Captain Charlton gave a satisfied little grunt, nodded his head in approval, as most of the other men did, with tight-lipped smiles of that man-to-man appreciation of "having done the right thing" in trying circumstances.
"Pen me an account of that, sir," Captain Charlton decided as he drew out his watch to peer at. "Admiral Jervis may find any impression you formed of this fellow Bonaparte, or Buonaparte, useful. Hmm… it really is getting late, and our boat-crews are festerin' over at the castello di lazaretto. Much to do tomorrow, before we curtail this port-call of ours and get about our proper business… at sea, where we belong. Call it an evening, shall we?"
"Aye, perhaps," Sir Malcolm agreed. "Now that Lucy's won most of the ridotto's money, after all. After this news, I very much doubt the Venetians will be gay company. Shall we go, my dear?"
"Us, too, most-like, hey, Clotworthy?" Lord Peter tittered. "I would appreciate you calling, though, Alan… mean t say, don't we owe you for 'tatties' yet? Will a shore supper suffice, before you sail? And you can catch me up on all your doin's. Been too damn long."
"It has, milord, and aye, I'd be grateful," Lewrie agreed with a smirk. '" 'Twas only two-and-six, but that was in 1780! The interest due should cover a meal and a bottle or two by now, hey?"
"Perhaps we could all dine together, Alan? Commander Lewrie, I mean t'say," Lucy posed, quite fetchingly and coyly. "And I may hear all about your wife and family… and how you've fared these many years."
"Yes… do come by, Commander," Sir Malcolm relented. "Well all sup at our lodgings. Compare family and children, hmm?"
"I'd be delighted, Sir Malcolm, and thankee," Lewrie said, smiling as if he meant it. But he was sure there was a catch somewhere.
"Uhm, shouldn't we send word to Admiral Jervis, though, sir?" Commander Fillebrowne queried. "In light of this new development…"
"No, sirs," Charlton countered stubbornly. "First of all, let us wait for the morning to see if these rumours of battle and defeat are true or pure fantasy. And, if true… how true they are. Italian imagination may have inflated them far beyond reality. It all may come to be patently false or based on mere skirmishes, not an all-out invasion. Milord… Sir Malcolm… Lady Shockley… good evening to you all, sirs, ma'am. You will excuse us. Until the morrow?"
So, out of the ridotto they went, to their separate gondolas at the water-steps. Surprisingly, the denizens of the ridotto, once they had absorbed the tidings of a whole series of improbable French victories, had settled down to their pleasures again, as if their gambling-palace had been crashed by a beggar who'd raved in madness but had been ejected, and all was once again well with their world. Simpers, sighs, laughter… some of the embarassed sort, from people who'd made too much ado over nothing-climbed a chair to escape a ravening rat, which had turned out to be a child's dormouse. Sweets strains of violins, harp and flutes-Domenico Scarlatti, a local boy-could be heard wafting from the interior to the boat landing. Patrons leaving the same time as the English were fanning themselves, swaying to the music in personal dazes of idle joy once more. Once more masked, cloaked anonymously in their bautos, and lost in the beautiful dream that was the city of Venice.
A little further on, Lewrie thought it changed to something airy and even sweeter from Vivaldi as they were stroked down the canals for the Bacino di San Marco, the dulcet notes almost shimmering as gossamer and light as the sparkling lamplight on the ebony waters as they went past another ridotto or palazzio filled with guests and languid merriment. As they stroked away from it, out to the beginnings of a night-breeze off the sea, the sound faded slowly, tantalisingly, like the calls of the Sirens.
Captain Charlton handed them some treats he had purchased somewhere on his circuitous and frustrating rounds of the hall-diavoloni, he called them, passing the ornate box around, sweet chocolates filled with creamy liqueurs or brandies. It was a most indolent way to end an evening, Lewrie thought. In a city without cares.
Then, as the concerto band faded at last, astern their gondolier began [; to croon, picking up the song of another, far across the Bacino at the Fondamenta di San Marco; the other a single tiny light in the gloom:
"Fummo un tempo fetid
Io amante ed amato,
voi amata ed amante in dolce stato …"
"Ees-uh Signore Tasso, signores," he told them. "Greatest of-ah them all. A true poet of-ah love! You come-ah to Venice… you find-ah love, signores!"
Christ, I bloody hope not! Lewrie yawned to the night.
CHAPTER 7
"Come!" the voice within HMS Lionheart's great-cabins bade.
Lewrie entered, hat under one arm and his clumsy, rolled bundle of charts under the other. Captain Charlton was in his shirtsleeves with his waistcoat open, sleeves rolled to the elbows and scrubbing his face at a wash-hand stand. Though the winds had come up from the south that day, and quite fresh, they'd brought a stifling, palpable humidity to a city lying that far north. A first sign of true summer-along with another flood in Saint Mark's!
"Ah, Lewrie… back with yer charts, I see!" Charlton beamed as he took a towel from his steward to complete his ablutions. "Damn-all close ashore today. Winds or no. I'm fair parched… as I low you may be, also. A glass with me, sir?"
"Delighted, sir," Lewrie replied, more than happy to be given a glass of something cooling.
"No Frog champagne, I fear, sir." Charlton shrugged in apology as he rolled down his sleeves, redid his neck-stock and rebuttoned his waistcoat. "Though this Austrian sekt I discovered ashore is just as sprightly, if a tad too sweet. Ah, well… 'twill serve, I trust."
"Most nicely, sir," Lewrie allowed, plunking into a comfortable padded chair at Charlton's genial insistence and accepting a glass of Austrian almost-champagne from the steward. It was very cool,
indeed.
"Metal bucket, sir," Charlton informed him with an amiable grin to Lewrie's raised brow in query. "Cool water to begin with, then salted heavily. Soak a bottle an hour or two, then… Now, sir. Did they have the charts we need?"
"I obtained a full set for every ship, sir," Lewrie replied as he unrolled one for example. "General chart of the Adriatic, and just as detailed as one could wish. Two more each, in smaller scale, dividing the Adriatic into upper and lower halves… one of the Ionian isles, and harbour charts for their principal ports. Not much on the Austrian or Hungarian littoral ports, though. And for the Turkish possessions they're rather sketchier. As though Venetian ships haven't gone close inshore in the last century, sir. The Balkan shores are by guess and by God, sir."
"Yayss…" Charlton drawled lazily. "Since the Treaty of Utrecht in 1714, they've written off any hopes of reclaiming lost territory over there. So why bother to correct one's charts concerning what one may not have, hmm? Terra incognita. 'Here be dragons,' that sort of thing. Out of sight, and out of mind. The Venetians are rather good at that, letting things slip their minds, if nothing can be done about them anyway. Or, rather, if they're too vexing to think about!"
"I take it things went well, ashore today, sir?" Lewrie asked.
"As much as could be expected, Commander Lewrie," Charlton said with a weary, frazzled air, running a hand over his greying hair. "We will be allowed to enter Venetian ports in the Ionians, their territory in Montenegro, Albania and such-for wood and water, only, d'ye see. And that for no more than twenty-four hours at a time, weather permitting. They've sent orders for their local governors and such to admit us as long as we pay scrupulous attention to their neutrality. Do we violate it, however, they'll deny us entry. With their full force of arms, was how they phrased it to me."