19

The Empires’ Men

Wake met with Davis over lunch two days later, getting further background on the situation around the Mediterranean. At Café Cavour, on the shady side of the Piazza Portello, Davis explained Strom was out of town and he had plenty of time that day to fill in Wake on who exactly was who, in the diplomatic corps at Genoa. Between bites of pasta, he proudly described it as one of the plum diplomatic assignments of Europe because of its economic importance and central geographic location. Then he flashed his boyish grin and added that its proximity to the casinos and ladies of the Cote d’Azur didn’t hurt either.

“And, of course, how can you help it? Everybody loves Italy, Peter. Especially these fellas coming from northern Europe. You think it’s cold and wet here—try Hamburg or Copenhagen or Saint Petersburg.”

Devouring a mound of toasted ravioli, a Genovese specialty, Davis proceeded to tell the particulars of the various consuls, offering that the most interesting of them were Yeats-Brown, the British representative; Burgos, the Spaniard; Strom, the American; and Faber, the Frenchman. Each of these had a special story of his own, and after a tumbler of Barolo red wine, Davis began.

“Let’s take the Brit first. Montague Yeats-Brown—I’ll just call him Brown, to keep it simple—lives at a romantic little hilltop castle overlooking the sea thirty miles down the coast from here at a quaint fishing village called Porto Fino. He is well regarded and very influential in the diplomatic community. Brown’s owned the castle for seven years, having bought it as a rundown ruin from the state of Liguria for seven thousand lire—that’s about five hundred dollars—after he fell in love with it from the deck of his yacht, the Black Tulip. ”

“Well-to-do nobility back in England?”

“I should say. He is grandson of the second Baron Erskine and great grandson of the Lord Chancellor to King George III. He also has some pretty solid American ancestors. He was consul in Boston at one point and likes Americans. I think you’ll get along with the man.”

Wake agreed that the Brit sounded intriguing.

“There’s more,” added Davis. “Four years ago, Brown married Agnes Bellingham, the lovely daughter of Sir Alan Bellingham, third Baronet of Bellingham Castle in County Louth, Ireland. The lady’s proven to be a charming hostess for Brown’s soiree’s, which are the most impressive around here.”

“I suppose I should brush up on my manners, then, in the off chance I have to attend one of these fancy affairs. Though I would imagine I am far too low-ranking for that.”

“Ordinarily, yes, you would be too junior. But now you may very well get that chance, Peter, since you’re our senior naval representative in these parts. So yes, practice your diplomatic skills. Brown’s gatherings are famous for including those who are at the very top of the social list. People who make, or influence, major political decisions. Because Castello Brown is so remote, guests usually stay the night—the most valued within the walls, the others at inns close by. Big honor to get invited.”

“What’re the circumstances of Strom?”

“Circumstances? How very genteel, Peter . . .”

Wake laughed. “I’m trying, Dan.”

“You’re doing pretty well! About Strom, he’s the most genuine person I’ve ever met. Can be a best friend or worst enemy—and there’ll be no doubt which he is to you. He made his money the old-fashioned way—he inherited it when his father died before the war. Then our Beau did something really smart. He put it all in New York banks under a corporation’s name in April of sixty-one. Hid it during the war. He fought, with the rest of his family, in the Tenth Louisiana, an infantry regiment that served under Lee in Virginia. Took horrible casualties—out of six hundred men that started out in the fall of sixty-one, only thirteen enlisted men and four officers made it to the surrender four years later. Strom was one of those. He’s told me that everything in life is easy after living through that hell. Gave him a sense of perspective about trials and travails, he says.

“After the war he got his money back, made a few investments in land and hooked up with Longstreet in Louisiana. Became a Republican and helped Grant out. Grant gave him this job as a thank-you. Happens all the time, but we were lucky in getting him. Unlike many political appointees, he’s got spine and he’s got brains. Oh, Strom plays the bon vivant all right, but he can cut through the dung in a second and tell it like it is. He likes you, by the way. Says you have ‘old eyes’ and that means you’ve seen a lot in life.”

“And the Spanish diplomat? What of him?”

“The Spanish consul general is quite a work of art, too—in the opposite direction. Colonel Ramon Burgos, de something or other, has been here about a year. He recently declared himself to be one of the Carlists who are trying to reestablish the throne, but only with their guy on it, though everyone suspected he was for a long time. He fought for the crown in sixty-eight and is a friend of that Spanish general who butchered the Americans and Brits in Santiago. Keeps defending him.”

“He’s a Carlist? But he represented the Republican government here.”

“They’re all inter-mixed. And they change sides with the wind.”

“Must make it difficult to keep track of who’s on what side,” suggested Wake.

“It does. But we always knew Burgos was anti-American. No confusion there. Burgos never lets an occasion go by without indelicately suggesting that Spain needs to bloody the yanquis’ nose over Cuba once and for all so the U.S. will stop supporting the revolutionaries. Said our navy was a joke and the Spanish were tired of hearing about it. One night Strom suggested that Burgos should just go there to Cuba so he could be first on the front lines if it did come to blows. Burgos answered that he’d already been in Cuba and killed a bunch of ‘the revolutionary swine,’ which he considered nothing more than American puppets, and he would go wherever needed once the shooting started.

“Peter, just wait till you meet that fella wearing your nice blue yanqui navy uniform. That’ll be fun to watch. Oh, and just so you know, your admiral hates his guts.”

Wake wanted to ask about his new commander, Rear Admiral Augustus Ludlow Case, but knew that would be inappropriate. Davis wasn’t in the navy and Wake couldn’t give the impression of gossiping about naval officers. Instead he inquired about the man in the carriage.

“What about the French consul?”

“Ah yes, Monsieur Henri Faber de Champlain. Hero of the Siege of Paris, adventurer and entrepeneur, and defender of the new French Republic. One of the most interesting and least likable in our little cast of characters. He made his fortune through old family money too. Sugar money from a brother who’s still in the West Indies, textiles in India, printing in Paris, and more recently, rubber in Cochin China.”

“How’s he a hero of the siege at Paris? They lost that one.”

“The country lost, but a few men did prove themselves. Faber was one of them. He was always interested in ballooning, and when he got caught in Paris during the war he was one of a small band of balloon enthusiasts who assembled their aerial crafts and flew out people, pigeons, and important documents.”

“Pigeons?”

“Yeah, believe it or not, they were transporting homing pigeons out of the city so the birds would carry messages back into the city from French-held territory. The Germans tried but couldn’t stop the aerial flights, neither the balloons nor the birds. Sounds ridiculous now, but it was deadly serious then and it worked. One of the few things the French have to brag about from that siege—birds and bags of air. You should hear Faber’s tales. He made one of those flights himself. Crashed down with the bag deflated and a bunch of bullet holes in the fabric. Damned near died.”

“How is he the least likable?”

“His attitude. No skill at talking with people. Strom’s a natural—you instinctively trust what he’s saying. I can at least fake it in the company of these people. But Faber, he talks with a mean edge, like he’s got a grudge against life itself. Manages to put off just about everyone who listens to him for longer than thirty seconds. Gotta voice like the sound of doom. Never seen the man laugh or even smile.”

Wake remembered the eyes and could well imagine the voice. “Then why did they send him here as a diplomat?”

“Good question. Nobody knows, but everyone assumes it’s a quid pro quo for his sacrifice during the war. He lost a lot of money and almost his life. That’s how senior diplomatic posts get filled by most countries. Payback.”

“Is Faber anti-American, like the Spaniard?”

“I don’t really know. He acts like he’s anti-everyone.”

“I wonder what his relationship with the leaders in Paris is now?”

Davis tilted his head. “Tenuous, I should think. The leadership will be changing soon.”

Lunch was done and Davis appeared ready to leave, but Wake had one more question. “All these politicos, what’s their opinion of the U.S. Navy?”

Davis sighed and looked down at his plate. “You really want to know? You won’t like it.”

Wake nodded.

“They think it’s a joke. Just like our Monroe Doctrine of protecting the Western Hemisphere from their incursions. They treat us, and our navy, as they would a young nephew, with condescending charity, but no professional respect. Our navy is neither powerful nor numerous, and so its image—and our national prestige—are on a par with countries like Argentina.”

Wake thought as much. He remembered Catherine’s warning about appearing weak to Europeans.

“And you know what really galls the hell out of me about all that, Peter?”

Wake shook his head, the myriad of information circulating in his mind while Davis’ face tightened with anger.

“The sons of bitches are right. . . .”

***

The day following that lunch brought a letter from Linda. Wake opened it fast, hoping for positive news.

January 15th, 1874

Dear Peter,

First things first. The children are fine. Sean is playing at climbing trees now, pretending they are masts on a ship and you are the captain. Useppa’s limp is the same but she says she is in less pain, but I wonder if she’s just trying to make me feel better. She can tell that Mommy is sad. I never say anything in front of them about us, but Useppa can tell, I think.

I found out from Mrs. Leary that the Navy department has a rule they started back in 1869 saying an officer will do 3 years sea duty, followed by 3 years of shore duty—alternating every 3 years. I couldn’t believe it! She got me that order number from her husband. It’s General Order 112 from the 17th of March 1869. Her husband came ashore three months ago after only two years. And I’ve talked with other wives whose husbands haven’t as much sea time as you.

Peter, since your court-martial in ’69 you’ve been on continuous sea duty, and now they say you’re staying on it until 1875? That’s six years of straight sea duty and it’s absolutely outrageous!

I’m very angry at how they’ve treated you and how you put up with it, like some whipped dog. It’s time for you to tell them either they give you another shore duty assignment or you’ll leave. You have every right and your family needs you at home.

Forgive me for being blunt, but I love you and want the best for us, and our children. I don’t even know where you are right now, which really just adds to the worry. It’s a new year and time for you to have a new outlook on your life and your responsibilities to your family. Now, Peter. This is making me more bitter by the day.

With love,

Linda

Wake sat for a long time staring at the ultimatum. Looking at the curls and swirls of her handwriting, the slant of her script, the black ink’s shades, trying to divine more from the letter, to understand the depth of her anger. Since the court-martial she had been increasingly angry with his naval career, but Linda knew that he was a naval officer when she married him. Now the guilt he had felt for some time over her unhappiness was turning to anger. An ultimatum? Heat rose through his body, flooding into his mind. His jaw tensed as he thought about the tone of her letter.

Wake stood and looked out the window at the ships moving around the harbor, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, trying to calm himself. He knew of that regulation, but it was a guide, not an ironclad rule, and most officers knew that. Most of their wives knew it too. And understood. He exhaled slowly again, willing himself to calm down. Then he looked down at the letter in his left hand and noticed his right hand. It was clenched in a fist.