“I should have gone myself,” whispered Nelson, as the door closed.
“He deserves the courtesy,” Emma replied.
They were standing a little apart, swaying easily on the swell of the sea, eyes locked, yet there was one final barrier they had still to cross. Nelson knew in his own heart that he had already made the leap. He had never been in love before—he knew that now. All his previous romantic attachments seemed foolish, especially his initial regard for his wife. He was incapable of imagining a future without Emma, and nothing—neither career, fame nor glory—would serve to fill the void of her absence.
Emma had been in love, and knew, too, the heartbreak of rejection. She wanted Nelson to make the commitment that her previous love, Charles Greville, had not. She wanted him to say the words that would break down that final barrier.
“Emma,” Nelson said, holding out his hand. His mouth was dry. “I cannot live without you.”
“I must see to the Queen,” Emma replied.
Nelson smiled, for he had seen what was in Emma’s eyes and felt her affirmative squeeze. “Does that make you happy?”
“Yes.”
There was no need for more, even though his heart was pounding. He kissed the back of her hand—not the kiss of a courtier, but that of a lover.
Emma had to compose herself as she made her way back down to Nelson’s cabin and the Queen, passing officers and men, all of whom tipped a hat or touched their forehead in respect. These were Nelson’s men, who were said to love him. So did she. Could they love her too? She felt calm, was not plagued by second thoughts. She was certain that what had just been pledged was right and that the consequences of that decision did not matter. She felt different, too, as she walked into the cabin, as though it was somehow her own.
The sharp tang of watered vinegar tingled in her nostrils. The cabin had been cleaned in her absence, with the furniture in its proper place. The first to greet her was young Prince Alberto, dressed in fresh, clean clothes and it gladdened her heart to see some colour in his cheeks. Alberto, coming aboard shivering in the grip of a fever, had been more violently sick than either his siblings or his mother. Yet now he looked as he always had, black eyes shining and ready for mischief as he rushed over to kiss Emma.
Tom Allen was there, too, standing over the large round table that Nelson used as a desk, a tub of beeswax and a cloth in his hand. “Had a right good breakfast, His Highness did, milady, oats and goat’s milk laced with a tadge of the Admiral’s brandy.”
Emma realised that she was hungry, not having eaten since Kemal Effendi’s reception.
“Been helping me put things to rights, has young Prince Alberto,” added Tom. “He be a dab hand as a swabber, ain’t you, young sir?”
Alberto had enough English to understand that and he looked proud that Tom rated his ability to ply a mop.
“Your mama?” Emma asked, nodding towards the sleeping cabin.
Alberto made a face and moaned, then asked eagerly, “Will I be allowed to go on deck, Lady Emma?”
It was Tom Allen who replied. “Why that comes later, Master Prince.” He pushed a cloth in Alberto’s direction and aimed a finger at Nelson’s mahogany, brass edged wine cooler. “You ain’t yet complete here.”
Emma exited the cabin to the sounds of Tom Allen’s quiet instructions, that, “too much applied was just making work, an’ it be best to keep it off the brass if you can.”
When Emma went into the sleeping-cabin it was dark, drapes having been put over the casements to keep out the daylight. Maria Carolina lay in Nelson’s cot, swaying with the motion of the ship. Her eyes looked hollowed and her skin waxen. She held one hand out to Emma, a damp handkerchief rolled in the fist, her voice weak as she muttered, “Oh Emma, what is to become of us?”
Emma wasn’t thinking of Maria Carolina, Naples, or the approaching French when she replied, “Everything will work out for the best, Your Majesty.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
ON DECK the weather had moderated, though it was far from calm. Nelson watched as Mack’s boat dipped and swayed back to the shore, then lifted his telescope to look at the grey arc of the bay as it ran from the island of Procida to the southern arm at Capri, glowering Vesuvius in the centre. There was nothing more he could do here, Mack had made that plain, and the safety of the royal family meant that he should leave.
A glance at the lowering clouds above his head told him little more than the grey water of the bay. Many years at sea had given Nelson an acute sense of the weather, which allowed him to interpret what might come from what he saw and what he sniffed. The feel of a breeze, steady or gusting, the run of the clouds or the way they masked the sun, or the disturbed state of the water between him and the horizon. Experience also told him that his forecasting was inexact. He had been right more times than he had been wrong but he knew that he had not conquered the art.
However, given that the weather these last weeks had been foul it seemed that any observations should have little bearing on any decision he made. Those of his passengers likely to succumb were sick already, and the sooner he got them to dry land the better. Told by the officer of the watch that the Admiral was on deck, Thomas Hardy appeared silently, awaiting orders. Nelson, as was his habit, asked Hardy’s opinion, which was much the same as his own.
“A signal to the transports, Captain Hardy, and to the Portuguese. We may prepare to weigh for Palermo.”
An hour after they had cleared the bay, his little convoy of ships was in a violent gale that was worsening by the minute, the screaming of the wind in the rigging increasing in pitch. The bowsprit dug deeper into troughs of waves that grew more and more unpredictable, the stern of Vanguard lifting clear of the water then slamming down again. In the wardroom all the men were hanging on to something, pale-faced and fearful—none more so than Ferdinand himself, who was convinced, and prepared to tell everyone else, that his house and his person were cursed.
Above, the Admiral’s cabin was in chaos again, and Prince Alberto lay prostrate on a bed Emma had made up for him on the lockers that ran under the stern windows. Strapped in by ropes, with the boy’s head on her lap, Emma was talking to him to keep up his spirits, using Tom Allen as a messenger to the Queen, laid too low to nurse her own child, to tell her of her son’s progress.
Alberto’s black, thick hair was soaking, and his skin translucent, as though the flame of life was struggling to maintain itself. Emma prayed, feeding Alberto sips of the brandy that Tom Allen had fetched at her request, trying to raise him by recalling the games they had played in the royal palaces.
“I’s done my best, milady,” said Tom, nodding towards the other cabins. Just as in harbour, none of the palace servants, bar one retainer who seemed able to withstand the motion, had been an ounce of use. Yet Emma could forgive them now—the way the ship was heaving even Tom Allen could only make his way around the cabin by clasping on to the ropes he had rigged.
“They’re all afeart we’re going to drown,” Tom continued. “I telt them that as long as the sticks stand—that be the masts like—then there’s now’t to worry about.”
On deck, Thomas Hardy and the Admiral, wrapped in oilskins, were watching those sticks with increasing alarm, as daylight gave way to dusk. Both knew that Vanguard had always been a roller, apt to show the copper that lined her bottom, a ship that sat higher in the water than was good for her: a heavy sea made the hull sway alarmingly from side to side. She had rolled out her masts twice before in this very sea, once off Corsica, where only the bravery and application of Alexander Ball had saved her, and again on the way back from the Nile.
“You have a party standing by, I trust?” yelled Nelson. Hardy’s response was carried away on the howling wind, but he aimed one mittened hand towards the nearest companionway, to tell Nelson that men were ready with axes to cut away any mast that went over the side.
In truth Nelson shouldn’t have been there: this was Hardy’s deck, not his. But he could not abide inactivity
and, with the wind battering them from west-south-west, they had a dangerous, rocky coastline to leeward that would turn the ship to matchwood if she was driven ashore. He justified his presence on the grounds that he had known Hardy since he was a slip of a lad, had educated him in his duties as an officer and a sailor. Anyway, he knew this ship better than Hardy did.
He did not know that Hardy was glad of his presence. He had had command of a brig and a frigate, but a 74-gun ship-of-the-line was altogether different and his responsibility for the safety of the hero of the Nile was an added burden. Ships foundered, it was part of the risk of life at sea, and the storm was violent enough to send Vanguard to the bottom. At least with Nelson here, he had someone to share the responsibility of whatever action he took.
Hardy did not hear the topsails shred, for the wind carried away the sound, and neither did Nelson—he had stepped into the chart room to check the ship’s position with the master—but the crack of torn canvas alerted everyone close to the quarterdeck. By the time the driver and the foremast staysail went, bringing down with them a mass of rigging, chains, and blocks that clattered on to the rolling deck, Nelson was back. He could hear Hardy ordering extra hands to the wheel, a party of seamen forward to cut away the debris, and yet more to get aloft to bend on new canvas. Nelson was half intending to go forward with the axe party when Giddings yelled in his ear.
“Best stay put, your honour. With only one pin you can’t do owt and keep a safe grip an’ all.”
The advice was sensible, but it angered Nelson. He never complained about the loss of his arm and how it constrained him, but he missed it, and such situations brought it home to him. He had always been an active rather than a magisterial captain—some rooted themselves to their quarterdeck station throughout a crisis, but he wasn’t like that: in a storm or a battle he wanted always to be at the forefront. Fellow-officers condemned him for seeking popularity, but Nelson was merely responding to the way his blood raced. Giddings knew that, which was why he made sure he was always close to Nelson to stamp on temptation that might see him harmed.
The ship was in peril, though not mortally so. But below decks the sound of falling debris and running feet echoed through the planking, and sounded truly alarming. Mary Cadogan saw Ferdinand go white, and all around the wardroom men who had relished power and thought themselves immortal were silently praying to gods both Christian and pagan.
Emma held tightly to Prince Alberto, whose fever had worsened, his small body now racked by convulsions. Emma knew the storm was strengthening, just as she knew that in her arms her charge was sinking. Yet there was no way to bring relief—the sea controlled the motion of the ship, moderated only by the skill of those on deck to anticipate the flukes of the gale and the run of the waves. In the cabin, the howling wind found every crack in the casements beside which she sat, sending in freezing air and water. The floor of the cabin was awash, full of debris, running under the cabin door as the bow dipped, then surging back to splash around the hem of her dress. Every few minutes Tom Allen was there, hanging on to one of his ropes, gazing anxiously at the youngster’s face, or exchanging a glance with Emma. His face offered encouragement, but his eyes reflected despair.
From the side cabin the wailing of the other royal passengers was a background din to the cacophony of the storm and a ship that, with groaning planking, sounded as if it might tear itself apart. Above her head, on deck, barefoot seamen, cursing, wielded axes and knives to break wood and ropes or slash canvas, freeing debris which, trailing over the side of the ship, would further endanger them. Men slipped on the water-lashed deck, only saved from perdition by the quick thinking of their mates. Others in even more exposed positions were trying to replace what had been blown out.
Occasionally, through the pouring rain, Nelson caught sight of the topsail yards swinging in the wind. He had served up there as a youngster in weather as foul as this, so he could imagine what he could not see: the bare feet struggling to keep a grip on the drenched foot ropes slung beneath wooden poles, the yardarms that carried the sails as the ship arced forwards, back and sideways through the air. Men with the top half of their bodies hanging over that spar were fighting with freezing fingers, he knew, to bend on a replacement sail so that the way of the ship could be restored and Vanguard could haul off the jagged shore that was not far to the east.
Horatio Nelson envied those men aloft: he missed the comradeship that went with being a topman, the elite of the sailing tribe. It was where he had served as a common sailor on his first voyage to the West Indies, and on his first long-service naval commission. He had formed friendships in the rigging that he would have liked to keep, only to watch them fade as he attained higher rank. Those who had taught him his trade would be ashore now, if they were not dead, sitting snug, he hoped, in some warm taproom. They would be telling avid listeners of the places and sights they had seen, with just enough exaggeration to keep the free ale flowing. They could well describe a storm: men overboard in seas from which they could not be rescued, dropped blocks or spikes that scarred the deck or mutilated some unfortunate soul, the exhaustion in the face of toil that could not be avoided, for to rest was to risk damnation. But would they describe the bond that grew between men who served in such a station? Nelson doubted it, because it bred a closeness that could neither be breached nor comprehended by outsiders, with its private language, the cryptic looks, particular jokes, and human intimacies that would seem strange to the ears of a landsman.
As these thoughts ran through his mind, Nelson also admired the quality of Thomas Hardy’s calm seamanship. He was in a storm, surrounded by over twenty ships of their evacuation convoy, without much knowledge of where his consorts lay, but he did not appear anxious, nor had he sought advice. Hardy had issued his orders, had ensured that the men on the wheel kept the head into the run of the sea, and waited without impatience for matters to be put right. Hardy trusted his men, and Nelson knew he was right to do so.
Mary Cadogan did not see what Sir William had fetched from the screened-off cabin he shared with Prince Esterhazy, but she noticed alarm in the Hungarian’s face, Sir William’s furtive air as he staggered out of the wardroom, and the bulge of substantial objects under his coat.
Tottering along the lower deck, Sir William crammed his body between a lashed cask and one of the uprights that held the deck-beams above his head. Using the top of the cask as a table he laid out two pistols, his powder horn, and lead balls. It wasn’t easy to load them as the ship pitched: he spilt much of the gunpowder and lost several balls. But he was an experienced hunter, and handy with a gun, so the task was eventually completed. Raising the pistols, long barrelled and gleaming, he opened his coat and jammed them into his waistcoat pockets, then set out with a more determined tread, handing himself off from the obstacles he met on his way, finally descending to the orlop deck.
Emma was approaching despair. She had seen little of death in her life. Samuel Linley, her first love, whose death had wrenched her heart. A neighbour or two in Hawarden as a child, the odd cadaver in the streets of London when she had been a homeless waif with no bed but a pile of rubbish in a stinking alley. She knew Prince Alberto was slipping away—his waxen skin told her that—and several times she had thumped at his heart fearing it might stop. Alberto’s breath came in great wracking gasps and saliva dribbled from his mouth on to her hand.
She felt lonely and helpless. Tom Allen’s attempts to fetch a physician had produced no one. The ship’s surgeon was busy tending the cuts and broken limbs of both crew and passengers, and could not spare time to deal with a child’s fever. The court doctor, who had come aboard in the wake of Ferdinand and Maria Carolina, was in a cot groaning, convinced he was not long for this world.
Emma asked Tom Allen to fetch Nelson. She felt that he alone might be able to light in Alberto’s breast the spark of life. But when he came, Emma knew that the crisis was upon her. The convulsions were more acute, as was the lack of breath in the few periods of respite
. She took strength from Nelson kneeling beside her, as he whispered encouragement into Alberto’s ear.
Nelson had seen a lot of death: from sickness and from war, and just as much from the perils of the sea; he had sat beside many a fevered fellow sailor and reckoned to know who was a survivor and who would expire. As he spoke he tried to compose in his head those words he would need to comfort Emma.
The death throes saw the small body stretched to its limit, three massive convulsions that caused deep and terrifying pain that contorted the beautiful young face. The cry that emerged was a scream of agony that grew till it filled both the cabin and the ears of those attending. Tom Allen was openly weeping, Nelson still trying with words to stave off the inevitable, while Emma called Alberto’s name. The last paroxysm forced his mouth to expand in a silent rictus. Alberto’s eyes were wide open and full of fear as the last breath of his life escaped from his tiny frame in a horrible hiss. Then he went limp, and the light left his eyes.
Emma, through her moans, heard Nelson praying. He was using words he knew too well, learned from his father, who had stood over so many bodies in his time. As he prayed he took Emma’s hand and put it to his forehead. Tom Allen had dropped to his knees by the casement lockers and was deep in prayer as well. But Emma, for all the despair she felt at the loss, had a task that only she could perform.
Gently she pulled her hand free, unlashed the rope that held her to the seat and stood up. Nelson stood, too, trying to steady her, but it was he with only one arm who failed to keep his balance and had to clutch at a rope.
“I must tell the Queen,” she said.
Nelson heard the keening cry of a bereft mother seconds after Emma closed the door. Maria Carolina had suffered much: eighteen confinements had resulted in the death of more than a dozen of her children, some at birth, some within weeks. Nelson knew this would be the hardest to bear: Prince Alberto had been a favourite with everyone.
Tested by Fate Page 39