Breaking the Line

by David Donachie

  ‘Hear him, hear him.’ Sir William felt his back slapped again with excessive force, and as men vied to hand his wife on to the balcony, he whispered to Nelson, ‘If this is to be the state of things, my friend, I fear I must buy a cuirass. My back aches from the pummelling.’

  ‘They love you, Nelson,’ said Emma, her face radiant, ‘they truly love you.’

  He leant close, though over the clamour no one could have heard him. ‘They will come to love you in the same manner, Emma. Love you as I do. I swear it.’

  The word ‘Never’ she mouthed, but it was accompanied by a smile.

  Giddings was adept in such situations: to be coxswain to a commander like Nelson he had to be. Ignoring the celebrations, he oversaw the unloading of the luggage, chiding a slow-moving Tom Allen to, ‘shift his arse and help him load the handcart.’ Even using back roads that took them in a wide arc, the roars of acclamation carried, as they struggled to pass a stream of people rushing in to the town.

  ‘What a to do,’ said Tom Allen.

  ‘You’ll see plenty more of where this came from Tom, boy. Close to, you have forgotten just how famed your master be.’

  Tom replied in a cross tone, his breathing heavy. Lugging chests and the like was a job he was accustomed to delegate to others and he was short of breath. ‘How could I, Giddings, when her ladyship never leaves off reminding him. Hero this, hero that. He has vanity enough of his own, Christ knows, but she is forever stoking it.’

  ‘With what he’s got in his trumpet, mate, it don’t do no harm to blow.’

  ‘He’s blown hard from more than one shaft, I can tell you.’

  Nothing was secret to Giddings, who had a sharp eye and a close mouth. If the man he had served for so many years wished for silence about his relationship with Lady Hamilton, it was up to those loyal to him to do the same. And that applied in spades to Tom Allen, who was the closest of the lot. He had known Allen a long time, but Giddings could not say he knew him well: their worlds, though they meshed, did not actually mix. Giddings saw to the Admiral’s barge, kept the boat crew smart, and was always by Nelson’s side in a fight. But he messed, like all sailors, before the mast. He was required to be efficient rather than polite and took some pride, in his smart jacket and flat sennit hat, in being a bit of a ruffian.

  Tom had been a sailor too, but had never excelled. After years of being a servant he seemed polished, a weak man when it came to fighting. He had grown soft with his pantry and a cubicle to sleep in, officer’s food to eat and as much wine to sip as he liked. The sailor servant kept himself to himself, rarely mixing with the lower deck hands. There was wisdom in that: almost a part of the great-cabin furniture, Tom Allen overheard most of Nelson’s conversations. He served the officers at every conference they held to discuss tactics, heard Hardy, Nelson and the ship’s master plot the course to whatever destination had been decided on. It was his duty to keep what he heard to himself.

  Not that secrets could be kept aboard a ship. Mewed up together, six hundred and fifty souls hugger-mugger in their wooden walls, not even a determined admiral could keep from the crew much of what was going on. There hadn’t been a man jack aboard either Vanguard or Foudroyant who was not aware of the nature of Nelson and Lady Hamilton’s friendship. They discussed it openly, made lewd jokes and wavered between pity and respect for Sir William. But it was kept to the confines of the ship. What everyone knew and what they were prepared to say to outsiders were two different things.

  ‘You wouldn’t be sounding off to others like you have to me, Tom, would you?’

  Tom Allen was in a bad mood. Aware of his own deficiencies, he hated to be ashore at the best of times, since the few certainties he harboured seemed to evaporate. Out of the ship he was no longer master of his own domain, and that had been true in Naples, Palermo and on the route home. England would likely be the same. Being in an irascible frame of mind he spoke more forcefully than was wise. ‘It won’t be needed, mate. I overhears enough to know what is knowledge and what ain’t, and this here coach is not taking us to calm waters, I reckon.’

  ‘What are you saying?

  ‘I’m saying that enough folks in Palermo and Naples were not as happy as the fleet about our Nellie and his Cleopatra. That there were those who mightily condemned them.’

  ‘Like who?’ demanded Giddings, with a look that implied he would silence the lot of them.

  ‘A few captains had high words, Troubridge not least, and there were ten times more civilian tongues that were wont to wag. That Lock cove was forever trying to dig out dirt.’

  ‘Let them wag, I say.’

  ‘It’s not the wagging, mate, but the writing that will do for him. There must have been any number of letters home.’ Tom made a gesture at his belly. ‘And you can’t say my master hid away what they were up to, nor can we maintain we don’t see the result.’

  ‘I reckon, then, it be best not to talk of it, even with shipmates.’ Tom Allen looked at Giddings then, well aware that a threat had just been issued, telling him to button his lip. ‘You got to reckon Tom, that if you can pick up on idle chat so can other folks.’

  ‘Have a care,’ said Tom suddenly. ‘The dragon’s ahead.’

  Giddings looked to where Tom nodded to see Mary Cadogan waiting for them. She had come to sort out the domestic arrangements at the Wrestler’s Arms, well aware that left to his own devices, Tom Allen would make a poor fist of it.

  ‘They reckon she was a beauty once,’ said Giddings quietly, ‘and she ain’t so bad yet that I wouldn’t have her over now.’

  ‘You’d get more pleasure out of a piece of knotted wood, mate,’ Tom replied, head turned away from eyes that he knew could read his mind. ‘Take my word for it.’

  Much as he hated the idea, Nelson had to make a speech to the assembled Yarmouth worthies. For a man who could address with confidence the entire manpower of a ship-of-the-line he made a poor fist of talking to his awe-struck fellow countrymen. Halfway through, moving the praise from himself to his friends the Hamiltons and the officers and men of the Nile fleet, he realised what hampered him. Sailors looked at him differently from these worshippers, whose uncritical adoration unnerved him.

  Thankfully, the peroration in which he thanked Yarmouth for its welcome was easy, its message that, much as he esteemed their town and those who inhabited it, he must make plans for his onward journey.

  ‘For there are people waiting to see me, my friends.’ He had trapped himself and he knew it: he had meant his superiors at the Admiralty and the ministers of the government, but there was one person he could hardly leave out – in fact she must come first. It was with some effort that he imbued the words with sufficient force. ‘My wife, Lady Nelson.’

  The cheers for her were nearly as great as those for him, which made Nelson blush. He looked at Emma to reassure her.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said to his hosts, when he was back in the room. ‘I fear I will need your strong arms once more to get myself and my companions to our accommodation.’

  It was true. Just getting out of the Royal George was hard enough, with people jostling for position on the stairs and in the hallway claiming precedence for some real or imagined standing in the community. The owner was not going to let the victor of the Nile leave without a written testimonial to his visit that he could display on his wall for posterity, so pen and ink had to be fetched. Nelson longed for a party of sailors to clear the doorway since the leading citizens of Yarmouth were too feeble. All the while he tried to interpose himself between the mob and Emma, for fear that she might be crushed.

  Emma could not avoid being jostled, but she tried to hide from Nelson that she was somewhat downcast. At first, the cheers and adulation had lifted her spirits, but as she had listened to the speeches of the Yarmouth elite, to toast after toast to the King, the nation and Nelson, to the endless damnation of the French, her good cheer had evaporated. Emma had seen cheering mobs before, but never had she witnessed anything like this. As she stood be
side Nelson on the balcony and looked into that sea of faces, it had come home to her just how famous he was. Triumphant Roman generals must have been accorded this honour in ancient days, or an Egyptian pharaoh – but a British admiral?

  She loved him and was sure that he loved her. But how could she hope to hold on to someone so beloved by his fellow countrymen, whose every move would be accompanied by a besotted crowd of admirers? It was one thing for the common people to cheer so, but even the most potent citizens of this town had been close to grovelling in his presence. Emma knew it was deserved, but the depth of feeling had shocked her.

  And then he had mentioned his wife

  With a crowd constantly present outside the Wrestler’s Arms it was far from peaceful, but at least the stream of visitors had dried up so that Nelson could write some letters, the first to the Admiralty to say he was home and once more fit for active service. After a light supper, Emma retired to bed, Sir William and Cornelia likewise, propriety demanding that each guest had a chamber of their own. Nor, in a strange establishment, could Nelson contemplate a visit to Emma. He stayed in the parlour, wrote a second letter and addressed it to his wife at Roundwood, near Ipswich, Suffolk.

  This was a small country establishment Fanny had taken on his instruction, as much for his father as for herself. It was not very grand accommodation for a couple like the Hamiltons, but it would give him a chance to return some of the hospitality he had received in both Naples and Palermo.

  Nov 6th 1800

  My dear Fanny,

  Nelson contemplated what to say. Should he hint that things could not be as they had been before? Although he had thought about it endlessly since leaving Naples, the enormity of the difficulties he faced now bore down on him. Within forty-eight hours he would introduce Emma to Fanny. What had his wife heard? She could not be in ignorance of his behaviour in the Mediterranean. The way in which he had ignored this seemed to haunt him now, the way he almost invited observers to question his actions, which could hardly have been left out of letters sent home to England. He knew the power of gossip, just as he knew that not everyone he had dealt with had been happy with his arrangements. Apart from the well disposed who had felt uneasy, there were people who disliked or envied him and would do all in their power to damage his reputation. He had given them plenty of ammunition.

  He wanted his wife to take to Emma as so many others had. She must be brought to realise that happiness was as necessary to her husband’s wellbeing as fame or appearances. Fanny had the title and she would enjoy all that flowed from his success. He would attend upon her socially as a husband should but she must share him privately, and accept what was, after all, a not uncommon relationship in the circles in which they would now move. He had a high regard for her, but it was not love, given the lack of physical passion that had existed between them for years. That was something he had wanted throughout their married life – that and children. Fanny had poise, grace and exquisite manners, and when Nelson thought of her it was with an abiding fondness. She would grace his name and rank splendidly, but he would seek his comforts elsewhere. He knew that in writing this note he should start as he intended to continue. The quill moved again, but the words he should have used would not come.

  The note stated that he and a party would be arriving at some time on Saturday, setting off from Yarmouth on Friday, following a service of Thanksgiving to which he had been invited.

  We are this moment arrived and the post only allows me to say that we shall set off tomorrow noon, and be with you on Saturday, to dinner. I have only had time to open one of your letters, my visits are so numerous. May God bless you, and believe me ever your affectionate,

  Brontë Nelson of the Nile

  It dawned on him as he reread it that he had failed to mention his father, also that he could hardly turn up with two elevated guests without letting her know. He added,

  Sir William and Lady Hamilton beg their best regards, and will accept the offer of a bed. Mrs Cadogan and Miss Knight and all the servants will proceed to Colchester.

  I beg my dear Father to be assured of my duty and ever tender feelings of a son.

  That would do. It would tell Fanny all she needed to know, if indeed she had been on the receiving end of any gossip. If not, it was an innocent communication. He sanded and folded it, in the knowledge that Tom Allen was waiting to talk to him.

  7

  ‘There’s a naval gent to see you, your honour.’

  Nelson looked up, his expression grim. He might have sent a civilian away, but how could he shun a fellow officer. It was with a forlorn last hope that he asked, ‘In uniform?’

  ‘Aye, your honour, but it be of a fair old cut.’

  ‘Who is he?

  Tom Allen replied with a negative shrug, adding, ‘He claims your acquaintance.’

  ‘Yet he does not give his name?’

  The man who entered a few moments later was tall and spare, somewhat stooped with age, but with a lined face that had once been fleshy and was now loose-jowled. He had a pair of jug ears, which were obvious when he removed his hat. They pricked at Nelson’s memory, and had him searching for a name that was just out of reach.

  ‘Admiral Lord Nelson.’

  His visitor said those three words as if he had been rehearsing them for an age, his voice carrying the tremor of his years. Nelson took pride in his service memory, his ability to identify by name the many hundreds of men with whom he had served, but this fellow, who was looking at him in an almost avuncular fashion, eluded him.

  ‘It is many years ago now, sir,’ his visitor continued, ‘but I recall a miserable youth who made my acquaintance at the gates to Chatham Dockyard.’

  ‘Frears,’ said Nelson suddenly, taking in with a swift glance the information provided by the coat. ‘Lieutenant Frears?’

  ‘The very same, sir.’

  The memory was clear to Nelson now: of the trials and tribulations he had encountered on joining his first ship at Chatham. It had been a cold, friendless introduction to naval life, a wet, freezing day; indifferent locals induced increasing misery in the thirteen-year-old midshipman. Frears had taken him in hand, insisting that he join him for a warming meal by a hot fireside, then he had delivered him and his sea chest to HMS Raisonable, the ship his uncle commanded.

  ‘My dear Lieutenant Frears,’ cried Nelson, standing up and holding out his hand, ‘pray take a seat at once. Tom, some wine, at the double. Have you eaten Mr Frears?’

  Frears was grinning now, and nodding, happy to seat himself at Nelson’s table, ‘Obliged, sir, obliged.’

  That whole period of his life ran through Nelson’s mind. Of the feuds and fights he had had aboard that ship, the way he had driven his Uncle William Suckling to distraction. And he also remembered the cause of those fights, the gross attempt by a very knowing senior midshipman to take advantage of his youth and sexual inexperience. His face must have closed up at the memory, for Frears looked alarmed. Nelson smiled warmly at the man he recalled with nothing but affection, banished the bad memories, and sat as Tom Allen poured some wine.

  ‘It is near thirty years, Mr Frears,’ said Nelson. ‘You have weathered well.’

  ‘Tolerable well, Lord Nelson, tolerable well.’

  ‘I see our service did not grant you the rank you deserve.’

  Frears looked sad as he fingered the old fashioned coat. ‘Luck eluded me, sir, and I lacked the influence to change it. My posting aboard Victory was sustained until she was finally commissioned, but nothing like it followed.’

  Had he been a good officer? Nelson did not know, never having served with him. That he was a kind man was not in doubt. The rank at which he had remained might point to inefficiency in the way he carried out his duties, but Nelson knew the Navy too well to assume that. Many a good officer had been stuck in a lieutenancy and spent his life watching others less competent or deserving get their step to a post captain’s rank, even rising as he had to an admiral’s flag.

  ‘You had
three sons, I recall?’

  ‘Aye,’ Frears replied, taking a deep swig of wine, ‘and seeing to their needs forced me to take merchant service.’

  ‘Then they have prospered, I hope?’ said Nelson, now aware of why Frears had remained a lieutenant. By taking a merchant ship he had removed himself from the active list. To think that Fanny, fed up with freezing Norfolk and little income, had once wanted him to do the same. If he had given in to her, would he be like Frears now: a touch sad, certainly disappointed, wandering about in an out of date uniform coat?

  ‘I got one a berth, sir, but he succumbed to the Yellow Jack on West Indian service while still a mid. Poor lad never saw his fifteenth birthday.’

  That occasioned another understanding nod. Nelson had almost lost his own life, as well as the best part of an entire crew of two hundred men to that dread malarial disease while fighting up the San Juan river at Lake Nicaragua. The graveyards of the West Indies were full of crosses bearing the names of soldiers and sailors who had succumbed.

  ‘Another prospers reasonably in the law,’ Frears continued, ‘while the youngest, I’m afraid to say, is of a rakish nature and lost to me and his family.’

  ‘Then let us drink to him, sir,’ said Nelson, raising his glass, ‘for he has a bloodline that is good and noble, and I am sure one day he will play the prodigal and come home to you.’

  Frears obliged, though there was a hint of a tear in his eye. Nelson surmised that of all his brood, the scrapejack was the one the old fellow loved most. It made him think of his own father. How much had the Reverend Edmund Nelson agonised over his son’s behaviour? What would he say about it now, for he was by nature unworldly? Nelson put the thought firmly to the back of his mind.