Breaking the Line

by David Donachie

  Not that Sir William spent much time at home. He had all his old friends to fill his days, the members of the Dilettante Club and the collectors of classical statuary and artefacts who saw him as one of their foremost experts. He was welcome in the superior coffee-houses of St James’s and the auction rooms and galleries of London, either as a seller, a buyer, or an adviser. Sir William was welcomed in less salubrious establishments too, for he was genial company and a ribald storyteller.

  He occasionally dined at home with Emma and her mother, although not if Nelson’s relatives were there. Emma was determined to woo the family, but his sisters kept their distance and his father wrote but would not visit – he a partisan of Lady Nelson – for which Sir William was grateful. As a strict non-believer he found clerical company tiresome.

  Emma’s one success so far was a bore. William Nelson, Rector of Hilborough, was a black-clad leech with a silly, giggling, pudding of a wife. When it came to taking money off his brother, the man had no shame. He used the connection shamelessly in his pursuit of ecclesiastical preferment, for which Sir William thought him entirely unsuited.

  They fed Emma’s increasing loathing of Fanny Nelson, who had become, ‘that woman,’ and for reasons Sir William never fathomed, had been accorded the nickname, ‘Tom tit’, this despite the fact that they had received, in the past, many kindnesses from a person they now took every opportunity to revile.

  Sir William recognised the type; they would eat at his board and that of Horatio Nelson and heap praise. But if anything caused them to feel that the grass was greener elsewhere, the Reverend William Nelson and his shrew of a wife would turn on the Hamiltons in the same way they had turned on Fanny Nelson. In the meantime, he would, as far as possible, avoid them.

  Emma swung between feeling secure and the fear that separation would diminish Nelson’s passion. She spent time in her Nelson Room, looking at his image and touching his trophies. She ached to have him close so that she could still her anxiety that he would come home from the Baltic to Fanny, having realised that for them to continue was impossible.

  Her mother scoffed at this. Mary Cadogan had no worries about Horatio Nelson, she had seen the depth of his regard for Emma, although she still worried about their security. They were safe in Piccadilly for as long as Sir William kept his health. After that they would be prey to the whims of Charles Greville and he had such a tight fist with money that they would likely be out on their ear.

  ‘Just as long as your papa don’t do nothing daft and get his head carried away by a cannon ball.’ The bright green eyes of Horatia Nelson were fixed on her grandmother’s lips. ‘For he be like that, always in the thick I’m told. If he goes we will be in a right pickle.’

  Mary Cadogan was not one to see a problem without looking for a solution. She would have words with Emma’s hero when he came home. Matters needed to be settled so that the comfort of his dependants was assured, the only other way being that he gave up fighting.

  Mary Cadogan chucked the infant under the chin. ‘We don’t want to be traipsing around hunting for a place to lay our head, now do we? You wants a house you can call your own, that’s what you want. And happen you want lots of family to come and visit.’

  When Mary Cadogan thought of Nelson’s family her actual opinion was only expressed in private. Brother William and his wife she saw as bloodsuckers and pious hypocrites, while Nelson’s father was a pulpit groaner by the look of him. Maurice, the eldest, was said to be at death’s door, having toiled away for thirty years in the Navy Office. He sounded like a decent cove, having lived for years with another man’s wife, now blind, and he had shown kindness to his uncle’s old black butler.

  Mary Cadogan did not look forward to the happy family picture that Emma talked about, all the Nelson relatives reconciled to her and constant visitors. But if their presence was the price of peace of mind, then she would pay it.

  Fanny Nelson knew she was being isolated from her in-laws, but was at a loss to know what to do about it. London held no charm for her so she moved to take rooms in Bath, where she could care for her husband’s father.

  The behaviour of the William Nelsons was particularly wounding, given what she had done for them. Fanny and Sarah Nelson had been close, while the schooling of both their children was paid for thanks to Fanny’s gift for reminding her husband of his family responsibilities. Susanna and she had never got on. Sukey, as Nelson called her, had been a surrogate mother and no woman would ever be good enough for her little brother. Recently Susanna had written to remind her sister-in-law that her brother’s happiness was her sole concern, almost a coded message that if Fanny Nelson was estranged, then she should look to herself for the cause.

  Sitting over her embroidery, Fanny could not believe that her separation from Nelson would last. Despite the birth of a love-child this was still to her an infatuation, which must run its course before her husband came to his senses. The Hamilton woman could only open up the carnal side of him, whereas she had what ‘the whore’ lacked; refinement and respectability. In her mind she composed endless letters to him, and she imagined him reading them. One day something she wrote would act like thunderbolts to remind him of where his best interests lay.

  Admiral Sir Hyde Parker was once more alone in the great cabin of HMS London, the masts of the Swedish fleet in their base at Carlscrona visible from his quarterdeck. The despatch that relieved him of his command was in his hand, and he was reflecting on the events of the previous weeks: the aftermath of the recent battle and the British fleet, now masters of the sea approaches to Copenhagen; the amount of work necessary to repair the damage to their ships; the number of dead and wounded on both sides, a heavy butcher’s bill in which the Danes had paid the highest price in blood. And the way Nelson had behaved.

  It was Nelson’s truce that the Danes accepted. Had he been right to insist on staying aloof, leaving the bargaining to his junior admiral, even in the face of Nelson’s protests that he was no negotiator? What had prompted it? The certainty that with his name and reputation, Nelson would do better than him, or the possibility that the Danes might not accept the terms, which would leave the victor of the battle with the opprobrium of failure?

  Whatever, Nelson had succeeded. There had been a threat of course, because Nelson was no fool: he had warned the Crown Prince of Denmark that he would burn the Arsenal and reduce the Trekroner fort to rubble, leaving Copenhagen defenceless if his terms were not accepted. While negotiating he reminded his hosts that the very rooms they sat in, working on the protocols of a permanent peace, were within range of his mortars.

  Parker had stayed in his ship, reassuring himself that in doing so he could repudiate anything that was agreed of which he did not approve, yet knowing, deep down, that matters were out of his hands. He had become a puppet, dancing to Nelson’s tune, at the mercy of the man’s luck, which even extended to the timely murder of the Tsar of Russia and his replacement by a ruler more disposed to make peace with England.

  After this, Nelson was sure he was going home, and had even had his heavy luggage packed and stored in HMS Blanche. Not any more!

  … You will relinquish your command with immediate effect, handing over to Vice Admiral, Viscount Nelson …

  Not Baron Nelson anymore, but Viscount Nelson, and this in a letter pointedly addressed to Admiral SIR Hyde Parker. There would be nothing for him, no title, no fame, no commemorative swords or money grants from the City of London merchants. He was ordered home and would have to skulk into a London full of praise for a man he should despise but could not. A man who, at this moment, was on his way from his own ship to what, by the nature of things, must be a painful interview.

  Sir Hyde Parker looked around his cabin, at the fine furnishings, thick carpets and valuable paintings with which it was adorned, all of the best, evidence of his great wealth. There was a fine portrait of his young wife: would it soon be replaced by that of the woman Nelson chose to call his Santa Emma?

  They had celeb
rated her birthday just eight days before, with several glasses of champagne, all the old companions and members of the Crocodile Club and he, drinking toasts to the fair lady. This was done while each looked to see how the others reacted to Nelson’s bright-eyed enthusiasm for the lady. Hardy’s blank face, as usual, gave nothing away, nor did Tom Foley’s enigmatic smile. Had Parker seen Freemantle shake his head? What did Dommet think of such a blatant affair? Parker would never know, because not one of the officers present would confide in him.

  Did they talk to Nelson about him? Was he a butt of their jokes, seen as irrelevant? Faintly he heard the boatswain’s whistles piping Nelson aboard. Did they have a more jaunty note, or was that imagination? Was the crash of that marine salute, the thud of their footwear on the planking and the clatter of the at-arms muskets more snappy than that which had been afforded to him?

  ‘Sir Hyde,’ said Nelson, as he was shown into the great cabin.

  ‘Viscount Nelson,’ replied Parker. Having been sitting silently his throat was full of phlegm, which made his voice sound croaked and weak. Hastily he cleared it, knowing as he did so that such coughing did nothing for the impression he was creating. ‘I doubt I am the first to congratulate you on your elevation, but I do so sincerely nonetheless.’

  ‘You are most kind, sir.’

  There was a moment then, when each tried surreptitiously to read in the other’s expression what was going on in the opposing mind. Nelson was uncomfortable, in a situation he would have preferred to avoid. There was little doubt that before the Copenhagen battle, his former commanding officer had tried to avoid him, to ensure that anything in the way of glory remained his province.

  It was also true that Nelson had been vexed by the thought that the man might receive a peerage for what he had done. But since the battle they had seen a great deal of each other, and Parker had reacted most graciously to whatever suggestions Nelson had made. While there was not much to love in the man, Nelson could not dislike him.

  Sir Hyde Parker had faults both as a man and as a leader, not least his insensitivity to the feelings of others. His order to burn the Danish prizes, on the grounds that he still had two enemies to face, was the act of a man who had more than enough prize money in his possession and did not need more. Had Parker looked at the faces of the others present when he gave the order, men who could ill afford to see such valuable vessels go up in flames, he would have observed in them a look of deep antipathy. And he had failed utterly to understand why Nelson was so cast down by the death of Captain Riou, cut in half as a direct result of Parker’s signal of recall. That was an act for which the commander-in-chief had proffered no explanation, in fact he had not made any mention of it at all, acting as though the signal had never been hoisted.

  Parker was thinking that if he had not sent that signal this might not be happening. Or had he, by his delay in pressing home the attack, already burnt his boats at the Admiralty. How high his hopes had been when he set out, how low he was to be sunk now, forced to ask Viscount Nelson whether he might go home in his own ship and delay packing his furniture and stores until he reached an English port.

  It gave Nelson no pleasure to reply, ‘I fear I cannot oblige you, Sir Hyde. Until I have faced the Russians I cannot say that there will be no battle. But I will put at your disposal, as you did for me, HMS Blanche.’

  What Parker did not know was that the despatches he would carry from Nelson would include a strongly worded request that he himself be relieved. To be a commander-in-chief was a very fine thing, a position to which Nelson had always aspired, but he disliked the Baltic, the cold northern sea did nothing for his health.

  It was also a station on which he could expect to make nothing. The fleet had been forbidden to take prizes now that it looked as though peace was imminent – which was all very well for a wealthy man like Sir Hyde Parker, but not for Nelson who needed money. He had all the expense of a commanding officer’s post without any of the concomitant income such employment generally provided. He had service and private responsibilities, his on-going legal case with St Vincent, numerous family dependents and, of course, Fanny.

  HMS Blanche would also carry a letter to Davidson, requesting that his old friend inform his wife that she must accept their separation as permanent, although he would continue to provide for her. In planning the celebration of Emma’s birthday, Nelson had been forced to look hard at the situation. He must take steps to ensure that he was spared the discomfort he had experienced before – the meeting in that hotel parlour, black looks and pained sighs, strained dinner parties and trips to the theatre, public arguments in front of people like his lawyer.

  It had been a hard letter to write, not because of the words he used, which were genuine, but because he felt like a coward, unable to meet with Fanny and tell her to her face. How could he, a man who had never flinched from battle, be frightened of an encounter with a gentle creature like her? He had tried to think of her as an ogre, a shrew, a dried-up excuse for a spouse, only to fail abysmally. The image of the woman he had so admired would not fade. He could not bring himself to hate Fanny, nor even to dislike her, and the thought of talking to her on such a matter reduced him to a perfect wreck. How could he stand to watch the pain his words would inflict? How could he face the tears that would inevitably follow? Might he not weaken at such a sight and say things that would only prolong the agony for both of them?

  Parker coughed and returned Nelson to the present, to the fact that this was now his cabin. At this very moment Giddings was alongside the Blanche fetching his luggage from the holds, to be replaced by Sir Hyde’s. Nelson didn’t want to watch the man’s face as his goods and chattels were packed and lowered over the side. It was his turn to cough and cover his embarrassment. ‘I will, if you have no objection, call Captains Dommet and Otway to the latter’s cabin. We have matters to discuss.’

  ‘Of course,’ Parker said, turning to look out through the casement windows at the cold, blue Baltic, ‘though I hope I can count on your presence when I am piped over the side.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ Nelson replied, sad to hear the catch in the old man’s voice.

  Having seen the Swedes snug in harbour, Nelson was of the opinion that they would not come out this summer. At Helsingborg they had not fired on the fleet when they passed through the Sound and they would not now. Tepid allies, the rulers of Sweden would wait to see what happened. With the Danes out of the contest, let the Russians deal with Nelson.

  Dommet had to bring him up to date with the state of all fifty-four ships in the fleet, their stores, personnel, fitness for whatever tasks Nelson had in mind. Beneath his feet Nelson was sure he could hear the sound of packing, and the slow tread of the heavy old Admiral himself. A couple of hours later Parker sent to tell him that he was ready to depart.

  Nelson, Dommet and Otway made their way along the maindeck to the entry port to join every other officer on the ship. The marines were lined up, as smart as they had been when he came aboard and a knot of blue coats now stood silently waiting for the last rites. Parker appeared, walking between and saying farewell to men that he had brought to sea. Lieutenants and midshipmen, all sad, one or two of the youngsters with tears in their eyes. They knew they must seek a fresh sponsor if they were to progress in the navy.

  Those who had come north with Admiral Sir Hyde Parker had had every reason, since they were serving in the flagship, to look forward to whatever promotion came about through action against the enemy. Now the connection on which they had relied to see them advanced was broken, and so comprehensively that even unemployed this admiral was of no use to them. Indeed a man under such a cloud, placing any appeal on their behalf, would as likely damage their cause as aid it. They had no idea even if they would stay on the flagship, because Nelson had his own mids and favoured officers whom he would bring aboard.

  Then there was only his successor, and beyond him the waiting admiral’s barge. Parker raised his hat in salute, which was returned by Nelson,
who could not help but feel emotional to see a man, any man, so cast down. Then the pipes blew, the marines came to attention, and the retiring commander departed, holding his body stiffly to hide the fact that his spirit was broken. Above them his pennant came down, to be replaced by that of Vice-Admiral Viscount Nelson.

  ‘Captain Dommet,’ said Nelson, as soon as Parker was out of earshot, ‘all launches to be hoisted inboard, and request the master to shape me a course for the coast of Russia.’

  20

  On Nelson’s return from the Baltic, the landing at Yarmouth was very like the occasion of his return from Italy the year before; the same crowds, the same local worthies eager to sit with him in the same inn. The main difference was that Emma was not there to share it with; but he knew from her letters that she and their child were waiting for him impatiently. Thinking of them Nelson experienced an itch close to an ache, one that made even his missing arm tingle, a sensation that could not be scratched.

  The local hospital was jammed with those wounded at the battle of Copenhagen, cases so serious that even after three months many were still bed-bound. Slowly Nelson went the rounds, talking with each man, asking about their ship and their part in the battle. He gave each of the nurses a guinea and told them they were saints as he did so, a scene that was captured by a local artist eager to sell his work to a national press besotted with anything pertaining to Nelson.

  Over dinner he listened to the latest reports from France. Bonaparte, having forced peace on Britain’s allies, was gathering troops, as many as forty thousand men, gunboats and flat boats to mount an invasion of southern England, a threat that had apparently denuded the seaside towns of Kent. Each worthy wanted to know if they should scoff at the pretensions of the Corsican or take them seriously. Viscount Nelson had advised caution, but not panic.