Villeneuve did what he could, however. The ships must be repaired, the crews cobbled together somehow. The primary aim now was to be ready for sea again as soon as he heard from Napoleon. It was a long way from Cadiz to Boulogne and back by courier. Villeneuve set to work to regroup his fleet and have it ready for action the moment word came from the Emperor.
At Merton, Lord Nelson rose early on his first day at home and was on the road for London by 8.30 a.m. Emma Hamilton went with him, reluctant to let him out of her sight for a moment. They reached the Admiralty at 9.30. Emma left him there for his interview with the First Lord and went on in the carriage to her house in Clarges Street.
Nelson was not looking forward to his meeting with Lord Barham. They did not know each other and were men of different temperaments. Nelson was a vain attention-seeker, Barham irascible but shrewd. As soon as Nelson had landed in England, Barham had asked for his sea journals to be forwarded to the Admiralty so that he could look through them. It was an unusual request and Nelson had taken it personally. He suspected Barham was seeking an excuse to sack him.
In fact, Barham was deeply impressed by what he read. Whatever his opinion of Nelson’s vanity, the man was a consummate sailor. His pursuit of the enemy had been everything it should have been. Barham decided that Nelson was an even better admiral than he had been led to believe. He duly informed the Cabinet that he had every confidence in Nelson to continue his operations against the French. Nelson’s command was safe for the duration of the crisis. Indeed, Barham later recommended that it should be extended to include the blockade of Cadiz, not hitherto part of his brief.
Feeling considerably relieved, Nelson continued on his way. He had much to do in the next few days – people to see, business to conduct. One of his first calls was on the Prime Minister, who discussed the war with him and brought him up to date on the alliance with Russia and Austria. Two days later, he saw Lord Castlereagh, the Minister for War, and was equally well received. Far from being disappointed at his failure to catch Villeneuve, the politicians were full of praise for Nelson, convinced he was the man to beat the French. They seemed to think he could do no wrong, an attitude Nelson found distinctly unnerving. He said as much to a friend:
I am now set up for a Conjuror. God knows they will very soon find out that I am far from being one. I was asked my opinion, against my inclination, for if I make one wrong guess the charm will be broken.
It wasn’t only politicians who were impressed. Nelson was recognised at once in the street and mobbed wherever he went – hardly surprising, when every print shop in London carried pictures of him in the window. Ordinary people were thrilled to see him:
When he enters a shop the door is thronged, till he comes out, when the air rings with huzzaz and the dark cloud of the populace again moves on and hangs upon his skirts. He is a great favourite with all descriptions of people.
Lady Elizabeth Foster agreed:
Wherever he appears, he electrifies the cold English character. Rapture and applause follow all his steps. Sometimes a poor woman asks to touch his coat. The very children learn to bless him as he passes, and doors and windows are crowded.
Along the Strand, Nelson could hardly move for the crowd giving him repeated cheers. In Piccadilly, his friend Lord Minto observed, ‘It is really quite affecting to see the wonder and admiration and love and respect of the whole world . . . the moment he is seen.’
Nelson enjoyed all the attention, but Merton was where he really wanted to be. He spent most of his leave there, relaxing among family and friends. One of the many who came to stay was his clergyman brother William, the heir to his title. Dull and untalented, William would have been a simple country parson if it wasn’t for his brother’s success. Instead, he had shamelessly used the Nelson name to become a prebendary at Canterbury Cathedral, with all the accompanying income. He was angling now to become dean.
Nelson was visited also by Captain Richard Keats, who had sailed home with him aboard the Superb. Walking in the grounds one day, the two men discussed the need to revise tactics for the inevitable battle with the French. Traditionally, opposing fleets were supposed to form line ahead and then lay alongside each other, a process that could take all day, as it had during Calder’s action. But Nelson’s new idea was to form his fleet into two or three lines instead, enabling his ships to reach the enemy much faster and attack in several different places at once. It was a thoroughly unorthodox notion for the time, but Nelson had every confidence that it would work. ‘I think it will confound and surprise the enemy. They won’t know what I am about. It will bring forward a pell-mell battle, and that is what I want.’ Total annihilation of the French was Nelson’s aim, rather than an indecisive action of the kind Calder and Villeneuve had fought off Finisterre.
But where was Villeneuve? To Napoleon, scanning the horizon with increasing irritation, it seemed as if the wretched man was never going to arrive. Day after day, the view to the south of Boulogne was distressingly free of French sails. Villeneuve had his orders and knew exactly what to do. Napoleon couldn’t understand why he wasn’t doing it.
The frustration was driving the Emperor mad. He had his army in front of him. He had England in the distance. All he needed was Villeneuve’s fleet to clear the way, and everything would fall into place. It wasn’t much to ask of an admiral with twenty-nine warships under his command.
Napoleon knew all about the business with Calder. As well as his own sources, he had read the English newspapers, which were full of it. The English had been highly critical of Calder for breaking off the action instead of seeing it through to the end. Some had even accused him of running away. That was music to Napoleon’s ears – although of course he would never allow English newspapers to be so forthright once he had control of them. As in France, they would only print what Napoleon permitted them to print.
But if Calder had run away, why wasn’t Villeneuve in Boulogne? What had happened to the man – and Ganteaume, and Allemand, for that matter? Why weren’t any of them there, where they were supposed to be?
Napoleon had other worries as well. The news from Austria was not good: the Austrians were definitely mobilising. They clearly had no intention of complying with Napoleon’s ultimatum. They were massing forces along their borders, pointing towards France. What if they attacked while Napoleon was in England? He would have to fight on two fronts at once, with a hostile stretch of water in between. It was not an acceptable prospect.
At Napoleon’s Pont-de-Briques headquarters, the talk now was of the Austrian army rather than the Royal Navy. The maps of the English Channel had been put aside in favour of the road to Vienna. In low voices, Napoleon, Soult, Berthier and the rest weighed up their options if the Austrian army should decide to cross the River Inn. A few days’ march would bring the Austrians to the French border along the Rhine. A few more days and they could be in Paris. It must never be allowed to happen.
Where was Villeneuve? What on earth was keeping him? How much longer before he arrived?
CHAPTER 24
NAPOLEON POSTPONES
THE INVASION
Villeneuve was still in Cadiz. The British blockade there was so thinly stretched that Vice-Admiral Collingwood was desperately signalling to an imaginary fleet over the horizon in an attempt to frighten the French into remaining in harbour. But Villeneuve needed no urging. To the despair of his subordinates, he stubbornly refused to sail out and destroy Collingwood’s four ships with his own enormous force. He remained in port instead, refitting his vessels and waiting for orders from Napoleon.
Villeneuve was expecting to be joined at Cadiz by Captain Allemand from Rochefort and a Spanish squadron from Cartagena. To this end, he had asked for the Cadiz lighthouse, which had not shone since Spain’s entry into the war, to be lit every night. He also stationed some of his swifter vessels just inside the harbour mouth, ready to help the newcomers fight their way in when they arrived.
But Allemand was nowhere to be seen and neither we
re the Spanish from Cartagena. The only ships in sight were British. They knew where Villeneuve was now and they were determined to keep him there. A Royal Navy frigate had gone scudding back to England to warn the Admiralty that Villeneuve’s fleet was in Cadiz. Other navy ships were hurrying down the coast to join Collingwood and plug the gaps in the blockade. Villeneuve’s chances of escaping from Cadiz and arriving at Boulogne on time were looking more hopeless every day.
In fact, it was all too late anyway. Unknown to Villeneuve, Napoleon had given up on the invasion for the time being. After months of waiting for the navy, he had abandoned the idea in despair. His mind had turned to Austria instead. England was no longer uppermost in his thoughts.
On 25 August 1805, four days after they had rushed down to Boulogne to board the flotilla, the soldiers of the right-hand camp above the town were roused again and ordered to assemble on the parade ground. Napoleon wanted to see them all. He had something important to say to them. The men paraded reluctantly, wondering what was up. They had been frustrated so often by their commanders that they were beginning to lose faith. They wondered what they were going be told this time.
Napoleon had a proclamation to read to them. Printed copies were being distributed to all the invasion camps along the coast, but to the right-hand camp Napoleon announced it in person:
Brave soldiers of the Boulogne camp.
You are no longer going to England. English gold has seduced the Austrian Emperor, who has just declared war on France. His army has crossed the line. Bavaria has been invaded. Soldiers, fresh laurels await you beyond the Rhine! We march at once to beat the enemy we’ve already beaten before.
There was a moment of stunned silence after Napoleon had finished. The men stared open-mouthed at each other, wondering what to make of this. Then a great ripple of excitement spread through the ranks as the words sank in. The army’s mood lightened visibly and their faces lit up as the men contemplated this new challenge. To Napoleon’s valet, watching their change of mood, it seemed as if the men didn’t really care who they fought, so long as they fought someone. England, Austria – what difference did it make?
They set out at once. Within a few hours of the proclamation, the first troops were already on their way, marching headlong across France to take the Austrians by surprise. The operation had been planned well in advance. Everything fell smoothly into place as the soldiers forgot all about London and shouldered their knapsacks for the long haul to the frontier. They were the Grand Army now, no longer the Army of England. They left Boulogne so fast that most didn’t even have time to say goodbye to anyone, abandoning pet dogs and the girls of Happy Valley without a backward glance. Within two or three days, the bulk of the Grand Army was en route to the Rhine, leaving only 25,000 newly drafted conscripts behind to cover for the rest, giving the impression that the camps were still occupied and the invasion still on.
Napoleon himself lingered at Boulogne until 3 September to foster that illusion. Then he set off for Paris, intending to rejoin his army on the frontier. His plan was to defeat the Austrians in a lightning strike and then double back to the Channel to continue his unfinished business with England. He aimed to catch one enemy napping, and then the other. But the Austrians were the immediate target. Napoleon’s first priority now was to crush them and destroy their army before it could join forces with the Russians.
While the French were moving out of Boulogne, the British frigate Euryalus was speeding up the Channel from Cadiz. The ship reached the Isle of Wight towards evening on 1 September. The telegraph from Portsmouth did not work in the dark, so the quickest way for the Euryalus’s captain to alert the Admiralty to Villeneuve’s whereabouts was to go to London himself. Hurrying ashore, the Honourable Henry Blackwood hired a post chaise in Lymington and travelled to London through the night.
He arrived early next morning. On the way, he stopped off at Merton to brief Lord Nelson. It was 5 a.m. when his carriage swept up the drive, but Nelson was already up and dressed. One glance at Blackwood’s face told him all he needed to know. ‘I am sure you bring me news of the French and Spanish fleets. I think I shall yet have to beat them.’ Nodding in confirmation, Blackwood told him Villeneuve’s entire force was now refitting in Cadiz. He spent a few minutes giving Nelson the details, then got back in his carriage and resumed his journey to the Admiralty.
He was followed soon afterwards by Nelson himself. There was no time to waste now that Villeneuve had been found. Nelson hurried to London and went straight to see Lord Barham at the Admiralty.
The two men sat down to decide their strategy. They were determined to put an end to the invasion once and for all, but the task was formidable. According to the latest estimates, Villeneuve now had forty ships under command. Added to Allemand and Ganteaume’s fleets, the total would come to sixty-five – a nightmare if they all sailed together. The Royal Navy would be hopelessly outnumbered in a battle.
The answer was to isolate Villeneuve’s fleet and either sink or capture it. Nothing less would do. It was no good fighting inconclusive actions like Calder’s, where the French survived to fight another day. The French must be annihilated for good, in Nelson’s opinion. If they were to be annihilated, the Royal Navy would need every ship it could lay its hands on to make up the disparity in numbers.
Lord Barham agreed: Villeneuve’s fleet must certainly be destroyed. The Cadiz blockade would be heavily reinforced as soon as ships could be found. Nelson would take command, with Vice-Admiral Collingwood under him. The telegraph station on the Admiralty roof was already sending the necessary signals – one of them to Portsmouth to recall the Victory, which had been ordered to sail to Brest without Nelson.
Handing Nelson a copy of the Navy List, Barham invited him to choose his own officers for the task. Nelson demurred. ‘Choose yourself, my Lord. The same spirit actuates the whole profession. You cannot choose wrong.’ But Barham told him to choose anyway and dictate the names to his secretary. He left the room while Nelson did so.
Back at Merton, Nelson’s valet and steward packed his heavy bags and took them to Portsmouth on 5 September. Next day, Nelson was in London again to see the Prime Minister. On 7 September, he received a letter at Merton advising him that his orders were ready and drove at once to the Admiralty to collect them. He spent most of the following week at the Admiralty, finalising the details and making his official farewells. He saw William Pitt again and was escorted by the Prime Minister to his carriage at the end of their meeting, ‘a compliment which I believe he would not have paid to a Prince of the Blood’.
He also went to see Lord Castlereagh, the Minister for War. Castlereagh was delayed at a Cabinet meeting when he arrived, so Nelson was left to wait in an anteroom until it was over. He fell into conversation with a youngish army officer who also wanted to see the minister. Sir Arthur Wellesley was a major-general of thirty-six, newly returned from India, but didn’t look important to Nelson. Years later, the Duke of Wellington recalled their only meeting wryly:
From his likeness to his pictures and the loss of an arm, I immediately recognised Lord Nelson. He could not know who I was, but he entered at once in conversation with me, if I can call it a conversation, for it was almost all on his side, and all about himself, and in a style so vain and silly as to surprise and almost disgust me. I suppose something that I happened to say may have made him guess that I was somebody, and he went out of the room for a moment, I have no doubt to ask the office-keeper who I was, for when he came back he was altogether a different man, both in manner and matter.
All that I had thought a charlatan style had vanished, and he talked of the state of this country and the aspect and probabilities of affairs on the Continent with a good sense, and a knowledge of subjects both at home and abroad, that surprised me equally and more agreeably than the first part of our interview had done; in fact, he talked like an officer and a statesman.
The two men chatted for almost an hour. Wellington felt that he had never had a more inter
esting conversation and was glad Castlereagh had kept them waiting. Otherwise he would have thought Nelson ‘light and trivial’, as did others who didn’t know him well.
Behind the mask, though, Nelson was intensely sombre during those last days in London. Years earlier, a gypsy fortune teller had been unable to predict any future for him beyond 1805 and Nelson had not forgotten it. ‘Ah! Catty, Catty, that gypsy,’ he had confided to his sister, when she asked him why he was so depressed. Nelson had a premonition that he was not going to survive his next trip to sea.
He already had his coffin prepared. It had been made from the timber of L’Orient, the French flagship blown up at the Nile, and presented to him by one of his captains. It was kept now at an upholsterer’s shop in Brewer Street. Nelson went to see it before he left London, admiring the cotton padding and silk lining that the upholsterers had installed. A notice pasted to the bottom certified that the wood came from L’Orient. Nelson asked for the words to be engraved on the lid as well, ‘for I think it highly probable that I may want it on my return’.
The rest of the little time that remained to him was spent at Merton with Emma. They were both desolate at the prospect of Nelson’s departure. It was impossible for them to marry, but they had held a private ceremony at which they took the sacrament together and exchanged gold rings ‘to prove to the world that our friendship is most pure and innocent’. Emma longed more than anything to be Nelson’s wife and live peacefully with him at Merton. She was distraught at losing him again so soon. ‘Lady Hamilton was in tears all yesterday,’ reported a house guest. ‘Could not eat, and hardly drink, and near swooning, and all at table.’ She had sensed Nelson’s premonition that he was not going to return from the sea again.
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