Duty And Duplicity; Book 5 Of Poacher's ProgressChapter 2: Livorno free porn video
It was a sizable flotilla of ships that left Cadiz on the ebb tide, among which I recognised the xebec Bonaventure.
Otto was a looking a trifle green, but gave a weak smile when I asked after his health.
“Not as bad as I feared, Colonel. I seem to have found my sea legs — my stomach is slightly uneasy, but no more than if I had been out roistering the night before.”
I clapped him on the shoulder and joined Captain Montalbano standing alongside the helmsman. The captain was fully occupied in keeping clear of other vessels, and it was not until near sunset he found time to speak to me.
“Faro de Trafalgar,” he said, pointing to a headland some two cable lengths away on our larboard side. “Nelson.”
I gathered from this that the insignificant headland was Cape Trafalgar, which had given its name to the great sea battle of 1805, where Nelson destroyed the combined Spanish-French fleet, losing his life in the process. There appeared to be a signal beacon of some sort on the headland, but I doubt there was any monument to celebrate the victory.
Montalbano then pointed towards the east. “Barbate —- we stay night”
Circe made a slow entrance into Barbate harbour, where several other vessels were moored, one being the Bonaventure. I pointed out the ship to Otto as Circe tied up alongside a wharf.
“I would give a king’s ransom to search the hold of that vessel – it would prove one way or another if the sacks we saw being off loaded in Cadiz contained White Lady.”
“Circe’s crew will be spending the night ashore in the bars and brothels of the town, which are much cheaper than those in Cadiz.” Otto said. “I would expect our crew to associate with the crew of Bonaventure, who even if Neapolitans, are fellow Italians. I could mingle with them, and with my knowledge of Italian might hear something to ascertain if White Lady is part of the cargo. Seamen in drink are garrulous and indiscreet.”
It was a ploy worth trying, and I gave him a sovereign to assist the wagging tongues of any Bonaventure crew members he encountered.
I volunteered to stand watch aboard Circe while her crew spent the night ashore in drunken fornication. Captain Montalbano was over joyed at my offer as he would have been the man on watch had I not volunteered.
He kissed me enthusiastically on both cheeks before he left the ship. It appeared he had a favourite harlot in the port’s premier brothel.‘ El lugar de los placeres de la carne’.
Silence descended as the crew of Circe, with Otto amongst them, left the ship bound for a night of ferocious pleasure, while I paced the deck deep in thought.
Dolores is a common enough female name in Spain, and Elijah not an unknown Spanish male Christian name. Many equines in Spain bear the name of Don Quixote’s horse, but the combination of all three in Charles Godfrey’s family led me to believe Dolores Godfrey was none other than the Dolores who I had met at the sack of Badajoz. I hoped it was. Charles Godfrey was honest and decent, a family loving man, and a good match for Dolores. My one perplexing thought was concerning the age and parentage of his son Elijah, which is of course my own given name.
Had Dolores been carrying my son when she left Bordeaux, or was Elijah the result of their marriage? I would doubtless never receive an answer to the question.
After a period of contemplation on my possible parentage of young Elijah Godfrey, my thoughts then turned to the reasons I was making this journey to Italy.
The British government had decided, reluctantly it must be said, to assist the Greeks in their struggle to rid themselves of Turkish rule. The assistance was to take the form of teaching patriotic Greek volunteers to fight in the manner of British infantry. Their instructors would be members of His Majesty’s Eighth Regiment of Foot, presently on the island of Zante, only a stone’s throw from the Turkish controlled Greek mainland.
His Majesty’s Government (HMG) did not wish to antagonise the Turks by carrying out the activity right under their very noses; therefore, the political subterfuge that the Duchy of Tuscany was responsible for the operation was employed, with the Greeks being trained at Leghorn/Livorno, a coastal town on the western side of the Italian peninsula. It was hoped the Turks would be fooled into thinking the Grand Duke of Tuscany, who the Turks knew was a puppet of their deadly enemy Austria, was organising the enterprise and contributing the military staff.
In order to maintain this pretence all British personnel would wear the uniform of the Grand Ducal Army, whose equipment and arms the Austrians supplied. I doubted the Turks would be deceived for one minute by the deception, but politics and common sense rarely go hand in hand. Besides, such open and notorious fictions are the stuff of diplomacy, enabling both parties to ignore what they needed to.
Besides being appointed Commanding Officer of the British army detachment in Leghorn/Livorno, and Military Advisor to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, I had also been ordered to attend the Congress of Verona. At this meeting of the pre-eminent members of Europe’s political and military hierarchy I was to be at the disposal of Lord Castlereagh, His Britannic Majesty’s Foreign Secretary.
As I paced Circe’s deck through the long watches of the night I also dwelt upon the fate of my sister Rebekah. She had accompanied Percy and Mary Shelley when they left for Italy in 1818, and at the time I had warned Shelley I held him responsible for her safety and welfare, during and after their journey to Italy.
Rebekah, or Becky Sharpe, as she was known by her author’s nom de plume, had travelled to Italy to be with Lord Byron, with whom she was infatuated, and became his ‘companion’ when she and the Shelleys reached Venice. Their relationship had since broken down, and Byron left for pastures new, and the town of Ravenna. Becky followed him, and there had been an altercation witnessed by Lady Windermere, who had written of the fracas to her nephew in the Foreign Office.
Since then Becky had not been heard from, although during my sifting through correspondence from British nationals in Naples, and official reports from the consulate, etc. I had come to the uncomfortable conclusion my sweet sister was now the mistress of a Neapolitan brigand.
Some of my time in Italy would be spent investigating that worrying theory, but first I had some hot words for Percy Shelley. I had placed Becky’s well being and welfare in his hands, and it would seem he had failed her.
There was however the small, but complex, matter of the ‘boxing’ of Percy Shelley, i.e. the relocation of the gentleman — both terms being euphemisms for assassination. I had been recruited by Sir Boris Crossley into the Relocation Bureau, a secret department of government that protects the Kingdom by occasionally committing certain deeds not strictly within the law of the land. There are some high placed individuals who, if brought to public trial for their crimes, would cause the general public to become disgruntled with the ruling class, with all the consequences that could result from their disenchantment. Revolution, rebellion, and republicanism.
To save the realm from the threat of such a dire calamity the Relocation Bureau ‘relocates’ those problem people. They disappear, become extinct, and in fact become ex-problem people. Shelley had become such a person due to his frequently inflammatory publications.
As Shelley was currently in Italy I was thought the man best placed to relocate him, until I revealed my connection, through my sister, to him. Now my task was to locate and then observe Shelley, gathering information that would be of use to the person sent in my place to relocate Percy.
I was still pondering how to contact Shelley without arousing his suspicions when Circe’s crew arrived back on board, most of them in a sorry state of disrepair, even Otto had difficulty walking a straight line, and it was obvious I would learn nothing from him until he recovered his sobriety, and hopefully his memory, in the morning.
“Whatever you do in the future, Colonel, do not try to match a Swabian in drinking brandy!” Otto held his head in his hands, his eyes blood shot and sunken, but at least he was recovered enough to be able to report on his activity the previous night.
Circe was underway — seamen have a swift recovery rate from debauchery and drunkenness, as frequent application gains a certain tolerance to the after effects. After several tankards of water Otto gave me his account of the previous night’s debauchery — not that he engaged in any carnal behaviour, or so he maintained.
He had soon made the acquaintance of Bonaventure’s cook, who was a Swabian – which I learned from Otto is an inhabitant of the Swabia region of Bavaria, – and whose native tongue is German.
“Well, a sort of German,” Otto said, giving a disdainful sniff.
So pleased was the Swabian, a Herr Hans Drumpf, to be able to converse in his native language after many years of speaking Italian he babbled like a brook. Skilful questioning by Otto, accompanied by mugs of Andalusian brandy — a beverage not for the faint hearted — drew out information, such as the cargo carried by Bonaventure, and where the ship was bound, from a garrulous and inebriated Hans.
“Among the sacks of coffee and tobacco, and planks of mahogany wood, in the hold was something Hans referred to as Colombian snuff.” Otto said.
“Columbian snuff?” I was mystified. Although I knew tobacco was grown in parts of Spain’s South American colonies I had never heard of snuff being produced from it — or any sold in England. Of course, the Continentals have differing tastes to that of the British, and perhaps Columbian snuff is as popular in France and Spain as Balkan snuff is in England.
“Did — err —Hans allow you a pinch of the snuff?”
Otto grinned. “He did better than that; he sold me some.” He took a small bag, the type sailors keep tobacco in and wear around their necks with a leather tie, from his pocket and handed it to me.
I pulled open the drawstring, peered inside and saw a small quantity of white powder, which I suspected to be White Lady. To make certain I wet the tip of my forefinger and picked up a few grains, my lips numbed when touched by my finger, and I knew my suspicion was proved correct.
“How does a ship’s cook have White Lady in his possession?” I said.
“It appears Captain Caracciolo gives each member of the crew a bag such as this as part of their wages, but Hans wanted money for a whore, so I bought his from him.”
“You have done exceedingly well, Otto. So we can assume some of the Columbian snuff is bound for Barcelona and Marseilles, but the majority for Naples?”
He shook his head. “No, Hans said that on previous trips Marseilles received twenty sack, whereas and Barcelona and Naples only received five sacks each.”
“Marseilles? Few people on the Grand Tour visit Marseille, so the port must be the main distribution centre for White Lady/Columbian snuff, which I had thought would be Naples.”
And where I thought Eloise de La Zouche might be if not in Cadiz.
“There must be a huge volume of White Lady being exported from South America. How much would you estimate a sack of White Lady/Colombian snuff weighs?”
Otto thought for a moment before answering, recalling how we watched the sacks being dropped from Santa Barbara de los Angeles to the waiting jolly boat.
“Judging the way they were handled by the men in the jolly boat I would think they would weigh somewhere near twenty pounds.”
I agreed with his estimate. Assuming thirty sacks of White Lady, Satan’s Breath, Columbian Snuff — whatever the foul substance was named — each weighing twenty pounds, were brought across from South America on each convoy then 1200 pounds of a dangerous and addictive commodity was entering Europe every year.
Some two weeks after leaving Cadiz we sighted a smudge of smoke on the horizon that indicated the port of Livorno. During those two weeks I had come to admire the seamanship of Captain Montalbano and his crew.
The Mediterranean Sea has practically no tide, and entering and leaving harbour calls for extreme skill, with the captain of the vessel having to judge to a nicety when to deploy and furl sails — repeatedly, and with great precision and speed — sometimes coasting under virtually bare poles between moments of wind-thrust.
The crew of the vessel have to be equal to the task, which those of Circe certainly were.
We had docked at each of the three Balearic Islands, but it was the last port of call, Port Mahon on the island of Minorca, which proved beyond any doubt that Genvoese seamen are a match for any in the world, including British Jack Tars. Circe was manoeuvred with great skill, and exemplary seamanship, by Salvatore Montalbano and his crew, as they negotiated the serpentine approach to the anchorage without mishap.
Our noble captain pointed towards the faint outline of the Tuscan coast.
“We should be safely in harbour in two or three hours’ time,” he said, via Otto’s translation. “We will stay overnight, and I can sell all the sacks of coffee beans, and many of the barrels of olive oil, I bought from Don Carlos. I think we are the first ship from Cadiz to have called in, and should get a good price.”
Montalbano had referred to Charles Godfrey as Don Carlos, a mark of respect as well as the brand of his produce.
As we neared the harbour a shaft of sunlight illuminated the town; a colourful vista of red tiled roofs and whitewashed walled dwellings, sheltering behind a towering red bricked edifice, which Montalbano identified as Fortezza Vecchia, the old fort that protected the harbour.
As Circe glided towards the town I recalled the line in Reverend Heber’s hymn, ‘From Greenland’s Icy Mountains’.
‘Where every prospect pleases’ but then remembered the following line,
‘and only man is vile’.
There was no official British representation in Livorno; the nearest Consul was in Pisa. However, the Foreign Office had given me the name of a British citizen residing in Livorno, not that the person named gave me any confidence he would be of use. The man had been in Holy Orders, in fact a priest in the Vatican, but had transmogrified a nun into a mother superior, and was defrocked – an activity he had been guilty of performing with females in Rome for many years.
In any event there had been no need to seek out help as Circe was met on the quay by an exceptionally well turned out officer of the Grand Duke of Tuscany’s bodyguard, and any misgivings I might have held as to the efficiency of Italians in general, and Tuscans in particular, were swept away.
The officer, a swarthy young man of about Otto Blackmore’s age, gave me an extravagant salute, and then introduced himself.
“Lieutenant Federico Fellini, of His Royal Highness the Grand Duke of Tuscany’s Bodyguard, Your Excellency. Welcome to Tuscany.”
His English was excellent, if heavily accented, although I subsequently discovered he had learned the phrase parrot fashion, and all subsequent conversation between us was conducted in Italian, with Otto Blackmore acting as translator.
While I bade farewell to Captain Montalbano and his crew, Otto’s and my luggage was removed from Circe and placed on a barge that had come alongside. We then set off across the harbour towards the ‘Old Fortress’ but instead of disembarking at the quay the barge, rowed by a dozen sweating men, entered a canal to the side of the fortress. We then made a slow but interesting passage along a network of canals to another citadel, the Fortezza Nuova, or ‘New Fortress’.
This fort, built in the 17th Century following the designs of the great military engineer Vauban, was to be the quarters of the Greek volunteers, their instructors, and the Military Advisor to the Grand Duke.
I was shown to a suite of apartments that would serve as my living quarters as well as office. Otto’s room was in the corridor leading to my suite.
Lieutenant Fellini showed us the accommodation reserved for the Greeks; a three storey building with bedding and storage facilities already in place — enough to accommodate at least two hundred men. The quarters for their instructors were equally well provided for, with bedding, wardrobes, and chests of drawers. I nodded when Fellini indicated if everything was to my satisfaction. He then spoke in Italian, which Otto translated for my benefit.
“The fortress is also the headquarters of the Livorno detachment of the Tuscan gendarmerie, Colonel. Capitano Carlo Ponti commands the detachment, but is presently away with most of his men dealing with a series of brigand attacks. He is expected to return in two days’ time —- he then, of course, will be under your orders. The Greeks, with their accompanying British military instructors, are expected to arrive within the next two weeks.”
Before Lieutenant Fellini departed, and after he had introduced the cook, maids, and major-domo who would attend Otto and I, he handed me an envelope bearing the Great Seal of Tuscany. He treated me to another grandiloquent salute, and then was born away on a waiting barge.
I confess my head was spinning with all the information imparted, translated by Otto, which I had to assimilate. I sat in one of the comfortable chairs in my office, motioning Otto to sit in its companion.
“I suppose I should read this letter — doubtless there will be orders from the Grand Duke — but I first need to catch my breath, and then have a bite to eat. Would you be so kind as to ask the chef for some dinner.”
The words were scarce from my mouth when a knock on the door, accompanied by a glorious aroma, heralded the arrival of dinner, the chef, and two serving maids, who quickly laid the large table in the room and invited us to partake.
After a fine meal, which introduced me to pasta and reacquainted me with garlic, I broke open the seal of the envelope.
I was instructed to present myself to His Royal Highness, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, at the Medici Palazzo in Pisa at my earliest convenience. I was astonished to read I was to be uniformed as Colonel, and Otto as Lieutenant, of the Ducal Bodyguard, the uniforms to be made by a Livorno tailor as soon after our arrival as possible.
I thought Florence — or Firenze as I have to remember to call the city — would be the domicile of the Grand Duke. No matter, my orders were to attend him in Pisa, and Pisa would be my destination once suitably attired. Obviously, we could not attend the Grand Duke until the tailor had made the uniforms.
Pisa was only a twenty-mile ride away, and hopefully the roads of Italy, constructed by those exemplary road builders, the Roman legions, would be in a good state of repair. I calculated we would be away from Livorno for no more than a night or two.
Next morning a tailor presented himself at the fortress, and after several hours of measuring of both Otto and me declared he would deliver the uniforms by the next day, and make any necessary alterations.
Three days after arriving in Livorno Otto and I donned our resplendent new uniforms, which bore a striking resemblance to that worn by Austrian Imperial Guard infantry, but with rather more braid and aiguillettes than was necessary.
The road between Livorno and Pisa was in good repair, built as it was on the foundations of the Via Aurelia. There was also a canal between the two cities — the port of Pisa, marina del Pisa, had silted up in the 15th Century and Livorno had then became the entry port for central Italy. With most of the bulky goods carried by barge, or navacelli, via the Livorno-Pisa canal, the road was kept free of heavily laden, slow moving, carts, allowing Otto and I to make good time to the famous city, arriving in under four hours after leaving Livorno.
On arrival at the Medici Palace Otto and I were shown into an anteroom. Some little time later the imposing double doors at the western end of the room were flung open and stentorian voice announced.
“Leopold, Duke of Chianti!”
A young man, who I estimated at about twenty-five years of age, walked into the room. He was of medium height but carried himself with the air of a much taller man, and wore the uniform of an Austrian general.
Both Otto and I saluted; I heard the click of Otto’s heels — old habits die-hard. The young man returned our salutes, his eyes scanning the pair of us.
“I regret my father is unable to receive you, Colonel, he has his physician in attendance, but I hope you will not be disappointed to have your audience with me, Leopold.” He indicated some chairs in a corner of the room. “Please be seated, gentlemen.” His English was heavily accented, but Germanic rather than Italian.
He sat down and held my gaze.
“I have taken an interest in the matter of the Greek training program, and I hope you will provide me with an account of progress on a regular basis — perhaps monthly by letter? I would not wish to draw you away to Pisa or Firenze to report in person. The court will be moving back to Firenze in April. We spend the winter months here in the more agreeable coastal climate of Pisa.”
Naturally, I agreed to his request.
Leopold was an easy man to like. He was polite and considerate to his inferiors, and in the course of our conversations over time, I found him to be a moderniser, and more liberal in his sympathies for the common people than was probably good for him.
He asked pertinent questions concerning the training program, which I had yet to devise, and put forward ideas that I thought feasible to follow.
Tammi
- 09.12.2021
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