by M. C. Muir
From early morning, wagon after wagon rolled along the main roads delivering gravel. This was spread along Whitehall, the Strand and Fleet Street in preparation for Nelson’s final journey; hopefully it would prevent the carriages’ wheels becoming lodged in the ruts as they rolled through the London streets. While the main route was being repaired, along the way, all minor roads and alleyways were barricaded by overturned carts, chests and barrels, allowing only pedestrians a way through.
To contend with the growing number of mourners, sightseers, vagabonds and pickpockets that had suddenly arrived in the city, an army of volunteers was placed on duty from Constitution Hill to the Admiralty and from there to St Paul’s Cathedral. The regiment of volunteers included Sea Fencibles, Greenwich Pensioners and soldiers. Amongst them were several marksmen and riflemen.
While the roads had been prepared to carry the traffic that would make up the procession, provisions had to be made to accommodate the thousands of spectators who were arriving to watch the spectacle.
On the day before the funeral, every shipwright, carpenter and joiner not otherwise occupied, plus his mates and any volunteer who could wield a hammer, use a saw or bang a nail into a length of wood, was called on. By the light of lanterns and flaming torches, they worked throughout the long night erecting scaffolding to support tiers of seats along the route the funeral procession was to take. From Whitehall to St Paul’s Cathedral on Ludgate Hill, there was much noise and bustle.
At six o’clock, the following morning with the streets still blanketed in the blackness of night, the newly erected tiers of seats were already occupied by visitors who had travelled to London especially for the event. They had secured their seats early to guarantee a good view.
For the next few hours, London held its breath and waited.
* * *
Thursday, 9 January, 1806, was the day of Nelson’s Funeral.
From before light, some distance away in both Hyde Park and St James Park, carriages were lining up to convey members of the royal family, and other naval, military and civil dignitaries, to the Cathedral. The assembled mourners were marshalled according to rank.
Among those holding tickets to the event was Oliver Quintrell.
Dressed in accordance with the instructions he had received, like all other naval officers, he wore a mourning cloak over his uniform coat with black waistcoat, breeches and stockings. A black crepe band circled his arm and hat.
On presenting himself to one of the stewards, he was directed to a location where he would find his respective carriage. Wandering through St James Park towards Hyde Park, he checked the carriage numbers as he went, eventually finding the one he was designated to travel in. He had hoped to be placed with at least one officer he knew, but he was not in luck. He was aware that Captain Boris Crabthorne was to attend and was anxious to speak with him, but that opportunity did not arise.
Taking a seat in the coach with another post captain, two flag captains and a Rear Admiral of the Blue, the topic of conversation in the coach was naturally about Lord Nelson. While two of the officers had served aboard Nelson’s ship at the Battle of the Nile, and expounded their experiences in great detail, Oliver offered what he could about the state of HMS Victory when she returned to Portsmouth. But his topic engendered little interest.
When eventually, after much waiting and complaining, all the listed passengers were seated and the line of almost 200 conveyances rolled slowly from Hyde Park to St James Park. At eleven o’clock, the procession entered Horse Guards where their Royal Highnesses, the Dukes of Cambridge and Kent, mounted and dressed in full regimentals, were awaiting the arrival of the coaches. Riding at the head of the line, they were flanked by a regiment of light infantry and three highland regiments of the Scottish Fusiliers. The Duke of York headed the 14th Light Dragoons. The mounted officers of the 10th Dragoons wore black cloaks.
His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, was resplendent on horseback, wearing full regimentals plus the velvet cloak and insignia of the Order of the Garter. His presence excited the most marked attention. The royal party was followed by eleven cannon each pulled by six horses. Next was the ammunition wagon. It was followed by four regiments of horse artillery and the Grenadier Guards.
Immediately after the royal and military contingents, was the funeral car carrying the body of Horatio Nelson. Designed to resemble HMS Victory, the front of the car was built to imitate the shape of the ship’s bow. Similarly, the rear of the car was built in the likeness of Victory’s stern. Hoisted to half-staff on the flag pole was the British ensign.
Drawn by six black horses, the coffin placed within the car was shaded by a grand canopy. Standing fifteen feet tall, the funeral car was mounted on a sprung platform and carried on a four-wheeled carriage decorated with black velvet drapery with black fringes.
The leaves and vines festooned on the sides of the car encircled the word – TRAFALGAR. The tall canopy, above the coffin, was also surmounted with black ostrich feathers and supported by four palm-trees made of carved wood – silvered and glazed with green. At the foot of the each tree, wreaths of live laurel and cypress were entwined around the stem.
Following the funeral car were six mourning coaches carrying the heralds and their trumpets and then the state carriages bearing junior members of the Royal family – the sons of barons, earls, and viscounts. Next came fifty-six mourning coaches carrying naval and military officers.
Travelling amongst them, Captain Oliver Quintrell was unable to witness the whole procession, but from the carriage window he observed the street scenes as they rolled by. Uniformed soldiers, marines and marshals were stationed two-deep along the route from the Admiralty to Temple-Bar, together with mounted members of the City light-horse and the Westminster cavalry. Behind the guards, taking up the newly erected tiers of seats, were men, women and children from all walks of life. The near destitute were thrown together with businessmen and members of more affluent society. For both rich and poor, this was a spectacle they would relate to their grandchildren in years to come.
The procession proceeded to the music of the band of the Buffs: the Royal East Kent Regiment, one of the oldest regiments in the British Army. With muffled drums, they played Handel’s Dead March and Rule Britannia. East of Temple-Bar the London regiments stood guard to preserve order and keep the way clear.
Discounting the royal and military contingents, one hundred and twenty-six private carriages and sixty-three mourning coaches rolled through Horse Guards and ground along the gravel from Whitehall to the Strand and Ludgate Hill.
The King was not present.
With many visitors to the city and non-ticketed mourners heading to St Paul’s on foot, by eleven o’clock, the area around St Paul’s was packed. Even the flat roofs of nearby buildings were lined with onlookers, as was every window and open ledge.
The inside of the church was also filling quickly. Then, at around 1.15 the sound of bagpipes announced the arrival of one of the highland regiments setting off a buzz of expectation that the procession was drawing close. Within the Cathedral, the wooden seating, rising to fifteen tiers high, recently erected by a team of carpenters, creaked and rattled. The construction was similar to the smaller ones built along the procession route. Ushers strode back and forth escorting mourners to their allotted seats.
Shortly after, the Prince of Wales, astride a lavishly caped horse, rode to the Cathedral’s great steps. He was preceded by the mace and state sword.
As the procession arrived at St Paul’s, hats were removed and tears were again shed unashamedly. A cacophony of sounds accompanied the procession, the band in the van played the 104th Psalm, along with music from the fifes of the infantry, the trumpets of the cavalry and the bagpipes of the Scottish regiments.
It was three in the afternoon, when the funeral car slowed to a halt, but a full fifteen minutes was needed to lower the heavy coffin from the carriage in order for it to be carried into the church. During that time, the majority of
the mourners were able to disembark from their carriages and pass into the cathedral and be directed to their seats.
Oliver Quintrell was allotted a raised seat, a dozen levels high, amongst the main throng of naval officers who made up the greatest percentage of mourners. He was seated between two aged admirals and a host of other officers, recognising very few. As any conversation was frowned on, most sat silently or shared only a few words of whispered conversation.
Barely had he taken his seat, than the fifes of the infantry, alternating with the trumpets of the cavalry announced the opening of the Great Western Door. The breeze that blew into the church caused the enormous flags of France and Spain, captured at Trafalgar and now hanging from the Cathedral’s inner walls, to wave gently. That movement elicited a great roar of huzzas from the crowd.
Sailors, from Nelson’s flag ship, lined a passage to the Door displaying Victory’s colours. When the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Clarence passed through, they stopped to examine the numerous holes shot through the canvas. Amazed, they stopped and spoke to some of the sailors about them. The eyes of both royals glistened with tears.
Throughout this time, the crowds outside waited patiently. Within the great Cathedral, silence was observed.
As soon as the coffin was received on the bier, a red pall was thrown over it and a black canopy, decorated in gold, hoisted above it. It was surmounted with black plumes and carried by six rear-admirals who bore it up the steps.
With the entry, the trumpets sounded and a band of flutes alternately played The Dead March and the 104th Psalm, accompanied at intervals by muffled kettle-drums. The procession moved towards the empty choir – that part of a cathedral between the high altar and the nave. The whole area was illuminated by large wax candles. Organ music announced the reception of the coffin within the church.
The 92nd Highland regiment formed a single line circle, under the huge dome and along the entrances and passage to the choir. They stood with their firelocks clubbed. When the organ music ceased, the voices of more than 100 chorus singers, dressed in surplices with black silk scarfs, sang the hymn: I know that my Redeemer liveth. The singing continued while the procession passed to the choir area, the singers forming a line on each side near the gates.
The heralds preceded the official party and there was a fanfare of trumpets when the Prince of Wales and his royal brothers entered the Cathedral. They were greeted by the Dean of St Paul’s. Finally, the banner of emblems, borne before the canopy was carried by the flag officer of HMS Victory – Captain Hardy.
The company now entered the choir. Nelson’s older brother, the Reverend Earl Nelson was accompanied by his eldest son, Lord Merton and the Nelson’s chaplain, the Reverend Mr Scott who had travelled with him from Trafalgar. Following these gentlemen, was the chief mourner, Admiral Sir Peter Parker, supported by Admiral Lord Hood and other naval officers. The rear was brought up by the colours of Victory. Borne by a select group of seamen from Nelson’s ship, they were flanked by an equal number of Greenwich pensioners
The Duchess of York, attended by Lady Fitzroy was received by the Dean and conducted to the choir. As it was not customary for women to attend funerals, neither Lady Nelson nor Emma Hamilton were present, nor was Horatia, the daughter of Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton
The coffin, when taken from the bier, was lifted into place on a long stool, covered with black velvet decorated with gold tassels. It was placed directly beneath the centre of St Paul’s great dome.
When all who had formed the procession had taken their places, the Prince being seated on the right of the bishop’s throne, the choir doors were closed and the funeral service commenced.
Prayers and lessons were read. Psalms and the Magnificat were sung, and a sublime anthem chanted. Throughout the service, the whole area was illuminated by an enormous light made up of 200 piteni lamps. It formed an immense octangular lanthorn suspended by a rope from the centre of the Cathedral’s dome. With dusk rapidly advancing, the huge light lit the whole Cathedral.
Though overawed by all he saw, for Oliver Quintrell, the most inspiring features were the massive flags of Spain and France suspended from the walls. Despite being pock-marked with shot holes, they best represented Nelson’s glorious victory at Trafalgar.
Then commenced the most impressive part of the spectacle. His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, with the Duke of Clarence on his right and the Duke of Kent on his left, took his place with the other mourners as the coffin was uncovered and the coronet placed on it. The moment had arrived to consign the mortal remains of the hero to his final resting place. The light afforded by the great lanthorn highlighted the awful splendour of the scene,
At thirty-three minutes after five, the coffin was lowered into the crypt to the calls of those that witnessed the scene. Oh! Immortal Nelson!
The white staves that had been carried were then broken and tossed into the grave and the titles of the deceased peer were proclaimed and the ceremony was over.
During the closing moments, Victory’s colours were passed into the hands of the loyal tars. Having borne their captain on his final journey and followed him to the very end, they were determined to have a memento of their great and glorious commander. As such, they tore off a considerable part of Victory’s flag, of which they all obtained a small portion. Few other persons were allowed to get any of it.
The internment concluded just before six o’clock but it was not until nine o’clock that the Cathedral was finally emptied.
While thousands of mourners had been accommodated in the Cathedral, and thousands of spectators had gathered outside, leaving the great church was far more difficult than entering. Having been seated for many hours, as soon as the service was over, everyone was eager to depart. While the royals and senior officers of church, state and the military were afforded priority, those remaining had to be patient. But, on emerging from the entrance, the task of locating their transport in pitch darkness was near impossible.
Once outside, spontaneous outpourings of feelings, withheld for several hours, were expressed. Beside the noise of conversations, carriage wheels clattered on the cobbles, whips cracked, driver cursed and horses whinnied. Wheels rumbled across the gravel despite traffic blocking every road. The volunteers and soldiers, who had done such an efficient job in controlling the people on entering, had now gone, mingling with the mass of humanity filling the streets. Beside those on foot, coaches and carriages of all sizes and descriptions were lined up choking the roadway; many were completely hemmed in and unable to move in any direction.
Having instructed his manservant, Casson, not to meet him, Oliver Quintrell was content to walk the two miles to Grosvenor Square and escape the crowds. Apart from needing the exercise, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts.
Although walking though the streets of London after dark was not normally recommended, on this occasion, every street was filled with mourners wending their way home. Gentlemen, officers and lubbers alike shared their feelings freely with their fellow travellers. All were tired. It had been a long day. But all were satisfied they had done their duty.
Chapter 7
After the funeral
It was three months since the sea battle was fought off Cape Trafalgar and two months since Nelson’s body had been returned home. While weeks of celebrations and lamentations had preceded the actual funeral ceremony, within days of the pomp and pageantry ending, the emotions that had been shared throughout London had been exhausted. Cheeks were dry, pockets and stomachs empty, and the tens of thousands of visitors who had flocked into London to witness the special event had turned tail and escaped the metropolis.
Along with the crowds, the tiers of seating, vendors’ stalls, bunting, window displays and flags had all gone. How they were conveyed out of the City so quickly was a wonder.
Of those who remained, the folks who had hugged and danced with strangers only weeks ago, now seldom exchanged an unnecessary glance, as they passed on the street. While plea
santries had disappeared, not so the piles of stinking human and animal waste that clogged the gutters, alleyways and doorways, feeding hosts of flies, maggots and vermin. It would require more than a good downpour of rain to flush the excrement into the Thames.
The streets were strangely quiet, save for the tap-tapping of peg-legged beggars whose source of income had dried up. The rowdy drunks, now with only holes in their pockets, had crawled back into whatever hovels they had come from. The patriotic verses the pipers had played were soon replaced by the raucous tones of fish-wives eager to reclaim their territories, along with the cries of bakers, florists and other regular street vendors.
It astounded the captain how quickly normal life resumed turning jubilation, celebration and mourning into a mundane routine with an overarching dour and heavy atmosphere. No one was talking. No one was spending. No one smiled.
Of the Londoners walking the streets, eyes failed to rise from gutter level and the name of Lord Horatio Nelson was no longer uttered. It was as though his name, titles and commands had been buried in the crypt below St Paul’s Cathedral along with his body.
The men who loitered about the Thames and the entrances to the naval dockyards were mostly sailors, waiting in vain hope for a fighting ship to be repaired, re-floated and re-commissioned. But it would be a long time before that happened.
Ignored, was the fact that the war against France had not ended. Napoleon’s focus had merely turned towards Europe; however, all Britons cared about was the fact that the threat of a French invasion on English soil had been averted.
For Oliver Quintrell, having spent many hours, sipping ale and reliving the events of the great funeral with other naval officers, and later, back in Grosvenor Square, recounting the details of the greatest spectacle London had witnessed in centuries to his sister, he felt totally exhausted.
