Maria Carolina held her tears well, not so Francis, the Hereditary Prince, though he was outdone by the wailing of his pregnant wife, which was soon added to by the cries of her first born, still a baby in swaddling cloths. Young Prince Alberto, six years old and Emma’s favourite was not crying, but he was pale and shaking as though in the grip of a fever, so much so that Emma requested that one of the servants carry him. She brought up the rear, the last person to leave that well-appointed apartment, the private drawing room of the royal couple, the palace of three hundred rooms were she had spent so many happy times. If she felt saddened, Emma could understand the depth of feeling that must affect her charges. The closing of the door was like a clanking death knell for a whole way of life.
Chapter Thirty-Two
FERDINAND, who knew the exit well, had stopped before the last turning in the passageway, forcing Emma to pass and be the first to risk herself at the postern gate. As she went, she had to impose silence on the party, no easy matter with a princess in the throes of panic, and a baby given to wailing.
The King’s self-elected lazzaroni guards, who had escorted Emma to this place, still manned the gate, a quartet of swarthy, ragged individuals bearing muskets as tall as themselves. When Ferdinand emerged they knelt to kiss his hand, and were patted on the head like pet dogs. It was noticeable as the party moved off that they did not follow. They had an open gate to the palace: loyal to their king they might be, but with him gone his chattels were there for the looting.
Emma’s nerves were jumping as they made their way along the shoreline. It had been her idea that Nelson’s men should not venture from the mole: then if the royal party was accosted they could say that they were shifting to a Neapolitan ship, not fleeing into British custody. Now she wished that she had around her a party of Nelson’s tars, whom she knew she could trust.
They were on the mole at the point where it met the shore, with Nelson ordering all lamps shaded and his men to make themselves as obscure as possible, most staying in the boats, the rest pressing themselves against any dark object to hide their profile. As always, Giddings, his coxswain, was right behind the Admiral.
“Bit like press-ganging, your honour,” Giddings whispered.
Indeed it was, Nelson thought: the dark, wild night, men hiding in wait for an unsuspecting individual to meander into the maw of the naval net. He had always hated that duty, and counted himself lucky that he had only rarely undertaken it. Ships were manned easily in peacetime, and when war threatened his name and reputation provided him with a crew.
“Trade,” Giddings added, employing the phrase he had used as a press-ganger.
“Aeneid,” said Nelson, stepping forward to give the agreed password, appropriate, since it was the title of Homer’s tale, which was partly about the flight of royal survivors from the sack of Troy. He unshaded a lantern as he said it and immediately saw Emma’s pale but beautiful face. As their eyes met Nelson reckoned that, for a moment, they both forgot their purpose, but it was fleeting for Emma stepped aside to let the royal party through.
“Your Majesty,” Nelson said, raising his hat to Ferdinand with Emma translating. “I have arranged for the ladies to be placed in the cutter, which is the steadiest boat we have. May I suggest that they go aboard first?”
Even by faint lantern light Nelson could see that Ferdinand had to weigh this against his royal prerogative. He looked as if he was about to demur, when Nelson added, “I know you to be a fine sailor, sir, and the waters of the bay, which will indispose the ladies in their present disturbed state, will not affect you.”
That mixture of truth and flattery made the King step to one side and Nelson said to Emma, “Lady Hamilton, pray go with the Queen, the smaller children, and her ladies. My own quarters have been set aside for their accommodation.”
It was dark enough to take her hand and squeeze it, but in the lantern light he gazed into her deep green eyes, framed by the fur-trimmed cowl of her cloak. In that instant both Emma and Nelson felt everything else fade to insignificance: the presence of their charges, the hissing of the wind as it bent the branches of nearby trees, the crash of a wave against the brickwork of the mole.
“The men are waiting to assist, sir,” said Midshipman Pasco, breaking the spell.
Nelson watched as Emma got aboard nimbly and took up station in the prow. What followed was a pantomime of cries, squeals, protests, and entreaties as the rest of the ladies embarked. There was no steady gangplank as there would have been for the royal barge—the boat was bobbing unevenly through several feet of air, with just a sailor’s hand to steady them.
Eventually the Vanguards got them aboard, with several marines to provide protection, and shoved off into waters that were much more agitated than those around the mole. That brought forth renewed wailing which turned to near panic as a flash of lightning illuminated the western sky, followed by a deep roll of thunder.
Getting the royal servants into the boats was just as bad—they screeched like banshees, almost outdoing the ladies—but Ferdinand, to his credit, boarded Nelson’s barge easily, while Prince Leopold, like the sailor he had always wanted to be, assisted others to take their place. Then he leaped back on to the mole and bent to kiss the soil of his homeland, before boarding again to watch the receding shore as the crew bent to their oars.
The waters were vicious: a cross sea that added to the local currents set up waves that headed the barge, and others that slammed into the quarter to create a corkscrew effect. All the while, to the west, Nelson could see the approach of a storm. Vanguard showed just how bad the sea-state was, rolling and pitching at single anchor. If such a swell was prevalent in this relatively sheltered part of the anchorage, Nelson knew that out of the lee of the land it would be much worse. His plan had been to weigh for Palermo as soon as the passengers were aboard and accommodated, but that would have to change. There would be few good sailors amongst the royal party, and seasickness was inevitable.
Could he stay in the bay and ride out the worst of the weather? The royals’ escape would not remain secret after daylight, neither would it take much to deduce where they were. How disloyal were the officers of the Neapolitan fleet? Would they, knowing that their King and Queen were aboard the British flagship, attempt to force a change of circumstance?
The scene at the entry port of Vanguard was one of utter confusion. Those Britons in Naples who had been alerted by Nelson’s shore parties had hired boats and, even if instructed to head for Portuguese ships, were determined to clamber aboard his. In the cries, shouted curses, and commands that followed, he could hear the voices of many nationalities, including a whole host of French. There were hundreds of émigrés in Naples, who had fled the Terror in France. They needed to get away too, sure that any revolutionary army would guillotine them without hesitation.
In the chaos it took an hour longer than Nelson had anticipated to get the King aboard. By then he and every other passenger in the barge was soaked to the skin and chilled to the marrow. Yet still Ferdinand took the salute as he came aboard. Dripping seawater by the bucket-load and shivering, he was still an anointed sovereign.
If it had been chaos in the boats it was even worse on board: there were too many people and not enough room to accommodate them. The wardroom had been allotted to the King, his ministers and the British Ambassador. With Vanguard riding at single anchor in a heavy swell it was hard for someone without good sea legs to make any progress from one part of the ship to the other. Most of the passengers had succumbed quickly to seasickness, which rapidly turned the ship into a near cesspool. This mixed with rainwater and spray that forced its way through every gap in the straining planking.
The royal servants, with only one exception, were useless and the lot of tending to the stricken passengers fell to Emma and her mother, both of whom seemed impervious to the tossing of the ship. There were bruises and broken bones, and cries of fear mixed continually with the sound of retching.
Emma took charge of the Admi
ral’s quarters and the ladies, while Mrs Cadogan saw to the men. In this she earned the admiration of Ferdinand, who as a good sailor did not suffer but whose dignity would not allow him to offer help to any of his less fortunate companions.
Nelson’s great cabin was a mess, with anything not fixed to the deck sliding back and forth as the ship pitched and rolled. The smell was worse between decks, but not much worse. Emma was comforted by the steadiness of her own stomach and asked Tom Allen to provide warm water to bathe the shivering baby. Meanwhile she comforted the Queen and the Hereditary Princess, and cradled the suffering Prince Alberto, singing to him and telling him stories, while she reflected that those born to rule seemed to lack any resource when the careful pattern of their lives was disrupted.
Nelson appeared at the doorway, one hand on the lintel, swaying easily on well-attuned sea legs, water streaming off the oilskins he had donned on coming aboard. He had come to tell his royal passengers of his decision to wait for the weather to moderate before he set sail, but it was obvious, from their prostrate condition, that they couldn’t have cared less.
Emma was thinking that with her clothes streaked with grime and other people’s vomit, her cheeks unpowdered and red from sea-water, she must look a frightful mess. However, to Nelson, she looked magnificent.
Dawn brought some respite, though as Nelson emerged from the chart room, where he had snatched a much needed nap, the horizon looked just as grey and unwelcoming as it had the day before. The weather had eased slightly, and the low cloud was lifting so that the shore had ceased to be an indistinct line, and had become again a series of identifiable locations. The harbour area was still full of boats, some surrounding the British transports and Portuguese warships as the fearful of Naples sought refuge. Most surrounded Vanguard, endless petitioners seeking an audience with their sovereign to persuade him to return to his palace, either to oversee the defence of Naples or to stop the disorder and looting that had already broken out.
This kept the King and his ministers busy, and Nelson, who had concerns of his own, grew impatient. Time and again he sent Tom Allen to the wardroom, with a request that the Marquis de Gallo, Sir John Acton, and Sir William Hamilton join him in the fore section of Captain Hardy’s cabin, but half the day had gone before that request was satisfied.
“Gentlemen,” Nelson said, “I have requested you join me so that we can decide what to do about the Neapolitan ships remaining in the harbour.”
Acton, who saw himself, quite rightly, as the Admiral of the Neapolitan fleet, looked as though he understood what Nelson meant. Not so de Gallo, who, once it had been translated, looked perplexed. Sir William sensed what might be coming and prepared himself to deploy a degree of diplomatic emollience.
The capital ships of Naples were off Malta with Captain Ball, who had been requested to keep them there, but two heavy 40-gun frigates, commanded by Caracciolo, were anchored close inshore under the guns of the Neapolitan forts.
“They cannot be left to fall into the hands of the French,” Nelson said. “Then they must be persuaded to sail with us,” said de Gallo.
“Without crews?” asked Nelson. Attempts to bribe the crewmen—who had gone ashore to protect their own homes—to return to their ships had failed, obliging Nelson to send over some of his own seamen to help man them. But Caracciolo showed no sign of wanting to weigh. “I suggest that if we cannot get them away they must be burned.”
“Impossible,” erupted de Gallo. “Huge sums of money have been poured into creating the fleet, and those are two of the newest vessels.”
“It will be nonsense, Marquis, if crewed by Frenchmen I have to engage them in battle.”
“Can you not crew them, Admiral?” asked Acton. As the man who had initiated the construction of these very ships he was clearly on the horns of a dilemma, with pragmatism fighting sentiment.
“No,” Nelson replied.
His tone was a trifle brusque for Sir William, who winced. But Nelson was not prepared to tell even these men how short-handed Vanguard was. He had shifted men into Troubridge’s ship off Leghorn, which meant the men he had sent to the Neapolitan ships, 25 in number, were all he could spare. Nor was he going to say openly that if his request that Culloden return to Naples was fulfilled in time this conversation would be redundant. With Troubridge here he would either take Caracciolo’s ships or sink them.
“The King will never agree to this,” said de Gallo, “and I doubt even the Queen could be brought to consider it.”
“Considered it must be,” Nelson replied, “and I would ask that you put the matter before the King.”
It was a forlorn hope that Ferdinand would agree, and never had the Queen’s indisposition been more unfortunate. Nelson reckoned, as he watched the three courtiers file out, that she would have put aside any considerations of money and ordered them to be taken or sunk—if for no other reason than to tell the traitors in Naples what they could expect of a future restoration of royal power.
He was still ruminating as the cabin door opened to admit Midshipman Pasco, as alert as ever although he had probably been up all night. “Boat approaching, sir,” he said, “and Captain Hardy reckons Baron Mack is in the thwarts.”
The man Nelson greeted at the entry port bore little resemblance to the glittering white-uniformed general that Nelson had last seen reviewing his beautiful army. That force was now shattered, and so was their leader. Mack’s hair was awry, his uniform stained and tattered. He looked as broken as the force he had led to defeat.
Nelson felt sorry for him, although he suspected him to be an incompetent soldier who had led a very inept army. Reports of the deployments Mack had made, and the way he had used his inexperienced troops, had made many question his sanity. But now he was being asked to shoulder all the blame. It was telling that King Ferdinand, his titular commander-in-chicf, who had shown no signs of seasickness hitherto, had declined to receive him, claiming illness as his excuse. The Queen, who would certainly have received him was genuinely sick, a fact endorsed by Emma Hamilton, who Nelson had been forced to send for.
“I must entertain him in some way,” Nelson said quietly, “and try to restore his spirits. But I cannot commiserate without an interpreter.”
Emma used the back of one hand to sweep her wayward auburn hair from her eyes. “Sir William?”
“Is with the King.”
Emma fell in with Nelson as he led Mack towards Hardy’s cabin for a quiet conversation—there were officers sleeping in the anterooms on each side. Refreshments were served by Hardy’s steward: wine for him and Emma, a stiff brandy for Mack. The Baron listed the events that had led to this moment, naming Neapolitan officers, nobles to a man, who when they were not behaving like cowards showed an alarming degree of military stupidity. As he detailed the orders he had issued he was unaware that the Admiral was mentally praising some of those subordinates for showing sound common sense.
But Nelson’s mind was only half on Mack. It was delicious to watch Emma in profile as she listened to the poor man, who spoke slowly and deliberately, head bent over, with none of the ardour he had shown before the campaign. Then she would turn to translate, looking at him directly, and he could gaze into her eyes.
Emma was mentally comparing the two men, knowing she would never see Horatio Nelson like this. If her hero suffered defeat, the only thing anyone would have to look at would be his corpse. As they exchanged glances that excluded Mack, Emma felt no danger, or any sense that she was risking her future. The words she translated tripped off her tongue without effort as she held Nelson’s good eye.
Nelson was aware that he had a stark choice—the kind of choice he had to make in battle. And he realised that he had known it since he first met Emma Hamilton. Looking at her now, not carefully combed and dressed, a real woman in a real situation, he knew that he must either live with her or entirely without her. There could be no middle way. He knew she was tired and so, too, was he, after a night of almost constant exertion, but that added
clarity to his thoughts rather than diminishing them and he sensed that Emma was thinking the same way. He was tempted to say, “I love you,” but did not, because he knew it to be superfluous.
As Emma told Nelson what Mack had said, that the last line of defence outside Naples was near to being breached, she could not help but try to impart in her words that she was not talking about the city but herself. She understood suddenly that the constraints she had placed on herself with regard to this man had everything to do with her previous settled existence, her life of entertainment, friends, and routine. The truth that this life had been shattered forever was evident in the disconsolate pose of Baron Mack, who had come to ask the King’s permission to surrender so that lives might be saved. Ferdinand being too much of a coward to oblige him, Mack looked like a man who had lost his faith as well as a campaign.
Emma felt as though she was gaining faith: faith in her own judgement, free from the attitudes of her mother and the pain she would cause her husband. There was only Nelson, and a further surge of electricity coursed through her as she saw in his look what was also in her mind.
“The crisis is clearly reaching a conclusion,” said Nelson, looking right at her.
“It has already done that,” Emma replied, as Mack drained his glass and pulled himself to his feet.
Mack spoke sharply then, with some of his old fire, as though the brandy as well as the needs of his command had restored him. Emma informed Nelson that Mack would return to the shore, and take upon himself the task of surrender. Ferdinand had deserted him and he had the right to do the same, but he would do his duty, and Nelson could only admire him for that. He called for the marine sentry to fetch an officer to escort Baron Mack to his boat.
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