Tenacious (23 page)

A lieutenant from the flagship attracted interest immediately, but Hayward deflected it by addressing Kydd. “
Tenacious—
was it not an impudence for a sixty-four to lay herself alongside an eighty and have at her?”

Kydd chuckled. “We saw our chance when one o’ the French fell out o’ the line. It gave us a berth off the stern o’
Franklin
an’

we didn’t waste our powder.”

The conversations died as the orchestra trailed off into silence and all eyes turned to the doorway. Then it burst into a rapturous

“See The Conquering Hero Comes!” as General Acton appeared with Nelson, who looked frail and tired but was clearly enjoying the occasion.

They processed up the room together, each table rising to clap and huzzah the commander as he passed. At the high table Nelson stood in his place for a moment, looking out over his officers, who had achieved so much in his name, then bowed low

to left and right. A storm of cheering erupted that continued long after he had taken his seat.

Excited conversation resumed while soup appeared in gold-rimmed bowls; Kydd was now experienced enough at formal dinners not to expect it to be hot.

“Damme, but this is a night to remember,” said Boyd, dipping his spoon with gusto. “Can’t say, however, as I’d know any of

’em up there with His Nibs,” he added, nodding at the high table, which seemed to be populated mainly with Mediterranean-looking notables.

“It’s a puzzler t’ me,” Kydd said, “why the King’s not here as well t’ welcome the admiral.”

“Why, it’s not such a mystery,” Renzi said calmly, helping himself to a sweetbread sautie.

The others, not knowing Renzi, raised their eyebrows.

“Our noble host is the prime minister, no less, of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, a certain John Acton—who also happens to be an Englishman employed in that post. The King dare not show his approbation of our late action in too formal a manner with the French at his borders and a treaty in place—but he cannot, of course, prevent a display of natural feelings at such a victory from an English national . . .”

“Do ye think we’ll meet the King, Nicholas?” Kydd asked.

“I do—but in another place, I believe.”

“And the ambassador, you would say he is diplomatically absent from a private party, will you not?” Hayward said half defensively.

“Indeed. That would serve to avoid adding moment to the occasion.”

Hayward leaned back. “You seem unusually well informed for a sea officer, Renzi.”

“I was at Naples on—on another occasion, sir. I had reason
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then to be grateful to the ambassador for his politeness in the matter of accommodation. A charming host of another age: a learned gentleman whose shining qualities and lucid brain mark him out far above the common run.”

He had the table’s attention so continued, “He has served in post since ’sixty-four, and there is not overmuch he does not know about the character of your Neapolitan. A sprightly man, if I might remark it, he is accounted the best dancer in the palace and is greatly esteemed by the Royal Family, thereby being of in-estimable value to the cause of Great Britain.”

“But he’s of an age, I gather,” Boyd mumbled, through his haunch of lamb.

“Perhaps, but he has married a young wife who keeps him in spirits. Her entertainments are legendary, you may believe.

Thirty-five years his younger, but they are devoted.”

“What’s his name?” demanded Kydd.

“His name? Sir William Hamilton—his wife, Emma.”

The attention of the officers returned to the food. “Be sure to accord that dish the homage it deserves,” said Renzi to Boyd, who had begun to address a creamy rice platter with tiny white shavings arranged neatly on top. “Those are the immortal white truffles of Alba, and will amply reward your delicacy in the tasting.”

The courses came and went; the din of conversation increased with the flow of wine and the need to try to put aside the stark imagery of recent times.

“You know, we missed by a whisker bringing the French to battle while they were still at sea,” said Hayward reflectively.

“That day when we couldn’t find ’em near Malta and thought they’d gone to the westward? It seems that those frigates we chased off were scouts ahead of their main fleet—while we were hove to in our council-of-war they crossed our wake.”

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There were wry grins but several officers stared at the table-cloth and others had furrowed brows. Boyd broke the spell. “Er, Kydd, were you not out in a boat at the Nile?”

The images rushed in. “Aye, I was . . .” But it was impossible to find the words to describe the events of that night and he ended muttering at his plate.

“I’ll tell you a singular thing,” said a neat-featured man to the right. “Innes,
Swiftsure.
After the Frenchy blew itself to kingdom come, Ben Hallowell, our Owner, thought to fish out of the sea a good stout length o’ the Frenchy’s mainmast. Then has the audacity to get Chips to make it up into a coffin, which he then presents to his admiral. And well received it was, by all accounts.”

“It was indeed,” Hayward agreed. “Keeps it by him in his sea-cabin.”

“How singular,” murmured Renzi.

“But th’ hero of our age!” Kydd said vigorously, glancing up to the table where the admiral held court among his noble admirers. He turned to Hayward. “Our Nel—I’ve heard such cat-blash about his character. Is it true? How do you . . .”

Hayward stroked his chin. “A man of strong views and stronger convictions. And only two words will serve with him—

‘duty’ and ‘honour.’ Woe betide any officer who forgets himself in this particular—he’s as merciless as Jove.

“Yet the men love him, and he feels his captains are, as Shakespeare has it in
Henry V,
a band of brothers. When he’s to hand, you believe that nothing can fail. But this is not to say he ignores the lower orders—I’ve seen him climb the mizzen shrouds to show a green midshipman the way, and you’ll all have seen his order book filled the half over with instructions for the well-being of the lower deck.”

Innes turned to Hayward and asked, “Has he married?”

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“Yes, but I’ve never met the lady. I’ve heard he took her as a widow in the Caribbean. No children.”

Laughter gusted and swelled around them and the mood changed. “Renzi, if you’ve been here before, pray tell us the essence of the place,” Innes said, abstracting the largest piece of roast hare.

“Ah—Naples. The seat of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, ruled by Ferdinand the Fourth, lately in treaty of amity with the French. The Queen is sister to Marie Antoinette, and has her views on the character of the French nation. The court has been termed grotesque and cruel, although the people adore their king—”

“Belay all that, if y’ please,” Kydd interrupted pleasantly.

“Should we want t’ step ashore, what diversions c’n we expect?”

“Naples? That Goethe considers the third city of the world? A tolerable number of diverting entertainments—we have Vesuvius, which swallowed the Roman Pompeii, an inordinate number of churches, arts and cultures—”

Kydd smiled ruefully at the others.

“—but in all this we have to remember that there are Jacobin spies on every corner, those who would slit a throat for two piastres and ladies who must be accounted the most rapacious of their species. And shameless . . .” Renzi finished.

A sudden roar of acclamation went up from the table next to them as the officers lurched to their feet to raise their glasses to Nelson, who moved on and stood quite near Kydd. “Wine with you, gentlemen!” he said, handing over his glass for refreshing.

“Our late victory owes all to my gallant band of officers, whose conduct was in the highest traditions of our Service. To the health of His Majesty!”

“Damnation to th’ French, sir!” Warm with wine Kydd’s elation was rising. “Success attend ye always—an’ in a bumper!”

Nelson gave a short bow and looked at him quizzically. Kydd had an impression of a deeply incised face haggard with fatigue, a slight, almost delicate body, flint-like gaze and febrile energy.

“Kydd, is it not? Aft through the hawse, and now an ornament to his profession.”

Speechless with pleasure, Kydd bowed awkwardly. “Th-thank you, sir,” he stammered.

Officers scrambled to set their glasses a-brim. “To you, Sir Horatio! And Old England’s glory!”

Tenacious
would have to wait her turn for repair at the Castellammare dockyard, a dozen miles across the wide bay. In the meantime there seemed no reason why the delights of the city should not be sampled.

“See Naples and die!” Renzi murmured, as the two friends stepped ashore. From the time of their adventures in Venice, Kydd had known that Renzi had been on the Grand Tour expected of the gentility and had visited many cities in Europe. He knew little more other than that he had been accompanied by a dissolute companion who had extended his education into areas Renzi refused to speak of, yet at the same time had also kindled in him a deep love of learning.

“How fine t’ play the hero,” Kydd said, as they strode together down the broad seafront road. On every side passers-by waved and cheered, while women threw flowers over them. A Neapolitan officer stopped before them and bowed elegantly, rising with an elaborate gesture of welcome.

“Why, thank ye, sir,” Kydd said happily, seeing the pleased surprise on the officer’s face at Renzi’s gracious reply.

Beggars hobbled towards them and small boys ran up chanting. Kydd made to find a coin but Renzi pulled him on. “These are the
lazzaroni—
if you give to one you’ll have the whole city round your ears.” Leaving the seafront they went up into narrow
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streets past meat stalls, joiners working in the street, hucksters, pedlars, performers. After the purity of the sea every port had a characteristic smell for all sailors—that in Naples was compounded from the garlic-laden pasta cooking on every street corner, a universal underlying odour of fish and the ordure of horses.

“Where are we bound, Nicholas?” Kydd asked.

“You wished to see the sights of Naples. If we are fortunate we will soon have the opportunity to take our fill of the most diverting curiosities . . .”

Not far from the royal palace Renzi pointed out, a little further up the hilly streets, a relatively modest building. Kydd saw it bore the arms of Great Britain. “The embassy?”

“Of course. I am to renew acquaintance with Sir William Hamilton and his amusing wife, I believe.”

The doorman accepted Renzi’s card and ushered them both into a drawing room. Presently a tall, aristocratic gentleman with striking eyes and a hooked nose entered, holding Renzi’s card and looking puzzled. “Lieutenant Renzi?” He looked at them keenly, then suddenly exclaimed, “Mr Laughton! You have the advantage of me, sir, I had no knowledge of your arrival, and—”

“Sir, I am known in the sea service as Lieutenant Renzi.”

Kydd had long known of his friend’s past, and how, for deeply held moral conviction in respect of a family act resulting in the suicide of a youth, he had self-sentenced himself to a period of exile in the fo’c’sle of a man-o’-war. Renzi had taken the name of an obscure medieval monk, who had placed the love of learning above the distractions of the world.

“Very well.” The keen eyes rested for a moment longer on him, then shifted to Kydd.

“Sir, may I present Mr Thomas Kydd, a lieutenant in the Royal Navy who is my particular friend.”

“The honour is all mine, gentlemen, to be in the presence of two such who have lately met with so much success in the destruction of England’s enemies.”

Kydd and Renzi bowed, and Hamilton went on, “Regrettably my wife cannot receive you as she is at this moment with the Queen.”

“Sir, do not stand on ceremony for our sake. My friend wishes merely to make the acquaintance of the author of the celebrated
Campi Phlegraei
, to perhaps view some small curiosities, treasures of an enquiring mind.”

Hamilton’s expression eased. “You were always of a persuasion to discover your classical education at source, as I remember, Mr Lau—Mr Renzi.” His intelligent eyes turned on Kydd.

“Do you, sir, know aught of the Pausilypon, the Serapeum of Puteoli, perhaps?”

“It would please me well t’ see ’em at first hand, if that were possible,” Kydd said stoutly. His answer would serve whether these were places or things.

Renzi hurried to his rescue: “Since I have been absent, sir, has progress been made at all on the discoveries of Herculaneum?”

“Indeed so! Should you be at leisure on the morrow, it is my practice, as you may recollect, to mount to the rim of Vesuvius in the interests of science. It would certainly be possible to visit Ercolano on our way. Might I suggest the hour of eight o’

clock?”

Herculaneum turned out to be a dusty expanse of crumbling ruins, picked over by paid labourers and dilettantes. Kydd was glad they had taken the precaution of shifting to shore clothing and stout shoes.

Renzi was in his element, happily exchanging observations on the House of Argus, Pliny the Elder and other unpronounceable
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names. Kydd was glad for him, but it seemed an age before they resumed their carriage and made for the colossal, glowering presence of the volcano.

“Has it been, er, angry at all since . . .”

Hamilton smiled. “We had a brisk entertainment in ’seventy-nine, certainly, and have had some alarums since. But had you confided your unease to me before we left I could have provided you with a phial of the blood of San Gennaro, which infallibly protects those who venture on the slopes of Vesuvius.”