King, Ship, and Sword

figures, partnered with a tall, mustachioed Colonel of the Guard Infantry… and sneaking brief but longing glances at Lewrie, before his wife caught her at it!

Christ, it'll be Emma Hamilton next! Lewrie miserably told himself; Irish Tess, Lady Cantner… even Soft Rabbit's ghost! Lord, but I need another drink! Now!

'And… here he comes now,' Paisley-Templeton said with enthusiasm as the orchestra quickly ended their air, and the tall double-doors at the far end of the long hall opened. People scampered from the centre of the floor to form up on either side as the First Consul made his entrance, hands behind his back and looking as if his boots were pinching his toes. 'Now, what does his choice of uniform mean? Oh! Perhaps he expected you in uniform, and means to honour you, sir,' Sir Anthony whispered with a hopeful smile.

It took better than three-quarters of an hour for them to find out what Napoleon's martial appearance meant, for there were other luminaries for the First Consul to greet; and Sir Anthony was more than happy to point them out and name them for the Lewries. There were generals, of course, the odd French admiral, men high in Bonaparte's government, along with composers, scientists, philosophers, and academics; civil engineers enrolled to expand the French road and canal systems, as well as actors and actresses, famed singers, and playwrights from the Comйdie Franзaise, even a scruffy, artistic poet or three. There was the crafty (some might say duplicitous) Foreign Minister, Charles Maurice Talleyrand-Pйrigord, a tall and spare former aristo and former powerful bishop with a taste for silly, and impressionable, young women. There were members of distinguished and titled old families of France, mostly those who had somehow escaped the rabid purges during the Reign of Terror, whose sons had atoned for their sins of privilege on the battlefield, and were now held blameless.

Finally, an elegant young fellow from the French Foreign Ministry approached Sir Anthony Paisley-Templeton, whispered in his ear, and indicated that that worthy should herd his presentees to a prominent place in the centre of the hall, before a set of chairs and settees quickly cleared of people, one chair in particular that would serve as a throne 'til the real thing was dusted off and dragged down from the garret.

'Not very big, is he?' Caroline whispered to Lewrie as they were led to the makeshift seat of honour.

Napoleon Bonaparte stood about two and a half inches shy of her husband's five feet nine. To Lewrie's memory, Napoleon had put on a few pounds since '94, but still appeared slim. His hair was now more carefully dressed, no longer a sans culottes page-boy; frankly, Bonaparte's hair was thinning, and was combed forward over his brow, shorn closer to the ears, with longer sideburns.

Forgot he and I have much the same blue-grey eyes, Lewrie told himself as they approached. From one side of the seating arrangement, a liveried servant came with a long bundle wrapped in dark blue, gilt-edged velvet. From the other, there came another man, bearing a much slimmer package.

Paisley-Templeton, presented first by a simpering Frog diplomat underling, responded in his excellent French with over a minute or two of 'gilt and be-shit' diplomatist-speak, with so many subordinate clauses that Lewrie's head began to reel trying to follow it. At last, he recognised that he and Caroline were being named to Bonaparte, and made a 'leg' with his hand over his heart, as Caroline performed a very fine curtsy (she had not imbibed as much champagne as he!) with a fetching incline of her head.

'Your servant, sir,' Lewrie spoke up, in English, in English fashion, and he heard Paisley-Templeton making excuses for their lack of fluency in French.

'The First Consul says you are welcome, Captain Lewrie… He expresses enchantment with Madame, and finds her beauty, and her gown delightful,' Paisley-Templeton translated. 'He remembers you, he says. Toulon… Fort Le Garde exploding… firing upon your ship, blowing her up, as well, uhm… You would not accept parole, and he told you then that, ehm… 'you have hair on your arse.' Had, rather,' their representative said, deeply blushing at the crudity, while the gathered audience tittered and chuckled.

'Tell him that I recall, vividly,' Lewrie said, not even trying to tangle his tongue with his French, not after four glasses of wine. 'Say that I am honoured that he would remember such a minor incident, such a minor encounter. Say also that, had I known who he was then, or to what heights he would rise, I would have tried to be more pleasant, even given the soggy circumstances.'

'Of course, sir,' Sir Anthony said, before launching into one more long simpering palaver. Lewrie noted, though, that Bonaparte had his lips curled in a faint expression of dislike for this pantomime. Unconsciously, one finger of Napoleon's left hand tapped on his thigh.

'He says that you appeared a half-drowned rat, sir,' Paisley-Templeton translated, 'with your stockings round your ankles, and your breeches draining water.'

'Aye, I expect I did,' Lewrie agreed with a grin. 'Though, as I recall, General Bonaparte looked natty. Does he still have that white horse he rode? A splendid beast.'

The pleasantries went on for another minute or so before Sir Anthony got to the meat of the matter, expressing a well-rehearsed preamble about Lewrie's wish, now there was a lasting peace between their respective countries, to return the swords he had taken, restoring them to France and to the families of the fallen.

At a nod from Napoleon, the liveried servant with the large bundle came to lay it across Lewrie's arms, just long enough for him to re-take possession before the draped bundle was formally laid at Napoleon's feet and spread open to reveal all five scabbarded blades, with paper tags bound to the hilts to indicate who were the former owners.

At another nod, the other servant came forward and gave it to Napoleon. He whipped the cloth covering off and tossed it aside, then held up Lewrie's old hanger for all to see before stepping forward-Sir Anthony gave Lewrie a slight nudge to make him take a step towards Napoleon to meet him halfway-and Napoleon held it out to him. But, before he actually let it go, he began another long speech, this time with his lips slit to nothing whenever a pause came, and he didn't look all that happy.

'Oh Lord, sir… he asks what sort of peace is it when England stalls and delays fulfilling its part of the terms. I won't bore you with all of it,' Paisley-Templeton said with a very good imitation of a placid expression on his stricken phyz, nodding now and again as the First Consul had himself a little rant at Lewrie's expense. 'He hopes you never have cause to use your sword against France again, but… does Great Britain continue in its perfidious course, the need to draw it will become more likely, and he… he expresses a desire that England sends him a proper ambassador, and accepts his own in London, else… before mistakes and confusion engendered by junior diplomatists do irreparable harm to the amity between our nations.'

Napoleon clapped his mouth shut for a moment, his lips pressed closer together, and his expression stormy, whilst the gathered crowd sounded quite pleased with his rant, the generals that Lewrie could see sharing wolfish, eager glances between them.

'He presents you with your old blade, sir,' Paisley-Templeton said at last, looking as if he wished to daub his face with a handkerchief. 'From one warrior to another.'

A quick imperative shake of the sword and Lewrie reached out to take it. He had enough wit to bow again and express his utmost thanks along with some of those phrases Sir Anthony had written for him: great honour to be presented; so pleased the exchange could be made; thanks for his excellency's indulgence; let us pray that peace prevails, and all that tom-foolery.

Lewrie stepped back at last, with a final bow in congй, as Caroline did a Parting curtsy, and Sir Anthony led them away from the Presence. 'It don't look like we'll have tea with Josephine after all,' Lewrie whispered to his wife. 'Sorry 'bout that, m'dear.'

'To see her was quite enough,' Caroline told him. 'She's not as fetching as we've heard.' An incline of her head led Lewrie's eyes to a woman in a pale pink and white ensemble, with her hair up in Grecian style, and roses in her hair, who was now joining Napoleon.

'Should we scamper, now it's done?' Lewrie asked their chaperone 'Or must we circulate and try t'be polite any longer? I don't think he cared much for it.'

'A quarter-hour or so, a last glass of champagne, and we could depart,' Sir Anthony told them, looking troubled and whey-faced. 'And not appear to be fleeing with our tails tucked.'

Once back in his appartements in the Tuileries Palace, Napoleon Bonaparte had his body-servant, Rustam, peel him out of his sash and uniform coat. He tore away his own cravat and tossed it on the floor, crossing to the fireplace (Napoleon loved a fire, even in temperate weather) and furiously jabbing at the coals