The Price of Glory (37 page)

“Only two,” he confessed. “A small hooker off Étaples with a cargo of cider, salt pork and ship's biscuit. And the frigate
Vestale,
off Le Havre. That was when I was commander of the
Nereus
. I might have taken the
Virginie,
too, had she not sunk.”

“I remember reading about it in the
Gazette
. Struck upon a reef with the
Unicorn
in hot pursuit.” They reflected silently upon this misfortune. “The
Virginie
and the
Vestale,
eh,” the commodore remarked at length. “You have an eye for the maidens, I perceive.”

“Well, I would settle for something less
virgo intactus,
” replied Nathan with a misguided attempt at humour, “if she were well stacked.” He felt his cheeks grow hot as he recalled the commodore's paramour in the cabin below.

“I have not been lucky, either, in the matter of prize money,” Nelson confided after a moment. “I have taken enough shot from the French in my time but precious little in the way of their silver, I regret. Or their gold. And I do not suppose I ever will. It would almost persuade a man to quit and go into Parliament.”

Nathan made a sound in his throat that might be taken for a laugh.

“Oh, but I am quite serious,” the commodore assured him. “I have been asked if I would like to stand for Ipswich in the next election, and I am giving it serious thought. My situation here is intolerable. While the Doge claims to be neutral every damned ship sailing under the Genoese flag is under his protection, even if it is loaded to the gunwales with supplies for the French Army of Italy. We take
‘
em anyway, of course, where we can, but we can be sued for it by the owners, and will be no doubt, in the course of time. Little wonder I have pains in the chest.”

Once more they fell into an uneasy silence, gazing out towards the sleeping city.

“What will he do, do you think?” ventured the commodore at length.

“The Doge?”

“I was thinking of Buonaparte.”

“Whatever we do not expect of him,” replied Nathan, surprising himself a little by this insight.

“Ah yes. The only way to fight a battle. Or a war. He will not come near Genoa, will he?”

“I believe not,” said Nathan, though for the life of him he could not think why he should presume to have an opinion on the matter.

“Because of the Doge and the deal he has made?”

“I do not think he is a great respecter of deals,” said Nathan. “No. I think he will go straight for the Austrians. For the jugular.”

“Ah yes. Always go for the jugular. A man after my own heart. You care for a coffee?”

“Thank you, I would.”

They were about to go below when there was a cry from the lookout and an answering hail from the water, and they turned to observe the cutter emerging out of the darkness and in it, just discernible by the light of the lantern, the huddled figure of Signor Grimaldi in the stern.

“It is gone,” announced Grimaldi dramatically, as soon as he stepped aboard.

Nelson led him over to the weather rail where they were granted a little privacy.

“Keep your voice down!” He looked back across the deck and caught the eye of the army lieutenant who had accompanied the banker into Genoa. “Mr. Pierson, would you be so good as to find my steward and tell him to make sure my cabin is clear and do you attend upon us there.” He turned back to Grimaldi. “Now what is gone, sir?”

“All of it. The gold of the Casa di San Giorgio. Gone.” He was shaking, either from cold or shock or a combination of both.

“What do you mean
‘all of it'?”

“All of it. Gone.” Clearly this was Grimaldi's word of choice. He seemed to derive some comfort from it. The commodore exchanged a glance with Nathan. If he had possessed two eyes he might have rolled them to the night sky; as it was, he did what he could with the one that was available to him.

“The entire reserves of the Bank of Saint George cannot be gone, sir,” he instructed Grimaldi firmly. “This is foolishness.”

“Even so. It is gone.” They could hear his teeth rattling. It evoked no sympathy in the commodore.

“How do you know it is gone? Did you inspect the vaults?”

“No. But I spoke to those that are in a position to know.”

“And how is it gone? Who has taken it? The French?”

But now here was young Nisbet to inform the commodore that his cabin was made ready for him and they led the shivering banker below.

“Now, sir, calm yourself,” Nelson instructed him, sitting him down in a chair. Then to his steward: “Do not stand there gawping like an idiot, man. Pour him a brandy and then take yourself off. “

They waited impatiently while this was done and Grimaldi had composed himself a little.

“Last month the directors of the bank had a meeting,” he said, “and decided the reserves should be removed to a place of safety.”

Nelson gazed at him in frank disbelief. “What? But what can be safer than the vaults of a bank?”

Nathan, whose mother had suffered from this delusion, could have named a number of locations, starting with her mattress, without greatly exercising his imagination but he listened patiently for Grimaldi's opinion on the matter.

“It was felt that in the event of an invasion, the vaults would be no more secure than anywhere in Genoa,” the banker explained. “Th at in fact, it would be the first place they would look. So it was decided to remove the reserves to a secret location. Somewhere out of the city.”

“And this was achieved?” The banker nodded. “The entire reserves—without being observed or reported?” The commodore remained sceptical.

“It was done at night. Under pretext of removing the furniture from the palace for safekeeping in the event of an invasion.”

“And they think the French will believe that?” He sighed. “However, at least they have not got their hands upon it, so far as we know. Was your uncle privy to these discussions?” Another nod.

“So he knows where they have been secreted?”

“I imagine so.”

“What do you mean, you imagine so? Did you not speak with him?”

“No.” He bowed his head. “My uncle has also gone.”

Nelson took a chair and sat down in front of him. He leaned forward with his hands upon his knees and his chin jutting to within a foot of the banker's face. “Your uncle has also gone,” he repeated with heavy significance.

Grimaldi looked up. He appeared tearful. “With his entire family.”

“Also to a secret location?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly the same secret location?”

The banker saw what he was driving at. “Oh no!” He appeared indignant. “Oh no, there is no connection. The two events are entirely unrelated.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“But I assure you it is true. My uncle did not leave until a few days later. And by sea.”

“By sea?” Nelson frowned. “Why ?”

Grimaldi reached for the brandy but Nelson laid a hand upon his arm.

“Why ?” he repeated.

“It appears that my uncle was concerned that the French, if they came, might oblige him to disclose the location of the treasure.”

“I see. This did not occur to the other directors of the bank?”

Grimaldi shook his head. “I am sorry, I have no idea,” he said.

“So where is he now, your uncle?”

Grimaldi lowered his head again. “I do not know,” he confessed.

“Look at me, sir. What vessel did he sail in—do you know that?”

Another shake of the head. Nelson looked up at the lieutenant who was standing in the shadows with Nathan. “Can you help us with this, Mr. Pierson?”

“I believe it was a small brig, sir. One of the English prizes brought into Genoa: the
Childe of Hale,
of Liverpool.”

“What—with an English crew?”

“Not entirely, sir. But I believe there were some English crewmen aboard.”

“And where was she headed?”

“I believe for Leghorn, sir. But it was the night of the storm.”

“What? The storm that laid us so low?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They put out in
that?
”

“It was not then upon them. But sailing a course for Leghorn …”

“They would have sailed right into it.” Nelson put a hand to his brow and massaged it gently. “Well, I suppose we must send to Leghorn in the hope that she made it but …”

“We were forced to run before it, sir,” the lieutenant reminded him. “Far to the south-west.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pierson, if I ever need a new sailing master …” He caught himself up and raised a hand. “I am sorry, sir, I forget myself. Please, pour yourself a brandy and we must get you something to eat.” He stilled Pierson's protest and raised his voice: “Allan! Thomas Allan there!”

The steward stuck his long nose through the door.

“You want me now, is it?” he said. But then he saw the look on the commodore's face. “What can I do for your honour?”

“Bring us whatever was left upon the table that you have not already gorged upon, you rogue, and swiftly.” The commodore turned back to Grimaldi who still had his head in his hands. “Well, sir, I am sorry you have suffered such ill tidings but I hope we will have better news for you when we have sent to Leghorn.” He did not seem confident of it. He hesitated a moment and then added: “But if I may ask … the
Sacro Catino
—was it among the other treasures that were removed to this secret location?”

Grimaldi looked up. His face was anguished. “Why do you ask?”

“Why do I ask?” The commodore controlled himself with difficulty. “I ask because it is by far the most valuable item and … being so small and of its nature delicate and, of course,
sacred,
it occurs to me that it might have been secreted elsewhere.”

It was a shrewd supposition. The banker looked to Pierson, almost beseechingly. Nelson looked too, but with a more commanding eye.

“There is a rumour, sir, that it was taken by the Grimaldis,” replied the lieutenant gently. “In the
Childe of Hale
.”

T
HE
UNICORN
LAY UNDER
WORKING
SAIL
off the Rock of Monaco in a sultry evening heat. The sea was calm with just the very lightest of breezes coming off the shore. Nathan could smell pines and, he could have sworn, a hint of oranges. But then oranges had been much on his mind of late, for in the hills above Monaco—perhaps some ten or twelve miles inland—was the little town of Tourettes where Sara had said she would be waiting for him some day, if ever he lost her, sitting at the café in the square, drinking lemonade and eating cakes made of oranges.

It was a melancholy thought. For even if she were still alive, which was doubtful, and had found her way there, which was unlikely, he could never have reached her, for Monaco was now in the hands of the French: its princes in exile or prison, its harbour guarded by French guns, the tricolour flying—or at least drooping—from the masthead high on the fort. It had even been renamed, as was the way of the Revolutionists, and was now known as Fort-Hercule—presumably after the virile giant who had made the world safe for mankind by destroying the monsters that threatened to devour it.

Nathan gazed across the intervening water towards the vast monolith, rising some five hundred feet above the sea. The Rock had been a coveted possession, even in classical times. Perhaps even earlier, for it was said to have been a refuge for the primitive peoples of the distant past. According to legend, the castle on top of the Rock was seized by subterfuge in 1297 by the Genovese Francesco Grimaldi—known as
il Malizia,
the Cunning—with a group of armed men disguised as monks. And the Grimaldi had held it ever since, until the Revolution. It was of interest to Nathan now only because of the Grimaldi inheritance—and the probability that a number of merchant vessels, delivering munitions to the French armies along the coast, were sheltering in its small harbour, safe from his guns.

He had been sent here by Nelson to gather intelligence and disrupt the enemy supply lines, though the French seemed perfectly happy to live off the land, taking all that they needed to eat and drink from the Italian peasantry. Other supplies, such as guns and munitions, were ferried in small vessels that slunk along the line of the shore at night, keeping to the shallows, and sheltering by day in the ports and fishing villages that had been seized all along the coast of Liguria. Nelson had sent to the admiral, asking for small gunboats or brigs that could stand closer in but they were in short supply in the British fleet. In the meantime, his frigates patrolled the hostile coastline, picking up what scraps they could, helpless to affect the clash of Titans in the mountains.

How that clash was going, Nathan had no idea. The fishermen he had encountered along the coast, who were practically his only source of intelligence, appeared to know very little about the movement of armies and to care less. The French and the Austrians were fairly matched for size, at least in Italy, and it seemed to Nathan that they would fi ght themselves to a standstill in the mountains until the winter brought a plague on both their houses. The only thing he had learned of any interest—and that from a newspaper he had been given by the captain of a Venetian
barca-longa
—was that shortly before he left Paris for the front, General Buonaparte had celebrated his marriage to a widow woman called Marie-Josèphe de Beauharnais.

So Captain Cannon had won his Rose. Or “Josephine” as he apparently preferred to call her. Perhaps the new uniform had made all the difference.

Nathan watched the sun dipping beneath the long promontory of Cap Ferrat, some five miles off their starboard bow. A perfect sunset. But there was a humidity in the air and he did not like the look of the dark clouds gathering to the north, in the mountains above Monaco. There had been light but variable winds for some days now, the seas calm with mild morning mists, typical of the Mediterranean in spring, according to Mr. Perry, the master, but some instinct warned Nathan that this was about to change. He looked aloft but decided it would be over-cautious to take in sail, with no more evidence than an instinct.