Tested by Fate (30 page)

Nelson laughed out loud. “Not an opinion you will find
unanimously
shared in certain high places.”

Had he been foolish? Tired of the punishment, the captain of the
Ça
Ira
ordered his towing frigate to bring his head round and aim a broadside on his tormentor. The Frenchman had every right to expect his enemy to shear off, but Nelson did nothing of the sort—he sailed on boldly as most of the French shot screamed
harmlessly
over his head. What had Admiral Hotham seen? One of his smallest line-of-battle ships, isolated and outgunned, racing into
battle
as if nothing mattered but contact, a sitting duck that lost would weaken the fleet and rebound badly on Hotham’s reputation. That was when the Admiral raised his flags and ordered the recall,
forcing
Nelson to break off the action.

“It would never do, Pasco, to say that Admiral Hotham was wrong that day. I had tested my luck, but it is not a good idea to push that particular lady too far.”

The following morning the
Ç
a
Ira
had been taken, along with
Censuer
, a 74-gunner then towing her, another engagement in which his Agamemnons had distinguished themselves. Yet Hotham, instead of continuing the pursuit and trying to bring the French to battle, had declined to agree with Nelson and his own second-in-command, Admiral Goodall. He, supported by the third admiral, Hyde Parker, had claimed “that they had done very well.”

As a captain Nelson had strongly disagreed and said so. Now he was himself an admiral he knew that his opinion would have been the same.

His tale was interrupted when a lookout shouted and all eyes turned to the shore, where the royal barge was pushing off. It was so like the day, five years before, when he had entertained the King on the deck of
Agamemnon
—the sun had shone then too. The royal couple and their court had come aboard to be fed and wined by splendid comestibles at the expense of Sir William Hamilton, who had been there too, with him his wife.

And on that deck, close to a woman who excited him like no other, Nelson had very nearly committed the mortal sin of telling her so publicly. Just in time the news had come that a French
warship was in the offing, which had given him the excuse to turf the royal party off the ship, Hamiltons included, and sail away from temptation.

Now a whole flotilla filled the sparkling blue waters of the bay, timing their arrival aboard so that the royal party would arrive last. Of course, the Hamiltons were there, Emma in layers of white and cream muslin, a shawl of heavy lace preventing the sea breeze
ruffling
her hair. As he was not the host, Nelson was not obliged to welcome her as she came aboard, for which he was grateful.

As they approached, the King and Queen were greeted by a
21-gun
salute, stamping marines, and whistling pipes. The Queen and her entourage made straight for the cabin where they would remain until dinner. Maria Carolina was not a lover of the sea, and
preferred
to be surrounded by wooden walls and eager servants than stand on a windswept deck.

Ferdinand arrived alone on the quarterdeck dressed in the
uniform
of an admiral, splendid for once in dark blue silk coat edged and buttoned with gold, sparkling white waistcoat and breeches, with a fine hat, trimmed with ostrich feathers, on his head.
Graciously
he tipped it to Nelson, a signal honour from a sovereign to a commoner, before insisting that his guest accompany him on the ritual inspection of the ship.

“I do not believe, young sir, that we have been introduced.” William Pasco turned from watching the broad back of the King, to be faced by a vision. Emma was smiling at him, and his heart raced. He knew who she was and snatched his hat off his head. “
Midshipman
William Pasco, Lady Hamilton, at your service.”

“I find myself without an escort, young man. You will observe that my husband, Sir William, is engaged with Count Caracciolo.”

“If I can be of service, my lady?” replied Pasco hoarsely.

“You may take my arm, young sir, and tell me about yourself.”

Pasco had found that he could talk to Horatio Nelson with ease, but the notion of conversing with this woman rendered him
tongue-tied
. Like every blade aboard ship, he had heard tales of her past and her beauty, and had speculated with his shipmates by
candlelight
about the sybaritic practices of which she was capable. He had lain alone in the dark, as well, thinking about that very same thing.

“You are, I would guess, serving on
Vanguard
?” Pasco nodded. “And you were at the Nile?”

That brought out the pride that he, like every other man in Nelson’s fleet, felt at having shared in that battle. “I was.”

“Good. I wish to hear as much of that engagement as I can. Admiral Nelson has told me about it, of course, as have several of his officers, both
Vanguard
’s
and others. But I confess to you Mr Pasco, that I cannot hear enough.”

Pasco could talk of the Nile with ease, even to a famous beauty, for not even the potency of his fantasies about her could dent his self-satisfaction. Like all of his shipmates he had thought about it, discussed it, embellished and honed it in preparation for a lifetime of recounting. They all knew they were heroes, and they could not wait to get back to their homeland to bask in the glory their story would bring them.

And Pasco had an imaginative and colourful turn of phrase: he could describe the dying light as they approached Aboukir Bay, the way the sky turned first gold then orange. Even though he had spent most of the battle on the gundeck below, he knew enough to give a good description of the events of the night: of the coloured lights above every British vessel that identified them to each other; of the shot, shell, and fire, the screaming of men in the water, the blasted stumps of masts trailing over the side, and blood running out of the scuppers to stain the sea; of the boy Casabianca refusing to leave his father, the captain of
L’
Orient;
then the final great
cataclysm
as the French flagship exploded, taking father, son, and six hundred crew to perdition.

“Why, Mr Pasco,” said Emma, clutching his arm a little tighter, “you tell your tale so well as to render me fearful.”

“I will not lie to you, my lady,” the boy said, his shyness now quite gone, “when I say that my heart beat as fast as it ever did that day, and there were occasions, seconds only I grant you, when I was frozen with fear. But my need to do my duty saw me through.”

As he gazed into those amazing green eyes, Pasco felt pleased with himself. In perfecting his version of the tale he had reckoned that undiluted heroics would never do: humility and an admission of fear would be more believable.

“You are lucky to have such a commander, Mr Pasco, are you not?”

Pasco replied with genuine feeling. “The greatest sailor and the best man that ever lived, my lady, and there is not man in the whole fleet who will say otherwise.”

Emma had heard often enough from the lips of Nelson’s
officers
how highly he was regarded, but she felt a warm glow as she encouraged this young fellow to tell her again. An admiral he might be, but Nelson could joke with the lowest swabber on the ship, and talk knowledgeably to every warrant officer about his duties and methods. The gunner reckoned the Admiral knew more about
cannon
, powder, and shot, as well as range and trajectory, than any man alive. The master, whose job it was to plot navigation and see to the sail plan would never fail to listen if Nelson cast an opinion, and only once in a blue moon advised against whatever course or change of sail he suggested.

Nelson swapped tales with the carpenter about some of the
rotten
ships they had both served in and discussed changes to the ship’s design that would facilitate some fighting task. He even treated the purser as a human being. No man could go further than that, since pursers, in any sailor’s opinion, were robbing bastards.

Pasco talked on and on as they circled the quarterdeck and Emma was content to listen. Edward Berry had been flag captain at the Nile, but he had been sent home with despatches and replaced by Thomas Hardy, another of Nelson’s protégés. Hardy was
nicknamed
the Ghost for his way of appearing silently in any number of places on the ship, as well as his disinclination to engage in trivial conversation. His elevation, it seemed, had brought the cat out of the bag for Hardy, unlike Berry, was a strict disciplinarian.

Emma could see the royal head emerging from below, then Nelson’s head appeared, and she felt a deep surge of emotion.

“My dear,” said Sir William.

As she turned to her husband the admiration was still in her face and it took all of Sir William’s self-control not to acknowledge it. The most telling pang came from the knowledge that, while he and Emma had been happy together, she did not love him. The look on her face was one he had never seen. It made him jealous.

“Allow me to name Mr Pasco of the
Vanguard
,” said Emma. “He is Admiral Nelson’s escort today, and I must say he has
entertained
me handsomely.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Pasco, beaming. He would be top dog in the mess tonight just for having spoken with her. That she had enjoyed his company was a bonus he would admit to with care.

“You will find, young man,” Sir William said, “should you get to know my wife, that no one can turn her head like a sailor.” He regretted saying it before the whole sentence was out of his mouth. To have spoken with such obvious pique was a breach of his own standards and those of his occupation. And he saw by the way Emma turned her head that his barb had hit home. He could not tell her that he had appalled himself, nor could he apologise, for that would require him to allude openly to what had happened between her and Nelson, which he could never do. He said instead, “I think, my dear, that we are about to dine. I wonder, would Mr Pasco escort you to the great cabin?”

“Delighted, sir,” crowed Pasco.

“It would please me too, Mr Pasco,” Emma replied, offering him her arm as she threw a forced but sweet smile at Sir William.

T
HE BELLS PEALED
all over London and within days the news brought by Captain Edward Berry had spread throughout the nation. Strangers stopped each other in the street to ask if they had heard the stupendous news of the battle of the Nile, and it was the sole topic of conversation in coffee-house, home, or place of
employment
. Disbelief was rampant, because the success of the British fleet, and the Admiral who commanded it, had been so absolute.

Every theatre owner in the land was lashing together a patriotic show to tell the tale, creating an overwhelming demand for the
artefacts
of Egypt: pyramids, sphinxes, obelisks, and crocodiles. The risk that a whole building might burn down in a massive conflagration was ignored in the interests of re-enacting the climax of the battle: the explosion of the French flagship
L’Orient
. Any one-armed
ex-sailor
prepared to tread the boards could command his own price to play Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson, the hero of the hour.

Lord Spencer was cock-a-hoop, too overwhelmed with
gratitude
to notice that the men who had damned him for a fool before Berry’s arrival were now praising his sagacity. Even Farmer George openly lauded Nelson: being King no one would dare to remind him of his previous long-held animosity.

In the City of London, meetings were held to decide how such a success should be rewarded, and an already amazed public was stunned by the announcement of an award of ten thousand pounds to the victor of the Nile. Alexander Davidson, Nelson’s long-
standing
friend and appointed prize agent, employed extra clerks for what was sure to be an increased workload, and ordered gold medals struck for the officers of Nelson’s fleet, to be paid for out of his own pocket.

The government moved more slowly, which allowed euphoria
to be tempered by time; those forced to disguise their distrust of Nelson after the news had broken began to reassert their malignant opinions. At the same time the King was asking himself why such a victory had not been granted to an officer he liked.

To a nation waiting with bated breath for the announcement of Nelson’s elevation to the rank of duke, the award of a barony came as a bitter disappointment. The populace decided that the official excuse, that Nelson was only an admiral in command of a detached squadron, not a commander-in-chief, had been prompted by small-mindedness.

Fanny Nelson had only one wish: that her husband would come home. Who could achieve more than he, who was now styled Baron Nelson? Now that he was the hero he had always wanted to be, surely he would cease to put himself in life-threatening situations and come home for a well-earned rest. If not, she was resolved to join him in the Mediterranean, and she wrote to tell him so.

Even such a spacious cabin as that of the
Tancredi
struggled to accommodate the numbers who sat down to dine, and around Nelson conversations flowed in French, German, and Italian, with little English. As guest of honour, he was seated next to the King, a privilege he had been granted previously, and one that, given the man’s boorishness, he would gladly have surrendered.

Ferdinand was not a fellow to talk to his neighbours if he could hold a shouted discussion with someone at the furthest end of the table. This he interspersed with stuffing his mouth with food and wine so that his deep blue nautical garments were soon as
food-stained
as those he habitually wore. Occasionally he would turn and beam at Nelson then raise his wineglass in a way that forced his guest to follow suit and consume the entire contents. The King’s glass was immediately refilled, and so was that of the man he had toasted.

Horatio Nelson knew he had a limited capacity for alcohol and that over indulgence in the past had got him into trouble. But
caution evaporates as quantity increases, and even if he had been determined to fight the effects, whatever resolve he had was
weakening
. He tried to concentrate on others at the table, like young Pasco, who was in an animated conversation with one of Maria Carolina’s younger ladies-in-waiting.

When that failed he turned his attention to Count Caracciolo, distrust surfacing. Yet fair-mindedness forced Nelson to consider that just as he was a patriot to his own nation so must be Caracciolo. Perhaps the Neapolitan nobleman experienced the same feelings that surged in Nelson when he thought of his country. His devotion to those things for which Britannia stood made him want to do well for her.

He recalled the vision he had had on his way back from Calcutta as a youth. He had been in the grip of malaria and fever had generated in him a conviction that he was destined for great things: that his love of God and his country would shield him as much as it would raise him. Did Caracciolo hanker for a shrine in the cathedral of San Gennaro, as Nelson dreamed of a statue in Westminster Abbey?

Nelson knew that Britain was far from perfect. Thanks to a
survey
he had undertaken during his five years on the beach he was well aware of the depths of rural poverty, the despair and
fecklessness
it engendered, and the lack of alleviation that stood in stark contrast to the statements of concern that issued from the
hypocritical
mouths of those who claimed to care.

The politics of his country could appear just as venal as those of Naples, and in some cases just as corrupt. Was the Marquis de Gallo any worse than Lord Holland, who in the 1770s had used money entrusted to him as Paymaster to the Forces for private gain, and remained embroiled in dispute till the day he died? Nelson’s superiors at the Admiralty were not always given to acting in the best interests of the officers and men of the service. Politics was a constant bugbear: people of little merit were advanced to senior positions in the administration merely through the power of their sponsors. The common seaman was paid sporadically, often by
warrants that, for want of cash to feed their families, the men of the fleet had to sell at a discount to the crimps who thrived in every naval port.

Conditions aboard some ships of His Majesty’s fleet were
downright
shameful: rotten food, hard-horse captains too fond of the lash, commanders and pursers who misused their office for private profit, while dockyard workers stole anything that was not nailed down. Abuses abounded, and though he had a care as to whom he voiced his opinions, it was well known in the service that Horatio Nelson had some sympathy for the men who had mutinied at Spithead and the Nore in the previous year. And yet for all that was wrong, the system worked. There were enough good men to see that the fleet remained effective.

Under the influence of the wine, Nelson, every so often, had to look at Emma, and it was not easy to be discreet given that she was seated to his left: any attempt at eye contact required that he sit
forward
to look past the boisterous King. If he wished, Sir William, seated next to Princess Esterhazy, could observe him. Nelson found that he no longer cared. And Emma met his eye, although she was engaged in conversation with the neighbour to her right.

Things were easier during the ritual speeches: all the toasts—to Naples, Britannia, Ferdinand, King George, the Austrian Emperor, the British fleet, its sailors and, most of all, Nelson himself—required him to gaze around the company. During the toasts news was
delivered
to Ferdinand that his Austrian general had reached Caserta. Clearly fuelled by the amount of wine in his belly, the King felt the power of his office: in a display of personal braggadocio that made the slippery Marquis de Gallo blench, he raised his glass, said, “Damnation to the French,” and drank, breaking in that simple phrase the neutrality of his kingdom. Nelson could not help but be delighted, although he knew that the matter about which he cared so passionately had been resolved by drink, rather than wisdom.

“Admiral Nelson.”

He hesitated to turn round. He had been standing on the
windward side of the deck, gazing out at the sea, deep-blue under the late afternoon sun, hoping that the breeze would remove the brassy taste of stale wine from his mouth. Like everyone on board he was waiting for royalty to depart—or, more specifically, Maria Carolina and her suite of German servants. Ferdinand had gone an hour before in the
Tancredi
’s cutter, but the Queen had insisted on waiting till the sun dipped and the temperature fell, which would ease the breeze and the choppiness of the water.

“Lady Hamilton,” he replied as he turned.

“I require a private word with you.” Nelson glanced around the deck for Sir William as Emma added, “It is on behalf of the Queen. I am, as you know, at Her Majesty’s disposal.” Emma walked towards a less occupied part of the deck, obliging him to follow her. “If I may refer to something you said when you arrived in Naples.”

“Why so formal, Emma?” Nelson whispered.

“You said,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “that you would remain here for no more than two weeks, that once your ships were repaired you would sail to Cadiz.”

“I have a commander-in-chief to whom I must report, Emma, and St Vincent is off Cadiz. I must look into Malta on the way—that is a pressing concern.”

“You also said that you would base the fleet on Syracuse.”

“It is the best place to hamper French movements, Emma. You, of all people, know that. From there I cover both the Straits of Messina and the waters between Taranto and the Barbary shore.”

She wouldn’t look at him. “So that is still your intention?”

Now Nelson adopted a formal tone, because he felt wounded by hers. “I intend to meet with Baron Mack to find out what plans he has to attack the French in the Papal States. Once I have done that I will make whatever dispositions are necessary to support him.”

“So Cadiz is not a necessity?”

“I have the trust of St Vincent, who allows me to make my own dispensations. I will do whatever I see to be in the interests of our country.”

Still she wouldn’t look at him. “And Naples?”

“Thanks to the King’s wine-fuelled bravado, the two are now the same, although I will be convinced only when I see the French Ambassador sent packing. I don’t trust de Gallo not to change the King’s mind when he returns to a state of sobriety.”

“Would it help you to know that the Queen feels the die is cast, that Naples cannot live at peace with France, and that she and her husband cannot ever feel secure until the cancer of Revolution is excised from their patrimony?”

“Those sound like her words, Emma.”

At last she smiled. “They are.”

“I would be happier if you used your own.”

“You must be aware that Maria Carolina fears her own subjects as much as she fears the French. Perhaps the army will march now that Mack is here, but you know as well as I how hard it is to beat the French.”

“On land,” he said, smiling, which earned him a squeeze of his good arm.

“The Queen feels she will not be secure without you anchored in the bay.”

“Me?”

“If you are here, the fleet is here.”

And the means of escape, thought Nelson, for a royal family who could not be sure in a crisis if their own naval officers would be reliable.

“I cannot decide on any action until I have met with Mack.”

“Can I tell her, then, that you will not desert us? It would ease her mind.”

Nelson was required, he knew, to say no: he could not hobble himself and his duty to his own sovereign by making such a
commitment
to another. But neither could he look into those green eyes and say the word. “Yes, you may tell her that.”

The royal party, led by the ladies-in-waiting, began to assemble on the deck. Emma breathed, “Thank you,” and went to join them, no doubt to tell the Queen what Nelson had said. That she did so was obvious, since Maria Carolina looked straight at him and inclined
her head. Nelson wondered at her perspicacity: had she asked him herself he would have been obliged, however diplomatically, to refuse. How had she known that if she used Emma Hamilton as an emissary he would say yes? He was under even more scrutiny, by many more people, than he had assumed.

He felt very much under Emma’s scrutiny at dinner that night—a private affair for him, his senior officers, and several close friends of the Hamiltons—from the numerous paintings that lined the walls of this private dining room. Three, he knew, were by Romney, Emma as herself, young and stunningly beautiful, in a classical pose as a
bacchante
, others by Gavin Hamilton and Angelica Kauffman, and the one he liked best, by Madame Vigée Le Brun, of Emma in white, hands clasped in supplication as St Cecilia.

In every picture her eyes seemed to be on him and he almost squirmed to think that Sir William had bought them all. A man who had so many portraits of his wife was likely to be enamoured of her. She was seated halfway down the board with an eager midshipman to one side and a stiffly formal, and hopefully chastened, Captain Josiah Nesbit on the other.

There was much talk of the war, as well as of London and
country
society: friends, acquaintances, or public figures to commend or damn. Others, once assurance had been given that no person at the table was a cousin or comrade, were condemned outright. Whatever scandals had reached Naples from London were dissected, and
compared
with the more disreputable local ones.

Nelson was seated at one end of the table next to Emma’s friend Cornelia Knight, whose mother, the widow of Admiral Sir John Knight, was on his other side. He liked them both, the older lady for her sagacity, the daughter for her verve, though he found Cornelia’s voice a trifle blaring. They had been shunted down to Naples from their residence in Rome by the French invasions of ’96, forced to settle in Naples when the armies of the anti-revolutionary coalition made peace with Bonaparte.

Lady Knight was an invalid, yet she swore that, but for her daughter, she would have stayed in Rome and “not given a damn for the consequences.” Nelson believed her: you only had to look at her to see that she had a truly steely determination. More
importantly
, on her last visit to England Lady Knight had become a friend of his wife: she had met Fanny with the Reverend Nelson when his father made one of his frequent visits to Bath.