by M. C. Muir
On nearing the Thames, Oliver’s nose was alerted to the smell of London’s greatest open sewer. The foul coloured water was tainted by blood and entrails from the slaughterhouses and tanneries situated along the riverbank, together with waste from every house and factory and open drain running down from the city. He longed for the clean fresh smell of the sea.
On the river at Westminster, boats, barges and wherries of all sizes were in great demand. As each new boat tied up, irrespective of its nature, condition, usual occupation or stench, after handing over their pennies to the boatman, the crowds clambered over the gunwales and dropped onto the thwarts. Mothers scolded grubby children. Dogs yapped. Old men grumbled. Each boat conveyed a motley group of passengers. Oliver was not the only person intent on paying his respect to England’s greatest sea captain.
As the sights of London swam by, Oliver Quintrell was shocked at the size and number of new warehouses that had sprung up along the river since he last passed that way. Standing three and four storeys high, the brick buildings stretched along the river’s banks on both sides. Swamp land was quickly being filled in to accommodate London’s expanding girth.
Being fully occupied with the sights and sounds the Thames thoroughfare produced, he had managed to ignore the constant chatter going on around him, and the journey was over too quickly.
Disembarking at Greenwich to more bustling throngs, Oliver was again amazed. There were not hundreds, but thousands of people of all descriptions gathered on the grounds at the Royal Naval Hospital and particularly around the entrance to the Painted Hall where the Admiral’s body was lying in state for the public to pay their respects.
With one third of the British fleet being Irishmen, the three day’s period of wake, prior to the funeral, would provide the appropriate time to observe the traditional ritual of both celebrations and lamentations. Tears would be shed and copious amounts of ale and spirits would be consumed in memory of the dead Admiral.
The smells coming from the street traders’ carts hawking seafood, roast chestnuts, potatoes and pies attracted plenty of customers. Many folk had left their homes in the dead of night and travelled long distances in order to arrive early. Unfortunately, they were then made to wait in the near freezing air until nine o’clock when the doors to the hall opened. The crowds were impatient. The mood was tense and irritable.
Oliver was loath to join the throng where ministers of the Government were obliged to mingle with washerwomen and waifs, all being jostled along together. But he had no alternative. Everyone was of the same intent. They were there to show their respect.
With the entrance to the Great Hall in sight, the crowd was ushered into the semblance of an orderly queue by armed soldiers, Sea Fencibles, volunteers and Naval Pensioners. Their task was to control the flow and prevent further injuries by ushering only fifty people into the hall at any one time. Yet, almost by the minute, more mourners were arriving at the Hospital’s ground by boat and carriage, and on foot from London. They would continue pouring in for the next two days.
While standing in line with hundreds of others, Oliver thought back to the time he was a patient in the hospital. The smells exuding from the building were the same as back then – scented salves and pomanders, unwashed old men, weeping wounds and wet bandages, urine and excrement. He also remembered the times he had spent dining under the magnificent painted roof where meals were basic and unappetising, though not dissimilar to the diet sailors suffered at sea when on long voyages. The quality of the century’s old paintings and the surrounding walls had also amazed him and, at times, distracted him from his discomfort.
Forced along with the crowd, the group of fifty, of which Oliver Quintrell was one, climbed the marble steps and headed slowly along the hall. To absorb the noise of hobnailed boots and clogs, the chamber floor had been covered in matting and black cloth. As the mob moved forward, the babble of the waiting crowd was soon left behind.
Lighted sconces glimmered from the hall’s roof while individual candles burned from tables along the length of the building. Being over one hundred feet long and fifty-six feet wide, the Grand Hall was an impressive arena. The magnificent ceiling provided a company of angels to overlook the proceedings.
The head of the coffin was turned towards the main entrance. It was covered in a black velvet pall with white satin lining. Barriers had been erected, to allow the mourners to pass close to the coffin when paying their respects but with such slow progress hundreds, if not thousands of visitors would not gain entry before the doors closed at dark.
With his sword by his side, Oliver cupped his hand over the pommel to prevent it swinging when he was jostled. He would have done well to leave it in London but in this environment, where the eyes of every second man bore the shifting expression of a scallywag or scoundrel, he felt comforted to have it with him.
‘Move along!’ one of the attendants shouted.
Feet shuffled along at a snail’s pace.
As he neared the coffin, Oliver removed his hat as did others. Mothers gripped the wrists of their children to prevent them from running amok. Tears flowed unashamedly. The air of hallowed solemnity was palpable.
‘Watch it!’ a raucous voice bellowed from behind as his sword swung back from his hip when he was pushed forward. The man who had made the call was immediately made to hush by others nearby.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ Oliver said, turning to face the stranger. Then his face expanded into a grin. ‘Well, if it ain’t James Tinker.’
‘Bungs, to you Captain,’ the old cooper replied bluntly, allowing his lips to twitch only slightly. ‘You be an unexpected sight amongst this rabble.’
‘Paying my respects just like you,’ Oliver said.
‘Shhh!’ a woman hissed.
Oliver turned his head and whispered, ‘Might I suggest we continue this conversation when we are finished here?’
The cooper touched his forehead and followed in line to where the coffin was situated.
Chapter 6
Greenwich to St Paul’s
When he reached the coffin, Oliver Quintrell bowed his head reverently and paused momentarily, but the constant creep of the crowd behind him did not allow him to linger as long as he would have wished. Volunteers from the Greenwich and Deptford Association had been posted to prevent disruptions and keep the crowds in continual motion. Like those moving slowly beside him Oliver was touched by the spectacle. Around him there were spontaneous sighs, tears and whispered prayers. Of those around him, jaws dropped open and eyebrows rose involuntarily at the confronting sight. Within the Hall, feelings of grief and awe, exultation and regret were palpable.
For Oliver Quintrell, the need for real contemplation would have to be satisfied later, at a time and place where he could be alone with only his thoughts for company. But for the present, his eyes embraced the scene and absorbed all he saw.
The mahogany coffin, with eight gold handles and gilded corner plates secured with double gilt nails, gleamed in the light of multiple candles. Placed on top were sixteen gilded items including an ornamental gold plaque engraved with the Admiral’s name, along with a list of his many titles and offices; a portrait of the deceased hero, and an urn with a British lion at its base. One of the beast’s paws was resting on the French Gallic cock.
A pedestal, placed in front of the coffin, bore a richly fringed black velvet cushion. On it sat the viscount’s coronet, decorated with sixteen large pearl-like ornaments.
From beyond the walls of the building, the murmur from the crowds expressed their frustrations, as they awaited their turn to enter, but from within, all was still and silent, save for the slow shuffling of the mourners. Otherwise, there was no movement in the air. No flutter of the black velvet bows hanging from the canopy surmounting the coffin. Even the ten mourners posted alongside it stood like statues, and the group of designated overseers sitting with Lord Nelson’s body, hardly appeared to breathe.
On the ceiling above and on the surrounding
walls, legendary heroes and kings and queens of a bygone era floated with angels – the exquisite details captured a century earlier, by Sir James Thornhill – the artist.
Captain Quintrell considered how different the farewell for Horatio Nelson was to the other poor souls, both English and foreign who also had fallen at the Battle of Trafalgar. How many bodies had been tossed through open gunports or heaved over the gunwales without a second thought or prayer? In some cases, the torso was minus its head or one of its appendages. While appearing dead, some of the men had not yet breathed their last, but with no time for the surgeon to examine them, they followed their brothers to a watery grave.
Yet, with Viscount Lord Nelson, here was a man revered by all and elevated in the public’s eyes almost to the level of a god. A man whose earthly remains had been preserved in brandy and then pure alcohol in order to retain its features even weeks after his death.
Then the captain’s thoughts drifted back to the burial of Percy Sparrow, a carpenter, whose remains he had regarded as the worst corruption he had ever seen. His body, also confined in a barrel, had been despatched to the bottom of a Crater Lake in the freezing waters of the Southern Ocean. At least the respect of the crew and the heartfelt grief they felt had been expressed without shame.
On leaving the stagnant atmosphere and stepping outside, Oliver inhaled deeply gulping in air like a fish out of water. Several onlookers acknowledged him with a respectful gesture, touching their hats or knuckling their forelocks, as though they knew him. Perhaps they did. Perhaps they were seamen who had sailed with him. Or perhaps they thought, being in dress uniform, adorned with gold epaulettes, and carrying an ornate sword, he was an important dignitary. In this instance, Oliver Quintrell was just one of the populace.
Looking to the boats almost filling the breadth of the river, he headed towards the water. A few yards ahead of him, filling his clay pipe, was his old cooper. While there was nowhere to sit and barely any space on the grass even to stand for a private conversation, the pair stopped at the railings on the edge of the grounds.
‘What are you occupying yourself with these days, Bungs?’ the captain asked. ‘I’d heard, some time ago, you had bought yourself a share in a tavern with the prize money you’d accumulated over the years.’
‘I thought about it,’ the cooper grunted, sucking hard on the narrow clay stem to encourage the tobacco to burn. ‘But I tucked my money away somewhere safe for a later date.’
‘Are you of a mind to sail again?’ Oliver asked. ‘Every ship needs a good cooper.’
Bungs didn’t need to be told. ‘Not right now, Capt’n. My plans are to go to the yard in Chatham and get me some work. I heard that Victory is in the dockyard there and they’ll need men to refit her. That’s where I am off to. I just called in here on the way to find out what was happening.’
‘Did you not work on Victory many years ago?’
‘Nowt wrong with your memory, Capt’n. Indeed, I did. ’Twas in ’98 when she came into Chatham for her last refit. I helped load tons of pig iron into her hold for ballast?’ His laugh was a guttural growl. ‘Remember the blocks we pulled out of the stinking slime in the ballast of that Portuguese slave ship in South America. That silver paid everyone on board a pretty penny in prize money.’
‘Indeed,’ Oliver agreed, not venturing to admit to the substantial amount he had been allocated.
‘Perhaps I can convey you to the dockyard,’ the captain offered.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Capt’n,’ the old cooper replied. ‘I’m off to join the lads in the tavern. The wake will go on for three days and I recon I can spare me a few hours before I take a ferry down river to Chatham.’
‘Then I wish you well. Come sail with me again one day.’
‘Aye, maybe, I will. God speed you, Capt’n.’ And with those words the old salt touched his forehead, turned and shuffled away into the crowd.
Though there were perhaps 20,000 people in the grounds of the Naval Hospital and more along the river bank, Oliver had never felt so alone.
* * *
On Wednesday morning, following three days of the body lying in state, the coffin, covered in a black velvet pall, decorated with a colourful escutcheon, was carried from the Great Hall to the jetty stairs to be transferred by barge to the Admiralty in Whitehall. The body of Britain’s finest seaman was to take its last journey on water before internment.
The official line of funeral barges and boats, making up the procession, was slow to assemble on the Thames. With an extraordinary number of spectator craft on the water all vying for a view, they almost blocked the river, making access for the official barges very difficult. From the hospital’s grounds and streets nearby, thousands of faces strained to see, not only the coffin, but members of the Royal Family and other dignitaries who had arrived in their carriages to take part in the funeral procession.
The first barge to draw up was the state barge flying the royal standard. The second in line was the King’s barge. A Knight of the Bath was sitting at its head and in it were officers bearing the sword, helmet, gauntlets and spurs of the deceased.
The coffin was placed on the third barge by Victory’s men. Completely covered-in black velvet, the barge was adorned with large black ostrich feathers. Six trumpeters sat in the stern sheets along with six naval lieutenants. An Officer of Arms was at the head of the coffin bearing the Viscount’s coronet on a black velvet cushion. The standard of the United Kingdom flew at the stem. The funeral barge was manned by forty-six sailors from HMS Victory. All were neatly dressed in white shirts, blue jackets and trousers, their hats bearing the name of the flag ship, with black silk crepe bands tied around their hats and arms.
The fourth barge in the procession carried the official party all wearing mourning cloaks over full uniforms. The banner of emblems was borne by Nelson’s Flag Officer – Captain Hardy.
The numerous barges that followed transported an array of distinguished notables representing naval, civil and commercial elements of the country: the Lords Commissioners from the Admiralty, the Lord Mayor of London, the navigation committee and representatives of various guilds and lodges – drapers, fishmongers, goldsmiths, skinners, tanners, tailors, ironmongers, stationers and apothecaries – each guild in its own barge; each with its own flag hoisted to half-staff.
The line appeared unending and the time taken, for everyone to embark on his designated vessel, seemed endless. Only when the hundreds of mourners were finally seated aboard their respective boats was the journey to Westminster able to begin.
When the lead barges pushed away from the Hospital’s jetty, the minute gun commenced firing and the procession began its mournful journey. Although the flood tide was in their favour, the wind, blowing downstream hindered the rowers.
As the procession slowly moved upstream and the barge bearing Lord Nelson’s coffin drifted by, every man lining the river bank removed his hat and stood in silence. Sailors hanging from the rigging of visiting merchant vessels, spectators lining the decks of boats, passengers on wherries and clerks from the windows and roofs of warehouse offices all showed their respect. Of the ladies in the crowds, there were many tear-streaked faces. Yet not a word was spoken.
Apart from the dip of the oars and the creak of the rowlocks, the silence was overwhelming.
After half an hour, when the leading barges reached the Tower of London, the great guns high on the castle’s ramparts exploded with violent noise, smoke and fire. They were fired every minute as the convoy swam by. Moored on the nearby wharf, six barges decked with rows of the City Volunteers’ regiment stood to attention with arms reversed. From both sides of the Thames, church bells tolled while on the water, the River Fencibles ensured the procession was not blocked as the oarsmen pulled into the wind.
At two o’clock, the funeral barges glided under the central arch of the London Bridge, their oars held upright. Forty-five minutes later, the head of the procession reached the Palace Yard steps, near Westminster Abbey.
Here the first few barges drew alongside with a long snaking line of boats drifting to a halt behind them. The solemn air was broken by the sound of trumpets and another gunboat firing every minute. To the chords of Handel’s Dead March in Saul, the coffin was unloaded, preceded by the colour party.
Being blessed by weak winter sunshine during the journey up the Thames, when the barge was secured to the wharf, the sky suddenly took on a grey spectre. As if preordained, at the moment the body was landed and carried up the steps from the river, a mantle of dark and heavy cloud blocked the late afternoon rays. The temperature suddenly dropped and hail unexpectedly poured from the heavens creating a thick veil of mist over the river. Despite the sudden hailstorm, the sailors remained bareheaded, water running down their faces, dripping from their noses and ears and saturating their shirts, neckerchiefs and jackets. As if oblivious to the storm, the stalwart spectators also stood in solemn silence.
From the short walk from the Palace Yard steps to the Admiralty building, the party travelled on foot, the coffin being carried on a bier by eight sailors of HMS Victory. A canopy was held over the casket supported by six admirals of the fleet. The chief mourner, Sir Peter Parker, walked behind to the doleful sound of drums and trumpets.
Within the Admiralty building, the Captain’s Room had been prepared to house the coffin until the time for its final transfer to St Paul’s Cathedral. The walls were hung with fine black cloth and the room lit with long black tapers.
The crowd, that had congregated at the Palace Yard steps and had followed the procession, were unwilling to leave. Many remained outside the Admiralty throughout the night conducting their own vigil.
* * *
While the formal pomp and ceremony of the procession was taking place, work continued on the roads leading from the Admiralty to St Paul’s. Like all busy thoroughfares in winter, the way was deeply furrowed from the constant passage of carriage wheels and was pitted with potholes.
