Tested by Fate

by David Donachie

  Almost her first words on coming aboard had been a polite enquiry after Mrs Nelson. The predatory gleam in her eye as he replied that he had no wife had troubled Nelson. Trapped at table, with George Andrews a visible reminder of his hopes, he was brusque with both. This wounded the girl and bounced harmlessly off the mother. Her “butterfly,” as she so inappropriately called Rosy, was off to the West Indies unattached. Clearly, Lady Hughes had no intention that she should return to England in that same estate.

  “You’re sure the hour of dinner is not too early for you, madam?” he asked, seeking to shift the conversation towards alimentary rather than matrimonial pursuits.

  For once his passenger replied precisely to the point. “A trifle. I reckon my disposition, after long abuse, will bear it. Your three of the clock dinner is a naval habit that the Admiral insists on when he’s ashore. My butterfly greets his determination to dine early with much grief, claiming it plays havoc with her digestion, which is, I may say, as delicate as her manners.”

  “Then she must take care to avoid sailors, madam,” snapped Nelson. “We engage in a rough trade and perforce make poor husbands.”

  It had been too good an opportunity to miss, but he had spoken with more force than necessary. Lady Hughes might be single-minded, but she was far from stupid. More than that, she was not one to suffer so without retaliating. Her glance strayed down the table to where Midshipman Andrews sat opposite her own son, Edward. She had noticed that among the ship’s youngsters the Captain had afforded this blond child extra attention.

  “You do not hold with officers marrying, sir? Perhaps you find it unnatural.”

  The inference was evident. He had to fight the temptation to administer a public rebuke at such a charge. Only her position as the Admiral’s wife saved her. But his reaction clearly alarmed the lady since she sat back abruptly—anyone who had seen his face at that point would have recoiled: his eyes were as hard as gemstones, the skin round his jaw was fully stretched, and his reply was delivered in a subdued hiss so at odds with his normal manner. “You will oblige me, madam, by leaving off with your matchmaking. I expect you to apply this injunction to both myself and my officers. Your position affords you many advantages, but trapping your husband’s inferiors is not one of them.”

  “I dislike your tone, sir!”

  Nelson deliberately looked at Andrews. “And I, Lady Hughes, dislike your insinuations. I will have you know that I have an arrangement with that young man’s sister.”

  She didn’t flinch, being of the type who didn’t require her husband’s position to provide a defence. Lady Hughes was formidable in her own right, quite strong enough to examine Nelson with open curiosity, as if seeking to determine whether his words were true. He, on the other hand, could not respond in kind: he was well aware of the flaws in his forthright rejoinder and he was obliged to concentrate on his plate to hide his thoughts. He was contemplating putting the Admiral’s family ashore, with a “goddamn” to the professional consequences.

  When he looked up again Lady Hughes had turned away. Her eyes were roaming the table and when she spoke Nelson knew that, despite his clear injunction against it, her attention had shifted to a new target.

  “Lieutenant Millar, I’ve scarce been afforded a chance to make a proper acquaintance.” Nelson’s premier bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I am sure your duties have precluded it. You’re from the Americas, I’m informed, that melancholy country. My boy tells me you keep them to their tasks. Rest assured that my husband will be made aware of your zealous endeavour.”

  “You are most gracious, milady.”

  “Did you know that my husband once had this ship?”

  His reply, when he took in the look on his captain’s face, was nervous: “No, madam, I did not.”

  “And very fond of her we were. To me she will always be dear Boreas. Why, I felt as though I was stepping aboard a private yacht when I came on to the deck.” The hiss beside her, from the present commander, did nothing to deflect her. “Perhaps, Mr Millar, with your captain’s permission, you will escort me in a turn around the deck after dinner.”

  Millar could not refuse: to a man of his rank the lady’s expressed wish was as good as a command. And his captain could not intercede for the sake of good manners. But it was gratifying to him, at least, to see Rosy Hughes drop her head into her napkin in a vain attempt to hide the embarrassment. At that moment Lepée, leaning close to whisper in his ear, distracted him.

  “Mr Berry’s compliments, your honour. The Port Admiral has made our number and sent us a signal to weigh.”

  “Mr Millar will be relieved when he hears that,” replied Nelson softly.

  The forward half of Nelson’s cabin was partitioned so that he occupied his own sleeping and working quarters. The Hughes family had the day cabin as theirs, though they were obliged to shift to the coach during daylight hours. Despite his respect for Lady Hughes’s position, Nelson did not set aside the midshipmen’s lessons to accommodate her presence. A class of twenty-five, of whom all but five would shift to different ships when they raised Barbados, required space to learn their lessons. In truth, when it came to the majority their education was none of his concern, but if anything cheered him it was imparting knowledge to youngsters. To him, Edward Hughes was no different from the rest, and suffered not one jot from his mother’s poor relations with the Captain.

  Nelson was also on deck at midday to oversee the noon observation, where the young men would learn to use their quadrants. They studied mathematics, trigonometry, and navigation with the master. At night they were lectured on the stars, so that they could read their way around the world by merely looking aloft. Then there were their duties as young gentlemen.

  Though not commissioned, they were officers as far as the ship was concerned. Fencing lessons would be given daily. There was gunnery and sail drill; how to recognise which knot to use and when, then instructions in the actual tying. In calm weather, each mid in turn would be given command of a ship’s boat, with Giddings and an experienced master’s mate on board for company, their primary task to sail in strict station on the mother ship.

  This manoeuvre called for seamanship. The run of the sea and the play of the wind on the frigate’s larger area of sail ensured different rates of progress. In time they would be ordered away to identify some imaginary sail on the horizon, with a rendezvous provided for the following day. These orders would be delivered by an officer standing on the poop, speaking trumpet in hand, yelling a stream of instructions, none repeated, which the candidate had to memorise without benefit of pen or paper.

  Nelson’s greatest concern was for the youngest of his charges, an eleven-year-old child whose small build exaggerated his lack of years. Called Henry Blackwood, he was under four foot tall and so scrawny he looked like an eight-year-old. Nelson had paid particular attention to him from the first day, knowing that his appearance would leave him open to abuse from his fellows. Words with the gunner’s wife had him removed from the mid’s berth after dark, to be accommodated in the gunner’s own quarters, as Nelson had once been.

  But that only protected the lad at night. During the day he was exposed to all the perils of his peers. The Navy required each young gentleman to progress at the same pace, and being the runt of the litter afforded the boy no special privilege. The first time he was ordered to go to the masthead nearly proved his undoing. Boreas was making around six knots, pitching and rolling evenly on what, for the coast of Brittany, was a calm sea. Nelson, pacing the windward side of the quarterdeck, well away from Lady Hughes taking the air on the poop, was watching the noisy group of mids out of the corner of his eye.

  Each in turn was required to climb to the tops. He observed the way little Blackwood eased himself back into the crowd, hoping that Berry would fail to notice him. But the second lieutenant knew his duty. He had 25 mids to send aloft, and only 24 had performed the task. When he enquired as to who had ducked their duty, every eye turned to the stripling boy,
and a path was cleared between him and Berry, leaving the miscreant nowhere to hide.

  “Mr Blackwood, you are required to proceed in a like manner to your fellows, that is, to the masthead.” The boy, who had never been further than the main cap, began to shake from head to foot, the image of terrified reluctance, which made Berry snarl, “It is your duty, young man!”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” he piped, though his feet remained rooted to the spot.

  “Then proceed.”

  “With respect, sir, I can’t.”

  Berry’s already swarthy face went two shades darker as he shouted his response, a bark that stopped Lady Hughes in her tracks. “Can’t, sir? You are in receipt of a direct order. You must and will obey.”

  One foot moved but not the other. Blackwood, looking aloft to a point one hundred and twenty feet in the air, tried to suppress a sob, but it came out nevertheless. Nelson stepped forward on to the gangway, which immediately brought the entire party to attention. Berry whipped off his hat in a respectful salute, but his expression showed his true feelings: this was a situation in which his captain had no right to interfere.

  Nelson couldn’t fault him: he had every right to require obedience to his orders. But this child was so small, and clearly so frightened, that he was in mortal danger. He would go aloft eventually. Berry, and the fear of derision from his peers, would ensure that. But would he reach his destination? In his terror he might slip. Luck, if it could be termed that, would take him overboard, to the chancy hazard of a difficult rescue from the cold sea, but if he mistimed his fall, he would land on the deck. That would see him entered in the ship’s log as “discharged, dead in the execution of his duties.”

  “Mr Blackwood,” Nelson said, moving forward.

  “Sir,” the boy squeaked, spinning to look at the Captain.

  “I am about to go aloft myself. I’d be obliged if you would join me.”

  With that Nelson stepped on to a barrel to aid his ascent to the bulwarks. He turned and smiled at Blackwood. “As you will observe, I am not as nimble as you. Why, I daresay you could leap to my side without the aid of that cask.”

  The eye-contact produced the desired result. Blackwood’s expression changed from fear to something akin to trust. He did as he was bidden, and jumped up on to the bulwark, grabbing at the shrouds to steady himself.

  “I see I shall need to be quick, Mr Blackwood. You’re even more lively than I supposed.”

  He started to climb, slowly at first, but with increasing speed as he sensed the boy following. The shrouds stretched like a long rope-ladder all the way to a point just below the mainmast cap, every movement of both ship and climber combining to alter the shape. After some forty feet the shrouds presented two avenues. One took the climber on, through the lubbers’ hole, on to the spacious platform of the mainmast cap. The others rose vertically, skirting the rim to rise even higher. Nelson had no need to hesitate. He increased his pace, arching backwards as he gripped the ropes. He slipped past the edge with ease, leaning forward again to ascend this narrower set of shrouds.

  Up he went, fifty, sixty, seventy feet from the deck. Out again, this time as Boreas dipped into a trough, which left his back in line with the sea below. The slim strip of ropes led on past the tops. He knew Blackwood was with him; not close but there, his eyes fixed on the Captain before him, rather than the frightening panorama below. Once at the crosstrees, Nelson threw his leg over on to the yard, easing his back till it rested against the upper mast.

  “Come along, Mr Blackwood,” he called. “There’s no need for you to favour an old man in this fashion.” As the boy’s head came level he held out his hand to help him up. “Mind, respect to the Captain is a very necessary notion, I suppose. It would never do to show me up. Bad for discipline, eh! Now, young sir, clap on hard to this rope and sit yourself down. Then we will have the leisure to look about us, and the chance to talk for a while.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” gasped Blackwood.

  “Is it not a fine place to be?” Nelson saw the boy’s face pale as he looked down towards the deck, where the assembled mids now looked like a colony of ants. “I remember when I was a shaver, just like you, an old tar, who had sailed with Anson, brought me up here. I remember him saying that once you was above ten feet, it don’t signify. As long as you clapped on in a like manner.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Now, Mr Blackwood, being a captain has its advantages. But one of the drawbacks is this, sir. You rarely get a chance to be alone with anyone. Now that we’re up here, just the two of us, it will give you a chance to tell me all about yourself.”

  The boy’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came. Nelson had to prompt him with a direct question. The tale the boy told was a depressingly familiar one. As the younger son to a middling family there had been little prospect that he would receive a decent education. Nor did the Army, with its bought commissions, present a realistic prospect of advancement. The family had few connections and, lacking interest as well as money, could not place their son in any milieu other than the King’s Navy. But as the story emerged, Nelson couldn’t help but wonder, for the hundredth time, whether some sort of age limit should not be placed on entry, so that boys like Blackwood were not exposed too early to the rigours of life afloat.

  Nelson felt like a youngster again as he grabbed for the backstay and slid down to the deck, wondering halfway if his dignity as a captain would be impaired by such behaviour. But it had the desired effect, Blackwood following him down in a heartening sailorly fashion, to be greeted by a grinning Nelson.

  The arch look Nelson received from Lady Hughes, still on the poop as he turned to return to the quarterdeck, made his blood boil: it was nothing less than a repetition of her insinuation that his interest in youngsters was at best misplaced, at worst impure.

  Chapter Two

  THIS MORNING, Emma felt she was at loggerheads with everyone, not least George Romney, who was sketching her for yet another portrait, this time in the pose of wild-eyed Medea, classical slayer of children. The clothes she wore were tattered and revealing, her hair teased out wildly with twigs, face streaked with dark lines of heavy makeup. It was her eyes he needed most, that look of near madness he had struggled hard to create, which Emma kept discarding.

  Old Romney, with his lined, walnut-coloured face and unruly grey hair looked up from the pad on his lap and glared. They had already had words about her inability to sit still, Romney pretending he had no idea of what triggered her fidgety behaviour. Yet he had seen Greville’s face that morning, when he had delivered her to the studio: the black looks and stiff bearing that had characterised their exchanges, he all formality, Emma all meekness, until Greville departed.

  Emma had spent the last half-hour locked in an internal argument in which she naturally cast herself as the aggrieved party. Playing both roles, her face was animated by point and counterpoint. She was winning of course, an imagined Charles Greville being easier to deal with than the real person, especially as she was of the opinion that the previous night’s behaviour had been due to nothing more than high spirits. How dare Greville insist that if she couldn’t learn to contain herself he would never take her out again!

  As ever, when he was working, Romney’s grey hair stood on his head, giving him the appearance of an elderly monkey, the impression heightened by his large, dark brown eyes. The old man was kindness itself, and Greville’s black mood of this morning was no fault of his, so Emma worked to put the mad stare back in place. Romney nodded and went back to his frenzied sketching.

  She should be angry with her lover about this too, being sold like a carcass. Greville had an arrangement with the artist: he provided the model, Romney provided the oils and the talent; the money from the sale of the resulting portrait was split between them, Greville’s portion to set off the cost of keeping her. Romney had painted her a dozen times now; every picture had found an eager buyer.

  Romney’s eyes darted back and forth, boring into her.
Did he, with his artist’s insight, see how she felt? She loved Charles with a passion that had grown deeper through three years of attachment, and enjoyed their domestic harmony. Yet certain losses rankled, like the social life she had enjoyed on first arriving at Edgware Road, which had been slowly choked off. Her life now seemed sober and confined. After a year, Greville had moved into Edgware Road permanently, imposing his fussy bachelor habits on what had been an easy-going household; he had let the townhouse he had built in Portman Square to ease his debts. However, it had obviously not eased them enough: only the week before he had scolded her for giving a halfpenny to a beggar.

  Excursions from the house had been rare of late. She could never be brought to the notion that her own natural vivacity was in part responsible for this. Was it her fault that when they went to a ball or a rout nearly every man in the room sought to engage her attention? Was she to blame if powerful and well-connected men cared not a whit if their outrageous gallantries offended her lover? It was not her fault that Greville was so jealous and insecure, unable to accept her repeated assurances that he had no cause for concern.

  He had insisted that she had made an exhibition of herself the previous night. To Emma, singing and dancing were the stuff of life, and a glass or two of champagne encouraged her. She knew that Greville had cause to celebrate. As a collector he acquired only to sell, and was careful in the way he built up collections to make sure that the whole was always vastly superior to the sum of its parts. Many a time quick disposal had saved him from ruin. He had been corresponding with his uncle in Naples, using his good offices to amass a set of Roman and Etruscan artefacts that he had already sold at a substantial profit. The news that his virtu, in the company of his uncle, had arrived in England had sent him into raptures of delight, and loosened his normally tight purse strings to such a degree that he had insisted on taking Emma to the Ranelagh Pleasure Gardens.