Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"And back in King George the Second's reign, Corsica offered to become English, as I remember. Sign the whole island over to us," he countered.

"Oui, to rid us of Genoese, so we non become part of France, be free!" she argued.

"Wait a moment." He scowled, perplexed again. "You're French!"

"Papa was Franзais, Maman was Italian, mais … Alain, I am Corsican, you see? An' now, you' Messieur Elliot, 'e will mak' us British, wiz monarch. Like you' Scotland… poor relation? When what we wish ees to be Corsica independent. Papa come from France, so long ago, 'e was Corsican. Maman be born 'ere, in Italian clan, but she was Corsican firs', hein? Say Corsican, non Franзais or Italiana. You' Elliot, 'e say we mus' 'ave king an' parliament, but mus' be Corsican king an' parliament, we say. An' zat ees quel dangereux … 'oo ees king, what clan. Ooh la, you s'ink you see vendetta now …! So," she summed up with another snooty heave of her bosom, "ze man 'oo open zat box belong to Pandora, zat man ees ze fool grande]"

"But not Republicans," Alan hoped. "Mean t'say, if you don't have a king, you might as well be like those anarchist Americans. Or the French, these days."

"Mon Dieu, Alain, non!" Phoebe chuckled. "Oo ees say ev'ryone ees йgal, zat ees stupeed! People are non born e… equal, ever. 'Ow you 'ave padrones an' clan lords, eef paissans conardes be jus' as good as ze noblesse? Zat ees seelly idea!"

Add perplexing to the list, Alan thought of his earlier appraisal of Phoebe Aretino; paradoxical…

"I 'ope you 'ave ze appetite grande, Alain, ze cuisine 'ere ees so ver' good!" she urged, changing subjects, and moods, as quick as the mercurial little minx she was. "Non Franзais, but Corsican!"

The Ristorante Liberatore, with a portrait of Pascal Paoli for its centerpiece, of course, was packed with diners and doing a stock-jobbers' business. But a table was always reserved, it seemed for "la contessa bella" Aretino. And, with much smacking of lips, kissing of fingers, crooning "oohs and ahhs!" of welcome joy-along with an occasional smacking of a forehead-they were led to that table that had a commanding view of the harbor and docks, as well as the rest of that crowded dining room, on a slightly elevated upper terrace. And, as they made their way to it, several of the more fashionable diners paid Phoebe "passing honors" with even more glad cries, some almost groveling at her feet in gratitude for some earlier favor. Her hand was kissed and wrung so often Alan thought she seemed more like a Member of Parliament on the hustings, right after he'd trotted out the free gin and roast beef for purchased votes!

Hell of a welcome, he thought; for a little slip of a girl. And a retired courtesan, he could not help himself from adding; there must be some-thin' Latin in that, surely. God, what a country!

With an almost regal air of true nobility, Phoebe smiled and inclined her head, responding to their greetings, before allowing a squad of unctuous waiters to seat her. And grinning, her eyes alight, gleeful as the cat that ate the canary, over her newfound adulation.

"Oh, there's some poor fellows can't get a table," Alan pointed out. "Damme, it's Nelson and Fremantle." Lewrie allowed himself a tiny smirk, to think he was being treated like a prince consort to a queen as Phoebe's companion, while those two distinguished senior officers were forced to idle in the entryway, pretending with the patience of Job that they weren't famished. Or humiliated. Or almost reduced to groveling or bribery to gain a table, and a meal.

Captain Nelson raised a hand to his right brow, of a sudden, and winced as if in mortal agony, pressing his palm to his eye like he was trapping a persistent Corsican fly. Capt. Thomas Fremantle left off scowling at one and all to turn to him, solicitously. And Alan could almost read their lips, as they debated whether to stay or to go.

"Zose officiers, Alain," Phoebe said as their first wine arrived, a fruity, sparkling blush-pink strawberry something. "Zay are you' compatriotes, oui? Ze poor man, 'e ees suffer ze mal de tкte, per'aps? We should let zem join us. Eef you are willing."

"Of course," Alan responded quickly. "This heat, and all. Why, he must be wilting. And, they'll starve to death, else."

Phoebe summoned a waiter who bowed to hear her whispered command, then quickly dashed off to invite the two officers to join them.

"Grateful," Fremantle explained as they shuffled their seats so Nelson didn't have to face the sunset glare off the bay. "Awf'lly. An hellish crowd, hey? Settle for a bread stick…"

"Captain Horatio Nelson, Captain Thomas Fremantle, allow me to name to you…" Alan began, grinning impishly as he continued in the spirit of the evening, and the sentiments of the town, "… la Contessa… Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino? Contessa…" He gave her a quick conspiratorial wink, "Captain Horatio Nelson of the Agamemnon, and Captain Thomas Fremantle, of the Inconstant frigate."

"Messieurs, enchantй," Phoebe replied, with another slight incline of her head, as if speaking from a throne to acknowledge lesser barons. Where'd she learn all this, so damn' fast? Lewrie wondered to himself. "You appear-ed so, uhm… 'ow you say, indispose, Capitaine Nelson? Ooh la, I trus' you are well, m'sieur."

"My infinite gratitude for your most gracious invitation, mademoiselle," Nelson rejoined, trying to be sociable even as he seemed to suffer another tiny spasm. "A trifling wound I received the other day."

"Trifling," Fremantle countered with a snort. "Ha."

"Weeks ago," Nelson discounted with a dismissive wave as their waiters returned with more wine, and actual written menus. "Middle of July, actually. I must say… this, uhm, ristorante is so certain of their supplies they can print their fare, 'stead of chalking it up by the day? Incredible."

"Ah, oui, m'sieur Capitaine Nelson," Phoebe answered gaily, and, Lewrie suspected, one of those on the island who had a hand in assuring those regular supplies; what didn't she have her hand in by now! he wondered. "You will fin' ze fare ees limit… limit-ed? Local ordinaire, on'y, n'est-ce 'pas, mais … you will fin' eet consistent. An' all ver' tasty. Corsican cuisine."

Odd, Lewrie thought; I'd have thought Nelson was the sort to play up a tale of honorable wounds. Seen him posture and prose before, now, ain't I? To Alan's lights, though, Nelson didn't look particularly cut up. No limp, no bandages… a bruise or two, some scabbed-over cuts on his face. Must have been too trifling, he concluded; else we'd be sitting deathwatch by his bed, to watch the hero pass over.

"Pardon me for discussing 'shop in the mess,' as it were, sir," Lewrie said, "but I must own that my curiosity has the best of me… you both have been up at the siege-work. "Tis rumored the French are almost ready to give in. I was wondering if there was any truth to it."

"Pray God that will be so, Commander Lewrie," Nelson said, with some heat. And with what almost sounded like a croak of uncharacteristic gloom. "Aye, soon. They simply must, do you see! They're short of almost everything, by now. Save powder and shot. As I learned to my cost," he added, with a faint, deprecatory grin. "Our parallels have been advanced nigh to musket shot of their walls, and our batteries are dominant over their artillery, at last. General Stuart is confident of their surrender within the week. Failing that, an attempt against them might, well… a final assault might have to wait, for a time."

"Horrid sickness," Fremantle supplied as Nelson faltered, like a watch spring run down. "We've, what… barely two thousand men now? And half of them down, half the time. Bouillabaisse, hmm? Some sort o' fish chowder?" Fremantle wondered, after pondering the menu. "Oysters… they might be in it, d'ye think? Like an English meal, back home?"

"Aye, sir. More a brothy fish stew, but some oysters," Lewrie informed his superior, hiding his smirk at how provincial most English gentlemen were away from home, how wary they were of unfamiliar dishes. And how un-English he sometimes felt, to delight in the exotic and new.

"Might I offer a toast, sirs." Lewrie grinned, raising his wine. "To our foes, the French, sirs. May they be similarly afflicted. And confused."

"Confusion to our foes," Nelson and Fremantle rejoined, tossing back their sweet, sparkling wine, and echoing the ancient words of the mess or wardroom response to such a toast.

"Frightful campaign weather," Nelson admitted as the waiters topped them up. "Worse than any ever I did see, even in Nicaragua in the last war, for heat, and disease. Bad as the Indies, I must allow!"

"Een Corsica," Phoebe informed him, "we name zis season ze Lion Sun, Capitaine Nelson. 'Ow you say, uhm…"

"Dog days?" Fremantle offered.

"Oui, merci, Capitaine Fremantle. Dog Days… Lion Sun, aussi," Phoebe went on. "July to October. Ze 'eat, an ze damp! Zis time of year, mos' people stay indoor, an nap s'rough ze wors' of ze day. An' many sick. Many leave us, even so, quel dommage. I marvel, zat you' Eenglish soldier, you fight in zis weather. Non wait for cool time."

"As you pointed out, Mademoiselle Aretino," Nelson said, with unconscious pride. "We're English. English seamen!"

"Fight in any weather, hey?" Fremantle commented.

"Though 'tis true, mademoiselle," Nelson sobered. "Many leave us. Dear Lord, so many leave us. Why…!"

A spasm of grief perhaps, another tic of pain in his brows that quieted him for a moment, but Nelson's voice broke, and he was forced to massage his right temple and brow, as if to knead away whatever agony ailed him with those long, slim, delicate fingers that seemed so out of place on such a wee little fellow, so fond of hard-handed war.

"Oh, do forgive me for… for being a killjoy." Nelson frowned after he'd mastered himself. "For even broaching the subject, but… Fremantle and I just came from the local churchyard. A fellow officer, Commander Lewrie. You understand, I'm certain?"

"My condolences for your loss, sir," Lewrie gravely offered.

"A most gallant young man, sir," Nelson all but croaked. "One who'd have made a name for himself that would have been on everyone's lips, had he not… hmm. Lt. James Moutray, 'board Victory. A fine young fellow. Was to have been promoted, soon. His father, Captain Moutray and his mother… we were great friends, when I had Boreas at Antigua, 'tween the wars. He was Navy Commissioner at English Harbour, d'ye see. And I knew James, from a child. Just a wee lad, back then. It's as if I'd lost my own son, had I… as sorrowful a thing as if Fanny and I had lost our dear Josiah."

Fremantle made a tiny face, rolled his eyes in dubious humor, which expression of contempt Lewrie caught.

"Knew you were married, sir," Lewrie prompted, to pique his further curiosity. "But I didn't know you were a parent, as well. Might I offer you congratulations. Some cheer, that he's safe abed in England at this moment."

"Uhm…" Nelson was forced to confess, pulling at his long, thin nose. "Stepson, actually. My dearest Fanny and I met on Nevis, while I was in Boreas, as well. She'd been widowed, and… no, Josiah is with me, Lewrie. In Agamemnon. Brought him aboard as a midshipman. To keep a weather eye on his progress, hmm? To assure myself that there will be a successor in the Navy. Why, as I recall, Lewrie, you've sons of your own." Nelson brightened, of a sudden, as mercurial in his grief as he was in his enthusiasms. "Perhaps 'twas Lady Emma Hamilton, in Naples, who spoke of you, when I represented Admiral Lord Hood with King Ferdinand. I'm sure she was the one told me."