Tested by Fate

by David Donachie

  Nelson swapped tales with the carpenter about some of the rotten ships they had both served in and discussed changes to the ship’s design that would facilitate some fighting task. He even treated the purser as a human being. No man could go further than that, since pursers, in any sailor’s opinion, were robbing bastards.

  Pasco talked on and on as they circled the quarterdeck and Emma was content to listen. Edward Berry had been flag captain at the Nile, but he had been sent home with despatches and replaced by Thomas Hardy, another of Nelson’s protégés. Hardy was nicknamed the Ghost for his way of appearing silently in any number of places on the ship, as well as his disinclination to engage in trivial conversation. His elevation, it seemed, had brought the cat out of the bag for Hardy, unlike Berry, was a strict disciplinarian.

  Emma could see the royal head emerging from below, then Nelson’s head appeared, and she felt a deep surge of emotion.

  “My dear,” said Sir William.

  As she turned to her husband the admiration was still in her face and it took all of Sir William’s self-control not to acknowledge it. The most telling pang came from the knowledge that, while he and Emma had been happy together, she did not love him. The look on her face was one he had never seen. It made him jealous.

  “Allow me to name Mr Pasco of the Vanguard,” said Emma. “He is Admiral Nelson’s escort today, and I must say he has entertained me handsomely.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Pasco, beaming. He would be top dog in the mess tonight just for having spoken with her. That she had enjoyed his company was a bonus he would admit to with care.

  “You will find, young man,” Sir William said, “should you get to know my wife, that no one can turn her head like a sailor.” He regretted saying it before the whole sentence was out of his mouth. To have spoken with such obvious pique was a breach of his own standards and those of his occupation. And he saw by the way Emma turned her head that his barb had hit home. He could not tell her that he had appalled himself, nor could he apologise, for that would require him to allude openly to what had happened between her and Nelson, which he could never do. He said instead, “I think, my dear, that we are about to dine. I wonder, would Mr Pasco escort you to the great cabin?”

  “Delighted, sir,” crowed Pasco.

  “It would please me too, Mr Pasco,” Emma replied, offering him her arm as she threw a forced but sweet smile at Sir William.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE BELLS PEALED all over London and within days the news brought by Captain Edward Berry had spread throughout the nation. Strangers stopped each other in the street to ask if they had heard the stupendous news of the battle of the Nile, and it was the sole topic of conversation in coffee-house, home, or place of employment. Disbelief was rampant, because the success of the British fleet, and the Admiral who commanded it, had been so absolute.

  Every theatre owner in the land was lashing together a patriotic show to tell the tale, creating an overwhelming demand for the artefacts of Egypt: pyramids, sphinxes, obelisks, and crocodiles. The risk that a whole building might burn down in a massive conflagration was ignored in the interests of re-enacting the climax of the battle: the explosion of the French flagship L’Orient. Any one-armed ex-sailor prepared to tread the boards could command his own price to play Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson, the hero of the hour.

  Lord Spencer was cock-a-hoop, too overwhelmed with gratitude to notice that the men who had damned him for a fool before Berry’s arrival were now praising his sagacity. Even Farmer George openly lauded Nelson: being King no one would dare to remind him of his previous long-held animosity.

  In the City of London, meetings were held to decide how such a success should be rewarded, and an already amazed public was stunned by the announcement of an award of ten thousand pounds to the victor of the Nile. Alexander Davidson, Nelson’s long-standing friend and appointed prize agent, employed extra clerks for what was sure to be an increased workload, and ordered gold medals struck for the officers of Nelson’s fleet, to be paid for out of his own pocket.

  The government moved more slowly, which allowed euphoria to be tempered by time; those forced to disguise their distrust of Nelson after the news had broken began to reassert their malignant opinions. At the same time the King was asking himself why such a victory had not been granted to an officer he liked.

  To a nation waiting with bated breath for the announcement of Nelson’s elevation to the rank of duke, the award of a barony came as a bitter disappointment. The populace decided that the official excuse, that Nelson was only an admiral in command of a detached squadron, not a commander-in-chief, had been prompted by small-mindedness.

  Fanny Nelson had only one wish: that her husband would come home. Who could achieve more than he, who was now styled Baron Nelson? Now that he was the hero he had always wanted to be, surely he would cease to put himself in life-threatening situations and come home for a well-earned rest. If not, she was resolved to join him in the Mediterranean, and she wrote to tell him so.

  Even such a spacious cabin as that of the Tancredi struggled to accommodate the numbers who sat down to dine, and around Nelson conversations flowed in French, German, and Italian, with little English. As guest of honour, he was seated next to the King, a privilege he had been granted previously, and one that, given the man’s boorishness, he would gladly have surrendered.

  Ferdinand was not a fellow to talk to his neighbours if he could hold a shouted discussion with someone at the furthest end of the table. This he interspersed with stuffing his mouth with food and wine so that his deep blue nautical garments were soon as food-stained as those he habitually wore. Occasionally he would turn and beam at Nelson then raise his wineglass in a way that forced his guest to follow suit and consume the entire contents. The King’s glass was immediately refilled, and so was that of the man he had toasted.

  Horatio Nelson knew he had a limited capacity for alcohol and that over indulgence in the past had got him into trouble. But caution evaporates as quantity increases, and even if he had been determined to fight the effects, whatever resolve he had was weakening. He tried to concentrate on others at the table, like young Pasco, who was in an animated conversation with one of Maria Carolina’s younger ladies-in-waiting.

  When that failed he turned his attention to Count Caracciolo, distrust surfacing. Yet fair-mindedness forced Nelson to consider that just as he was a patriot to his own nation so must be Caracciolo. Perhaps the Neapolitan nobleman experienced the same feelings that surged in Nelson when he thought of his country. His devotion to those things for which Britannia stood made him want to do well for her.

  He recalled the vision he had had on his way back from Calcutta as a youth. He had been in the grip of malaria and fever had generated in him a conviction that he was destined for great things: that his love of God and his country would shield him as much as it would raise him. Did Caracciolo hanker for a shrine in the cathedral of San Gennaro, as Nelson dreamed of a statue in Westminster Abbey?

  Nelson knew that Britain was far from perfect. Thanks to a survey he had undertaken during his five years on the beach he was well aware of the depths of rural poverty, the despair and fecklessness it engendered, and the lack of alleviation that stood in stark contrast to the statements of concern that issued from the hypocritical mouths of those who claimed to care.

  The politics of his country could appear just as venal as those of Naples, and in some cases just as corrupt. Was the Marquis de Gallo any worse than Lord Holland, who in the 1770s had used money entrusted to him as Paymaster to the Forces for private gain, and remained embroiled in dispute till the day he died? Nelson’s superiors at the Admiralty were not always given to acting in the best interests of the officers and men of the service. Politics was a constant bugbear: people of little merit were advanced to senior positions in the administration merely through the power of their sponsors. The common seaman was paid sporadically, often by warrants that, for want of cash to feed their famili
es, the men of the fleet had to sell at a discount to the crimps who thrived in every naval port.

  Conditions aboard some ships of His Majesty’s fleet were downright shameful: rotten food, hard-horse captains too fond of the lash, commanders and pursers who misused their office for private profit, while dockyard workers stole anything that was not nailed down. Abuses abounded, and though he had a care as to whom he voiced his opinions, it was well known in the service that Horatio Nelson had some sympathy for the men who had mutinied at Spithead and the Nore in the previous year. And yet for all that was wrong, the system worked. There were enough good men to see that the fleet remained effective.

  Under the influence of the wine, Nelson, every so often, had to look at Emma, and it was not easy to be discreet given that she was seated to his left: any attempt at eye contact required that he sit forward to look past the boisterous King. If he wished, Sir William, seated next to Princess Esterhazy, could observe him. Nelson found that he no longer cared. And Emma met his eye, although she was engaged in conversation with the neighbour to her right.

  Things were easier during the ritual speeches: all the toasts—to Naples, Britannia, Ferdinand, King George, the Austrian Emperor, the British fleet, its sailors and, most of all, Nelson himself—required him to gaze around the company. During the toasts news was delivered to Ferdinand that his Austrian general had reached Caserta. Clearly fuelled by the amount of wine in his belly, the King felt the power of his office: in a display of personal braggadocio that made the slippery Marquis de Gallo blench, he raised his glass, said, “Damnation to the French,” and drank, breaking in that simple phrase the neutrality of his kingdom. Nelson could not help but be delighted, although he knew that the matter about which he cared so passionately had been resolved by drink, rather than wisdom.

  “Admiral Nelson.”

  He hesitated to turn round. He had been standing on the windward side of the deck, gazing out at the sea, deep-blue under the late afternoon sun, hoping that the breeze would remove the brassy taste of stale wine from his mouth. Like everyone on board he was waiting for royalty to depart—or, more specifically, Maria Carolina and her suite of German servants. Ferdinand had gone an hour before in the Tancredi’s cutter, but the Queen had insisted on waiting till the sun dipped and the temperature fell, which would ease the breeze and the choppiness of the water.

  “Lady Hamilton,” he replied as he turned.

  “I require a private word with you.” Nelson glanced around the deck for Sir William as Emma added, “It is on behalf of the Queen. I am, as you know, at Her Majesty’s disposal.” Emma walked towards a less occupied part of the deck, obliging him to follow her. “If I may refer to something you said when you arrived in Naples.”

  “Why so formal, Emma?” Nelson whispered.

  “You said,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “that you would remain here for no more than two weeks, that once your ships were repaired you would sail to Cadiz.”

  “I have a commander-in-chief to whom I must report, Emma, and St Vincent is off Cadiz. I must look into Malta on the way—that is a pressing concern.”

  “You also said that you would base the fleet on Syracuse.”

  “It is the best place to hamper French movements, Emma. You, of all people, know that. From there I cover both the Straits of Messina and the waters between Taranto and the Barbary shore.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “So that is still your intention?”

  Now Nelson adopted a formal tone, because he felt wounded by hers. “I intend to meet with Baron Mack to find out what plans he has to attack the French in the Papal States. Once I have done that I will make whatever dispositions are necessary to support him.”

  “So Cadiz is not a necessity?”

  “I have the trust of St Vincent, who allows me to make my own dispensations. I will do whatever I see to be in the interests of our country.”

  Still she wouldn’t look at him. “And Naples?”

  “Thanks to the King’s wine-fuelled bravado, the two are now the same, although I will be convinced only when I see the French Ambassador sent packing. I don’t trust de Gallo not to change the King’s mind when he returns to a state of sobriety.”

  “Would it help you to know that the Queen feels the die is cast, that Naples cannot live at peace with France, and that she and her husband cannot ever feel secure until the cancer of Revolution is excised from their patrimony?”

  “Those sound like her words, Emma.”

  At last she smiled. “They are.”

  “I would be happier if you used your own.”

  “You must be aware that Maria Carolina fears her own subjects as much as she fears the French. Perhaps the army will march now that Mack is here, but you know as well as I how hard it is to beat the French.”

  “On land,” he said, smiling, which earned him a squeeze of his good arm.

  “The Queen feels she will not be secure without you anchored in the bay.”

  “Me?”

  “If you are here, the fleet is here.”

  And the means of escape, thought Nelson, for a royal family who could not be sure in a crisis if their own naval officers would be reliable.

  “I cannot decide on any action until I have met with Mack.”

  “Can I tell her, then, that you will not desert us? It would ease her mind.”

  Nelson was required, he knew, to say no: he could not hobble himself and his duty to his own sovereign by making such a commitment to another. But neither could he look into those green eyes and say the word. “Yes, you may tell her that.”

  The royal party, led by the ladies-in-waiting, began to assemble on the deck. Emma breathed, “Thank you,” and went to join them, no doubt to tell the Queen what Nelson had said. That she did so was obvious, since Maria Carolina looked straight at him and inclined her head. Nelson wondered at her perspicacity: had she asked him herself he would have been obliged, however diplomatically, to refuse. How had she known that if she used Emma Hamilton as an emissary he would say yes? He was under even more scrutiny, by many more people, than he had assumed.

  He felt very much under Emma’s scrutiny at dinner that night—a private affair for him, his senior officers, and several close friends of the Hamiltons—from the numerous paintings that lined the walls of this private dining room. Three, he knew, were by Romney, Emma as herself, young and stunningly beautiful, in a classical pose as a bacchante, others by Gavin Hamilton and Angelica Kauffman, and the one he liked best, by Madame Vigée Le Brun, of Emma in white, hands clasped in supplication as St Cecilia.

  In every picture her eyes seemed to be on him and he almost squirmed to think that Sir William had bought them all. A man who had so many portraits of his wife was likely to be enamoured of her. She was seated halfway down the board with an eager midshipman to one side and a stiffly formal, and hopefully chastened, Captain Josiah Nesbit on the other.

  There was much talk of the war, as well as of London and country society: friends, acquaintances, or public figures to commend or damn. Others, once assurance had been given that no person at the table was a cousin or comrade, were condemned outright. Whatever scandals had reached Naples from London were dissected, and compared with the more disreputable local ones.

  Nelson was seated at one end of the table next to Emma’s friend Cornelia Knight, whose mother, the widow of Admiral Sir John Knight, was on his other side. He liked them both, the older lady for her sagacity, the daughter for her verve, though he found Cornelia’s voice a trifle blaring. They had been shunted down to Naples from their residence in Rome by the French invasions of ’96, forced to settle in Naples when the armies of the anti-revolutionary coalition made peace with Bonaparte.

  Lady Knight was an invalid, yet she swore that, but for her daughter, she would have stayed in Rome and “not given a damn for the consequences.” Nelson believed her: you only had to look at her to see that she had a truly steely determination. More importantly, on her last visit to England Lad
y Knight had become a friend of his wife: she had met Fanny with the Reverend Nelson when his father made one of his frequent visits to Bath.

  Cornelia was a writer of books, which to a man who hated to pen a letter was astounding. He could not comprehend how anyone could sit down voluntarily with a quill. As a writer Miss Knight was agog to hear his own experience of the battle of the Nile, and Nelson told her his tale in great detail, concluding, “I believe Miss Knight, that my hand was guided by divine providence.”

  “God must hate a Frenchman, sir,” Lady Knight interjected, “for they are demons and apostates,” and Nelson realised how like his mother she was. The words she had used might have come from Catherine Nelson’s lips, for she had hated the French with a passion, and often told her little Horatio that when he grew up it was his duty to confound that damnable race.

  “You flatter me, sir,” Lady Knight responded, when he said as much to her. “I know your mother to have been a Suckling, and I had the good fortune when my husband was alive to meet your late uncle on many occasions. He was an upright man, and modest about his own achievements.”

  “Apart from my dear mother, Lady Knight, I can think of no person who has inspired me more.”

  Captain Maurice Suckling had taken his nephew as a youngster into his ship and made sure he learned his trade. He had chaired the board that examined him for lieutenant and used his influence to get him promoted to the rank of post captain. It was no exaggeration to say that, as a fighting sailor, Nelson owed him everything.