Authors: Christine Trent
“Oh! No, certainly not.”
“Then you know what to do with me. Take care of my dear Lady Hamilton, Hardy. Take care of poor Lady Hamilton.”
Hardy nodded and assured him that he would.
“Kiss me, Hardy,” Nelson commanded, to which the captain bent over and pressed his lips to his revered friend’s brow.
Nelson sighed. “Now I am satisfied. Thank God, I have done my duty,” he repeated.
Nearly in tears, Hardy stood silent in contemplation, then kissed the admiral’s forehead again.
“Who’s that?” Nelson voice was plaintive.
“It is Hardy, my lordship.”
“God bless you, Hardy!”
Unable to control his emotions, the captain withdrew to the quarterdeck.
Everyone in the admiral’s presence held a collective breath, knowing that with his good-byes said to the captain, he would not last long.
His remaining time was spent pleading for the country not to forget Lady Hamilton and his daughter Horatia, as well as steadily repeating his great sentiment, “Thank God, I have done my duty.”
He soon grew speechless, so Marguerite called the surgeon back over from his attendance to other wounded sailors. Mr. Beatty felt Nelson’s forehead and declared it cold, but almost as if to deny his unstated prognosis, Nelson opened his eyes and quickly shut them again. So the surgeon moved on again to take care of other patients.
Marguerite was certain she had stopped breathing herself, as she watched the great admiral’s breathing grow more and more shallow. After not seeing his chest rise and fall whatsoever for several moments, she employed Mr. Beatty’s technique of putting a small mirror to Nelson’s mouth to see if it would fog the glass.
Nothing.
“Mr. Beatty!” she called, although it was unnecessary. The cries of anguish from the men gathered about their commander were enough to bring the doctor back and officially declare that Nelson had expired.
It was half past four. It had been less than five hours since the start of the battle and it was already concluded. England’s greatest victory had brought with it her greatest loss.
Mr. Beatty assumed leadership in the care of Nelson’s body. “Mr. Smith, Mr. Westemburg, we’ll need to find Lord Nelson’s hammock and wrap him in it.”
“Mr. Beatty, excuse me,” Marguerite said. “His lordship specifically asked Captain Hardy not to throw him overboard.”
“But he has one with hangings made by his mistress. It’s his special shroud.”
“Yes, sir, I know. But he and the captain seemed to have a special understanding about it.”
The surgeon grunted his disbelief in Marguerite’s assertion, yet still sent Smith topside this time—since most danger was past—to find out the truth of the matter.
Mr. Smith returned with a confirmation that Marguerite was correct: Nelson was not to be buried at sea but instead taken back to London for a state funeral. A special coffin, made from a piece of the mainmast of the French flagship at the Battle of the Nile, had been presented to the admiral after the battle. Nelson had left the coffin in keeping with agents in London but, before leaving for Trafalgar, had had the history of it engraved on the coffin’s lid. He told Hardy mere days ago that he thought he might have need of the coffin upon his return.
Mr. Beatty deliberated only a short time, while tapping his glasses
against his own bloodied shirt, before deciding what to do, and enlisted Marguerite and both of his assistants to help him.
Since there was no lead on board to make a coffin, he decided to use a leaguer, the largest size cask on the ship, to hold the body. He had Marguerite cut the admiral’s hair off so it could be sent to Emma Hamilton, and also asked Marguerite to dress him in whatever clean shirt she could find. She performed this task with greater melancholy than anything else she had done thus far. The mood on the orlop was somber at best, and few men were even speaking, much less laughing, singing, or shouting over their victory.
Meanwhile, the assistants were sent off to find an empty leaguer.
Once they returned with it, the four of them lifted Nelson’s body and put it in the cask as gracefully as possible. The two assistants were then sent to the hold with two other sailors to find some casks of brandy, which were used to fill the leaguer and so preserve Nelson’s body. A sentinel was posted next to the leaguer night and day to guard it.
Their grim task finished and the battle as good as over, Mr. Beatty invited his workers—including Marguerite—to his cabin to share some ale and rest awhile.
But there were more troubles brewing for the crew aboard
Victory.
For Nelson was not delirious when he so anxiously fretted about a storm.
And it was not just any storm.
It was a hurricane.
Nathaniel fancied he was a born pirate, given his success at capturing a small French merchant ship. She was carrying luxury items—magnificent fabrics, casks of fine wine, and a fine collection of rococo furniture—and was slowly making her way to parts unknown with her trove.
Wax Maiden
crept up out of a morning fog onto the unsuspecting ship and took her with little trouble. After plundering the ship, they shot through her sails and masts to disable her, and left the French crew aboard to drift until one of their allies could find them.
Nathaniel’s men were overjoyed by the take, which would keep them all in ale and the gaming hells for a year, even with Nathaniel taking the lion’s share.
A smart thing it was, not telling his new crew that he didn’t actually have a letter of marque authorizing him to do any privateering. Now the men were so sated by their fresh kill that they’d do anything he asked of them.
He stood at the bow of his ship as it plowed along, his eyes closed against the considerable wind.
Finally, he was approaching his destiny.
“Mr. Ashby?” Nathaniel was interrupted in his reverie by his quartermaster. Mr. Watson was his only crew member who actually had sailing experience. He’d seen action years ago at some tiresome old battle with the French.
“Yes, Mr. Watson, what is it?”
“Sir, I think there’s a storm brewing.”
“So? Don’t ships like this just ride them out?”
“Sometimes. I think this is a big one, though. Maybe even a hurricane. Sir, with this kind of load we’re carrying, we should probably head back to shore. It’d be a shame to lose what we worked so hard to get.”
Nathaniel would normally be outraged by an inferior telling him his business, but tonight was different. He
had
coordinated a great victory for his men, so he could afford to be magnanimous.
“Very well, tell the others. We’ll dock for a few days to revictual and let them expend some of their exuberance, then we’re off again. Tell them there’s a bonus of a sovereign each for everyone who comes back.”
Yes, Nathaniel Ashby was on the verge of a great, heroic adventure that would make the capture of the French merchant ship look like a meager fishing expedition. As Mr. Watson departed, Nathaniel was already imagining medals being looped over his neck.
Portsmouth, October 20, 1805.
Claudette and William had been in Portsmouth more than a week. Daily they made visits to various naval officials and the local hospital to inquire about their missing niece, but no one knew anything. Their task was made doubly hard because they had no portrait of Marguerite to show anyone.
In a stroke of inspiration, Claudette suggested they visit nearby churches. Perhaps Marguerite had sought refuge at one for some reason.
“Refuge?” William questioned. “Refuge from what? Or whom?”
Claudette looked at him helplessly. “I don’t know. But it’s worth exploring.”
“You realize it could take weeks to visit all the churches in the vicinity?”
“Whatever it takes, William. We have to find her.”
So the pair rode from church to church during the day, inquiring of ministers and groundskeepers about their missing niece, and in the evenings pored over newspapers for some article that might give them a clue about her disappearance.
Even Claudette was on the verge of admitting defeat when they came upon yet another small parish church, a dilapidated structure about two miles away from Portsmouth Harbor. Storm clouds were gathering in the distance, promising a soaking rain later in the day.
The parson, a kindly man by the name of Langdon, furrowed
his eyebrows in thought. “You say she was bringing something for Lord Nelson on
Victory?
In fact, I do remember seeing her. I visit the docks regularly, you know, to spread the gospel to the lost who come in and out of England’s harbors. Your niece was standing on the quay with her bags about her, trying to figure out how to find her wagon of goods. I recommended that she visit the storehouses at the harbor.”
“Yes,” Claudette interrupted. “We’ve been there, but no one remembers her.”
The parson smiled gently. “No, I suppose no one would be remembered in the lunacy of that building. However, I saw her come back out. She disappeared briefly, then returned on top of what I presumed was her wagon of goods. She paid the driver, and one of the sailors standing about helped her carry everything aboard. I’m afraid I must tell you that she never left the ship.”
“Never left? What do you mean?”
“She never came out. I believe
Victory
sailed with her still aboard.”
Claudette gasped, and William put an arm around her to steady her.
“Impossible! Are you sure? Might you have turned away or been focused elsewhere and missed seeing her depart?”
Langdon’s eyes were kind but certain. “No. I pay close attention to those who enter and depart ships, to be sure I get a chance to speak with everyone. Besides, your niece was very noticeable as one of the only females at the dock who was not a sailor’s wife or an … unfortunate woman. Your niece sailed on
Victory
and is presumably still there.”
Claudette sat down on one of the church’s pews to fan herself. The parson quietly excused himself, murmuring that he would pray for Marguerite’s safe return.
William sat next to her, stroking her hair. “At least we know now that she wasn’t abducted or murdered by a highwayman somewhere.”
“Small comfort, William. I promised Marguerite’s mother I would always look out for her. And now she’s off to
war
with England’s greatest enemy. Possibly hundreds of miles from here.”
“Marguerite is a grown woman. She chose her involvement in Pitt’s scheme. There was nothing you could do.”
“I know, I know, but now the agony of waiting is even worse. She’s all alone in a ship full of rough sailors, with not a soul who cares about her. What must she be going through?”
“Come.” William tugged on her hand. “Let’s go back to the inn before it begins raining. We’ll think overnight about what to do.”
But that night their thoughts were preoccupied with the fierce storm that raged up against the coast. It didn’t rain so much as it flooded to nearly biblical proportions. The cacophony of howling wind and gyrating water was deafening, punctuated only by the periodic crashing of uprooted trees and loose objects outside being flung furiously against the building. It was as though God had initiated a second flood, but they had not been chosen for the ark.
“William,” Claudette whispered deep in the night. “Is Marguerite in this storm as well?”
William rolled over and kissed his wife’s forehead. “I don’t know, love, but you can be sure that Lord Nelson has things well in hand.”
Claudette snuggled against him for warmth and comfort. “I hope so. For now he’s not only England’s greatest hope, but Marguerite’s. And ours.”
By morning the storm had reduced its wrath, but the rain continued to pour steadily for the next two days. During a break in the tempest, William took a drive to inspect damage. He returned with his opinion that the roads surrounding Portsmouth would probably be impassable for days.
“And I suspect the storm was of such magnitude that what we experienced was just a glancing blow. For anyone out in the ocean …” He let his words drop.
Claudette was too exhausted from sleeplessness and worry to respond, and went back to the letter she was writing to Marie Tussaud to let her know of their progress. But wordlessly the couple was of the same mind.
They would remain in Portsmouth until
Victory
returned with Marguerite. Alive or dead.
* * *
There was no rest for either the victorious British, or the defeated French and Spanish ships, the hulks of which were being lashed to British ships for towing in. Unfortunately for the fleet, Admiral Collingwood overrode Nelson’s final command that they anchor in anticipation of the brutal storm, and so for three days they endured another battle, one to keep their ships out on open water without colliding into one another nor riding inland to be smashed against the shoals.
For Marguerite, the chaos of the battle paled as compared to the turmoil and fear that coursed through
Victory
in dealing with the heavenly outburst. Many of the ships in the fleet, including
Victory
, were badly damaged, with masts blown off, holes blown into their sides, and inoperable steering mechanisms. The storm not only pummeled the ships further, but prevented any repair work from occurring.
During and after the battle, carpenters and sailmakers alike had been frantically trying to repair their ships while afloat, but most of the sea craft needed dry docking to effectively restore them. All of the crews’ focus was now on simple survival: keeping the ships on course and avoiding more damage. Marguerite overheard a sailor say, “A beady-eyed Spaniard I can face, but God’s fury makes me weep like a baby.”
As she prayed for safe deliverance, she reflected with irony on the rough voyage from Greenock to Dublin in which Philipsthal had been killed. My, how that now seemed like just a pleasure voyage compared to this. As she sat huddled in the sick berth, changed back into a set of her own clothes once again, she resolved that if she survived this storm, she would never, ever,
ever
board another ship as long as she lived.
Not even at Darden’s insistence, if he was even still alive.