They must have seen her topsails; they too would have a man aloft to tell them what he saw, and given the billowing white ensign above him, which was flapping forward on the strong wind, it must be plain to them they were British and a warship. He had to wait till one of them heaved up on the swell at the same time as the sloop to positively identify them as merchantmen, and it took even longer to get a clear view of the ensign that identified them as Genoese, probably carrying stores to Toulon, all of which he relayed to the deck below.
As soon as he saw a man coming aloft, he assumed his duty to be at an end and, seeking to underline his credentials as a naval officer, he declined an easy descent and slid down a backstay to the deck. Digby was not there, he had returned once more to his cabin, and that was where Pearce went to find him, and to have a conversation, which was damned formal given their previous good relationship, though Pearce was invited to sit.
‘I am concerned about your present attitude, sir.’
‘I think, Mr Pearce, that is none of your concern.’
‘It is very much that, sir, if I feel it affects the running of the ship.’
‘You claim such knowledge?’
‘Sir, you can cut the atmosphere with a knife.’
‘A ship of war does not sail well on atmosphere, Mr Pearce, it sails well on everyone carrying out their proper tasks. I do not think one of your duties is to question my method of command.’
‘This is rot!’
Digby’s expression showed how shocked he was. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Forgive me, but I cannot go through with this polite farce. I did not ask to be in the Navy, I did not ask even to hold my present position, I had no desire ever to come to the Mediterranean and I most certainly had nothing whatever to do with you gaining command of this ship.’
‘I would ask you, Mr Pearce, to mind your manners, given I am your superior.’
‘Damn me, Mr Digby, if I can be rude to Lord Hood, and I have been, I can assuredly ignore your rank. You are worried about your future, I know that…’
‘Which I sincerely hope will be devoid of any influence you may wield.’
In his irritation, Digby only confirmed that which Pearce suspected. ‘If you feel it damaged in any way I cannot see how you can blame me.’
‘Who am I to blame?’
‘Try Ralph Barclay, try that sod, Hotham.’
Digby’s reply was larded with irony. ‘That would be a splendid idea, for me to impugn the motives of two senior officers. I think you have done enough to ensure professional suicide for me without recommending my using a shovel to dig deeper the hole I’m in.’ He held up a hand and reluctantly Pearce abided by the injunction to hold his tongue. ‘How do you think I see my future, where once I hoped it was promising?’
‘You cannot know what the future holds.’
‘I can guess, Mr Pearce. In one fell swoop I have made dozens of enemies on the lieutenant’s list, men who would have seen a ship of this size as theirs by right of seniority. To whom will they have made known their disappointment, d’ye think? Their captains, for one, so my name will stink there too, and that does not take into account anyone, either naval or civilian, who has an interest in their advancement and who is in receipt of their letters home. I served on Britannia ’twixt Lisbon and Toulon, in fact I think Barclay wanted me off his ship even then, and I can tell you I made no friends in that wardroom, so please do not even allude to the idea that my being here does not involve you.’
‘Which anyone with half a brain would have discerned on first taking command of this ship, yet I don’t recall your declining the duty.’
Suddenly Digby, who had been sitting bolt upright, let his shoulders sag. ‘I could be done for in the service, Pearce.’
‘I think, sir, you exaggerate.’
‘You do not know it as I do, Pearce. Word gets round, tongues are employed to damn more than to praise. Any discussion in which my name comes up and it will be attached to yours, and even you must admit such an association will do me no favours.’
‘That I cannot help, and neither will I take the responsibility which you seem to lay upon me.’
Slowly Digby shook his head. All his anger at Pearce seemed quite gone now, yet left that person to wonder if Digby was still angry with himself.
‘Neither should you, it is I who have been a fool. I should have seen this clearly before and sought to shift as soon as we got back from Biscay, but…’ Opening his hands, he indicated the cabin in which they sat, a gesture Pearce understood completely. ‘The enjoyment of this goes to the head, making it hard to give up.’
‘And?’
‘As soon as we return to Toulon, I must take steps to vacate this command, and find another in which I can attract less jealousy.’
‘Are you sure such a thing exists?’
A deep breath followed, before Digby added, ‘Forgive me, Mr Pearce, for taking out on you that which is none of your doing.’
‘If it’s any consolation, sir, I named you to Lord Hood as an excellent officer.’
Digby’s look required no words; any recommendation from such a source was not likely to lead to an advantageous outcome.
The Bay of Naples was reputed to be a sight of great beauty – sailors who had visited praised it to the heavens – but it was apparent, as HMS Faron cleared the island of Ischia, it was only true if the sun shone. On this day of heavy cloud and grey-green sea, the famous islands that dotted the bay, jewels of antiquity, were shrouded in fine mist and the buildings that lined the shore, no doubt bright when bathed in sunlight, looked dull at a distance and rain streaked through a telescope. The imposing Castle of Saint Elmo appeared to be especially forbidding, while behind lay the great volcano of Vesuvius, its cap obscured by low cloud. In the naval part of the anchorage lay several line-of-battle ships, one bearing an admiral’s pennant, but it was to the standard flying from the Palazzo Reale, which fronted the harbour all along its great length, that Digby aimed his salute, twenty-one guns, as befitted a sovereign.
Firing the salute had a double purpose, of course: it would alert the local plenipotentiary, Sir William Hamilton, to the arrival of a British warship, so that by the time the ship made her berth, he should be ready to receive them. No approach could be made to the queen without him being on hand to make the introduction. Manners insisted that they show courtesy to the Neapolitan Navy, so without waiting Digby took a boat to the ship anchored on the naval dockyard to present his compliments to the commanding admiral. He returned knowing no word had come from Hamilton; he had been told the minister was away hunting with the king.
‘Yet the Royal Standard flies over the palace,’ Pearce said.
‘The queen does not hunt,’ Digby replied, and having been well supplied with wine, he continued in a flippant tone, which included the odd slurred word. ‘All she seems to do is bear children. The poor wretch has been brought to bed fifteen times and is heavy with child as we speak.’
‘Then we must get a message to Hamilton, sir,’ Pearce insisted, while wondering what had happened to Digby’s gloomy prognostications on his future; the copious consumption of wine seemed to have allayed them somewhat.
Mood swings were not unknown in the inebriated, and one happened now, Digby replying in a prickly way. ‘That, Mr Pearce, falls within your purview, not mine.’
Pearce’s response was equally sharp. ‘I see you took pleasure in the hospitality afforded to ship’s captains, sir.’
‘What?’
‘Do I have your permission to take ashore a boat?’
‘I cannot see that you need my permission, Mr Pearce.’
Seeing no sense in disputing with an inebriated superior, Pearce left the cabin and gave out the orders to man the cutter in which Digby had just returned. Within ten minutes he was heading for the small fishing harbour of Santa Lucia on the northern arm of the bay, the nearest hard landing place to Posillipo where, according to the small hand-drawn map with which he had been provided, Sir Will
iam Hamilton had his residence, the Palazzo Sessa.
The harbour was crowded with boats, all of which seemed to be occupied by families, which led to a cacophony of sound, shouts, cries, occasional screams which seemed to be part of the process of dispute, which he would come to realise was endemic to this part of Italy. He had to leave a party to guard the cutter, and he made sure they had the means to buy some fish from the locals manning braziers on the quayside though, having seen the state of Digby, he felt obliged to caution them about the consumption of wine.
With Michael O’Hagan in tow, as usual bearing a cutlass, he made his way along the crowded wharf, seeking directions which, given he had no Italian, had Pearce waving and gesturing like a Neapolitan, pointing and slapping his forehead in frustration at the seeming lack of recognition that ensued. Michael, shouting in a combination of English and Erse, meant to aid him, but did nothing to facilitate matters, rendering the locals sullen rather than cooperative.
‘Mind your purse, John-boy,’ the Irishman growled, easing his cutlass and glaring at everyone within his roving eyeline. ‘I ain’t never seen such a collection of scallywags.’
‘In which case, Michael, they will all be armed with knives, against which one cutlass will count for little. Let us move off the quay and see what we can find.’
That led them into a series of alleyways and finally to an open marketplace, with tables groaning under the weight of colourful farm produce. But it also had taverns, and from one of them, after another bout of energetic arm waving, a conveyance was secured. It was a cart drawn by a donkey and driven by a dark-skinned fellow in a wretched straw hat who kept turning to grin at them, saying ‘Madonna’, a word which had Michael crossing himself repeatedly. The smile was devoid of teeth, and the finger with which he gestured to the road ahead, a narrow crowded thoroughfare, was missing the tip. Eventually, after hearing it repeated several times, Pearce began to understand that the Madonna was no other than ‘la bella signora ’amilton’.
‘Odd that,’ Pearce said to Michael. ‘The one thing I think that lady is not, is a saint.’
‘Who is she?’
‘A famous beauty, mistress to several rich men, much painted and much damned. Some think her traduced, most people when asked would tell you she is a nothing but a retired London whore who has snared an old booby with a handsome post.’
‘He being?’
‘The British Ambassador to the Court of the Two Sicilies.’
Given their carter knew of his bella signora, he required no directions and the conveyance worked its way though narrow, teeming streets until it came to the gates of the ambassador’s house, set on a steep hill and crowded with vendors using the overhang to shelter their wares. This entailed much shouting to get them to shift, an action in which Michael O’Hagan took much pleasure.
To enter the courtyard of Sir William’s home, the Palazzo Sessa, once the large wooden doors were closed behind them, was to find themselves in a different world. The gates shut out the noise of the heaving street; the courtyard, even at this time of year, was full of flowers, which gave off a range of scents powerful enough to overcome the smell of the city, made worse by the foul weather: drying horse dung, a humanity singularly malodorous, though that was leavened by the smell of food being cooked which seemed to emanate from every open window they had passed.
It was necessary to ask for the way to the Hamilton apartments, for Sir William did not occupy the whole palazzo, and once found, the fellow who responded to their knock on the door did so with a gravity which was almost theatrical in its manner. Pearce reckoned the wearing of a naval boat cloak clearly established his credentials; the liveried major-domo, for that was what Pearce suspected him to be, seemed to think of him as some miscreant seeking charity, and their exchanges were not helped by his heavily accented English. Fearing a rebuff, the situation was saved when a clear, if gravelly, voice spoke behind the fellow in perfect English.
‘What’s goin’ on, Fillipo?’
The major-domo turned in that stiff way superior servants do, to reveal a squat woman in a mob cap, wearing both a full-length apron and, at her waist, a large set of heavy keys. Her face had traces of faded beauty, of features once fine, which had become coarsened through age.
‘Visitatori, Signora Cadogan.’
That, at least, laid to rest Pearce’s first, idiotic thought, that this might be the famed Emma Lyon, gone very much to seed in a combination of matrimony and the warm climate. Fortunately, in turning, Fillipo had revealed a fellow who had opened his cloak to reveal his uniform, and whoever this woman was, she knew a king’s coat when she saw one.
‘You will be from that barky that entered the bay this morning?’
An intriguing accent, Pearce thought, trying to place it; being the son of a peripatetic parent, and having travelled the length and breadth of his homeland, he prided himself on being able to identify any voice he heard.
‘I am indeed from HMS Faron. Might I ask who I am addressing?’
‘Mrs Cadogan, at your service, sir, mother to the lady of the house.’
‘It is Sir William I have come to see.’
‘Ain’t here, sir, he’s at his hunting lodge, though a messenger has been sent to tell him of the arrival of your ship, as is the custom.’
‘Will that bring him back to Naples?’
She responded with a slight laugh. ‘I doubt it, sir. An English ship in the Bay of Naples is not to be remarked on, and when Daft Ferdy goes a’huntin’, nowt is permitted to interfere.’
‘I must see him.’
The smile was doubtful, though far from a sneer. ‘Must you, now?’
‘I have a private message for him, madam, and it is on a matter of some urgency. If you can procure me a horse, and a guide, I will happily ride out to see him.’
Mrs Cadogan stood rock still, clearly thinking on that suggestion, before she made a gesture of greeting, and bid them enter. ‘Best you talk with my daughter, sir.’ Then she looked up at Michael, who even standing two steps down was taller than her, his station quite obvious by his seaman’s ducks. ‘Fillipo, show the sailor fellow to the kitchens.’
‘Would I be after gettin’ fed, lady?’ Michael asked.
‘The cooks will look after you, big as you are.’
Michael went one way with the major-domo, while John Pearce followed in the footsteps of Mrs Cadogan. Climbing the stairs to the first floor, Pearce was struck by two things: the quantity of classical artefacts, busts, frescoes and urns, some damaged, most whole, which crowded the steps and landings and, secondly, that behind them the walls were cracked and peeling. Clearly the palazzo was in some need of repair.
The rooms he was led into when they entered the actual apartment were quite different, properly and expensively furnished, the walls covered in paintings of classical scenes, the floors highly polished and the harpsichord music he was hearing of a high standard. The drawing room, the last room he entered, overlooked the bay, with a fine sweep of windows, which must have made it something extraordinary on a day when the sun shone.
‘Wait here, and I will fetch my daughter. Your name, sir, is?’
‘Lieutenant John Pearce.’
As she disappeared, Pearce was taken by the way the room was furnished, especially the numerous pieces of pottery, which sat on the fine mahogany tables and sideboard. Closer examination showed them to be decorated with scenes from antiquity, but then Sir William Hamilton was a famous collector of vertu, well-known for his many excavations at the nearby ruined Roman settlements of Pompeii and Herculaneum. But what caught his eye most was the large portrait of a flame-haired young beauty, wearing a white scarf, and looking wistful. Moving closer he saw the signature, in the corner, of George Romney, and he was still examining that when the voice behind him spoke.
‘I believe, sir, you desire to see my husband?’
Turning, John Pearce found himself face to face, and undoubtedly so, with the girl in the portrait. The face was fuller, but still s
triking, the skin less translucent than the painting, yet the figure underneath the loose garments, suitable for such a warm climate, was fulsome indeed. Most striking was the hair, a rich auburn, dressed high to show a long alabaster neck, while a slight odour of lavender water touched his nostrils.
Executing a slight bow, in which he confessed himself impressed, he said, ‘Lieutenant John Pearce, madam, at your service.’
That got him no more than a breath of a curtsy. ‘Lady Emma Hamilton.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Emma Hamilton was examining him with a slight, yet confident smile on her face, the look of a woman who knew herself to be beautiful, yet there was no sign of the haughtiness Pearce had often seen in others blessed with the same gift. Her gaze, from engaging green eyes, was unwavering without any hint of mood, which told him he was in the company of someone who had much confidence in her present position. In the voice he had detected the same accent as the mother, albeit less pronounced. The stillness was significant, as if she was prepared to wait to be appraised, but then it struck him: Lady Emma Hamilton was used to the stares of strangers. She knew of her reputation, and was accustomed to allow those she had not met before a moment to measure what they had heard, against what they could see and hear.
Faced with such an attractive creature, Pearce succumbed to what was, in a red-blooded young fellow, a natural train of thought, and he was about to pay her a fulsome compliment when they were interrupted. In the seconds in which they had stood looking at each other the doors had been opened once more and Mrs Cadogan entered, followed by a servant carrying a large tray bearing wine and fruit. This was placed on a round table and the servant withdrew; Emma’s mother did not.
‘If’n we are to have guests for dinner I will need to know.’
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