The Price of Glory (36 page)

“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.”

“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.