Tested by Fate

by David Donachie

  “Inspired?” Lady Knight exclaimed. “You surpass him, sir. His actions were splendid, but they cannot compare with yours. Imagine his pride, Admiral Nelson, if from some celestial realm he observed your recent victory. His heart must swell at the sight.”

  “The Nile, sir,” added her daughter, loudly, “must have been the happiest day of your life.”

  This coincided with a lull in the conversation and Cornelia’s voice acted like a clarion. Every eye at the table was now on him, including those of Sir William Hamilton and his wife. Lady Knight corresponded with Fanny on a regular basis, and if Josiah, sitting looking morose, had noticed his behaviour with Emma then others could do so.

  “No, Miss Knight,” Nelson replied. “I have to tell you that the happiest day of my life was the one on which I married Lady Nelson.”

  “Bravo, Admiral,” cried Cornelia’s mother.

  That pleased him, although Emma’s eyes bored into him with an amused accusation that he lied, while others, embarrassed by such a fatuous and maladroit statement, coughed and looked at their plates. Josiah glared at him.

  “Such a sentiment does you great honour, sir,” said Sir William.

  Nelson had no idea if he had spoken the truth or indulged in deep irony, and had no way to find out—the mood of the gathering picked up and the conversation was flowing again.

  Nelson made the journey to meet with Mack, now resident at the royal country palace of Caserta, in the company of the Hamiltons. They were travelling on an oft-used royal highway in a well-sprung carriage, free of attendants or guests, the only bar to conversation being the hum of the ironbound wheels on the smooth pave, in an atmosphere that was somewhat strained.

  Sir William applied himself to keeping up a flow of witty anecdotes about the stream of English visitors who came to the Palazzo Sessa. He had a great store of such stories, being a man who could highlight a fault or a weakness, recall an attraction or a peccadillo in even the most puissant of his guests, and then recount them with humour. Yet even he faltered at times, obliged by the circumstances to leave out any reference to seduction or adultery, the normal mainstay of his tales.

  Nelson’s fear of making some revealing remark led him into a rather didactic repetition of the problems he had in his command and in dealing with their Neapolitan allies. Emma took refuge in defence of the Queen, maintaining that if Maria Carolina had her way, none of Nelson’s problems would exist.

  What was most telling to Sir William was Nelson’s inability to meet his eye, for the Admiral was famed for his direct gaze. Emma too, normally a light-hearted companion, was behaving in an odd, stiff way. The question for her husband was obvious; did such manifest guilt spring from mere embarrassment, or did it disguise some deeper feeling that neither party dared express?

  Nelson was thinking that with Vanguard finally ready for sea, he must get away from Naples, and remove himself from the hothouse of his emotions. In his present circumstances he couldn’t think and guessed from the way Emma was behaving that she was similarly distracted. He could not know that she was wriggling with frustration at the restrictions imposed on her. She wanted to speak out, to break the shackles with which she and Nelson had bound each other.

  The sight of the guards of the Royal Regiment at the gates to the palace brought an almost audible sigh of relief from all three occupants.

  Baron Karl Mack von Leiberich was a pleasant surprise, a Bavarian not an Austrian, a scarred survivor of many battles against the forces of the Ottoman Empire, both as a junior officer and as a commander. Nelson found him refreshing. He was a man who been raised to his noble rank not born to it, which also pleased Nelson. He had met too many officers of the Austrian army who appeared to have achieved their elevated status without dirtying their manicured hands in a fight. The French army might be composed of riff-raff, but at least its men were fighters, who would battle to take what they wanted and hold on to what they had.

  The introduction was made by the King and Queen in person, and Maria Carolina begged Baron Mack “to be on land what Nelson was to Naples at sea,” before they repaired to dinner. Given that the royal palace of Caserta was a huge, sprawling edifice built to rival Versailles, the setting of the meal was intimate, taking place in one of the smaller salons rather than the great echoing state rooms. Baron Mack had no English, and Nelson no German, so the conversation was conducted in French, with Sir William and Emma translating.

  Baron Mack insisted that the French would grow stronger if Naples delayed, and Nelson agreed. In fact a despatch had already come in to Sir William from the consul at Leghorn hinting at rumours of French reinforcements, but the decision had been taken to keep this information to themselves. It was not confirmed, but the very thought of greater French strength would only give Naples an excuse to delay.

  Having assessed the force at his disposal Mack wished to march north within ten days, his aim to drive the French back from the Papal States and take Rome. Then he would attempt to form a junction with the Austrian forces, who would surely break the treaties forced on them by Bonaparte and push down the valley of Adige.

  “Please tell the Baron that I will undertake whatever tasks he sees fit to designate to me, but …” Nelson paused “… I hardly think such a pleasant dinner is the place to discuss our future strategy.”

  There was stupidity around this table, Nelson was sure, men whose gossip would alert the French. There might even be true disloyalty: people present who would write to the French commander at Rome with an outline of the planned movements of troops and ships.

  “And please tell the Baron that while he makes his preparations I will use the time to visit Captain Ball off Valetta to assess the situation of Malta.”

  His openness about his intentions was deliberate: Malta was no more than a day’s sailing on a fair wind. If the French knew he was coming they would expect action, which might unnerve them. Bonaparte’s reputation had helped the French to capture the island; perhaps Nelson’s would assist in taking it back.

  The Queen enquired anxiously. “You will return, my dear Admiral?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. Did I not give you my word.”

  Ferdinand’s head jerked up when that was translated, his large nose twitching and the black eyes suddenly suspicious, making it very obvious to everyone in the room just how much he mistrusted his wife.

  The rest of the day was spent in consulting maps, and Ferdinand boasted about the advances he would make and the Frenchmen he would kill, although he had yet to actually declare war on France. Away from him and the ears of his courtiers, Nelson and Mack, with Sir William translating, discussed various scenarios in which the Royal Navy could assist. Emma was with the Queen, bolstering her resolve and allaying her fears.

  On the journey back to Naples, she said, “The Queen wishes me to assure you that de Gallo will not be made Minister of War. That position will be given to Sir John Acton.”

  “Even though she mistrusts him?” asked Nelson.

  “She distrusts de Gallo more when it comes to a conflict with France,” said Sir William. “And she knows how highly you regard him. The appointment will be made to ensure that you keep your word to return.”

  Nelson looked at Emma then. “It disturbs me that she can doubt it.”

  “Which only goes to prove, my dear Admiral,” Sir William responded, with irony, “how strange to you are the ways of Italy.”

  Chapter Thirty

  NELSON FELT CLEAN merely being at sea again, leaving behind his own evasions and Neapolitan chicanery in exchange for his naval command. He had entertained Ferdinand and his second son, Prince Leopold, at breakfast before raising anchor, in part to show them gratitude for the fact that the dockyards had finished the works on Vanguard, but also to seek their help in speeding up work on Troubridge’s ship, Culloden, still waiting for the metal pintles that would hold the rudder in place, without which she was useless.

  From Prince Leopold he learned that orders had gone out to the governors
of the Sicilian cities of Messina and Syracuse. They were required to send troops to Malta, with whatever stands of arms they could spare, ammunition, and victuals to feed the Maltese insurgents. Sir William Hamilton had attended that breakfast, and Nelson was grateful that Emma had not. An awkward public farewell had thus been avoided.

  Their parting had taken place in the vestibule of the Palazzo Sessa, with coachmen and servants scuttling around them. Their words had borne little relation to what their eyes seemed to say. There was a tinge of doubt in hers that, even though he had promised to return, he might sail away for another half-decade. He had tried silently to reassure her that her fears were groundless.

  The routine of the naval day soon imposed itself, although the crew seemed a little slack after a fortnight in the dockyard. Every man on board knew that there was prize money on the way for the captures at the Nile, ship money, gun money for the cannon, and head money for the prisoners. Sure that it would be paid without any of the usual fuss, Captain Hardy had advanced his men a portion to make pleasant their Neapolitan stay.

  The problem for the crew was that every whore and cheapjack trader in Naples knew they had money, so it was doubtful if many of them left Naples with a single penny piece. The ’tween decks of Vanguard this past two weeks had been like Paddy’s Market: singers, jugglers, and dancers performing while traders sold everything from sweetmeats, silks, and cloths, to charms and false gold trinkets. Naturally, the local whores had come aboard in droves.

  There would be endless sore heads from sour wine, pox aplenty, as well as the odd tar who, in a drunken stupor, had somehow got himself married. The “bride” would emerge at sea, often disguised in male attire, sometimes to remain undiscovered and meld into part of the crew. If he cared to look closely, Hardy might also notice an increase in the number of ship’s boys. There were numerous homeless urchins in Naples who would happily swap a damp culvert for regular meals aboard a British man-o’-war. If that involved sharing a hammock to get themselves on the muster roll, so be it: such things happened in every port at which a warship called. In time they, too, would become part of the crew, indistinguishable from the rest, good sailors who could hand and reef with the best.

  Like the females their real identity might be known, but unless it was made too obvious their superiors would turn a blind eye. Every ship, unless a captain made a special effort to clear them out, had its portion of such pairings. In the main they kept themselves to themselves, and as long as they showed a proper degree of discretion they would be left in peace. The smooth running of the ship came before unenforceable Admiralty statutes: better to accept and manage the situation, than be forever in front of courts martial.

  Tom Allen was happy to be back aboard ship too. At sea he could look after his master with his eyes shut; the pre-dawn awakening, the early morning shave, assistance to dress, and a quick tidy of the cabin as the Admiral took a walk on the windward side of the quarterdeck.

  Tom hadn’t liked the Palazzo Sessa. There were too many servants, as well as that Cadogan woman who was forever turning up unexpectedly like a wraith, able to make him feel guilty without reason. And things had been going on there between the lady of the house and his master of which he wanted no part. Better to be aboard, where Tom Allen was a somebody instead of a pawn, accosted frequently by his shipmates asking to know how the Admiral was feeling.

  The men of HMS Vanguard, especially those who had sailed with Nelson on previous ships, had an almost superstitious attitude to the well-being of their admiral. They knew he was prone to bouts of fever, the victim of any ailment that was going the rounds, and was even prey to black moods brought on by doubt. But they also knew he was a fighter; that any disorder fell away at the prospect of action. And the men who sailed with Nelson relished a scrap as much as he did.

  Tom could tell them happily that “He’s at his very best, his old self so to speak. Wouldn’t surprise me to see them guns run out, mate, as soon as we sight the Maltese shore.”

  Most of Nelson’s time was spent in writing letters. He dictated the official missives to Tyson, who could turn a neat phrase, but he scrawled more intimate notes, with his left hand, to family and his wife. When he came to mention Emma Hamilton in a letter to Fanny, Nelson paused. He had referred to Emma many times since his first visit to Naples, and to omit her now would generate curiosity. He had told Fanny that malicious stories about Emma’s past could be safely ignored, that she was kind, clever and patriotic, that she and her husband had been, individually, for the last five years his regular correspondents.

  Emma had written to Fanny too, to tell her that in Josiah she had a fine son who would one day make her proud. Nelson was tempted to say in his own letter that the young man was a snake in the grass, who had bitten the hand that had been kind to him, but he contented himself with observing that, with his moodiness, Josiah was in danger of ruining his career.

  He wrote of Emma uneasily, praising her as he had always done, asking Fanny to let all know that without Lady Hamilton’s intervention in securing supplies for the fleet the Nile battle might never have happened. Longing and guilt fought each other as he tried hard to strike the right tone, and he could not be sure he had. The way he thought about Emma had changed so dramatically that his judgement was suspect. He felt a pang of loneliness that there was no one to whom he could turn for advice.

  The following day at first light they raised Malta. As well as the masts of his own warships and those of Naples he could see a clutch of Portuguese men-o’-war, a squadron whose arrival he had been anticipating for weeks. That they had made a rendezvous with Ball was to be commended, but he wondered if Malta was the right place for such a force.

  “A message to Captain Ball, if you please, Hardy,” he said softly, as they approached the main island, “that he repair aboard.”

  Hardy smiled, which did little to light up his face, and Nelson reckoned that Thomas Hardy hadn’t changed from the rather grave midshipman he had taken into his ship. He had always had a heavy countenance, sad eyes, well-rounded cheeks, and down-turned lips over a heavy jaw, which made him appear dull and a touch slow-witted. But he was painfully honest, without guile, as brave as a lion and a very competent sailor. Nelson loved and trusted him for that.

  “I think you will find, sir,” Hardy said, handing him his telescope, “that his barge is already in the water. Mr Pasco, oblige me by seeing to the arrangements for the reception.”

  Nelson fixed the glass on the entry port of HMS Alexander in time to see Ball, in a boat cloak to keep the spray off his uniform, step nimbly into the waiting boat. The boatswain was ready to pipe Captain Ball aboard at the entry port. That was where Nelson would greet him: by taking Vanguard under tow in the most dangerous of circumstances, Ball had once saved him from going down in this very ship. He had been one of his Nile captains, and was therefore one of his “Band of Brothers.” The captains had commemorated the victory by the formation of the Egyptian Club. They called each other “crocodiles,” had subscribed to a portrait of their admiral and patron, and had presented him with a sword. The Canadian, Captain Ben Hallowell, had had his carpenter make a coffin from L’Orient’s mainmast, and had given it to Nelson so that his admiral could carry it with him wherever he went.

  Nelson gazed through the telescope at Malta’s splendid natural harbours, backed by the island’s barren hard-baked earth. The town of Valetta stood to one side of the choke point that formed the entrance to a secure anchorage, with Fort Ricasoli on the other. The whole was dominated by the citadel and the gun-bristling bastions that stood at the horns, the most potent being the four tiers of cannon, from water level to topsail height in Malta’s Fort St Elmo.

  Now he recalled the promises Ferdinand had made to the Maltese delegation. The King had assured them that once supplied with guns, ammunition, and troops, the islanders, in concert with the forces of Naples and Sicily, would take it back from the French in a week. With a better eye and a damn sight more experience, Nelson reck
oned it too formidable to assault without several regiments of British troops, and Ball agreed. He pointed out that a land attack was fraught with difficulties and major forces would have to be deployed. Nelson could see for himself that no ship could get within range of the main fortress without facing fire from those formidable bastions—and even if the bastions were knocked out the entrance to the harbour would still be under heavy fire from the forts. As only one ship at a time could make the passage, it would be reduced to a hulk before it could even begin to bring fire to bear on the citadel. Bonaparte, with a force big enough to invade Egypt, had bluffed the previous owners out of the castle. The British Navy must either do the same or blockade the place and starve them out.

  “Boat approaching, your honour,” said Tom Allen, “from the Portuguese flagship.”

  “The Marquis de Niza,” said Ball, his dark and handsome face creasing in a frown. “He will expect a salute, sir.”

  “Of what kind?”

  “The same as that due to you, sir.”

  “Will he, by damn?”

  Nelson was fussy about flags and salutes—who was entitled to fly or receive them and who was not—which had got him into disputes throughout his naval career. On one occasion his objections had led to censure from the Admiralty, creating among certain members of the body that ran the Navy the impression he was something of a pest.

  “The Marquis,” Ball continued, “rates himself as equal to an English admiral in detached command of a squadron. He has tried to issue orders to me. Naturally I have declined to oblige him.”

  “I should hope so,” said Nelson emphatically, “and so shall I in the matter of a salute. Tell me, do you perceive his presence as an asset?”

  “No, sir. His ships are poorly manned, with under-nourished and ill-trained crews. Heaven knows, a Portuguese sailor is as good as any, but their officers are more interested in their rank than their duties. We cannot assault the main island from the sea without heavy losses, as we have already concluded. If I am not prepared to risk my ships, then there is even less point in risking those of an ill-equipped ally.”