Too Great a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  “And did ’e?”

  “Only because he thought I was too valuable to lose altogether. He gave me my leave and I returned to Norfolk, where Fanny nursed me for nine straight months till I could bear the life of an invalid no more and begged the Admiralty to take back a one-eyed, one-armed admiral.”

  “I’m sure Fanny ’ad something to say about your desire to return to sea!”

  Nelson laughed. “Fanny has never been able to comprehend, or perhaps come to terms with, my passion for the sea. It calls to me like Calypso. After we married, I believe Fanny expected me to remain shore-bound, living the quiet life of a country squire. I admit to have taken that notion into my head from time to time, but I am certain it is not in my nature to make a career of it. ‘Death or Glory’ is one of my credos and damme if I shall not suffer one in pursuit of the other. In the last five years, I have been in action on more than a hundred occasions; and though in a few of ’em I left a bit of myself behind, I tell you, Lady Hamilton—this is as true as my name is Nelson—I would never have been anywhere else, nor doing any other service for king and country.”

  Within the week, Nelson was well enough to enjoy his fortieth-birthday party. Sir William and I spared no expense on the gala, at which eighteen hundred guests supped and danced the night away. The Palazzo Sessa was aglow with lanterns and bedecked with buntings, and every guest received buttons and ribands bearing Nelson’s initials. In the center of our ballroom I unveiled a column of Carrara marble into which had been carved Julius Caesar’s triumphant words Veni, vidi, vici, along with the names of each of the Nile heroes—the captains and commanders of Nelson’s victorious squadron.

  I made him a present of an engraved silver cup, and in Nelson’s honor, Cornelia Knight had penned a new verse to our national anthem, which I then sang for the entire assembly.

  As the huzzahs and hip hip hurrahs filled the room, one voice suddenly carried above the rest. “Once a whore, always a whore!” Josiah Nisbet was raving drunk. “And you,” he shouted, dramatically pointing at Nelson, “the hero of the hour, the example to us all, allow her whore’s hands to sully the flesh that you have pledged to my mother! I can assure you, madam,” he said, venting the full measure of his inebriated wrath upon me, “you will never—never, do you hear me—supplant my mother in his affections. No matter how often you bathe his wounds or how much you cosset him and cock your ear in sympathy to his tales of war and woe. My mother will hear of all of this, I can promise you that!”

  Livid as well as mortified, Nelson clasped my wrist and whispered in my ear, “Blink back your tears, Lady Hamilton, for you are above any of this. And I assure you, my stepson will answer to me for his rough manners.”

  The sweet-natured youth I had briefly taken under my wing back in ’ninety-three was now an arrogant pup of nineteen. Before Josiah could unleash another tirade, Captain Troubridge and another officer removed him, arms and legs flailing madly, from the ballroom. A shocked silence settled over the gathering, but the holiday mood of the bawdy Neapolitan nobility was not to be dampened for long.

  “Boys!” exclaimed the Principessa Pignatelli with a hearty laugh, jostling her lover, the Duca di Montenegro, in the ribs.

  Twenty-nine

  An Unexpected Farewell

  Nelson had hoped to depart on his next commission as soon the Vanguard was repaired. But Lord Spencer—who was First Lord of the Admiralty—and Nelson’s commander-in-chief, Earl St. Vincent, ordered him to remain, and give Naples the most cordial and unlimited support.

  Nelson chafed at these orders, which seemed designed to chain him down and waste precious time, rather than letting him loose again on the French navy to finish what he had so triumphantly begun. His official recognition for such heroic service was a slap in the face as well.

  “Jervis was made an earl after the action at Cape St. Vincent, and he commanded from the rear—nowhere to be seen in the heat of battle,” Nelson fumed. “For what I achieved that day, I should have been named at least a viscount! I should have been granted an earldom after Aboukir—but for such a great feat, I am made only Baron Nelson of the Nile!”

  “But why ’ave they stinted you? No man in ’istory ’as gained as great a victory!”

  “Why, Lady Hamilton? Dreary, pencil-pushing protocol is why! Ridiculous technicalities! Because on the books I was not the commander of a fleet, but rather the commander of a detached squadron, and no such officer has ever received higher recognition.”

  “Well, if I was King of England, I would make you the most noble puissant Duke Nelson, Marquis Nile, Earl Alexandria, Viscount Pyramid, Baron Crocodile, and Prince Victory, that posterity might ’ave you in all forms,” I told him. “And I’m sure Sir Willum feels the same.”

  Sir William and I were tremendously glad of Nelson’s continued presence, as Naples remained in danger from the French republican army and from the Neapolitan Jacobins who, bolstered by Bonaparte’s earlier victories across Italy, felt bold enough to step back into the light.

  “If the French were to march on Naples, the wisest and safest course is to flee. Convey this to Her Sicilian Majesty that she may make all the necessary arrangements for the evacuation of the royal family, if it comes to it. The boldest measures are the safest,” he told me, invoking his credo. “If the Neapolitans remain sitting ducks, waiting to be attacked before they respond, the kingdom will be lost for certain. And I must confess, Lady Hamilton,” he told me in utter confidence, “as much as I admire your husband, Sir William’s employment of diplomacy has made him too indirect, where decisive action is both wanted and warranted. Now is not the time for circumspection. Now is the time to play Henry V and rouse the Neapolitans from their torpor. It requires the strong language of an English admiral to impress upon ’em the severity of the situation at hand.”

  Somehow, Nelson’s zeal convinced the king to defend his own country—by marching into the Papal States and attacking the French. But Ferdinand’s triumph was short-lived. The canny French had bided their time while the fool in his bliss thought himself victorious. Two weeks later, they declared war on the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies and the republican troops marched back into Rome. That evening, Ferdinand slunk back toward Naples disguised as a peasant, and the French reoccupied the city without a struggle.

  “Oh, for the courage of the lion Nelson!” cried the queen, weeping and tearing her hair. I wondered if she was thinking it might not have been better for Ferdinand to have been killed, that she might rule the Two Sicilies alone.

  But the lion was now at Leghorn, up the coastline, making tactical decisions that would keep the French at bay. He ordered the blockade of Genoa and summoned ships from the north and west coasts of Italy, from Malta, and from Egypt to put more pressure on the Frogs.

  What a man! Nelson’s vision and skill—and of course his heroism—had utterly captured my fancy. My admiration for him grew by the day, and it made me jealous to think that I might not be alone in my fondness. I’d once heard a rumor regarding Nelson’s infatuated dalliance with the opera singer Adelaide Correglia back when he frequented Leghorn in 1795. Was she still there, waiting to embrace the hero? How could I let him know what was in my heart when I had no right to do so? Attempting to conceal the anxious flutter in my stomach, I had handed Nelson a letter before he left for Naples because I had not the courage to unburden myself face-to-face.

  Do not spend time ashore wile in Leghorn. Forgive me dear frend if I say there is no comfort for you in that city.

  Nelson responded, writing to Sir William and me from his ship.

  My dear Sir William and Lady Hamilton: my gratitude for your most gracious and considerate hospitality and kindness is more than I can express. You have honored me beyond what I have deserved; and dare I say that no two people have ever been so kind to me. The world now seems a barren place when I am separated from you. Believe me when I say that my dearest wish is to return to you and never leave your company.

  My heart rejoiced.

&nbs
p; With an eye toward our eventual evacuation from Naples, Sir William began to generate a meticulous inventory of his collections of virtu: his vases, statues, cameos, and sarcophagi, and his paintings—which included dozens of old masters, as well as numerous gouaches of his beloved Vesuvius in eruption, and fourteen portraits of me. He carefully catalogued his volcanic minerals and fossils, his specimens of botany and ichthyology, and the ephemera from his Wunderkabinetts. Two thousand of his vases, along with five crates of paintings and a half-dozen cases of bronzes and marbles, were sent on to England in HMS Colossus, as Nelson would not have room for them aboard the Vanguard. Sir William hoped to sell the collection he put aboard the Colossus, for he was deeply in debt, the expenses of running the embassy far outstripping his government pay of eight pounds per day. During all those years of lavish entertaining in Naples, we had been living well beyond our means, tremendously dependent on credit.

  In mid-December, the city, redolent of holiday aromas, was preparing to celebrate Christmas, whilst the queen and I commenced, in surreptitious increments, to spirit the royal treasures out of the palace. Mam labeled cask after cask with the words “Stores for Nelson,” in preparation for their being rowed out to the Vanguard.

  I helped Maria Carolina remove thirty-six barrels filled with 2,500,000 pounds’ worth of gold, plate, and jewels, which were then brought to the mole in unmarked carriages by British sailors disguised as peasants. Ferdinand feared riot in the streets if his faithful lazzaroni were to discover that their king was deserting them. The royal family’s flight, if discerned, would be made to look as if they were leaving Naples only to visit her sister capital in Palermo—a simple holiday—yet another reason for the royal treasury to be emptied well in advance of their departure. To escape in the night with so much baggage would ruin the ruse.

  December 21 was the date set for our departure. Admiral Carraciolo, in command of the Neapolitan navy, prepared and signed the embarkation arrangements. Maria Carolina became even more superstitious than usual, joining Ferdinand in writing prayer after prayer upon scraps of paper that they pinned to their undergarments, or swallowed, as if God might pay more attention to their orisons if such pleas were secreted within their stomachs. I, too, despaired for everyone’s safety, but could not reveal my anxiety, nor voice my fears, for the queen was relying upon my resolve. There were days when feigning optimism called upon all my powers as a performer.

  By the eighteenth of the month, the queen was in an utter panic, weeping incessantly and sending me frantic notes several times a day, as much concerned for her brood as for her crown. The situation in Naples was growing uglier by the hour. On December 20, an Austrian attaché, mistaken for a Jacobin sympathizer, was murdered by the royalist mob. His battered body was dragged below the palace windows the way a cat brings a mouse to her master, expecting a dish of cream and a scruff on the head for her grand achievement. The king and queen were appalled, however, and grieved for the innocent Viennese. To reassure their supporters that they were remaining in Naples, contrary to rumor, they spoke to them from the balcony of the Palazzo Reale, as convincing as any actors I had seen at Drury Lane.

  The following day, the Jacobins delivered a message to Their Sicilian Majesties. Alessandro Ferreri, a French royalist, was seen escaping into a boat. The republicans dragged him out of the skiff by his embroidered cuffs, kicked him to a bloody pulp, tied his buffeted body by the legs as though he were a lamb being brought to market, and laid him on the cobblestones in front of the palace. The noisy rabble soon swelled into an angry mob, reminding me too well of the violent Gordon Riots I had witnessed so many years earlier in London. Visions of her poor beheaded sister swam before the queen’s eyes, and Maria Carolina fainted. The king needed not another whit of convincing that it was time to flee.

  Shakespeare himself could not have written a more brilliant cover than that which was serendipitously provided to us by the unsuspecting Kelim Effendi. The emissary of the Turks’ Grand Signior planned to host a dinner on December 21, to honor Nelson and his gallant squadron for saving the Turkish province of Egypt from French domination.

  Hundreds attended the gala at the Palazzo Reale that night. The centerpiece of the evening was Kelim Effendi’s presentation to Nelson of a stupendous diamond aigrette—a chelenkh, or “plume of triumph,” the Turks’ version of a laurel wreath. Kelim Effendi also presented the hero of the Nile with a sable-lined pelisse of scarlet-colored cloth. I tried to suppress my amusement, as it had clearly been manufactured for a man of greater physical stature than the diminutive and unprepossessing man of the hour, who was drowning in its long, voluminous sleeves.

  Although our secret was both thrilling and terrifying, it was incumbent upon each of us to be consummate actors. As if nothing could ever be amiss, I then performed a selection of Nelson’s favorite Attitudes. I was a forlorn Ariadne, pining for Theseus, who had abandoned her to her lonely fate on Naxos; and then Helen of Troy, standing on the crumbling ramparts of her adopted city, courageously facing its destruction.

  The dancing commenced after my performance, which allowed our party, one by one, to slip out of the embassy undetected.

  When Nelson and I reached the queen’s apartments, having made sure that each of the royal party was accounted for, we carefully picked our way down the dark, narrow cockle-stair to the subterranean passageway, which we knew would eventually open onto the jetty. Nelson and I had previously explored that passage together, and it was he who had devised the route. Leading the way—I with one of the lanterns, Nelson with a pistol, and members of his crew with cutlasses—we crept along the dank passage. It smelt of brine, and worse, and the ladies fretted about their delicate noses as well as the state of their hems and dainty slippers. The queen muttered imprecations about leaving in disgrace, and voiced her fears that their flight might become another Varennes. The children, scared of the dark, became hysterical. Everyone had their hands full—with a torch or lantern, a casket of jewels, or a bawling child. Ferdinand tried to calm his wife by assuring her that life would be no different in Sicily, for he had already ordered his kennel master to send the royal dogs on ahead, as there was certain to be excellent hunting in Palermo. The two of them quarreled like a pair of fishmongers, a spat that threatened to betray us all, for their voices echoed through the damp corridor and carried across the water. Finally, upon reaching the mole, we boarded barges that were rowed out to the Vanguard—by armed sailors who had muffled their oars by wrapping them in strips of kersey.

  Sir William and I left behind three magnificently appointed homes, half a dozen carriages, all our horses, and, of my husband’s numerous collections, everything but the best paintings and vases. His eyes moist, my poor dear Sir William could scarcely bear to take a last look at the city he so loved, and in which he had resided for thirty-four years—nearly as long as I was old. I wished to be able to find some words of comfort for him, but came up bereft. I had been in Naples for a dozen years and now found it difficult to imagine what a life beyond or outside it—even in Palermo—might mean. I was accounted the beauty of the age. I had wielded power and influence. Now what? Was my star still on the ascension or had it reached its celestial zenith?

  The air on the water was chilly and damp. The ladies, including myself, had left the city swathed in furs. Nelson looked concerned. “My fin,” he said. “When the stump throbs, there’s a storm coming on. Lady Hamilton, it is quite possible, you know, to truly feel something in one’s bones, as ’twere.”

  We were unable to weigh anchor until more than a day later, as we were awaiting fresh consignments of food and drink and other stores. Not only that, the weather had not been friendly. Nelson had been right. But soon after we hoisted sail around seven in the morning on December 23, a tremendous gale blew up, tossing person and property to and fro. The queen was a poor sailor and required nearly all my attention. In her haste to flee, having concentrated on the removal of her jewels and wardrobe, and having concealed her escape from her own serva
nts for as long as possible, she had forgotten to pack beds and linen for the king and herself. As Her Majesty could not endure the voyage like a common seaman, I put our own things at her disposal, leaving poor Sir William miserably cramped in one corner of a tiny cabin that Nelson had allotted to us. He was suffering from another attack of bilious fever, and I found myself dashing from deck to deck to ensure that the queen and her family were as comfortable as possible in the tempest-tossed ship, and then doing what I could for my poor ailing husband.

  The Vanguard’s beam was about fifty feet, a moderate size for a warship, but never intended, nor fitted out, to carry passengers for pleasure. In addition to her crew of six hundred, the seventy-four-gunner was carrying fifty highborn travelers, who insisted on commanding more space than could conveniently be spared under the circumstances, though Nelson engineered the logistics like a veritable Solomon. “Where do your men sleep?” I inquired. He showed me their quarters. “Fourteen inches to a man,” Nelson explained, raising his voice to be heard above the din of the crashing waves. “Hammocks are strung up side by side and stowed as soon as the men awaken.”

  “But most grown men are significantly broader than that! Fourteen inches of space apiece? How is it possible?”

  “Watches. Mercifully, they are rarely down here all at one time.”

  The tiny, low-ceilinged cabins were cramped and claustrophobic and stank to hell. By midday on Christmas Eve, the storm was reaching its zenith. The ever-superstitious Neapolitans thought it was an omen, and if they were destined to die, they insisted on doing so in a state of grace. Count Esterhazy gave a parting kiss to his snuffbox, which bore a miniature painting of his naked mistress, before he tossed it into the churning waters. “There is nothing to fear,” Nelson assured them, the very image of confidence and supreme command. “The Vanguards are the finest and bravest men in His Majesty’s Navy.”