Bell Harry

by Nicholas Best

  ‘He mentioned it in one of his plays,’ Edward said. ‘The Jew of Malta, I think.’

  ‘A dark entry where they take it in,’ Jane quoted. ‘Something something neither see the messenger nor make inquiry. I’ve forgotten the rest. It wasn’t his mightiest line.’

  They continued towards the cloisters. They had almost arrived when Jane spotted someone coming towards them along the brick walk. Her heart sank when she saw who it was.

  ‘Quick,’ she told Edward. ‘It’s Miss Milles. Let’s move on before she sees us.’

  They were too late. Miss Milles had spotted them too. She came hurrying over at once.

  ‘Is that really you, Miss Austen? I thought it was. How very nice to see you.’

  ‘And you,’ said Jane, not entirely truthfully.

  Miss Milles lived with her mother in a cathedral property at the other end of the brick walk. Master Homer’s house was more than five hundred years old. Edward IV had held a council meeting there during the Wars of the Roses. For the past fifty years, the house had been rented out to Mrs Milles, who was increasingly unable to keep up the payments. She and her daughter didn’t have a penny between them.

  They were nice people, but dreadfully poor and dull. Miss Milles in particular could prattle on for hours without ever saying anything interesting. Jane was thinking of putting her in a book.

  ‘I’m so glad I found you,’ Miss Milles told her. ‘I have some astonishing news for you.’

  Here we go, Jane thought. Someone has caught a cold. Her mother has lost her knitting again. She has had a letter and wants to read it to me.

  Jane did Miss Milles an injustice. The news was indeed sensational.

  ‘Lady Hamilton is here!’

  ‘Lord Nelson’s friend?’

  Miss Milles nodded. ‘The friend of his bosom. She’s come to see his brother. Her carriage arrived not half an hour ago.’

  Jane looked over Miss Milles’s shoulder. There it was, right enough. Admiral Nelson’s carriage, with his arms emblazoned on the side. It was parked outside Canon Nelson’s house, next door to Master Homer’s.

  Canon Nelson was a pale shadow of his famous brother. He would have been a simple country parson if it hadn’t been for the Hero of the Nile. He had traded on his brother’s reputation to acquire a good living as a prebendary of Canterbury cathedral. He was angling to become Dean as soon as the job became vacant.

  Lord Nelson had recently sailed from England to join the fleet off Cadiz. His orders were to bring the French fleet to battle and destroy it once and for all, so putting an end to Bonaparte’s invasion plans. The whole country was cheering him on as he sailed towards his destiny.

  Emma Hamilton was his mistress and the mother of his child, but she wasn’t his wife. With few friends of her own, she had been distraught at his departure from their home at Merton. Unable to bear it for long, she had come to stay with Canon Nelson for a few days in case he had any crumbs of comfort to offer.

  ‘We must see her,’ Jane told Edward. ‘I’d very much like to catch a glimpse of the notorious Lady Hamilton.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Edward was amused. ‘I confess, I’d quite like to see her myself.’

  They weren’t the only ones. A crowd gathered outside the house as the word spread. They didn’t have long to wait before Lady Hamilton appeared, with Canon Nelson in tow. They were going to take a turn around the cathedral.

  ‘There she is,’ Jane said, as her ladyship emerged. ‘The woman who has Lord Nelson’s heart.’

  The crowd gasped at the sight. Lady Hamilton wasn’t the person they had been expecting. She had been a great beauty in her youth, painted by all the best artists, but her youth had been long ago. Age and motherhood had taken their toll. It was obvious to everyone in the crowd that Lady Hamilton had lost her fabled good looks.

  ‘Great Heavens,’ Edward said, before he could stop himself. ‘What a huge arse.’

  ‘Oh hush!’ Jane giggled. She had seen it too. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  It was true, though. Lady Hamilton’s rear end was beyond substantial. Pert did not describe it.

  They watched as it disappeared into the cathedral, accompanied by Canon Nelson. It seemed rude to follow, so they returned to their carriage after a while and went back to Godmersham, delighted with their day out in Canterbury. Edward and Jane Austen were both very pleased to have set eyes on Lady Hamilton during their visit. It was something for them to talk about at dinner parties when they got home.

  Emma Hamilton prayed for Nelson every morning in the cathedral during her stay in Canterbury. Out at sea, the man himself had arrived off the Spanish coast to discover that the fleet was running short of fresh water. He immediately summoned Rear-Admiral Louis and Flag-Captain Frank Austen to his cabin aboard HMS Victory.

  ‘I want you to take six ships-of-the-line to Gibraltar,’ he told them. ‘Fill up with food and water and come back as quick as you can.’

  ‘We’ll miss the battle if we do,’ Louis protested. ‘The French are bound to come out of harbour if they know six ships have been detached from the fleet.’

  ‘That’s the whole idea,’ Nelson said. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for you to get back before they do. That’s why I’m sending you now.’

  The battle was fought off the cape of Tarif-al-Ghar on the morning of 21 October. The guns were so loud that they were heard in Cadiz to the north and Morocco to the south. They spelled despair for Frank Austen, on his way back from Gibraltar with 300 tons of water for the fleet. Despite Nelson’s promise, he had missed the battle and all the promotion and prize money that went with it.

  Nelson himself lived just long enough to hear of the great victory before dying of his wounds. The despatch containing both good and terrible news reached England on 4 November and was carried at once to London by post chaise. A muddy naval lieutenant delivered it to the Admiralty after midnight two days later.

  In Canterbury, the rumours of a sea battle had been circulating for days, but nobody knew anything for certain. All eyes were on Bell Harry as the waiting continued. The great bell would certainly ring out across the fields if there had been a victory over the French, the glorious triumph that everyone in Canterbury was hoping for. But Bell Harry remained stubbornly silent. If there was good news, it hadn’t reached Canterbury yet.

  The best place to find out what was happening was Mr Bristow’s reading room on the Parade. Bristow always had the news before anyone else. The newspapers arrived from London on the mail coach and were delivered straight to the reading room at the end of the High Street. If anyone knew what was happening in the wider world, it was Mr Bristow.

  Canon Nelson was a regular at the reading room. He went there at eight every morning to scan the newspapers and see if there was anything in them about his brother. He had been doing so for weeks, but still knew no more than anyone else about what was happening at sea.

  It wasn’t long before the news arrived at last. The coachman delivering the papers told Bristow glumly that it was good and bad. ‘We have won a great victory,’ he said. ‘The French have been utterly defeated at sea. There’ll be no invasion now.’

  ‘And the bad?’

  ‘Lord Nelson is dead. He was killed during the fight.’

  Bad news indeed. Disastrous for Canon Nelson. Bristow reeled as he undid the newspapers and read the full story for himself.

  ‘Canon Nelson will have to be told,’ he announced, when he had finished. ‘The poor man can’t just come in here and read it in the paper, like a member of the public. I’ll have to tell him in private.’

  Bristow set off at once, hurrying down Mercery Lane. He knew where Nelson lived. He had got no further than the Christ Church gate when he spotted the man himself, just inside the gate. Bristow took him aside and told him gently what had happened.

  Canon Nelson reeled in his turn. He immediately burst into tears, pulling out a handkerchief to dry his eyes. He stood by the gate, weeping openly as he struggled to cope
with the news that he had dreaded for so long. His famous brother’s luck had run out at last.

  Bristow tried to comfort him. ‘At least it was a wonderful victory,’ he said. ‘The French can never invade us now.’

  ‘That won’t bring my brother back.’

  ‘You can be very proud of him, though. He has done our country a great service.’

  But Canon Nelson was not to be consoled. No triumph against the French was worth the death of his brother. He was in tears as he went back to his house to break the news to his family. He was still in tears as Bell Harry began to peal, ringing out across Canterbury for a famous victory.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sir Thomas Picton Returns from Waterloo

  Bonaparte was back. The man had escaped from Elba and returned to France at the head of his supporters. He was in Paris now, raising an army to make war again across Europe. His enemies were raising another to stop him.

  The British and Dutch-Belgian forces were commanded by the Duke of Wellington. He was in Brussels, preparing for the fight that lay ahead. He had asked Lieutenant-General Sir Thomas Picton, his old colleague from the Peninsula campaign, to return to the army and join him in Belgium as a division commander.

  Picton was delighted to accept. He had retired to Wales, but he dropped everything to return to the colours. He travelled to London first, and then down to Ramsgate, in Kent, where a ship had been chartered to ferry him and his staff across the Channel to Ostend.

  The general dined with friends in Canterbury on the way. The Fountain Inn lay just off the High Street, opposite Mercery Lane. Picton and his companions had a very convivial dinner therebefore he continued to Ramsgate with his aide-de-camp. The hotel ostler wished them well as they set off again.

  ‘Good luck, sirs. I hope you have success. I think we’ve all had as much as we can take of General Bonaparte and the French.’

  ‘I think we have.’ Picton tipped his hat. ‘More than enough. We must stop the man once and for all this time.’

  They rattled on to Ramsgate. From there they sailed to Ostend, before travelling inland to Brussels. They arrived in the city on the morning of 15 June 1815. At exactly the same moment, Napoleon Bonaparte was launching his army across the French border towards the Belgian capital. The war had begun.

  Picton called for breakfast as soon as he reached his hotel. He was halfway through the meal when he received a summons from the Duke of Wellington. The Duke wanted to see him immediately.

  Picton put his napkin down. He found Wellington in the park, walking with the Duke of Richmond, commander of the army’s reserve forces.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve arrived,’ he told Picton. ‘The sooner you’re on horseback the better. There’s no time to lose. I want you to take command of your troops at once.’

  News of Napoleon’s invasion reached Brussels at three that afternoon. Wellington immediately issued a warning order to the army, telling everyone to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. Further instructions would follow after he had consulted his senior officers and devised a plan of action.

  Wellington had been invited to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball that evening. So had Picton and the other senior officers. Rather than cancel the engagement and chase around Brussels in search of the individual generals, Wellington decided that they might just as well attend the ball. The Richmonds’ house was as good a place as any for them all to meet for a conference.

  It would send a message to the Belgians too, showing that the British weren’t panicking, just because Napoleon had crossed the frontier. There was plenty of time for them to attend the ball and still defeat the tyrant in the days to come.

  The Richmonds had rented a modest house in the Rue des Cendres, suitable for their needs while they were in Brussels. The ball was to be held in an adjoining coach house, about the size of a large garage. It was just about big enough to accommodate the two hundred guests who had been invited.

  Wellington put on a brave front as he chatted with the Duchess, but he was a worried man in private. He didn’t know exactly where Napoleon’s army was, or where its main thrust would come. He was enlightened by two messages that he received during the ball.

  The first told him that their Prussian allies had clashed with the French near Fleurus. The second said that the French were pushing straight up the road from the border to Brussels and had already reached the crossroads at Quatre Bras. They were advancing into Belgium along two different routes.

  After continuing his dinner party chat for a few minutes to show his lack of concern, Wellington decided to abandon the ball and return to his headquarters. On the way out, he had a quiet word with his host, the Duke of Richmond.

  ‘Have you a good map in the house?’

  The Duke took Wellington to his study. They spread the map out. Wellington was aghast at the speed and skill of Napoleon’s operation. The man was moving incredibly quickly, and along two different lines of approach.

  ‘Bonaparte has humbugged me, by God. He has gained twenty-four hours’ march on me.’

  ‘What are we going to do about it?’

  ‘I’ve ordered the army to concentrate at Quatre Bras. If we don’t stop the French there, we’ll have to stop them here.’ Wellington jabbed his thumb at a point further up the road, just south of Waterloo.

  The ball went rapidly downhill after Wellington’s departure. The rest of the officers soon slipped away as well, quietly returning to their duties. Their wives were distraught, fearing that they would never see them again. A few thoughtless girls danced on, but it wasn’t much fun without their partners. This was no time for dancing, with all the handsome young men departing for what was bound to be a very bloody battle.

  The army marched before first light. Picton had been hoping for a good night’s sleep after his arrival in Brussels the previous morning. Instead, he found himself in the park at four a.m., reviewing the men of his new command. They included the green-jacketed troops of the Rifle Brigade and kilted Scotsmen from the Gordon Highlanders. Some of the Gordons had given a display of Highland dancing at the ball only a few hours previously.

  The troops stopped for breakfast at the small village of Waterloo, and then resumed their march south. Wellington rode east to find the Prussian army and confer with Marshal Blücher, their commander. The two generals had a look at the French through their telescopes and were rewarded with the sight of Napoleon, clearly identifiable by his hat, who appeared to be looking back at them.

  Picton continued to the crossroads at Quatre Bras. A very confused battle occupied the rest of the day as both sides brought up reinforcements and struggled to win the road. The French advance was eventually halted, but not before Picton had been wounded in the hip by a burst of grapeshot that also broke two ribs and probably damaged his internal organs as well.

  He was in great pain as the army camped on the battlefield for the night. His servant wanted him to get medical help, but Picton wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘No one must know,’ he told the man. ‘Just bind me up and don’t say a word to anyone. Nobody must know that I’ve been hit.’

  Wellington ordered a withdrawal towards Waterloo next morning. The Duke proposed to stand his army at the crossroads south of the village and prevent the French from advancing any further into Belgium. The position seemed indefensible to Picton when he examined it, but Wellington had previously reconnoitred the ground and was more sanguine.

  ‘The French will have to advance up the slope to attack us,’ he pointed out. ‘They won’t even be able to see our troops until they arrive at the top.’

  ‘What about the forest behind? An army should never have its back to a thick forest.’

  ‘There’s very little undergrowth. The troops will be able to slip through it like rain through a grate, if they have to.’

  Picton slept badly that night. He was in more pain than ever as his servant helped him dress next morning. He wore civilian clothes for the coming battle: a low-crowned beaver hat and a
blue coat so shabby that some officers mistook him for a sightseer from Brussels rather than a British general. But there was no mistaking Picton’s resolution as he formed his troops up just east of the crossroads, ready for the French attack when it came.

  The ground was muddy after a night of heavy rain. Napoleon allowed time for it to dry out before ordering his artillery to open fire. Riding a white horse, he showed himself to his troops first, acknowledging their cheers amid a great roll of drums and fanfare of trumpets as the French nerved themselves for the fight. The British and their allies watched in stony silence from the ridge above.

  The battle of Waterloo began at 11:30 in the morning and lasted furiously for the rest of the day. Napoleon’s first thrust was to the west, the other side of the road from Picton and his troops. It wasn’t until about two in the afternoon that Napoleon gave the order for the main body of infantry to advance straight up the road towards Brussels. Eighteen thousand men stepped forward at once.

  As Napoleon had intended, they looked terrifying as they came up the slope. Their ranks were twenty-seven deep in places. They were all carrying muskets with a bayonet on the end. Their colours were flying and their drummer boys were beating out the pas de charge at a frenzied pace. It seemed that nothing could stop the mighty juggernaut as it reached the British lines at length and prepared to fall on its enemies.

  Napoleon had often used the tactic before. The aim was to frighten the enemy into turning tail and running for their lives before the great phalanx had even arrived. Napoleon’s generals, the ones who had fought in the Peninsula, had advised him that the tactic would never work against the British. They had warned him repeatedly that the British wouldn’t turn tail and run, as others did. The British would stand and fight instead.

  Napoleon had ignored their advice, but the generals were right. The British troops stood their ground as the French arrived. Shoulder to shoulder, in ranks only two or three men deep, they opened fire as soon as the French were within range. The target was so enormous that they could hardly miss.