Tenacious (35 page)

They dismounted without a word, the earl tight-lipped and dangerous. “Boy, I will not tolerate your peevish ways. You’ll put your sailor days behind you and take hold of your responsibilities now, damn you, or I’ll know the reason why.”

Renzi took a deep, shuddering breath. He felt a light-headed exhilaration, a species of liberation. No longer was he going to be in thrall to the red-faced tyrant before him. He was different from the man he had once been and had seen far more of life than most.

“Sir, you must allow that—”

“Be damned to your arrogant posturing!”

Renzi was pale and determined. He said nothing. This seemed to goad his father, who roared, “Unless you see fit to return and find it in yourself to act as my son and heir, I know someone who will!”

So it had come to that. Renzi was tempted to dare him to do his worst, but knew that, once said, his father would never take back his words. “I have told you that I cannot abandon my post—”

260

“Damn your blood, sir! I will not take this—” but Renzi had turned on his heel and led his horse away.

“Where are you going to? Come back this instant, or I—I’ll—”

His words were lost in a splutter as Renzi walked away. “I’ll disinherit! Never fear, sir, I’ll do it!” The choking rage was fearsome but it settled the matter as far as Renzi was concerned. Now the only way back was to grovel and beg, and that he would never do. He walked on.

The voice bellowed after him: “Three months! Three months—

and if you’re not returned I will go to law and have the title reverted. I can do it, do ye hear? And I
will
do it, God rot your bones!”

“If there’s any more o’ that lobster salad, I’d be obliged,” Kydd said lazily, from the long seat in the sternsheets of the officer’s gig, where he lay sprawled under an unseasonably warm sun.

“No, you shall not!” Cecilia said crossly. “There’ll be none left for the others.” However, more preserved sardine fillets, it seemed, were on offer. The two midshipmen were ashore on the rocks of the little cove, trying without success to conjure a fire to grill their fish and Adams was out of sight inland.

The sun beamed and the plash of the waves was soothing.

“Do you not feel a pity f’r Gen’ral Buonaparte, sis,” Kydd teased,

“that he’s cast away in Egypt with no hope o’ rescue, him ’n’ his great army all alone in the desert?”

“I do not! Such a wicked man! I hope the sun quite dries him up like a wizened prune.”

Kydd’s grin at his sister’s pout broadened as he considered how things had changed for the better. “Ye’ve heard we’re in Leghorn now, Cec—that’s in the north of Italy—”

“Thomas, I’m not ignorant.”

“An’, best of all, Our Nel has stirred up Naples enough that they’ve marched north an’ taken Rome.”

“ ‘Our Nel’?”

“What we call Admiral Nelson.”

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“The common sailors, Thomas, not the officers!”

“They love him, Cec. When we were chasin’ the French and everything looked so bad, he called across his captains then started asking ’em if they were feeding the men enough onions!

And makes sure they get full measure o’ grog with wine he buys himself. They’d sail through hell for him—truly.”

“And you?” Cecilia pouted. “Will I see you run after a man with one eye, one arm, the most junior admiral in the list?”

“You will, Cec,” Kydd said. “Nelson is th’ greatest leader I know, and if he says that this is the way t’ do it, why, that’s the way t’ do it.”

“There are some who are not so easily persuaded . . .” Cecilia said archly.

“Who? They’re jealous, is all!”

“Lord Stanhope, for one.”

Kydd paused. Stanhope’s discreet position as a diplomat was mysterious, and involved much travel, but it was known his allegiance was to London alone. His presence in Minorca would not be coincidental. “What is
he
saying, then?”

“Well, he doesn’t even tell things to Lady Stanhope,” Cecilia said, “but when he heard that Sir Horatio had caused King Ferdinand to move on the French he was very uneasy—and even the news that Rome was restored didn’t bring him to humour.”

“Is that all? Well, now Nelson is a peer o’ the realm—Baron Nelson o’ the Nile! An’ there’s talk that the King o’ Naples is going to make him a duke. Doesn’t that tell you what the world thinks of him?” He sat up and tested the holding of the little kedge anchor. “Cec, we’ve got the mongseers on the run. Everywhere they’re losin’ battles—and it could be,” he said, with a sudden wrinkling of his brow, “that this war is going t’ be over soon.”

Sir William Hamilton entered the room quietly. Nelson, scrawling at a great rate in his peculiar crabwise fashion, was at his desk

by the window with its magnificent view of the Bay of Naples.

He was grey with exhaustion and his slight body seemed shriv-elled, but his expression nevertheless retained a fierce vitality. “Is it true?”

“I fear so. I have a letter from General Mack. In essence he cannot be sure of holding them, even at Capua. It’s the very worst news—I’m sorry.” It had been so extraordinarily swift: Rome had been taken but the regrouping French had rapidly struck back, vengefully striking south into the heart of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. And now it seemed that the Austrian commander of King Ferdinand’s forces, Mack, with an army far larger than that of the French, had contrived to lose every encounter with them so far.

Nelson stared out of the window, then said heavily, “Our situation in Leghorn becomes insupportable. The grand duke must shift for himself.”

“Our reputation would be irretrievably ruined, should—”

“I didn’t mean that,” Nelson said testily. “I shall send a frigate, should his household be put to hazard.”

“As it appears it will . . .”

Nelson threw down his quill, got to his feet, and paced the floor as if it were a quarterdeck. “Charles Emmanuel of Sardinia escapes to Cagliari, now the Grand Duke of Tuscany flees before his own people—what kind of rulers are they? And from London I’ve received only reproaches—never any soldiers. How can I steady these cowardly wretches without English soldiers?”

He stopped pacing. “I will leave Malta to Ball. That is all I can retain of this shambles.”

Hamilton murmured sympathy but Nelson interrupted,

“General Buonaparte! To give the devil his due, he’s now crossed an impassable desert and kept his army together, which is more than any man would credit. Now he’s marching north into the Holy Land and could be anywhere. God damn his French soul!”

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A young army captain covered with dust entered hurriedly and handed over a dispatch satchel. “Sir! From Capua.” He saluted.

“Sir, you might give thought to your safety—Naples is in a rare state of disorder. The people are terrified they are being abandoned to the French, that the King will depart privily and—”

“Thank you, sir. Now go,” growled Nelson, unbuckling the satchel and scanning the single sheet. He looked up slowly.

“Good God . . .”

“What is it?”

“Mack has been defeated! His army is now only a rabble—

more than two thousand have deserted, he’s lost communication with his rear. There’s nothing between us here and General Championnet’s veterans.” Nelson went to his desk and slumped into the chair. He stared into space for a moment, then picked up the papers he was working on and tore them up, one by one.

When he had finished he looked up with an odd smile. “There is now nothing to detain us in Naples. You may wish to make your dispositions for leaving, Sir William.”

Hamilton opened his mouth but closed it again, then said, “Yes.

I shall be within call,” and left as quietly as he had arrived.

Nelson’s head drooped in despair. The door opened again.

“Why, what’s this? England’s Glory in a stew, is ’e?” Lady Hamilton crossed to Nelson, whose face lit up. “The conqueror of th’ Nile cast down? For shame!”

“Your ladyship has only to bestow a smile and I shall be made new again.”

“There’s somethin’ wrong, isn’t there?” she said, her hand on his shoulder.

Nelson stood up, as though to throw off her touch. “We are to evacuate Naples, I believe,” he said harshly. “That is to say, the King and Queen and their household—they must not be allowed to fall into the hands of the French.”

She went pale. “You mean—well, we must, o’ course. But if—”

Outside, from the cold corridors of the
palazzo
came shouts and the sound of people running. She looked fearfully at Nelson—

and the Queen burst into the room.
“Siamo persi!”

Emma crossed to the frantic woman and held her, stroking, comforting. “She’s hearin’ the tumbrels comin’ for her too,” she said. The Queen’s sister, Marie Antoinette, had been guillotined by the revolutionaries in Paris.
“Non i preoccupare, signora, cara,
Nelson ci sta con noi,”
she added in spirited Italian. Looking over her shoulder at Nelson, she said, “If we’re t’ do it proper, it’s best we ’ave a good plan. What are we to do, Adm’ral?”

There were ships enough.
Vanguard
lay at anchor in the bay with other warships, and there were smaller vessels, which Nelson ordered to be prepared for the evacuation of English residents—

but no indication of the Royal Family’s departure could be even hinted at.

As if on a visit of state, Sir William Hamilton and Admiral Nelson made the short journey from the embassy to the vast Palazzo Reale, palace to the kings of the Two Sicilies for centuries and a fortress in its own right.

“Your Majesty,” Nelson murmured, bowing low to King Ferdinand. A repugnant figure, with the raw-boned build of a farm labourer, the King had small, sly eyes each side of a grotesquely long nose, and gave a doltish impression—yet the safety of this monarch was Nelson’s prime duty.

“Do acquaint His Majesty of our intentions, if you please, my dear.” Emma Hamilton was fast becoming indispensable with her warm, practical handling of the royal couple, whom she had long known, not to mention her easy familiarity with the language. It seemed there would be no difficulties from them, as long as the
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Queen’s hysteria could be kept in check. Nelson crossed to a window and pulled aside the curtain to peer out: the waterfront was seething with angry crowds converging on the palace.

“We’re not going to be able to get to the boats through that,”

he said soberly, “even with a regiment of soldiers.”

“Don’t be fooled, sir. They love the King an’ would never ’ave a revolution,” Emma came back.

“That is quite true,” Hamilton said. “The
lazzaroni,
the common people, adore their king. It’s the lawyers and petty bureau-crats who see their opportunity at this time. We must ensure that their loyalty is not tested by, er, their sovereign’s precipitate flight. Sir Horatio is quite right in his concern—I rather fear we may find ourselves trapped here.” In the rich surrounds of the immense gold-vaulted room they were as helpless as any felon in the local prison.

“There is one course that we may consider.” Hamilton’s cool words were in English; his warning glance at Emma kept her mute. “It would be a coup beyond compare should the famous Horatio Nelson be taken by the French. At all costs this must not happen. I suggest that as we are English, the mob will let us pass . . .”

“No,” Nelson said crisply. “There will be another way to get them out—at night perhaps. We prepare for evacuation now. Troubridge will arrive soon and we shall conceive a plan together.”

“Then might I recommend that the treasury be not left to the French? It is reputed to be of several millions in specie alone.”

There were also rich paintings, hangings, gilded carvings beyond counting—but these would have to remain. Only the state reserves could be taken.

Darkness fell. More crowds gathered below, chanting and restless. There would be no flight from the palace even at night.

Troubridge arrived at last: grave and polite, he listened while

Nelson gave his orders, then slipped away to prepare communications with the ships.

The chanting grew in volume and Hamilton peeped out. “Dare I ask that Their Majesties show themselves to the crowd?”

The King and Queen of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies appeared on the balcony of the palace to tumultuous applause, bowing and waving, held for an hour by the baying crowds before they could move inside, pale and shaking.

“We move the treasury to the embassy,” Nelson snapped. “I want every cask and barrel that the kitchens can find, and we’ll stow it all in those.” The embassy in the Palazzo Sessa was conveniently on high ground at the back of the palace, and before long, gold ducats, silver from a dozen countries and even gold sovereigns were being nailed into hogsheads and ankers, Emma loyally scrawling in chalk on each one “Stores for Nelson.”

The howls of the mob grew louder. Hamilton eased back the curtain again. The streets were alive with packs of men, some carrying torches, others weapons. “They’re staying around the palace,” he murmured. “We dare not leave.

“There goes Ferreri,” he said, and stiffened. A figure in a dark cloak thrust across the waterfront road and began to board a boat not a hundred yards away. The boatman gestured angrily, shouting at the crowd. Ferreri was a valuable man to Hamilton, a royalist Frenchman with a line to secrets within the Jacobin underworld.

With horrifying swiftness the mob closed round him. His French accent had triggered suspicions and he was dragged from the boat on to the quayside where he disappeared under a flailing pack. They punched, kicked and tore at the black figure until it moved no more, then a rope was tied round one leg and the corpse was dragged over the cobblestones towards the palace, leaving a slime of blood to glitter in the torchlight. A maniac chanting started from the upturned faces below the balcony.