Tenacious (25 page)

Kydd’s temper rose. Soulter was in his division and he knew his value, but now Bampton was playing God with them both.

“He does,” Kydd snapped.

“So, striking a superior. This is a grave charge, Soulter.”

“Sir,” Soulter said woodenly.

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Bampton let it hang, then said, “This should result in your court-martial, you villain. How do you feel about that?”

“Sir.”

“However, in this instance I am prepared to be lenient. Mr Kydd?”

“Sir, I’m certain Soulter did not intend a disrespect t’ his superior and now regrets his acts,” he said stolidly. Kydd knew that Bampton would never hand a court-martial to Houghton on his return and felt nothing but contempt for the show he was making.

“Very well. Soulter, you are to be disrated as of this hour and shall shift your hammock forward immediately.”

Soulter’s eyes glowed, then went opaque.

“And you shall be entered in the master-at-arms’ black book for one month.”

This was shabby treatment indeed: the man would revert to common seaman and Laffin would therefore have free rein to in-dulge his revenge. Not only that: for a month Soulter would be cleaning heads and mess-decks before all the seamen of whom he had been in charge before.

The men were dismissed and went below for the noon meal.

Kydd sat at the wardroom table without appetite. It could have been worse—at least there were no lashes awarded for an act that was so predictable for top fighting seamen kept in idleness in a port of this nature. He would see to it that Soulter was reinstated at the first opportunity. Kydd brightened: he knew Soulter was a popular petty officer, fair and hard-working. By the unwritten rules of the lower deck he would have been seen to be unjustly treated and therefore would not be demeaned before the others by his impositions.

“I’m getting t’ be a mort weary of Naples, m’ friend,” Kydd said reluctantly. “It’s not a place f’r your right true shellback.”

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Renzi did not hasten to offer a further run ashore. Kydd had noticed his distaste for the squalor of some streets. Renzi was no prude but Kydd had a feeling that it sat uneasily with the classical splendours that filled his head.

After a space Renzi said smoothly, “You wish to depart these shores? Before you have been introduced to culture of altogether a different sort, an evening of entertainment of a far more . . .

decorous nature?”

“Oh?” said Kydd, without enthusiasm.

“An invitation from Sir William that even the admiral feels it an honour to accept . . .”

“Nelson!”

“A select few will be there, you may be sure. The ambassador honours us greatly for our interest in antiquity, and should you be absent, it will be noticed, I fear.”

“But Nelson—an’ probably some of his captains?”

“Almost certainly.”

In the warm dusk Kydd ran his finger about the constricting circle of the stock round his neck, irritated as well by the tickling of the frilly starched jabot under his chin. He consoled himself that a naval officer’s full-dress uniform was a trial at times but was far easier than the elaborate frogging and tight pantaloons of the army.

The Palazzo Sessa was ablaze with lights and rich banners flew from each corner of the building, crowds massed outside hoping to catch a glimpse of the hero of the hour. The two officers passed through the doorway to cheers from the excited people. After the dimness of a violet dusk the light of massed chandeliers was overpowering, highlighting rose-bloomed faces and sparkling jewellery over ample bosoms.

“I say, you’re Kydd of
Tenacious,
are you not?” The left
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epaulette and single ring at the cuff proclaimed him a commander, a captain in the quaint naval way of an unrated ship, even if he was younger than Kydd.

“Aye, sir,” said Kydd.

“My father has mentioned you,” he said, with just a hint of the supercilious. “But I see these knaves are neglecting you.

Here,” he neatly abstracted a champagne flute from a passing tray, “should we not be well primed to salute the honour of the all-conquering Nelson?”

He took a long pull at his glass before Kydd could recollect himself enough to utter an unconvincing “Sir Horatio—victor o’

the seas!”

“Yes, well. Must make my number with Carraciolo, the bum-bling fool.” He thrust through the assembly and was lost.

Kydd looked round for Renzi and found him talking with a thick-set post-captain who stood bolt upright, the champagne flute in his fist looking diminutive. “Ah, Kydd, please make the acquaintance of Captain Troubridge.”

“Sir, a pleasure t’ see you again. An’ dare I offer m’ consolation on
Culloden
takin’ the ground as she did and missing the sport?”

“Damn charts—but a glorious occasion, hey?”

Kydd caught a sight of the commander he had spoken to before. On impulse he asked, “Sir, are you acquainted with th’

officer over there speakin’ to the lady in blue?”

“I am,” Troubridge answered, looking at Kydd oddly. “That’s the captain of
Bonne Citoyenne
and, as you should know, he is also Nelson’s son.”

“I—I—”

“Step-son, that is to say. Josiah Nisbet.”

“I see. Thank ye, sir.”

The buzz of conversation increased, then fell away quickly as a hush spread over the room. A trio was coming down a staircase

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that led from the apartments above: the ambassador with Nelson and between them, an arm on each, a cherubic but striking lady whom Kydd had not seen before but who must be Emma, Lady Hamilton.

The hush was broken by a single cry of
“Viva il conquistatore!”

It was taken up all over the room in a bedlam of joyous shouts.

Nelson, in his splendid decorations, responded by beaming and bowing to left and right.

Lady Hamilton struck an imperious pose and cried, “Avast, all ye! I present Duke Nelson, Marquis Nile, Baron Alexandria, Viscount Pyramid, Baron Crocodile and the Prince of Victory!”

Laughter and patriotic cries burst out and the three descended into the gathering. Presently the ambassador held up his hands for silence. “For those who love Naples, an evening of civilisation. Pray come with me, let the entertainments begin!”

In the drawing room a semicircle of elegant chairs in two rows faced a small ensemble of harpsichord to one side, two violins to the other. The musicians remained in a bowed position while the guests settled.

Kydd found a chair in the second row from which he could see Nelson and the Hamiltons. They were in fine form, Sir William animated and relaxed while his lady seemed to be in full flood of sociability towards her distinguished guest. Nelson appeared equally engaged, his responses to Lady Hamilton’s sallies almost boyish in their artlessness.

Hamilton rose and faced his guests. “I know you will be amazed and delighted when I tell you that I have persuaded the famed tenor Romualdo Farrugia to perform for us tonight. He will begin with Pergolesi’s ‘Lo frate ’nnamorato,’ of course in the original Neapolitan dialect . . .”

Next to Kydd Renzi stirred with interest. “Farrugia! What a coup! In
opera buffo
the finest in all Naples—which is to say the world.”

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A short, dark man in an extravagantly rich costume strode out and bowed low, then fixed his audience with a fierce gaze. A cascade of notes on the harpsichord concluded with entry of the violin continuo and the piece began. It was magnificent: the effortless power of his voice infused every note with its full charge of emotion and significance. Kydd had never heard anything like it.

The singer retired to a storm of applause. Hamilton rose and turned to the guests. “Equally fortunate is it that the noted so-prano Bellina Cossi is delaying her return to Vienna to perform for us tonight. She sings about a shepherdess at the banks of a river who does not feel inclined to waste herself on a lukewarm lover . . . Of course this is the Scarlatti cantata ‘Su’l margine d’un rio.’ ”

The beauty of the crystal clear notes, their passion and tenderness moved Kydd and he felt detached from his hardy sea life. The music, just as it had in Venice, lifted him into an un-touchable realm of the spirit. In a warm haze he heard Hamilton announce a duet—a scene from a recent Cimarosa opera,
Le
Astutzie Femminili.
He let the music wash deliciously over him, and was sincerely sorry when it was over.

“An intermission,” Hamilton announced, “but do not despair. We shall shortly have our own particular entertainment for you . . .”

The scraping of chairs and murmured conversations were muted under the lingering spell of the music, but livened as the guests partook of sweetmeats and Lachryma Christi. They returned to stand informally about the front of the room.

“Are you prepared?” called Hamilton. “Then—Act the first!”

First one, then another black man in turban and baggy trousers came through the door. Naked from the waist up they carried between them a long scarlet curtain on brass rods. Intrigued, the guests watched as the men took position; they bowed and when

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they rose, so did the rods, suspending the curtain in a creditable imitation of a miniature stage.

“Ah! I believe I know what is to come,” said Renzi. Mysterious bumps and scrapes sounded from behind the curtain. Urgent whispers could be heard, and then Hamilton emerged.
“Ecce!”

he called—and swept aside the curtain.

At first Kydd could not make out what was happening, but then he saw that it was Lady Hamilton in a theatrical pose, standing motionless before a large upright seashell in a flowing classical Greek robe, all composed within an empty picture frame.

Candles were held artfully by the ambassador to throw a dramatic light upon her. Kydd was astonished at the diaphanous material of her gown, which left little to the imagination, and a
décolleté
that would be thought
risqué
even at the theatre. At the same time he saw that the chubbiness had not extinguished a very real beauty—an expressive and angelic face raised to heaven that was the quintessence of innocence.

“Aphrodite rises fr’m the waves!” Several shouts vied with each other. They were rewarded with a smile from the enchant-ress and then the curtain closed. It opened again to a different pose: an ardent, lovelorn entwining around the branch of a tree, beseeching an unseen figure, and still in the filmy gown.

“Glycera frolicking with Alcibiades!” A slight frown appeared while protracted but jovial disputation took place.

“Cleopatra and Antony receive the news!” called Renzi at length, to be thrown a dazzling smile. Kydd looked to see how Nelson was receiving the entertainment and was startled to see the gallant admiral wildly applauding each manifestation, always gracefully acknowledged by Lady Hamilton.

Places were resumed for the second half, Dorabella and Guglielmo from
Così Fan Tutte.
Kydd had seen Lady Hamilton sit with Nelson again, her arm laid on his and not removed. He
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glanced about: no one seemed to have noticed except possibly Troubridge, who stared forward stonily.

The plot of the scene was whispered brokenly by Renzi. It seemed to be nothing but unlikely disguises and trifling complications following a wager, but the music carried Kydd along once more.

At the end, Hamilton thanked the performers and added,

“Our entertainment is concluded for tonight, my friends and honoured guests. The hour is late, but for those who wish to in-dulge there is a faro table in the next room.”

The guests rose in a babble of excited talk as Hamilton and his lady escorted Nelson to the next room. “What do we do now, Nicholas?” Kydd whispered.

“At this hour we have the civilised choice: to linger or depart immediately,” Renzi replied. “Nothing will be imputed from our actions.”

“Would it be at all curious, should we desire t’ see a faro table without we play?”

“I don’t think so, brother,” Renzi said. They moved into the next room where already a large card table was set out. Lady Hamilton stood behind Nelson, urging him excitedly. A footman offered iced champagne, which Kydd found most acceptable in the heat of the night.

Feeling happy and expansive, Kydd remarked to Renzi, “Y’r foreign cant is all pedlar’s Greek t’ me, Nicholas, but the music!

I have t’ say, it leaves me with th’ hot shivers.”

Renzi nodded. “Of the first rate. The pity is to escape it in Naples. In the nursery, your tradesman in the street, all are singing from the heart wherever they be. A truly gifted people.”

It seemed there were others who wished to linger, some at the gaming table, others promenading before the inattentive hero of the Nile. Kydd accepted another glass of champagne

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while he looked about the room. “Have ye noticed? We’re the only l’tenants,” he said proudly, discounting the indeterminate Neapolitan army officers. It was an agreeable observation and he sighed with the sheer joy of the moment.

“So it seems,” said Renzi, turning to see the origin of raised voices.

It was Nisbet. The young commander had approached the faro table and confronted his step-father, red-faced, his cravat hanging askew. From their distance it was impossible for Kydd and Renzi to make out the words, but the reaction of bystanders was eloquent enough.

There was a scuffle and more shouting, and in a room suddenly quiet Troubridge and another officer frogmarched Nisbet past them and into the night. The room burst into horrified talk; Lady Hamilton stared after them, her face chalk-like.