Tested by Fate

by David Donachie

  The disputes to which he was prone were common knowledge too: he had clashed with admirals and their wives, as with civilian and service officials. Then there had been the disastrous tour of the Caribbean Islands Nelson had undertaken with His Royal Highness Prince William Henry, the Duke of Clarence. It was generally held that Nelson had spent five years without employment before the present conflict because the King blamed him for allowing his son to make a fool of himself.

  But that was all in the past. Now he was at his peak, and a peerage was certain. Tyson reckoned that if Nelson had been famous before, he had merely been one of a dozen others—Edward Pellew for his single ship actions, Jervis for the victory of St Vincent, Lord Howe for the Glorious First of June, and Admiral Duncan for thrashing the Dutch at Camperdown. But after the victory at the Nile, Nelson would be elevated above all other mariners of whatever rank and he, lucky John Tyson, had landed the job of serving him as his secretary.

  “I have here more correspondence, sir,” said Tyson, pointing to the pile of official papers, “but I hazard of a nature more to your liking than that.”

  As he handed them across the desk, Tyson reeled off the names of those who had sent these communications: the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire and various beys, deys, bagshaws, and viziers of that dominion. There were letters from Vienna, from the Emperor of Austria and his leading ministers; from French exiles in Germany, the Prussian court, Italian grand dukes, deposed Venetian and Genoese doges; from occupied Rome, with the blessings of the Pope and his cardinals. And they were all, without exception, written in the formal diplomatic language, which was French.

  “I fear I am good for no more than one word in three of this, Tyson.”

  “I will have them drafted in English for you, sir, but if I may give you the gist, they are all fulsome in praise of the Nile victory.” Tyson picked up one. “The Sultan, for instance …”

  “Who sat squarely on the fence, Tyson,” Nelson interrupted. “Had his navy been more active I would have found the French weeks before. Were they not his domains Bonaparte invaded, his Mameluke warriors he beat in battle by the Pyramids? The Sultan and his court did nothing, and left us to fight their cause for them.”

  “The Sultan,” continued Tyson calmly, “not only sends you written congratulations, but news that he is to confer on you the Order of the Crescent, as well as the most splendid special reward. An envoy is on his way from Istanbul with the decoration, a singular honour that is awarded only to those who have performed with the highest gallantry to the Ottoman State. It is a decoration known in Turkish as a Chelenk, and the correspondent describes it as an aigrette, a plume of triumph made from silver and diamonds, which is to be worn in the turban.”

  “A turban for all love!” chortled Nelson. “It would shake their lordships if I turned up at the Admiralty in a turban.”

  Tyson grinned. “I fancy the idea appeals to you, sir.”

  “Oh, it does, Tyson. It so very much does.”

  The door opened and Tom Allen announced, “Captain Troubridge, your honour.”

  “Tom,” said Nelson, rising.

  “Sir,” Troubridge replied, punctiliously.

  Nelson hated old shipmates to be so correct: it was just another example of the isolation his rank imposed on him. Right now this man was his second-in-command, yet he was still formal. It was never discussed because that was impossible, so Nelson could not explain how much he missed the easy camaraderie he had once enjoyed with men like Thomas Troubridge. They had served together as midshipmen, and it had been in Tom’s company that he had witnessed his first flogging and fought in his first sea action. A series of movements up the ladder of promotion had meant leaving behind those who had once been brutally truthful with him and were now inclined to be deferential.

  “How are you, Tom?”

  “Spitting blood, sir, since I’ve just come from the dockyard.”

  Both men knew that Nelson was not referring to that, and he looked into Troubridge’s swarthy face for signs of the grief he must be suffering. They had sailed into Naples on the back of the Nile victory, only for Troubridge, who had run his ship aground and missed the battle, to find that he was a widower: news had arrived from England that his wife had died. Nelson, who had hardly had time to talk to him since, knew that anything other than the most perfunctory commiseration would be unwelcome.

  Even as a youngster, Tom had been unsentimental and dedicated to the service, a magnificent organiser and executive officer, trusted if not loved by his crew. He had also been the only one with enough courage to mention his dislike of adultery after Nelson’s dalliance with his Genoese opera singer.

  The Good Lord help me, Nelson thought, if he ever finds out about last night.

  They fell to discussing the shortcomings of the Neapolitan dockyards—requests ignored, work avoided, planking, masts, and spars nowhere to be found—like the money to pay for them. Was Troubridge, or John Tyson for that matter, aware that Nelson was keeping the conversation going to avoid that which he must undertake next?

  He had a note on the table from Sir William Hamilton, inviting him to discuss the state of affairs in Naples, and how they must proceed if they were ever to stir King Ferdinand and his ministers into some kind of military action. Tom Allen forced the issue, with a polite reminder from Sir William’s messenger that he was awaiting Admiral Nelson, only to receive from his master a look of venom.

  “Admiral Nelson,” said Sir William, smiling as he came to greet his visitor, who, to his delight, looked somewhat nervous. That a man who had become the nemesis of every Jacobin the world over, who had laid the ghost of Bonaparte and the infallibility of the French Revolution, should dread to meet him was risible.

  Nelson’s throat felt as though it had a cord round it as he croaked his reply. “Sir William.”

  “I trust you are quite recovered from last night’s exertions, Admiral,” Sir William paused just long enough to see Nelson blush, then added, “at the ball.”

  As he made the short journey from Posillipo, Sir William Hamilton had decided how he would respond to what had taken place. It was out of the question to make a scene; it would be both ungentlemanly and demeaning. Neither could he imply that he knew what had taken place between his wife and the Admiral.

  He was determined to see the matter in the context of the city and the state in which he resided. In Naples, it was not just customary for a man of parts to have a mistress, it was considered essential. In fact, it was in order for men and women to have several lovers at the same time, and the shifting sexual alliances provided an otherwise dull royal court with entertaining conversation. Many observed their marriage vows with laxity—and even the prelates of the Catholic Church had their paramours.

  The King couldn’t be trusted with anything female, even his own wife, whom he had brought to bed with child eighteen times. Maria Carolina’s only release was in his multiple affairs, either with the ladies of his court or with beautiful and willing girls from a less exalted background who knew that he would be generous when he tired of them. Sir William and Emma had been the exception to the rule in their mutual constancy, he an amused spectator as nearly every man that entered Emma’s orbit tried to break that bond. Even the King had tried, only to find Emma very reluctant to entertain such a notion, and stopping him had taken all Sir William’s diplomatic wiles.

  Sir William did not wish to embarrass Nelson, who he suspected had little experience with women. He had known that as he grew older Emma might take a lover and could not deny there was some consolation to be had if it turned out to be someone he liked and admired. But Sir William still had a sense of mischief and, without Emma present, he could not resist having a little fun at Nelson’s expense.

  It was a delight to watch the confusion on his visitor’s face as he continued. “I do find balls so fatiguing, Admiral, and I attend a damn sight more of them than you do. Too much food, too much wine, and a surfeit of tedious conversation make it hard for one to get a dec
ent night’s sleep. I myself went to Posillipo last night to recover.”

  He gave Nelson a direct stare then, which from what he knew of the man, would normally have been returned in full measure. This time the Admiral had to look away, his face filled with the kind of despair that might precede a confession. Sir William decided he had teased him enough. Time to get down to business.

  “I fear I must inform you, Nelson, that things have changed since your last visit to Naples. Those with whom you treated in ’93 no longer have the power they had then.”

  “Acton?” asked Nelson.

  “His wings have been clipped,” Sir William replied.

  Sir John Acton, an Englishman in the service of the Neapolitan court had proved himself a friend to the country of his birth. Nelson had arrived in Naples in November 1793, just after combined fleets of Britain and Spain had taken possession of the French naval port of Toulon. Nelson had been sent to request troops to help hold the place against the armies of the Revolution. Expecting lethargy he had been surprised when Acton announced that the troops were already being assembled. Six thousand men, with warships and supplies had reached Toulon in record time. That they had not performed very well mattered less than that Naples had provided them with such alacrity.

  “He fell out with the Queen, I’m afraid,” added Sir William.

  “They seemed so close, almost intimates,” Nelson mused, and regretted the allusion. It had been rumoured that Acton and the Queen were lovers, which was not a subject he wanted to raise.

  “A rumour that Acton fostered, for by doing so he disguised his true inclinations.”

  Nelson had heard that Sir John was a pederast. Indeed he had smoked a hint of that when they had met. Not that the notion bothered him. Nelson had met too many men of that stamp in the Navy, both officers and seamen, to care a fig for a man’s sexual orientation. What mattered was how well they performed their duties, and in that respect Acton had been exemplary.

  Sir William laughed. “The irony is that he and the Queen fell out over an object of mutual affection, a young officer from Saxony, a tall blond blue-eyed Adonis. A foolish whim from the Queen of course.”

  Nelson felt a flash of irritation. Sir William was gossiping, which in the circumstances seemed singularly inappropriate. He speculated that the British Ambassador was not the man he used to be—a fellow who had had razor sharp instincts for the essential. Perhaps age had withered his professional abilities just as it had atrophied his limbs.

  “Forgive me for meandering off the point,” Sir William went on, making Nelson feel doubly a scrub. “You will recall the Marquis de Gallo from your previous visit.”

  “I do,” Nelson said gratefully, “though I must admit the memory is not pleasant.”

  “Well, it is our misfortune that he is the person with whom we will have to deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  SITTING ACROSS THE TABLE from the Marquis de Gallo, Nelson remembered why he didn’t like the man: it was his insufferable air of superiority. Gallo had a bland face and a flat voice. He was constantly evasive and gave the appearance of deep boredom, playing idly with a jewelled snuffbox whenever anyone else was speaking.

  Nelson wanted evidence that Naples was prepared to take advantage of what he and his fleet had delivered to them. More than anything he wanted a firm declaration of war on France, which would encourage the other Italian states either to take up arms or rebel against the invaders. De Gallo had the ear of the Queen, who was the true ruler of Naples, plus the trust of the King, which implied political dexterity of the highest order. What it clearly did not imply was any predilection to zeal.

  Looking at the Marquis, as he accompanied his passion-free words with tiny negative gestures, Nelson was reminded of something that had happened to him as a youngster. A fellow midshipman on his first ship, Tom Foley, who had later become a firm friend, had invited him to partake in a pissing competition, he who achieved the greatest distance to be declared the winner of a silver sixpence. Nelson went first, only realising when soaked how he had been guyed into pissing into the wind. He felt a little like that now as he reiterated once more the reasons why Naples should act swiftly.

  “What if the news of Aboukir Bay reaches Paris before I can inform my ambassador there?” Gallo protested.

  Sir William translated, then told Nelson of his intended reply: that even the rogues who ran France would respect diplomatic credentials. Then he reminded the Marquis that on his northern border the French had fewer than nine thousand troops of indifferent quality. That was followed by a rapid incomprehensible exchange before Sir William told him what had transpired.

  “The Queen’s brother, the Emperor, who shows no sign of movement himself, is sending an experienced general from Vienna to take command of the Neapolitan forces.”

  Evidently Nelson failed to respond with the enthusiasm de Gallo had expected for the Marquis frowned. The Admiral had had much experience of Austrian generals in past campaigns centred on the northern Italian states and nothing he had seen inspired him to expect from them either courage or military skill. All they had ever offered him was prevarication, obfuscation, or a terse note to say they were retreating or suing for peace.

  “Baron Karl Mack von Leiberich,” Sir William added, “is already on his way.”

  “When will he arrive?” Nelson demanded. The response from the Neapolitan Chief Minister was a shrug, so he added, “And the Navy?”

  What followed was a long explanation, blaming the British for the delay. How could the Neapolitan fleet be fully fitted out when the dockyards were occupied with Nelson’s battle-damaged ships? It was a far cry from the time when Sir John Acton had been in charge.

  Emma was playing Blind Man’s Buff with Prince Alberto, the youngest of the royal children, aware that the Queen was only intermittently watching them as she paced between her work-table and a window overlooking the bay. That was rare for a woman who had such a deep affection for her numerous offspring. Maria Carolina was troubled—indeed her life since coming here as a young girl from Vienna had seemed one whole sea of such. Her husband was suspicious, cunning at the same time as stupid, wont to leave the running of the state to her only to interfere at the most inappropriate time to ruin whatever consistency of policy existed.

  Compared to the ordered world of the Austrian Court Naples was chaos. The Queen had never felt comfortable here, and even now was surrounded with a forty-strong cohort of German speaking servants. If Ferdinand was unaware that many of his aristocratic subjects were disloyal to him, his wife was not. She had seen her own sister brought to the guillotine in Paris, and was shrewd enough to know that although the rabble made the noise, it was disaffected noblemen that made revolutions, and weak servants of the state who failed to stop them.

  The Queen’s nephew, the Emperor of Austria, heading one of the mightiest states in Europe, had been forced into an ignominious peace. If her homeland, which was huge and capable of putting large armies in the field, could not resist, what chance had Naples? Maria Carolina had to take a decision that she longed to avoid: what advice should she give regarding relations with France?

  A few years before, the decision would have been exclusively hers, a time when she had leant on the support of Sir John Acton, but no longer. Acton had not stolen money, but he had turned out in his own way to be just as corrupt and disloyal as the others. His successor, the Marquis de Gallo, was too slippery to control, having succeeded in getting Ferdinand interested in the management of his kingdom—mainly by engendering suspicion in him about the true motives and the fidelity of his wife.

  That brought an ironic smile to the Queen’s lips. Ferdinand could not comprehend that she was not, like him, a slave to physical passion. Maria Carolina had desires, but of the variety of courtly love, that medieval construct by which a lover committed his soul to his paramour, yet suppressed any carnal thoughts. That was the kind of man she liked, and any intimation that matters should go further was instantly rebuffed. Sh
e got enough of that kind of attention from the slavering beast to whom she was married.

  A high squeal made her turn. She saw Emma mock-wrestling with Prince Alberto, who was six, and third in line to the throne. He still wore the blindfold, yet protested his invisibility, although Emma held him in a firm embrace. If only, the Queen thought, she could emulate that childish ability to believe that if you cannot see, you cannot be seen. Then she could avoid the coming meeting which her husband had insisted she attend because the Marquis de Gallo had convinced him that it was the best way to stop her plotting.

  To Maria Carolina, Lady Hamilton was a true blessing, and she regretted that protocol had kept them apart for the first years of Emma’s stay. As the mistress of a diplomat, Emma had had no standing in Naples, but meeting her had been unavoidable. She had surprised the Queen by speaking German, which endeared her to Maria Carolina. A bond had been struck and Emma had quickly become an intimate.

  But it remained unofficial; protocol insisted that only those who had been received by their own sovereign could be received at a foreign court, and King George III flatly refused to entertain the notion of meeting Emma, even after she had married his childhood friend. But such a ruling could not stand in the face of the needs of a lonely queen or a fearful nation. Good relations with Great Britain had to be maintained and part of that meant that Sir William must be kept content.