Breaking the Line (6 page)

‘What of her reputation?’

‘I will not deny she has one. But I would remind you that I was born the son of a far from wealthy parson. Nothing in my background gives me the right to sit here. I am in this place because of my own
efforts to raise myself, that and the outstanding abilities of my officers and sailors.’

Nelson softened his voice. ‘We all have a past, Tom, even you. Do you not lie awake at night sometimes, remembering an action of yours that brings a feeling of shame? Yet often what you recall was done in ignorance, caused by circumstance not malice. For that reason you can ask God for forgiveness. We do not, any of us, choose the course of our life. All we can pray for is that on Judgement Day the scales will tip away from damnation towards salvation.’

Troubridge was torn between trotting out a truth that would wound his old friend deeply, that Nelson was becoming a laughing stock, and staying silent. He would have avoided such an entanglement like the plague. Emma Hamilton had an engaging sense of fun, a lively intelligence and a fading beauty. He had even written to her to warn her that she had enemies. But she had manifest flaws, to Troubridge’s mind, that totally outweighed her assets, the greatest that she lacked any notion of what constituted a sense of virtue.

Nelson could not see this because he was blinded to it, but she flirted with every one of his officers. Some would call it innocent: Troubridge saw it as an insidious attempt to command them as she commanded her lover. She drank too much and then what little self-control she had evaporated. The card games at the Hamilton villa had become notorious: Emma flinging money, usually Nelson’s, around with abandon, losing regularly and laughing as she dragged her exhausted paramour, who had been yawning for hours, off to their shared bedchamber. Troubridge also felt that what happened behind closed doors between her and Nelson did little to aid clear thinking in the man he loved and esteemed.

And then there was her husband, smiling, telling jokes and anecdotes, ever the superb host, unconcerned that another man was rogering his wife. He could say all of this or nothing. He felt that what he did say was feeble in the extreme. ‘Will you consider what I have said?’

‘Yes, Tom, I will,’ Nelson replied.

Both knew he would not.

Sir William had settled into a limbo, curious about the way he had taken to observing the two lovers, almost as if he was not involved. That Emma showed him respect in public was gratifying, but he worried that this did not extend too far into the evening. Too much wine made her tease people: it was uncomfortable to realise that he occasionally became the butt of her jokes.

Sir William’s ambassadorial cares had multiplied since the arrival of Charles Lock, who sought to undermine his authority and gave what he called advice that sounded more like commands. The man’s ineptitude was astounding. Presenting his papers as British Consul, Charles Lock had seen fit to lecture Ferdinand and Maria Carolina on the gratitude and duty they owed to England. That it was true did not make it a proper thing to say to reigning monarchs, who, discovering that he was connected by marriage to the rebellious Irishman, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, thought of him as a dyed-in-the-wool Jacobin before he ever spoke a word.

Pique at his reception by the royal pair redoubled the venom of his letters home, in which all the supposed failures of policy were attributed to Sir William’s fading powers. And he did not fail to mention Emma and her affair with Nelson, asking how an openly cuckolded near-septuagenarian could possibly represent his country. Nor was he content to leave Nelson free of scandal, accusing him in writing of financial peculations that played well with the Victualling Board in London, always in dispute with far-flung admirals. In Palermo, when these insinuations came to light, Lock was forced to withdraw with a grovelling apology, but at home his letters added to the growing disquiet about Nelson’s actions and activities.

To this were added the stories that appeared in the French press, fed by those in Palermo who disliked both Nelson and the English alliance. Reports circulated that the Admiral and Ambassadress haunted low-life taverns in the disguise of common seamen, with hints that they sought young male company to share.

To those who cared about Nelson, and who knew of these things, it was troubling that, as the year slipped to a close and a new century blossomed, their hero seemed unaware of any trouble he might be storing up for himself.

That Nelson had been proved correct about the French – that the fleet had returned to Brest, that no combination had been possible, that Minorca was safe – cut little ice with Keith. The position into which he had been thrust in taking over from the successful St Vincent and with the nation’s darling as an inferior, exacerbated his irritation. The moment had come for him to look this trouble square in the face, and the opportunity presented itself when he was ordered by the Admiralty to proceed into the Mediterranean. But his dignity demanded that Mohammed come to him – after all, he was the mountain – so he ordered Nelson to join him at Genoa. The rich
trading city was held once more by the French and the whole of north Italy stood in peril. Bonaparte had abandoned his army in Egypt and returned to lead the armies of the Revolution on the plains of Lombardy.

Keith knew he had to be careful: like every other senior officer he had his own troubles with the Admiralty, and he had good cause to be worried about his own standing while he had only limited knowledge of Nelson’s. His greeting, in the great cabin of his flagship
Queen
Charlotte,
though stiff, was polite, and his enquiry as to why his orders had been ignored posed as a query rather than as a demand for an explanation.

‘You will be aware, sir,’ said Nelson, ‘of my view of the independence of inferior officers.’

Keith had to take a deep breath to stop himself choking on his own bile. He was a man who ruled his inferior officers with a rod of iron. No ship in his fleet was permitted to be an inch off station on his flagship, no officer allowed any autonomy in the matter of dress, orders, or of how his ship should be handled. The Beechey portrait that hung in his cabin, which Keith thought excellent, told all who treated with him of his acerbity: a frowning forehead over heavy brows, full cheeks and a ponderous nose over unsmiling lips, the tall, broad shouldered body leaning forward as if to impose.

He was trying, with a weighty look, to do that to Nelson now, and was aware that it was having little effect. The man before him was half his size, thin, tired looking and pale. He had a light voice, in contrast to Keith’s booming gravel, and was festooned in the most vainglorious way with stars, medals and that Turkish thing in his hat. But just as he knew that Nelson should be intimidated, he was aware that he was not, which smacked of arrogance.

‘Our task as fleet commanders is such an onerous one,’ Nelson continued, ‘because we cannot know all that we need. Like you, sir, I have had chimeras rear their head, fleets that turn out to be no threat, an evasive enemy that reports tell me is in three places at once or is not to be found at all. I cannot tell you how often I have heard that
Guillaume
Tell
and
Le
Généraux
are over the horizon, only to find they are snug in harbour. We operate, too often, in a fog.’

‘Quite,’ was all Keith could say.

‘It has ever been my way, even when, as a captain, sending a lieutenant away in a prize, to ensure that they know they are free to act as they see fit. My instructions are general, in that I would like to see them safe in harbour, but not at the risk of passing up any opportunity that presents itself.’

That, too, was at odds with Keith’s method: he gave tightly written orders that he expected to be obeyed to the letter.

‘Before the Nile …’ Nelson paused, to let Keith acknowledge that the battle had been special, which he did with a nod. ‘… in all my conferences I stressed that any captain sighting the enemy was not to wait for my signal. By covering I hoped, in discussion, all the alternatives, I felt I could trust them to do as I would in the circumstances.’

‘You must be lucky in your captains,’ said Keith, with what he thought was unmistakable irony.

Nelson missed it. ‘That sir, has been my greatest asset. Captain Foley sailed inshore of the French at the Nile without any request to me for permission to do so. I point to the success of that as vindication of my way. Therefore you will readily understand that on receipt of your orders I applied the same principle, adding my judgement to yours.’

To damned well ignore them, thought Keith.

‘I knew you would agree with my dispositions once you had a chance to examine them.’

The man’s confidence was staggering and, to Keith, impertinent. He was tempted to tear a strip off Nelson, but good sense made him hesitate. He had already told everyone at the Admiralty that Nelson was a menace. He had seen the depth of Nelson’s insolence now. In future he would word his orders to make sure that they must be obeyed, so that this pipsqueak could never wriggle out of doing as he was told.

Nelson was still enthusing about his officers: Troubridge who had taken Rome, helped by a division of Russians. Alexander Ball, who had been made governor of Malta, even although Valetta was still in enemy hands, Hardy, Foley and the others, so that Keith reckoned they must fawn on the man. Then it was the turn of the Hamiltons, whom Nelson could not praise enough, Sir William for his long knowledge of Italian politics, Lady Hamilton for her connections to the court, which meant that he, as an admiral, was always abreast of the thinking of Ferdinand’s ministers.

Keith had heard rumours of the Lady Hamilton business, indeed he had even discussed them with St Vincent before the old rogue went home. Some said she ruled the fleet, that Nelson was putty in her hands. Worse, that the Hamilton woman was so enamoured of the Sicilian Queen that ships that should have been doing what Keith ordered were kept in waters that suited the Neapolitan cause. That he would stop.

‘It is my intention to accompany you back to Palermo, Lord Nelson, so that I can form a personal impression of how matters stand there.’

Nelson’s face stiffened. He had come all the way from Palermo to Genoa only to be told that they were going right back there, which to his mind was coming it pretty high. He was tempted to make some remark to the effect that St Vincent had been better in his manners. But the look on Keith’s face stopped him: it was as if the fellow was hoping he would say something untoward. And Nelson had come to smooth troubled waters, not rough them up.

Nelson had not liked the sound of Keith from his despatches, and exposure to the reality had only served to confirm that. Even with his well-known habit of looking for the best in everyone, he could find little in this Scotsman’s manner to enthuse him.

He would have been even angrier if he had been aware of Keith’s thoughts which were, ‘There you are, my laddie. For all your baubles and your dukedom, your self-importance and your Jacobin notions of how to handle a fleet, it is I who rule here.’

What Keith said was, ‘My wife is with me aboard
Queen
Charlotte.
She would be mortified if you failed to dine with us tonight.’

5

Nelson returned to the news that Sir William Hamilton had been recalled, that a new ambassador had been appointed and was on his way by frigate from England. This despatch cast gloom over the shared villa, intensified by the February weather and the dour presence of Lord Keith and his equally staid wife.

Sir William felt he had been swindled, never having asked to be retired. He had requested some leave, and failing that the Foreign Office could dispose of his post, but that was not the same thing at all. In his view it was a design to secure a plum post for Sir Arthur Paget, heir to the Earl of Uxbridge.

‘Yet the notion has its attractions, Nelson,’ said Sir William, when his friend had ceased commiserating. ‘It will be of some comfort to treat and deal with people who have only one face instead of several. I have to say these Neapolitans have worn me down with their manoeuvres.’

‘I don’t want to go home,’ said Emma, when she and Nelson were alone. ‘I have become accustomed to life here.’

Home frightened Emma. It was no place of mists and mellow fruitfulness to her but a cold locale that spoke of standards more duplicitous than she had ever encountered in Naples or Palermo.

Nelson had told her many times that one day he, too, would be recalled, indeed he had asked for that on several occasions when the burden of the tasks that faced him grew too wearisome. He was at the disposal of the Admiralty, and no commanding officer was left in place for ever. In London there would be any number of rear admirals pursuing his post and they could not all be denied indefinitely. But when he wondered aloud what was to become of them, Emma had made him concentrate on the delights of the
present. And Nelson had not the heart to insist they discuss the matter since it made her so miserable. Now she talked of being in England just long enough for Sir William to see to his affairs, his Welsh estates, collect the money owed to him by the Government, sell his remaining virtu, before they could return.

Sir William was no more insistent than Nelson that Emma look at the realities, but it would be impossible for his successor to feel secure if he was still in the Kingdom: Paget would see him as an alternative source of influence, and what he would make of Emma’s friendship with the Queen did not bear thinking about. He would also struggle, without Government support, to maintain the style in which they had lived. Certainly they would be comfortable, but to a woman who had become accustomed to grand living and to being at the centre of affairs, that might appear as a comedown.

Maria Carolina refused to accept that her, ‘dear Sir William,’ should go home, and sent a messenger to London to request that he be reinstated. When Nelson sailed with Keith to look at the situation in Malta, matters were still at a stand.

The two admirals arrived off Malta to be greeted by the intelligence that the garrison of Valetta, close to capitulation, could only hope for succour from a convoy of supply ships that had already left Toulon. The sole capital ship escorting it was
Le
Généraux,
one of the two line-of-battle ships that had escaped from the Nile.
Guillaume
Tell
was locked up in Valetta harbour, snug under the guns of Fort Ricasoli, but rotting at its moorings and a prime target for a cutting-out expedition to every captain who could see her.

If there were two ships that Nelson longed to see with a British ensign above their colours, they were
Guillaume
Tell
and
Le
Généraux,
because they had fled Aboukir Bay. Objectively, Nelson knew that their captains had chosen wisely in leaving a scene of defeat, saving their ships for the future, but he wanted them badly because then the Nile victory would be total.

If Nelson had any doubts as to how he stood with Lord Keith he was soon disabused of them. Used to independence, it was galling to have to obey orders that he felt to be inappropriate. The landfall for the supply fleet was Valetta: they had nowhere else to go. By standing close to that harbour there was no doubt about the notion of interception, the only caveat being weather so foul that they could sneak in unobserved.

Keith sent Nelson off on a chase to intercept them in open sea, beating into the wind in foul weather. His blood was boiling with the
certain knowledge that Keith was about the same sort of business to leeward, leaving the approaches to Valetta harbour unguarded. If the enemy convoy made its landfall, a whole year of siege would go to waste. The French garrison would be supplied with enough to keep them there for two more years.

As usual, when things were not going as he wished, Nelson spent every waking hour on deck. To the disgust of Tom Allen these were many, for disquiet ensured that Nelson could not sleep. He was jumpy, irritable and frustrated. He developed his usual raft of ailments over the three days and nights as he and the four line-of-battle ships he commanded beat into oblivion. He was close to a human wreck when the distant sound of gunfire came to
Foudroyant
through the fog.

‘Gunfire, Mr Pasco.’

‘I reckon it so, sir.’

Pasco had developed even in the short time Nelson had known him. His reply, which would have been tremulous a year ago, had been confident. Pasco had heard cannon fire, and he knew of what he spoke.

‘Pray for the
Le
Généraux,
Mr Pasco.’

‘There’s not a Nile veteran that doesn’t every day, sir. We vie with each other to gift you that prize.’

Nelson was touched, and as he stared into the mist, he hoped that the wetness around his eyes was from vapour in the air. He was weary, of course, but he also loved the men with whom he served in a way that he suspected not even perspicacious Emma understood.

‘Do you, Pasco, do you so?’

‘Masthead, ‘what do you see?’

That cry came from Sir Edward Berry, who had replaced Thomas Hardy as flag captain. Keith had put Hardy into another ship, a slack vessel that required his ability in the article of discipline. Berry had been with Nelson at both the battle of St Vincent and the Nile, his knighthood having come from the latter. He was a true fighter, and if there was to be an encounter, and Nelson prayed that there would be, the presence of Berry boded well.

‘Line-of-battle ship, sir, going large on the starboard tack. She has a tricolour aloft. There’s a hint of other ships in the offing but no clear way of saying what they are.’

‘I would like to close with that ship, Sir Edward. I believe I may ask for the signal, general chase.’

‘A signal to Lord Keith, sir?’

Nelson’s mind worked on the relative positions of the two groups of
ships, the weather, the wind, a fast piece of triangulation that produced only one answer. The signal could only be got to
Queen
Charlotte
by a repeating frigate: she was too far off to see it in this foul weather.

‘A waste, Sir Edward, we would put him to a chase for no purpose. Keith cannot come up on the enemy before we do.’

Berry didn’t look at Nelson. He did not have to, having seen him many times change from weakling to ardent warrior in the wink of an eye. What he did know from the masthead observations was that the enemy had gone hard about and had put herself before the wind.

‘A chance to show your mettle, so make
Foudroyant
fly.’ As the mist lifted Nelson made two observations: one that the chase was very likely
Le
Généraux,
the second that HMS
Northumberland
was in a fair way to head reaching the flagship. ‘We will require to do better, Captain Berry. That ship must strike only to my flag.’

Berry was ruthless. Within minutes he had the fire engine playing to wet the sails, so that they would draw better on the gusting wind. Hammocks were removed from the leeward side and shot put in their place to right the ship. Wedges were knocked from the masts to give them play and finally Berry had the drinking water started over the side to lighten her. And slowly, almost imperceptibly,
Foudroyant
began to pull ahead of
Northumberland
.

Now that he could see her Nelson knew it was
Le
Généraux
,
and his blood raced. He was pacing up and down, his short stump working furiously, aware that the Frenchman had a fair chance of escape. Then the masthead called that a strange sail had appeared ahead of the chase.

‘Demand her number!’

The flags flew aloft and were answered. ‘HMS
Success,
milord.’

‘Signal her to engage.’

‘Tall odds,’ said Edward Berry. ‘Thirty two guns to face eighty.’

‘They will do it, Sir Edward, mark my word.’

The truth of that was clear in ten minutes. The tiny frigate put herself across
Le
Généraux
’s hawse and let fly with a broadside that, aimed high, took out all the canvas above the topsails. But the enemy was not to be tickled, and had let her head fall off just enough to return a compliment in double measure, and with guns of twice the calibre. Hardly an in-drawn breath was expended on
Foudroyant
’s deck as they saw the French guns belch forth, to envelop
Success
in a cloud of smoke and spray. When the smoke cleared there was the frigate, battered, but doing all in its power to continue the pursuit.

The task allotted to
Success
had been carried out: the chase had
been forced to slow, and the damage the Frenchman had sustained aloft meant she could not immediately regain her speed.
‘Success
to come under our stern, Sir Edward, she has done well for her size, and the range tells me it would be worthwhile to try our lower-deck cannon.’

They were waiting below, guns loaded and run out, wedges rammed under metal to raise the elevation, the fingers of the gun captains twitching to pull on the lanyard that would fire the lock and send a thirty-two-pounder ball flying towards wood and flesh. Nelson felt the thunder of shot and recoil through his feet as they let fly, then watched as the great black balls flew over the enemy to raise great spouts before her dipping bowsprit, evidence that the range was excellent.

That applied to the Frenchman, too, who opened up on
Foudroy
ant,
sending a ball through her mizzen staysail that brought a light to Nelson’s good eye. He called to Pasco to ask him how he rated the music as his ship and
Northumberland
closed on
Le
Généraux,
who had no alternative now but to fight. Soon both British vessels were raking her with massive broadsides. Berry had gone for masts and yards, his consort for the deck, and both were accurate. The tricolour flag was half way down from the masthead before they could fire again, and Giddings was in a ship’s boat, with Berry, heading for the defeated enemy deck to find a French admiral too wounded to hand over his sword.

‘The convoy is scattered, sir, no more to be, which leaves Valetta in a sorry pass. I reckon we will have Malta complete in a month or two. Added to that, we have a fine large store ship full of everything from meat to brandy, which I suggest be spread through the squadron.’

Keith should have responded to that with appreciation, but he sat there, as he had throughout Nelson’s report, stony-faced and silent. It was that lack of a signal, of course, which would only ever have been a courtesy. There was no way
Queen
Charlotte
could have taken
Le
Généraux,
but he was probably miffed that, out of sight of the capture, the officers and men of his flagship were out of the running for the prize money too. Keith would get his eighth of course, but that signified little in a situation where he felt that it was not a subordinate’s job to assume anything. Nelson had left him out of the only action that was likely to be seen in these waters for quite some time, and pinned another laurel to his already overblown reputation.

‘I said, after the Nile, sir, that should I take
Le
Généraux
and
Guillaume
Tell
I would be content to strike my flag.’

Keith continued to stare at Nelson with what appeared close to loathing. He had enjoyed a good career, if not a spectacularly successful one, yet now he was faced with a man who could toss off a line like that. And why did Nelson have to keep mentioning that infernal Nile battle, as if he was determined to emphasise his superiority?

‘You cannot strike just yet, Nelson,’ Keith said finally. ‘I need you off Valetta. Perhaps with you there the French will give in a little quicker.’

‘Captain Ball, sir …’

Nelson never got a chance to say that Ball deserved whatever honour came from a captured Malta, for Keith interrupted him. ‘I will draw up your orders in writing. And I suggest that there are anchorages better suited to the task at hand than Palermo.’

Any lingering respect for Keith died in Nelson: it was no part of the man’s task as a commander to tell him how to live his private life and his suggested alternatives as anchorages were merely a smokescreen for the intention to keep him apart from Emma. But he stayed silent, leaving Keith to assume that he would be obeyed. In the past he would have spoken up, and damned the consequences.