Breaking the Line

by David Donachie

  It was the last part of her letter that alarmed him: Fanny had stated her intention of exercising the right of an admiral’s wife to be at her husband’s side on foreign service. The misery of being apart was too much to bear, the thought that he might do something that would take him into the arms of a loving God without her being able to gaze once more on his countenance. She was making plans to travel to the Mediterranean to join him, and had added a request that he might procure, for them, suitable accommodation.

  The reply he had written before Emma came to his room had warned Fanny off such a move. He had reminded her that he was a serving officer at the mercy of a commander and government that might send him in all directions, that she might arrive only to find him ordered home. He did not want Fanny out here, fussing and worrying.

  But he rewrote his letter with more insistence, instructing her – damn near ordering her – to stay put, and to look for a house in England suitable to their rank and station. Whatever doubts he had harboured about their union over many years were laid to rest: he had found what he knew to be true love.

  Fanny was his wife, and as such she had to be accorded all respect. She would have his name, his title, and a reflection of his glory. When he was back in England he would live with her as her husband in whatever accommodation she found. But his heart was elsewhere, and far from feeling unhappy about this, Nelson realised he was entirely at ease with it.

  Tom Allen approached the task of shaving his master with some trepidation, since he knew what had happened the day before and last night. But as he looked down into the smiling face, he relaxed, and began to burble away in his customary manner about matters inconsequential.

  2

  It was a less sanguine admiral who prepared to meet the eyes of the rest of the household over breakfast. Emma had been so indiscreet in her nocturnal meanderings that Nelson was sure that only a blind, deaf fool could have been unaware of what had happened. As if the fates were against him the first person he encountered was Emma’s mother, in her usual housekeeper’s garb, a huge new bunch of keys at her waist to replace those she had left in Naples. The thought of what she knew, which was everything, made him feel queasy.

  ‘Good morning to you Lord Nelson,’ Mary Cadogan said, with unusual gusto. ‘I trust you had a good night?’ Nelson saw the twinkle in her eye. ‘I can assure you that Sir William slept the sleep of the just,’ she added.

  When he smiled, so did she, although he was unaware that Mary Cadogan’s motives were more calculating than his. It was in Nelson’s nature to be friendly with people. Emma’s mother, in the light of recent events, reckoned she should be a mite more pleasant to Lord Nelson. She was still concerned about his suitability and Emma’s security.

  ‘I’m glad to hear my host enjoyed a peaceful night,’ Nelson responded, thinking that with those words he had entered fully into the intrigue.

  Mary Cadogan chuckled, salaciously, which bounced off the walls of the long passageway that led to the main reception rooms. ‘When a man reaches his advanced years, for all he’s a sprightly cove, a good night’s rest is something to savour.’

  Nelson managed an embarrassed laugh, then took refuge in the safest of topics. ‘At least the weather has eased.’

  ‘Thank Christ,’ Mary Cadogan replied, blissfully unaware of the blasphemy. That wind had my chaps red raw. Never did I think I’d need to put goose fat on my lotties in these climes.’ She shook her ample breasts, leaving Nelson in no doubt as to what she meant. He laughed inwardly: a sense of vulgarity must run in the family. Emma sometimes shocked him with her open way of referring to her body and his. But he loved it too.

  Sir William stood up from the breakfast table to greet him with a wide smile, and the knot of anxiety in Nelson’s breast loosened. ‘The weather has turned, my dear fellow,’ he cried, linking an arm and leading Nelson to an open window. ‘And my bones no longer ache.’

  Together they stood by the window, gazing out on a calm sea, which, if it wasn’t the blue of a summer’s day was very different from the dull grey, choppy mass of the previous weeks.

  ‘That damned tramontana cast me low, Nelson. I feared to raise my head of a morning only to hear more bad news from the King’s ministers. But the southerly wind is with us, and the heat of the North African plains will warm our blood. Perhaps it will stir something in these supine Neapolitan breasts as well, so that we can begin to put right all that has passed to mortify us this last month.’

  It was easy to see that Sir William was being deliberately hearty, since such behaviour was not a normal component of his urbane and cultured nature. Was he trying to tell Nelson, in his own way, of his acceptance of the situation? If he was, then Nelson was prepared to take it at face value. Within a minute they were sitting at the table, talking like the two friends they had always been.

  ‘Oh! The news is mixed,’ said Sir William, when Nelson enquired of the latest despatches from the mainland. ‘Cardinal Ruffo and his band of ruffians have enjoyed some success, and that will lift the mood of the court. But Commodore Caracciolo’s behaviour will erase that.’

  To Nelson’s lifted eyebrow, Sir William continued, ‘He asked permission of the King to return to Naples to protect his estates from the French. He landed, met Cardinal Ruffo, declined an invitation to join his army and went north. We have had word, as yet unconfirmed, that he has gone over to the Republican cause.’

  Nelson recalled the morose countenance of the Commodore both on arrival in Sicily and on the various occasions he had seen him at the Colli Palace: squat, square of face, swarthy with piercing eyes. As he gazed upon his king and queen there had been no love in his face. Now, to Nelson’s way of thinking, Caracciolo had seemed a man who felt himself betrayed, and was conjuring up reasons to justify an act that others would see as treason.

  ‘It is to be hoped that the rumour is untrue,’ added Sir William, ‘for if Caracciolo has defected it bodes ill for the reconquest of the King’s dominions. It is on men like him that the royal couple must rely.’

  ‘I would not place too much weight on the likes of Commodore Caracciolo, Sir William,’ Nelson replied, with some asperity. ‘You are in danger, if you do, of sharing the high opinion he has of himself.’

  Others joined them for breakfast, Sir William repeating to each new arrival what the change of weather had done for him. He was looking forward to another day’s hunting, and pronounced himself certain that court mourning should be suspended for the deleterious effect it was having on morale. He abjured everyone to be a philosopher and accept whatever fate threw their way, oblivious to the fact that the admonishment flew in the face of his own recent behaviour.

  Perhaps it was the change in the weather, but Nelson, too, felt different, and as he boarded his flagship his step was lighter. However, there was the usual mass of correspondence to deal with, and money matters to sort out with John Tyson. A fleet could not run on air and Nelson needed money, a great deal of it, to keep his command supplied, and it was Tyson’s job to ensure a steady flow. In a war-torn world where armies and fleets competed with governments for coin, it was in short supply. Nelson lamented that with the treasures of Malta and the money Bonaparte needed to pay his army on board, there had been enough on the sunken L’Orient to keep him supplied for a year.

  ‘Ships carrying money and the like should fly a special flag, Tyson saying, “do not sink me”,’ Nelson moaned, as he studied the state of the accounts.

  Tyson shook his head at a man who seemed unaware of the greed of many of his fellow officers. Nelson could not fathom that there were captains who would let a whole fleet go to secure a Spanish plate ship. He merely informed Nelson of his efforts to raise coin from sources close by and from England, it being his job, also, to ensure that every penny pledged was properly accounted for: his personal credit was at stake and he operated for his profit on a small margin. A minor error in the accounts might be picked up by an Admiralty clerk, which would cost him dear. A major miscalculation would see h
im ruined.

  Nelson had to account for every pound spent, too, and there was always a difference between what the Admiralty considered proper expenditure and that which any admiral on station needed to spend. With the well-being of his sailors his paramount concern, Nelson used money with a prodigality that prompted a steady flow of censorious correspondence. Sums expended months, even years before, in storms, battles or even on a calm day in port, had to be explained to an official who sat close by a fire at work and had his home to go to at night. That sailors at sea might want for some comfort was none of this fellow’s concern.

  ‘Lady Hamilton is preparing to come aboard, sir. Captain Hardy has undertaken to greet her on the quarterdeck.’

  Immersed in his letters, the name shocked Nelson. He looked up at the midshipman who had brought the message, dying to ask him if Sir William was in attendance – but, of course, he could not be, or his name would have been announced. No one else had been announced either, which implied that Emma had come alone. Why had Hardy sent for him so swiftly? He looked at Tyson, who seemed intent on keeping his head down, like a man who knew something and feared eye contact. Nelson grabbed his hat and left. Tyson exchanged a glance with Tom Allen, which confirmed for him the truth of a rumour that had been flying around the fleet since before they left Naples.

  That every man aboard was privy to that rumour was obvious as Lady Hamilton made her way up the companionway to the quarterdeck. As always aboard a square-rigger tied up to a mole, a mass of work was being carried out. Blocks and pulleys were being greased, ropes spliced or replaced, sails hung out to air, men below with vinegar soused the ’tween decks, with hatches open to let in some air. Under the supervision of the gunner, the cannon and the gun carriages were being serviced, while other men worked on the breechings that held them to the side of the ship. The carpenter and his mates were hacking out damaged wood and replacing it with new timber. Men were over the side with paint, the smell of which mixed with the tar used to caulk new planking, crane parties were hauling aboard supplies while water barrels were being scrubbed clean for refilling. The pace of that work slowed perceptibly, since everyone had one eye cast towards the quarterdeck to see Captain Hardy and the officer of the watch raise their hats to the visitor. When Nelson came on deck, his haste to greet the lady was plain to see. His sailors were too shrewd to murmur approval when he, hat off, kissed her proffered hand, but there were many satisfied sighs and nods – mixed with the odd snort from those who saw a broken commandment.

  ‘Lady Hamilton,’ said Nelson, ‘you have come alone?’

  Emma spoke in a clear voice, easy to hear over what was now a silent ship. ‘I need neither companion nor chaperone to visit such a close friend.’

  Suddenly the air was full of shouting as the officers, petty, warrant and commissioned, realised that HMS Vanguard was quieter than a church hosting a funeral. Now each worker sought to assure those in authority that if all the other fellows had been curious, he had not, which created a great babble of noise that made Nelson laugh.

  Hardy was blushing, while the officer of the watch made himself as frantically busy as everyone else close by: they all wished to pretend they had not seen confirmed what they had all suspected. Nelson might not be a good reader of social signs ashore but he knew his sailors too well to be fooled. What he had thought secret had been, if not common knowledge, certainly a shared suspicion.

  Emma leaned a fraction closer. ‘Have I missed something, Nelson?’

  ‘No, my dear,’ he replied in a soft voice. ‘I fear you have just confirmed something.’

  ‘I should be angry with you, Emma. You were flitting about last night in the most obvious way and you must have considered the consequences of coming aboard my ship without a companion.’

  She was lying along the cushions on the footlockers, her head in his lap, looking up, green eyes squinting as the sun sparkled on the panes of the casement windows. ‘Why consider what I do not fear to be known?’ she asked.

  ‘Discretion?’ he asked.

  ‘Is for mere mortals, not the Hero of the Nile – the Hero of the Nation is nearer the truth.’

  ‘Please!’

  She sat up, her face close and level with his. ‘You are that, Nelson, though it does you credit that you seem to be the only man unaware of it.’

  Nelson wanted to admonish Emma and tell her that what might pass in the confines of a villa would not pass in the street or on a naval deck. But what he had sensed on his own deck not ten minutes before prevented that. Though he could never be brought to admit it, Nelson had a preternatural knowledge of mood, a most essential attribute in a commander. He could sense discontent merely by walking the deck: it was in the cast of a shoulder or the avoidance of an eye, in the bearing of a midshipman or ship’s boy. A happy ship was a fighting ship and, while he would not step too far outside the rules of his profession, he was prepared to push them to whatever limit was required to look after his officers and crew. There was a warm glow in his breast at the thought that his men were pleased for him. There would be those not happy, men who hated the sin, but he had felt a wave of affection at the moment he had kissed Emma’s hand.

  ‘It is not uncommon,’ Emma asked, ‘for officers to have their wives aboard, is it?’

  ‘Unusual, my dear, but not uncommon. Thomas Freemantle rarely sails anywhere without his beloved Betsy.’

  ‘A lady who is young and lively?’

  ‘Very! A beauty and a favourite of every officer who knows her husband.’

  Her face was very close to his now. ‘I was just wondering … Where do they … Captain Freemantle and his Betsy … you know …?’

  ‘Emma, you are shameless.’

  She giggled. ‘I do hope so.’

  An hour later, dressed and with all repaired, Nelson and Emma strode the decks as he explained the function of each article needed in the construction of a fighting ship. As he talked, or introduced her to some sailor or petty officer, Nelson watched their faces, pleased that there was no hint of a blush anywhere. He was used to the way the midshipmen dogged his footsteps, but the open admiration for Emma in the faces of these boys cheered him.

  A woman who had never lost sight of her original station in life, Emma was not the type to play the grande dame. In fact she had the same ease in common company as Nelson, and beauty enough to win over anyone whose heart might waver at the thought of her being their hero’s paramour. Thus their progress was one of pleasant asides, smiles, much doffing of sailors’ caps and officers’ hats.

  The fellow stapled to the foredeck by locked leg irons had such sad eyes that he touched Emma’s heart and she pleaded for him to be released. Nelson pointed out quietly that he had no rights in the matter, that discipline aboard his flagship was the province of Captain Hardy and his officers. Also, he had no idea what the miscreant had done. It was some minor offence for sure, like getting drunk or losing his hammock: Thomas Hardy was somewhat stricter in matters of discipline than Nelson, and did not shy from rigging the grating for a flogging as often as he considered it necessary.

  ‘Then I shall ask Captain Hardy for clemency,’ Emma insisted. ‘I cannot abide that on a day when I am so happy anyone should be in discomfort.’

  Nelson stopped and said, with some force though he was still smiling, ‘My dear, you must have a care not to let the kindness of your heart take you into such an area. By your beauty and nature you will place a burden of reaction on Thomas Hardy that will lead only to resentment. Not from Hardy, I think, for he is so very fond of you, but other minds will not be so well disposed.’

  Looking at Nelson Emma understood that he was talking less about Hardy than himself, saying that in matters naval she must not interfere.

  ‘You have seen a man flogged?’ Emma asked, as he took her arm to lead her away from the unfortunate sailor.

  ‘More than once I have ordered it, my dear, but only as a final sanction. It is a device of discipline that I dislike. It tends, I believe, to make a good
man bad and a bad man worse. There are many officers who share my view yet more who do not. You know Tom Troubridge as a gentle soul.’

  ‘A touch humourless,’ Emma interjected, though she added hastily that she was fond of him.

  Nelson grinned. ‘He is a serious sailor, and that makes him somewhat dour ashore. And there is also his recent loss, for he was devoted to his wife. But Tom is also a ferocious captain who will not tolerate dissent on his decks. When the cancer of mutiny spread from England to the fleet he was at the vanguard of the hangings that saw it squashed.’

  ‘You have never hanged a man?’

  Nelson stopped and looked at her. ‘With God’s good grace, Emma, I have never had the need.’ That was a subject too melancholy to dwell on, so Nelson set himself the task of restoring the previous mood, helped by the attitude of the crew.

  The carpenter, repairing damage from the storm that brought them to Palermo, was eager to let Emma ply a saw. The gunner, normally a most capricious and temperamental cove, welcomed Emma into his screened-off lair, lit only a by a lantern shining through a glass panel in the bulkhead that ensured the flame could never reach the powder. Few were admitted to this den, though Nelson was always welcome. Emma was shown the various grades of gunpowder, invited to smell them crushed to pick up the odour of saltpetre. Given a charge to make, the gunner pronounced that she had a natural eye for measure. Sailmakers stitched for her, ropes were specially spliced and knots created, and Nelson bemoaned in good humour the loss of an arm that made it impossible to compete. Men who had known him with two arms attested to their admiral’s old skill.

  Emma, observing the attention of the men when it shifted from her to him, was sure she had never seen anyone so elevated converse so easily with the commonalty. Sir William was urbane, gentle and kind, and very good with his people, but there was never a hint in his aristocratic behaviour that the relationship was anything other than that between master and servant. But Nelson was different. In his case it was not noblesse oblige: he was one of them. Take away the blue coat, the gleaming orders and the hat, and there would have been nothing to tell you that he too was not a common sailor. Though they had a care to be polite, Emma got no sense from his men that they felt they were talking to anyone other than a professional equal. They even joshed him gently, or shared a well-worn joke. Loving him, she had never doubted his qualities as a leader; observing this she felt he could never fail, for these men would never let him down.