Breaking the Line

by David Donachie

  The news arrived that Earl St Vincent had gone home through ill health, to be replaced by Lord Keith. The first despatch from his new commanding officer indicated to Nelson that the trust he had enjoyed until now, and the right to make his own dispositions, might be under review. Nelson could not be sure if strategic concerns or a desire to put in place an over-mighty subordinate prompted his new superior’s views. All he knew was that they were wrong.

  With the French in the toe of Italy, albeit tenuously, and Bonaparte still in Egypt, Nelson was sure the fulcrum of Mediterranean control still lay around the Straits of Messina and the seas between the African coast and the toe of Italy. Keith disagreed, and insisted it was necessary to subdue Malta. Nelson met that with a request for troops to carry out the task, it could not be done otherwise. Then Keith worried that the two ships that had escaped the Nile battle, Le Généraux and Guillaume Tell, which Nelson dearly longed to take, posed a threat out of all proportion to their strength, therefore Toulon must be blockaded. The notion that they might combine with the fleets of Spain and the French fleet supposedly making its way from Brest terrified Keith. Nelson was more sanguine, for he had met them and beaten them. Let them put to sea, was his opinion, because it was only there that they could be destroyed. He had arranged his fleet in Naples Bay to do two things: first to form a defence that no attacking fleet could breach, and second to lock in the still rebellious subjects of King Ferdinand. He declined to change that plan.

  Ruffo’s Army of the Holy Faith controlled the country around Naples, as well as the city, and a steady stream of captured rebels were brought aboard Foudroyant by the cardinal’s ruffians. One prisoner, handled none too gently, was Commodore Caracciolo, no longer proud and disdainful but ragged, unshaven, dispirited and in handcuffs. Hardy, seeing a fellow sea officer in distress, and unaware that the Commodore had been dragged from a hiding place in a well, immediately ordered the handcuffs to be removed and put a cabin at his disposal with a sentry. Caracciolo needed protection from his own countrymen, who appeared to have administered a sound beating before handing him over.

  Arraigned before the officers Ferdinand had sent along for the purpose, the Commodore swore that his sole intention in leaving Sicily had been to see to his estates; that he had been forced to take command of the rebel marine, and that even when he had fired on his own one-time flagship Minerve, he had had no choice. The majority of his six judges did not believe him, and Caracciolo was swiftly condemned to be hanged.

  The execution was Nelson’s to approve or commute, he being the King’s representative. It was his own dislike of the man that made him hesitate, the memory of his arrogance. Caracciolo had resented the flight of the royal family from Naples in a foreign ship, was that the cause of his disaffection? Nelson turned to the two people aboard whom he trusted to advise him.

  Emma was troubled. She was no partisan of the Commodore, but she had a mental list of those who had rebelled, many of them personal friends and former guests at the Palazzo Sessa. She had no idea if they were still in Naples, or if they had fled. But it was certain that if they were taken, they would suffer a similar fate. Sir William seemed unconcerned: his own mind was fixed on what he called ‘the necessities’: a stable kingdom that could take due part in the war against the French. For that, rebellion must be punished with full rigour. Clemency would only be construed as weakness.

  Nelson had never hanged a man, though he had seen it happen after the mutinies of ’97 at Spithead and the Nore. Some of that discontent had spread to infect St Vincent’s fleet, and the old Admiral, Sir John Jervis before his peerage, had reacted with a swift harshness that many of his captains admired, stringing up several malcontents after a short trial. But that fleet had been in sight of the enemy: they were just over the horizon, armed and in well-found ships. He could have faced battle at any minute, and that had taken precedence over everything else. Nelson knew that most of his officers would not hesitate: Hardy and Troubridge would have signed without asking a soul.

  In the end, what moved his pen was the knowledge that, though he might be the King’s representative, he was not empowered to interfere in an internal matter. Caracciolo’s Neapolitan peers had condemned him. All a British admiral could do was confirm the sentence, state that it should take place at five o’clock in the evening – and attend it.

  It was a dishevelled, shambling figure that came on to the deck of Minerve, hands and feet secured by chains, a priest beside him murmuring, a steady incantation for his soul. Every Neapolitan officer, including the men who had judged and sentenced him, were also on that deck, some to whom he had once been a commander. Alerted to what was about to happen, Minerve was surrounded by boats full of silent spectators. Aboard HMS Foudroyant the sides and rigging were lined with Hardy’s crew. The chains were struck off, and Caracciolo’s hands were bound behind his back, as his eyes raked over both his accusers and the man who had signed his death warrant.

  Gently the Neapolitan sailors led him to the scaffold, for it was no part of their nature to be unkind to a condemned man. Too many of them feared death to do other than sympathise with their old commander. Placed on a platform that projected over the side of the ship, Caracciolo was afforded another chance to discomfit Nelson, who, not wishing to look at the man, took refuge in examining the Italian officers. He saw in their eyes an almost malignant glow of satisfaction. They had fled with their king, abandoning homes and possessions; this man was to pay the price for their discomfort and they were happy.

  Caracciolo was offered a cap to place over his head, which he declined. All watching could see in his black eyes that he was determined to die looking at men he despised. A gun was fired as the noose was placed round his neck, pulled enough to grip without being tight. The men who would hang him stood ready, in their hands the end of the rope that ran up to a well-greased block on the yard high above. Then the second gun banged out.

  The sailors steadied themselves, then ran barefoot along the deck, rope over their shoulders, hauling the jerking body into the warm summer air. Nelson saw Caracciolo’s feet kick out at the nothingness beneath them, and the face suddenly suffused with blood. The tongue shot out of his pain-filled mouth as the noose cut off both air and the ability to scream. The man’s feet performed a frantic dance for more than a minute before the final spasms racked him. Then he was still, no more than a lifeless bundle twisting on the rope, moved by the breeze.

  Nelson ordered the body to be cut down at sunset, less than two hours hence, so that at least the man would be given a decent burial. Ashore, he knew summary trials and executions were taking place, as the full force of the counter-revolution exacted its revenge.

  The arrangements aboard Foudroyant were more circumscribed than they had been ashore. Sharing a bed with Emma was impossible in a ship of war ready for action. Certainly Nelson had ample space, but he also had a flag captain, Sir William Hamilton and a steady stream of Neapolitans begging temporary accommodation. Time alone with Emma was limited, although, as in all history, the lovers found the means to be together.

  This required much use of the blind eye not only by Sir William but also by Tom Allen, John Tyson, Thomas Hardy and every officer on the ship. And the matter was no secret to the common seamen who remained aboard. In the main they were not as accustomed to Nelson and his ways as the old Agamemnons or the men who had served on Vanguard, so a certain amount of ribaldry was to be expected whenever Emma appeared. Those who had served with the Admiral before saw it their duty to put in their place these new-come upstarts, and if that took a clip round the ear, so be it.

  Giddings was the handiest in that department. He might be getting on a bit but he was still a proper hard-case, as many of the Foudroyant’s crew found to their cost. But what made Giddings’s view prevail was not fisticuffs but the nature of Nelson and Emma. They were so obviously happy in each other’s company, their relationship lifted the spirits of everyone aboard ship. Nothing could seem more natural in a beautiful sunlit bay, w
ith matters proceeding well ashore, than Lady Emma Hamilton playing her harp on the dappled quarterdeck, while the Admiral paced, listened and occasionally stopped to admire.

  It was hard to admire a monarch like King Ferdinand who, when he finally came to Naples, took up residence in Nelson’s flagship and refused to set foot ashore, where British sailors and marines, aided by the Russians and Edigio Bagio’s lazzaroni had laid siege to Fort St Elmo. Instead, he held his royal gatherings on Foudroyant’s quarterdeck. Those who visited him looked exactly like the courtiers who had fawned on him before he fled, and Sir William pointed out to Nelson several of the nobility whom he suspected to be less than wholehearted monarchists.

  The meetings took place to the background boom of siege cannon playing on the walls of St Elmo. Less frequent was the crack of signal cannon as hangings were carried out on the Neapolitan ships. But the routine of a British man o’ war went on. Hammocks were piped up each morning; decks were wetted, sanded, holystoned and flogged dry. Boats plied between ship and shore carrying ammunition and men. And Nelson was still to be found each morning pacing his quarterdeck, head bowed, gnawing on professional and private concerns. Was he right about the Brest fleet? What would they think in London of his actions, and his questioning of Lord Keith’s orders? What was he to do about his wife?

  ‘Sir.’ Nelson looked up to see Pasco, looking bewildered. ‘There’s a fisherman come alongside, and from what one of the local marine officers tells me he is ranting about Commodore Caracciolo having risen from the sea bottom to come in on the tide and get his revenge.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ growled Nelson, then seeing Pasco’s face fall, he added, ‘forgive me.’ The lad was only conveying what he had been told to impart.

  ‘The King has been informed, sir.’

  ‘Not by you, I hope?’ asked Nelson, grinning. The thought of Pasco barking out such news to Ferdinand amused him.

  ‘No, sir, by his own fellow. The one who translated the fisherman for me went to tell him.’

  By the time they made the main deck Ferdinand was there, questioning the near prostrate fisherman. Clearly what the man had seen had alarmed him because every sentence was accompanied by the sign of the cross, and a wild-eyed look at those who stood round him. Ferdinand was as superstitious as his subjects and was furiously fingering a green agate charm. The upshot was that Hardy, less than pleased, was obliged to raise anchor and stand out to sea so that the royal fears could be laid to rest.

  The body bobbing in the water was unmistakably that of Caracciolo, and it looked as if his hands were still tied. The square head and firm jaw were recognisable, and the fixed stare seemed more threatening, the sea birds having pecked out his eyes. The noose that had killed him was still tight round his neck.

  Ferdinand was mumbling prayers under his breath when Sir William came to the rescue: he pointed out that Caracciolo had only risen from the deep to beg his king’s forgiveness for his treachery – that his soul would never rest in peace without it. Ferdinand swallowed the explanation whole and shouted a hasty royal pardon at the bobbing corpse, which seemed, by the touch of a wave, to bow in acknowledgement.

  ‘Mr Pasco,’ whispered Nelson, ‘oblige me by getting that body out of the water as soon as we port our helm.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Nelson was angry with himself. He should have ensured that what he had assumed had been carried out. But he was even angrier with the Neapolitan officers who had committed what he considered an outrage. How could Christian men who had sailed with Caracciolo and dined at his table behave like that?

  Pasco didn’t relish the idea of touching the corpse, that was obvious by his look of distaste, so Nelson said, ‘Tow the body ashore and find a priest. Then ensure the Commodore has a decent burial according to the rites of his faith.’

  4

  Fort St Elmo surrendered on August 1st, the anniversary of the Battle of the Nile, and so became the occasion of a huge illuminated fête to celebrate both the victory and the man who had brought it about. Twenty-one gun salutes were fired to honour both sovereign and British admiral, all the Neapolitan ships were illuminated and a specially constructed Roman galley was rowed round the bay carrying a portrait of Nelson at the stern. Both Nelson and Hardy anticipated that King Ferdinand would now go ashore to reclaim his kingdom. Instead, he informed them of his intention to return to Sicily.

  A second despatch arrived from Lord Keith, to tell his junior admiral that he had been out of touch with the French Brest fleet for more than three weeks, and had no idea of its whereabouts. Every available ship was to proceed to Minorca, which he believed to be under threat. To Nelson this smacked of tactical nonsense, and he declined to oblige his superior. He suspected that the ships Keith was worried about were unlikely even to be in the Mediterranean, and that if they were, the only place they could be of any use to the French cause was where he was already, in the Bay of Naples.

  Minorca, to his mind, was not as important as a whole kingdom, though he felt it prudent to write to Lord Spencer, as he had to Keith, stating that he was so sure of the lightness of his decisions, that he was prepared to take whatever opprobrium came his way.

  They sailed back to Palermo, the King to his hunting, Sir William to the shocking news that his treasures, valued at ten thousand pounds, which he had sent home for sale, had gone down with HMS Colossus off the Scilly Isles, leaving him with only what he had rescued when they fled Naples. Nelson went back to Emma and to their communal existence in another rented villa, and to the permanent presence of Cornelia Knight who had lost her mother. The main task for all three was to console Emma’s husband for the loss of his statuary and classical urns. Nelson also found out from Emma that Ferdinand, who had already presented him with a jewel-encrusted sword, intended to grant to him the Duchy of Brontë, an estate in the south of Sicily with an annual income of some three thousand pounds.

  He was mightily pleased, and wrote home at once to tell Fanny that she was a duchess. From then on, his letters and despatches, the first of which was a description of the huge ball thrown in his honour, were signed, Nelson & Brontë.

  On the morning after the ball Emma came aboard Foudroyant, this time in the company of Cornelia Knight, claiming that the heat of the town was too great, and only on a ship berthed in the outer roads could a body find a cooling breeze. No one batted an eyelid when she requested that a harp she had left on board be brought on deck for her to play, and men worked contentedly as she plucked a gentle air.

  ‘Emma, my dear,’ said Cornelia Knight softly, and pointed to a bruised looking midshipman who was hopping from foot to foot, clearly eager to talk to her.

  ‘Mr Pasco.’

  ‘I am flattered, my lady, that you remember me.’

  Emma smiled, noting the lad’s voice was rather thick, due to a swollen upper lip. ‘How can I forget such a fine storyteller? Cornelia, you must get Mr Pasco to recount his version of the battle of the Nile.’

  ‘If I could beg your indulgence, Lady Hamilton, I have a service to ask.’

  ‘Mr Pasco, if I can do it, you may have it.’ Pasco looked at Cornelia Knight, and Emma said, ‘You may speak openly, for Miss Knight is my best friend.’

  ‘The ball, last night, my lady.’

  Emma suspected she knew what was coming, but thought to delay it a little so that Pasco might relax. ‘A magnificent affair, was it not? The fireworks were outstanding. I particularly enjoyed the moment that Prince Leopold thanked Lord Nelson.’

  Pasco had found that rather mawkish, the nine-year-old Prince placing a laurel wreath on an effigy of Nelson before naming him guardian angel to his family.

  ‘Are you aware that there was some misfortune to do with the local gallants?’

  ‘Who could not be, Mr Pasco? The noise was tremendous. I believe it drowned the orchestra.’

  ‘It was not we mids who started it, my lady.’ Pasco wasn’t sure if that was the truth. He, and his companions, had been as drunk as lords before they ever left the
ship. There was a Sicilian costermonger who might still be looking for his horse and cart since they had commandeered it as soon as they got ashore. Their behaviour at the ball had been far from perfect, but no olive-skinned rascal, to Pasco’s way of thinking, had the right to insult the women of his country, which is what they had done.

  That a fight had broken out between the hot-headed young Sicilian noblemen and Nelson’s midshipmen was not in itself surprising. Both groups were of an age to be bravadoes. But the locals had been armed, which obliged Pasco and his fellows to reach for their ceremonial dirks. Twenty mids against a greater number of blades had gone the British way, because they were all fighters by nature. The problem was that a local youth had been stabbed, this compounded by a musket-ball wound to one of the mids when the Royal Guardsmen intervened. They could hardly be blamed for firing, seeing as how the drunken mids had, with their knives still in their hands, charged them with a whooping war cry.

  ‘I fear I am the culprit who wielded the knife too well, my lady, and I fear also that the fellow I stuck was badly hurt.’

  Emma looked up at Pasco, at the fat lip and a yellowing eye. ‘We enquired of the fellow this morning, Mr Pasco, and he is well on the mend.’

  ‘Thank Christ,’ Pasco exclaimed, then added quickly, ‘saving your presence, ladies.’

  ‘Is that what you wanted?’ asked Emma. ‘To enquire after the fellow’s well-being?’