted like a short-changed shopkeeper’s wife.
“You have no Italian, sir?” Sir William inquired hopefully.
“None, I fear, Sir William,” Lewrie had to say. “Some doggerel Don. A smattering of French, o’ course.”
“That would hardly be the language to use around ‘Old Nosey,’ sir!” Lady Hamilton laughed again, a deeper-in-the-gut, full-voiced guffaw, her merry light blue eyes sparkling with mirth.
“‘Old Nosey,’ Lady Hamilton?” Lewrie flummoxed, trying hard to retain all he’d so quickly been tutored on, in the short time allowed.
“Il Vecchio Nasone , his subjects also call him. Try it. Il Vecchio Nasone. Eel Ve-keeoh Nah-sohnee. Give me half a day, Hamilton, and we’ll have him so fluent in Italian, he’ll be waving his hands and slapping his forehead!” she boasted.
“I should not dare speak French to him, no matter it’s called la langue diplomatique, since his queen, Maria Carolina, was sister to Marie Antoinette. I see.”
“Quite right, sir,” Sir William gloomed, though he had bestowed upon his wife the beamish smile of a typical, love-stricken old colt’s tooth. “And as for don, well . . . ! One cannot hope, I suppose, that a sea officer may be master of the art of diplomacy, or by the very . . . uhm, detached nature of his calling, have much use for it, in truth. But His Majesty King Ferdinand is of royal Spanish Bourbon blood. He has been King of Naples and the Two Sicilies since his boyhood, yet he is, at bottom, Spanish. It would be . . .”
“Oh, Hamilton, you know how suspicious Old Nosey is about his relations!” Lady Hamilton interrupted. “All the years he’s spent here, monarch in his own right, no matter how indebted he originally was, he has no love for Spain. For his family, perhaps, but not for Spain, or their ambitions. Any more than he felt for French Bourbons, and their ambitions. He’s fiercely protective of his kingdom, Leftenant Lewrie.”
Handsome or not, she talks too bloody much, and man’s business, too, Lewrie thought; politics, so please you! Must have the old dolt wrapped round her least finger, to get away with such . . . boldness. It’s desexing, that’s what it is! Immoderate! Promising poonts, though . . .
“Even so, my dear, it would be a mistake for the leftenant to become, in the excitement of the moment, perhaps . . . too informal. And I would most strenuously conjure you, Leftenant Lewrie, to attempt to eschew such animadversions or colloquialisms—”
“Hamilton, dearest,” Lady Hamilton interrupted again, touching her husband on his knee with her fan. “Not possessing a word of Italian, and dependent upon a translator, I’m sure he will not shame us.”
“Indeed not, Lady Hamilton,” Alan nodded to her with gratitude. He was sure that he’d have had a considerable strip torn off his hide, had it not been for her presence, which hampered Sir William from delivering a harsher reproof.
“He’ll be good,” she added, giving him a taunting smile behind her husband’s view as she leaned back in the coach seat they shared.
“Cross my heart and hope to die, Lady Hamilton,” Lewrie smiled.
“Emma, do! ” she insisted suddenly, taking her husband’s veined old hand for a squeeze. “May Leftenant Lewrie be familiar with us, my dear? After all, he will be doing us an immense service. Already has, hasn’t he, coming from Admiral Hood with his news. And showing Ferdinand what real British sailors are like. Why, this may be the very act which firms Neapolitan resolve to join the coalition!”
“Uhm, Emma . . .” Sir William dithered in warning.
“Oh, pish!” Lady Hamilton snorted once again, this time in vexation. “What is needed by Lords Dundas and Grenville in London is the help of the Sardinians and the Neapolitans. Austria is in, Prussia is in, but they’re off to the north and east. All Royalist Europe must be in. Surely, Hamilton, he must be told enough, so that he will not make a mistake, out of ignorance?”
“Leftenant Lewrie . . . His Majesty’s Government desires, and shall pay handsomely for, any military or naval assistance against Republican France. Matters are in hand . . . ” Sir William said cautiously. “Sardinia, for example, will be recompensed upwards of £200,000 to raise an army of 50,000 men, and subordinate her fleet to Lord Hood’s orders. I have been discussing a similar arrangement for a fiscal subsidy with Sir John Acton, anent Naples, pending certain steps which His Majesty’s forces would take in the Mediterranean.”
“What Sir John referred to as une flotte respectable? ” Alan said with quick understanding and a sly look. “The presence of our fleet is the precondition toward Naples joining the coalition. And what would their contribution be, Sir William? And how good are they?”
“We, uhm . . .” Sir William stalled, loathe to reveal all his cards to a stranger, grown used to a life of secrecy in his king’s service. “A force of 5,000 to 6,000 troops. Three or four ships of the line and the requisite numbers of transports. Perhaps six or eight lesser ships. It is no secret that King Ferdinand has always been suspicious of France’s territorial ambitions. Now so, more than ever. No matter the government in power in Paris; their appetites are constant.”
“And with France gaining Corsica rather recently, he fears their further expansion overseas. If they can threaten and gain Corsica, what else might they take from the weaker Italian states by force,” Alan surmised. “Once they consolidate their political power, eliminate their last internal foes . . . and get their army and navy sorted out.”
“Capital!” Lady Hamilton hooted in triumph. “Oh, Hamilton, did I not tell you he’d be good?”
“Yet Corsica’s not quite in the bag, I understand,” Lewrie went on, leaning forward over his sword hilt, which rested between his knees. “There’s Italian resistance to their occupation. So I would assume we will be invading Corsica, once we’ve dealt with the French fleet? That is why Admiral Hood is blockading Toulon, their main naval base?”
