Tested by Fate (28 page)

“A turban for all love!” chortled Nelson. “It would shake their lordships if I turned up at the Admiralty in a turban.”

Tyson grinned. “I fancy the idea appeals to you, sir.”

“Oh, it does, Tyson. It so very much does.”

The door opened and Tom Allen announced, “Captain Troubridge, your honour.”

“Tom,” said Nelson, rising.

“Sir,” Troubridge replied, punctiliously.

Nelson hated old shipmates to be so correct: it was just another example of the isolation his rank imposed on him. Right now this man was his second-in-command, yet he was still formal. It was never discussed because that was impossible, so Nelson could not explain how much he missed the easy camaraderie he had once enjoyed with men like Thomas Troubridge. They had served together as midshipmen, and it had been in Tom’s company that he had
witnessed
his first flogging and fought in his first sea action. A series of movements up the ladder of promotion had meant leaving behind those who had once been brutally truthful with him and were now inclined to be deferential.

“How are you, Tom?”

“Spitting blood, sir, since I’ve just come from the dockyard.”

Both men knew that Nelson was not referring to that, and he looked into Troubridge’s swarthy face for signs of the grief he must be suffering. They had sailed into Naples on the back of the Nile victory, only for Troubridge, who had run his ship aground and
missed the battle, to find that he was a widower: news had arrived from England that his wife had died. Nelson, who had hardly had time to talk to him since, knew that anything other than the most perfunctory commiseration would be unwelcome.

Even as a youngster, Tom had been unsentimental and
dedicated
to the service, a magnificent organiser and executive officer, trusted if not loved by his crew. He had also been the only one with enough courage to mention his dislike of adultery after Nelson’s dalliance with his Genoese opera singer.

The Good Lord help me, Nelson thought, if he ever finds out about last night.

They fell to discussing the shortcomings of the Neapolitan
dockyards
—requests ignored, work avoided, planking, masts, and spars nowhere to be found—like the money to pay for them. Was Troubridge, or John Tyson for that matter, aware that Nelson was keeping the conversation going to avoid that which he must
undertake
next?

He had a note on the table from Sir William Hamilton,
inviting
him to discuss the state of affairs in Naples, and how they must proceed if they were ever to stir King Ferdinand and his ministers into some kind of military action. Tom Allen forced the issue, with a polite reminder from Sir William’s messenger that he was
awaiting
Admiral Nelson, only to receive from his master a look of venom.

“Admiral Nelson,” said Sir William, smiling as he came to greet his visitor, who, to his delight, looked somewhat nervous. That a man who had become the nemesis of every Jacobin the world over, who had laid the ghost of Bonaparte and the infallibility of the French Revolution, should dread to meet him was risible.

Nelson’s throat felt as though it had a cord round it as he croaked his reply. “Sir William.”

“I trust you are quite recovered from last night’s exertions, Admiral,” Sir William paused just long enough to see Nelson blush, then added, “at the ball.”

As he made the short journey from Posillipo, Sir William Hamilton had decided how he would respond to what had taken place. It was out of the question to make a scene; it would be both ungentlemanly and demeaning. Neither could he imply that he knew what had taken place between his wife and the Admiral.

He was determined to see the matter in the context of the city and the state in which he resided. In Naples, it was not just
customary
for a man of parts to have a mistress, it was considered essential. In fact, it was in order for men and women to have
several
lovers at the same time, and the shifting sexual alliances provided an otherwise dull royal court with entertaining conversation. Many observed their marriage vows with laxity—and even the prelates of the Catholic Church had their paramours.

The King couldn’t be trusted with anything female, even his own wife, whom he had brought to bed with child eighteen times. Maria Carolina’s only release was in his multiple affairs, either with the ladies of his court or with beautiful and willing girls from a less exalted background who knew that he would be generous when he tired of them. Sir William and Emma had been the exception to the rule in their mutual constancy, he an amused spectator as nearly every man that entered Emma’s orbit tried to break that bond. Even the King had tried, only to find Emma very reluctant to entertain such a notion, and stopping him had taken all Sir William’s
diplomatic
wiles.

Sir William did not wish to embarrass Nelson, who he suspected had little experience with women. He had known that as he grew older Emma might take a lover and could not deny there was some consolation to be had if it turned out to be someone he liked and admired. But Sir William still had a sense of mischief and, without Emma present, he could not resist having a little fun at Nelson’s expense.

It was a delight to watch the confusion on his visitor’s face as he continued. “I do find balls so fatiguing, Admiral, and I attend a damn sight more of them than you do. Too much food, too much
wine, and a surfeit of tedious conversation make it hard for one to get a decent night’s sleep. I myself went to Posillipo last night to recover.”

He gave Nelson a direct stare then, which from what he knew of the man, would normally have been returned in full measure. This time the Admiral had to look away, his face filled with the kind of despair that might precede a confession. Sir William decided he had teased him enough. Time to get down to business.

“I fear I must inform you, Nelson, that things have changed since your last visit to Naples. Those with whom you treated in ’93 no longer have the power they had then.”

“Acton?” asked Nelson.

“His wings have been clipped,” Sir William replied.

Sir John Acton, an Englishman in the service of the Neapolitan court had proved himself a friend to the country of his birth. Nelson had arrived in Naples in November 1793, just after combined fleets of Britain and Spain had taken possession of the French naval port of Toulon. Nelson had been sent to request troops to help hold the place against the armies of the Revolution. Expecting lethargy he had been surprised when Acton announced that the troops were already being assembled. Six thousand men, with warships and
supplies
had reached Toulon in record time. That they had not performed very well mattered less than that Naples had provided them with such alacrity.

“He fell out with the Queen, I’m afraid,” added Sir William.

“They seemed so close, almost intimates,” Nelson mused, and regretted the allusion. It had been rumoured that Acton and the Queen were lovers, which was not a subject he wanted to raise.

“A rumour that Acton fostered, for by doing so he disguised his true inclinations.”

Nelson had heard that Sir John was a pederast. Indeed he had smoked a hint of that when they had met. Not that the notion
bothered
him. Nelson had met too many men of that stamp in the Navy, both officers and seamen, to care a fig for a man’s sexual
orientation. What mattered was how well they performed their duties, and in that respect Acton had been exemplary.

Sir William laughed. “The irony is that he and the Queen fell out over an object of mutual affection, a young officer from Saxony, a tall blond blue-eyed Adonis. A foolish whim from the Queen of course.”

Nelson felt a flash of irritation. Sir William was gossiping, which in the circumstances seemed singularly inappropriate. He speculated that the British Ambassador was not the man he used to be—a
fellow
who had had razor sharp instincts for the essential. Perhaps age had withered his professional abilities just as it had atrophied his limbs.

“Forgive me for meandering off the point,” Sir William went on, making Nelson feel doubly a scrub. “You will recall the Marquis de Gallo from your previous visit.”

“I do,” Nelson said gratefully, “though I must admit the
memory
is not pleasant.”

“Well, it is our misfortune that he is the person with whom we will have to deal.”

S
ITTING ACROSS THE TABLE
from the Marquis de Gallo, Nelson remembered why he didn’t like the man: it was his insufferable air of superiority. Gallo had a bland face and a flat voice. He was constantly evasive and gave the appearance of deep boredom,
playing
idly with a jewelled snuffbox whenever anyone else was speaking.

Nelson wanted evidence that Naples was prepared to take
advantage
of what he and his fleet had delivered to them. More than anything he wanted a firm declaration of war on France, which would encourage the other Italian states either to take up arms or rebel against the invaders. De Gallo had the ear of the Queen, who was the true ruler of Naples, plus the trust of the King, which implied political dexterity of the highest order. What it clearly did not imply was any predilection to zeal.

Looking at the Marquis, as he accompanied his passion-free words with tiny negative gestures, Nelson was reminded of
something
that had happened to him as a youngster. A fellow midshipman on his first ship, Tom Foley, who had later become a firm friend, had invited him to partake in a pissing competition, he who achieved the greatest distance to be declared the winner of a silver sixpence. Nelson went first, only realising when soaked how he had been guyed into pissing into the wind. He felt a little like that now as he reiterated once more the reasons why Naples should act swiftly.

“What if the news of Aboukir Bay reaches Paris before I can inform my ambassador there?” Gallo protested.

Sir William translated, then told Nelson of his intended reply: that even the rogues who ran France would respect diplomatic
credentials
. Then he reminded the Marquis that on his northern border the French had fewer than nine thousand troops of indifferent
quality
. That was followed by a rapid incomprehensible exchange before Sir William told him what had transpired.

“The Queen’s brother, the Emperor, who shows no sign of movement himself, is sending an experienced general from Vienna to take command of the Neapolitan forces.”

Evidently Nelson failed to respond with the enthusiasm de Gallo had expected for the Marquis frowned. The Admiral had had much experience of Austrian generals in past campaigns centred on the northern Italian states and nothing he had seen inspired him to expect from them either courage or military skill. All they had ever offered him was prevarication, obfuscation, or a terse note to say they were retreating or suing for peace.

“Baron Karl Mack von Leiberich,” Sir William added, “is already on his way.”

“When will he arrive?” Nelson demanded. The response from the Neapolitan Chief Minister was a shrug, so he added, “And the Navy?”

What followed was a long explanation, blaming the British for the delay. How could the Neapolitan fleet be fully fitted out when the dockyards were occupied with Nelson’s battle-damaged ships? It was a far cry from the time when Sir John Acton had been in charge.

Emma was playing Blind Man’s Buff with Prince Alberto, the youngest of the royal children, aware that the Queen was only
intermittently
watching them as she paced between her work-table and a window overlooking the bay. That was rare for a woman who had such a deep affection for her numerous offspring. Maria Carolina was troubled—indeed her life since coming here as a young girl from Vienna had seemed one whole sea of such. Her husband was suspicious, cunning at the same time as stupid, wont to leave the running of the state to her only to interfere at the most
inappropriate
time to ruin whatever consistency of policy existed.

Compared to the ordered world of the Austrian Court Naples was chaos. The Queen had never felt comfortable here, and even now was surrounded with a forty-strong cohort of German
speaking
servants. If Ferdinand was unaware that many of his aristocratic subjects were disloyal to him, his wife was not. She had seen her
own sister brought to the guillotine in Paris, and was shrewd enough to know that although the rabble made the noise, it was disaffected noblemen that made revolutions, and weak servants of the state who failed to stop them.

The Queen’s nephew, the Emperor of Austria, heading one of the mightiest states in Europe, had been forced into an ignominious peace. If her homeland, which was huge and capable of putting large armies in the field, could not resist, what chance had Naples? Maria Carolina had to take a decision that she longed to avoid: what advice should she give regarding relations with France?

A few years before, the decision would have been exclusively hers, a time when she had leant on the support of Sir John Acton, but no longer. Acton had not stolen money, but he had turned out in his own way to be just as corrupt and disloyal as the others. His successor, the Marquis de Gallo, was too slippery to control, having succeeded in getting Ferdinand interested in the management of his kingdom—mainly by engendering suspicion in him about the true motives and the fidelity of his wife.

That brought an ironic smile to the Queen’s lips. Ferdinand could not comprehend that she was not, like him, a slave to
physical
passion. Maria Carolina had desires, but of the variety of courtly love, that medieval construct by which a lover committed his soul to his paramour, yet suppressed any carnal thoughts. That was the kind of man she liked, and any intimation that matters should go further was instantly rebuffed. She got enough of that kind of
attention
from the slavering beast to whom she was married.

A high squeal made her turn. She saw Emma mock-wrestling with Prince Alberto, who was six, and third in line to the throne. He still wore the blindfold, yet protested his invisibility, although Emma held him in a firm embrace. If only, the Queen thought, she could emulate that childish ability to believe that if you cannot see, you cannot be seen. Then she could avoid the coming meeting which her husband had insisted she attend because the Marquis de Gallo had convinced him that it was the best way to stop her plotting.

To Maria Carolina, Lady Hamilton was a true blessing, and she regretted that protocol had kept them apart for the first years of Emma’s stay. As the mistress of a diplomat, Emma had had no
standing
in Naples, but meeting her had been unavoidable. She had surprised the Queen by speaking German, which endeared her to Maria Carolina. A bond had been struck and Emma had quickly become an intimate.

But it remained unofficial; protocol insisted that only those who had been received by their own sovereign could be received at a
foreign
court, and King George III flatly refused to entertain the notion of meeting Emma, even after she had married his childhood friend. But such a ruling could not stand in the face of the needs of a lonely queen or a fearful nation. Good relations with Great Britain had to be maintained and part of that meant that Sir William must be kept content.

Emma was now a
confidante
in the sense that Maria Carolina spoke in her presence about matters of state, her relations with her husband, and what to do with her children. But the Queen was never subjected to a question, never ever probed for motive, because that was forbidden. It was possible for Emma to advance ideas that had advantage for her husband’s mission as British Ambassador. But absolute intimacy was impossible: a ruler could never entirely trust anyone.

“Enough, children,” Maria Carolina said, waving away a
barrage
of protests. The various German women who had care of the children came forward to collect their reluctant charges, who would now be taken off to their lessons. The Queen persevered with
studious
application to their education, not least because she did not want them turning out like her husband. Before departure, each was required to kiss their mother, and none went without a peck from Emma. Maria Carolina felt a pang of jealousy that she received
dutiful
embraces, while Emma’s were given out of affection.

“So, Emma, what onslaught must we to face today from your little admiral?”

Emma started at “your,” then realised that the word had been
used in innocence. “He will not attack you, madam, but he will try to persuade you to attack the French.”

Maria Carolina laughed. “Believe me, Emma, if I were a man, I would need no persuasion. My sword would be stained already with the blood of those swinedogs.”

“Why change sex, madam? Perhaps what we need is a regiment of women.”

“Look no further than Naples for that, Emma,” the Queen replied, bitterly. “A true man in this forsaken place is not easy to find.”

There were things about which the two women disagreed, and Naples was one of them. Emma loved it for dozens of reasons, which seemed to be the same ones for which Maria Carolina despised it. The climate was benign in winter and bearable in summer, as long as they went out of the city. Society was frivolous, the peasantry idle but good-humoured, the scenery beautiful, even rumbling Vesuvius. There was the warm sea to bathe in, an idea that made the Queen shudder, and abundant highly scented flowers, which made her sneeze.

The only thing of which they seemed at one was the
Neapolitan
love of superstition. Maria Carolina was a firm believer in the Evil One, who could damn you to perdition with a look: thus she was covered in charms to ward off the actions of the devil and his acolytes. She had persuaded Emma to wear them too, because their friendship would render her person vulnerable if Emma was not
protected
. It was hard to argue with a queen, and Emma didn’t try.

In fact, she was careful in what she said, though not from
weakness
. Emma knew that she could speak to the Queen in a manner that would see others put firmly in their place. She didn’t try to understand why this should be so, but knew that Maria Carolina disliked falsehood or disguised feelings. Therefore, ever since they had first become close, she had behaved naturally.

“You would oblige me, Emma, by telling your admiral that my inclinations are to oppose France, but I may not be able to say so in his presence.”

“He will believe that without any words of mine, madam. He knows and esteems you from what I have told him of you in my
letters
.”

“Do you always write well of me, Emma?”

Intended as a joke, it was taken the wrong way, with Emma insisting, “I keep fair copies, madam, that you are at liberty to read.”

“No, no, Emma, my dear,” Maria Carolina said. “You have often read to me Admiral Nelson’s replies and that will suffice. I am often left to wonder if the person he talks of as Queen of Naples is me or someone imagined, so virtuous does he make me sound. Now, take my arm, and escort me to the door of that nest of vipers my husband calls his council.”

That Nelson emerged frustrated from de Gallo’s room came as no surprise to him. He had never expected to be greeted with news that the strategic and tactical moves he had recommended had been implemented. But he had expected political action. However, the man on whom he relied to pressure their putative allies had seemed reluctant to press his case. As he had perceived that morning, Sir William had lost some of his fire.

The best interpretation that Nelson could essay was that the Ambassador realised the limitations of what he could do and was determined not to raise Nelson’s hopes. But Sir William had been too soft on the Marquis. He had let him control the conversation instead of reminding a man who was a silk-clad scoundrel what he owed to Great Britain; to tell him that, years ago, without the shield of the British fleet, Naples would have been under French control.

That thought was reinforced as they entered the council
chamber
to face the several men and one woman who ran the kingdom. Ferdinand was there, of course, looking bored, although the
proceedings
had not even begun. Nelson observed the huge nose and heavy, dark features, the prominent brow made more so by thick eyebrows. The King had near-black eyes that never seemed to
settle
on any object for more than a second, and a hand that seemed to be continually scratching at his groin.

Ferdinand didn’t twitch; he was after all not actually mad, just very strange. A tall, broad-shouldered man who should have looked splendid and majestic in court dress, he was the most unkempt
person
in the room, with traces of food on his coat front. His wig was poorly dressed and very slightly misplaced which gave him the air of some character from a comedy of manners.

As usual a high cleric was in attendance, a hawk-faced
individual
that Sir William informed him was Cardinal Fabrizo Ruffo, apparently one of those divines who, rich before his elevation, spent most of his time increasing his wealth rather than tending to the needs of his flock.

The Queen was seated beside Ferdinand and Nelson saw her as no more regal than her husband. She was squat at the hips and
narrow
at the shoulders, with unhealthy skin, a heavy, gloomy mouth, and a long face that ended in a double chin. Only the eyes betrayed animation and intelligence. What was it that made Emma friends with this woman? In every letter he had ever received from her Emma had never failed to praise the Queen. And it was an
attachment
that had paid handsome dividends. Without Maria Carolina—and possibly Acton acting in his capacity as Minister of Marine, Nelson would have had to abandon the chase after
Bonaparte
. Then he recalled that it had been Emma, using every ounce of influence she had on behalf of her country, who had persuaded the Queen to break the rules of neutrality. For that she deserved a medal, and he resolved there and then to move heaven and earth to get her one.

A delegation from Malta was shown in, to tell the King and Queen that their islands, captured by Bonaparte, were willing to submit to the suzerainty of Naples if they could be recaptured. The home of the Knights of St John since the time of the crusades, Malta had been just the kind of prize craved by revolutionary France: rich, undisturbed for centuries, and with an abundance of treasure to steal. That treasure had been sent to the bottom of Aboukir Bay with the French flagship
L’Orient
.