Breaking the Line (25 page)

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.

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 intended 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.