Nelson: The Poisoned River (9 page)

Nineteen

Nelson, too sick to walk or even stand unaided, dressed in his full uniform to make the journey down to Greytown. He would have been better carried in a cot, he would have been more comfortable in loose and unconstricting clothes. The gleaming eyes in the starkly ravaged faced brooked no argument.

‘Tim,’
he whispered, ‘I am post captain in dear England’s navy, and as such I will comport myself. Wash me, Tim, from the keelson up, then dress me in my finery.’

He
even managed a ghostly laugh.

‘My
finery. Ah, those were the merry days, eh Timothy!’

Indeed,
the white linen, with high stock and flaring waistcoat, were nearer grey than any other shade. His breeches, also, were dingy and creased, some creases showing streaks of ingrained black. The gold buttons were dark with verdigris, while the gold collar and the edgings and lapels were dull and yellow-green. Despite everything that Tim could do, the signs and smell of mould were everywhere.

‘My
hat is lamentable,’ he said. ‘Tim, it is a drowned cat, but blue and ginger. It is lamentable.’

His
shoes were almost gone, but Nelson noticed, when he walked – unaided – out to make farewells, that they were in a better state that most. His navy men had given up the struggle and gone barefoot some time before, and most of the soldiers were in the same state now. Most were bare from knee to sole, and their tunics and breeches would have shamed a tramp.

Colonel
Polson had formed up a guard of honour, but everybody knew speed was essential. The captain must stay upright, must not collapse. He accepted a dispatch to take to Colonel Kemble, whose own had spoken of reinforcements now arrived at the river entrance, and made brief goodbyes to Despard and his fellow officers, then to his sailors and the soldiers of the Hinchinbrook.

‘Farewell,’
said Colonel Polson. ‘You will do great things in your new command, sir. And I promise you, I will send you news the moment that the castle falls. Row fast, men – or my despatches will reach Greytown first!

For
Hastie, speed was not a problem anymore. The waters of the Rio San Juan were high and racing, too high for the earlier rapids to threaten damage to their keel or bilges. A good time for the up trip was now considered to be about two weeks, but Nelson’s journey down took a bare three days. Hastie’s problem was only Nelson’s health.

‘The
first day he spent in sleeping,’ Tim wrote to Sarah. ‘It was, in some ways, almost a joy to watch. The racing water and the swift breezes made the rainfall almost bearable, and the mosquitoes gave us quits. To see his white face not covered with those biting, sucking monsters was balm to my soul. The tarpaulins in the boat gave more protection, also, than his tent, in that water hits them and runs off instead of bursting through as fog. I cannot say that he was dry, but he was dryer than he’d been for many days. I began to dare to hope that he might indeed pull through.’

Nelson
did pull through, although the cheering that greeted him when he reached the pool at Greytown was not long-lived. He was recognized while far from the bank because of his uniform – indeed as formal and impressive from afar as it was meant to be to frighten off the enemy – but closer to, that uniform became more like a ghastly joke.

‘He
was a skeleton,’ wrote Hastie. ‘The woodcut of Death himself on a broadside ballad, because I swear to you his head was but a skull. No wig, his hair has grown back sparse and straggled, the ginger bleached to near albino. It would have made your heart break,
cariad
. And then he stood up in the stern, and would not be helped at all to go on shore. Cuthbert Collingwood was there to greet him, and the two of them shed tears. Two brave men, Sarah, and they cried. It was a most affecting sight.’

One
of the reasons Collingwood cried, Tim Hastie found out soon, was the state of Nelson’s frigate and her crew. The Hinchinbrook had to be pumped for many hours every day, but the teredo worms were destroying her timber faster than it could be caulked. Unlike the frigate Parker had offered Nelson as a replacement, Hinchinbrook was sheathed with wood, not sheets of copper.

‘As
for her people,’ Tim confided to his journal, ‘there are few words to describe the horror they have undergone. When Nelson signed across command, the normal joy in such transactions was hollow as a drum.’

In
fact, it turned out later, of the two hundred or so of Nelson’s original crew in the Hinchinbrook, only about a dozen survived beyond December, and none of the deaths had been through battle. The frigate herself did not last much longer, although by then Collingwood had in his turn passed on the command. It took neither ball nor storm to kill her. The bottom rotted and she gently sank.

Timothy
followed the fate of the expedition for as long as possible. The figure that destroyed him most was the carnage wrought on the fighting 79th, the Liverpool Blues, the regiment he’d joined to raise the cash to marry Sarah. When they were disbanded, their numbers had gone from eleven hundred to eighty four, in four short years. The battles they had fought had been with disease, not men.

Nelson
left Greytown as news arrived from Polson that the San Juan fort had surrendered – the Spanish all defeated. Not so the mosquitos and the rain, however, whose depredations soon achieved unprecedented killing levels, among both officers and men. Now the battle that Polson, Dalling and the others had to fight was to convince the world the disaster had been in fact some sort of triumph; or at least an honest victory.

In
truth though – less than a year after the expedition had entered the San Juan river in hopes of dividing and sequestering the whole of the Spanish Main – that country’s flag was fluttering above the fortress once again.

‘We
must rise above it,’ Nelson told Hastie, during his long convalescence in Jamaica. ‘We must rise, and strive, and do our duties as we can. I shall be admiral, Timothy, that is my word of honour. I shall rise up off this bed and find a wife. And then I’ll be an admiral. You can count on it.’

Map

About the Author

Jan Needle has written many books about the British Navy in the eighteenth century, most recently
The Devil’s Luck
, which is also published by Endeavour Press.
The Poisoned River
is the first of a series about the life and times of Horatio Nelson, which will look at some of his lesser known exploits, as well as the ones which made him the country’s most iconic hero.

Born and raised in one of Britain’s greatest naval ports, Jan immersed himself in naval history from an early age, and has sailed in almost every sort of wind-driven ship, including square riggers. The first of his historical sea novels,
A Fine Boy for Killing
, is considered by many critics to be a classic. The Portsmouth News said ‘We’ve had Hornblower, we’ve had Patrick O’Brian, now we have Jan Needle. The bleakness and authenticity of his historical sea novels is like an Arctic hurricane.’

Endeavour also published his two most recent thrillers,
Other People’s Blood
and
Death Order
. The
Guardian
said of
Death Order
: ‘Calculated to leave ageing colonels twitching, and the rest of us open-mouthed…unlikely to endear him to the secret services.’ The
Irish Independent
said
Other People’s Blood
‘moves inexorably to its savage conclusion.’

Find more of Jan’s books at
http://amzn.to/1o8l807

His website is at
www.janneedle.com

And you can find him on Facebook
http://www.facebook.com/skinbackbooks

If you enjoyed reading
Nelson: The Poisoned River
you might be interested in
The Devil’s Luck
by Jan Needle, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from
The Devil’s Luck
by Jan Needle

Historical Note

Although this book, and those that follow it, is set very firmly in the eighteenth century, it does not deal with a specific phase in the never ending struggle for world supremacy between Britain and France, nor any of the shorter-lived interventions by other nations. Daniel Swift features later in the century as a captain of the frigate Welfare, but here he is a lieutenant, learning his trade with characteristic single-minded ruthlessness. The Seven Years War is yet to come, and naval skirmishes, rather than set piece battles, are the order of the day.

Chapter
One

Like
many
men
who
have
been
at
sea
too
long,
Captain
Hector
Maxwell
had
an
uncertain
constitution
and
a
stomach
that
was
ten
times
worse.
This
early
evening,
bowling
along
the
Channel
with
a
stiff
easterly
right
on
his
tail,
his
mood
should
have
been
all
sunshine.
It
was
not.

‘Look
at
him,’
he
told
the
assembled
dinner
table.
He
pointed.
‘Regard.
A
fine
young
man
foisted
upon
me
by
the
strictures
of
the
service,
with
all
the
backbone
of
a
maiden’s
pap.’

His
first
lieutenant,
a
stolid
man
called
Stewart,
belched
gently
into
his
fist.
This
was
a
permitted
solecism;
the
ship
was
rolling
like
a
bitch
on
heat,
and
everyone
was
feeling
it.
The
light
frigate
Pointer
was
over-canvassed,
because
Maxwell
was
in
a
hurry,
so
Stewart
belched.
The
midshipman
who
was
the
captain’s
target,
however,
was
going
green.

‘He
is
young,
sir,’
said
the
second,
with
a
smile
that
was
almost
gentle.
Lieutenant
Bullen
was
a
kindly
soul,
who
still
bore
the
scars
of
bullying
from
his
own
first
years.
‘What
one
of
us
has
not
felt
likewise
in
a
dead-stern
ripper?’

The
officer
next
to
him
snorted,
quietly.
It
was
delicate,
because
the
young
man
was
the
captain’s
nephew.
How
far
should
one
go
in
reasonable
contempt?

He
had
not
gone
far
enough,
it
seemed.

‘You
are
too
soft,’
said
Captain
Maxwell.
‘It
is
blows
he
needs,
Lieutenant
Swift,
not
farmyard
noises.
This
youth
is
the
fruit
of
my
sister’s
loins,
and
he
is
too
much
like
her.
Too
much
like
her
and
her
milksop
of
a
husband.’
An
infinitesimal
pause.
‘God
rest
his
soul.’

The
midshipman,
despite
himself,
gave
a
deep-rooted
shudder,
manfully
suppressed.
A
noise
escaped
his
throat,
which
might
have
been
a
half
a
sob.

‘For
the
devil’s
sake!’
the
captain
shouted.
‘If
you
are
sick
here
I
will
have
you
flogged!
I
will
flog
you
myself,
and
throw
you
overboard!
Pull
yourself
together,
man.
You
shame
yourself
and
us!’

The
first
lieutenant,
stolid
soul,
signalled
to
a
servant,
who
looked
on
in
concern
as
he
slid
the
mutton
trencher
on
the
table.

‘The
young
gentleman
may
need
a
bowl,
perhaps?’
he
asked.
‘Have
I
the
liberty…’

The
words
died
in
his
mouth.
He
was
from
the
captain’s
Sussex
home
and
household.
No
other
servant
would
have
dared
to
say
such
words.

‘It’s
a
bucket
of
water
he
needs,
on
his
shitty
head!’
roared
Maxwell.
‘You
boy,
Charles
Raven!
Craven,
more
like
it!
One
speck
of
vomit
from
your
lips
and
you
are
overboard!
My
sister
should
be
flogged
for
sending
you!’

Even
Stewart
showed
signs
of
mild
discomfort.
He
pulled
the
platter
more
firmly
onto
the
table
as
the
Pointer
gave
a
reeling
lurch,
and
reached
out
a
helping
hand.
But
Lieutenant
Bullen
got
there
first,
and
gripped
the
midshipman
as
he
tried
to
stand.
Lieutenant
Swift,
by
contrast,
moved
smartly
back
from
Raven,
who
had
gone
from
green
to
white,
a
glaring
white
with
large
and
round
black
eyes.

‘Look
out!’
he
said.
‘By
God
sir,
I
fear
he
will
defy
you!’

The
servant,
a
big
man
called
Winterson,
did
what
none
of
his
masters cared or
dared to
do.
He
threw
an
arm
round
Raven’s
neck
and
shoulders,
lifted
him
from
his
chair,
and
in
the
fluid
movement
of
a
seaman,
rolled
to
the
stateroom
door
and
through
it.
Above
the
sudden
clamour
of
the
Channel
squall,
all
heard
the
burst
of
retches
that
tore
from
out
of
Raven’s
guts
and
chest.

‘By
Christ,’
snapped
Captain
Maxwell.
‘And
now
I
suppose
I
have
to
carve
my
own
damned
butcher-meat!’

Smooth
as
a
dancer,
Daniel
Swift
reached
for
the
trencher,
and
the
knife
and
steel.
With
great
dexterity
the
mutton
was
uncovered,
the
blade
clashed
along
the
steel,
the
slices
severed
as
by
the
hand
of
a
French
chef.
Bullen
watched
him
with
a
strange
contempt,
while
the
first
lieutenant’s
face
remained
unreadable.
Captain
Hector
Maxwell
speared
two
great
hunks
on
the
point
of
his
own
knife
and
slapped
them
on
his
plate.