He stretched, his abdominal and chest muscles throbbing, and grimaced. Amazing, he thought cynically. Amazing how what seemed like a victory in Morocco could be viewed ambivalently in the genteel ambiance of Europe. And now he had to ride herd on American naval officers like some sort of school chaperone. Case appeared to have glee in his eye when he talked about that. What the hell has our navy come to? Wake asked himself. And me? I’ve become a nursemaid for grown men.
Then he saw the surgeon waddle up on deck and start toward him. The sight of his foul cabin mate made him groan again. It was going to be a very long tour of duty.
***
The French were doing this up right, Wake thought as he shepherded his charges—all of whom outranked him—through the gilded doorway into the grand salon of the French Consulate, where a line of plume-hatted dignitaries stood waiting to be fawned over. He had made sure the American naval officers were all in full cocked-hat and sword, heavy dress uniform, precisely on time and, especially in the case of the surgeon, clean and sober.
Rork’s transport, by launch and landau, went without mishap, and now there were nineteen American naval officers arriving resplendently to represent their country amidst the colorful arrogance of Europe. Strom was there with his lovely wife Christine, the American consul general acting surprisingly pleased that Wake had returned.
“Glad you’re back, Peter Wake. Been dull around here without you!”
Wake had been worried about Strom’s reception and was relieved. The consul general’s brow furrowed. “Seriously, son, I’m glad you got through that mess in Africa and are recovering. Relax and enjoy yourself this evening.”
Davis the assistant consul came over right afterward, one eyebrow raised, and wagged a finger. “See, Peter, I told you he liked you. In some ways you remind him of himself in his younger days. He was worried as hell when he heard what happened to you in Morocco.”
Over the string quartet in the corner, Wake heard a staff pound onto the polished marble floor three times, then an imperious French voice call out something unintelligible. Wake did catch the “etats unis” part though.
“Rear Admiral Augustus Ludlow Case! Commander-in-Chief of the European Squadron, United States Navy . . . and his officers . . .” repeated the major-domo in English.
Case moved along the reception line, smiling and nodding while blissfully mangling their language, which made even Wake, with his rudimentary grasp of French, wince. As the mere flag lieutenant, Wake didn’t even join the procession—he had read the protocol rules the day before and junior officers never were introduced to the upper classes at such affairs. But after the senior Americans had gone through, a gold-bedecked French admiral beckoned him over. It was Admiral Geaugeard, head of the Conseil d’Marine and a senior officer in the French Navy.
Wake glanced nervously at his boss who had seen the gesture. The admiral eyed him with a bemused expression and nodded to go ahead. With that tacit approval, Wake greeted the Frenchman using his own atrocious French, “S’il-vous-plait, excusez-moi, mon excelencie, pour mon frances c’est très mauvais.”
Admiral Geaugeard laughed uproariously, saying in very good English, “Lieutenant Wake, it doesn’t much matter if a naval man speaks the language of these,” he disdainfully looked about, “diplomats very well, as long as he can and will do his duty—killing his country’s enemies. And from what I have heard, Lieutenant—” He looked at the Lion of the Atlas medal on Wake’s chest, “that is something you can do very well.”
Wake stammered for a second, then blurted out, “Ah, merci beaucoup, sir. I just do my duty as best I can.”
Geaugeard put a hand on Wake’s shoulder. “Enjoy the evening, Lieutenant. We are delighted you are here. I think you will have a good time.”
That confused Wake, who wasn’t used to any, let alone foreign, admirals being so hospitable to him. He said thank you again and went off to the foyer to make sure all was well.
As Wake asked the servants to take out some finger food to Rork and the American bluejackets waiting in the street, Captain Staunton summoned him from across the crowded room. To his consternation, he saw Rork standing next to the captain, looking uncomfortable. Enlisted men, even senior enlisted men like Rork, were not customarily allowed inside officers’ soirées, and Wake knew instantly that something was up. A myriad of potential problems, topped by something the shore party had done, probably to or with a French female, entered his mind. But no, Staunton was smiling, so it couldn’t be that bad. Wake had never seen Staunton smile.
“Lieutenant, I’ll need you in a moment,” said the captain as he turned toward the entry. Wake was about to ask the bosun what had happened, when Rork also faced the doorway. The major-domo’s staff pounded once, followed by a deep bass announcement.
“Consul General et Madame Henri Faber, du Consulat de France avec le Sultan du Maroc.”
Henri Faber, with Catherine looking exquisite in yellow silk, swept into the reception line, greeting familiar faces, all of whom had gossiped about them months earlier when Faber had been dismissed from the post in Genoa. Wake had no idea they were in Genoa. He felt an odd sense of relief when he saw Catherine so obviously happy on her husband’s arm. A moment later they both embraced Wake and Rork.
“We have been recalled to France temporarily, Peter,” explained Faber. “Then we go to another posting. This time as chargé d’affaires at the embassy in America, of all places. Can you believe it, my friend? Such good fortune!”
“What wonderful news, Henri. Then your leaders are . . .” Wake didn’t know how to phrase it delicately.
“Still angry
