Tested by Fate

by David Donachie

  “Quartermaster,” he yelled, “bring her head round and point me to the shore. I want to shave that anchor cable.” More softly, he added to the midshipman at his side, “Get off a signal to the flag and tell him of my intentions, and ask the premier to take us down to topsails.”

  The whole bay was bathed in orange light, the tops of the wavelets pink instead of white. Nelson’s lookouts had told him of Goliath’s change of course. Silently he blessed his luck in having such men along with him, men who understood not only his orders but also his philosophy: that it was necessary to look for all advantage and take it without recourse to a higher authority. Foley was going to sail inside the French line, and take his opponent on a side that was likely undefended.

  The first boom of cannon fire rippled through the twilight air, and Nelson heard Berry order that the time, 6:28 p.m., be noted. His nerves were jumping again, worried that Foley might ground his ship and leave himself at the mercy of shore batteries. Hands clenched, he willed his lookouts to yell that he was through, but whole minutes went by without a sound. Looking round, Nelson realised that the whole ship was holding its breath.

  “Goliath’s through,” came the yell, “with Zealous in her wake.”

  “Signal to all captains, Mr Berry, to hoist out distinguishing lights.”

  Within minutes men on every ship had raced aloft to lash lanterns to the upper masts, combinations and colours that could be noted. Now Nelson knew that neither he nor those to his rear, in the pitch black of a moonless night, would fire into their own. Over the next hour, as darkness fell, he watched the lanterns of Orion, Audacious, and Theseus follow Foley’s lead and take the French on the inshore side of the bay, pouring into them a pounding rate of gunfire that sent visible parts of the ships flying into the air.

  Sixth in line, Nelson ordered Berry to stay on the open flank, sailing straight ahead to take station of the third ship in the French line, Le Spartiate, reducing to topsails just before commencing to fight. High flaring lanterns, clear against a black sky, told Nelson that Theseus was bombarding the other flank.

  Berry dropped the sheet anchor to hold his stern, Vanguard within pistol shot of the enemy, then gave the order to open fire. The Frenchman, with guns that could be put to good effect, had already raked him twice with two quick salvoes but that rate of fire did not survive the first British broadside. It was only by the flash of cannon fire that Nelson saw what damage his flagship did; that and the sound of screaming men.

  He saw in one flash that the mainmast was going, taking with it rigging, spars, chains, and men. Parts of the bulwarks of the French ship flew off, exposing those on deck to the withering fire of the next salvo. He could imagine the hell between decks on both sides, so much worse for the enemy than for his gunners toiling below. There would be men here dead and dying, but not as many as on Spartiate and that was what counted. Eight ships now battered five Frenchmen. In the flashes of gunfire they could see that Spartiate was completely dismasted, its bulwarks in shreds, the deck covered in men whole or in bits, glistening blood running out of the scuppers. Wisely, those to his rear had passed him to seaward to take on unengaged enemies further up the line.

  That was where he should be, opposite the largest ship in the battle, and the enemy Admiral. Nelson was just about to request Berry to haul up the stern anchor and move on to face L’Orient when he was felled by a tremendous blow to the head that sent him flying backwards into his flag captain’s arms. The pain was instant, as was the certain knowledge that he was going to die. As if from a mile away he could hear voices around him, commands to get him below to the surgeon.

  “I am killed,” he croaked, as Berry lowered him to the deck. “Remember me to my wife.”

  How stupid those words sounded once he had uttered them, how pointless and futile. But for all that, if he was going to die he had God to thank that it was at this hour. Battle would still rage, but he knew de Brueys would not beat him, that what had happened already presaged a great victory. He could pass on in the heat of battle like James Wolfe, and there was nothing he would have wished for more if he could not have life. And perhaps, if God were kinder still, he too would, like his hero, expire at a moment of triumph.

  He did know that he was blind; the eye that had survived the shattering of stones at Calvi, and which had been milky ever since, gave him only a dim view of what was happening around him. The other was just blackness, with warm blood running down to give a salty taste to his parched mouth.

  Arms lifted him and he recognised the voice of Giddings in his ear. “You’ll be all right, your honour, when we get you below.”

  Berry reached forward to lift a long patch of skin off Nelson’s face, pinning it back to the forehead from which it had been sliced. Other arms took him and, jerking, eyes closed, Nelson was carried below to the cockpit, lit by shuddering lanterns and full of the dull boom of cannon fire and the screams and moans of wounded sailors. Above their heads gun carriages rumbled out, blasted forth, then groaned as they were flung back by the recoil.

  “Mr Jefferson, the Admiral,” Giddings yelled, lowering Nelson so that he could stand supported on his own two feet.

  “No,” said Nelson, opening his eyes and realising that he could still see. Jefferson was up to his armpits in blood and gore, the area around his feet awash and shiny red, sprinkled with limbs that the surgeon had already sawn off. “Let me wait my turn.”

  “Your honour,” insisted Giddings.

  “There’s near a hundred men in here, I fancy, Giddings, all as good as their admiral.”

  Giddings didn’t argue, but by supporting Nelson more fully he allowed the other sailor to detach himself and go to the surgeon. Nelson was laid on some sacks by the time Jefferson came and probed the huge gash. He announced that the wound was deceptive, not as bad as it looked, and that Nelson was in no immediate peril. Unconvinced, his admiral sent for the parson, Mr Comyn, so that messages could be written now, to be sent to his wife and his second-in-command.

  Lying on his sacks, with the bleeding ceased but the pain increasing, Nelson listened to a stream of messages, slowly but surely coming round to the view that he was indeed going to live. Spartiate struck at 8:30, and here before him, as Jefferson stitched his wound, stood Berry with the French Captain’s sword, plus the news that two other Frenchmen had been struck, while three more, including L’Orient, would shortly be overcome.

  To get him away from the noise of men wounded and dying and the rumbling of cannon overhead they shifted Nelson to the bread room, and there, deep in the bowels of the ship, in a room lined with tin to keep out rats, he heard the depth of his victory increase at what seemed no more than ten-minute intervals. Demanding pen and paper, Nelson began to write his despatch to the First Lord.

  Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson KB.

  Aboukir Bay off the coast of Egypt

  My Lord,

  Almighty God has blessed His Majesty’s arms in battle …

  The door opened and Berry was there once more, to tell him that L’Orient appeared to be on fire. “Her cabin is ablaze, sir, and I can’t see they have left the means to check it while they remain under bombardment.”

  Nelson struggled to get up, but failed. He felt weak, but his voice was strong. “Help me, Berry. We must see if we can save her.”

  “The doctor, sir—”

  “Is not your superior, Captain Berry.” Nelson grinned to take the sting out of the words. “I must see for myself.”

  He arrived on deck to be told that three more Frenchmen had been struck, an almost unbelievable result. Berry took him to the side and pointed out the flames leaping about the stern of the French flagship, a conflagration that illuminated it all the way to the bowsprit and bathed the whole bay in an ethereal light. In the water hundreds of heads bobbed, some clinging to wreckage, others swimming or floundering.

  “Captain Berry, get boats out to rescue survivors!”

  It was light enough to see Swiftsure and Alexander, late arrivals at t
he battle, pouring a merciless barrage into the stern of the French flagship. If they had the means to stop the blaze the pounding of British cannon prevented them from doing so. The poop was a mass of flames but brave men on the lower deck were still working her guns, replying to the two British 74s. Nelson pointed this out to the crowd of officers and mids surrounding him. “Look hard, gentlemen. We do not have an exclusive call on bravery and honour.”

  The flames hit what rigging was still left standing, shooting up to the tops like a racing squirrel. They could see ships close by, faced with the sailors’ greatest dread, a spreading conflagration, cutting cables and sheet anchors to get clear. Only Ball stayed in position, his pumps working flat out to drench his decks and upperworks with water, this so he could keep his guns firing in the increasing, metal-melting heat. But when the decks were alight even Ball knew that the enemy was doomed and hauled himself clear of danger.

  Nelson saw the flames suddenly balloon out, mixed with a mass of timber. A wall of air hit his face followed by an ear-shattering boom that pressed in on his flesh. Looking up he saw L’Orient disintegrate, even her guns tossed skywards by the force of the blast that ripped out of her magazine, the hull driven down into the encroaching waters so that the flames, which had illuminated the whole battle scene, were suddenly extinguished, plunging everyone into stygian darkness.

  It was minutes later that bits of L’Orient came back to earth, wood, metal, tattered fragments of sail, and the limbs of men blown to small pieces by the force of the explosion. By then, aboard the ships of Nelson’s fleet, the cheering had already begun.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE SIGHT of a British frigate, beating up into the Bay of Naples, flags streaming from the masts, was enough to cause panic in some breasts, anxiety in others, and hope in a few. Sir William, trusting the eyes of others, received the news at his dressing table and immediately ordered that a boat should be sent out to greet the new arrivals, with instructions to carry to him at speed whatever message they bore.

  Standing by the windows of Emma’s private apartments, her new friend Cornelia Knight observed the way the frigate anchored, saw the speed with which two young officers alighted into Sir William’s boat, and felt a frisson of fear as she contemplated what news they might carry. France had been triumphant everywhere these last five years. The Revolution had humbled all of northern Italy, overrun the Papal States and Rome itself, taken and held the Low Countries and Flanders. Bonaparte, their famous Corsican general, was abroad in the Mediterranean, seeking God only knew what lands to conquer.

  The whole world knew he was at sea with a strong fleet and transports carrying the army with which he had humbled Austria. The destination of that fleet had been the only subject of conversation for a month, since the news had arrived that Bonaparte had captured Malta. Had he gone east to threaten the Adriatic or Egypt? Had he gone west to threaten Gibraltar? Or was he coming here, to burn, destroy, and loot Naples?

  “They are close enough to see their faces, Emma.”

  Emma left the writing table to take the telescope from her friend. The first image to fill the glass when she had adjusted it was that of William Hoste, whom she named to Cornelia. The other officer, a lieutenant, was a stranger to her. Then she lifted the instrument to look over the ship, sitting on the still waters of the bay, sails now neatly furled, an image of peaceful intent.

  Mary Cadogan entered, wearing her customary apron, tied at the waist by the chain that held the heavy keys to the palazzo. “Sir William asks that you join him in his library.”

  “He will insist on greeting them formally,” Emma said, for the benefit of Cornelia Knight.

  “Will my presence affect that?”

  “No Cornelia, it will not.”

  The trio stood to greet the two officers as soon as they heard their footsteps echo on the marble staircase. Sir William was wondering, as he had since they’d been spotted, whether what they said would be a prelude to flight or celebration. If the former, what should he take with him and what should he leaver If the latter, what was the state of his larders and cellars? Years of waiting for news had inured him to over-reaction in either direction. How many times had he anticipated a momentous despatch only to be handed a packet of social letters?

  The double doors swung open to admit the pair. Naval officers they might be but they looked absurdly young, no more than boys, two faces that were struggling to appear controlled.

  “Sir William,” said the one who could barely be said to be the eldest, “I am Lieutenant Capel, and this is Mr Hoste. We bring despatches from Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson.”

  A second’s pause followed, in which both young faces contorted with effort, before breaking into full grins, their voices rising to near shouts as they imparted the news. “A great victory! The French fleet is utterly destroyed! Admiral de Brueys was brought to battle in Aboukir Bay and …”

  Sir William saw Emma begin to go, but could not react quickly enough to catch her. Neither could his two visitors, though they moved with speed in an attempt to break her fall. She hit the stone floor with an audible thump partly covered by cries from her husband and her friend to fetch the smelling salts. Capel and Hoste lifted her inert body on to a divan, then stepped back to stand like mourners at a wake.

  “Months of worry have caused this.”

  “You may worry no more, sir.”

  “Admiral Nelson?”

  “Bears a wound, sir,” replied Hoste, “but though he suffers from the effects of it the surgeon assured us they would pass.”

  “Tell me what happened,” demanded Sir William, standing to allow a servant to administer the salts. “Briefly.”

  “We caught them at anchor, sir,” Capel replied, his near black eyes flashing with the memory, “though they were ranged in line of battle. It has been proposed that de Brueys did not consider the possibility of an immediate attack, so had made no preparation.”

  “The result?”

  “Five ships-of-the-line taken as prizes, two burnt and Admiral de Brueys’ flagship, L’Orient, blown to bits. Two 74s, we believe under Rear Admiral Villeneuve, escaped, Guillaume Tell and Généraux. They had with them a trio of frigates, but that is all. To all extents the French menace in the Mediterranean is gone.”

  “We must tell the King,” said Sir William.

  The carriage that had brought them from the mole was still harnessed and it was but a short journey to the Palazzo Reale. Admittance to the royal chamber was immediate, and there sat King Ferdinand and his queen, with all of their children, apparently breakfasting quietly as if all was well with the world, as if no frigate had entered the bay that morning. But Sir William knew that this was window dressing, an act designed to demonstrate that they were brave enough to face news good or bad. In truth Their Sicilian Majesties would be in turmoil. Somewhere close by, loaded and ready to flee, would be a line of carriages.

  “Your Majesty, I bring you good tidings. Admiral Nelson, on the afternoon of August first, found and engaged the French fleet in Egyptian waters. I am happy to say that he has achieved the most astounding of victories, and that the French menace to your kingdom is no more.”

  The Queen had a hand to her throat, as though the guillotine blade that had beheaded her sister was on her flesh. Sir William could see that Ferdinand was trying to be regal, trying to play the role his titles and birthright demanded of him. But the natural child in him could not contain his joy.

  Suddenly he rushed to embrace the British Ambassador, yelling, “You have saved my kingdom! You have saved my family!”

  The elder children were weeping, the younger ones confused. Their mother was on her feet now, moving around the chamber, swaying as if to swoon and looking to various statues for support. Ferdinand was babbling away to Sir William while the two messengers stood confused, not understanding a word. It was ten minutes before the wailing ceased, during which Maria Carolina had sunk to the floor to pray. Evidence that the news was abroad came from the sudden
cacophony of church bells that pealed out over the city. Within the hour all of Naples was celebrating its deliverance, an hour during which, with Sir William translating, the two young naval officers described the battle in detail.

  “You know, sir,” said Capel, “of the chase we had. I have never seen my admiral so vexed and anxious as the thought plagued him that he had missed Bonaparte.”

  “He so much wanted to encounter him at sea,” added Hoste, “to prove that Bonaparte’s success on land counted for nothing.”

  “Nelson said so in his letters,” Sir William replied, this while Ferdinand was asking him a question. “His Majesty counts himself a sea officer, gentlemen. Please explain the disposition of the fleet.”

  Neither Hoste nor Capel was fazed by that request. In the week it had taken them to make Naples they had had precious little else to talk about. They knew that they were privileged to have been present at the greatest feat of naval arms since the destruction of the Spanish Armada. In the week following the action, before they received their duplicate despatches to carry to Naples, every story of every officer, French as well as British, had been condensed into a narrative account of the battle.

  They spoke in turns, using maps when Ferdinand produced them, tracing the route Nelson had taken in his pursuit of Bonaparte. East, west, and east again, the information that he had missed them by a whisker twice. They described the disposition of the fleet, the King nodding sagely at each piece of information as though these were decisions he himself would have made, had he been in command.

  “We have it from the French prisoners that, seeing the time of day, de Brueys though it unlikely we would attack.”