Breaking the Line

by David Donachie

  The locals had garlanded his coach and this time his escort of mounted Yeomanry had attired themselves as Jack Tars; striped trousers, kerseymere waistcoats, bandannas round their necks, and sennit hats with black bands embroidered with the name Nelson. But he travelled alone, Tom Allen, Giddings and Merry Ed Parker following behind him in a less salubrious coach with his luggage, leaving Nelson time to reflect that his time as commander-in-chief in the Baltic had been curious but largely ineffective.

  Off Revel he had shown the Russians what they might face, the same fleet that had overcome the defences of Copenhagen and was well fitted to do the same to them. They were offended by his high-handed actions but by the time he was off Cronstat, within sight of the spires of St Petersburg itself, they had changed their tune. Now it was all peace and harmony, a terrible misunderstanding, the fault of the old Tsar, now replaced by his son, who knew well the value of peace with Great Britain.

  The rest of his commission had been a fag: he had been plagued with an endless cold, suffered too many visits from too many of the self-important bodies that lined the shores of the Baltic. His ship was surrounded by boats every time he dropped anchor, with some count or duke petitioning for permission to come aboard to see the hero of the Nile and Copenhagen. The sight of the flag of Sir Charles Pole, an old friend and fellow admiral come to relieve him had the nature of a biblical deliverance and, with the shortest and friendliest of handovers, Nelson had taken ship for England.

  When he saw Emma Nelson’s heart nearly burst with joy. With the birth now months behind her she could appear in public undisguised, having gradually, and judiciously, shed the padding. She was more fulsome than before her pregnancy, both in the cheeks and in her figure, but the change pleased Nelson and made her, in his eyes, more beautiful than ever.

  Emma saw a man, painfully thin, and worn out by his service, who needed feeding in body and soul. They greeted each other with excruciating restraint, given that Emma’s husband and her mother were present. Forewarned of Nelson’s imminent visit Sir William was waiting, as ever delighted to see his friend, but shrewd enough, once the pleasantries of welcome had been concluded, to make the excuses of a prior engagement and leave. Mary Cadogan stayed a little longer, taking mischievous pleasure in the way her presence, and inconsequential chatter, heightened the tension. Emma and Nelson were like two greyhounds straining at the leash. A woman of the world, she knew what would happen the minute she departed.

  Here was a couple that had been split for four months, a pair who had not had any sex for a whole quarter before that due to the imminence of the birth of their child. Mary Cadogan was sure she could almost smell the musk of their mutual passion and finally, having run out of things to say, she stood to leave Nelson and Emma alone. As the door closed behind her there was a moment’s pause before Emma flew to him.

  ‘No one to go in the Nelson room,’ Mary Cadogan said to the servants, thinking that if they disobeyed they might see more of the little admiral than they bargained for.

  Almost before the latch on the door was securely home Emma was straddled across the chaise longue that sat under Nelson’s Austrian portrait and they made love with a swift abandon that left no time for the removal of clothes. Emma felt as if she was being ravaged and Nelson was too fired to think at all, so it was over in what seemed like a minute. Nelson became aware of the sweat of his body and the thought occurred that this was the welcome home sailors dreamed of, and were so rarely gifted.

  ‘You’re frowning,’ said Emma, running a finger along his forehead.

  Nelson blushed, and mumbled that he had been thinking of Horatia, when in reality he was thinking of how different it would have been coming home to Fanny. Dry, cool skin, a polite and sexless welcome with no more than a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Horatia is upstairs at this very moment.’

  ‘You brought her here?’

  ‘She lives here now,’ Emma replied, adding swiftly, ‘I could not chance another infection.’

  Nelson’s expression told Emma that he had a very good idea what she was risking; exposure as the mother of a child that was not her husband’s, which would ruin her. ‘You are so very brave, my love,’ he said, stroking her cheek.

  ‘Must I not match you, Nelson?’ Emma replied. She had expected him to be angry, for the child would be disgraced as well as the mother, but instead he was showing her admiration.

  Nelson smiled. ‘Had you been there, Emma my love, Copenhagen would have fallen without a shot fired.’

  ‘You must tell me all about it, every detail.’

  ‘Horatia first,’ said Nelson.’

  Emma felt a flash of jealousy then, the unsettling feeling that she was no longer the sole centre of her lover’s life. But the look in his eye was so innocent and beguiling that she banished the thought from her mind, got to her feet, rearranged and tidied her dress, then knelt to redo the buttons on Nelson’s breeches. His words killed any lingering envy.

  ‘Be gentle, Santa Emma,’ he said, gruffly, ‘or it will be a good hour before we get out of this room.’

  Mary Cadogan had gone upstairs to attend to the child and get her ready for the visit that was bound to follow. She had expected the pair to sate their passion quickly, but even she was surprised at the speed with which they appeared. Horatia was on her back, dirty swaddling cloth at her grandmother’s feet. Thus Nelson’s first sight of his child was her with her feet in Mary Cadogan’s hand while a wash cloth was being applied to her bottom, something Emma’s mother reckoned untoward.

  ‘If’n you wait outside just a moment, I’ll be finished here and have her dressed again.’

  ‘Pray, Mrs Cadogan, let me see my child like this.’

  ‘I never knew a man to stand the smell.’

  ‘Any man who has used the heads on a ship of war will not suffer to faint at such a tame odour.’

  Emma watched from the doorway as Nelson took up station beside her mother, his attention divided between the child and the ritual: the washing, powdering and the replacement with a clean swaddling cloth, marvelling at the placing of the pins that held it in place. His daughter grasped a finger, tugging at it gently, and gurgling with pleasure.

  ‘I fear little one, that your father would make a poor fist of changing you.’

  ‘Tch!’ spat Mary Cadogan. ‘Whoever heard of a man tending to the needs of a bairn.’

  ‘Did you not know Mother? Nelson is different from other men.’

  Mary Cadogan was tempted to reply that the time they had spent downstairs lusting had led her to believe that he was much the same as any other men. Instead she said, ‘Well, that’s as maybe, Emma, but I don’t fancy your wet-nurse, who is in the basement waiting to feed the child, will take to kindly to the Admiral watching her do her duty.’

  Nelson was obliged to wait elsewhere while the child was fed and winded, then Horatia was brought to her parents to be billed and cooed over. Nelson knew he had never seen such perfection; the green eyes of her mother that wandered over his face with such trust, smooth and sweet smelling skin, the touch of tiny fingers, the occasional outbursts at a slight discomfort.

  Eventually Horatia’s Grandmother intervened to insist ‘that it was time for the bairn to be put to bed.’

  ‘There be a crowd outside getting bigger by the minute,’ said Mary Cadogan when she returned, to find them sitting close together, holding hands. As if to underline her words the sound suddenly swelled as the front door was opened and shut, causing Nelson to move to another chair. Within less than a minute, Sir William entered the room. It was strange to look from Emma to Nelson and back and realise what they had been about. He reckoned that what he had become used to in Sicily, Naples, and on the journey home, had become unfamiliar through Nelson’s absence. He also knew he would have to become used to it again, though that crowd outside worried him.

  ‘You are now more than ever a public figure, my friend,’ Sir William said with a smile, but the direct look he gave Nelson was intende
d to convey another meaning. ‘The King himself would give his eye teeth to command such attention.’

  Both Nelson and Emma got the message. He had called at the house hours ago, and some of those waiting outside had seen Sir William leave and also seen him return. It was not a good idea for Nelson even to contemplate staying the night under this roof. He had rooms in a hotel, which would fuel whatever gossip was prevalent regarding the state of his marriage, but at all costs what was here must not become a subject of public speculation.

  ‘I have seen you for scarce a minute or two since my return, Sir William, It would grieve me not to have more time.’

  ‘Then let us repair to my club, which is a mere walk away in St James’s. There I can bask in your reflected glory, and I am sure we will find peace to share a glass of wine and a good blather.’

  Nelson smiled. The sight of him and Sir William leaving together, arm in arm, would allay any suspicions that might lurk in an ill-disposed breast. Not even the most doubting soul would suspect that Sir William would cozen a man cuckolding him. Five minutes had Nelson in his cloak and hat, the distinctive Chelenk at the brim. His farewell to Emma was a promise in his eyes that he would see her on the morrow. Two old friends left to the cheers of a substantial crowd.

  Nelson realised, over the next days and weeks, that what he had achieved at Copenhagen was not appreciated in the same way as his earlier victories. Certainly the public cheered and he was heaped with praise wherever he set foot. But there was none of the official response he had anticipated – no calls to attend city dinners, no medals struck or swords presented, thankfully no royal levee where he might be further insulted by his sovereign.

  On his return from the Baltic Sir Hyde Parker had muddied the waters, not from any sense of malice, but in an attempt to restore his severely battered reputation in a country now longing for peace. His every action had been scrutinised in the press, not least his diplomatic efforts, some even questioning if a little more activity in that department might have avoided bloodshed. The mad Tsar Paul had been killed before the battle and the press chose either to forget or ignore that, given the time the news took to travel, neither he nor any man in his fleet could have known this.

  Others insisted that he should have handed over to Nelson and come home of his own volition. Whatever, everything he had done, or not done, was castigated. In official circles he suffered even more, for the whole affair was seen as an embarrassing fiasco. Had Sir Hyde struck the Danes at once that would have answered: having delayed, he should perhaps have waited a few more days and peace would have come anyway. Nothing about the Baltic expedition had reflected well upon the Navy, except the success in a battle the provenance of which was doubtful.

  The First Lord saw Sir Hyde Parker once, was gruff and refused to see him again. His fellow senior officers were cold: he had let them down by allowing himself to be ruled by his vainglorious subordinate. Stung by the reaction, Sir Hyde demanded a court martial, which was refused. That left behind it a deepening of the rancorous odour that surrounded the whole Baltic expedition.

  However, what happened in the higher reaches of the populace was not replicated in the rest of the nation. Nelson had thumped the enemy, had shown three nations Britannia’s fist, and reminded France that although she might rule the land, the sea was John Bull’s province. Nelson soon came to realise that he could do nothing discreet in London. Everywhere he went, even if he could avoid a mob, reporters dogged his footsteps, and he cursed the very newspapers that had carried the stories of his exploits to the far corners of Britain and made him a public hero. He could visit Piccadilly, and have time alone with Emma and little Horatia, but he could not spend the night there.

  He found the constraints intolerable, so when Mary Cadogan hinted that he needed a house of his own where he and Emma could get some peace, she was pushing at an open door. Emma was charged with the task of finding a furnished house for him to purchase, since neither he nor she had any furniture of their own, and there would be no time to have what they needed made. And much as he loved her daily company, Nelson insisted that Horatia would have to be put back into the care of Mrs Gibson to help to preserve both her reputation and that of her mother.

  The immediate problem Nelson resolved by moving to an inn on the Portsmouth road, one where he was known. It was a place much used by travelling sea officers, offered good food, fine open country and a welcoming host. There he gathered around him the people he loved: Sir William and he spent happy days fishing together. Merry Ed Parker came too, fussing round his hero, always ready to oblige, too poor without a ship at present to pay for his own lodgings. At night Nelson shared Emma’s bed without raising eyebrows. His brother William brought his wife, and his daughter Charlotte to stay, and arranged for their son, Horatio Junior, to visit from Eton. If it wasn’t the whole family it was enough of one to make Nelson very happy.

  His oldest brother Maurice had died while he had been in the Baltic and Emma had used the occasion of his funeral to ensnare Nelson’s sisters, who were now occasional visitors and regular correspondents. Since the inn they were occupying was close by, Merry Ed was charged to make arrangements for the whole family party to visit Maurice’s ‘widow’. Nelson sat with the blind old lady and repeated the assurances he had given her in writing, that she and the house she occupied would always be a charge upon his conscience.

  Fanny finally wrote and sent the letter she had composed so many times in her head. Any number of people had told her where and with whom her husband was staying, numerous tongues that hinted that she would dry any well of natural sympathy if she stood for such open effrontery. In truth, Fanny suspected she had dallied too long, that her letter should have been posted months before.

  Nelson read it alone, by the sunlit window of his room. She congratulated him on his victory and insisted that her love for him was profound, an evident plea for reconciliation, not forgetting to add that she would still and always care for his father. The letter brought tears to his eyes, but did nothing to soften his resolve. But throughout the sunlit days of this interlude he would occasionally recall Fanny’s words and it would sadden him.

  A despatch and a summons from the Admiralty brought this idyll to an end. The country stood in danger and, with the citizenry fearful of invasion, St Vincent sent for their hero.

  The interview with the First Lord had an undertone to it – apparent to Nelson in the way his old commanding officer failed to meet his eye. He surmised that, having become mired in politics, the Earl had lost the openness that had characterised their earlier relationship. Or perhaps it was the rum odour that still surrounded Copenhagen.

  Troubridge was present, the most active member of the Admiralty Board and doing as much to run the Navy as his titular superior. Happy in the job, Tom was his old self: not that he succumbed to cheerfulness, being serious by nature. And he, too, seemed to have an agenda other than that they were discussing. Thus the meeting seemed chilly, and had an unreal quality for Nelson, who had come from the warmth and laughter of a family enjoying a holiday in a ramshackle inn to the formality of this, the First Lord’s office.

  St Vincent had been embarrassed since Nelson had entered wearing his hat in the athwart-ships manner, which seemed like excessive display. Worse, it was crowned with that damned silly Turkish bauble full of diamonds, while medals and stars festooned Nelson’s neck and breast. The man he preferred to remember had worn a plain blue coat.

  There was also the lack of natural conversational openings. He enquired first after Nelson’s constitution, then for the health of family. That foundered on the impossibility of mentioning Lady Nelson, and a downright refusal to ask about Emma Hamilton. So St Vincent was obliged to execute several noisy coughs to cover his inability to let the talk take a natural course. And was Troubridge right, he wondered, that the way to rescue Nelson from his gross folly was to keep him occupied?

  ‘Here is a list of ships both at Sheerness and in the Downs,’ said Troubridge, passing o
ver a paper that Nelson immediately began to study.

  ‘Nothing over a 64-gun,’ added St Vincent, ‘but if you need bigger vessels we will look favourably on the request.’

  ‘I cannot see them being of much use, sir. The French coast is too well defended and with all these soldiers present I would not want to take them on in a gunnery duel.’

  ‘You will, however make your presence felt.’

  ‘It is in my nature to do that, sir, as I hazard you already know.’

  The late July sun was streaming through the tall windows of St Vincent’s room and bouncing off the Chelenk pinned to Nelson’s hat, which now lay on the table, and the reflection in his eyes made the First Lord growl.

  ‘That is very much so,’ he replied. Then, in what he saw as a witty way to register some of his disapproval at Nelson’s gewgaws and the pleasure he was known to take from public adulation, he added, ‘Mind, don’t let what the wilder tongues say go to your head.’

  ‘And what do they say?’ Nelson asked innocently, his one good eye wide open, curious, and fixed on St Vincent.

  The First Lord was sure Nelson had understood very well what he had been driving at, which made it difficult not to respond and tell Nelson he was, in his private life, acting like a fool. But that was outside St Vincent’s bailiwick, so he took refuge by changing the nature of the point.

  ‘Bonaparte,’ he said. ‘His reputation stands so high that his mere name strikes terror into a civilian heart. The Prince of Wales, who is at this moment drilling volunteers in Hyde Park, tells me at every turn that the man is a genius, not forgetting to add that he is a greater one and will defeat the Corsican as soon as he is given the chance.’