20
The French First Lady of Genoa
Wake already wasn’t feeling well when he arrived—an hour late—the stress of his deteriorating family situation upsetting his stomach and making him edgy. Then he entered the French embassy’s ballroom and instantly felt worse. The gaslights at the consulate’s soirée were the brightest Wake had ever seen. Piercingly bright—bringing slices of pain through his eyes directly into the recesses of his brain. The headache was instantaneous and brutal. Wake cringed. Even the string quartet’s music was conspiring to hurt his head.
“What the hell kind of music is that?” Wake grumbled to Davis, who met him at the door of the ballroom and was regarding him dubiously. The naval officer was late, but at least he was there, though Davis thought he looked in pretty bad shape.
“That music would be from Giuseppi Verdi, the famous Italian composer. And please don’t make any negative comments, Peter, since the great man himself is standing over there in the corner. Next to his mistress, Teresa Stolz, the acclaimed soprano.”
Wake just wanted the infernal racket to stop hurting his head. “What’s this Verdi fellow famous for, anyway?”
“Well, that particular music, for one,” said Davis, trying to be patient. “It’s from Aida, the opera he composed for the Khedive of Egypt to celebrate the opening of their canal. A canal our French hosts built, by the way.”
A giant hand slapped Wake’s shoulder from behind, almost knocking him down. Strom suddenly filled Wake’s vision. “Why, if it isn’t our gallant Lieutenant Wake. Glad you could make it, Lieutenant.”
“Ah, thank you, sir. Sorry I’m late.”
Strom let out a belly laugh and slapped Wake’s shoulder again. “Not to worry, Wake. I’m just happy you’re here,” the joviality left his voice and his eyes, “to do your job. You are it around here for the U.S. Navy, Lieutenant. No one else to help you for a while.”
“Yes, sir. The job will get done, sir.”
“I know that, Lieutenant. No doubts there. Introduce him around, Dan. I want the lieutenant up to date and immediately ready to fulfill his duties as naval representative,” said Strom as he moved away to mingle with the other guests.
Wake looked at Davis. “You had to tell him I was late?”
“I don’t work for you, Peter. I work for him. Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”
Davis started with Verdi, an older, flamboyantly bearded man with imperious eyes that glanced dismissively at Wake. The composer didn’t bother to introduce Stolz, standing next to him, who appeared to be not enjoying the evening at all. After a round of courteous preliminaries, Davis steered Wake away and toward a tall, hatched-nosed man in a Royal Navy formal dress coat, the shoulders of which supported enormous gold epaulets, dwarfing every other officer’s in the room. The man was surrounded by lesser-ranked naval officers chuckling over some joke.
“Vice Admiral Drummond, it’s good to see you again, sir,” began Davis. “May I introduce Lieutenant Peter Wake, of the United States Navy, sir? He will be our naval representative here for a bit, while the squadron’s away.”
“You certainly may, Mr. Davis. Good to meet you, Lieutenant Wake.” Drummond waved a hand at the others. “Gentlemen, kindly introduce yourselves to Lieutenant Wake.”
The British officers went around the circle, introducing themselves and their assigned ships. Peter Allen wasn’t among them, and Wake asked about the Royal Marine. They said he had the watch aboard that evening and would pass along Wake’s good wishes. Each officer made small talk as they introduced themselves, mundane words with forgettable monotony—until the last one. He had prematurely graying hair above serious gray-blue eyes that were mismatched with a smiling mouth. Wake thought him in his early thirties, about his own age, but the man’s demeanor was of someone far older, a man used to commanding men. As the other Royal Navy entourage departed to follow their admiral toward the bar table, this officer shook Wake’s hand with a firm grip, holding it for an instant longer than usual.
“Commander John Fisher, Lieutenant Wake. Commanding officer, HMS Vernon.”
Wake almost fell down. He instantly envisioned that night at the dockyard on Antigua, remembering well the crate that had stenciled on it Vernon, and the name Fisher. “The torpedo school at Portsmouth, sir?”
“The very same, Lieutenant. It’s still a bit new. Do you know of it?”
Wake was aware Fisher was scrutinizing him, but whether from his worn-out appearance or his West Indies escapade he knew not. “Only by reputation, sir. It has an excellent one, as do you.”
“And you as well, Lieutenant,” Fisher replied as Wake’s heart stopped. Fisher knew of him? That meant he also knew about his escapade in Antigua. He struggled not to look anxious while Fisher continued. “I heard of your work in the Caribbean back in sixty-nine, by accounts, against quite a maniacal foe, under rather difficult circumstances. Commander Russell of HMS Plover told me of it a few months ago when he reported aboard Vernon. Said he assisted you a bit. He’s a great admirer of yours.”
Wake hoped his sigh of relief wasn’t audible. “Commander Russell is an outstanding naval officer and a considerable credit to the Royal Navy, sir. I am honored that he spoke kindly of me.”
Fisher allowed a chuckle to emerge. “Rodney Russell didn’t speak kindly of you, Lieutenant Wake. Nothing that benign. No, he said you were the most bloody dangerous pirate in the Caribbean and he thanked God he was on your side in that affair! He thinks you are a warrior, which is high praise indeed coming from him.”
Davis stood there amused, and Wake didn’t know what to say. Russell had been part of the search for a pirate, a mission that ended in Wake’s court-martial in Washington, at which Russell testified for the defense. “I am appreciative of that, sir and hope Commander Russell is doing well.”
“That
