"Be back soon," Lewrie promised Theoni Connor. "I'll have Andrews or Cony keep a weather-eye on him, never fear."
"Then he will be in good hands," Theoni answered, a real smile playing at the corners of her lips; so full of hidden meaning and promise, he hoped. "None better," she added as she gathered up the kitten.
The second night of passage, Lewrie had been too fitful from his wound to sleep, despite Mr. Howse's infusion of laudanum in wine- enough, he'd assured Lewrie; to ease pain but leave him his wits should he be called on deck. Wakeful and tossing in a hammock in the dining-coach, too many years away from his midshipman days to be comfortable in it, he'd risen and stolen to his wine-cabinet, limping and wincing as the ship rolled and heaved her way north. He'd accidentally wakened Theoni, and she'd come to help him as he'd groped and stumbled to the settee. She'd fetched his wine and taken a measure for herself.
Their wine was in those heavy, ornate chalices that no one still living had claimed, once their property had been sorted out and returned to them. Those silver chalices that Clotworthy Chute had gasped over at first sight; he couldn't exactly swear, mind, but he thought them to be Cellini's work, or just as old and valuable, cast in his style. "What I say is, Alan, m'dear… were a fellow like you t'own 'em, he'd never leave someone th' likes o' me alone with 'em!"
They'd talked in low mutters, fearful they'd waken Michael, who had that night slept as if drugged, himself-his first real, refreshing night of rest after his satanic ordeal. They'd laughed a bit, softly, as the hours fled by with no call from above to summon him. Shared the parts of their pasts they'd cared to reveal. And, by the light of the single guttering candle, he'd been mesmerised by her tantalising, exotic beauty. Sitting so close together, a lonely…
Admit it, a randy man, too long without, he'd chid himself.
And a lonely, frightened widow, rescued from the very brink, the knife-edge of rape and murder, the butchering of her only child. Some gratitude she'd felt, perhaps; or hero-worship? After playing stoic and brave for so long, she'd broken down and wept on his shoulder, so quietly still, stifling her rasping, heaving, nigh-screaming terrors to spare Michael, burying her face in his neck and moaning into his shirt all she'd tried to suppress; including her widowhood, he'd imagined.
She'd cried it all out, round Two Bells of the Middle Watch… then turned her face up to his without a word. Kissed him with fierce need, fingers and hands, arms and mouth strong and beseeching hungrily. Breeches, shirt, bed-gown and chemise torn and flung aside. Then, into the hanging, swaying double bed-cot, making love to him so grasping and engulfing, so desperately exuberant, as if lovemaking could purge all the shrieks, the blood and terror away-banish fear and mortality, or the uncertainty of her future in a cold, alien new land; the grief of leaving her old one.
Fierce and strong, urgent and passionate, clasping him viselike to her, and Alan had responded with a fury of his own, to forget for a time just how close to murder he'd been, too. It had felt… holy!
Silent, she'd been, though, stifling the cries she might've made, moaning, whimpering and panting into his neck. Even when her bliss had come, she'd merely stiffened, shuddered, spasmed, with a long hitch of her exhausted breath before relaxing. Later, they'd dared to coo and to chuckle, deep in their throats, barely above whispers near each other's ears. Nestling spent, languidly stroking lovers, 'til her need came to her again, then his… then hers a joyful fourth and last.
They hadn't dared touch since, not with the others aboard to see or hear, not with Lucy peering at them so deuced sharp, as if she had divined all; nor with Peter and Clotworthy garrulous and yarning, still keeping their bachelor hours and sipping far into the night. A glance, two hands brushed as they passed, a demure smile of eternal mystery she bestowed upon him when no one was looking-that was all they managed. It had been so soul-shattering, Lewrie could almost put it down to some laudanum-induced fever-dream, and feared Theoni had used him for cleansing, for a personal Epiphany; one memorable night was all she'd needed, and should he approach her, she'd spurn him and blame it on weakness, a mistake never to be repeated.
'Til now, of course. That fondness in her voice, that smile, so secret and promising…! Perhaps this very evening, after Charlton and his supper. Or in the few days of privacy on-passage to Gibraltar?
Damn fool, damn fool! he sighed to himself, feeling the fork of his breeches go taut in spite of himself; here I nigh swore off, an' look what a mockery I made o' that! He recalled most happily, though, a sight of her slim, womanly form, her chestnut hair flowing down low to her waist, the scent of rosemary and thyme in that hair. So perfectly made, gliding on cat-feet in that candle s dim glow, four or five inches less than his height, and so enfoldable, so well-fit to him!
He came back to reality, and rocked on the balls of his feet on his quarterdeck, gazing out towards the island. A shrill cry, followed by the patter of feet came, as little Michael and one of the ship's boy-servants scampered about in the waist; Tag, it looked like, with Bosun Cony watching their every move, grinning a long-absent fathers grin at their antics, and thinking of his own little Will back in Anglesgreen.
Blocks creaked as the first net of luggage was slung over-side. Lewrie turned to see Sir Malcolm Shockley overseeing its transfer, with his manservant and Midshipman Hyde. And Lucy approaching; smirking!
"My word, Alan," she said, standing by the bulwarks, a tad too close for his liking. "Such a gay dog you've grown to be, sir. I see you're a doting father, the way you cosset that poor lad. But not much of a husband, in truth… do I read the signs aright?" she simpered as she tapped him with her fan and spread it artfully. "What horrid folk we've turned out. A Greek woman, my dear! Taking advantage of her in a fragile moment… though I must own she has a certain attractiveness, a… c'est-a-dire… an animal magnetism, n'est-ce pas? Why, I have a good mind to write your lady-wife to let her know what a lecherous Corinthian she really has for a husband!" She tittered quite gaily.
"You wouldn't dare!" Lewrie growled, though shivering; aye, she'd be the sort t'do it, too! All for bloody-minded spite!
She laughed at his discomfort, matching the pace he took to get a sociably acceptable distance away from her.
"Mean t say…" he amended. "What signs could you possibly read? Or find t'read? There's nought between…" Should've taken that tack first! he told himself.
"Alan…" Lucy cooed, significantly mystifying. "Women know." "I'm certain you're mistaken in this instance, Lady Lucy. Nor were you ever the sort to cause someone needless grief," he replied. She simpered over her fan for her answer, lashes fluttering. "Don't tease, Lady Lucy." He frowned. "Such letters are known to go both directions. Where was it? Can't recall the exact address, but there was this wine-shop on the Calle del Fabri. Right at a cross-street, the Monte delle Ballotte? First-floor balcony, lots of afternoon sun t'see by… blond lady and a naval officer the spittin' im-"
Her fan whisked to furious life, and her cheeks went crimson. "Point taken, my dear… Alan." She grimaced; quite prettily. "Could've sworn was Fillebrowne, to the life-" "Point taken! Ahem," Lucy repeated, fanning so vigourously she could have bellied out the furled main-course.
"Why?" Lewrie had to ask. Long ago, she'd been a brainless chit, a guileless, bedazzling, innocent nymph. "Your husband's a decent and solid good man. I'd think that'd-"
"As is your Caroline, I'm certain," she allowed. "But decent does not always excite. And you know as well as I what drew each together so long ago on Antigua, Alan. You saw my true, passionate nature and I saw… a bad'un! One of the damme-boys, who'd risked his life in my honour. I never shall be able to resist the bad'uns. There's nary a woman can, were they honest with themselves. I'm certain, too, you have profited from it. Oh, you're such a bad'un, Alan Lewrie. Take ye joy in it. Or… have you already, hmm?" She chuckled huskily.
"People change, we…" He shrugged.
"I'm still of half a mind about you, d'ye see?" she confessed. "There's unfinished business 'tween us.
Someday, I feel sure-"
"I think not, Lady Lucy. Truly," he disabused her. "Not even on a lark, not once for curiosity. Imperfect sinner though I be, I'll never 'put horns' on a good man who thinks himself happily wed. We may laugh and jest… but we do not play, d'ye get my meanin'?"
"You fear him?" she asked, gazing at him as if she'd misjudged him all these years.
"I respect him and like him."
"Ah, well, then," she sighed theatrically. "My regards to your dear wife… and to your amour dujour. She really is quite lovely… I s6e why you're so smitten. Her, too. Of course, you'll break her heart. I'll be the soul of decorum at supper, Alan. Adieu!"
He choked off what he might have said to that, watching her go back to the entry-port, sashaying and smug before once more becoming a lash-battering, innocent minx.
And he was still fuming, staring out at the island a moment later, when Sir Malcolm Shockley came up to him, striding slow and formal with a long silver-headed ebony walking-stick tapping time on the deck. Lewrie stiffened as he joined him at the bulwarks, wondering had Lucy said something spiteful, put a flea in his ear 'bout them…
"So this is where it happened," Sir Malcolm said, though, with a grave sadness, as he rested his hands on the cap-rail to look out. "Aye, Sir Malcolm… just there," Lewrie replied. They were anchored two cables off this time, distanced from the horror. The brig was sunk to the level of her upper bulwarks, with only her lower mast-trunks standing, her jib-boom thrusting upwards from her submerged forecastle, and charred as black and crumbly as last year's Yule Log splinter. The two smaller boats had been reduced to blackened piles of kindling and ash, just on the edge of the beach. The reek of burning hung on the air from the stockade and the huts they'd fired, as well-but they still hadn't been quite able to conquer the foetid char-nel stench from that abbatoir, that sick-sweet, roasted odour of putrefaction.
Sir Malcolm had a small pocket-telescope that he brought up to his eye, giving the place about as close an inspection as Alan thought he'd care for. The wheeling gulls and terns, the flutterings…
"Odd emblem, there, Commander Lewrie. That placard on a pole," Sir Malcolm puzzled, lowering his telescope. "A piratical symbol?"
"Grave-marker, sir," Lewrie answered levelly. "For the victims. We couldn't sort 'em out into Christian or Muslim, Albanian or Croat, Greek or Venetian… taken days, had we tried, and the survivors poor help in identifying them. Strangers to each other, and whole families erased? They needed to be in the ground, well… you understand."
"Yes." Sir Malcolm groaned. "Horrid. Horrid! And so savage, this part of the world. Wish to never hear of it again, lock-stock-and-barrel. At least Mistress Connor has good memories of living here in the Adriatic, 'til this. She has only the one island she'd wish to forget. Little-traveled as I am, sir… I do allow that I could quite easily abhor this region, entire. Get me home to good old England, that's world enough for me. And with this widening war, the only safe and sane clime I know left! Safe, behind the 'wooden walls' of our Navy, what? 'Cross our Narrow Sea?"
"Wouldn't mind a bit of that, myself, sir," Alan allowed. "Serving King and Country unrecognised for their valour, their unstinting devotion to hard Duty, yes," Sir Malcolm sighed. "Nearly three years you've been in this ship, now, Commander? Away from home and family, with Duty done and foes confounded your only satisfaction?" Well, I wouldn't say quite that. Lewrie tried not to smirk. "About three years, sir… next spring." He nodded gravely. "Once home, I mean to speak on the Fleet in Commons," Shockley pondered aloud. "This squadron, and all the gallant men who went into peril… and tedium, I'd imagine." He chuckled. "Gain for the officers and men some poor bit of acknowledgment for their efforts."
Lewrie smiled. "That'd be most welcome, Sir Malcolm, thankee." "Your gallantry, foremost, sir. Your courage and sense of honour. Your quick thinking," Sir Malcolm prosed on, looking noble.
"I… I did what needed doing, only, Sir Malcolm." Lewrie all but coughed in honest modesty. And chagrin. "Don't quite know what t say, sir… t'be so honoured. Though it's hardly deserved, really…?"
"Oh, tosh!" Sir Malcolm grinned. "Though your modesty becomes you, in addition to your other qualities. Know little of the sea, myself, can't begin to fathom the intricacies of a Sea Officers elaborate lore, but I must say I'm intrigued to learn more of it. Speak to Admiral Jervis, discover his appreciation of our situation, now Spain has come in and the French fleet rules the Mediterranean… why, my colleagues may find my information useful, once home, in expanding the Navy." "That'd be right-fine, Sir Malcolm." Shockley lifted his telescope once more and peered at the shore.
"Rather a lot of birds about, Commander Lewrie. Thousands. I'd think they'd shun such a… dare I say a ghastly, haunted place."
"They're uhmm… feeding, Sir Malcolm," Lewrie told him bluntly. "What sea-birds do, when they're lucky."
"Thought you buried…?"
"The victims, Sir Malcolm," Lewrie stated. "Not the pirates. We didn't think they deserved burying, so we let 'em lie."
"Ah!" Sir Malcolm gulped, looking queasy. "Well, quite right, too. Murdering bastards. Might put them off this place for good?"
"I doubt it, sir," Lewrie countered. "A year or two, someone will put in for wood and water. Knock the placard down, 'cause they hate what country, religion or people the dead were. Scavenge rusted weapons we missed and didn't toss in the sea. Pick round the bones…"
"Scare them off, by way of example, ah. Quite right."
Lewrie rather doubted that. Some might even find it majestic!
"Hard to say, Sir Malcolm, hard to say," Lewrie allowed. "Now we've created a Field of Sea-birds… a Kossovo.. . however it's said in Serbian. They'd understand this, d'ye see…"
He turned outboard to look at his field of slaughter.
" 'Now all is holy,' " he chanted softly. " 'Now all is honourable… and the goodness of God is'-again-'fulfilled.' "
"What's that, Commander Lewrie?" Sir Malcolm asked, giving him an odd look.
"Old Balkan… 'love-poem,' sir," Lewrie replied with a quirky grin.
"Just an old local poem."
AFTERWORD
It's doubtful if Napoleon ever exhorted his troops from the crag as I described. And that speech about leading the Army of Italy into a fertile plain of rich cities for honour, glory-and loot-was actually dictated by Bonaparte during his exile on St. Helena and inserted into his memoirs. The splendid three-part silent black-and-white film about Napoleon, though, shows it… the young boy-general, the hungry, ragged troops below, the mountains, and the sea. Napoleon would have approved, I think, since he'd aspired to be a dramatist or novelist in his school days. He knew what made a better tale; mean t'say, he was French, after all, knew how to spell the word panache, and proved time and again that he knew how to make an entrance! In light of that, how could anyone resist depicting it his way? Hey, not moil
Admiral Sir John Jervis did send a squadron of six frigates into the Adriatic in early 1796, under a Captain Taylor. And yes, the authorities at Trieste supplied a major portion of the Imperial Austrian Navy its seagoing budget. They did reduce it, 'round the time I cited, and Captain Tay-lors squadron was there, probably doing their work for them. After all, why buy the cow when you can get the milk free? That Major Simpson, by the way, was a real person, with a thankless chore, and abysmal career prospects. I reduced the number to four, to make the task assigned even harder to accomplish; and it's easier to deal with three other captain characters than five, especially characters who have been saddled with Commander Alan Lewrie s antics for more than a Dog-Watch.
* * *
Venice and the Serene Republic went under soon after this novel ends. The Silver Age of Venice by Maurice Rowdon depicts a state gone numb, feeble, toothless, and self-absorbedly sybaritic, depending on its past glories, the hollow shells of naval supremacy and their thoroughly professional army. In later years, Venice hired its armies from the Dutch, at exorbitant costs, which had already bankrupted the R
epublic. It was as if everyone in Venice was stumbling round on Prozac or Ecstasy.
The garrison at Corfu with its two officers, their servants and a sergeant or two was fact; as was the shoddy state of the islands' governor when Lewrie was dined in. Those anecdotes were in Martin Young's The Traveller's Guide to Corfu. The useless state of the once powerful Venetian Navy, the conditions at the Arsenal, the laid-up ships on foreign stations, were also true.
Through late 1796 and early 1797, Napoleon had defeated Wurmser a third and last time, conquering all of Austrian Italy. He then beat the stuffing out of another "brilliant" Austrian General, Alvinscy, got through the Alpine passes in December, marched through Leoben and got to Semmering, right on the outskirts of Vienna, which was helpless with her main armies still on the Rhine. His back was covered, just as he'd covered his rear before this offensive, by reducing the Papal States one more time, and destroying the only army left below the Adige River.
Napoleon marched into mainland Venetian territories. Citizens in Verona rose up and rioted, killing French troops. Napoleon sent ships to the port of Quieto, to attack a few timidly sheltering Austrian vessels, violating Venetian neutrality. The Venetians were still comatose, and didn't even make a peep of complaint. Mainland citizens, and nobles who hated the French, offered to raise thousands of eager volunteers if given arms. The Senate, the Council of Three, and the poor last Doge refused them. Finally, Napoleon sent a frigate into the Lagoon itself, behind the Lido where foreign warships were banned. The Venetians, at last, opened fire on her and took her, killing her captain among others. And Napoleon had his "legitimate" casus belli to march in and take over.
The Doge's ornate gilded barge, Bucintoro, from which he married the city to the sea each year, was hauled into St. Mark's and torched, along with that ancient roll of aristocratic lineages, the Golden Book. The nobles complained but were helpless. For a city-state that declared itself a republic, it wasn't very republican. Rich men made the rules, nobles held all offices, and the common folk had sunk into non-voting, "bread-and-circuses" sloth long before. Within days of the French takeover, and the later cession of Venice to Austria in the Treaty of Campo Formio, the rtdottos were just as gay, the musicians just as dulcet, the gondoliers just as busy serenading lovers, and the love affairs just as tedious. Ruled by their own nobility, or by foreign overlords, most Venetians probably didn't even take notice of a change. They still had their operas, comedies, balls, festas, their carnivals; still had their mythic history of greatness for consolation. There were left their musicians, poets, painters, sculptors, singers or actors, their masks and wine. And, of course, they were already used to hordes of foreign tourists!
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