A Man of No Country Page 11

  ‘If duty permits, it will be a pleasure, your ladyship,’ said Clay.

  The footman showed him into a large, book-lined study that was full of tables. They seemed to be randomly dotted around the floor, and every one of them was packed with pieces of either carved stone or shards of pottery. It took him a while to locate His Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. He was stood in one corner, busy examining a large marble bust. Where Lady Hamilton was all voluptuousness, her husband was anything but. Sir William Hamilton was a spare, bony man in his late sixties. His thin legs barely filled his stockings, and his wiry hands seemed lost within the sleeves of his cavernous olive green coat.

  ‘Over here captain,’ he called. ‘I was just admiring my latest purchase. Will you favour me with your opinion of it, sir?’ Clay threaded his way between the tables, while he tried his best not to knock over anything, and at last arrived beside his host. The bust was cut in creamy white stone and showed the head and shoulders of a stern young man with a thick curly mane that matched his lavish beard. Between the two masses of stone hair, a pair of blank, frowning eyes looked out into the room from either side of a prominent nose.

  ‘It is very fine, Sir William,’ he said. ‘Pray, whose likeness is it?’

  ‘Marcus Aurelius,’ said his host with reverence. He pulled out a silk handkerchief and ran it across the top of the bust’s hair. ‘In fine condition, is he not, when you consider that he has lain buried in an olive grove for one and a half millennia? I cannot begin to conceive how Senior Bernotti manages to find such treasures for me to buy. I have only to express my desire for something, and it will appear.’

  ‘The condition is indeed remarkable,’ said Clay. He examined the clean cut stone. ‘Why it looks as if it could have been fashioned yesterday.’

  ‘The untrained eye might almost think so,’ agreed his host. ‘Shall we return to my desk captain?’ He indicated a marginally less cluttered piece of furniture on the far side of the room. ‘Have a care, I pray you! The tail of your coat so very nearly displaced that priceless Etruscan vase.’

  Once the two men were seated, Clay handed across the desk the letter he had brought with him from Admiral St Vincent.

  ‘Thank you, Captain Clay,’ Hamilton said. ‘Might I offer you some refreshment while I peruse this? Will you assay some Marsala? It is an unctuous wine they make in Sicily. Not quite as fine as a Madeira, but palatable none the less. Giuseppe, a glass for the captain, if you please.’ Clay accepted a glass of the wine, while Sir William drew out a pair of little round spectacles, wedged them on his thin nose and broke the seal on the despatch. As he read, he made a little grunting noise to himself at each salient point. Clay tried to ignore the irritating sound in the quiet of the room and instead looked about him at all the various antiquities.

  ‘So the navy is to return to these waters in the spring, I collect?’ said the ambassador abruptly, dropping the letter in front of him. ‘Upon my word, it is not a moment before time. The French have had matters all their own way for much too long.’

  ‘Yes, Sir William,’ said Clay. ‘Once the admiral has received his promised reinforcements, he will send a powerful squadron into the Mediterranean.’

  ‘So he says in this dispatch. Do you know who will command it? Admiral Sir Peter Parker, perhaps?’

  ‘I understand that Lord St Vincent is minded to favour Sir Horatio Nelson with the command.’

  ‘Nelson?’ queried the ambassador. He greeted this news with a few more of his little grunts. ‘He seems very young for such a responsibility. Newly promoted, ain’t he?’

  ‘I believe so, Sir William.’

  ‘I suppose Hanging Jack knows what he is about,’ mused Hamilton. ‘Will they be based on Gibraltar?’

  ‘Only if nowhere better should present itself. The Rock is far from ideal. If a levanter should blow, a fleet based there would be unable to intervene in any mischief the French have planned.’

  ‘At the start of the war we did capture Corsica, which was perfect to guard the French coast from. But then the fleet was withdrawn back to the Channel amid all this talk of invasion, and the French promptly took the island back.’ Clay sipped at his drink for a moment.

  ‘I was reflecting earlier how Naples would make an ideal base for a fleet, Sir William,’ he said. ‘Good sized anchorage in a blow, a decent dockyard, and placed plumb in the centre of the Mediterranean.’

  ‘I daresay it would be most satisfactory,’ conceded the ambassador. ‘Regrettably the Kingdom is neutral of course, but the King certainly loathes the French, and his wife is poor Marie-Antoinette’s sister. I suppose I might be able to arrange for a squadron to receive some support in a quiet way. These things can take time to arrange, especially here in Naples, but let me begin some tentative discussions.’ He made a note on a sheet of paper and then looked up. ‘What else might I be able to help you with, captain?’

  ‘The principal part of my mission is to reconnoitre these waters to see what the enemy may be planning to do next. I have looked into the Spanish ports, but there was little that seemed amiss. Lord St Vincent suggested that you might be able to offer me some guidance.’ The older man looked around him, as if to check that none of the Roman busts were listening, then beckoned his visitor closer.

  ‘There is something afoot in southern France,’ he said. ‘I have it from several sources. The Queen still has contacts there for one, and Lady Hamilton enjoys a close acquaintance with her. The reports I have heard state that some manner of military venture is being prepared.’

  ‘That is interesting,’ mused Clay. ‘On the way here I was fortunate to capture a ship bound for Marseille with a cargo of military tents and cooking equipment, which might be thought to support such rumours.’

  ‘Very likely,’ nodded the ambassador. ‘The certain intelligence I have is that an army camp has been constructed at Marseille, and a further smaller camp has been built close to Genoa. I also hear that they are gathering together shipping, and that the French navy have fitted out a number of warships at their naval base at Toulon. Tell me, what is your opinion of this?’ Hamilton picked up a newspaper from his desk and passed it across, tapping a short article with his finger. Clay read the name, L’Echo, at the top and noticed the date was two weeks ago.

  ‘How have you acquired this?’ he asked.

  ‘I have an agent in Genoa who is close to the garrison commander. He forwards me all the French papers, amongst other more choice intelligence.’

  ‘My command of French is a little indifferent,’ said Clay, after he had finished reading. ‘Am I right in saying that the writer speaks of seamen arriving at Toulon?’

  ‘Precisely so,’ said the ambassador. ‘Eight hundred marched overland from Brest, with a further five hundred expected shortly from Bordeaux. What do you conclude from that?’

  ‘That our enemy is stripping his Atlantic ports to man his ships here in the Mediterranean,’ mused Clay, returning the paper. ‘But against what objective will such an expedition be directed, Sir William?’

  ‘Who can say?’ said the ambassador, spreading his arms wide. ‘Perhaps here. The French have seized most of Italy from Rome northwards, but they might yet have ambitions to control the whole peninsula. Or they might send their army against the Barbary states, or perhaps the Turks. Their objective may even lie outside the Mediterranean altogether. I am afraid that so far they have managed to keep it secret, from me at least. I do have one further piece of intelligence.’

  ‘What pray is that, Sir William?’

  ‘The Queen has been told that General Bonaparte is to lead the army, principally because the government in Paris fear his popularity and want him off French soil. He is a very dangerous young man. He gave our Austrian allies a most fearful beating last year.’

  ‘It seems that I must head north then, Sir William,’ said Clay. ‘I shall look into Marseille, Toulon and Genoa and see what I can find out by direct observation.’

  ‘That is w
here your duty lies, captain,’ agreed his host. ‘You must try to see what the French are about and report back to St Vincent. Have a care in those waters; they can be very stormy in the winter. If I find out any more through our contacts here, I will send word directly to the admiral. Now, what are the needs of your ship?’

  ‘Chiefly fresh water and firewood, Sir William. I have my purser’s indent here.’ Hamilton scanned the document for a moment.

  ‘This should all be fine,’ he said. ‘I will arrange for your ship to be resupplied tomorrow so you can be on your way. As for tonight, are you engaged? Might you do me the honour of joining my wife and me for dinner? We get so few visitors from home in these troubled times. I am sure Emma would be very grateful for company of her own age.’

  ‘I am sure she will,’ muttered Clay, under his breath.

  ‘Beg pardon?’ said the older man, cupping a hand to his ear.

  ‘I said of course, Sir William. It will be a pleasure.’

  The two men went to find Lady Emma, who had moved through to the villa’s large orangery. She reclined in a chaselongue beneath a canopy of dense green foliage with a bowl of candied fruit by her side.

  ‘I bring pleasant news, Emma my dear,’ said Hamilton. ‘I have persuaded Captain Clay to favour us with his company tonight.’

  ‘How very agreeable,’ smiled Lady Hamilton. ‘I would like that above all things.’

  ‘Oh, and look, captain,’ exclaimed her husband, rushing to the window. ‘In your honour, the clouds have lifted and you can see Vesuvius in all her glory. She is quite an active volcano you know, although there hasn’t been a major eruption for almost four years now.’

  ‘Perhaps there may be one tonight,’ said Lady Hamilton. She rolled an appraising eye towards Clay, placed a sweet between her full lips and chewed it with obvious pleasure.

  *****

  It was unbearably hot on the poorly lit slave deck of the ship. He opened his eyes, and his vision filled with the black hair on the back of a head that lay inches from his face, just as he had for days now. He raised himself a little, and saw that beyond the head were more heads, one after another, disappearing into the gloom. The line of slaves lay on their sides on the hard wood, pressed together like spoons. Against his back he could feel the pressure of the slave behind him. Bony knees against the back of his legs, an arm that jarred against his shoulders as it jerked with cramp, and the man’s hot breath on his neck.

  The deck he lay on was damp and clammy, sodden with all manner of human fluids. After a week at sea, his sense of smell had been overwhelmed long ago by the acid stench of urine, sweat, vomit and faeces. From the slave deck just above him, more liquid oozed in beads through the gaps in the planking to drip down on those below. With each Atlantic roller the ship pushed through, he felt the deck pitch with a rattle from the row of leg irons that held them in place. All of their ankles had long since been chaffed until they were raw and bleeding.

  But it was not the pain in his legs and feet that had brought him to. Nor was it the chorus of groans that accompanied each rolling wave, or the constant sound of weeping that filled the hull of the ship. There was something wrong with the man in front of him. The leg that lay against his was too stiff and the head in front of him lolled and thumped against the deck with each wave in an unnatural way. The dull realisation gripped him that the man was dead, and an involuntary wail rose up out of his mouth.

  When Able Sedgwick opened his eyes, there was a moment when he was balanced between the horror of the dream and the real world about him. He could see the planking of a deck just above his head, and he was on a ship that was swaying to the rhythm of the sea, just as the slave ship had done. He stretched up with a trembling hand to touch the solid oak. It was dry.

  ‘Jesus, Able!’ exclaimed Trevan from the hammock next to his. ‘What manner of nightmare was that? I’ve never heard a man holler so in his sleep.’ Sedgwick looked around him in the gloom of the lower deck. An almost continuous carpet of hammocks stretched away into the dark, all swaying together in time with the rocking of the ship. Those closest to him all had the startled faces of his fellow seamen, looking his way.

  ‘Sorry, lads,’ he said. ‘Just one of them bad dreams. It has passed. I shall be fine now.’

  ‘I am not sure as you are, mate,’ said the Cornishman. ‘Why, you’re sweating like a sinner in church, and I didn’t rightly think your face could turn that pale. What was you a-thinking on?’

  ‘I’ve been working on my writing with Rosso of late,’ he said. ‘It must have stirred up some stuff that might have been best left at peace.’

  ‘Ah, that can be right cruel,’ said his friend. ‘Them phantoms that come and find us out when we sleep. Sea fights can cause them too, you know? A man can behold all manner of grim sights, and think nothing of it at the time. Then years later they can come back to visit you in your dreams. Not rightly sure what you can do about it, mind. Some say that grog helps, but that can be a dangerous road to travel.’

  ‘Well, it has passed now, Adam, and we have no grog to hand,’ smiled Sedgwick. ‘I am just sorry to have disturbed so many shipmates.’

  ‘Don’t you fret on that score, Able, lad,’ yawned Trevan. ‘What with “All Hands” being called that often night and day, they all knows how to get back to sleep.’

  Trevan’s prediction proved accurate. With a few grumbles here and the odd sigh there, the lower deck soon drifted back into slumber again. In amongst the snoring men Sedgwick lay still but awake in his hammock. Five bells had sounded some time ago. It would be dawn soon, and he had decided not to sleep again. He had no intention of sliding back into that other world, to relive the death of his brother once more.

  *****

  Three weeks later, it was dark and bitterly cold when Clay came up the companion ladder and out on to the quarterdeck. Yates, his servant, had warned him of the change as he loaded his captain up with clothes, but even so the chill air came as a shock after the warmth of his cabin. Something crunched under his feet as he made his way over to the group of officers stood around the binnacle. He could see their breath, like smoke in its yellow light.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Clay, his words dulled by the scarf that muffled the lower part of his face. The group of men muttered greetings and reluctantly pulled hands from pockets to touch their hats. ‘Tell me, what time is sunrise, Mr Armstrong?’

  ‘A little after six bells, sir,’ replied the ship’s master. ‘We will be in position off Marseille in good time for that.’

  ‘It will be a relief to see the sun,’ muttered Lieutenant Blake as he flogged his arms against his sides. ‘Is it always so damnably cold here, Jacob?’

  ‘It is this wind from the north, Mr Blake,’ explained Armstrong. ‘The French call it the Mistral. It comes bearing icy air from the continent. But at least it is a dry wind. We shall not have to worry about any snow obscuring our observations.’

  ‘Snow!’ exclaimed the lieutenant. ‘But it is almost March!’

  ‘They say the Mistral is much favoured by artists, for the clearness of the light that accompanies it,’ continued the American. ‘I am surprised you do not appreciate it more.’

  ‘Some clear light will be most welcome for our purpose this morning,’ said Clay, looking about him. ‘When it shall choose to arrive.’

  At last the sky began to lighten a little in the east, as a thin line of sulphurous yellow forced its way between dark air and black sea. In the faint light the officers could see that the ship had been covered with frost in the night. It lay like a dusting of sugar on the deck and clung in crystals to the standing rigging.

  ‘Land ho!’ yelled the lookout, far up in the foremast. Clay looked towards the figure, gilded by a morning sun that had yet to reach the grey deck.

  ‘Mr Russell! Mr Butler!’ he called. ‘Up you go with your spy glasses and report on everything you can see in the port. Count with care, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the two mids
hipmen.

  ‘Take us in closer to the shore, Mr Blake.’

  As the frigate approached the dark mass of southern France, Clay could see flecks of light here and there, where the working day had started in the little crofts and cottages ashore. Directly ahead of the ship a denser mass of light shone out, marking where the port of Marseille lay. The frigate crept on, past a number of rocky islands, as it stood in towards the harbour entrance.

  ‘There are a deal of these little islands in the offing, but the water is deep and there are few reefs to trouble us, sir,’ explained Armstrong. ‘That one there, away to the south, does have some guns sited on it, so we would do well to keep on this line. Ah, see they are awake, in spite of the cold.’ He pointed to where a flash of light had appeared in the gloom, as if a furnace door had been briefly opened, and a line of splashes rose up from the cold sea to mark the route of the shot. The last fell a good quarter mile short of them. Clay turned his attention back towards the shore.

  ‘What do you expect we shall find, sir?’ asked a muffled Taylor from the rail next to him. ‘More of this profusion of shipping, just as we saw at all the other ports?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay. ‘What is the tally so far, Mr Armstrong?’ The American drew out his note book, licked a finger, and worked his way to the correct place. He held the page down near his waist, where the light of the binnacle could illuminate it.

  ‘Genoa had ninety sail of transports and two frigates, sir,’ he reported. ‘Toulon had a further hundred and twenty merchantmen, plus sixteen ships of the line, including one very large first rate. Forty-two sail of transporters in the various other minor ports we visited. All told, two hundred and fifty two transporters, and eighteen warships.’ He closed his book with a snap. ‘Already a considerable armada, sir, and we have yet to see what Marseille has to offer.’