Tested by Fate (29 page)

Through whispered translation, Sir William kept Nelson abreast
of the submissions of the Maltese delegation and the King’s response: that his forces would kick the French out. To Nelson’s mind the Maltese could invite away and give credence to Ferdinand’s promises if they wished. Valetta was the only place that mattered and Malta would be a hard nut to crack with the French holed up in the main fortress. They were not like the Knights of St John, grown soft and corrupt through decades of luxury, an easy target to a determined invader.

De Gallo had arrived while the Maltese were making their case. After their departure he began to talk as though he was barely part of the proceedings, reiterating what he had told Nelson and Sir William already regarding the arrival of Baron Mack. Equally bored Horatio Nelson looked around the overly elaborate decor of the chamber: painted ceiling panels showed the various stages of some celestial contest; feats of a more modern nature graced the wall
panels
, with knights slaying everything from dragons to Saracens. He was unable to resist the ironic contrast between Neapolitan art and reality.

He needed soldiers and would have given his one good arm for British regiments that would march to his commands. As de Gallo droned on, Nelson let his imagination run to lines of red-coats advancing under his instructions, taking Rome and the states beyond and rolling the enemy back beyond Nice.

Sir John Acton was called upon to speak. Nelson ceased his meandering and concentrated on what his fellow countryman had to say. Acton had always had an agreeable countenance but age had sharpened his features considerably. Though dressed plainly in a dark silk coat and buff breeches, he was immaculate in a way that others present were not. Everything about his person spoke of a fastidious attention to his toilet, from his short well-powdered wig, to his gold-buckled and highly polished pumps. Nelson could see that his fingernails were even, manicured, and clean.

Nelson had always liked him because he was a positive force in this gimcrack court, too professional to be dismissed. He might not have the power he once enjoyed, but he was still a potent minister.
His information, which was far more encouraging than de Gallo’s, revealed that troops were available and more could be recruited. The royal regiments were up to strength and all the noblemen of the mainland and Sicily had been called upon to serve with horse and carbine.

Acton called upon Commodore Caracciolo to speak about naval preparations. An old adversary of Nelson’s, Caracciolo, despite his squat and muscular frame, had the same courtier-like arrogance as de Gallo. He declined to be specific—in fact, he did little more than invite Nelson to dine on board one of the Neapolitan capital ships as a guest of the King. Nelson could see what that meant without explanation from Sir William. Ferdinand was telling him that Naples was still neutral. To dine a British admiral on shore would breach the obligations of neutrality, giving the French envoy every right to object. Naples was sitting on the fence.

Which was where Nelson wanted to be on the way back to the Palazzo Sessa, preferably a fence miles away from Naples. The
meeting
he dreaded, at which he, Emma, and Sir William would be present, was about to take place. He contemplated an immediate return to his ship, but dismissed that out of hand. Even if
Vanguard
had been ready for sea, which she was not, his flight would strengthen rather than allay suspicion.

There would be a brief respite while each party returned to their own apartments, or so Nelson thought until he opened the door to his and found his stepson, Josiah Nesbit, waiting for him. The sight of the young man brought forcibly to mind an image of his wife, which induced feelings of deep guilt. This he tried to disguise by giving the young man a hearty greeting.

“I have come to proffer an apology, sir,” Josh said, as Tom Allen took Nelson’s hat and removed his cloak.

Stiff, non-familial, typical of the grown up Josh. “An apology?”

His stepson was looking at a point above his head. “For my behaviour last night, sir.”

Nelson looked perplexed. “I was not aware that your behaviour gave any cause for an apology.”

“Captain Troubridge does, sir, and also, it seems, Captain Hardy. I am here at their express wish.”

There was still no eye contact. “Josh, you can come and go here as you like. We are, if not blood relations, family nevertheless.”

“Sir.”

Nelson wondered what had become of the boy he had once known, whose company he had so enjoyed. In a life in the Navy Nelson had seen hundreds grow from nervous boys to confident men, watched them lose that sense of frolic on taking up an
officer
’s responsibilities. But Josh had surpassed them all. His golden hair had turned dull brown, his happy countenance had soured.

That he drank more than was good for him was obvious from the puffy face, bloodshot eyes, and the protruding belly in an
otherwise
spare frame. On his desk, Nelson had a letter of complaint from the commander-in-chief that alluded to transgressions without being specific. This was odd, because when they had met at the beginning of the year, prior to the Nile campaign, St Vincent had been full of praise for the same person his letter damned.

“For what offence do Hardy and Troubridge say you must
apologise
?”

“I made some remarks regarding you and Lady Hamilton, which they deemed inappropriate.”

Nelson turned away, with a sharp look at Tom Allen, which commanded him to leave the room. “Tell me, Josh, did you drink much last night?”

“Several of your officers told me I was drunk, yes.”

Nelson turned back, smiling. “Was it not an occasion to
overindulge
? We were celebrating a great victory.”

“You will recall, sir, that I was not present at Aboukir Bay.”

Nelson was angry now, but he sought hard not to let it show in his voice. “For God’s sake, Josh, stop being so damned formal. I am your stepfather, and while I acknowledge that such an estate
is not perfect I hope and pray you believe that I regard you as my own son. I have done everything in my power to advance you in the service and will continue to do so. Now, let us put aside the events of last night for a moment. Tell me what you did to upset St Vincent.”

“I became engaged in various disputes with my fellow officers on the Cadiz blockade, sir.”

“I can hardly fault you for that,” replied Nelson, with a laugh. “I have, as you know, spent half my service life arguing with some of them.”

His attempt to lighten the atmosphere fell flat. Nelson had already replied to St Vincent, requesting a more detailed
explanation
, while at the same time requesting that Josh be given a frigate and the right to serve under his stepfather’s command. Better to wait for a response from the Earl than to tax his stepson about his misdemeanours. However, although he didn’t want to ask what
happened
at the ball last night, he knew he had to.

“Tell me what was it you said that so upset Troubridge and Hardy?”

“I complained, sir, that the attentions you were paying to Lady Hamilton were those you should have properly been paying to my mother, and I said so loudly enough for a great number of people to hear.”

“She was our hostess, Josh. And I do recall that when you came here with me in ’93, she was the soul of kindness to you.”

Josiah Nesbit positively spat his next words. “Just as
I
recall, sir, telling you that she was a whore who had tricked Sir William Hamilton into marriage. And I also remember how severely you chastised me for that statement.”

“I thought you wrong then, Josh,” said Nelson, softly, “and further acquaintance with the lady means that now I know it.”

“She’s ensnared you too.”

The realisation that his stepson was jealous came as a flash of insight, though Nelson had little time to examine it. For five days in 1793, Emma had doted on the youth, flattered him, made him
feel special, and broken through his shyness. How had she treated him on his return? As just another naval officer, perhaps, well
connected
but of less account than the abundant Nile heroes?

“Lady Hamilton has ensnared no one, Josh. I will not lie to you when I say I find her a most pleasant person to be with.”

“I doubt you are alone in that, sir,” said Josh. “I should think that half the cocks in Naples share that notion.”

“How dare you, sir!” Nelson shouted, regretting it immediately. Too stout a defence of Emma could only confirm the young man’s suspicions. “How dare you bring your vulgar filth into my presence? Do I have to remind of my rank, as well as my status as your legal parent?”

“No, sir,” said Josiah stiffly.

“I have it on very good authority,” Nelson went on, “that the lady in question gives no cause for scandal. Have I not written to your own mother these last five years to tell her so, and point out that whatever demeaning gossip she might have heard about Lady Hamilton cannot be true? Do you not know that Lady Hamilton, out of the kindness of her heart, also wrote to your mother to praise you, and to tell her that, having taken you under her protective wing, she felt that you would grow to be a man of whom she could be proud?”

“I am aware of that, sir.”

“Then by your behaviour you are denying the truth of that assertion. Captains Troubridge and Hardy are right, you do owe me an apology. But more than that you owe a greater one to someone else who has shown you nothing but kindness. Lady Hamilton,
herself
.”

A
S HE MADE HIS WAY
towards the main reception rooms of the Palazzo Sessa Nelson was seething, yet he sensed that the ground was shifting beneath his feet. Who else had noticed his behaviour with Emma? Troubridge for certain, and his flag captain Thomas Hardy. Did they think the same as Josh? Had they, in fact, sent his stepson to apologise as a way of alerting him to the
obvious
nature of his behaviour? His own weakness, which he experienced that very morning, would work against him. Proximity to Emma shattered his resolve so he must never be alone with her, nor show her too much attention when they were in company.

The doors opened before him to a room full of people engaged in polite applause. As he bowed he saw Emma glance at him proudly. The look on Sir William Hamilton’s face was a combination of
admiration
and perplexity.

It was easier to avoid being alone with either Sir William or Emma than Nelson had supposed. Few occasions arose in the endless round of balls and receptions when they were not in the company of
others
. The Palazzo Sessa had always played host to a stream of visitors: expatriate or travelling fellow countrymen, locals and foreigners interested in art, antiquities, music, literature and gossip. Sir William Hamilton’s reception rooms were home to wit and malice in equal measure and, over the years of his tenure, they had become one of the focal points of Neapolitan society. With Nelson in residence the number of callers increased and The Palazzo always seemed full. When either the crowd, the contemplation of Emma’s beauty, or a stab of jealousy at the attentions paid to her by another man became too much for him, Nelson had his own apartments to retire to, where Tyson waited with sheaves of correspondence requiring his attention.

Most days and every night they went elsewhere to be
entertained
. In the main, Nelson travelled to these events in a separate carriage with his officers because whenever he appeared a crowd gathered to cheer him. Walking in the streets was impossible—he was mobbed whenever he tried.

The nights were the worst: alone in the dark he half feared, half hoped that Emma would visit him. A man with a lively imagination, he could easily conjure up the pleasure of her presence, just as
easily
as he could let his mind rip on the consequences. Often he feared to close his eyes, lest the images that assailed him came once more to mind.

He saw more of Sir William on matters pertaining to duty since the Ambassador was his conduit to the Neapolitan government. Slowly and haphazardly his ship was being refitted, the army was being mobilised and trained, supplies and armaments were being stockpiled. And Baron Mack von Leiberich was on his way. The frustration lay in the time it all took, and the way the whole of Naples society seemed more intent on dancing, gossiping, drinking, and eating than war. As he wrote to St Vincent, they were no more than “a bunch of fiddlers and rascals.”

Ferdinand and Maria Carolina made good their promise to receive him aboard one of their capital ships, the 74-gun
Tancredi
. His own barge crew, under the watchful gaze of his coxswain,
Giddings
, rowed him there. A stocky Londoner with a battered face, who had served with Nelson for years, Giddings never looked quite right in the neat blue jacket, white straw hat and gaily striped trews of his office. He looked like what he was: a bit of a brawler, a man who would never shy from a fight be it against a fellow sailor or the whole French fleet.

On coming aboard, Nelson’s professional eye was employed in comparing the Italian vessel with one of his own. The ship was dry and weatherly, the rope work neat, and the decks were pristine, all of which testified to time spent at anchor, not the quality of build. The ships of his own fleet were worn, having been at sea for months, in blazing sun, howling gales, rain, sleet, heaving seas, and battle.
Hardly a rope was not spliced or a sail lacking a patch, the decks gouged at the edges where the guns had been run in and out and in other places where shot had ripped out splinters. Even an
amateur
eye would spot repaired bulwarks and masts fished with spars and gammoned with ropes to strengthen them where cannonballs had struck or a hard blow had loosed them from their seatings.

“What do you make of it, Mr Pasco?” Nelson asked the young midshipman at his side as the ceremony of piping aboard was
completed
.

Wherever Nelson went he took with him one of the
midshipmen
, youngsters who alternated between fear of making a gaffe and the even greater dread that should food materialise they might not get enough. It was a means of introducing his young charges to polite society, but it afforded him a chance to get to know them better, and to ensure that their life in the midshipmen’s berth was bearable—it could be hellish if it was not carefully supervised. He also felt that contact with these youths kept him young.

He enjoyed their company too. There were exceptions, morose individuals or those too nervous to relax, but in the main, once they had realised that Nelson was not going to devour them, the
midshipmen
were talkative and informative. He had formed the habit when he took his first command, and malicious tongues had wagged. He had pretended not to care, but before his marriage he had
worried
that there might some truth in the accusations covertly made against him.

“Tidy, sir, very tidy,” Pasco replied.

He was a white-faced youth, whose clear skin seemed
impervious
to either the ravages of his age or the Mediterranean sun. He was slim, with black hair and lively, dark brown eyes, keen as
mustard
to do well, bright, intelligent, with the right mix of mischief and capability. Pasco was just the kind of young man Nelson liked: one whom, should he survive, would rise to become a credit to the service.

“And?”

“The men, sir,” said Pasco doubtfully. “They seem timid. They fail to meet the eye.”

It was true. Smart though they were they lacked the spark that animated a British crew. Britannia’s sailors had a way of looking at their officers which let them know that while they would be afforded all due respect, they were dealing with souls who knew how to go about their business. Not insolent—that would only bring down punishment—but assured.

“Well observed, young Pasco,” Nelson said, as they were escorted across the maindeck, “d’you know, I quite missed that.”

It was good to sense Pasco swell a little beside him. No doubt he would regale the midshipmen’s mess with the tale, embellished a trifle, of how he had put his admiral right. As they came up on to the sunlit maindeck, the midshipman fell a step behind so that his commanding officer could raise his hat to the Commodore of the Neapolitan fleet and the flag of the kingdom that streamed from the masthead.

The commodore was Caracciolo, and by waiting on the
quarterdeck
, the Count had inflicted a minor insult on Ferdinand’s guest: given Nelson’s rank and what he had just achieved, Caracciolo should have greeted him at the entry-port on the maindeck. He looked at Nelson keenly to see if the slur had been noted, and his
disappointment
, when he was greeted by a bland British admiral, was almost palpable.

Nelson and Count Caracciolo had met before, when the ships and troops of Naples had been despatched to Toulon in ’93. After that unfortunate town was abandoned to revolutionary reprisals Caracciolo, in one line-of-battle ship, had stayed with the British fleet as part of the squadron under Admiral Hotham. Able to speak clear if heavily accented English, he had served in the British Navy as a youngster attached to Admiral George Rodney, a man he admired greatly. At a dinner aboard Hotham’s ship, Nelson had questioned Rodney’s reputation. There was little doubt that the late, successful admiral had been corrupt. Everyone knew that in every
command he had held, he had stretched the rules to near breaking point to line his own pockets and promote his followers, however dubious their abilities.

He soon discovered that Caracciolo would not hear a bad word said about Rodney—nor it would seem, a true one. To the Italian the man was a paragon and any attempt to dent his reputation exposed the critic to contemptuous questions about their own
capabilities
and honesty. Everyone soon learned, including Nelson, that in Caracciolo’s company, Rodney was a subject best left alone.

“The Commodore and I, Mr Pasco,” said Nelson loudly, “were at the battle off Genoa in March ’95, he on this very 74-gun and I in command of
Agamemnon
.”

“Your favourite ship, sir, I am told.”

“By whom?” asked Nelson, ignoring Caracciolo who seemed offended that the guest of honour was more interested in talking to one of his midshipmen than to his host.

“All the old Agamemnons aboard
Vanguard
say it is so.”

Three things pleased Nelson about that remark: first, that it was true; second, that his old shipmates were not shy of telling anyone; and third, his recollection of the large number who still served in whichever ship he sailed. It was comforting to have around him faces he knew.

“Then while we are waiting for the King and Queen I shall tell you all about that day. I’m sure the Commodore will oblige you with a description as well. Having stayed close to the flagship he was so much better placed than I to observe the whole action.”

Nelson knew by the man’s pursed lips that he had paid Caracciolo back for the slight, and he took the opportunity to move away from him to tell Pasco of what had occurred that day. It was another Nelson habit to regale his midshipmen with tales of battles, sometimes those he had fought himself, more often those he felt would inspire them.

To call what happened in March 1795 a battle was to elevate it somewhat, Nelson rating it as no more than a skirmish. The French, sighting the British fleet had run for their home base of Toulon,
with Admiral William Hotham in pursuit. Yet he had proved timid when a chance came to trounce the enemy, seemingly more afraid of damaging his own ships than those of the enemy. It was a day of high hopes that ended as dust. In the initial excitement he had dashed off a note to Fanny.

He could have written a hundred pages as they sailed all through the afternoon and into the night. As the dawn mist cleared, the enemy lay ahead, still running, and Hotham ordered the fleet to give chase on a parallel course in line-of-battle. As one of the fastest sailers in the fleet,
Agamemnon
was soon well ahead, with half-
a-dozen
other ships who had also out-sailed the main body forming a block between him and Hotham, and a clutch of frigates out ahead almost in touch with the enemy.

One of the rearmost French ships, an 80-gun two-decker, had run foul of one of her consorts, carrying away her fore and main topmasts. The frigate
Inconstant
, with a mere 28 cannon
immediately
closed with what was identified as the
Ç
a
Ira
, a bold step given the respective firepower of the vessels.

Pasco was enthralled as he listened to Nelson, watching his hands as they traced the various ships’ positions on the hammock nettings.

The frigate had received heavy fire and was force to haul off to avoid destruction, but had achieved the aim of slowing the enemy, towards which
Agamemnon
was now standing. The
Ç
a
Ira
, under tow, was vulnerable, unable to manoeuvre, and unable to gain enough speed to get clear. Coming up in the wake, Nelson
overhauled
the Frenchman under a raking fire from his stern chasers. Nelson had had his own worries—
Agamemnon
was short of men through death, disease and the manning of prizes. He had too few hands aboard to sail the ship and fight the guns, so he resolved that the crew would have to do both.

“Once in range, Mr Pasco, I called the men from their guns to
man the braces and let fly the sheets. At the same time the
quartermaster
spun the wheel to bring
Agamemnon
’s head round. In the minute it took to come broadside on to the
Ç
a
Ira
’s stern we had taken several knocks to our hull and observed a couple of balls nearly nick the mainmast. But those gun crews were soon back at their pieces, in time to pour a devastating fire into the Frenchman. That was repeated several times with our ship being cut up quite badly on the approach. Sailing straight in
Ç
a
Ira
’s wake, we were unable to return fire.”

“Hot work, sir,” said Pasco.

“Two hours that went on, and though we took a bit of
punishment
we inflicted a damn sight more.
Ç
a
Ira
was a perfect wreck. The pity is that we could have overhauled her, for she was a sitter, and by passing her to windward taken on the next ship in the French fleet.”

“The
Sans
Culotte
, sir.”

“You know about this?” Nelson asked.

“Yes, sir,” replied Pasco proudly. “We mids know of every
battle
you’ve been in. We re-fight them on our mess table.”

Nelson nodded and smiled, for he had done the same thing himself as a youngster, and every time he and his messmates
refought
a battle, they always did better than the original admiral: taking more ships, inflicting more casualties, and employing
superior
tactics.

“I fear to continue this, Pasco, lest you inform me of where I went wrong.”

“The opinion is, sir,” said Pasco, guilelessly, “that it was Admiral Hotham who went wrong.”

“I am forgiven on your mess table for not getting amongst the French laggards for the lack of any ships to support me?”

Pasco replied in the same natural way. “Oh no, sir. You are
reckoned
brave but never foolish.”