Tested by Fate

by David Donachie

  And on one day, Emma and Nelson, wrapped in cloaks to keep out the winter chill, walked the shore, he to pick the spot of embarkation, the protection it would need and the number of boats; and she must work out the time required to get the royal party to the chosen spot. And if by walking arm in arm without attendants they gave rise to gossip, so be it. That was enough to keep idle tongues wagging, in the hope that their equally idle minds would not suspect what was being planned.

  Proximity to each other was a dangerous thing. Yet they had the excuse of conspiracy to mask what was actually the desire to be together, to talk in an intimate way, without any chance of showing a physical expression of their feelings. The fact that Sir William, preoccupied with his own cares about the forthcoming evacuation, seemed to give them a nod of approval imbued what they were about with false innocence.

  Nelson knew very little about Emma Hamilton that was neither impersonal, the stuff of correspondence, or rumour. And she made it hard to extract information about her past, regularly turning the conversation so that Nelson was obliged to describe some exploit or embarrassment of his own.

  Thus she learned of his family and his birthplace: of the domestic despotism enforced by his widower father, of a cheerless house in which there never seemed to be enough food for a growing boy or his half-dozen siblings. They had eaten under the eye of a parent determined that they should sit upright, while he told them repeatedly of their noble antecedents.

  Edmund Nelson was not a bad man, just a dour one who lacked faith in his own abilities both as an ecclesiastic and as a father. That he had loved his deceased wife could never be in doubt. He had inscribed on her grave, set into the floor before the altar of his church, “Let these alone, let no man touch these bones.”

  “You were always destined for the navy?” Emma asked.

  “I have no idea,” Nelson replied, making a mental note of the suitability of the southern mole as an evacuation point, being as it was, protected from fortress gunfire and close enough to the arsenal to make any gunner cautious.

  He had been a rebellious child, a scrapper who started many a brotherly fight and a sore trial to his father. He had been a prude to the elder brother, William, with whom he went to school. Not that William had used the word prude. “Pious little turd” had been his expression. Did William now, as an ordained minister of the church himself, remember that and blush?

  “I think it was decided upon when my Uncle William came to visit.”

  “He was a hero too.”

  Nelson tried a shrug of modesty, but it felt uncomfortable. He was aware that he liked to be called a hero, just as he was aware that the sin of hubris was one he must avoid. There was the other pleasure too, in hearing this woman refer to him thus, that brought an even warmer glow to his being.

  “I sailed past the site of his battle at Cap Francis Viego, in the Caribbean.” Nelson smiled. “There was nothing to see, of course. That is why we sailors talk of sea battles so much. There are no fortresses to see, no hills or valleys, forests or rivers to point to bold attack or stout defence. The sea closes over our exploits, so they must be retold time and again so that all remember.”

  “You loved your uncle?”

  There was a slight hesitation, because Nelson was forced to admit to himself that he hardly knew William Suckling. A lifelong bachelor, his uncle had been a rare visitor to Norfolk, a larger than life presence when he was there, a distant memory soon after he left. But he was a somebody, a man who had friends and influence enough to keep command of a king’s ship in peacetime when many another officer languished on the beach.

  “He was an easy man to admire.”

  “Then it must be in the blood,” said Emma. “And what would he think of you now, your Captain Suckling, to see his nephew termed Baron Nelson of the Nile and Burnham Thorpe?”

  Emma said that with pride, but her reaction to the news of his elevation had been less than effervescent. In tact she had been incensed. She had railed against her own government, reeling off the titles she would have granted him: Duke Nelson, Marquess Nile, Earl Aboukir, Viscount Pyramid, Baron Crocodile, and for good measure Prince Victory. And she had damned the official reason for such parsimony, that Nelson was not actually a commander-in-chief but a subordinate officer, as sheer jealousy.

  “Where does that secret passage begin?”

  The Palazzo Reale occupied a frontage of over half a mile on the Naples shore. No point in picking a potential embarkation point that was too far from the point at which the royal party would emerge. There were numerous postern gates leading to the working parts of the palace: kitchens, storerooms, butteries, bakeries, and wineries, but only one led to the private royal apartments.

  “It is so secret, that I have not been told,” Emma replied.

  “Not been told?” Nelson demanded, only to look into her face and observed he was being joshed.

  Emma laughed. “I think we have passed it, though I felt it prudent not to point it out.”

  “Very wise,” said Nelson, taking the paper, glancing at it, then spinning round. Those who were following the couple, a dozen middling Neapolitans of an idle disposition, stopped. He surmised one or two would be spies eager to know what he was about. Emma had been quite right to remain discreet under such observation. Nelson pulled out his watch, and said, “Let us retrace our steps to this gate, and count the minutes.”

  This is how Nelson must feel as he goes into battle, thought Emma, as she watched him receive from the Turkish envoy the Order of the Crescent and the Plume of Triumph aigrette that had been brought to him from Constantinople. Her heart was beating faster than it should, but her head was clear and she felt that her eyesight was more acute than she had ever known it to be. Standing to one side she saw the diamond and silver plume twinkling in the light that filled the salon in which the reception was being held.

  Nelson lifted it from the case in which it lay, to hold it up so that those gathered could admire it. Kemal Effendi, the sultan’s envoy, had no idea that this presentation had been chosen as the cover for the evacuation of the royal family of Naples. Neither did the cream of Neapolitan society, gathered to watch the Victor of Nile honoured. It had been Nelson’s inspired choice to use this glittering occasion to cover the planned escape, aware that a number of the men prepared to betray Ferdinand would be bound to attend the function.

  The French were moving south slowly, subduing the Campanian countryside as they went, and were not expected to try to invade Naples for at least a week. Everyone knew the crisis was approaching—some in this very room would be planning what bloody fate to visit upon Ferdinand and Maria Carolina. They would be looking at Sir John Acton and the Marquis de Gallo, and savouring the thought of seeing, in only a few short days, their heads on the block of the guillotine.

  Perhaps too they would be relishing the sight of this British admiral taking his leave. Certainly they would applaud politely at the presentation of the aigrette: Nelson was undoubtedly a hero, but he was an enemy to the formation of a republic in Naples, so the sight of him sailing out of the bay was another event to look forward to. There was no doubt he was going and the distrust he felt for the Neapolitans was obvious, he having moved his ships from under the guns of the forts to an obscure part of the harbour.

  The Hamiltons would go with him of course, and that to many was a pity. Sir William was well liked, had been here a long time and had many friends, even amongst the seditious. And his lovely wife? In many a male breast there was regret that such a bastion as her virtue had proved unconquerable. And her gaiety would be missed as much as her husband’s urbanity. But perhaps there was time for one last visit to the Ambassador’s residence, one last chance to enjoy his famous hospitality.

  Had anyone bothered to enquire, they would have been told that there was indeed time to visit. The Hamilton carriage was waiting to take them back to the Palazzo Sessa, where, at this very moment the table was being laid for dinner.

  Captain Josiah Nesbit had a
rrived at the reception just after the Hamiltons. In what had become his habitual stiff manner he stood to one side in the dress uniform of a post captain. When the ceremonies were over he would escort Kemal Effendi and his entourage to the ship which his stepfather had prised out of Earl St Vincent. HMS Thalia, a 28-gun frigate, was tasked to take the Turkish envoy home. There the stepson could present to the Sultan the personal thanks of Lord Nelson for these gifts. That it would also remove his morose gaze from the actions of his stepfather was a bonus.

  At that very moment small parties of British seamen were fanning out through the city, quietly rousing out their fellow countrymen, telling them to make their way to the northern mole, where the boats of the Portuguese Squadron were waiting to embark them and their possessions.

  Emma found it hard to be patient while speeches were made, thanks professed, drink consumed in between toasts to every enemy France had, but mostly to Nelson, King George’s Navy, and insincere thanks for the protective shield at sea of Britannia. Her calculation was that from the time of leaving this reception, she had at most fifteen minutes to take up her station. In her imagination she could see the boats being lowered from HMS Vanguard, each with its component of armed sailors. Nelson’s marines would already have secured the mole at the southern end of the harbour, the point of embarkation. She must make her way to the secret passage that ran from the Palazzo Reale to the shore. Admitted to the royal apartments Emma was the one who would have to tell her charges that it was time for them to leave.

  As Nelson, Sir William, and Emma emerged, the empty carriage left, to return to the Palazzo Sessa and take on board Emma’s mother, the servants of the family and the final load of possessions. The trio, escorted by a party of armed lazzaroni provided by Edigio Bagio, hurried down the steep hills towards the harbour, parting with a whispered farewell as Sir William and Nelson continued towards the mole and the waiting marines.

  Emma, with her part of the escort made her way to the secret gate. She was aware that the wind was strong, and that the sky above her head, seen between the high buildings, was full of scudding clouds flitting across the moon. It seemed appropriate, as if the gods had arranged for a stormy backdrop to a dramatic episode. One of the Queen’s German servants was waiting at the gate, opening it to her as she gave the password in his native tongue. Soon she was following a lantern along whitewashed and musty damp passages, climbing worn stairs to face the door she knew led to the private royal apartments.

  Nelson, not for the first time in his life, was cursing the conditions. On a night when he needed calm water the Bay of Naples was choppy, and if his instincts were anything to go by it was going to get worse. The scudding clouds presaged foul weather coming in from the open sea, which would make the task of getting the evacuees aboard that much harder. He could hear the hiss of the waves on the shoreline and smell the tangy odour of sea-spray. Ahead, at the point where the mole joined the shore, the phosphorescence from breaking waves showed a line of shadowy figures, one of whom, by his height and the way his pale skin reflected the moon, looked very familiar.

  “Is that you Mr Pasco?”

  “Sir,” the midshipman replied, rushing forward.

  “Take Sir William to my barge,” said Nelson, gently urging the Ambassador forward, “then find me Mr Giddings. He has my sword and pistols.”

  “I’m here your honour,” Giddings called, moving forward and unshading a lantern. As usual, he ignored the injunction that no sailor should speak to an officer unless asked to do so. He always had, since the day he had discovered over twenty years earlier that here was one officer who didn’t mind.

  “This be a rum do an’ no error, your honour.”

  “What is, Giddings?”

  “This ’ere rescuing lark,” his coxswain replied, speaking as usual out of the corner of his mouth. By that one physical trait Giddings had the ability to make everything he said appear to be a closely guarded secret. The irony was that this time it was just that.

  “Comes to a sorry pass when kings and the like can’t trust their own. Worse’n than the bloody frogs, I say.”

  Nelson was tempted to ask how he knew, since it had been a well kept secret just what the crew of HMS Vanguard were being employed to do. But he decided not to bother; he had learned from experience that the crew of a man-o’-war always seemed to know what was going on. He took the proffered weapons then, accosting one of Hardy’s lieutenants, requested confirmation from him that all was in place. The man could only reply regarding what he knew: that the mole was secure, the boats manned and ready and since there had been no sound of gunfire, the armed parties that had fanned out through the city were going about their business quietly.

  “Then,” he said, hauling his boat cloak around him to ward off the night chill, “we wait.”

  Emma emerged into a brightly-lit chamber to find the entire royal party assembled and dressed for the outdoors. Having curtsied to the indifference of the King, who was determined not to look her in the eye, she did the same to Maria Carolina, seated on a chair, who beckoned her forward. She smiled at the silent children, and mentally ticked off that the numbers in the room, including retainers, tallied with what had been agreed.

  “Emma,” Maria Carolina said, and proffered her hand, which Emma took as she executed a low curtsy. A folded piece of parchment was pressed into her hand, that followed a whisper low enough to evade the hearing of the Ferdinand. “We have had this note from Commodore Caracciolo.”

  Emma hesitated to unfold it. Time was short and the danger that their proposed flight would be discovered very real. But at an insistent nod from the Queen she moved over to an oil lamp and began to read, slowly, since her ability to read Italian was not as good as her speech. Not that the message was difficult. In it Commodore Caracciolo, as commander of the Neapolitan navy, stated that the situation was grave, that the royal family could not be sure of being safe in the city, and that he felt their security could be better guaranteed if they were to take refuge aboard his ship.

  Her thoughts would be the same as those of Maria Carolina. Was this a genuine offer or did he know of the plan to go aboard Nelson’s flagship? If so, was there a trap waiting to be sprung if the King and Queen failed to respond to his invitation? The lazzaroni were not the only armed men in Naples. Every disloyal nobleman had retainers to use against them and Caracciolo had half the officer-class of the navy at his disposal, all aristocrats, but how many loyal to the crown? Fortunately, he had few men—the sailors, fearing for their homes and loved ones, had deserted their ships and come ashore to swell the ranks of fearful mobs that had begun to rule the streets.

  Emma suddenly felt very isolated. There was no one to ask, no one to consult, and she could feel, by the silent atmosphere in the room, that this letter has been the cause of some friction.

  “Your Majesty,” she said, addressing the broad back of the King, sensing that to appeal to his more sensible wife would not aid matters. “Do you have complete faith in Commodore Caracciolo?”

  “I have never had any reason to suspect him of being disloyal,” Ferdinand boomed.

  Emma wondered if he suspected a single member of his court. If anyone was capable of occupying cloud cuckoo land it was Ferdinand. Emma saw the Queen’s head drop, and knew that she had her support, but she also knew that such support would count for nothing if she could not persuade the King. This was typical Ferdinand: to let matters reach such a stage then to throw in some objection. But he held the ultimate power: everyone else in the room, Francis, the Hereditary Prince, his pregnant wife, the Princes Leopold and Alberto, and the three royal princesses, did not matter.

  “I agree with you.” Emma said, emphatically. That made Ferdinand turn round, and he aimed a glare at his wife, now reduced to looking at her own twisting and anxious hands. “His ship will, of course be in the company of the rest of the other ships of the Neapolitan fleet at present in Naples?”

  Ferdinand frowned as though the question was a difficult one.
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  “Which means that he will also be in the company of all the officers of that fleet.” Maria Carolina looked up, her eyes showing that she knew the route Emma was about to take. The fact that Ferdinand turned away again demonstrated that he was not completely stupid either. “If you can assure Admiral Lord Nelson that you have complete faith in all your naval officers then I feel he would be forced to recommend that you accept Commodore Caracciolo’s offer. If not?”

  The question was left hanging, but truly it was one that answered itself. Ferdinand was no more certain of the loyalty of Caracciolo than he was of anybody else. Even he must know that the most profound protestations of fealty were often the ones that masked the deepest treachery: the notion that there were no Republican sympathisers amongst his naval officers was patently absurd. Royalty reasserted itself as Ferdinand, with that inability to admit an error, which was a hallmark of his character, said. “Naturally, that is the conclusion I myself have reached.”

  There was a moment then when no one moved, the enormity of what they were about to do taking hold, at least in the adult minds. Once out of the palace, the royal family was beyond the pale. They were deserting the city and their state, so that even men who had been supporters would curse them for abandonment, the indifferent would hate them, and their enemies would bay for their blood, claiming that only the spilling of that could cleanse their new dominion.

  It was the Queen who moved first, she was a woman who expected no clemency anyway. Maria Carolina stood by the door to the secret passage and willed her husband to enter first. Looking at him, the slow way he turned, the look in his eye and the deliberate way he responded, Emma sensed that this was what he wanted. To be able to say at any future date, should his motives be called into question, that he had been reluctant to depart but that his Queen, lacking the same love of patrimony that filled his breast, had forced him.