Winds of Folly (11 page)

A
little after sunset they sighted the long promontory of Cap Corse far to the west. But then, as so often happened in the Mediterranean in high summer, the sparse wind dropped to a whisper and they barely advanced any closer throughout the whole of that long, sweltering day. By noon the timbers were too hot to touch and the tar was bubbling up from the deck seams. Nathan cast off his uniform jacket and dozed in his chair in a sennit hat like an old curate, but he missed his cabin now, more than he had at night: his cabin and his cot. He would have given much to absent himself below decks and snatch an hour or so of proper sleep with the stern windows thrown open to what little breeze remained. But it was not to be. Signora Correglia and her company remained in possession of his quarters, keeping the Angel Gabriel cheerfully busy fetching fresh-squeezed lemon juice with water and wet towels to lay on their fevered brows. He made none of his usual complaint – Nathan gathered from a chance-overheard conversation that the women had shed most of their outer garments and he could only imagine the scene that must greet
the eager steward on each foray into the shadowed sanctuary at the stern.

For those on deck, or for the off-duty watch in the foetid stews below, there were no such luxuries, not even for Nathan – no lemons, no cool towels; Gabriel was far too busy with his other charges. But the first lieutenant had canvas awnings swung up from the yards to provide some shade for his blistering paintwork and had half the crew hauling buckets of water from the sea to dampen down the decks, and though it was not his principal intent – paintwork and timber being high on Mr Duncan's list of priorities – these measures afforded some little relief to the human components of the
Unicorn
. And the awnings gave Nathan one of his rare inspirations.

He sent for the sailmaker and asked him if he had any spare pieces of canvas with which to make a tent.

‘Make a tent, sir?' The sailmaker was an ancient of forty or so who rarely saw the light of day, being content to conduct his business in the gloomy confines of the sail-locker, leaving others to admire the result of his labours when his precious canvas billowed out from the yards in all its glory.

‘A tent, Mr Sweeney,' Nathan repeated. ‘An awning with sides. I have made a rough sketch for your instruction.'

The sailmaker scrutinised this object with a bewildered frown, scratching his bald pate.

‘Is there a difficulty?' Nathan enquired coldly – and for the benefit of the first lieutenant whose expression bespoke a measure of concern: ‘Are the materials available without detriment to the smooth running of the ship?'

The sailmaker reluctantly conceded that he supposed he might find something lying around.

‘Very well, Mr Sweeney. Make it so. And as near to the stern-rail as you are able. My coxswain will assist you with any fixtures you may require.'

And so, to the bemusement of the ship's company and the tight-lipped disapproval of Mr Duncan, a canvas structure somewhat resembling the pavilion of a medieval knight at a tournament gradually rose to prominence at the stern end of the frigate, with the blue ensign hanging somewhat flaccidly above its peaked extremity. Nathan availed himself of the Turkish carpets and cushions brought aboard by their passengers and a table was improvised from timbers and empty casks covered with a damask cloth. Well content with this arrangement, Nathan retired there for the best part of the afternoon, reclining upon the cushions in a silken robe which he had thrown over his shirt and breeches, and reading
Tom Jones
by Mr Henry Fielding, which he had borrowed from Fremantle's extensive library.

He rarely smoked, but in the circumstances he allowed himself this luxury, filling his long, curved pipe with a special ingredient of tobacco and herbs provided by the ship's surgeon, McLeish, which he was assured would induce a mood of calm composure. Nathan had initially taken this as a criticism of the more volatile aspect of his nature, but he had given the mixture a trial and conceded its merits. It induced feelings of serene equanimity, a benign acceptance of the many things he could not change but which had so often tested his patience in the past. When he enquired of its content, the surgeon merely winked and laid a finger upon his nose, but more persistent probing elicited the information that it contained a portion of the species
Cannabis sativa
, closely related to the hemp used in the manufacture of ship's cable. McLeish advised against overuse, explaining that it could induce a level of complacency not advisable in the Captain of a ship-of-war, but at moments such as this, floating upon a flat calm under a cloudless sky with no obvious threats upon the horizon, Nathan felt that it could be resorted to with an easy conscience.

He had drawn back the flaps at the rear of his domain to allow a little air to flow and provide a view over the ocean to the distant Isle of Capraia, which grew more attractive a prospect as the hours slipped gently by. He imagined a life of seclusion and contemplation among the goats and herbs of the island pastures, far from the cares of command and conflict, dwelling upon the mysteries of the earth and the heavens in the manner of one of the Ancient Greek philosophers. In such a mood he concluded that he was far too inclined to worry about matters over which he had little or no control. Matters such as the wind and the tide – though admittedly the latter was not an issue in the Mediterranean. The war. And more particularly, the behaviour of other people. His mother, for instance, could often drive him to distraction with her whims and wiles, and yet she was really a very good-natured woman, very affectionate. He missed her a great deal. He must show her how much he appreciated her the next time he was home.

And then there was Sara.

They had met in Paris during the Terror, when Nathan was occupied on confidential business for His Majesty's Government. They had fallen in love. At least, Nathan knew he had been in love and he was reasonably sure that Sara felt the same. But after only a brief courtship they had been thrown apart by the political upheavals of the time. Nathan had thought she was dead, a victim of the guillotine. In fact she had fled Paris and sought refuge in the Vendée where she had fought with the Catholic rebels. And then, after their bloody defeat, fled south to her birthplace on the shores of the Mediterranean.

Nathan had found her in the
manoir
that had once been her family home and brought her back to the
Unicorn
. But they had not made love during their brief reunion on the frigate. Nathan had experienced a certain delicacy of feeling about it
and indeed, there had been little opportunity before Sara's departure for England. Even so, it was regrettable. He wondered if they would ever rekindle the passion they had felt for each other in Paris. And he wondered at his own feelings, whether they were as strong now, knowing she was alive, as they had been when he had thought she was dead.

These reflections were brought to an abrupt end by the return of the Angel Gabriel, who staggered through the tent flap, burdened with Nathan's flute, his music-stand and a leather folder containing his music. He also brought a request from Signora Correglia. She wished to speak with him in private.

‘Send her up,' Nathan instructed him as he removed the flute from its case.

Gabriel considered him coldly. ‘Then you will be wanting your uniform coat,' he proposed.

‘No, no. It is quite all right. She may take me as I am,' Nathan instructed him cheerfully.

Gabriel's jaw moved fractionally. Their relationship was a long and enduring one but it was not without its trials. When Nathan was a child – and Gabriel his father's steward – they had frequently failed to see eye to eye in the matter of Nathan's dress and deportment. Nathan could recall times when he had been seized by the collar and given a salutary thwacking before having his head thrust under the kitchen pump and his recalcitrant limbs forced into the preferred attire. It was clear from Gabriel's expression that he had not put this recourse entirely out of mind, but the subsequent alteration in their status making this a hanging offence, he gave a perfunctory nod and departed upon his errand. To be succeeded, in due course, by La Correglia.

‘Signora,' Nathan greeted her with feigned enthusiasm, laying aside his flute and making a bow.

‘
Capitano
,' she responded graciously. Her eyes settled upon the Turkish carpet and Nathan perceived a glint of recognition. ‘You make yourself
comodo
, I see.'

‘I do indeed. And you are as comfortable in my cabin?'

‘It is of this I wish to speak with you.'

Nathan indicated that she should be seated and they took up their stations at opposite ends of the table like wary negotiators at a peace conference. ‘If it is about the guns …' he began. Even in his present state of lassitude, Nathan was not prepared to compromise over the guns. He would have defended his guns to the death. But it was not about the guns. The Signora, it appeared, was concerned about what would happen when they reached their destination.

‘Ah.' Nathan had been somewhat concerned about this himself. ‘Well, I assume you would wish to find suitable accommodation for yourselves in San Fiorenzo,' he replied smoothly enough and with a creditable effort to hide his unease on this score.

‘Where?'

‘Where? Well …'

‘You think the women of San Fiorenzo make the welcome for us? Ha! You think the English wives leave the room for us? Ha! Seven lady without the 'usband?'

‘I am sure something can be arranged,' Nathan persisted. ‘You will not be left destitute, I do assure you.'

This elicited another
Ha!
Even louder and more scornful than those that had preceded it.

‘And what we do there?'

‘What do you do there?'

‘
Sí
. In San Fiorenzo, what we do?'

Nathan, if he had thought about it at all, had imagined they would do much the same as they had done in Leghorn, with whatever adjustment to their standards and fees as might be
required. However, it would probably not be diplomatic to state as much.

‘Well, what would you
like
to do?' He caught the Signora's eye. ‘I mean, I am sure you will find sufficient to amuse your … I appreciate there is no opera house but …' He then recalled that the opera house in Leghorn was where the initial introductions were made between officers of His Majesty's Navy and ladies of the Signora's persuasion, and felt himself beginning to blush. ‘And though I am not myself familiar with the port, I am assured the people there are friendly and hospitable …'

The Signora gazed at him in unfeigned astonishment. ‘They are Corsi,' she pointed out.

‘Indeed. But the Corsicans are now subjects of King George …'

‘The men they cut your throat, the women they rob a blind beggar. And the 'ores they fuck a dog for a
denaro
.'

‘I see.' Nathan was briefly taken aback by this insight. He considered several responses but rejected them as inappropriate. ‘But I was informed that you were most anxious to be transported there.'

She shook her dark curls in vigorous denial. ‘Only we wish to leave Livorno. So the French they do not cut off our 'eads.'

Nathan felt obliged to point out that the French, though continuing intolerable in many regards, had become less sanguine of late, at least in the matter of decapitation.

‘That is not what I 'ave 'eard,' the Signora muttered darkly. ‘The
Commodoro
'e say the French they round up the 'ores and cut off their 'eads.'

‘Did he? Did he, indeed?' Nelson, he was aware, nursed a passionate loathing of all things Gallic. He got it from his mother, it was said. But it was by no means unusual among a certain class of English gentleman.

‘Is not true?'

‘Well, it is true that in the time of Robespierre and the Terror a number of women of a certain – status – suffered a certain—'

‘They cut off their 'eads.'

‘Unfortunately.'

‘They cut off the 'ead of Marie Antoinette.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘And all the other 'ores.'

‘Well, actually Marie Antoinette …' Nathan gave up. Why was he defending the French, for pity's sake? Because he had a hint of French blood in his veins? ‘Well, certainly you will be safer in San Fiorenzo,' he agreed.

But she was shaking her head more firmly than ever.

‘But where else would you go?' he enquired helplessly.

‘We go to Genova,' she said firmly.

‘Genoa? But … Genoa is closed to the British Navy.'

‘But not to us.'

‘No, but …' Nathan recalled that the Signora's mother lived in Genoa and that the Commodore used often to set her down there. There were rumours that he used her as a spy. For a moment Nathan was tempted, but it was impossible. ‘I cannot take you to Genoa,' he said.

‘Why not you take us to Genova?'

‘Because I have my orders to take you to San Fiorenzo.' ‘Who give you these orders?'

‘Well, Commodore Nelson for one, and—'

‘I speak with the
Commodoro
,' she declared with satisfaction.

‘I am afraid the
Commodoro
– the Commodore – has remained at Leghorn. That is to say,
off
Leghorn. In the flagship.'

‘Then we stay 'ere. With you.'

Nathan returned her look of stubborn obstinacy with one of
despair. ‘Signora, this is a ship-of-war. We may be required to go into battle at any time and—'

‘So we go into the battle with you.'

‘No, really, that is not—'

‘My friends, they do anything for the
Capitano
.' Her voice and expression softened. She smiled seductively at him. Nathan felt himself blushing. ‘They say the
Capitano
'e save them from the French, 'e give up 'is little cabin for them, 'e give up 'is little bed for them. 'Ow do they show 'im 'ow much they love the
Capitano
?'