Tested by Fate

by David Donachie

  “He should have studied Nelson,” said Hoste, eyes alight with hero-worship. “When he did clear for action, he did so only on the seaward side.”

  When this was translated, Ferdinand looked confused. Capel was busy arranging model ships, ten or so in line with another eight bearing down on them, a cloth rolled up to represent the arc of Aboukir Bay. With his finger he showed Foley’s route, looking at the King to ensure he understood.

  “They fought well, the Frenchmen,” said Hoste. “There was no thought of surrender, and every one of our ships suffered great damage, Bellerophon particularly, she losing a full third of her complement as casualties. But they were out-gunned, out-manned, and outfought. Le Peuple Souverain cut her cable and ran aground; L’Orient, it appeared, had been painting and some of the residue of that caught fire. The rest, barring Guillaume Tell and Le Généraux, struck.”

  The destruction of Admiral de Brueys’ flagship had been heard ten miles away. Troubridge, so eager to enter the battle, had run his ship aground at the head of the bay. Later he said he thought that he had suffered some form of explosion below, so great was the force of the blast transmitted through the water. It transpired that the treasure of the Knights of St John, looted from Malta, with sixty ingots of gold to the value of £600,000, had gone to the bottom with her.

  “The cost?” asked Sir William. He did not mean in terms of money.

  “Some two hundred dead on our side, sir,” Capel replied, “with seven hundred wounded. The enemy losses were of the order of two thousand dead or missing.”

  “This will mean a peerage,” said Sir William. A servant entered to give the Ambassador a message. He smiled, looked at the two young officers, and said, “My wife seems quite recovered. She is in an open carriage at the gates and desires, if you have finished your report, that you join her.”

  Half in love with her already, both young men rushed to comply. They found her as Sir William had described, wearing on her head an embroidered turban that read “Nelson and Victory.” Emma Hamilton took them through the streets, singing patriotic songs, shouting that Britannia had triumphed and generally whipping up an already excited populace to a frenzy of celebration. She was aided by two young men who thought her a most remarkable creature, young men who spent as much time admiring her and thinking about bedding her as they did about the victory at the Nile.

  The arrival of the Vanguard in the Bay of Naples, under tow, part of the trickle of ships that made up Nelson’s victorious fleet, came as no surprise. Fishing boats, trading-vessels, lookouts on high points of the southern Italian coast had been searching for her topsails for weeks. The journey from the Straits of Messina to the Bay of Naples had been regal progress as ships altered course to hold some tenuous link to an English sailor who had saved Europe and had placed the most telling check for five years on that monster, the French Revolution.

  Hardy had been made post after the battle and had taken over as flag captain, while Berry had been sent home with the despatches announcing the victory, which would surely get him a knighthood. Despite his best endeavours, Thomas Hardy, big, bluff, red-faced, and a bit of a quarterdeck tyrant, couldn’t get his admiral to rest. Bandage over his bad eye, in constant pain from the wound it covered, letter after letter poured from Nelson’s pen, as he sent what frigates he could muster flying in all directions, promising, pleading, flattering or chastising, depending on who was the recipient. When not writing he was pacing the deck, thinking and planning, as if there were still a French menace afloat to chase, his good eye searching the horizon for the return of his messengers.

  Contact with ships from home brought out-of-date news, the despatch of the victory at the Nile yet to reach London. Fanny was pleased with a portrait by Lemuel Abbot, now finished, that he had sat for on his last leave; her son Josiah, previously praised, was for some reason in bad odour with St Vincent, and was to be sent to serve with his stepfather. That troubled him little, since hardly an officer breathing was not in trouble with the acerbic St Vincent. Davidson wrote, creating the usual pangs of jealousy when he mentioned his offspring. He had answers from friends and the Admiralty to the requests he had made for this person or that to be advanced; bills, pleas for intercession, enough to keep him occupied for a week, all of which would have to be replied to. And having discovered his secretary was useless—the man had fainted at the Nile—Nelson had dismissed him and undertaken the correspondence with the help of the parson, Mr Comyn.

  Nelson came on deck without his bandage as they opened the bay, hair swept forward to cover the angry scar. He began pointing out the landmarks to a pair of the younger midshipmen, part of a group who never ceased to trail him, as if by touching his hem they could pick up an ounce of glory. He named the two great castles, Dell’ovo and Nuovo, that dominated the approaches, detailing the armament that made it a dangerous place to attempt to take from the sea. There were bastions, too, covering the arms of the bay, full of great guns that could send a ball though a wooden ship’s hull. The battery of St Elmo was right above the Palazzo Sessa, and that got a special mention.

  “Take note, young Pasco, of the dangers of sailing into such a place. See how, at a mile distant, they will make it warm for any vessel caught in a crossfire. They are cunningly placed so that an assaulting fleet must wonder at which fort to return fire, and the wind in these parts is fickle enough to see you becalmed under the guns.”

  “You could take it, sir,” protested Quilliam, the other young mid, his freckled face alight with faith.

  “Not I, Mr Quilliam, but I do reckon that if any men could confound those defences it would be British tars.”

  “How would you assault Naples, sir? asked Pasco.

  Nelson was tired, Hardy could see that, and he moved to send these pests about their occasions. For a moment the expression on Nelson’s face lightened, as if the pain and all his cares had dissolved. “Why, I should use charm, young sir, which is what you must do when you go ashore.”

  “They say the ladies are very fine in Naples, sir.”

  “They are to heroes, which is what you are. Every man in this fleet is a hero.”

  “We are about to anchor, sir. Permission to signal our tow.”

  “Make it so, Captain Hardy.”

  “Mr Pasco, Mr Quilliam, you must have duties to attend to when anchoring. I suggest that is where you belong.”

  Anchoring in a bay full of boats come to greet them was a tricky matter, especially since Vanguard, having lost her foremast and four seamen with it, required to be towed by a frigate. There were barges with bands playing “Rule Britannia,” “Britons Strike Home,” and “See the Conquering Hero Come.” Everybody of quality in Naples was there to greet the victor of the Nile, and they had banners to prove it, some woven with images that were far from true representations of the man they admired. Behind him, the quays were lined with a mass of people, all cheering.

  “Sir William Hamilton,” said Hardy, pointing to a barge pushing through the throng to head for the side of his ship.

  Nelson leant over the bulwark and saw Sir William, but searched for his wife. Lady Hamilton was sitting down, but her head was up, looking towards him.

  “Five years,” he murmured to himself, his eyes fixed on the woman who had so made his blood race. As the barge got ever closer so did her face, under a broad brimmed hat and muslin scarf. The pain in his head grew worse as he stared, but it was not the cut that caused it so much as the way his heart was thumping in his chest. He didn’t want to go down to the entry port to greet her, that being dark and shaded. He wanted to see her here on his quarterdeck, in the sunshine, perhaps with her hat off, to find out if he felt now as he had the last time they met.

  “Hardy, my apologies to the Ambassador. If he has no objection I will receive him here.”

  Hardy smiled and tossed his square head, as if to say, “He’ll damn well see you where you please.”

  It was a tense five minutes, from the point at which the barge disappeared from his
eyeline, to hooking on and the passengers coming aboard. For some reason he found himself thinking of his wife again: the image of Fanny gazing admiringly at that Lemuel Abbot portrait she’d written of induced feelings of deep guilt. He knew that his God could see into his soul, was aware of every thought and every action. How could He forgive him for what he was thinking now?

  The guilt evaporated at the moment he saw her. Emma Hamilton emerged from the companionway, smiling, her cheeks red with excitement, followed by a bright-eyed Sir William, who was much aged and thinner than the man Nelson remembered. Suddenly he realised that he, too, must present a very different apparition to his guests.

  “My dear Admiral Nelson, you have joined the immortals.”

  Nelson locked eyes with Sir William’s wife, who stood examining him, taking in the empty sleeve and the mist-covered iris of his damaged eye. “I fear I am a much-reduced creature, milady.”

  “You are very much more substantial to me, sir,” she replied.

  He almost didn’t hear the words, so taken was he with the look in those huge green eyes. They were like a mirror to her soul and carried in them something deeper than mere admiration. Suddenly she flew at him and, in a very unladylike fashion, threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheeks.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE PALAZZO SESSA was illuminated by three thousand candles, liveried servants lining the entrance to greet the stream of guests. The King and Queen attended, though not in a fully royal capacity, because Naples was supposed to be at peace with France, even had plenipotentiaries in Paris discussing an alliance. Yet the battle of the Nile had changed everything; France was not to be quite so feared, with no ships and no army, and ambassadors, princes, the cream of the Neapolitan aristocracy mingled with streams of naval officers from the victorious fleet.

  Emma Hamilton’s entrance was the kind of staged affair she loved. Her dress had been specially made, very low cut, blue and gold with an edging embroidered with the intertwined names of Nelson and the Nile. The transparent shawl with which she preserved some modesty was white, liberally sprinkled with gold anchors, while on her head she wore a cap of victory, which kept her hair high. On the arm of her elderly husband, she entered the room that had once held the bulk of Sir William’s excavated treasures. These had been packed ready for shipment to England, there to be sold, allowing the room to be turned into a space that could accommodate the three hundred guests.

  Now Nelson toyed with the thought he had entertained when the couple had come aboard Vanguard: that Sir William had aged much more than he. Wounds, battle, constantly being at sea, and the strain of command had done for Nelson, implanting lines on his skin and greying his once blond hair, while at sixty-eight, age alone seemed to have altered the Chevalier. He was thinner all over, but particularly so in the legs, which looked spindly in his tight white breeches. The nose, which had always been prominent, now stood out starkly, this in a face that showed an excess of definition due to taut skin.

  Nelson was seated in the place of honour, with the King and Queen on his left, while Emma and Sir William sat to his right. A slightly unusual arrangement, in terms of rank, had him between the two ladies, both husbands outside them, for which Nelson was grateful. Sir William he could abide, but he had eaten enough meals beside the gluttonous Ferdinand to want ever to do so again.

  If the food and the setting were magnificent, the proximity of Lady Hamilton was agony. The Queen had no English and his foreign language skills extended no further than the need to ask for an enemy to surrender, so any conversation with Maria Carolina had to be translated by her good friend Emma and, in a room full of noise, she found it necessary to lean across the guest of honour to undertake that task.

  Physical contact was constant, on one occasion her hand actually rested on his knee, squeezing it as she made some pertinent point to the Queen. Asked for his impressions of the battle, Nelson obliged, while claiming that his position in the line, followed by his wound, precluded him from being the best-placed observer. But he was observing Lady Hamilton with a proximity that both excited and appalled him. Her head was often no more than an inch from his, a beautifully formed ear enticingly erotic. Nelson had always been attracted to voices, and hers, low, varied, and always with that hint of amusement, entranced him. He could smell her perfume and her hair, and sense the heat of her body, so had to fight to avoid looking down the front of her dress to her alluring bosom. An occasional squirm was required to ease the pressure on his groin, his napkin pressed into service to cover an embarrassment he could do nothing to control.

  Such a situation drove Nelson to drink more than was usual, a greater quantity than the Queen, though less than Lady Hamilton, who grew bolder the more she consumed. Any attempt at modesty by her guest was overborne in a flurry of arms and loud laughter, with many a plea to Sir William to intercede and tell Nelson he was a hero, and should behave as such; that he was their shield and must make Naples his Mediterranean base.

  “I had intended to use Syracuse, milady.”

  “Sicily!” cried Emma. “We will not hear of you departing, Admiral Nelson, will we, Sir William?”

  The Chevalier nodded gravely. “It would certainly grieve us, sir.”

  “I won’t be off just yet, Sir William. You will have noticed, even with an unpractised eye, that my ship lacks masts. I doubt the dockyard can repair her in less than a week.”

  “But we wish you here for more than that, Admiral,” Emma pealed. “A month, a year, for ever. If you do not promise me, I shall request a royal command.”

  That had her leaning across to the Queen again, babbling in German, and what ease Nelson had managed was ruined. Emma Hamilton had put one hand behind his back, better to reach over. The absence of his right arm brought her closer to him than would otherwise have been the case. He could see her lips moving even if he couldn’t understand what she was saying. He wanted to grab her there and then with his one good hand, but he sat back instead, forcing himself to look right past her to Sir William, smiling at the Ambassador, an expression that was returned in full measure.

  He can’t see it, thank God, Nelson thought.

  Sir William Hamilton, with his acute sense of observation, was thinking that his wife had gone slightly overboard with regard to Nelson. The nautical simile made him grin just as the man in question looked at him. Certainly the Admiral was a hero, who deserved the thanks of half a dozen nations. He deserved this celebration, too, and all those that were bound to follow. Every city in Britain would want to toast him, and since he was such a hero, women by the yard would fawn over him. The fact that this was true did not alter the fact that his wife was one of them.

  Emma’s husband put it down to the heightened sense of theatricality that was one of her abiding traits; that and her need to be at the centre of things. Nelson might be the nation’s hero, but Lady Hamilton wanted him to be her hero as well, somehow to give the impression that she had had a part in the Nile victory.

  “Have you thought, sir,” asked Sir William, “about your title?”

  “I wouldn’t wish to tempt Providence.”

  “It would be improvident of His Majesty King George, if not downright imprudent, to hesitate in granting you a peerage. I daresay the thanks of the nation, in financial terms, would not be too much to ask.”

  Of course Nelson had mulled over these things since the morning of victory. He would have been stupid not to. A title was a near certainty, indeed there were those who had insisted he deserved one after St Vincent. He had scotched that suggestion. A peerage required deep pockets to support it. A knighthood cost nothing. But if they voted him a pension as well …

  “Nelson of the Nile,” cried Emma, pulling herself back far enough to look into his eyes. “That should be your title.”

  “I had thought of honouring my birthplace.”

  “Which was?”

  “Burnham Thorpe, in Norfolk.”

  “Then, sir, that is the whole of it.” She rose to
her feet, which alerted all the diners, who, seeing her standing, glass raised, followed suit. The toast she gave was in French. “J’offre à vous, Monsieur le Duc de Burnham Thorpe et le Nile.”

  The roar that filled the room made Nelson blush, which endeared him to the lady looking down at him with unabashed admiration. Even Maria Carolina had raised her glass, though her dignity as a queen forbade her to stand. Ferdinand looked bemused, as if the idea that anyone else could be toasted in his presence, that cheers could ring out for another, was impossible.

  Emma’s chest was heaving, as if she had taken part in some taxing physical activity, her face flushed with pride and happiness. She did feel that she had a right to some reflected glory. Had it not been she, with her husband’s blessing, who had gone to the Queen when Nelson was stuck in Syracuse needing supplies? It had been Emma, Lady Hamilton, who had used every ounce of her credit to persuade Maria Carolina that Neapolitan neutrality, which forbade giving assistance to Great Britain, should be breached.

  Had that not happened, Nelson could not have continued his pursuit of Bonaparte. Without that, no battle of the Nile could have taken place. So, the very fact that this man was sitting here blushing at the praise being heaped on him was, in a large part, due to her intervention. Emma believed that when they toasted Nelson, they inadvertently also toasted her. As she sat down, the cheers still ringing, she saw that Nelson now looked uncomfortable.

  “There’s something amiss?”

  “I wish I had the French for another toast, milady, which would be to my captains, my officers and my seamen, for in truth they are the people who won at the Nile.”

  “I would not waste your modesty on this crew, Admiral Nelson. They wouldn’t understand it.”

  “Do you understand it?”

  “I applaud it, sir, here,” she replied, putting one hand on her heart.

  Eyes locked for just two seconds, both Nelson and Emma Hamilton were aware only of their own thoughts; that emotion was taking control of them. The noise of the packed room had faded so that they seemed to share a cocoon. Emma suffered a moment of confusion, under the strain of a raft of feelings she had not allowed for years, the kind of sensuous passion she had felt in the company of Uppark Harry and Charles Greville. Her whole life seemed to be encompassed in a thought that lasted no more than a split second before, for the sake of propriety, that mutual stare had to be broken.