Perry thought he knew the truth, and though it was not, he suspected, as elevated as Emma would have liked it to be, it tended towards the positive. She had been a valuable asset and helpmate to Sir William. Certainly Emma was extravagant, certainly she was spendthrift, certainly she was given to exposing too much flesh in her performances, certainly she was married to a man far too old for her, but she was a joy to be with, famous all over Europe, and a linguist. In short, Emma was exceptional, and many of those who had met her in Italy were eager to say so.
And her effect on policy? She had been received by the King and Queen of Naples, the latter valuing her so much that she had breached the protocol that no foreigner could be received at court who had not enjoyed the same privilege from their own sovereign. Maria Carolina, a dour woman by all accounts, had gone out of her way to honour her friend. And every report Perry had was full of the regard that existed between Emma and the royal children. On balance, Emma’s star should have been in the ascendant. But then there was Nelson.
‘How long will you be staying here?’ asked Perry.
‘Lord Nelson is going to take a house, and as soon as he does we shall move there.’ At this Perry made no attempt to mask his feelings: he looked disapproving. ‘I can tell you, James – although my husband would hate me to do it – that we are utterly dependent on Lord Nelson for everything. The cost of Sir William’s office has fallen so heavily on his purse, and he has lost so much, that we cannot meet our bills.’
The glance Perry aimed towards the piles of expensive silk and lace said more than any words he could have used. If Sir William was not paying for them, only one other person could be.
‘Emma, how close are you to Nelson?’
Emma looked at her hands. ‘Dare I tell you?’
‘I think you just have.’
‘You will be discreet?
‘Have I not been so already? And I am bound to add that as long as that association is suspected you will whistle for a reception at court. He will not tell you this but the King was exceedingly uncivil to Nelson at today’s levee.
‘Because of me?’
He left the question unanswered. ‘Do not move into any house Nelson takes, Emma. Rumours are rife enough without you fanning them.’
‘That may be sound advice, James, but I fear we may have no choice.’
‘Thank God,’ cried Sir William Hamilton. He read again the letter from his old friend William Beckford, offering him the use of his town house in Grosvenor Square. Near to a palace in size, it was the kind of establishment Sir William could never have afforded, and here was Beckford not only offering it to him for free, but telling him to avail himself of his food suppliers and cellar as he wished.
Though he could never say so to Emma, he wished to be free of the constant presence of Nelson, because he hated to be dependent on him. The man he was happy to call a friend had never by word or deed intimated that he minded paying the Hamilton bills, but it was galling for a man of Sir William’s breeding to be always at the back when settlements were required.
Beckford, a noted pederast, was as rich as Croesus, and half of London society loved him for his proclivities, his gaiety and his extravagance while the other half avoided him like the proverbial plague. The author of the famous novel Vathek, Beckford had been forced to flee the country for several years because of his very obvious sexual preferences. He had not been discreet on his return, lavishing his millions on a new country house at Fonthill in a style that the prudes found shocking.
Right now Sir William loved him for his generosity, and using Grosvenor Square as a separate establishment from Nelson’s would go some way to dampening speculation about the relationship between the trio. Sir William was not troubled that his reputation would suffer – his wife having a lover would not raise an eyebrow – but Emma was different; the way she had been denied an appearance at court was ample proof of that. She had a reputation, and too much propinquity in the case of her and Horatio Nelson would not do it any good. He still had enough love for Emma to want to protect her from her headstrong self, and the complications attendant upon her giving birth under a roof provided by Nelson were incalculable. Beckford had solved that too.
Happier than he had been for a while, Sir William went in search of Mary Cadogan, passing as he did so the departing figure of James Perry.
Fanny knew she had lost her husband for ever the next night, when the whole ménage went to the opera. She would have preferred not to go in the company of the Hamiltons, but Nelson had insisted and included his father in the party. Since the Hamiltons had moved out of the hotel, Fanny felt there was a slim chance that her husband would escort her and his father home. He could hardly do that and refuse to cross the threshold. That was where she wanted him to be. Only there could her presence have the desired effect – no amount of meetings at social gatherings or in hotels would aid her cause. She was prepared in every respect to oblige him, and to admit that in the past she might have been less a wife to him than he required, so she dressed carefully, in a turban and a fetching silk dress, and paid careful attention to her toilet.
The usual crowd followed them through the streets, so the news that the Nelson party occupied a box overlooking the stage could not be kept from the rest of the audience. All stood to cheer as the Admiral entered, obliging him to come forward to wave to them while the orchestra played ‘See the Conquering Hero Come’, and Emma’s favourite, ‘Rule Britannia’.
Emma took a bow, Sir William took a bow, and so did Fanny, for once included in the adulation. Flowers that had been bought to toss at the performers were instead flung at them and for once Fanny felt, standing next to her husband, that she was in the right place. In such an atmosphere she could block out Emma Hamilton and imagine that they were a couple receiving what was their due. She had heard of the royal snub at Windsor, which was another problem that only she could solve. Let Nelson take her to meet the King and his reception would be different.
It was a full twenty minutes before they could sit down and the strain of standing had made Emma feel uncomfortable. In the womb the child was stirring and kicking. She knew her lover would want to feel this, so in the semi-darkness she took his hand and pressed it to her belly. Nelson felt a kick and his face lit up in a huge grin.
Then he heard a loud gasp, and lifted his head to see Fanny looking first at his hand, then at Emma, then at him. The knowledge that this was something with which she could not compete was in his wife’s eyes. She had failed to give Nelson the child he craved.
Fanny came half out of her seat, letting out a loud cry, which caused the crowd to look up. Then she collapsed.
11
For the first time in his life Horatio Nelson was less than happy to be going to sea. Having spent Christmas in Wiltshire at Fonthill, the country home of William Beckford, he had experienced something that, apart from the weather, was almost like a return to Naples. There had been no Fanny, just himself and the Hamiltons, the tria uno in juncto, enjoying the company of a fabulously wealthy host, in a mansion on which he had lavished a quarter of a million pounds, and which he filled daily with amusing and admiring people.
To call Beckford ‘a knowing one’ or a Jemmy Jessamy was an understatement. He was flowery to the point of caricature, every gesture an exaggeration, a man who could make a drama out of even the most innocent statement. When he talked it was in a breathless way, his mind skipping from topic to topic. Over-dressed, foppish, given to studied alarm at any unpleasantness, yet generous to a fault, a man to whom kindness and consideration were an obligation not a pastime.
That he was a shameless pederast bothered Nelson not one whit. Having been at sea as long as he had, and having visited ports aplenty, there was not much of a sexual nature that was a mystery to him, nor did his nature run to condemnation. Yet it was true that others disapproved mightily of Beckford, and were wont to berate as less than suitable anyone who socialised with him. Sir William’s view was simple: those who were worth
knowing and talking to loved Beckford: those who did not, who hated or feared him, were to be avoided.
Nelson’s own wife was among the latter. He had invited her to accompany him to Fonthill, but she had declined in shock, pleading with her eyes that he stay in London with her and his father. He could not agree to that. The prospect of even the shortest separation from Emma was not to be borne, and a cheerless Christmas in London had no appeal. But more important to Nelson was that Beckford adored Emma. And she loved Fonthill and its host.
When Emma and Sir William headed for London in the January chill, Nelson made his way to a meeting near Torbay with his old commander-in-chief, now likely to be his new one, Admiral the Earl St Vincent. Promoted to Vice Admiral of the Blue Squadron on New Year’s Day, Nelson felt he could look his old chief right in the eye if he mentioned their ongoing dispute over prize money, which was near to coming to court and, hopefully, resolution. But St Vincent had more important matters to discuss, like a proposed expedition to the Baltic.
Tsar Paul of Russia ruled the greatest power in the northern region, which his neighbours had every reason to fear. Reputed to be as mad as a March hare, murderous with it, and enamoured of Napoleon, he had created a federation of four kingdoms: his own, Denmark, Sweden and Prussia, called the Northern League. Its object was to deny Great Britain access to the Baltic and the naval stores on which her fleet depended. In the straits between Sweden and Denmark, the Skagerrak and the Cattegat lay the entry to the seas beyond. It was paramount that it must be of free passage to the Royal Navy and to British mercantile trade. To leave them in the hands of those who were, in all but name, enemies of Britain, would cripple the fleet on which the nation’s security depended.
Negotiations, especially with Denmark, had failed to resolve matters. The Danish king was more fearful of Russia than Britain, while voices in the British government were split between those who would keep talking and those who reckoned the only way to make the northern nations see sense was to pound it into them with cannon. Whatever course was adopted, a fleet must be sent to the area – no point in diplomacy if it was not backed up by force.
St Vincent was adamant that it was an operation for soldiers: that the Danish capital, key to the procedure should be taken from the landward side. The strait known as the Sound, the approaches to Copenhagen, was at best some four miles wide: it lay between Elsinore and the Swedish fort of Helsingborg. This, in St Vincent’s opinion, constituted a graveyard for warships. And that was before naval vessels got anywhere near the main Danish defences. Just where the government was going to find the ten thousand troops required St Vincent had not ascertained, and, in truth, with no standing army to draw on, it would be a naval operation because there was no choice.
‘They are planning to give the Baltic command to Sir Hyde Parker.’
Nelson was happy to see St Vincent so sprightly, more so than he had been on their last meeting two years previously off Cadiz. There, the wear and tear of endless years of sea time had undermined his health. There had always been something slightly odd about their relationship. As Admiral Sir John Jervis, St Vincent had been famous as a strict disciplinarian, who never suffered fools and was barely polite even to his most intelligent and active captains. On first meeting him, and well aware of his reputation, Nelson had expected to be treated in a like manner only to find the old and confirmed bachelor treated him as he would a favourite son.
Nelson knew that St Vincent had indulged him as he had no other officer under his command, giving him freedoms and responsibilities way above his rank, much to the chagrin of others, but it had paid handsome dividends at the battle from which St Vincent had earned his title. The Spanish fleet would have got away to the safety of their Cadiz base had Nelson not disobeyed the standing Admiralty orders contained in the Fighting Instructions and pulled out of his place in the line. It was he, risking court-martial and disgrace, who had brought them to battle, he who had boarded two Spanish ships in succession.
Nelson had become a hero to the nation and his Admiral had become Viscount St Vincent and a rich man. This had not dented his irascibility with others, or his determination to demand as much of the available prize money as he thought he could get away with. Nelson wasn’t the only officer who had served under him who was keeping the lawyers busy.
Clearly a stint ashore and the waters of Bath had restored the old scoundrel to something of his former self. And the dispensation that allowed him to exercise his command from a shore base overlooking Torbay meant that he was not constantly at sea, which would only cause a relapse in the state of his health.
St Vincent was too discreet to stare openly at Nelson, but he saw the cloud on Nelson’s brow at the mention of a command going to another admiral. It was one of the traits he loved about the man, that what he thought was imprinted on his face. In a world where most men hid their true opinions Nelson was an exception. St Vincent always felt he knew where he stood with him, a rarity indeed. If Nelson disapproved of a plan of action he said so, and his approbation was just as open and honest.
In near sixty years at sea, with a high measure of success, St Vincent had never met Nelson’s like. In his knowledge of his trade the man was a genius, who had the appealing trait of being unfazed by his gift. Nelson could dissect and explain an idea in a way that made it both clear and dramatic to whomsoever he spoke: seaman, officer, captain, and admiral. He had a healthy disrespect for rigidity in tactics, allied to an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of sea warfare through the ages. Show him an enemy, singly or in the mass, and he would, by some uncanny endowment, have the measure of them, their power in gunnery, their seamanship, their morale, in seconds.
Nelson knew his trade as well as any officer St Vincent had ever commanded: he was a first class seaman, a brilliant navigator, a master of every task on the ship that fell to every different trade or function. But it was his leadership that was most impressive. St Vincent had once wanted to be loved by his men, but had settled instead for their respect. To an orderly mind like St Vincent’s, Nelson ran his ships like a Barbary bazaar. In any course of action there was too much opinion-giving by junior officers, while warrant officers felt free to publicly moan if they felt slighted or overworked. Even a common sailor would look Nelson right in the eye and dare to smile at him if the mood took him.
Yet a Nelson ship sailed better and fought harder than any other vessel in the fleet. If there was some difficult and hazardous duty to undertake Nelson was the man to send. Some said he was a chancer, but St Vincent knew differently. Nelson was merely the supreme master of the fighting sailor’s craft. He knew instinctively what others would spend hours agonising over.
‘Sir Hyde Parker?’ said Nelson, his face screwed up with uncertainty.
‘It’s seniority, Nelson,’ St Vincent replied, although he knew that there were other reasons for not giving Nelson the post.
‘I cannot imagine that particular gentleman in an active role.’
‘He’s more active than you think, Nelson. The old goat is about to wed Sir Richard Onslow’s daughter, a lady over forty years his junior. A batter pudding of eighteen with no brains, to my way of thinking, but she’s bound to be sprightly at that age.’
St Vincent was thinking that if only Nelson had not shown such disregard for Keith’s orders then the voices against him at the Admiralty could have been silenced. Not privy to the truth about what had happened in the Mediterranean, when the public and the press heard about the Baltic expedition they would clamour for England’s best admiral and the Board might bend. But there again, maybe it would not: the man’s attachment to Emma Hamilton had further soured his reputation, even if his adoring public knew even less of that.
Given the choice, the Board would probably have left him on the beach, but the John Bulls of the shires, to whom he was the greatest hero since Drake, would not stand for it. St Vincent had even heard it said in some quarters that to treat Nelson badly was to risk bringing down the Government. Exaggeration, of cour
se, but it showed how Nelson stood with both those in power, and those who had to put them there.
Nelson knew Sir Hyde Parker. He had been third in command to Hotham at the action off Genoa and just as supine as the titular commander, a trimmer who would always take the easy route out of any problem.
Then I predict,’ he said, ‘that Sir Hyde Parker will sail to the Skagerrak, look at the Danes, think of the comforts of a young wife and sail straight home again.’
‘Not if they send you with him,’ St Vincent added, with a wicked grin.
That made Nelson sit up. ‘There is a possibility?’
St Vincent chuckled. ‘You think the Board of Admiralty is stupid, I know, but occasionally they can be counted on to show some sense, provided they heed the right advice. Parker is a lover of comfort not war, of his new wife and her charms in the bedchamber, not life aboard a ship in the North Sea. He has the seniority for the command, but not the stomach, unless you count its size. I have been asked my opinion and it is that they must send someone active with him. I intend to recommend you.’
Lord Spencer was aware as a civilian that the service members of the Board of Admiralty and permanent officials had an agenda that was not entirely attuned to his. The First Lord was a politician, and his appointment stemmed from that, though that was true of all the other members: no sensible government peopled such a vital controlling body with opposition supporters.
The exception was Evan Nepean. The long-serving Admiralty secretary was possibly the most important person in the room. He had in his hands all the details of the greatest fleet in the world: ships, numbers of men, monies available to support that huge enterprise and the areas in which weaknesses existed. In appearance he conformed to what a secretary should look like: grey-faced, with heavy lidded eyes under an old fashioned full wig.
Breaking the Line Page 14
