Winds of Folly (32 page)

‘So I have been told. Well, I would have to take my chance on that. Unless you have an alternative suggestion.'

‘Oh, but I do. That is why you are here.'

‘I am sorry?'

‘Where is your ship-of-war, the
Unicorn
– an excellent name, by the way?'

‘Well …'

‘Oh, you do not have to tell me its exact position on the chart. It would mean nothing to me, anyway. But could it be brought to Venice at short notice? And the other ship that is with it – the
Bonne Aventure
– another excellent name, by the way – for our endeavour?'

He winced inwardly at the extent of her knowledge, but at least she did not know about the
Jean-Bart
. That was something, he supposed. And it probably meant her intelligence came from Naples. Either from the Queen or Lady Hamilton or Sir John Acton. Or all three. ‘It is possible,' he agreed. ‘But for what purpose?'

‘How many men do you have?'

‘Well, a ship of that size has a crew of about two hundred and fifty or so. Officers and men.'

‘And soldiers? You have soldiers?'

‘Yes. Marines. We call them Marines.'

‘How many?'

He hesitated a moment but it was not a military secret. ‘The normal contingent in a ship of that size is about forty.'

‘So few?' She frowned. ‘Still, a show of force … The red coats – they wear red coats?' She shot him another fierce glance. He nodded in affirmation, despite himself. ‘Good. And we would have plenty of assistance.'

‘What exactly did you have in mind?' he enquired politely.

‘Listen to me. You think I am mad – yes, you do,' as he began to shake his head. ‘You think all women are mad. All men do, in their hearts. Mad, bad and dangerous. Especially women who meddle in things that should not concern them, like politics. But I am not mad. Nor am I stupid. Do you know the size of the Venetian Army?'

‘I am told it numbers about five thousand or so.'

‘They are mostly Slavs and Albanians from the Dalmatian Coast, and a few Greeks,' she explained. ‘Mercenaries, of course. The Venetians, they no longer serve in their own Army. Over two thousand are scattered in small garrisons in the Veneto – the most, they are in Verona, eighty miles away. In Venice, there are fewer than five hundred men who are fit for active service. Have you ever seen them?' Nathan shook his head. ‘No, I did not think so. You do not often see them. Mostly they are in their barracks, drunk, scratching the fleas, picking from each other the lice. Some of them have muskets but they are not permitted to carry them, or even to practise with powder or shot. Too expensive. Also too dangerous. The Ten, they have always feared their own army, more than they fear the army of a foreign power. Then there are the
sbirri
– the police. You will have seen them, they are everywhere. They number around a thousand on paper, their actual strength probably a little less. But they are not soldiers. Nor are they armed with guns, only swords and staves – and the officers, they carry pistols. The
sbirri
is good to break up a mob, but a company of trained soldiers with muskets – Marines, you call them, yes? And your sailors, too, they can fight, I have heard?'

‘They have been known to on occasion, but—'

‘And we would have the
Arsenalotti
on our side.' She saw that the term was unfamiliar to him. ‘The trained bands of the Arsenale. A militia. The only militia in the city. Fanatically
loyal to the
Serenissima
. They guard the Doge's Palace on all state occasions.'

‘But if they are fanatically loyal … ?'

‘Why would they support a coup? Ah, that is what is so clever about it. Because we will convince them the government is about to surrender to the French. And then your ships they sail into the lagoon, the sailors and the Marines they come ashore …'

‘And the Two Castles – the Fortezza di Sant'Andrea and the Castelvecchio? We just sail past them?'

She was unmoved. ‘We will have bribed the Commandants not to fire upon you.'

‘I see. But can we not bribe the Vice-Admiral of the Venetian fleet?'

But she was already shaking her head. ‘He is already bribed. By the French.'

He stared at her. ‘You are certain?'

‘I am.'

‘So it would be useless for me to contact him?'

‘Not only useless, but extremely dangerous. He is also, in his heart, a supporter of the Revolution and a great admirer of General Bonaparte who is winning all these victories against the Austrians. He will keep the fleet safe for the French when they come here – and they will come, if we let them. So, you see, you have no alternative but to support my plan.'

‘And the French? You think they will stand idly by?'

‘Now listen to me. The Austrians are marching down the Adige Valley to the relief of Mantua. General von Wurmser has fifty thousand men under his command. Bonaparte will have enough to occupy him. He could not spare a single troop of horse to come to the help of his friends in Venice, even if they had the means of crossing the lagoon. We can do this. All it needs is a little courage.'

‘I am afraid this is well beyond the terms of my commission. I have no authority to risk my ships or my men in such an enterprise.'

‘It is a risk others would take in your position. Your Commodore Nelson would not hesitate, I think.'

‘Commodore Nelson is also an acquaintance of yours?' He was prepared to believe it.

‘I have never met him, but I know of his reputation from others. And I know he would not spurn such an opportunity to win for his country the fleet of the Venetians, and the islands of Corfu and Cephalonia, and for himself the Glory.' She was probably right. ‘A bold plan, he would call it,' she concluded.

Nathan considered. It was impossible, of course. Even for Nelson. With a single frigate and two sloops – and one crew between them. Even to take Leghorn, Nelson had asked for 2,000 regular British infantry.

But Leghorn had been occupied by the French, whereas Venice …

Could he trust her, and her assessment of the Venetian Army – and the
sbirri
, and the
Arsenalotti
– and, most of all, the Two Castles? It was a hell of a lot to take on trust from one nun.

‘So, you are talking of a coup against the present government of the
Serenissima
.' She gave him a look as if to say, What else do you think I have been talking about this past half-hour or more? ‘And who or what would take its place?'

‘You cannot expect me to tell you that before you have agreed to take part in it.' He supposed this was a fair point. ‘But you may rest assured,' she continued, ‘that I have no personal ambition to replace the present Doge, or to take my place in the Council of Ten.'

‘Then what
is
your motive?'

‘Revenge. And also, of course, to serve the best interests of my country.'

‘Of course.' But he looked at her curiously. ‘For Dandolo's murder?'

‘There are other reasons, but that will do.'

‘And who do you think murdered him?'

‘I
know
who murdered him. The Devil.'

‘Cristolfi.'

‘Ah, so you know who the Devil is.'

‘And the reason?'

‘Because Dandolo had a mind of his own. It is enough – in Venice.' She stood up. ‘You will wish to think about this,' she concluded briskly. ‘But please do not take too long over it. Or the French may move first.'

He looked at her sharply. ‘But you said …'

‘I said they would not be able to land troops. But they will not have to, if they have enough support in Venice – and no one is prepared to fight against them.'

Nathan also rose, but he was not as anxious to leave as he had been just a few minutes before. If the French were to seize power in Venice, did he not have a duty to resist – to the best of his ability? Certainly to aid the forces of resistance. And if he had the chance to pre-empt such a move …

‘I will think on it,' he promised.

‘Good. Please do. Now, it is necessary, if you are to sustain your credibility as the young American, Mr Nathaniel Turner, intent only upon pleasure, that you should be seen to pleasure yourself a little, is it not?' She smiled at his expression. ‘But you will need to wear this.'

He caught the object which she threw in his direction. It was a mask. He turned it over in his hands.

‘Put it on,' she commanded him firmly. ‘It is a half-mask that we call the Colombine. Because you have a pretty mouth and a pretty chin and it would be a pity to hide them.'

Nathan put it on.

‘Good. And I too. For appearance's sake.'

She, too, wore a Colombine, possibly because she, too, had a pretty mouth and a pretty chin.

‘Where are we going?' he asked her.

‘Below.'

‘But I have been seen without the mask. People will know me for who I am. And you …'

‘Oh, the mask is not to hide your identity from others. Or at least that is not the most important of its functions. It is to mask your inhibitions, to free you from guilt. It is not
you
, it is the mask. Now,' she gave him her arm. ‘We are ready.'

Dawn presumed upon Venice like a botched breakfast, a raw egg leaking down the streaky back of the sky. It found Nathan making his careful progress to the Piazza San Marco where he had hopes of finding a boat to take him back to the
Angelika
and his neglected cot. He was still rather unsteady on his feet on a platform that did not move with the steady rhythms of the sea. He concentrated on walking in a straight line, one foot in front of the other, as if he was walking on a tightrope.

He was crossing a footbridge over one of the canals when the men came up behind him. He was first aware of their presence when they took him by the arms, shouting at him in dialect. He thrust them away from him and reached for his sword but inexplicably it was not there. He struck out with his fists and knocked one of them into the canal before a blow from a stave laid him out cold and mercifully he did not feel their boots going in.

H
e was in his day cabin on
Unicorn
with sunlight pouring through the stern windows, but strangely he seemed to be lying on the deck. Why was that? Still, it was good to be back. He had been away, he remembered. Or half-remembered. It would come back to him in a moment, if only it did not hurt so much to think, or move. Too much wine the night before. Red wine and champagne. It was not wise to mix the two. But where had he been drinking champagne? And why was he lying on the deck? Had he not been able to make it to his cot? Had he fallen? It was not good for discipline if someone found him here. He tried to stand up but he was aching all over.

A quantity of water hit him in the face and he half-rose, gasping and cursing, and then holding his head as he was racked with a violent, shocking pain. He felt sick. He
was
sick, rolling over as he felt it rise into his throat. It hurt to be sick. It hurt his head but it hurt his chest most. He crouched there for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to vanquish the pain, or at least come to terms with it. It did begin to ease a
little, at least in his head, but there was now a worse pain in his ribs. He wiped his mouth. Where had the water come from?

He squirmed round, opening his eyes and then shutting them again as another violent spasm shot through his head. But he had seen enough to assure him that this was not his cabin. If there had been any remaining doubt it would have been dispelled by the names people were calling him. Pig was one of them.
Porco
. Which meant pig, or swine, in Italian.
Porco inglese
. English pig. He knew that much, but not the other words they were shouting at him. He had no idea where he was or how he had got here, but he remembered the convent, and some at least of what had happened there, and walking back along the canal towards the Piazza San Marco. There had been some kind of argument, he thought. He had insisted on walking back alone. And some men had set upon him. Presumably the men who were abusing him now.

He tried to climb to his feet, to continue the fight, for the one thing you must not do in a street brawl or a fight on the deck of a ship was stay down; you had to get up, no matter how badly hurt you were, and keep moving, or they would kick your head in. But he could not get up. He was in irons. But at least they were not kicking him. He sat up and put his head in his hands. He could do that, though his wrists were shackled. His wrists and his ankles. The pain in his head had now retreated to a point just beyond the crown. He put a hand to it and felt crusted blood and a lump the size of a pigeon's egg. He sat there for a moment, trying to get his strength back.

Someone was pulling at him, taking his hands away from his face. He tried to resist but others joined in, forcing his arms down. Someone was peering into his face, tugging at his eyelids, and he thought of butting him, but then he heard the word
dottore
. Another word he knew. Doctor. They had brought a doctor to him. Surely this had to be a good sign, though in truth the man looked like a villain. He reminded Nathan of Dr Roach, their family doctor back in Sussex when he was a child. The youngsters called him Dr Cockroach.