On a Making Tide

1771

His boots were wet and the dew that clung to the Norfolk marsh grass had soaked both his stockings and the bottoms of his white breeches. As he was small, Horatio Nelson had to push hard to open the door and its creaking hinges added to the eerieness of his errand.

The pews of the chapel at Burnham Thorpe were empty, while the bare stone walls of the interior, open to the elements at the south nave, ensured that on this March morning it was even colder inside the chapel than out.

He shivered as he approached the black marble slab that lay to the left of the nave and stepped round the bronze outline of the knight buried centuries before. He felt somehow that this was a fateful moment. He knelt between the two graves and put his hands together in prayer, his lips moving silently as he asked a blessing on his future

His mind was full of images of himself and his mother. He could see her now, on the day they had gone to King’s Lynn to visit the
tableau
vivant,
based on the painting by Benjamin West, detailing the death of General James Wolfe, his life sacrificed in far off Canada in the battle to capture Québec City. Muffled music, heavy with the deep beat of the funeral drum, had played in the background. Wolfe lay in the arms of his officers and the regimental flags held over his head were limp and tattered, ripped asunder by shot and shell, stained with mud. But the Union Flag of Great Britain showed red, white, and blue above them all, extended so that the entire world should know that here, on the Plains of Abraham, Albion had triumphed over Gaul.

The mortally wounded general stared at the stiff flag, the sky behind it black, streaked with dark grey. Doleful soldiers gathered round him, while the figure of a Red Indian chief lent an exotic element to the 
heart-wrenching
scene. To the right stood a pale, blue-coated figure, the ghost of Wolfe’s opponent, the noble Marquis de Montcalm, holding out his sword in abject surrender, a crumpled
fleur
de
lis
wrapped around the hilt, proof that this dead Frenchman was handing over the power of his nation, as well as the province of Canada, to Britannia.

His mother had explained each nuance to her golden-haired, wide-eyed son: how, in 1759, that Year of Victories, Wolfe had delivered the final telling blow to the enemy, sacrificing his life for the well-being of his country, and earning himself a memorial in Westminster Abbey. The crowd pressed hard behind them, impatient that this woman should linger so long before a drama they, too, wished to observe. Catherine Nelson ignored them. Turning, she took her child by the shoulders and looked into his bright blue eyes. ‘That, my son, is nobility indeed. God, who must hate a Frenchman as much as I do, favoured the arms of the most righteous nation on this earth. General Wolfe must surely now sit by His right hand, ready to direct His attention to those places where He must yet intervene, so that the plague we call France may be confounded at every turn.’

Now Horatio traced the letters on the black slab, brightly lit by the huge arched north-facing window. First the Latin inscription that told visitors Catherine Nelson had died four years previously, in 1767. Her husband, Edmund, heartbroken at the loss, had added another inscription in English: ‘Let these alone: Let no man move these bones.’

The boy’s stammered words echoed off the bare stone walls: ‘I hope and pray, Mama, that God will look kindly on me, and that I may make you as proud of me as you were of all Albion’s heroes. And that if I give my life for my country, let it be in circumstances that would meet with your approval. I ask your blessing and that you will, from your celestial abode, guide me and keep me true.’

The solid image of his father replaced the idealised one of his dead mother. Tall, beetle-browed and unsmiling, even when absent from his parish, as he was now, the Reverend Edmund Nelson was a potent force in his son’s life. Stern and unbending, trusting in his Maker, the Rector of Burnham Thorpe had a fixed notion of his place in society. When he was not castigating sin and sloth, or railing against ecclesiastical neglect of his churches, he would talk of the family lineage, so that his children’s antecedents, of whom they should and could be proud, were indelibly imprinted in their minds. Horatio knew he had to live up to them too.

On his mother’s side the Sheltons, granted the right to arms in the seventh century after the siege of Adrianople; Bullens who had resided at Hever Castle and the Manor of Blickling, playing host to Henry VIII and his Boleyn bride; Woodhouses, Jermyns, Townsends graced the family tree. Sir John Suckling, his coat-of-arms a scallop shell and a sprig of honeysuckle, who had ridden north to greet the successor to Good Queen Bess, his reward the office of Secretary of State to the newly crowned King James I.

The Walpoles claimed pride of place, first Sir Gadifrus, who had lost an arm in battle at Vado Bay and had ended his days Treasurer of the Greenwich Hospital; and then his puissant brother Sir Robert Walpole, First Earl of Orford, who had dominated the nation for three decades. Uncle Maurice, a still living and breathing naval hero, would now become his captain and mentor. The burden of all that history seemed to bear down on
the boy, an almost physical presence, pushing his knees into the hard flagstone floor.

‘Horace!’

The shout, echoing off the church walls, startled him and he leapt to his feet. Susanna, his sister, emerged from behind a thick round pillar, her pretty oval face under a linen mob cap half worried, half angry. When she saw where he stood her expression softened, and the words of admonishment she had been about to deliver were spoken kindly. ‘Dawdle and you’ll miss the King’s Lynn coach.’

‘I came to say farewell to Mama,’ he replied, with just a hint of defiance.

Susanna came up the aisle and stood beside him. She put her arm round his shoulders, and gave him a gentle shake. ‘To her bones. Her spirit is with us always, wherever we go.’ Her fingers tugged first at his stock, then she brushed back his fair hair, at which he recoiled. ‘I cannot quite believe that you’re going away, Horace. My little brother, just thirteen, yet a sailor in the King’s Navy. And I daresay all set to be a hero.’

‘I will miss you, sister.’

She shook him again affectionately. He couldn’t help acting like a man any more than Susanna, three years older, could help seeing him as a boy. She took his arm, and allowed him to lead her out into the grey morning, chattering as they descended the slope through the still bare trees. Arms linked they crossed the field that was a short-cut between the yellow brick L-shaped Parsonage, which looked so drab in the winter light, and the equally uninspiring stone of the square-towered rectangular church. Around them the north Norfolk landscape, gentle slopes criss-crossed with dense hedgerows, was silent, but for the odd mournful cry of a distant rook.

The whole family was gathered to say their farewells, sallow-faced, brown-eyed and silent: William, one year older, his three younger brothers, Edmund, Suckling and George, Anne, just old enough to know what was happening, and Catherine, confused at four years old, clutching the hands of two older siblings. Collectively they made him feel like a changeling, with his blond hair and blue eyes. He took his looks from his mother. The father whose colouring the others had inherited was at King’s Lynn waiting to accompany him to London.

‘We will all miss you,’ Susanna said. There were tears at the rims of those warm brown eyes, a flush on the round rosy cheeks, a tremble on the point of the chin and a catch in her voice. ‘But everyone knows that you will make us so very proud.’ The response was a smile so warm and engaging that it wrenched her heart. ‘Come back to us often, Horace, as your duty permits.’

The dray, his chest already loaded, was waiting by the gate. The driver, in a thick shawl, drew contentedly on his clay pipe, the smoke drifting up into the chill air. Susanna wrapped him in his heavy boat-cloak. Then she kissed him on both cheeks before placing his hat squarely on his head. The whole
family came down to the gate and his brothers raised a ragged cheer, while the girls, with deft use of their handkerchiefs, showed him how much they had feared this parting.

As soon as he was aboard the driver flicked his whip and the skinny horse moved off. One wave of his hand was all Horatio allowed himself as the metal-rimmed wheels rattled across the short wooden bridge that spanned the river Burn. It was a scene he had imagined often, his leaving home to take up his duties. What had made him think that the sun would shine, that flowers would be thrown, and that everyone would be happy? How different the reality! He felt a cloying dread that he might never see those faces or this place again; worse, that he might disgrace his house. The pain that thought induced in his chest was sharp and it seemed doubly hard to keep his eyes set firmly forward.

Emma’s eyes, large and green, seemed to fill half of her face. Now they were entranced. Her fingers traced each detail of the dark, carved oak, the outlines of semi-clad figures and flowers on the giant newel post. The flames from the hall fire combined with the light from the window to throw the delicate woodwork into sharp relief, while dust motes danced in the shafts of bright sunlight. The Glynne family portraits, murky and forbidding, looked down on Emma with what the child imagined was scant approval.

‘Stand up straight, now, Emma.’

Her mother’s sharp tone was accompanied by a hefty shove. Footsteps echoing off bare wood above her head filled the cavernous hallway, changing in tempo as the owner of the house descended the top flight of stairs. On the landing, framed by the light behind him, Sir John Glynne had the air of an avenging angel as he examined the duo who stood below. When he spoke his deep, sonorous voice echoed down on them.

‘So, Mrs Lyon, this is she?’

‘It is, Sir John.’

‘How old?’

‘Coming up nine.’

‘Just nine?’ There was surprise in his voice. Emma was tall for her age, nearly the same height as her mother, and to a practised eye like that of Sir John Glynne already showing the first signs of bloom. Her hair, long and shining, caught the firelight in a way that matched the suddenly illuminated edges of the banister. ‘And behaving, Mrs Lyon. I see no sign of that independent spirit you complain of.’

‘Emma could scarce be other than awed in the presence of so puissant a man.’

The child turned to look at her mother, in her best dress and bonnet. The lips, pale pink in a slightly olive face, were open as though amused, the brown button eyes dancing. Her words struck a false, insolent note that matched her expression. Sir John started to descend, and Emma could see
him properly for the first time. Florid-faced, broad-shouldered and confident, he was grinning at her mother. He kissed the proffered hand in an overtly gallant way before turning his attention, sternly, to her.

‘Is she worth the endeavour?’

‘Who’s to say, Sir John? She’s bright enough, even if she is more’n a touch wild. But if Emma is denied books and learning, her future is like to be bleak.’

Sir John took Emma gently by the chin, forcing her to raise her head and look at him. A finger moved, feeling the alabaster texture of her milk white complexion. ‘A fair skin. If she stays unmarked by the pox, madam, she may get by on her beauty.’

‘That is scarce enough in this world.’

‘Your beauty serves you well!’ The reply was swift, the tone sharp.

That made Emma look at her mother again. She had never heard her called a beauty before, and now she examined her closely. The dim winter light didn’t favour a complexion that benefited from sunlight. Was the face too square, the chin too straight for beauty? And her frown detracted from whatever it was Sir John admired. Then she spoke and her voice was far from friendly. ‘It allows me to serve the interests of others, sir, rather than freeing me to my own inclinations.’

His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. ‘I’ve never known you disinclined, madam.’

Emma’s mother responded just as quietly, but there was force in her tone. ‘I’m not one to plead, Sir John, you knows that. I derive as much pleasure from our association as do you. But a promise was made, sir, that if I accompanied you to London, you would make some provision for my Emma. If I leave her with my mother she’ll be fit for nowt but selling coal on the Chester road.’

He tweaked Emma’s chin. ‘That would, indeed, be a great loss. She’s made for warmth, I wager, but not from vending coal.’

‘So you will hold to your word, sir?’ Mary Lyon paused, before adding, with a hint of longing. ‘It was freely sworn.’

‘I plead the location.’

Mary Lyon’s voice lost any hint of supplication, bringing a dark look to Sir John’s face, and a painful pinch to Emma’s chin. ‘I was not aware, sir, that a gentleman required his breeches buttoned to sustain an obligation. I made one and I require that you do likewise.’

Sir John let go of Emma’s chin and swung away. ‘I’m not one to be “required” of, madam. And it ill becomes you to adopt such a tone. You go too far!’

‘I shall not set foot outside the confines of your demesne, sir, if that obligation isn’t met.’

She tugged at Emma’s hand to pull her away, but the child’s feet seemed rooted to the bare oak boards. Emma didn’t want to leave. To some this hallway would be forbidding, but to her it spoke of a warmth and comfort
she scarcely knew. A log dropped in the wide fireplace, sending shafts of red light to sparkle on the polished wood. Sir John had raised a hand, as if he intended to strike her mother, but he hesitated to make contact.

‘Hold, madam. I shall keep to my word. But you must not address me so. Beauty and a lively intelligence permit you many things, but not that.’

‘Proper schooling in letters and numbers, paid for in coin.’

There was an air of resignation in his response. ‘Yes.’

‘So, Sir John, when I see you instruct the curate, I’ll hold to my end of our bargain.’

Then an odd light came into Sir John’s eyes. He walked to a door in the panelling and pushed it open. ‘I am a poor host, madam, to carry on our business in the hallway. Will you not come to a place that will afford us more comfort?’