Dolphin sent a pinnace into Portsmouth with despatches, then touched at the Downs to receive orders and return mail. It was there that Nelson heard the news that his uncle had been appointed to the office of Comptroller of the Navy Board, one of the most powerful positions to which a commissioned sailor could aspire. Ordered ashore at Deal, he was to join Captain Robinson with all despatch as acting fourth lieutenant aboard HMS Worcester at Portsmouth.
Setting foot ashore in England once more, on the steep shingle of Deal beach, Horatio Nelson was no longer what he had once been in the Indian Ocean, a shadow of his former self. But the disease had marked him in another way: there was an air about him, a look in the eye of a man who was sure of his course in life.
To be cosseted as an invalid had a certain natural ring to it. But to receive equal attention when in good health was a surprise. One-legged Captain Mark Robinson of HMS Worcester greeted Nelson like a visiting dignitary rather than a midshipman yet to pass his lieutenant’s exams. The letters Nelson brought were taken kindly and read without delay. Enthusiasm shone out of the Captain’s knobbly face, which was set off by long whiskers and a pair of eyebrows bushy enough to hide half his forehead. He had hardly had time to stow his dunnage before Robinson yelled for his coxswain and whisked him off in his own barge to meet his patron, Admiral Sir James Douglas.
A sense of normality came with the next dawn, as Nelson set about his duties, victualling the ship for convoy duty to Gibraltar, craning livestock aboard – no easy task in the case of cows and bullocks, which might be dangerous if allowed to get loose. The water hoy was alongside pumping full barrel after barrel in the holds while other hands were set to hump all manner of provender up the long sloping gangplank.
Later, he was summoned once more to the great cabin to be told that he was to be taken to dinner with the Mayor of Portsmouth. The reason for the invitation was obvious, now that he was the Comptroller’s nephew. By the nature of his office his uncle Maurice would assume the parliamentary seat of the town when it became vacant. Ignoring the relative of such a powerful individual was poor policy.
It was a long time since Nelson had been treated as a child, but he had never been afforded full adult status. He found the dinner trying because of that one fact. He was not left, as most men of his rank would have been, to eat his food and respond politely to the odd remark designed to keep him in the conversation. Both the mayor and Captain Robinson consulted him for an opinion on all manner of topics. The state of the Navy was high on the agenda, a discussion of ships building and those close to being broken up, and especially the nature of Spithead as the main naval base for the future.
The mayor insisted that France was the enemy and a prevailing westerly wind would force the southernmost naval base into pre-eminence, that to sink more money into the Medway ports, Woolwich, Rochester, Sheerness or Chatham, to face the Dutch was foolish. This was a message he wished passed on to Nelson’s uncle, the man who ran all of the Navy’s dockyards, with a plea that any available funds should come to his town.
Matters took a less favourable turn when they alighted on the actions of the American colonists in refusing to agree to be taxed, the mayor insisting that they were ‘Damned rebels, sir, half of them of criminal stock.’
‘I believe the problem hangs on representation, sir,’ said Nelson.
The mayor choked and would have added a crushing rebuttal if he hadn’t known the connections of the youngster who had made the remark. But he was not to be overborne and the next few minutes were taken up by the natural dissenting sentiments of a Norfolk Whig set against the certainty of the mayor that such rebellion should be punished.
Robinson intervened and moved the pair to safer ground: the cost of poor relief falling on Portsmouth when sailor’s wives took up residence in the town. The dinner concluded in a sober but friendly mood, with the mayor pressing on his young dining companion an invitation to come ashore the next day and partake of his hospitality before the ship sailed.
When the Worcester raised Gibraltar, Nelson had another example of the status granted him by his relationship to his uncle. Captain Robinson sent him ashore with the letters and despatches. Naturally these included one that alluded to Nelson’s connections so he found himself once more in receipt of invitations that bore little relation to his station. By the time he returned from his first voyage, he was laden with messages, both written and verbal, for his uncle Suckling.
But the news he received on his return was better: dates had been set early in the following spring for his examination for a commission, to be chaired by his uncle and served by a committee of officers Captain Suckling knew and trusted. Over the forthcoming winter the Gibraltar voyages would complete his sea time, and he was abjured to set his mind to his manuals in the intervening period so that he could answer the questions the panel of captains would pose.
When the day came, it was a nervous and fragile looking Midshipman Nelson who presented himself at the offices of the Navy Board. The high-ceilinged room was forbidding in the way that it echoed the voices of those asking the questions, four unsmiling captains who had already reduced a drove of aspirants to weak-kneed jelly. His uncle, occupying the central seat of honour, showed no sign of recognition. He examined the logs as if the man before him was a stranger, books from Carcass, Raisonable, Triumph, Seahorse and Worcester that proved the candidate had the requisite six years’ sea time.
No one questioned the figure inscribed in the muster roll on which he had first been entered that put him a good two years above his real age. But they did test his competence as a seaman, firing questions at him like a rolling barrage. As he answered his nervousness eased, but he was still unsure if the examiners saw before them an officer whose competence could never be in dispute, a man who had a right to a lieutenant’s rank. The grim faces never relaxed as they conferred in hushed tones, even when Maurice Suckling rose to his feet.
Nelson wasn’t privy to what was coming, and the dull sensation in the pit of his stomach, the fear that he was going to fail, was not assuaged by the avuncular smile. Suddenly the room took on a frightening air, the echoes of voices from the plastered walls and bare floorboards threatening. To founder here would see his career stalled. Perhaps he would become like those midshipmen he had encountered too frequently, men past their prime, going nowhere and bitter because of it.
The reaction when his uncle introduced him as a relative was very strange, the way the examining officers expressed surprise seemed insincere. The view that Captain Suckling had not wished to see a relative unduly favoured was greeted with pronounced nodding that did nothing to convince the candidate that these gentlemen were not playacting.
But when called to attest to his obvious abilities the voices were honest enough, and slowly it dawned on Nelson that he was going to be passed for lieutenant. Fear turned to an almost uncontainable joy, and while he had to stop himself from leaping to his feet and shaking every hand in the room the whole examination was brought to a cheerful conclusion. Nelson walked out knowing his commission was a certainty, smiling into the worried faces of those who were slated to follow him.
The following morning he received orders to join a new ship, HMS Lowestoffe, captained by one William Locker.
Every King’s ship was a self-contained world, which applied just as much to Lowestoffe as it did to any other frigate. Joining a new vessel was a rite of passage endured by every commissioned officer and all the members of the wardroom had similar experience. On first acquaintance members of the wardroom were generally guarded, careful of what they said as much to protect themselves, as to avoid offending newcomers. But a shared profession, with ports, journeys and sometimes acquaintances in common, usually helped to break down the reserve.
Lieutenant Waddle, the premier, didn’t like Nelson from the moment he clapped eyes on him and he made no secret of the fact. There was no apparent reason for this other than a natural antipathy, which was troubling, especially since his relations with his
new commanding officer began well. Captain William Locker tried to be a friend to all his officers. Open, cheerful and more inclined to advise than criticise, he was a stocky red-faced man of thirty-six years, with a cheerful open countenance. He walked with a permanent limp, from a wound which still pained him, a pike thrust to his knee received boarding a French privateer off Alicante.
Coming from a naval family himself, and having married into another, the Captain was mired in the history of his profession. His hero was the late Admiral Hawke, though he was honest enough to admit to that man’s trying temperament: Hawke had been foul-mouthed, bellicose and intolerant. To Locker that counted for nothing when compared with his exemplary behaviour in the face of an enemy, a policy the Captain had committed himself to follow. Over dinner in a shore tavern he regaled his officers with the mass of opportunities that might come their way: he had just heard that his ship had been ordered to service in the Caribbean.
‘There are American privateers in those waters, as well as Frenchmen flying their colours. What we see, gentlemen, we will engage. And I give you this advice should we meet a Frenchie, which was the watchword of Lord Hawke himself: always lay a Frenchman close and you will beat him.’
His newly commissioned second lieutenant, who had been a glint in the parental eye when Locker had been wounded, could not hear enough about the heroic Hawke; Nelson encouraged the Captain in his historical ramblings, drinking in everything he had to say. There was no doubt that the older man was flattered by such unaffected attention. Waddle, of course, could not be brought to believe that such mutual esteem bore no relation to the position and influence of the young man’s connections, which lowered Nelson even further in his estimation.
Nelson didn’t boast of his relationship to the new Comptroller of the Navy Board, but it wasn’t surprising, in a small world, that the first lieutenant soon found out. Waddle knew just how much power that office conferred on the holder. Though still only a captain, Maurice Suckling could look admirals square in the eye, since the power of his patronage was at least as great as theirs, and only marginally less than that of the First Lord himself. Such influence, dispensed wisely, would produce a positive response to any corresponding request.
It was two months before Nelson saw his uncle again. An enervating illness which had laid the Comptroller low precluded contact, even though Lowestoffe was being made ready for sea less than a mile from his office. Nelson joined him for dinner in his spacious accommodation, which alone gave ample evidence of both Maurice Suckling’s elevation, his power and his connections. No cramped cabin here but a vast chamber in the former Royal Palace at Greenwich, with huge windows that overlooked the river Thames.
Everything had the feel of real luxury, from the polished mahogany and sparkling brass fittings on the doors, to a gleaming table that could host a conference or dinner for fifty. The walls were hung with portraits of his predecessors, as well as scenes of great naval victories. Yet there was intimacy too, as they sat in a pair of twin satin settles on either side of a blazing fire, a liveried attendant discreetly just outside the circle of candlelight ready to see to their every need.
‘Sir James Douglas’s nephew will never make a sailor. He’s green around the gills at the sight of a stagnant pond. But I have been able to provide for him a position as assistant to the master attendant at Chatham dockyard. In time, naturally, he will succeed to the senior appointment.’
Since the post he had been offered as second lieutenant on Lowestoffe had been granted by that same Admiral Douglas, his uncle had no need to spell out the connection. Reciprocal influence was at work, as was so often the case in the Navy. Maurice Suckling went on to talk about what opportunities might occur on this new commission.
The commanding officer in Jamaica, Admiral Gaynor, was due to be relieved. There was a queue a mile long of admirals wishing to take over, there being no better place to be in a war than the West Indies. A hundred thousand pounds in prize money was not unknown in those waters for an active admiral with enterprising officers.
Nelson listened attentively, yet could not avoid noting that the ravages of recent fever were still in his uncle’s face, which had not filled out to the rounded healthy countenance that he remembered. Likewise his hair had lost its fine texture. But at least the eyes were still direct, piercing and without side.
‘Whoever gets the post, Horace, I will be here acting on your behalf. A new admiral going to a new overseas commission will have requirements, some of which I flatter myself I will be able to meet. Your task is to achieve a degree of prominence so that whatever recommendations I suggest will be gladly undertaken. In short, you must excel yourself, boy.’
It took no great leap of Nelson’s imagination to see himself fulfilling his uncle’s wildest hopes: victorious, standing on an enemy deck accepting a captain’s sword in surrender, a hero to the fleet. But when he spoke, he knew he had to sound modest and grateful. ‘I will do my very best, sir.’
‘I’m sure you will. But it’s not as easy as it sounds. Your new commander is a fine sailor who loves a fight. But I’ve seen men as good and even better than William Locker who have spent their whole service life without so much as a sniff of powder. Just pray that Lowestoffe puts you the way of a trifle of glory. Then, when the new admiral arrives he will have no difficulty in showing you preferment. Never forget, Horace, that whatever he decides, even three thousand miles away, will have to be confirmed here in London.’
‘I will pray to God for guidance on the voyage, Uncle.’
‘Just don’t get your head blown off,’ said Suckling, his voice gruff. ‘God knows, I’d miss you if you did.’
CHAPTER 18
Nelson never knew who informed the premier that the new Comptroller had chaired the body set to examine Midshipman Nelson, to ensure that he was competent to receive a lieutenant’s commission. And, despite the evidence of his own eyes as Nelson carried out his duties, Waddle rarely lost an opportunity to diminish Nelson by alluding to that fact, the implication that he had only passed because of his uncle’s presence.
And it was always allusion, never a direct insult. But, as the man who chaired every meal at the wardroom table, and who had the authority to control the subject of conversation if he so chose, Waddle never lacked opportunity. He took a savage pleasure in discussing it at their present mooring off Woolwich, so close to the office Captain Suckling occupied in the neighbouring parish of Greenwich.
‘The service stands in peril from the misuse of influence, gentlemen, do you not agree?’ Even if the sentiment was accurate the murmurs of assent were muted; too many people knew the target to be comfortable, but that was enough to encourage Waddle to continue. ‘At peace, it might make little difference, but in a time of war it is perilous indeed to go placing people in positions of authority merely because of their connections.’
With his pallid complexion, and smooth, moon-like face, the premier could never smile without causing unease, since what should have been an amiable gesture too often hinted at conceit. He was a competent, if uninspiring seaman who held the loyalty of his juniors through his office, not through personal affection. But he was not actively disliked. He could appear interested in everyone, and it was only when each member of the wardroom was asked, for the third time, the same question regarding background or past experience that they realised he rarely listened to their answers.
‘For it is in the heat of battle that the mettle of officers is tested,’ the premier added, ‘though you would scarce think so when you see the ease with which some of our number achieve their rank.’
‘I’m sure, when the time comes, we need only follow your example, sir.’
Waddle’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but he didn’t look at Nelson. Instead, his gaze ranged around the others present: the master, Mr Bootle, the purser, Abel Corman, Pryce the schoolmaster and finally the marine officer, Lieutenant Livingston. Not one met his gaze, suddenly more interested in their food than conversation.
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p; ‘What about that skirmish in the Indian Ocean, Nelson? That’s one treat you’ve yet to regale us with.’
‘It was a trifling affair, sir,’ Nelson answered, suddenly wary. Under normal circumstances he would have obliged happily, but with Waddle looking at him in that jaundiced way he suspected he was being drawn into a snare.
‘Come along, sir,’ said Waddle, leaning forward with an insincere smile. ‘No false modesty, if you please.’
All eyes were on Nelson now, eager to hear the details of any action, even if he had described it as trifling. Nothing excited a ship’s wardroom more than tales of a fight that resulted in the taking of prizes. That meant a money reward, which, to a profession with few wealthy men, was the stuff of every dream, waking or nocturnal. There was no alternative but to comply, and it was a requirement that he set the scene, with the names of ships, number of guns, plus the course and weather. Questions were posed, especially by Mr Bootle who knew Surridge, though all fell silent when it came to the capture.
‘So you didn’t actually board yourself?’ asked Waddle.
‘No, sir.’
‘I’m surprised, Mr Nelson, that you could resist it. Still, having been so newly appointed to your division you could hardly be expected to be sure of your duties.’
There was little he could say in response, having been put in his place by a man far more experienced at dinner table talk. The telling of such a tale required a degree of modesty anyway, if he wasn’t to sound boastful. And he had been below decks at the point of boarding, which robbed the conclusion of much of its impact.
‘A very creditable action, I’m sure,’ said Waddle, with another smile. Then he turned to the purser, the thin, pinch-faced Abel Corman. ‘You were a resident in Jamaica, Mr Corman, do tell us what we can expect when we arrive there.’
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