Breaking the Line (5 page)

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, with 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?’

‘Well …’ Pasco hesitated.

‘You will find, Mr Pasco, that if you want something, it is best to come right out with it.’

‘I fear I have been brought up before Captain Hardy, who intends to lay the matter before Lord Nelson.’

Emma laughed again, which turned quite a few heads. ‘I suspect, Cornelia, that I am about to be asked to intervene.’

Cornelia Knight pursed her lips. It was well known to her and every other British national in Palermo that Nelson had admonished Emma many times not to intercede in matters of discipline, just as
she knew that Emma was forever doing just that. Everyone from a common seaman to a fellow like Pasco felt he could approach her to use her good offices, and it was also well known that Lord Nelson was like melted butter when Lady Hamilton asked for clemency.

‘Lord Nelson has stopped leave for six months for all us mids, my lady,’ added Pasco hopefully.

‘How barbaric, young man. What will social life ashore be without your presence?’ Emma was being sarcastic, and Pasco knew it. Midshipmen ashore in numbers were a menace: loud, brash and no respecters of local custom. But seeing the effect of her words she added, ‘Leave it with me, Mr Pasco, and I will see what I can do.’

‘I have asked you time and again, Emma, not to interfere in these matters. Hardy resents it.’

The truth that he did too was left unsaid.

‘Oh, the Ghost, must I ask him? He will glower at me with those great fish-like eyes of his.’

‘No,’ Nelson said, knowing that Hardy would, for his sake, deny her nothing. If the ship’s company ever found out that Hardy was susceptible to Emma’s wiles there would be no discipline at all.

‘So you will reject me?’

‘I fear I must.’

Emma went easily into dramatic mode and she did so now, her voice changed to that of a supplicant waif. It was wonderful the way she could use her scarf and straw bonnet to create an effect of downtrodden poverty. ‘Oh, sir, do with me what you will but do not ‘arm them poor lads who don’t know no better than to slash at a local who insults their womenfolk.’

‘Emma!’ said Nelson emphatically.

‘You can tie me to a gratin’ if you wish,’ Emma continued. ‘I care not if you rips the garments off my back, and goes to it with a whip.’ She was behind him now, her hands over his shoulders. ‘You has got a whip, your honour, I suspect, and I’m sure it be a terror to any young lass exposed to its ways.’

As her hands slipped down inside his waistcoat and her head rested against his, Nelson could smell her body. Much as he hated the idea that came into his head then, it was unavoidable. Cleopatra had struck again. Pasco would be forgiven, there was little doubt of that, and so, probably, would the other riotous mids. But would he ever forgive himself for being so weak where she was concerned?

Still, surrender was so pleasant.

His correspondence with Lord Keith was not going well. Though careful to be diplomatic, the despatches between the two admirals became increasingly terse as Keith sought to impose his authority and Nelson fought to maintain his independence of action. Nelson wrote often to the First Lord in London, well aware that his commander was doing the same, no doubt insisting to Lord Spencer that Nelson be either brought to heel or replaced.

The inferior officers, the captains of the men o’ war, divided too, and for the first time Nelson sensed a hint of fragmentation in their loyalty. Knowing broadly what orders were coming from Keith at Cadiz and how Nelson was responding, they were conscious of the impact on their own careers. Some thought that his refusal to obey Keith had more to do with his relationship with Emma, and a number of captains, much as they liked her, saw her presence as pernicious. Set against them were officers who observed only the benign effect she had on their over-burdened commander.

Nelson alternately worried about it and dismissed it as none of their concern. Yet his stepson Josiah nagged at his conscience. Even though he was mostly at sea, his stepfather always knew where he was and that what had been disapproval in Naples was turning to something worse. It was a forlorn hope that Josh had not alerted his mother to the state of affairs in Palermo. The most painful moment came when Thomas Troubridge, fresh from the capture of Rome, felt that he had to tell his friend the error of his ways.

The interview started badly and what followed made it worse. By his own standards Troubridge was being circumspect, but he was such a direct fellow that what he saw as subtle could be, when spoken, damned rude. He had questioned Nelson’s response to Keith’s latest orders, pointing out that as a subordinate admiral he had little choice but to obey.

‘Even if I disagree?’ asked Nelson. He spoke without rancour, still with that well known half-smile, for it was one of the tenets of his method of command that no subordinate should fear to tell a superior what he thought. Nelson reckoned any number of battles that should have been victories had been lost by the silence of inferiors.

He was fond of telling his midshipmen the tale of the wondrous Admiral Sir Cloudesly Shovell, who had hanged a flagship master who had dared to tell him that the course he was steering was wrong and, worse, that he was not in the chart position he thought. The man was still swinging from the yardarm when Shovell ran his whole fleet into the Scilly Isles, losing dozens of ships, thousands of men, and drowning in his own intransigence.

‘Perhaps, sir, it is a case you could put to him in person. Go and see Lord Keith.’

‘I would waste my time by sailing for the Straits, and I would also leave matters here in a state of flux. A party around the King is urging him to sue for peace with France. The only thing that keeps him true to his alliance with Britain is our presence and protection. Take that away and …’ Nelson left the rest hanging in the air. ‘Believe me, Tom, I have it on the very best authority. My information comes from the Queen herself.’

‘Brought to you by Lady Hamilton?’

‘Yes.’

There was an awkward silence. Nelson knew that, much as he liked her personally, Troubridge did not approve of his liaison with Emma. Tom had always been upright to the point of obsession and, having just lost a wife of whom he had been deeply fond, was scandalised by what Nelson and Emma were engaged in.

‘Are you sure, sir, that you are not being manipulated?’

‘How so?’

‘Are you being fed what the Queen wants you to hear, being advised of conspiracies that do not in truth exist?’

‘To keep me here?’

‘Yes,’ snapped Troubridge, who had allowed the idea to raise the level of his ire. ‘It gives me no pleasure, sir, to tell you that among a goodly number of your officers you are perceived to be unduly influenced.’

‘The word “unduly” sits ill, Tom.’

Nelson’s face had stiffened. But Troubridge had crossed a point where telling what he perceived to be the truth outweighed his sensibility to his commander’s feelings. Old friend or not – hero or not – Nelson had to be told.

‘You are seen, sir, to care more for our comfort than your duty to your King, more for the charms of Lady Hamilton than the defeat of the enemy. Do you not know that Lord Keith complains about you constantly to London? You are rightly admired, but I fear that you are dissipating that in the arms of a wholly unsuitable woman.’

‘You will have a care, Tom,’ said Nelson sharply. ‘Do not assume that the liberties I allow you as an old friend apply to Lady Hamilton.’