“I flatter myself that I shall, milady, should Our Lord spare me time to do so.”
“Your stepson is waiting to speak with you.”
That brought Nelson right down to earth and broke the train of conversation, which seemed to imbue every word said with two meanings. Realising he was standing too close to Emma Hamilton he stepped back a fraction then turned to face Josiah, noticing that his stepson was not the only one watching their exchange with interest. Lady Hamilton’s mother was looking at him, a quite singular expression on her face.
“Mr Berry’s compliments, sir, he asks me to inform you the cutter is approaching at speed, flying a signal to say that the enemy is in sight.”
Everyone who had ever served with Horatio Nelson was aware of his absolute decisiveness, a speed of reaction to an event that could sometimes be said to border on the irrational. Most praised it and few damned it. Right now both would have been nonplussed at his reaction. Nelson was looking at his deck, covered in food, wine and guests of the highest station possible. The threat, whatever it was, lay outside any immediate assessment. The pace at which the cutter was approaching probably had more to do with the commanding midshipman’s desire to impress his captain than anything requiring panicked response; an enemy close enough to be a threat would be visible from his own tops.
“Tell Mr Berry we will be putting to sea at once. A party to clear the deck while he assembles the men to weigh.” He spun round to Lady Hamilton. “Forgive me, milady, but I must request that everyone goes ashore.”
“You speak of the King and Queen of Naples, Captain.”
“I have a duty to them, I acknowledge. But that includes defending their kingdom as well as my responsibilities as a serving officer of my own sovereign. I fear I must insist.”
“Then I suggest you inform the King of this.”
“I shall, if you will oblige me by passing on what I say to Sir William.”
Emma was forced to observe, as she watched the decks clear into the waiting boats, that if there was one thing the Neapolitans were good at it was panic. King Ferdinand, apprised of what might be in the offing, showed no pique at being unceremoniously ejected from the ship. Indeed, he led the charge, getting away just before the cutter hooked on and a message was passed to the quarterdeck that a French man-o’-war convoying three merchant ships had been sighted to the west of Capri.
No reassurance that the threat wasn’t imminent had any bearing on that hysteria, and the sailors who had so courteously helped them aboard now found themselves required to be quite firm about the way the guests departed. The other visitors, English, émigré French, Germans, and Austrians, were more stoical, moving to the poop as they were directed by members of the crew, busy striking everything off the deck. There was a degree of admiration for the sheer efficiency of a ship’s company who could steal the food on the table while carrying it below at speed. What could not be transported was tossed into the Bay of Naples.
Eventually the noisy locals were gone, and the remaining guests were led down to the maindeck, Sir William and his wife bringing up the rear, Horatio Nelson stopping them to allow the gangway to clear. Mary Cadogan took the maid by the arm and moved her away from the conversation.
“Sir William, I apologise to you and your wife. I ask you to convey my proper regrets to His Majesty. My cutter, which was placed out as a screen to the west, has been told there is a French ship-of-the-line in the offing.”
“A threat to Naples?”
“A threat to shipping, our own and those of the Two Sicilies. My duty demands that I seek to engage and destroy her and that must take precedence over all other considerations.”
Emma wondered where that softness had gone. However, what had replaced it was just as telling, an air of command, the impression of a mind in control of what it observed. Captain Horatio Nelson was the only person, apart from themselves and a midshipman by his side, who was standing still. Everwhere else was movement as men rushed to obey a stream of commands from the Captain’s inferior officers. Yet for all the seeming disorder it was far from that, this evidenced by the quiet way in which Nelson himself imposed his presence.
“I would ask you to care for those men I have left ashore, Sir William.”
“Leaving them behind will render you desperately short-handed.”
“I have enough to tackle a single Frenchman, Sir William, even if he outguns me. Look about you, sir, at these fellows I have the good fortune to command.” Nelson smiled then, which to Emma made his face look radiant. “Why, if this Frenchman could just gaze upon them he would strike before I opened my gunports.”
“They are a fine set of men, I agree,” Emma said.
“Lady Hamilton, when we beat our enemies it is not men in blue coats who win the battle, it is these fellows you see now going about their tasks. All their officers do is get them to the right place.”
“Goodbye, Captain Nelson,” said Sir William. “I wish you a speedy return to us, and good fortune attend you until then.”
Nelson raised his hat to salute the Ambassador and his wife, who curtsied in response, saying, “A happy return.”
Agamemnon was hauled over her anchor and plucking it out of the sea before the ambassadorial felucca had got more than half a cable’s length away from the warship’s side. Aloft, the rigging was full of men loosing sails and the Hamiltons could just see Horatio Nelson, who had come to the leeward side of the quarterdeck.
“What a strange man, husband,” said Emma.
“An admirable one, my dear, who does not, it seems, worry about offending kings.” The ship heeled slightly as the wind took the now tautened sails. The great rudder was hard round to sweep it on a course that would take it out to sea. “Something worthy of praise, I think.”
Emma was looking at the single figure on the quarterdeck, diminishing by the second, when she replied, “I certainly have nothing but admiration for Captain Nelson.”
The object of her observation was looking at the gaily decorated felucca, wondering if his desire to get so hurriedly to sea was the prospect of a battle. Or was it to save him from making a complete fool of himself?
HMS Agamemnon, 18th September, at sea
My dear Sir William,
You will, I’m sure, already have heard that I missed my Frenchman, which makes the nature of my departure from the Bay of Naples all the more indefensible. I plead duty, which I am sure you will understand, and that you will convey to Their Sicilian Majesties the assurance that Nelson stands ready to defend their country to the dying breath.
My compliments and deepest thanks to your dear lady wife, who has entranced every man aboard my ship, not least my stepson, Josiah. We all look forward to a happy return to the warmth of your hospitality.
I am yours,
Horatio Nelson (Capt)
Chapter Seventeen
1797
HORATIO NELSON couldn’t stay in his cabin even if his dignity as a commodore demanded that he do so: he needed to be on deck, even if in the thick haze there was little to see but half the ships of his own squadron. HMS Captain ploughed through the grey Atlantic waters. His heart was pounding in his breast, blood racing, none of which altered the tactical situation in the slightest. Somewhere out ahead was HMS Victory, flagship of Admiral Sir John Jervis. Beyond Victory, between him and the southern tip of Portugal, also hidden from view, lay the combined fleets of Spain, so recently an ally against France, now as much of an enemy.
“Mr Hoste, be so good as to join me.”
The midshipman hurried over to join him on the windward side of the quarterdeck as he paced up and down, his heels beating a heavy tattoo on the planking. The prospect of action always excited Nelson. Prone to recurring bouts of malaria, nothing banished ill-health like the sound and fury of battle. In the four years since he had sailed to war he could think of no officer who had been as active as himself: single-ship actions, cutting-out expeditions, the siege of Bastia, and then Calvi, which had cost him clear sight in one eye but had secu
red Corsica for the natives. To that he could add diplomatic missions, sea chases, and storms that had seen good old Agamemnon so reduced that she had had to be sent home for a refit.
Yet for all the success of the Royal Navy, France had been triumphant everywhere on land. Bonaparte, unheard of before Toulon, was now a national hero, his armies carrying all before them in Savoy and Italy until the states who had actively opposed the Revolution sued for peace. But the seas were British, Nelson able to sail where he wished, to support and harry the enemy, to hold Corsica and Elba, and keep a promise to protect Naples.
He was hardly aware that he was talking, using Hoste, whom he counted as his favourite among the mids, as a sounding board to relieve his inner tensions. “The defection of Spain altered everything. Combine the French and Spanish fleets, then place them in the English Channel, and the whole fate of Britain hangs in the balance. It would be the Armada all over again, with no guarantee of the result. That, Mr Hoste, is why the Mediterranean had to be abandoned, even Naples, to counter such a threat.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“You do understand all this, don’t you?”
The boy’s “yes sir” carried a fair measure of doubt, as did his large dark brown eyes. He gazed at Nelson as if he was of another species, evidence that such patient explanation had only gone so far in clarification. Hoste, like many others, was in awe of him, and while that often had a pleasant feel, it also served to underline for Nelson the increased distance that now lay between him and his shipmates.
That lack of contact he had disliked, as a captain, was even greater now. Ralph Millar had been made post, but was serving with him as the Captain of his flagship, seeing to the day-to-day running of the ship, leaving Nelson free to oversee the rear section of the fleet, an admiral’s command entrusted to him. Ralph Millar undertook the midshipmen’s lessons now; it was he who took divine service and the divisional inspection. Commodore Nelson attended, of course, but the service over he retired to his cabin. If he wanted company he had to do what he had just done with Hoste and ask for it.
“This could be the most important day of both our lives, young fellow.”
Nelson could see the boy didn’t comprehend that; didn’t know that for all the success his commodore had enjoyed nothing could compare with what was possible now. All his naval life he had yearned to take part in a successful fleet action, the naval might of one nation pitted against another. It was why he had gone to the Caribbean in Albemarle, hopes dashed when the French declined to oblige a nation that had already beaten them in those very waters. He nearly had one with Admiral Hotham, the fool who had succeeded Hood, only to find the enemy taking action to avoid an engagement.
Single-ship combats were all very well, and good for a long report in the Naval Chronicle, but to take part in a successful fleet action elevated a naval officer to the pinnacle of his profession. Distinguish himself, and that plaque he so craved in Westminster Abbey, next to James Wolfe, his hero, would be possible. Lose? To Nelson the possibility did not exist. The possibility of death however, reminded him that he had yet to write a final letter to his wife, Fanny, and compose a will.
Back in his cabin he picked at his solitary dinner, served by Tom Allen, the servant who had taken over from Lepée. Allen was silent where Lepée had been vocal, sober where he had been drunk, Norfolk bovine instead of London sharp. But he missed Lepée, and would have kept him on if he had not become intolerable. It wasn’t so much inebriation that had done for him but his increasingly loose tongue.
Servants were supposed to keep their master’s secrets not trumpet them. Lepée, in his cups, had started referring publicly to a dalliance Nelson had enjoyed with Carlotta d’Ambrosio, a Genoese opera singer, not just to his fellow crew members but even at dinners thrown for important guests. Drunk, his voice would rumble on, and what should have been thoughts instead turned to ranting monologue. The time had come for him to depart, not to the lower deck, as feared, but with a discharge from the Navy. He granted Frank Lepée a stipend that would keep him from the gutter and, more importantly, since its continuance was based on silence, keep his mouth shut.
Nelson was back on deck as soon as a sharp ear heard the first faint echo of a signal gun. The haze had cleared enough to allow his one good eye to range over the whole fleet, sailing in line ahead. It looked imposing, fourteen line-of-battleships, but he knew just how long these ships had been at sea; how much wear and tear was hidden by endlessly applied paint. More guns sounded below the horizon that could only come from a Spanish fleet on a working-up exercise that saw no reason to hide itself from an inferior enemy.
Nelson knew from conferences held aboard Victory that the plan was to close with the Dons and take them on where they found them and in whatever strength, notwithstanding that they would certainly outnumber the British fleet. The Spanish flagship alone, Santissima Trinidad, with four decks, mounted 136 cannon and Don José de Córdoba, the Spanish Admiral, had half a dozen ships carrying 112 guns plus a potential fleet strength of over thirty capital ships. To set against that Admiral Sir John Jervis had fourteen: two 100-gunners, two 98s and two 80s, plus eight 74s.
The afternoon wore on, signal guns booming out to the south, with the wind shifting to blow in from the open sea to westward. Frigates shadowing the Dons informed Jervis that they’d turned for home, on course for Cadiz, their premier Atlantic naval port, halfway between Portugal and Gibraltar. The flags ran up Victory’s yards to order the fleet to increase sail. Sir John wanted to be in a position at dawn to bear down on them should the wind favour him.
Aboard every ship they dined that night in full anticipation of a battle on the morrow, 14 February. Wills and last testaments were updated. Final letters to loved ones composed, promises extracted and exchanged so that whatever fate befell the individual someone would see to his effects and his responsibilities. Nelson had written to his wife and his family, father, brothers, sisters, and uncles.
He also penned a letter to Naples, to Sir William and Lady Hamilton, with whom he had enjoyed a lively correspondence these last four years. He assured them that battle was imminent, of his fidelity to their mutual friendship and reiterated the Navy’s determination to return to the Mediterranean as soon as the business was done. As he did so, the image of Lady Hamilton filled his mind: those auburn tresses, green eyes, and lively animated face faded through a pang of guilt into that of his wife.
Had Fanny, in the way her husband had praised Sir William’s wife in his letters, discerned the attraction he had felt? He had wrapped his own fascination in kind words regarding her treatment of Josiah. Would that make the mother in her jealous? It was a truism that praising people was as dangerous a game as damning them. Had Josiah seen the attraction? Though he had never mentioned that Genoese opera singer, his stepson must have known about her. Could he be trusted to remain silent? For that matter could Lepée? He went to his cot still gnawing on such concerns, lying in it, swinging softly, well aware that the following night it might not be his bed but his coffin. His favourite expressions, repeated over and over again, served to still the anxiety in his breast.
“Death, damnation, or Westminster Abbey.”
“Twenty-seven of the line, sir,” called the lookout, who was above the mist and could see the enemy sailing on a parallel course, “and ten frigates.”
“Nearly double our number,” said Ralph Millar, the twang of his Yankee accent evident.
“I’m sure our admiral will not shy away from that,” Nelson insisted.
In every meeting he had had with Sir John Jervis, Nelson had found him full of fight, dancing around in a way that belied his 62 years. Sir John was a scrapper by nature, an energetic little man with the face of a pug terrier and no tolerance whatsoever for slacking, inefficiency, or the complaints of sailors about their lot. Unmarried, he was a martinet in the article of discipline, irascible, poor company at a dinner table, and inclined to rudeness if given an opportunity to rebut an ill-placed remark.
The Spaniard Grand Fleet had sailed on the wind overnight, a westerly breeze that was waning by the hour. When they spotted the British fleet bearing down on them they were some 25 miles west of the Portuguese headland at Cape St Vincent, and it was obvious by the untidy nature of their reaction that they had been taken by surprise. But they were clearly inclined to offer battle, holding on a course south of the British fleet, their bowsprits facing east and home, seeking no increase in speed, inviting Sir John to make the next move.
But that was based on the assumption that Sir John would attempt to get alongside his enemy on a parallel course, matching them in speed and course to engage in a gunnery duel. Given that Sir John would have to sail south-west in line, then bear up to the east on a converging course that would overhaul them, the Spanish Admiral felt he had ample time to prepare his fleet to receive the outnumbered and outgunned British.
Two things spoiled Don Córdoba’s confident assumption. The first was the inability of the Spanish captains to form proper line. Their ships were bunched into two untidy squadrons; the leading group of nine vessels had got well ahead, leaving a gap astern of them of several miles. The main section of the fleet was also bunched in such a way that many of its guns would struggle to bear on an enemy in proper formation. Attempts by the Spanish captains to form a line were not going well.
The second wrong assumption was a belief that no British admiral would disobey the Fighting Instructions, which dictated the tactics the Spaniards anticipated. But Sir John Jervis did, on a course due south that didn’t deviate. He held back, timing his approach to let the lead Spanish division cross his bows. As soon as that happened Sir John reacted.
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