‘It’s a puzzler t’ me,’ Kydd said, ‘why the King’s not here as well t’ welcome the admiral.’
‘Why, it’s not such a mystery,’ Renzi said calmly, helping himself to a sweetbread sautie.
The others, not knowing Renzi, raised their eyebrows.
‘Our noble host is the prime minister, no less, of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, a certain John Acton – who also happens to be an Englishman employed in that post. The King dare not show his approbation of our late action in too formal a manner with the French at his borders and a treaty in place – but he cannot, of course, prevent a display of natural feelings at such a victory from an English national…’
‘Do ye think we’ll meet the King, Nicholas?’ Kydd asked.
‘I do – but in another place, I believe.’
‘And the ambassador, you would say he is diplomatically absent from a private party, will you not?’ Hayward said half defensively.
‘Indeed. That would serve to avoid adding moment to the occasion.’
Hayward leaned back. ‘You seem unusually well informed for a sea officer, Renzi.’
‘I was at Naples on – on another occasion, sir. I had reason then to be grateful to the ambassador for his politeness in the matter of accommodation. A charming host of another age: a learned gentleman whose shining qualities and lucid brain mark him out far above the common run.’
He had the table’s attention so continued, ‘He has served in post since ’sixty-four, and there is not overmuch he does not know about the character of your Neapolitan. A sprightly man, if I might remark it, he is accounted the best dancer in the palace and is greatly esteemed by the Royal Family, thereby being of inestimable value to the cause of Great Britain.’
‘But he’s of an age, I gather,’ Boyd mumbled, through his haunch of lamb.
‘Perhaps, but he has married a young wife who keeps him in spirits. Her entertainments are legendary, you may believe. Thirty-five years his younger, but they are devoted.’
‘What’s his name?’ demanded Kydd.
‘His name? Sir William Hamilton – his wife, Emma.’
The attention of the officers returned to the food. ‘Be sure to accord that dish the homage it deserves,’ said Renzi to Boyd, who had begun to address a creamy rice platter with tiny white shavings arranged neatly on top. ‘Those are the immortal white truffles of Alba, and will amply reward your delicacy in the tasting.’
The courses came and went; the din of conversation increased with the flow of wine and the need to try to put aside the stark imagery of recent times.
‘You know, we missed by a whisker bringing the French to battle while they were still at sea,’ said Hayward reflectively. ‘That day when we couldn’t find ’em near Malta and thought they’d gone to the westward? It seems that those frigates we chased off were scouts ahead of their main fleet – while we were hove to in our council-of-war they crossed our wake.’
There were wry grins but several officers stared at the tablecloth and others had furrowed brows. Boyd broke the spell. ‘Er, Kydd, were you not out in a boat at the Nile?’
The images rushed in. ‘Aye, I was…’ But it was impossible to find the words to describe the events of that night and he ended muttering at his plate.
‘I’ll tell you a singular thing,’ said a neat-featured man to the right. ‘Innes, Swiftsure. After the Frenchy blew itself to kingdom come, Ben Hallowell, our Owner, thought to fish out of the sea a good stout length o’ the Frenchy’s mainmast. Then has the audacity to get Chips to make it up into a coffin, which he then presents to his admiral. And well received it was, by all accounts.’
‘It was indeed,’ Hayward agreed. ‘Keeps it by him in his sea-cabin.’
‘How singular,’ murmured Renzi.
‘But th’ hero of our age!’ Kydd said vigorously, glancing up to the table where the admiral held court among his noble admirers. He turned to Hayward. ‘Our Nel – I’ve heard such cat-blash about his character. Is it true? How do you…’
Hayward stroked his chin. ‘A man of strong views and stronger convictions. And only two words will serve with him – “duty” and “honour”. Woe betide any officer who forgets himself in this particular – he’s as merciless as Jove.
‘Yet the men love him, and he feels his captains are, as Shakespeare has it in Henry V, a band of brothers. When he’s to hand, you believe that nothing can fail. But this is not to say he ignores the lower orders – I’ve seen him climb the mizzen shrouds to show a green midshipman the way, and you’ll all have seen his order book filled the half over with instructions for the well-being of the lower deck.’