Nelson: Britannia's God of War

by Andrew Lambert

  The excitement he attracted was not the result of dazzling social accomplishments: far from the sea and ships, he seemed to have little to say, and he demonstrated no interest in art, music, literature, architecture or scenery. Though the weather was an abiding obsession, he passed mountains and medieval cities with indifference. Utterly dedicated to his profession, he had neither time nor education for culture. His reading was dominated by professional matters, coastal pilots,65 naval biographies, texts on shipbuilding and charts, combined with the Bible, Shakespeare, recent English writers and the reviews. The classical world of Sir William, Lord Minto and other statesmen was a closed book; his linguistic attainments never stretched beyond a competence in French.

  Despite the fame he attracted on the Continent, Nelson would have been anxious to discover how his countrymen would receive him, and concerned that the passage of time between his heroic achievements and his homecoming would dull the public’s enthusiasm. He need not have worried. The collapse of the Second Coalition and the resurgence of the invasion threat made Nelson’s return timely. The nation’s need for a hero had grown, and no one else could challenge his centrality in the national consciousness.

  When he landed at Great Yarmouth on 6 November, he was overwhelmed by the public response. He immediately wrote to the Admiralty reporting his arrival, and his fitness for service. He was less attentive to Fanny’s needs: not only did he forget that had written for her to meet him in London, but he failed to open the letters she left at Yarmouth. Swept up in local celebrations, he left town and headed for Round Wood, where he may have hoped to greet and abandon Fanny, before pressing on for London with the Hamiltons to resume his career, and his chosen mode of life. Instead they finally met in London, and the break-up of the marriage took place in public, at the Admiralty and the opera. The tactical finesse, strategic forethought and careful planning that were the hallmark of Nelson at war were nowhere to be seen. In private matters he procrastinated, though he ultimately showed his decisive qualities when he refused to succumb to social pressure and go back to his wife. To have done so would have been feeble, and utterly incompatible with the confidence he showed in following his own judgment and rejecting superior authority in 1799. It was, if not ‘heroic’, certainly decisive and consistent.66

  It may have been the crowd’s adulation that brought him to a decision about the rest of his life. He was the hero, and he was entitled tolive as he chose, not to submit to the dictates of convention. Like many another great man, he could set his wife aside, with a decent settlement, and take up with his new ‘wife’, soon to be the mother of his child. It is inconceivable that he could ever have settled into the parochial trifles of Round Wood, and the slight world that Fanny occupied. His life was a public one, and he needed the company of public figures, naval officers, statesmen, diplomats – and Emma, the confidante of a Queen. Though Fanny had done nothing wrong, she was not a fit consort for a hero, and she was unable to bear his children. The problem was that Fanny did not see this, and persisted with her attempts to win him back. This was profoundly embarrassing for Nelson, and made the whole affair much more public than it might otherwise have been.

  It has been customary to see the events of 1798–9 as a watershed, a period during which Nelson slipped away from the upright conventional morality of his church and his age. This interpretation is a serious mistake. Nelson was a man of the eighteenth century, who took the same relaxed view as most of his contemporaries. A better context for Nelson’s actions can be found in the irregular lifestyles of his family. Though his father was a clergyman, his elder brother Maurice lived with a woman who was not his wife, while his uncle William Suckling had a family of ‘natural’ children. Nelson’s behaviour, in short, was scarcely unusual by the standards of his age; it was only his fame, and the problems that his behaviour caused hagiographers writing in the stricter moral climate of the Victorian era, that made the affair with Emma so notorious.

  Nelson arrived home just as his country had need of him. Within weeks, crushing defeat at the battle of Hohenlinden would drive Austria out of the war, and with Russia already disengaged, Britain once again stood alone. He was anxious to serve immediately, aware that St Vincent had requested him for the Channel fleet.67 Nor did Nelson waste any time calling on Spencer and his Admiralty Board. Lord Keith, recipient of so many letters about Nelson’s ill-health, may have been surprised by Admiral Young’s report of 10 November: ‘He seems to have recovered perfectly from his fatigues and to be very well. He will immediately hoist his flag in the Channel Fleet.’68 Spencer knew the political value of the hero. He had promised that Nelson would rejoin St Vincent and Troubridge in the ‘Mediterraneanised’ Channel fleet: ‘it gave me very great satisfaction to find that he had no sooner set his feet in it than he applied in the most pressing manner for service; and expressed the strongest wish to serve under your Lordship’s command.’ St Vincent, meanwhile, though glad to have Nelson join his flag, sounded a warning note: ‘he will tire of being attached to a great fleet, and want to be carrying on a predatory war (which is his metier) on a coast that he is entirely ignorant of, having never served in those seas.’69

  In preparation for Nelson’s return, Spencer sent Hardy to Plymouth to take the crew of HMS Namur into the San Josef. Spencer thought it was ‘Nelson’s peculiar right’ to hoist his flag on this ship. ‘I have at the same time told him that if his service should be required in a smaller ship he will of course not think himself ill-treated by being removed to one.’70 The ship would of course be modified to meet Nelson’s requirements.71 That the stern of this majestic vessel featured on his coat of arms gave her a peculiar significance.

  Meanwhile, Nelson had a busy social schedule in London: everywhere he went his coach was mobbed. On 10 November he spoke at a Mansion House dinner in his honour and thanked the Lord Mayor and the City for a two-hundred-guinea sword. The King was less enthusiastic, cutting him dead at a royal levee, an insult that may have been occasioned by his Neapolitan decorations, or the campaign he and Sir William had started to have Emma received at Court. Fortunately such wounds were salved by further demonstrations of public adulation: on 20 November he was introduced into the House of Lords, and on 3 December he was the guest of honour at a dinner given by a grateful East India Company, with Henry Dundas among the Cabinet ministers and City worthies in attendance.72

  Such events reflected the fact that in the two years since his last visit to England Nelson had achieved a unique national status: his triumph at the Nile had raised him above all other admirals. It was in the character of an idealised romantic hero that he entered the popular consciousness. The country had long sought a deliverer, and now they had one he was followed everywhere.73 His image was enshrined in the portrait by Lemuel Abbott, who created a heroic, almost divine figure, although he was not sure what sort of god Nelson had become.74 Copies of his picture were produced for influential clients, while a print from Daniel Orme’s picture had been a runaway success even before the Nile; all this, plus the cheap engravings that started to circulate, made Nelson one of the most recognisable faces in Britain.75

  This Nelson mania was exploited in the work of the best political caricaturists of the day, notably James Gillray, whose memorable efforts linked the denigration of the Foxite Whigs (who were frustrated by Nelson’s success, as they had wanted peace with France) with the boosting of Nelson as the executor of Government policy. Gillray produced three wonderful images: ‘Nelson’s Victory’ simply showed the Opposition in suicidal despair; ‘The Extirpation of the Plagues of Egypt’ had the hero, one-armed, using a British oak cudgel to bludgeon the hostile crocodiles into submission. The two themes were integrated, meanwhile, in ‘John Bull taking a Luncheon’, which showed the corpulent embodiment of the country devouring ship-shape delicacies, while the great admirals, Nelson to the fore, competed to pile up more dishes. Outside the Whigs ran off, fearing they might be eaten.

  Gillray’s caricatures accurately reflect the pola
risation of political opinion over Nelson and his Neapolitan exploits. Pitt and his ministers consistently upheld the actions of their hero: on 3 December 1798, indeed, Pitt had used his Budget speech explicitly to link ‘the transcendent commander’ with his own policies, and the determination of the political and mercantile classes. By contrast, Charles James Fox’s Whigs and their press mouthpiece, the Morning Chronicle, accused him of bad faith, and pointed to the improper influence exerted by Emma.76 Later, when the hero returned, the same paper pointed to Emma’s condition, while caricaturist George Cruickshank was quick to find an earthy humour in their relationship. Criticism of Nelson mainly came from the Opposition in Parliament, however; for the country as a whole, the element of political opportunism in these attacks was clear, and there were in any case more important issues to deal with than Nelson’s private life and the internal difficulties of Naples. Later, when the immediate political context of these contemporary attacks on Nelson’s personal life and conduct at Naples was no longer obvious, they were misunderstood and treated as serious criticism, rather than political persiflage.

  *

  The years between the Nile and Trafalgar saw the construction of a new idea of ‘Britishness’: a political discourse that emphasised the social, ideological and imperial elements that distinguished Britain and her people from the tyranny, Jacobinism, militarism and chaos that had followed in the wake of the French revolution.77 The stability of this new ‘Britishness’ was founded not on an army but on the Navy, which enabled Britain to defy external threats, secured her trade, and provided the nation with its first and greatest hero. Nelson was the pre-eminent symbol of this new cultural identity, the first to bring together England, Wales, Scotland, and in part Ireland. For some writers and artists, Nelson was presented as a saviour, an almost Christ-like figure: one artist even represented him on a tree, surrounded by his followers.78 With Wolfe as John the Baptist, the older generation of admirals as prophets, and a ‘Band of Brothers’ as disciples, he had come to redeem his people through his own death. This powerful imagery explains why Nelson was a troubling figure for many in the Church of England despite his own orthodox religious beliefs.

  By the time of his return from the Nile, Nelson was at the heart of the national effort, almost synonymous with this new notion of militant Britishness. This link was powerfully embodied on 31 December 1800, when Nelson and Hood conducted the King to his throne in the House of Lords, from where he delivered his speech on the opening of Parliament, with strong references to the conduct of Russia in seizing British merchant ships. In the New Year’s Day promotion that followed, Nelson became a Vice Admiral of the Blue.79 If Britain was going to survive the next year she would need someone to break the encircling grip of the entire continent. Britain, without a worthwhile ally, faced France and Spain in war, while Russia, Prussia, Sweden and Denmark were only waiting to extract crippling concessions that would destroy her strategy. Nelson’s public role was obvious and vital; unfortunately, his private life still continued to dominate everyone’s attention.80

  It was an indication of how far his marriage had collapsed that Nelson spent Christmas with the Hamiltons at Fonthill, the fantasy Abbey of William Beckford, Sir William’s fabulously wealthy, but unstable nephew. Beckford was also a social outcast, whose homosexuality was common knowledge; he hoped to use Sir William’s poverty to secure social status, by making him a loan in return for being named as his heir. Amid such exotic company, Nelson met Benjamin West, President of the Royal Academy, history painter to the King, and creator of the epochal Death of Wolfe, which had redefined the art of death and the nobility of service for Nelson’s generation. Here was a subject on which Nelson had strong views. The conversation began with Nelson confessing that he was no connoisseur of art:

  But he said, turning to West, ‘there is one picture whose power I do feel. I never pass a print shop where your “Death of Wolfe” is in the window, without being stopped by it.’ West of course made his acknowledgements, and Nelson went on to ask why he had painted no more like it. ‘Because, my lord, there are no more subjects.’ ‘Damn it,’ said the sailor, ‘I didn’t think of that,’ and asked him to take a glass of champagne. ‘But, my lord, I fear your intrepidity will yet furnish me such another scene; and if it should, I shall certainly avail myself of it.’ ‘Will you?’ replied Nelson, pouring out bumpers, and touching his glass violently against West’s – ‘will you, Mr West. Then I shall hope that I shall die in the next battle.’ He sailed a few days after and the result was on the canvas before us.81

  This story was told many years later to a young American artist, by which time Nelson was dead, and West had attempted his death more than once. However, Nelson’s fascination with Wolfe suggests the story contains a strong core of truth. He had served with men like Dalling and Jervis who were on the Quebec expedition with Wolfe, while that name and the example of heroic death had occupied a powerful place in his mental world picture from childhood. He was, at this time, profoundly depressed by his personal circumstances, and may well have seen death in battle – a death that would confirm his legendary status in perpetuity – as preferable to living with Fanny. Over the next two weeks he sat for at least eight artists, as if to ensure that his features were captured for posterity, and that his death would not go unnoticed. 82 They included a portrait for the City of Norwich by Sir William Beechey, one by John Hoppner for the Prince of Wales and a bust by Mrs Darner for the City of London. Beechey caught something of the quiet self-confidence that underpinned the naval leader, and perhaps reflected the decision he had made to end his marriage.

  It is often said that Nelson’s relationship with Emma, and the end of his marriage, revealed that while a genius afloat, he was a child ashore. The basic argument is Minto’s, and it says more about Minto than it does about Nelson. Minto envied Emma’s relationship with his hero, and Nelson his courage in setting aside his wife for someone altogether more interesting. The apparent schizophrenia set up by Minto absolves his biographers of the need to account for actions in public and private that appear contradictory. It would be more appropriate to see the private Nelson as a late developer. Owing to the emotional legacy of his childhood, his early entry into naval life, and long years afloat, he missed out on the social phases of his adolescence: he left home aged twelve, and came back at twenty-one – a captain, and half-dead. Nor, on the evidence of his fumbling attempts at courtship, did he pick up much more understanding before he married.

  Away from the sea, he sought a simple life, an idealised version of the home he had known before his mother died. This is why he clung on to his brother William, a last link with his childhood. But Nelson did not sleep under his own roof until he was past forty, by which time it was too late for him to become a fully rounded social being like his contemporaries. Even when he had secured the quiet life ashore he craved, he never stopped being the admiral, and went back to sea whenever the duty bell rang. His need for public applause also demonstrated his arrested development; it was a child-like attribute that he never lost, though he had turned it to his own advantage by the end of his life.

  In truth, examining Nelson’s private life courts disappointment; it is a mistake to expect heroes to be heroic in every aspect of their existence. Emma argued that theirs was a great romance, and her version still attracts those who believe Nelson incapable of anything small. In truth his private life was small, short and trifling – worthy of note only because he did not trouble to abide by convention, and used his celebrity to escape the consequences of a foolish and immature decision fifteen years earlier. This decision did at least demonstrate some of his best qualities: by refusing to bow to social pressure and return to conventional marriage with his dull wife, he showed the same calm, decisive resolve that he displayed on more famous occasions. However, this does not mean that he was in the grip of a grand passion: the Nelson-Emma ‘love story’ is a posthumous creation, much embellished by two centuries fascinated by the human side of celebrity.
In reality the pair spent very little time together, and Nelson no more thought of giving up his post for her than he had for Fanny.

  It was a strong relationship, however, and its power lay in their respective talents and origins. Both had made their way to the top on merit, exploiting every opportunity nature or nurture could provide. Nelson had a family leg up on to the Navy List; Emma’s looks opened doors, and not just to bedrooms. They were fascinating outsiders, and made no attempt to hide the fact, or to deny their relationship. They were wise not to make a parade of the affection until 1805, by which time no one was unaware, or at all bothered. By this time, Nelson had secured his domestic ease, only to lose it forever. But his road to a simple retired life opened in January 1801.

  The Christmas holiday – nine days out of London with Emma and Sir William – gave Nelson time to think about his personal circumstances, free from constant demands for appearances, dinners and crowds. Using the same logic he applied to his professional life, he could weigh up his options, plan out his operations, and strike at the perfect moment. With his plan of campaign settled he was ready to face the world. But his return to London was saddened by news that old William Locker had died on Boxing Day, before he had visited Greenwich. On 3 January Nelson followed his mentor to the grave, and wondered if it would not have been better had it been his own. Over the next ten days he arranged to recover his papers from Fanny, dispose of the dreadful house at Round Wood, and arrange the financial details of the separation. He assigned Fanny £2,000 a year, his Nile reward. This was a nice touch: the Nile had made him the national hero – surely it would buy him the personal happiness he craved? He would not be the first, or last, husband to abandon his wife after a change in his fortunes. He could only afford the gesture because the pension for his wounds was almost £1,000, double his half-pay as a vice admiral.