The Price of Glory

by Seth Hunter

  “Well, she appears to be a very nice whore,” Nathan remarked.

  “Oh, she is, she is. I had her before him, you know.”

  Nathan was beginning to take a dislike of the man. He acknowledged the claim with a slight bow.

  “Well, we all need our consolations.” Fremantle appeared mildly defensive. “It is like to be a long war for all the assurances to the contrary. Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “No, nor I. Wouldn’t mind it, though, if I met the right woman. But in the meantime, there are always dollies. You should ask Mr. Udny to find you one, if you are ever in Leghorn. He knows the right sort.”

  Nathan thanked him and said he would remember it.

  “Do you go on to join the fleet in Saint Fiorenze,” Fremantle pressed him, “or are you stuck with us for a while?”

  “I believe I am stuck with you,” Nathan replied, forcing a smile. “If not for the duration.”

  “Well, I hope we can find you some entertainment,” Fremantle offered with a small bow. “Nelson has a knack for being in the fore-front of the action, wherever it is. You heard about the Ça Ira?”

  “I read of the encounter in the Gazette,” Nathan said.

  “I was with him, you know. In fact, it was the Inconstant that first caught up with her. She had been in collision with another Frenchie and was lagging behind the fleet. This was when they were running for Corsica. She had 84 guns to our 36 and the first few exchanges I kept a healthy distance, I don’t mind telling you. But then Nelson comes up in the Agamemnon.” He paused and when he continued his voice was lower, huskier. “The official report will tell you they exchanged broadsides for above two hours until the arrival of two more Frenchies forced him to veer away. But the truth is the Ça Ira was under tow.” He saw Nathan’s look of surprise. “Yes. Under tow from a frigate. She could not bring her broadside to bear. Nelson hung on to her stern and raked her, time and again, for over two hours. I was there, I saw it. I saw the blood running from her scuppers. Then two other ships came up and the admiral called him off, but the next day we caught up with her again and took her. I was there then, too. I went aboard her when she struck. She was carrying over a thousand troops for the invasion of Corsica. There were hundreds dead, heaped up in the scuppers or lying below. We kept finding them, piled in the cockpit, cabins, cable tiers, wherever they had crawled to die. I have never seen such a shambles and hope never to again.”

  He fell silent and Nathan thought of the bodies on the steps of the Saint-Roch in Paris when Buonaparte fired upon the people with his cannon. “What are you telling me?” he frowned. “That he should not have done it?”

  “Oh no, no, not at all.” His protest seemed sincere. “No. What am I saying?” Clearly something bothered him, if it was not plain jealousy. “I suppose I am saying that the doctor is right and that glory has its price. But, of course, you know that. And so does Nelson, though he appears to think it is well worth the expense. Yes. Oh, but I tell you, he is a real fighting captain and I for one am proud to serve under him.”

  The tenor of this last remark was not necessarily at variance with what had preceded it, but it was uttered in so different a tone that Nathan gazed at him with bemusement until he heard a footfall on the deck and turned to see the commodore emerging from the companionway.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he greeted them. “Still a quiet night?”

  “Not a peep from the port,” said Fremantle, “except for the bells ringing ten of the clock. And here is my barge. Right on time, so I regret I must take my leave of you.”

  They watched the barge of the Inconstant draw off into the darkness with her captain safely stowed in the stern.

  “Fremantle,” mused the commodore, smiling with some affection. “A terrible fellow. Talks a lot of nonsense but he’s not a stupid man, far from it. In fact he is surprisingly knowledgeable on a great many subjects. Reads a lot. He has a fine library aboard the Inconstant, though it is the very devil to get him to lend you one of his books. Says I’ll only ruin it. He livens up the conversation, though, don’t you think?”

  Nathan agreed that he was, indeed, an entertaining table companion.

  “Yes. A great asset when you are at sea.” Nelson gazed after the departing barge where they could still make out the upright figure of Fremantle in the stern. “He has his darker moments, though. A sort of brooding melancholy that comes upon him. As I suppose it does upon all of us at times.” He laughed awkwardly. “Needs a wife. Do you have a wife?”

  “No, sir.” Nathan’s lack of a wife seemed to be the topic for the evening.

  “Everyone needs a wife. What is it Paul of Tarsus said? ‘Better to marry than to burn.’ Quite right. Mind you, no reason why you can’t do both.”

  Nathan nodded wisely in lieu of wise remark.

  Nelson looked out at the distant port, the lights of the mole dancing towards them across the still water. “I wonder how he is getting on over there?”

  “Signor Grimaldi?”

  “Yes. Speaking frankly, I cannot say I was overly impressed. Still, he is a Grimaldi and blood is thicker than water, as they say.” He pondered a while, still looking towards the port. “What do you reckon it is worth?”

  Nathan was as startled. “I suppose it depends how much gold is in the reserves,” he ventured.

  “I was thinking of the Sacro Catino.”

  “Ah. Well, given its history …”

  Nelson looked up at him sharply. “You think it is the real thing? The Holy Grail?”

  “Oh, as to that, I am not even sure such an object ever existed.”

  “Well, He drank from something at the Last Supper,” the commodore rebuked him tetchily. “I am speaking of Our Lord. ‘And He took the cup and gave thanks and gave it to them, saying, “Drink ye all of it, for this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.” ‘ It is in Matthew I think, though I do not recall the exact chapter and verse.”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Is it the same cup?” the commodore finished for him. “I know. The Papists and their relics. I am told there are enough pieces of the Sacred Cross to make a decent-sized frigate. And it is not even a cup, from what we know, more a sort of … dish. ‘And he answered and said, “He that dippeth his hand with me in the dish, the same shall betray me.” ‘ Still, dish or cup, an intriguing story. You have read Sir Thomas Malory ?”

  “I fear not,” Nathan confessed.

  “But you know of the quest for the Holy Grail? The Sangreal, as Malory calls it.”

  “I know of the legend,” Nathan replied cautiously.

  “Five knights went in quest of the Grail, but to succeed you had to be free of sin. Lancelot was ruled out on account of his adultery.” He lapsed into another thoughtful silence. Then: “Even if it is not the real thing—’Cut from a single emerald, the size of a man’s cupped palms.’ “ He cupped his own and gazed down upon them speculatively. “And I have small hands. Must be worth a King’s ransom.”

  “Grimaldi said it was priceless.”

  “Priceless! How I hate that word.” The commodore’s tone was caustic. “You would have thought that as a banker he would not talk such nonsense, when all you require to know is the exact worth of an object in pounds, shillings and pence—so it might be divided into its quarters and its one-eighths. And then you know where you are with it. Have you took much in the way of prizes, if I do not give offence?”

  This was not quite the non sequitur it appeared to be, the captain’s share of prize money being one quarter of the value, with one-eighth to the flag officer he happened to be serving under when the prize was took. Nathan did not think it would apply to the Sacred Chalice of Genoa though, in the circumstances.

  “Only two,” he confessed. “A small hooker off Étaples with a cargo of cider, salt pork and ship’s biscuit. And the frigate Vestale, off Le Havre. That was when I was commander of the Nereus. I might have taken the Virginie, too, had she not sunk.”
/>
  “I remember reading about it in the Gazette. Struck upon a reef with the Unicorn in hot pursuit.” They reflected silently upon this misfortune. “The Virginie and the Vestale, eh,” the commodore remarked at length. “You have an eye for the maidens, I perceive.”

  “Well, I would settle for something less virgo intactus,” replied Nathan with a misguided attempt at humour, “if she were well stacked.” He felt his cheeks grow hot as he recalled the commodore’s paramour in the cabin below.

  “I have not been lucky, either, in the matter of prize money,” Nelson confided after a moment. “I have taken enough shot from the French in my time but precious little in the way of their silver, I regret. Or their gold. And I do not suppose I ever will. It would almost persuade a man to quit and go into Parliament.”

  Nathan made a sound in his throat that might be taken for a laugh.

  “Oh, but I am quite serious,” the commodore assured him. “I have been asked if I would like to stand for Ipswich in the next election, and I am giving it serious thought. My situation here is intolerable. While the Doge claims to be neutral every damned ship sailing under the Genoese flag is under his protection, even if it is loaded to the gunwales with supplies for the French Army of Italy. We take ‘em anyway, of course, where we can, but we can be sued for it by the owners, and will be no doubt, in the course of time. Little wonder I have pains in the chest.”

  Once more they fell into an uneasy silence, gazing out towards the sleeping city.

  “What will he do, do you think?” ventured the commodore at length.

  “The Doge?”

  “I was thinking of Buonaparte.”

  “Whatever we do not expect of him,” replied Nathan, surprising himself a little by this insight.

  “Ah yes. The only way to fight a battle. Or a war. He will not come near Genoa, will he?”

  “I believe not,” said Nathan, though for the life of him he could not think why he should presume to have an opinion on the matter.

  “Because of the Doge and the deal he has made?”

  “I do not think he is a great respecter of deals,” said Nathan. “No. I think he will go straight for the Austrians. For the jugular.”

  “Ah yes. Always go for the jugular. A man after my own heart. You care for a coffee?”

  “Thank you, I would.”

  They were about to go below when there was a cry from the lookout and an answering hail from the water, and they turned to observe the cutter emerging out of the darkness and in it, just discernible by the light of the lantern, the huddled figure of Signor Grimaldi in the stern.

  “It is gone,” announced Grimaldi dramatically, as soon as he stepped aboard.

  Nelson led him over to the weather rail where they were granted a little privacy.

  “Keep your voice down!” He looked back across the deck and caught the eye of the army lieutenant who had accompanied the banker into Genoa. “Mr. Pierson, would you be so good as to find my steward and tell him to make sure my cabin is clear and do you attend upon us there.” He turned back to Grimaldi. “Now what is gone, sir?”

  “All of it. The gold of the Casa di San Giorgio. Gone.” He was shaking, either from cold or shock or a combination of both.

  “What do you mean ‘all of it’?”

  “All of it. Gone.” Clearly this was Grimaldi’s word of choice. He seemed to derive some comfort from it. The commodore exchanged a glance with Nathan. If he had possessed two eyes he might have rolled them to the night sky; as it was, he did what he could with the one that was available to him.

  “The entire reserves of the Bank of Saint George cannot be gone, sir,” he instructed Grimaldi firmly. “This is foolishness.”

  “Even so. It is gone.” They could hear his teeth rattling. It evoked no sympathy in the commodore.

  “How do you know it is gone? Did you inspect the vaults?”

  “No. But I spoke to those that are in a position to know.”

  “And how is it gone? Who has taken it? The French?”

  But now here was young Nisbet to inform the commodore that his cabin was made ready for him and they led the shivering banker below.

  “Now, sir, calm yourself,” Nelson instructed him, sitting him down in a chair. Then to his steward: “Do not stand there gawping like an idiot, man. Pour him a brandy and then take yourself off. “

  They waited impatiently while this was done and Grimaldi had composed himself a little.

  “Last month the directors of the bank had a meeting,” he said, “and decided the reserves should be removed to a place of safety.”

  Nelson gazed at him in frank disbelief. “What? But what can be safer than the vaults of a bank?”

  Nathan, whose mother had suffered from this delusion, could have named a number of locations, starting with her mattress, without greatly exercising his imagination but he listened patiently for Grimaldi’s opinion on the matter.

  “It was felt that in the event of an invasion, the vaults would be no more secure than anywhere in Genoa,” the banker explained. “Th at in fact, it would be the first place they would look. So it was decided to remove the reserves to a secret location. Somewhere out of the city.”

  “And this was achieved?” The banker nodded. “The entire reserves—without being observed or reported?” The commodore remained sceptical.

  “It was done at night. Under pretext of removing the furniture from the palace for safekeeping in the event of an invasion.”

  “And they think the French will believe that?” He sighed. “However, at least they have not got their hands upon it, so far as we know. Was your uncle privy to these discussions?” Another nod.

  “So he knows where they have been secreted?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “What do you mean, you imagine so? Did you not speak with him?”

  “No.” He bowed his head. “My uncle has also gone.”

  Nelson took a chair and sat down in front of him. He leaned forward with his hands upon his knees and his chin jutting to within a foot of the banker’s face. “Your uncle has also gone,” he repeated with heavy significance.

  Grimaldi looked up. He appeared tearful. “With his entire family.”

  “Also to a secret location?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Possibly the same secret location?”

  The banker saw what he was driving at. “Oh no!” He appeared indignant. “Oh no, there is no connection. The two events are entirely unrelated.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “But I assure you it is true. My uncle did not leave until a few days later. And by sea.”

  “By sea?” Nelson frowned. “Why ?”

  Grimaldi reached for the brandy but Nelson laid a hand upon his arm.

  “Why ?” he repeated.

  “It appears that my uncle was concerned that the French, if they came, might oblige him to disclose the location of the treasure.”

  “I see. This did not occur to the other directors of the bank?”

  Grimaldi shook his head. “I am sorry, I have no idea,” he said.

  “So where is he now, your uncle?”

  Grimaldi lowered his head again. “I do not know,” he confessed.

  “Look at me, sir. What vessel did he sail in—do you know that?”

  Another shake of the head. Nelson looked up at the lieutenant who was standing in the shadows with Nathan. “Can you help us with this, Mr. Pierson?”

  “I believe it was a small brig, sir. One of the English prizes brought into Genoa: the Childe of Hale, of Liverpool.”

  “What—with an English crew?”

  “Not entirely, sir. But I believe there were some English crewmen aboard.”

  “And where was she headed?”

  “I believe for Leghorn, sir. But it was the night of the storm.”

  “What? The storm that laid us so low?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They put out in that?”

  “It wa
s not then upon them. But sailing a course for Leghorn …”

  “They would have sailed right into it.” Nelson put a hand to his brow and massaged it gently. “Well, I suppose we must send to Leghorn in the hope that she made it but …”

  “We were forced to run before it, sir,” the lieutenant reminded him. “Far to the south-west.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pierson, if I ever need a new sailing master …” He caught himself up and raised a hand. “I am sorry, sir, I forget myself. Please, pour yourself a brandy and we must get you something to eat.” He stilled Pierson’s protest and raised his voice: “Allan! Thomas Allan there!”

  The steward stuck his long nose through the door.

  “You want me now, is it?” he said. But then he saw the look on the commodore’s face. “What can I do for your honour?”

  “Bring us whatever was left upon the table that you have not already gorged upon, you rogue, and swiftly.” The commodore turned back to Grimaldi who still had his head in his hands. “Well, sir, I am sorry you have suffered such ill tidings but I hope we will have better news for you when we have sent to Leghorn.” He did not seem confident of it. He hesitated a moment and then added: “But if I may ask … the Sacro Catino—was it among the other treasures that were removed to this secret location?”

  Grimaldi looked up. His face was anguished. “Why do you ask?”

  “Why do I ask?” The commodore controlled himself with difficulty. “I ask because it is by far the most valuable item and … being so small and of its nature delicate and, of course, sacred, it occurs to me that it might have been secreted elsewhere.”

  It was a shrewd supposition. The banker looked to Pierson, almost beseechingly. Nelson looked too, but with a more commanding eye.

  “There is a rumour, sir, that it was taken by the Grimaldis,” replied the lieutenant gently. “In the Childe of Hale.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Spoils of War

  THE UNICORN LAY UNDER WORKING SAIL off the Rock of Monaco in a sultry evening heat. The sea was calm with just the very lightest of breezes coming off the shore. Nathan could smell pines and, he could have sworn, a hint of oranges. But then oranges had been much on his mind of late, for in the hills above Monaco—perhaps some ten or twelve miles inland—was the little town of Tourettes where Sara had said she would be waiting for him some day, if ever he lost her, sitting at the café in the square, drinking lemonade and eating cakes made of oranges.