H.M.S. COCKEREL - Dewey Lambdin

"His Majesty cannot express his joy upon learning…" Sir John condensed for him.

"He's doin' main-well, consid'rin', Sir John…" Lewrie muttered as he tried to maintain an innocent, unabashed fool's face as the ruddy-featured monarch jounced him around.

"… this vow made by His Britannic Majesty, now fulfilled… the prowess of British arms…"

"Uhm, speakin' of arms, Your Excellency…?"

King Ferdinand the Fourth set him down at last, clapped him hard on both shoulders, and rattled off a positive flood of Italian.

"He offers to feed you now," Acton concluded.

And then, in a run-of-the-mill cook shop, not much grander than a coffeehouse, chophouse or tavern back home, he was sat at a red-and-white chequered table, with a prime minister, an ambassador and his lady, had a glass of wine shoved into his hands, and was presently presented with soft breadsticks and an assorted plate of sliced cheeses and meats by the very hands of a king. A remarkably florid and ugly king, he thought; but a king, nonetheless. The experience was nearly as heady as the wine, a rough but full-bodied local vintage, fruity yet dry. It went devilish-well with the strips of ham and sausage rounds and the cheeses.

The place was festooned with hunting trophies; boars' heads and stags, shaggy horned mountain goats, bears, lynx, stuffed geese or ducks.

"His Majesty adores the hunt, do you see, sir," Acton explained.

"Ah, si," King Ferdinand agreed, followed by another linguistic avalanche, to which Lewrie could but nod and smile, a breadstick near his middle chest, wondering if one could partake as long as a king was talking. And the smell of frying fish, broiling fish, the tang of oil and garlic, onion and God knew what else, the smoke from the grill like a thin mist overhead, the very rafters redolent with rapturous…!

"Mangia, His Majesty says. Do not stand on ceremony. Eat!" Acton encouraged. "Marvelous big hunts, His Majesty stages, sir. Whole villages for beaters… with the gun… with the lance… with the sword he takes his prey," Acton relayed, cocking his head towards his monarch to catch it all. "Thousands of beasts, thousands of birds has he taken, signore tenente. His Majesty believes, the bigger the slaughter, bigger the 'bag,' the better, ha ha!"

"Ah, like the maharajah do in India, Your Excellency," Alan said, appalled. Wasn't his idea o' huntin'!

"Ah, India!" Acton said with much the same delight as his king had. "His Majesty bids me tell you, he would give anything to be invited by His Majesty, King George's East India Company, of course, to go to India and hunt in the Grand Moghul style. His Majesty would like to kill many elephants and tigers."

"Convey to His Majesty, King Ferdinand that I've been to India," Lewrie smiled, with a crafty look. "My father is a colonel in the East India Company army. He hunts Bengal, from the back of an elephant, he wrote me last year. He's a little busy now, though… hunting Frenchmen, I'd imagine."

Though Sir William Hamilton winced, King Ferdinand laughed so hard he shook the table, then pounded it with a fist.

"His Majesty inquires if you also hunted game in the East Indies, tenente Lewrie?" Acton translated, though his own polite smile was forced, and his laugh sounded edgy.

"I was too busy myself, Your Excellency," Lewrie replied. "We chased French pirates, in the Great South Seas. They were not only giving arms and encouragement to the most bloodthirsty native pirates, to raid the China trade… they were taking ships themselves, selling good Christians in Malay or Mindanao slave markets. Or leaving no witnesses. Breaking their treaty agreements after the last war. Getting ready for the next. Sponsored, unofficially, of course, by their Ministry of Marine. French warships… in disguise."

"And… His Majesty inquires…" Acton posed nervously, after a sober palaver in Italian which shut every mouth, cocked every ear in the shop-and left Lady Emma Hamilton gape-jawed and flushed-"what did you do with them, tenente?"

"We brought them to battle sou'east of Macao… at Spratly Island, and hunted 'em down to the island of Balabac," Lewrie said proudly, rolling the unfamiliar names off like an ancient and honoured regiment's list of glorious victories. "And when we were done, they were utterly defeated and destroyed, then-leader in chains. Royal Navy fashion."

"Magnifico!" King Ferdinand bellowed gruffly, his face even redder, pounding on the table again. "Magnifico! Ecco, la regio marina de la Brittania…!" He rose to his feet, swinging his arms and giving every customer-and Lewrie realised that some of those customers were courtiers and advisers, or Privy Council-a long rant.

"His Majesty says, tenente…" Sir John Acton muttered with a very cat-ate-the-canary look at last, "that with such an ally, what is there to fear from the French? Uhm… a bit sacrilegious, I fear, but 'with Almighty God on our side… buttressed by the fabled wooden walls of the ever-courageous and implacable British Royal Navy… who can be against us?' Bellissimo, signore tenente, bellissimo! That is to say, beautiful. Handsomely done."

"Thankee, Your Excellency. But I no more than spoke the truth."

A gnarled old hand touched his lightly for an instant from his right; Sir William Hamilton drawing his attention from the cheering to nod his approval and give him a warm smile.

Marvelous, Lewrie thought; I just started a war Damme, what's next I can get myself into?

The king calmed at last, sat back down, and shouted instructions to the kitchen. Out came aproned flunkies, beamish young boys with olive complexions and dark hair, excited and trembling. Would they be at some regimental recruiting office by next sunrise, Alan wondered? They seemed bloody cheerful about the prospect!

Out came a thatch-covered bottle, a red wine fruity and dusky, so dry it made him pucker. Lacrima Christi, he was told it was; the Tears of Christ, which he thought fitting. There was a heaping platter of a stringy glop… pasta, he was also told: spaghetti al dente, shimmering with olive oil, flecked with oregano, sun-dried tomato bits and garlic, with a thin sera of tomato sauce. Also arriving was a selection of hot fish. Fried shrimp-gamberetti-done to a tawny crispness, but pink and succulent inside. More shrimp, filleted and skewered and grilled.

"Eat, eat, tenente!" Sir John insisted, once the uproar had at last died down. Something momentous seemed to have been settled, but Lewrie wasn't sure exactly what, since it wasn't formal yet, and no one was going out of their way to explain such diplomatic intricacies to a lowly such as he. "His Majesty operates the cook shop himself, and he is delighted to see a man with a hearty appetite. He catches many of these fish himself, off Fusaro and Posillipo, he bids me tell you. He is a great fisherman, as well as hunter. He sails his own boat, too."

"As far as the Isle of Capri? I've heard how beautiful… how bellissimo…!" Lewrie said between heavenly mouthfuls.

That set the king off on another paroxysm of rapture, over Capri 's magnificent coves and beaches, its vistas, its ancient structures.

"I would delight to see it, do we stay long enough in Naples," Alan said to the prime minister. "Just as I adore tasting new foods, I delight in seeing new and exciting places."

"You like common Neapolitan foods, His Majesty wonders?"

"Ambrosia of Heaven, Your Excellency. I may never lay knife to English foods again," Lewrie declared, not anywhere near toadying.

"His Majesty demands you stay ashore this evening. Dine with us at the reggia, the royal palace. All common Neapolitan menu, he promises. He will stuff you, His Majesty assures me. And give you a good night of rest in a real bed, not a seaman's cot, for once."

"Should I, Sir William?" he asked. "What if I… slip up, or…"

"We shall be with you, Leftenant. Never fear."

"Please, Your Excellency, convey to His Majesty my undying and heart-felt gratitude for his most generous invitation. One to which I look forward with unbounded gustatory anticipation!"

He looked at Emma Hamilton, who was fanning herself, still rapt upon him, after his brusque description of his East Indies service.

And that's not all I'm looking forward to, he thought, giving her a grin and a brief nod.

Chapter 6

Had a hole in me, I think; hollow leg, or something. But, Lord! It was all so bloody good! So grand!

Minestrone, the plebeian vegetable and pasta soup-even that was head and shoulders above Navy fare. Meat-stuffed pastas, layered with a tomato sauce, dripping with melted cheeses! Veal marinara, game fowl jugged in a wine sauce, domestic chicken breasts done in a cream sauce with wide egg noodles. More fried fish, more grilled goodies. God knew how they'd done it, but there'd been ices with the fruit for a last course, tart and sweet sorbets, and creamy-what'd they call 'ems?-gelatil And for the levee preceding the actual promised stuffing-antipasti. Lovely cheeses, thin-shaved prosciutto; and, of course, the sybaritic pleasures of fresh-baked bread, piping hot, crusty and white milled flour, with dollops of churned butter!

Wines, too. Sweet Marsalas and sweetish, sparkling spumantes. Then butter-smooth, aged reds that rivalled the best Cabernets France could boast. Thank God for the food, he thought; I've taken a barrel aboard, feels like. I'm well and truly foxed!

A minor kingdom, in the greater scheme of things, Naples might be, but King Ferdinand's palazzo was a bejeweled, begilt faeryland of high, ornate baroque ceilings, well-figured marble walls awash with statuary and gigantic tapestries, over-scale paintings (dead relations, mostly-or hunting scenes), shiny with Chinese wallpapers, glittering with crystal sconces, chandeliers, glowing amber with a shipload worth of real bee's-wax candles, festooned with silver and gold, niello or cloisonne, strewn with furniture too precious to sit upon. It was so grand, so showy, after half a year of those wooden walls of his, so different from his bleak daily vistas of rolling sea. And the music!

A chamber orchestra still sawed away in an upper gallery, just as they had through the levee and the supper. Light, airy, delightful stuff-sonatas by Giovanni Gabrieli, Giovanni Bat-tista Fontana and Marco Buccolina. Or so he'd been informed.

If Naples was not indeed Heaven, it was very close to it, Alan determined. With a traitorous snifter of French Armagnac in his hand, he let go a more than gentle burp of contentment.

The supper was over, the ecarte and music was winding down, and it was too late for the last guests to stay and dance. Sir William and the prime minister were gone somewhere. King Ferdinand had spoken some brief last words to him and had plodded off, too.

Have their three heads together over the treaty, I expect, Alan thought; thankee, my boy, but we'll take it from here. Oh, well.

"Scusi, signore tenente Lor… L… Liri," a white-wigged footman announced by his side. He was holding a six-armed candelabra.

"Lewrie," he muttered, barely glancing at him, searching for Emma Hamilton, who had also scampered off somewhere.

"Si, signore tenente Liri," the servitor persisted, "you ple-seah toa follah me, signore tenente? I lighta you… up… toa bed, signore."