The Price of Glory

by Seth Hunter

  “Well, it is very like him” Nathan’s tone was almost fond. He caught himself up. “From what I have heard.”

  The commodore’s glance was shrewd but he contented himself with a grunt. “Well, I wonder if the Doge of Genoa was amused when he read it. Do you know him, sir?”

  This to Grimaldi who shrugged as if it was nothing to write home about. “We have met,” he admitted, “though he was not then Doge. The Grimaldi and the Brignole do not often agree.”

  “I am very pleased to hear it,” commented Nelson, “for I tell you frankly, I believe he is much inclined to the French. Perhaps he thinks they will let him keep his own riches in recognition of his services to them. Certainly he has an odd notion of neutrality. He permits his vessels to carry supplies to the French army and offers up his ports as havens to French men-of-war.” He paused a moment before continuing almost diffi dently: “For which reason we have been obliged to place Genoa under blockade.”

  “Under blockade?” repeated Grimaldi, who had quite lost his composure.

  “In response to which he has closed the port to any vessel carrying the British flag, save those that are brought in as prizes by the French.” He glowered. “There are three in Genoa as we speak. And when we sent to recover them we were fired upon by the rogues.”

  “Then how am I expected to enter the port?”

  “It will be more difficult, I agree. But I thought if we were to land you at night, a little down the coast, it would not be beyond your capacity to walk into Genoa.”

  “Walk?” Grimaldi appeared stunned.

  “Or beg a ride on a cart or something.” Nathan looked up sharply and caught the glint of humour in the commodore’s good eye. His heart warmed to him. “It is not as if you are on official business,”

  Nelson reminded the banker. “Indeed, it might be in keeping with the clandestine nature of the affair.”

  There was a sudden crash from behind the velvet drapes, followed by a kind of squeal—some child skivvy of the steward’s, Nathan thought—but it was followed by the unmistakable sound of a female voice raised in anger, though speaking some foreign tongue, possibly Italian, which he did not comprehend. He glanced in surprise at the commodore but Nelson did not appear to have heard it or found it so unremarkable as to be unworthy of comment.

  Signor Grimaldi had his own concerns. “But how am I to communicate with you?” He thought of something else. “And if I am success ful, how are we to remove the … the cargo?” He made an odd, almost comic gesture with his head towards Nathan.

  “I believe we may speak freely before Captain Peake,” the commodore proposed briskly, “especially as he may be obliged to assist you in the removal of the said cargo.” He addressed Nathan directly: “Signor Grimaldi has been requested to approach the directors of the Casa di San Giorgio with a proposal to take certain of its valuables into the custody of the Bank of England for the duration of hostilities.”

  Having met Mr. Bicknell Coney, Nathan was not as surprised by this information as he might have been. “An admirable arrangement,” he remarked wryly.

  “Well, I do not know how we are to accomplish it,” complained Grimaldi, “if we cannot sail into Genoa.”

  “I am sure something may be contrived,” replied Nelson. “And in extremis I am advised that we should endeavour to recover the most important item in the inventory.” He lowered his voice with a swift glance toward the velvet drapes; Nathan looked too, but whatever they concealed was now quiescent. “I am speaking, of course, of the Sacro Catino. The Holy Grail. Though I am told it is more in the nature of a dish, which might render the task a little less trying.” Grimaldi stared at him as if he had lost his mind and the commodore explained: “I comprehend it is not large in size, nor of any significant weight—in pounds and ounces, I mean.”

  “Forgive me, Commodore, but it is not a matter of walking into the Palazzo San Giorgio and slipping it into my pocket.”

  This was more like the Grimaldi Nathan had known aboard the Unicorn. He awaited the commodore’s response with interest.

  “I did not for a moment consider that it was,” replied Nelson coldly. “However, I assumed that your esteemed uncle, Signor Frederico Grimaldi, might contrive some more legitimate means of assisting us.”

  “My uncle is but one of the directors of the Casa di San Giorgio, albeit the most important,” Grimaldi retorted. “And the task of persuading the others is now rendered a great deal more imposing by this decision to blockade the port.”

  “Well, I am sure the Grimaldi will rise to the occasion,” Nelson assured him, blithely, “as they always do. And the alternative, of course, is to risk losing the object to the French. I am sure I need hardly remind you of what they have done with their own sacred relics since the Revolution.”

  There was a brisk knock upon the door and a lieutenant entered.

  “Yes, Mr. Berry ?”

  “I am sorry to interrupt your deliberations, sir, but the Speedy has signalled with urgent news from the shore.” He paused a moment to give the proper import to the words: “General Buonaparte has crossed the border with a large army and is advancing on two fronts towards Genoa.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” declared the commodore with perfect composure. “It has begun.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  the Price of Glory

  FROM A DISTANCE, the port of Genoa did not seem overly concerned with its imminent destruction by hordes of naked and half-starved French soldiers urged on by their eager young general with the promise of riches and whatever else occurred to his fertile imagination. No boatloads of refugees poured out from its ancient harbour. No convoys of loaded wagons headed southward along the winding coast road towards Livorno. No tocsins were rung. Indeed the inhabitants of the port seemed to have lapsed into slumber well in advance of the setting sun, or to have extended their siesta into the middle of the evening. A few early lights glimmered faintly along the waterfront or in the hills beyond, but little movement could be discerned. A church bell rang the quarter hour and the sound of music drifted across the mile or so of still water to where the three British warships lay at their moorings, in clear view of the shore and in the direct path of any vessel that wished to enter or leave the harbour.

  “He has made a deal with the French,” pronounced the commodore as he leaned upon the larboard rail of the Agamemnon, gazing out towards the capital of the Serene Republic. “I am as certain of it as my own name.”

  Nathan did not need to ask who “he” was any more than he needed to enquire into the circumstances of the commodore’s birth and patrimony. Signor Giacomo Maria Brignole, otherwise known as His Serene Highness the Doge of Genoa, was the constant object of the commodore’s biting condemnation. Little more than a French lapdog, a traitor to his people and his class, a puppet, a stooge, a mountebank … these were just some of the criticisms levelled at him in Nathan’s hearing. He was beginning to think there was something personal in it. What had passed between the two men, he wondered, during that singular meeting almost a year ago? What assurances had been given, what resentments planted?

  Or perhaps it was just that the commodore resented his own impotence, lying here in the Genoa roads while a young French general led his armies up the coast and through the mountains, out of range of the commodore’s guns, seizing the moment, pursuing his destiny. There had to be a scapegoat and the Doge of Genoa lay conveniently to hand.

  “He has sold his birthright,” Nelson declared, “but then what else do you expect of an Italian? Though I hope he may burn in hell for it.”

  “But where does that leave Signor Grimaldi?” Nathan enquired diffi dently.

  They had landed Grimaldi in the early hours of the morning at a small beach to the west of the city, accompanied by an officer of the 69th Regiment of Foot—serving aboard the Agamemnon in the capacity of marines—who spoke excellent Latin, the commodore assured the dubious banker, and had, besides, picked up “a little of the local lingo” in previous trips ashor
e and could “pass for a native.” Nathan gathered that there was something of a history to these excursions ashore, though either to provide intelligence or entertainment he had not yet discovered; probably it was a mixture of both. Grimaldi, however, had looked decidedly sorry for himself when they had lowered him into the Agamemnon’s cutter and for all his haughty self-regard, Nathan felt responsible for him.

  “Oh doubtless he will manage,” Nelson remarked carelessly. “He has plenty of relatives in the city and he has Pierson with him. Besides, whenever have you known a banker come to harm?”

  Nathan could not immediately recall. “But if the Doge suspects he is working for the English,” he began.

  “He is not working for the English,” Nelson corrected him. “He is working for the Bank of England.” He caught Nathan’s eye. “I am persuaded there is a distinction. These bankers are something of an international community, not unlike the Jews or the Freemasons. They look after their own. One cannot but admire them for it. I doubt the Doge, for all his duplicity would betray him to the French. Though I cannot see him agreeing to the proposals. Still,” he sighed, “we have done our best. We have carried out our orders to the letter, what more can they ask? And now here is Captain Fremantle come to join us.” For the barge of the frigate Inconstant could be seen crossing the darkening waters toward them. An unfortunate name for a ship of war, Nathan reflected, even before it had been corrupted to the Incontinent, as he was assured it had by all but her own crew. “And Tom Allan, if I am not much mistaken, is ready to serve supper.”

  This proved to be the case and they adjourned to the captain’s cabin which had been made a little more presentable than the last time Nathan had seen it, with a chequered canvas nailed to the floor, the long polished table gleaming with candlelight and the commodore’s silverware, and—rather more surprisingly—a splendid young woman in a low-cut dress of violet muslin, not quite as revealing as that of Our Lady of Thermidor but not a long way off it, even allowing for the poor light.

  “Allow me to present Signora Correglia,” the commodore intoned, “who has come from Leghorn to be with her mother. Captain Peake has recently joined us from England, Signora.”

  Nathan had suffered introductions to several women whose relationship to the introducer had, of necessity, been swathed in ambiguity—”a friend of the family on my father’s side” had been his favourite until now—but this sprinted into the lead by a good head. The signora smiled charmingly and Nathan bowed over her hand. She was a ravishing creature, though a little older than he had first thought, petite and dark-haired with the figure of a pocket Venus and deep, dark eyes. She was afraid she spoke very little of the English, she said, but she seemed perfectly at ease in the capacity of hostess, greeting the other officers as they arrived with a familiarity that persuaded Nathan she was something of a fixture aboard the Agamemnon, though whether she came with the ship or had been acquired by her captain in the course of his travels remained to be discovered. Nathan knew nothing of the commodore’s marital status, nor did he care, but if he had a lady at home, Signora Correglia stood in for her handsomely. She sat at the opposite end of the table from the commodore, ensuring that everyone had a full glass of wine before him and beaming complacently upon the company, though it was clear from the few compliments that were addressed to her that she barely spoke or understood a word of English.

  They had been joined by Mr. Berry, the first lieutenant, Mr. Fellowes, the purser, Mr. Roxburgh, who was introduced as the “principal medical officer,” rather than the ship’s surgeon, a young gentleman called Hoste and another called Nisbet who turned out to be the commodore’s stepson. His mother was alive and well, Nathan ascertained in the course of the evening, and living in Burnham Thorpe with Nelson’s father, the clergyman, so what young Nisbet made of the stand-in could only be conjectured, but he smiled upon the lady and was smiled upon in return as amiably as the rest of the company. And finally there was Thomas Fremantle, captain of the Inconstant, an affable gentleman in his early thirties, rather on the short side and running to fat but with excellent manners and a ready wit. He and Nelson seemed to be on good terms.

  “Not brought your dolly with you?” Nelson had greeted him upon his arrival.

  “I thought it more respectful to leave mine behind in Leghorn,” replied Fremantle, evenly, “but I am told you are not so troubled by convention.”

  “Pish. I know very well you’ve got her stowed aboard,” Nelson rebuked him, “but are too much a prig to expose her in company. He hides them away, you know,” he informed Nathan. “Shoos them off whenever someone of status appears upon the horizon, like cats.”

  It was, all things considered, an enjoyable evening: supper aboard the Agamemnon clearly fulfilling the function of breakfast on the Unicorn.

  “I am told that in Paris dinner and supper are become indistinguishable,” Fremantle remarked over the Welsh rabbit. “Dinner having been moved back so far into the day as to merge the two.”

  “Then I hope it is more dinner than supper,” remarked the doctor, a man of substance, subjecting his portion of toasted cheese to critical regard.

  “I am surprised that the French, who are notoriously considerate of their stomachs, can contemplate such a large gap between breakfast and dinner,” Nelson contributed, “or supper or whatever it is they call it.”

  “Oh, but they have invented a new meal,” Fremantle informed him, “which they call lunch. Or to be precise, la fourchette, a fork lunch, meaning something more substantial than a sandwich. I am told it is all the rage.”

  “I am astonished, with so much else to divert them, that the French have either the time or inclination to go to war,” mused the first lieutenant, an honest fellow with an open countenance and little time for conversation—or for Captain Fremantle, Nathan gathered from small hints of disapproval.

  “Oh, but not many of them do,” Fremantle assured him cheerfully. “They send others—conscripts for the most part who have no choice, or fanatics who would die for La Révolution.”

  “And what is Buonaparte of the two? Do you know as much about him as you do about French dinnertime?” Nelson quizzed him.

  “I have not made so close a study. But I am told he is a Jacobin, which puts him in the fanatic camp.”

  “Perhaps Captain Peake can enlighten us,” suggested the commodore, “for I believe he has made a study of the particular subject.”

  All eyes turned upon Nathan, even the signora’s, who tended to look brightly upon whoever was addressed by the commodore, when she was not pouring wine.

  “He was once a Jacobin,” Nathan replied, “but I do not believe it was from conviction, the rather to advance his own career, this being the time of Robespierre. He is a Corsican, which is to say more Italian than French.”

  “Hence the name,” Nelson supplied.

  “A mercenary then,” proposed the first lieutenant.

  “Not really.” Nathan was moving into dangerous waters but the conversation interested him too much to let it pass. “Not in the financial sense, at least. He is very much attached to glory.”

  “Ah. La Gloire,” the commodore pronounced. “There is no word quite like it in English. Mere glory is nothing to it. La Gloire. The greatest virtue a man might aspire to—or a nation. A goddess beyond compare.” He raised his glass to Signora Correglia at the far end of the table, but with a hint of irony.

  “And yet it comes at a price,” declared the doctor provocatively. “Like any mercenary. There is always the butcher’s bill.”

  “Ah, there speaks the voice of reason,” said the purser, with the suggestion of a sneer.

  “We live in an age of reason, I believe,” the doctor rebuked him sharply.

  “But what have we lost by it?” Nelson mused. “Where is the higher calling? The belief in a man’s Destiny ? You count the cost, Doctor, in terms of human suffering, but you do not see the credit that is accrued. You have seen too many wounds, too many corpses. But I tell you, a glorious
death is to be envied. And life with disgrace is dreadful.”

  For a moment Nathan thought the doctor was going to come back at him, but he thought better of it and reached for his wine.

  A little later, supper being ended, Fremantle invited Nathan to walk with him on the deck and smoke a cigar.

  “Well,” said he, when they were alone, “what do you make of our gallant commodore?”

  “He seems to know his business,” Nathan replied cautiously. He thought it an odd question to ask on Nelson’s own ship. It occurred to him that Fremantle was drunk.

  “Ah yes, he does that. We are good friends, you know.”

  “So I understand,” Nathan acknowledged, wondering if this were a warning or an invitation to speak freely. It could be either.

  “And what of the commodore’s lady ?”

  “Signora Correglia?”

  “Who else? I saw no other that was present.”

  “I formed no opinion, not being able to converse with her in her own language. But she appeared to be an amiable hostess.”

  “Ah yes. Très agréable, as they say in France. But you were not surprised to find her in that capacity ?”

  Nathan did not know what to say. “The commodore tells me she is on her way to see her mother, in Genoa,” he ventured.

  Fremantle took a step back and surveyed him to see if he was joking.

  “He told you that? Tell me he didn’t say that.”

  Nathan could give him no such assurance. Fremantle threw back his head and delivered his mirth to the heavens.

  “Oh dear, oh dear.” He composed himself. “Well, I suppose it is true in a way. She does have a mother in Genoa—and she does go there from time to time. Nelson says she brings back excellent intelligence.”

  “Well then?”

  “Well then.” Fremantle regarded him with continued amusement. “She is a whore, you know, procured by Mr. Udny, the consul at Leghorn. He procures women for all the officers. It is a useful sideline.”