The lights behind the curtain were dimmed and raised a half-dozen times over the next hour, as Emma took various poses and, with nothing but the revealing garment, a shawl, and the odd vase cut out of board, recreated forms from classical literature. Each new figure was greeted with gasps of admiration and a ripple of polite applause, and it was certainly entertaining, with the final representation a chaste one of the Madonna and child.
What made Pearce curious was the purpose: was it that Emma Hamilton had a desire to show herself off, to excite admiration for what was an exceedingly comely figure, or was it part of Sir William’s mission, a way of seducing the leading lights of Naples with near-naked representations involving his wife? In short, was the wily old rogue quite prepared to prostitute Emma’s talents in order to gain a political advantage?
Show over, the dimmed oil lamps were turned up to reveal a group of men, every one of whom was considerably older than John Pearce, looking somewhat flushed, so much so that he wondered at the state of his own complexion. Yet he knew that if some of those watching had found the show erotic he had not. Interesting, yes, but more for what it said about the performer than anything else.
‘Well, Mr Pearce,’ said Sir William, ‘have you ever seen the like?’
‘Never, sir,’ he replied truthfully.
‘Damned impressive, what?’
‘Exceedingly so.’
‘Now, I will say goodbye to our guests, then you and I must have another glass or two, while you tell me about yourself.’
‘I hardly see that I am of much interest, Sir William.’
‘You are to me, boy. I want to know why Lord Hood chose you to deliver a message that should have come, at the very least, in the person of a very senior captain.’
The Palazzo Sessa was quiet, the servants, excepting his host’s valet, having finished their duties and gone to bed. Sir William had taken Pearce back to his room full of artefacts and they were now sitting at a table drinking wine, Pearce, aware that he was getting steadily drunk and needed to guard his tongue, confining himself to telling the ambassador how he had come to be in the Navy and especially how he had achieved his present rank.
‘So you met my good friend, Georgie?’
‘You are acquainted with the king?’ Hamilton looked at Pearce as if he was a dolt, which was appropriate, given that no one would be an ambassador without meeting the monarch. ‘Sorry, sir, I meant outside your official position.’
‘Ran riot with the randy sod many a time,’ Sir William said, suddenly wistful. ‘He was a rakehell in those days, Pearce, up every shift he could find, drunk to boot, and forever baiting the poor old watchmen.’
‘I have to say, sir, that does not sound like Farmer George.’
‘That’s just the point, he was Rutting George in those days, my lad, before his grandpapa passed away. Talk about King Hal? No man ever changed more on his elevation, Pearce, from a boozer and womaniser to the staid fool he is now. If you are looking to extend the Shakespearean metaphor I can stand in for Falstaff, riotous friend one minute then shut out the next. That German queen of his didn’t help, and all those damned children. Man’s a martinet with them, of course. He knows what he got up to in his youth and he will not allow them the licence to do the same.’
‘I’m afraid I cannot find it in my heart to feel sorry for them, sir.’
‘What!’ Sir William responded, seemingly shocked, that was until reflection reasserted itself to level his mood. ‘No, I suppose not. The Prince of Wales is a fool and so are half his brothers. York is as dense as the trees his papa talks to, though the one that got Hanover has ability. Times have changed, and not for the better in my opinion. There’s too much prudery about, and it all stems from Windsor Castle.’
Pearce waved a hand around to indicate the many objects hidden outside the pool of light in which they were sitting. ‘It would be true to say there is none in the Palazzo Sessa, sir.’
‘Damned right, Pearce,’ said the old man, hauling himself to his feet. There was sadness in his eyes as he looked down at John Pearce, and his voice was slightly slurred, either through drink or sadness. ‘The king and queen refused to receive my Emma, Pearce, and declined to attend the wedding, which is hurtful, us being such old friends. Damn me, there was a time he would have tried to bed her as soon as my back was turned.’
‘Reprehensible, sir, given you were close friends.’
‘Nonsense, Pearce. What feller with blood in his veins would not harbour a wish to bed my Emma?’
The look that followed that remark was one of amusement. It was as if he had read the mind on the young man before him and, having seen what he had seen, was not in the least bit troubled.
‘May I ask one question, sir? What brought you back from the king’s hunt?’
‘A note, Pearce, from Mrs Cadogan, saying you had arrived and the business was exceedingly urgent. Given the lady is the least likely to indulge in exaggeration I knew it must be vital I return.’
The temptation to enquire if the note had said anything else had to remain just that; it was a question that could not be asked.
The following morning, Pearce was left to kick his heels with a copy of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, while the ambassador went for an audience with Queen Caroline. He had seen Lady Hamilton briefly, but she excused herself on the grounds that she had a lesson with her music teacher and a dozen letters to write, which was, in terms of an elbow in the ribs, at least gentle. Her mother, who seemed more amenable now that the master of the house was in residence, kept Pearce supplied with fruit and coffee until Sir William returned from the Palazzo Reale, after an absence of two hours, looking cross, to inform the messenger that matters were at a stand.
‘It is ever thus in Naples, young feller. Half the council are for sending more troops, half against, half are on the fence and there are those who might even want to bring what is already committed home.’
Pearce declined to point out that the addition exceeded the maximum, reasoning that Hamilton was talking reflectively.
‘How long before a decision, sir?’
‘Days, Pearce. Could be a week, and if the king gets involved God only knows what will happen. My wife told you of the queen’s concerns.’
‘She did.’
‘Trouble is, she has only a sliver of an idea if some of those advocating that we accede to Hood’s request are doing so to get sent away the troops she needs to defend the throne of Naples. Soundings will have to be taken, careful ones at that, to discern everyone’s motives.’
The thought of kicking his heels in this set of apartments did not appeal. There were undercurrents here, never mind in the audience chamber of the Palazzo Reale; safer to be out of the orbit of such things.
‘Then might I suggest, sir, that I proceed with the ship to Tunis, and deliver the necessary dispatches to Commodore Linzee. It is no more than a few days sailing and matters will surely be resolved on my return.’
‘If you wish,’ Sir William Hamilton replied, though without enthusiasm. ‘I had it in mind to take you along on a dig in the ruins of Pompeii. Young stalwart like you would come in handy with a shovel.’
Thinking of Michael O’Hagan, Pearce replied, ‘Sir, upon my return I will bring you a master of the art, and a fellow, when it comes to being stalwart, who is very much my superior.’
‘So be it. But you cannot depart until I have written to Captain Nelson, and I know my wife would want you to take a letter from her as well.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘I have to say it sounds to me reprehensible,’ Henry Digby insisted, having been given a description of what Lady Hamilton called her ‘Attitudes’, ‘but what can you expect from a woman like that?’
‘Do not denigrate her so readily, sir, the lady has many accomplishments.’
‘To which most decent fellows would not wish to be exposed.’
John Pearce was amused by that remark; most decent fellows, as Digby termed them, faced with a creature like Emma Ham
ilton, and in receipt of an invitation to bed her, would be out of their breeches in a flash. He recalled her remark about hypocrisy, and looking at his superior as they paced the windward side of the quarterdeck, in the act of digesting their recent dinner, he was sure he was in the presence of that very article. Was there also a touch of pique? Digby had not been invited to visit the Palazzo Sessa and had not been witness to Lady Hamilton’s charms.
‘I seem to recall you, sir, telling me of your visits to a Portsmouth bawdy house as a midshipman.’
‘It shames me now to admit to it, but there is, of course, a world of difference, Mr Pearce.’
‘Forgive me, sir, if I fail to see it.’
Digby should have withdrawn then, but so certain was he in his convictions that he ploughed on, and as is often the case in such a discussion, his words tended to undermine his position rather than support it.
‘I do not, and have never sought, to profess sainthood, Mr Pearce. I have needs as much as the next fellow.’
Yet you have argued with me in favour of an all-seeing God, Pearce thought, wondering how anyone outside a rabid Papist, who had the escape route of the confessional, could advance such a proposition. If paying a whore for her services was a sin, how could a man professing deep religious faith justify it? And why was the sin greater in the woman rewarded than the fellow paying?
‘I have, as you so readily point out,’ Digby continued, ‘been a visitor to various places of entertainment, though that is very much in the past, in my youth so to speak, and in the company of my fellows mids, all hearty and red in tooth and claw. I will not pretend to be any different and I have, in a reduced state of sobriety, taken comfort where it was on offer. You must comprehend the circumstances, Mr Pearce, of a very young sailor who has been at sea for a long time, who has coin to disburse and has partaken of a good deal of drink.’
‘Then all Lady Hamilton has done in her past, and as far as I can discern it is anecdotal rather than known fact, is to provide the very same service which you admit to having enjoyed.’
‘I don’t know the lady,’ Digby protested.
‘I referred to the institution rather than the person.’
‘But don’t you see, Mr Pearce, while I do not condemn her for her past life, an unchristian thought, I cannot but wonder at her present estate and the activities you have described. Damn it, she’s wedded to the king’s ambassador!’
‘So as long as a woman of questionable morality keeps her place, and satisfies the needs of men, she is to be commended?’
Digby gave a dismissive laugh. ‘No, no, Mr Pearce, you cannot trap me like that. I do not commend whoredom, I condemn it, as any right-thinking man should.’
Pearce could not resist it, even although he knew it would spark his superior into anger. ‘Except Jesus, sir, who I seem to recall was very forgiving of a woman he became exceedingly close to, one Mary Magdalene.’
‘Mr Pearce, the way you use the word “close” is bordering on the blasphemous.’
How my father would have berated you, Pearce thought, but then Adam Pearce had spent his life trying to disabuse other men of their dearly held beliefs, on the simple grounds that they were deluded. Where son parted company with parent was in the belief that such opinions could be altered by argument. In his experience few men succumbed to another opinion enough to alter their own, even when what they were propounding was demonstrably absurd.
‘I have met the lady, sir, and I think had you too done so…’
‘Might I remind you, sir, that I was not even in receipt of an invitation!’
‘Had you been,’ Pearce insisted, ‘and had you met her, I am sure your attitude would be altered. She may come from a questionable background, but she speaks French, German and Italian, plays the harpsichord with some expertise, is much esteemed in her sagacity by her husband and on conversational terms with the Queen of Naples.’
‘Which,’ Digby asserted, ‘tells you all you need to know about the proprieties as they are observed in these waters.’
‘Deck there, sail ho!’ came a cry from the masthead.
‘How many does that make today, Mr Pearce?’
‘A round dozen, sir.’
‘Where away?’ Digby shouted.
‘Dead astern, capt’n.’
‘Shall I, sir?’ asked Pearce, pointing to the shrouds in expectation of another trip aloft.
‘Good God no, Mr Pearce,’ Digby replied, as if such a notion was absurd. ‘Send Harbin.’
A shouted conversation with the fellow in the tops established all he had seen was the flash of topsail on the rise, with no notion of what kind of vessel it was. Harbin could add little and, given that night fell early in the Mediterranean, there was an increasingly diminishing chance of another sighting. The mere display of a sail in these waters meant nothing, given that south of Sicily, in the wide channel between that island and the North African shore, lay one of the globe’s busiest and most constrained sea lanes: all the trade to and from the Levant passed this way.
So it was only by habit that Digby, seeing the sun set in the west, ordered the drummer to beat to quarters. It was his way and that of many in the Navy, a ritual repeated at dawn and dusk, good practice for the crew and a sound precaution, especially at first light. When darkness came he stood the men down and with the course set, and the conditions being benign, a steady north-easterly Grecale breeze wafting them along at five knots, the watch coming on duty expected to have it easy, just as the captain anticipated a full night’s sleep. John Pearce, who had the morning watch, shaking him from a dream in which he was consorting with an imagined woman, an ambassador’s wife of uncommon comeliness, clad only in a shawl that revealed a great deal of naked flesh, came as a shock.
Digby was on the quarterdeck in just over a minute, his boat cloak thrown over his night attire. The lack of stars and moonlight indicated the cloud cover had increased, creating a Stygian blackness outside the arc of lanterns rigged on HMS Faron. He was also wondering if his first lieutenant was imagining things, something not unknown on a dark night on a wide open sea, vaguely aware as he turned over these thoughts that Mr Neame had joined them.
‘Tell me about the sound again, Mr Pearce.’
‘A clanging, sir, metal on metal.’
‘Repeated?’
‘No. But it was clear the one time it was heard.’
‘Who else heard it?’
‘The quartermaster reacted, sir, but when I asked him to confirm my suspicions he was not sure enough to do so.’
Digby stood for a full minute, nose in the air, as if sniffing the wind. It was clear he had grave doubts that Pearce had heard anything and he had orders to proceed to Tunis with all dispatch. But set against that was the fear of the unknown. His course had been set in full daylight and held true now. If there had been a noise close enough to be heard there should also be some evidence of a ship, pinpricks of light from their lanterns, but there was nothing.
‘I need your opinion, Mr Pearce.’
‘And I, sir, do not feel qualified to give one.’
The exasperation was plain in Digby’s voice. ‘That will not do. If you apprehend danger you must say so.’
‘I am at a loss to be certain, sir, but I think you once said to me that discretion is the better part of valour.’
Pearce would never know if those words decided Digby, given he had been ruminating for some time. When he spoke again, his orders were crisp. ‘Put men on all the ship’s lights, I want them doused on my command, but quietly, so it will need bodies to pass it on. Mr Neame, as soon as the lights are out I want to come about on the opposite course to that we are sailing now.’
‘Into the wind, sir.’
‘Aye, but under easy sail. Mr Pearce, the crew is to be told, no talking, no sound. Let us retrace our course and see if we have anything in our wake.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘For what, Mr Pearce?’
‘Your trust.’
Digby gave a
slight chuckle. ‘It is a poor captain who fails to trust his officers, sir.’
That Henry Digby was a bit of a weathervane did not shock John Pearce, but he did wonder that such a swing in mood seemed normal to his captain. There was no time to ponder on such curiosities, he had to get things organised.
It took time to get everyone in place, with no haste being shown. The men were instructed to amble to the lanterns, the great light on the sternpost, the twin lamps on either end of the main yard. Pearce himself was beside the binnacle, and the killing of that light was the signal to douse the others, including those below the ship’s companionways. If they did not go out simultaneously, it only covered a trio of seconds to plunge the ship into darkness. From below, the watch waiting to adjust the sails felt their way to their stations, not too difficult on a ship with which they were familiar. The command to let fly the sheets was a whisper, and as the spikes were pulled to release the pressure on the falls, the quartermaster swung the wheel hard a’larboard, bringing HMS Faron up into the wind.
Getting the sails sheeted home in silence, yards braced right round, was not easy for men accustomed to sing hearty while hauling hard, and many a tar received a soft kick from a shipmate to shut them up. Making hardly any way, the ship was now on a north-west heading, everyone standing by to reverse the actions just carried out and get them back on their old course. On the quarterdeck, Pearce and Neame were standing on one bulwark, Harbin and Digby on the other, while Pearce had sent sharp-eyed Charlie Taverner to the sternpost, first as lamp-douser, then as an ear and an eye.
He had to tiptoe over the deck to tell Pearce what he heard, the sound of wind whistling through rigging, of water running down a ship’s bow, the soft slap of those same bows hitting waves, which was a strange thing to be aware of at a ship’s stern. Pearce immediately did what Charlie should have done and informed his captain. It was sheer luck that had the cloud cover break for a moment to the east, lighting up the ghostly shape of what had to be a warship, of considerably bigger displacement than their vessel, and leaving HMS Faron safe against a dark background.
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