H.M.S. COCKEREL

Chapter 5

King Ferdinand the Fourth was a touch more than crude. II Re Lazzarone was as vulgar as a horse-coper. For a moment Lewrie was not sure which of the low figures in the cook shop he was, until a tall, beaky fellow came from behind the counter, dressed in a flamboyantly figured black-and-silver waist-coat, silk shirt and laced stock, in fawn breeches and gleaming top boots. He wore a white publican's apron, which he cast aside as he approached.

Sir John Acton presented him, then stood in as translator. A moment later, after the latest news had been digested, Lewrie ended up in a bear hug, being bussed on both cheeks over and over, lifted off his feet, and danced round the cook shop, as a pack of wastrels and idlers cheered lustily.

"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.