The Flag of Freedom

by Seth Hunter

  Other Nathan Peake novels by Seth Hunter

  The Time of Terror

  The Tide of War

  The Price of Glory

  The Winds of Folly

  The Flag of Freedom

  Published by McBooks Press 2016

  First published in Great Britain by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group, a Hachette UK company, 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Seth Hunter. The right of Seth Hunter to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

  Cover illustration © collaborationJS

  Typeset in Sabon by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  The Nathan Peake Novels, book five:

  ISBN 9781590137178 (softcover)

  ISBN 9781590137185 (mobipocket)

  ISBN 9781590137192 (ePub)

  ISBN 9781590137208 (PDF)

  Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

  Printed in the United States of America

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Apart from obvious historical figures—all characters herein are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ‘From the halls of Montezuma

  To the shores of Tripoli’

  US Marine hymn

  Prologue

  The Corsairs

  April, 1797

  It was the last ship out of Venice before the French landed. Caterina was lucky to find a berth. She had never seen such panic. The harbour was crammed with people trying to flee the city by the only means remaining to them. Pushing, shoving, shouting, swearing … it was like the worst days of Carnival. Some even wore masks, presumably to avoid being picked out by the French agents among the crowd, or more likely so they could push and shove and shout and swear without much risk of being recognised by their neighbours.

  Everybody who was anybody was here. Masked or not, Sister Caterina identified some of the most illustrious names in the Golden Book: the noble elite of the Serene Republic of Saint Mark reduced to the status of refugees or brawling fish wives in the marketplace. Anyone with the means to make their escape before the arrival of the invaders was doing so – with good reason to fear the fury of the mob if they stayed behind.

  Caterina was ashamed. Ashamed of Venice, ashamed of her fellow Venetians, ashamed of herself. As a leading member of the Patriot Party, she had played an important role in the fight against the French – and had publicly announced her intention of continuing that struggle, even in a city under occupation. The Doge, however, had persuaded her to think again. It would, he said, invite reprisals.

  And the French were very good at reprisals.

  ‘We must greet them with dignity and restraint,’ he had told her – shortly before announcing his abdication and making off with whatever he could salvage from the wreck of the Republic. The last Doge of Venice.

  So Caterina had gone, too, in her plainest, drabbest attire and without so much as a single servant to accompany her. She left the convent and her nuns to make what accommodation they could with their conquerors, and parted with a not insig nifi cant portion of her savings for a passage on the Saratoga, an American ship, homeward bound for Philadelphia after a profitable cruise in the Levant.

  Caterina had no intention of going so far, of course. There were some things worse than the French. For an additional outlay the Captain was prepared to land her in Naples, where she had influential connections. People who shared her political sympathies. People who would help secure the defeat of Bonaparte and restore her beloved Venice, if not to its former greatness, then at least to a position which would sustain a life of luxury and elegance for those with the wit and the charm to embrace it.

  In the meantime, she did not get a great deal for her money. Her cabin was the size of a small wardrobe, which she was obliged to share with one other passenger; her bed a cot which resembled an instrument of torture in the Doge’s prison; the sanitary arrangements would have disgraced a hovel in the poorer parts of the Veneto; the food was unspeakable.

  Caterina made no complaint. Some level of inconvenience was inevitable in the circumstances, and it was nothing to the discomfort she would have had to endure at the hands of the French.

  Her only real concern was the flag.

  She ventured to mention this on one of her rare encounters with the ship’s Captain on that restricted area of the upper deck where she and the other passengers were permitted to take the air.

  It was their second day out of Venice. The wind was from the north-west – or so Caterina had been informed by an admiring officer who mistook her casual enquiry for passionate interest and embarked upon an elaborate discourse on the subject of winds and compass points. It did, however, reassure her that they were heading more or less in the right direction. The flag in question was streaming from a rope or some such fixture halfway up the mast – an especially large flag of vibrant design and colouring, not unlike the wrapping on a fruit candy.

  ‘A fine spectacle, is she not?’ the Captain remarked, as he noted the direction of her gaze. ‘And a fine history, for all that it is a short one.’

  Or something of the sort. Caterina spoke adequate English – as well as French, Spanish, Latin and the Venetian dialect – but it was not English as the Captain spoke it. In fact, Caterina was not at all sure that what the Captain spoke was English at all. Certainly it was very different from that of the English Ambassador and those of his compatriots whom Caterina had encountered in Venice. She inclined her head politely, but something in her expression alerted him to a measure of doubt.

  ‘Or do you not think so?’ his tone was challenging.

  The Americans were a sensitive race, Caterina had observed, especially where their nationality was concerned. Possibly because their independence had been so recently and violently wrung from the English, for whom they were loath to be mis took. And they displayed a particular reverence towards their flag. The one outside the American Consulate on the Grand Canal had been the biggest in Venice, bigger even than the flag of St Mark which had flown from the Doge’s Palace – before it was flung down and trampled underfoot by the Revolutionists.

  Caterina hastened to explain that she had nothing against the flag in principle and was appreciative of its history. But was it wise to flaunt it so openly, she wondered, in such perilous waters?

  ‘Flaunt?’ he enquired, tilting his head and scratching his jaw. ‘Perilous?’

  He was a large man, his features gaunt and leathery from long exposure to the elements and his long greying hair un bound and unpowdered in the fashion of the French regicides. He looked a veritable ruffian, but then so did most Americans of her acquaintance, and yet she had heard it said that he was a Quaker and serious in his devotions. Captain Fry.

  Might it not attract the attention of certain undesirables, she persisted, shading her eyes to gaze up into his face and assuming an expression of anxious regard.

  ‘Undesirables?’ the Captain repeated with a frown.

  She put it in the vernacular. ‘Pirates,’ she said.

  The frown cleared. He chuckled agreeably. She was given to understand that she should not worry her pretty head about such things, which were more properly the concern of those with intimate knowledge of the maritime world.

  ‘Say an Ave Maria, if you wish,’ he advised her, being aware of her status as a nun. ‘Mysel
f, I will rely upon those objects there,’ indicating the twin rows of cannon upon the main deck, ‘in the unlikely event that we will have to use them. Ha ha.’

  Caterina was not impressed. It would take more than eight small cannon to deter the undesirables she had in mind. But the Captain made it plain that he considered her opinion to be of little value. She was a nun; what did she know of the sea and those who sailed upon it?

  Caterina was tempted to inform him that she knew a great deal more than he imagined – and a great deal more than she wished, in fact, for her last lover had been an Admiral and was inclined at times to be dogged in his instruction. But, of course, she did not tell the Captain any such thing. Americans, she had discovered, adhered to a strict moral code and were intolerant of any lapse in others. And though for the most part heretics, they appeared to have a far greater expectation of those in Holy Orders than most Catholics of her acquaintance – certainly in Venice where her activities had achieved some notoriety over the years.

  As Deputy Prioress and effectual head of the Convent of San Paolo di Mare, Sister Caterina Caresini had presided over one of the most successful and profitable casinos in the Serenissima. Indeed, it had been described, by detractors and admirers alike, as a ‘den of iniquity’ where almost every vice known to man or woman might be indulged – for the right price – and where the Devil himself would have blushed at some of the excesses permitted within its walls.

  This was something of an exaggeration.

  Whilst the convent did possess a magnificent gaming room and the Sisters had been known to grant their favours to chosen admirers, some of the entertainments reportedly on offer were extremely fanciful. Suora Caterina prided herself on her high standards, in vice as in any other indulgence of the flesh. Under her guidance, the nuns of San Paolo di Mare would never be guilty of lapsing into the supreme sin of bad taste.

  Though widely revered as a woman of fashion and distinc tion, Caterina had, in fact, risen from the most humble of begin nings. Her father had been a shepherd on the hillsides of Treviso in the Veneto, and their family name was not Caresini but Chodeschino – Sheep’s Head. He had died of the ague when Caterina was ten years old, and her mother had sold what was left of his flock and contrived to keep the wolf from the door by practising as a herbalist. There were some who called her a witch – Strega Rosa. From her, it was widely believed, Caterina had inherited an extensive knowledge of love potions and poisons. This was another nonsense. Caterina had not yet resorted to the use of poison and had no need of love potions to attract an admirer. Her face had always been her fortune and she had done what she could to make the most of it, initially as an actress in Verona where she had first announced herself to the world as Caterina Caresini – leaving Chodeschino back in the hills with her father’s grave and the sheep. Her success had been spectacular. She had soon established herself as the most beautiful, the most famous actress in Verona. And the most notorious.

  Scandal, of course, was grist to the actor’s mill, but there had been one too many – Caterina had been less circumspect in those days – and the Inquisitors had become involved. Caterina had bribed her way out of a flogging or worse, but she could not obtain a complete remission. She was given the choice of prison or a convent.

  Strange that she had needed to think about it. For in the event, the Church had proved even more lucrative than the stage. So much so that even after her recent troubles Caterina was in possession of a considerable fortune, the bulk of which was invested in the English banking house of Coutts & Company. But for travelling expenses – and she knew she might be travelling for some time – she carried about her a small purse of gold coins, and another of cut diamonds, cleverly set in wax and disguised as rosary beads. Having saved them from the French, she was not minded to hand them over to the Beys and Bashaws of the Barbary Coast, especially when such an event might so easily be avoided by flying a different flag.

  Caterina was as well-versed as any Venetian concerning the perils of the Barbary Coast. Named after the Berbers who had been its original inhabitants, it extended from Tripoli in the east to Morocco in the west, and since the time of the Crusades it had been ruled by a succession of Regents or satraps, nomin ally under the control of the Grand Sultan in Constantinople, but in reality answerable only to themselves and their warlike followers – and, of course, God and the Prophet.

  In pursuit of their war against the infidel, these princes had given licence to a particularly rapacious breed of pirates known as the Barbary Corsairs, who had become the scourge of Christian shipping the length and breadth of the Mediterranean. The prizes were brought into the ports of Algiers and Morocco, Tunis and Tripoli, where the ship and its cargo were impounded – and the passengers and crew either ransomed or sold as slaves.

  Naturally, this provoked a measure of protest – and in some cases violent retribution. The corsairs found it advisable to steer clear of vessels flying the flag of any nation possessed of a large enough navy to exact revenge for any transgression. And they bestowed immunity upon the ships of several other nations who were willing to pay them an annual subsidy. But for the rest it was open season – especially for those flying the flag of the United States, which was notoriously reluctant to pay the necessary bribes and had neglected to build a single ship-of-war to protect its maritime interests.

  Thus it would have been expedient, in Caterina’s view, to fly the flag of some other country, preferably that of France, Spain or England, which would give the marauder pause for thought. Having failed to impress the ship’s Master with this argument, however, she sought backing from her fellow passengers, not least the young woman with whom she was obliged to share her cabin, and who happened, coincidentally, to be the daughter of the American Consul in Venice.

  Although Caterina would have preferred the cabin to herself, Louisa Jane Devereux was as amiable a companion as she could have wished. She was young, charming and lovely. She did not snore, she did not smell, and she did not take up too much room. And she showed Caterina almost as much respect and admiration as the novices at the Convent of San Paolo di Mare. Had Caterina still been Deputy Prioress there, she could have put her in the way of earning a considerable stipend.

  Of course, being American and a Protestant, Louisa had little knowledge of the diversions available in the convents of Venice. She had, by her own admission, lived a sheltered life. Her mother had died within a few months of her arrival in Venice, and since then Louisa had rarely left the American Consulate, her only excursions being a weekly visit to the Lutheran church and the occasional trip along the Grand Canal to attend a concert at the house of Carlo Goldoni. The rest of her time was devoted to study and prayer – and providing a comfort to her poor father. She was just seventeen.

  ‘Bless you, my child,’ sighed Caterina. ‘There are many nuns who do not live so reverent a life.’

  Louisa was now bound for England to stay with a cousin, her father having deemed it safer for her than remaining in Venice during the present disorders. He would send for her when some measure of normality was achieved, he promised; and if the turmoil continued, he would join her in London and they would return to Virginia where she had been born and raised.

  Louisa did not seem overly impressed by this prospect. Her life in Venice, for all the restrictions placed upon it, had given her a taste for the exotic. She would like to see more of the world, she confided.

  ‘Be careful what you wish for, my child,’ Caterina warned her – she had assumed an armour of propriety for the duration of the voyage, there being little else to amuse her – ‘or the Devil might be tempted to indulge you. There are parts of the world, not so very far from here, which are a great deal more “exotic” than you would care to imagine.’

  But, of course, she then proceeded to supply the child with enough material for her imagination to run riot. So much so, that after listening with rapt attention to Caterina’s tales of corsairs and slave-masters, eunuchs and concubines, and asking a great man
y supplementary questions concerning the conditions she might be expected to endure should the worst happen, Louisa was moved to voice her concerns to the ship’s Master – a consequence which Caterina had foreseen and which had, to some extent, motivated her narrative. She considered that the gentleman in question might prove more receptive to the petition of an American Consul’s daughter than he had been to the former Deputy Prioress of the Convent of San Paolo di Mare.

  This proved unduly optimistic.

  He did, however, deign to give Louisa a more fulsome explanation for his confidence, which she dutifully reported to Caterina in the privacy of their cabin. The American government had apparently swallowed its pride and its principles to the extent of paying a subsidy to the worst and most dangerous of the corsairs. The remnant possessed nothing more startling than a few lightly armed galleys manned by starving slaves. The Saratoga could see them off with a stout broadside, he assured her. Besides which, her present course, down the western edge of the Adriatic and through the Strait of Messina, would keep them well clear of the danger zone. As for the practice of flying under false colours, this was a stratagem more to be expected of the English and the Venetians.

  And so, much to Caterina’s irritation, the Stars and Stripes continued to fly from the masthead. And for four days the Saratoga continued her steady progress towards the heel of Italy.

  And then the wind changed.

  This was not immediately apparent to Caterina, but she was informed by the first officer that it was no longer possible, with the wind in its present quarter, to navigate the Strait of Messina. Instead, they were obliged to sail much further south and would not be able to land at Naples as promised. Caterina and several of the other passengers would be put ashore in Sicily and obliged to find another vessel to take them to the mainland.

  Caterina was sorely displeased by this information, but in the event she was spared the inconvenience it would almost certainly have caused her.