Authors: David Donachie
Emma didn’t see her mother nod sharply in her direction. She was too busy trying to imagine a life that could encompass so much space. This hallway would fit into her family home twice over. And here was Sir John inviting them into a huge parlour, full of brocaded couches and other beautiful furniture.
‘The child may wander the house if she promises not to be light of finger.’
‘My Emma is honest, sir.’
Sir John’s voice had taken on a husky quality. ‘Good! Then let it be madam. But I require you to join me in private.’
Her mother’s hand forced Emma round. ‘You’re not to go up them stairs, Emma, do you hear? You are to look round on this floor, or make your way to the kitchens. The cook will give you a bite. I’m going to talk with Sir John and settle all points regarding your learning.’
‘How long will you be, Ma?’ she asked.
The grunt from Sir John made her mother grin. ‘Not long, I reckon.’
She lifted the hem of her skirt and cloak, then swept through the doorway. Sir John followed swiftly, and Emma heard the latch rammed down. She walked across to the door, put her ear to the wood, and soon heard the half-strangled grunts. Emma grinned, spun round and skipped up the stairs. She had been told that rich folk slept on soft feather down, not horsehair, and though there was much to inspire her curiosity in this great house, that was paramount: she longed for nothing more than to experience the luxury – her grandmother had said it was the closest thing to heaven.
What her mother was doing in this house concerned her not at all. She had been a distant parent, coming to Grandma Kidd’s house, the Steps, once or twice a year, bearing gifts certainly, but hard words too about the way Emma was being raised and the freedom she was given.
The open door at the end of the landing revealed a huge bed with four carved posts and a ruched silk roof. The heavy red curtains, with
gold-tasselled
edges, were closed. Emma tiptoed into the room, parted the
curtains and her hand sank down into the snowy white coverlet until feathers enveloped it.
‘Why, my old gran has the right of it an’ no error.’
‘What are you about, child?’
Emma spun round to face the sharp voice, bobbing a curtsy as she registered the formidable shape, feathered quill in hand, sitting at the table in the window. ‘Who gave you permission to enter my house?’
The old woman’s round face was shaking with indignation, and her eyes promised dire punishment.
‘Sir John did.’
‘Did he, indeed?’ she snapped. Then she extended the hand that held the quill over the parchment on which she was writing and beckoned. ‘Come here, child.’
Emma moved with caution, her heart still pounding with fear, until a sharp gesture indicated that she should hurry. Finally she stood before the old woman, who examined her minutely, noting that her dress was
well-made
and clean, the plump, childish face healthy with rosy cheeks. However, all Emma saw was the deep frown, which she took for anger not interest.
‘I know you, don’t I? I’ve seen you by the roadside selling coal.’
‘I does that for my grandma, Mrs Kidd.’
‘So your mother is the widow Lyon?’
Emma nodded. The woman’s face relaxed and Emma realised that the lines had been wrought by pain not age. This was underlined by a wheezing cough that lasted several seconds.
‘You didn’t arrive here unaccompanied then?’ the lady gasped.
‘No,’ Emma replied, with an enthusiasm so natural she forgot her fear. ‘Sir John is with my mother now. He’s set to pay to see me put to learning.’
At the stern look engendered by that remark Emma gabbled. ‘She says she will not accompany him to London lest he keeps his sworn word to do so …’ Her hand flew to her mouth. She had said too much to this stranger. But the face softened with a look that made Emma think of her grandmother, and the quill stroked the back of her hand.
‘Hush, child. I am Lady Glynne and you tell me nothing of my husband that I do not already know. He may go to hell or London, for all I care. Just as long as I am spared his attentions and his conversation. As for your mother, I feel pity that any member of my sex should be so put upon.’
‘I wanted to see a feather bed,’ Emma said, hoping to change the subject, which was ten times more delicate now that this lady had identified herself.
‘See?’
‘Well, my grandma says I’d feel like an angel on a cloud if’n I was to rest on one.’
Lady Glynne smiled then, her heart melted by the look of wonder in the child’s wide green eyes. How could the oaf to whom she was married have any connection to such a fetching creature? ‘You may lie upon that bed,
child,’ she said, ‘for it is entirely mattressed in feathers.’ She watched, amused, as Emma skipped across the room, opened the red curtains and again pushed her hand into the feathers. It brought back a memory of her own mother’s room and how pleasant a haven it had been.
‘You must test your grandmother’s contention and lie upon it. An angel and a cloud, she claimed, did she not? It may be that she has the right of it. Had I a harp available, it would make for a pretty tableau.’
At Lady Glynne’s encouraging nod, Emma jumped on to the bed. She lay back and closed her eyes, arms and legs spread. If the lady noticed that her feet were bare, she didn’t say so, but Emma had walked down the muddy lane from the cottage and knew their condition. That had her back on her feet in a trice, lest she mark the linen.
‘Well, is it as your grandmother said it would be?’
Emma bobbed another curtsy. ‘It is, your ladyship. I pray that one day I shall own such a thing.’
‘Perhaps you shall, child. Now you’d best run along. I know my husband, and I’ll wager your mother is already looking out for you.’
An almost intolerable excitement had replaced Horatio Nelson’s
melancholy
at parting from his family. From King’s Lynn to London, it had chafed for two whole days in his gut, but he had suppressed it to avoid his father’s disapproval. Edmund Nelson, dark of countenance and pessimistic by nature, could not abide agitation, and constantly bemoaned the duty that had forced him to leave Bath and the curative waters he claimed made his life tolerable to see his son safely through the perils of the metropolis. It gave him scant pleasure to deliver him into the Navy, which he knew to be full of sin and temptation. Yet he could see no other way to advance Horatio in life. Even with the income of three clerical livings he had too many children to support.
The boy’s excitement survived a night in Kentish Town, a modest dinner and ample advice heaped upon him by his uncle William Suckling, an official in the Customs Service who claimed to ‘know a thing or two about the Navy’. He was now alone atop a coach on the London–Chatham road. And, by the time the coachman yelled that they’d arrived in the courtyard of the Angel the itch that could not be scratched had turned, to pangs of hunger.
The wind whipped through the narrow streets to swirl round the cobbled courtyard, but for a time the activity served to ward off the cold. However, as the coachman unloaded the luggage and the crowd thinned, Nelson realised that not one of the people left in the courtyard was naval, and that, of those who were still present, no one had the slightest interest in him. That was worrying: his father had assured him that he would be greeted warmly and whisked aboard his ship, that he would not need much money – which he would only waste, given half a chance.
‘You never can leave that there!’ barked the man in the streaked leather cap and apron, as Horatio stepped down and headed for the door of the inn.
Turning, the boy looked into the battered purple face. ‘It will only be for a moment. I must go inside.’
That earned him a hiss of censure from a mouth that seemed to contain only one yellowing tooth. ‘As you say, young sir. Why, that’s time enough for me to take a tumble and break my neck. Can’t have any cove that
fancies leaving his boxes about. Many’s the time Ah’ve found myself flat on my back, with only the good God to thank for bein’ whole.’ The porter’s face was only a few inches from Horatio’s and the smell of stale beer on the man’s breath almost made him retch. ‘But I don’t s’pose a young gent would give two hoots for that!’
‘I would, sir, I would,’ Horatio protested, stepping back two decent paces, suddenly aware that being free of a parental overseer had pitfalls as well as advantages. ‘But I believe that I am to be met. I must look for the person who’s been sent for me.’
Two fingers squeezed the cratered nose, and a loud blast of air served to clear it, sending a flurry of yellow mucus on to the cobbles. ‘An’ two seconds is what it takes to lose it, boy, what with the villains we have round here.’
‘If I may be allowed just a moment, sir, to enquire?’
‘Not half a second, that is lest you want me to guard it fer you?’
Horatio was just about to say yes when he saw the gleam in the man’s rheumy eyes. ‘Twopence will see it safe.’
‘That’s more than I can spare.’
‘Then you’d best take it along with you.’
Horatio’s pleading glance did nothing to soften the porter’s stance. He bent down and took hold of the new rope straps fitted to the battered old sea chest. Perhaps it was the cold, but it seemed so much heavier now than when he had tried to lift it at home.
‘If I take an’ end it will only run you to a ha’penny.’
Horatio shook his head and heaved, the brass edge moving an inch, scraping across the cobbles. By the time he had dragged the chest to the back door of the Angel the thick dark clouds, which had layered the sky since first light, began to pour forth the rain they had been promising all morning. Looking back, Horatio saw the porter standing as the water cascaded off his leather cap, silently cursing.
‘Look at Alfred Mace a-chunterin’ out there,’ said a light, pleasant voice behind him. ‘That rain five minutes afore would have been worth a shilling of ale.’
‘Then thank Christ it held off,’ snapped a stocky girl. She had come close to Horatio to peer through the thick panes of glass. ‘Too much ale frisks him. My arse is black and blue from his drunken nippings.’
‘Excuse me, miss?’ The girl looked down at Horatio, her round face red from the heat of the taproom. ‘Would it be possible for me to leave my chest here while I look for someone?’
‘No need to look so fessed, lad,’ she replied. ‘As long as it’s out of the way.’
‘I can’t afford to pay.’
‘Why, what are you bletherin’ about? There’s no need for to pay young sir. How much did that sod Mace try to dun you for?’
‘Twopence.’
‘Miserable old bugger, he is.’ she retorted, which made Horatio blush. ‘I’d
damn ’im to hell if I didn’t think that Old Nick would send him right back twice as nasty.’
The lobby was full of people and smoke, some blowing out from the logs on the fire, even more from long clay pipes. The taproom was heaving, abuzz with loud talk, and the fug was so dense it was hard to see. Several men in naval uniform sat there, though not one spared Horatio a sideways look. It would be rude, he thought, to interrupt their earnest conversations and enquire if they had come to meet a Mr Nelson.
He went outside again, through the front entrance into the street, which only increased his confusion. The road was teeming with people, carts, horses, running dogs and a dozen coaches fighting to make their way through the throng. Horatio was sure he’d never seen such a crush, nor heard such a babble of sound. His questions as to the whereabouts of HMS
Raisonable
were met with stony incomprehension.
‘Must be a ship,’ barked one man, the fifth he had asked.
‘She is, sir. A sixty-four gun line-of-battle ship.’
‘Then it be a waste seeking for that in the middle of the King’s highway. You’d best make your way to Anchor Wharf.’
The directions that followed, accompanied by much pointing, were complex. The youngster knew he had gained little more than a general direction but he offered his thanks. He set off, crossing the main thoroughfares, and more inquiries sent him downhill, through narrow, stinking lanes of tall, wood-framed houses, with workshops on the ground and homes above, concentrating on keeping his feet out of the stream of sewage that overflowed the central gutter, while keeping a sharp eye out to avoid the contents of a chamber pot that might suddenly be emptied above his head.
Eventually he could see the river Medway. Broad and tidal, it was full of boats of all shapes and sizes, but none from what he could tell looked anything like a King’s ship. The prints of warships he had studied had been specific enough. None of the vessels in the basin, floating or tipped over on the mud banks, had any trace of the array of flags, rigging and guns he remembered.
The gates of the great naval dockyard, surmounted by the royal arms carved in stone, produced no more help than the streets of Chatham. It was late afternoon now, even colder. There had been several heavy showers so it was a wet, bedraggled young man who spoke to the marine sentries, only to be told in no uncertain terms that they were not employed as guides for lost sailors.
Disconsolate, Horatio turned to walk back towards the Angel, wondering if he had enough funds to pay for a night’s lodging in the hayloft. His shoulders were hunched and the bottom of his cloak soaked and stained with every trace of Chatham filth. His spirits were so low he was close to sobbing.
‘Did I hear you enquire for
Raisonable,
young fellow?’
Horatio looked up, hope welling in his breast. The man before him, tall and erect, was most certainly a naval officer. The shape of his hat said so, as well as the gold braid on the blue coat that showed through his open cloak. More than that, he was smiling in a way that exuded genuine concern.
‘I am, sir,’ Horatio stuttered, trying to control his trembling, frozen limbs. ‘I’m assigned to join that vessel, which is commanded by my uncle Maurice.’
‘You are nephew to Captain Suckling?
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Raisonable
lies beside my own ship, out at Saltpan Reach.’ Horatio’s incomprehension was evident. ‘You do not know where that is?’
‘No, sir,’ Horatio replied, shuddering once more.
The man put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I daresay you would like me to show you where she’s moored?’
‘Yes, please, sir.’
‘I will, if you wish, take you out to her. My ship is tied up no more than a cable’s length from her mooring. But I think such a journey would be ill advised before we’ve dried you out and fed you.’
‘I must retrieve my sea chest.’
‘Which is where?’
‘I left it at the Angel, the inn where the coach stopped.’
Looking down, Frears could see that those bright blue eyes were close to despair, brought on by weariness and cold. But this young fellow was biting his lip in a vain attempt to restrain any notion that he might be a charity case. It would have been a bravura performance if he hadn’t been shaking so much.
‘Then that, young fellow, is where we will go. They have as good a fire as you will find in Kent, and the food is passing edible, certainly better than anything you will get aboard ship.’
‘As long as it is within my reach, sir, I’d be obliged. But if it is not, I would be happy to wait upon your pleasure.’
Frears was thinking, you would too, boy. You’d wait out in the cold and rain rather than admit to need. And, no doubt, you’d haul your chest through the streets even if you risked collapse. He wasn’t sure if that was admirable or foolish.
‘I, young sir,’ he said, finally, ‘will stand you dinner.’
‘B–but …’ Horatio stammered.
‘And quell your anxieties. I was in your shoes myself not many years back. I remember it well, mostly for the hollow feeling I always seemed to carry in my gut. It will give me pleasure to treat you to a meal, and engage someone to porter your chest. And who knows? One day, when you’re a lieutenant like me, you may be able to return the compliment. Now, what’s your name?’
‘Horatio Nelson, sir, but my family call me Horace.’
‘Nelson of the
Raisonable.
It has a pleasing ring to it. I am Lieutenant Frears.’
‘Of which ship, sir?’
‘Victory.’
The rain stopped before they reached the Angel where a table was quickly procured in the warm, smoke-filled room that had seemed so unfriendly just a few hours before. Without his hat the lieutenant seemed less imposing than hitherto. He had jug handles for ears, a soft, fleshy face and a permanent worried frown, for which, perhaps there was good cause: Horatio learnt that Frears had just enough interest with influential acquaintances to keep himself in employment, if the ship to which he was assigned wasn’t ready for sea.
Victory,
built ten years earlier, had never been commissioned, which suited him fine.
‘Better to be laid up, young feller, with no yards crossed and an empty sail locker, than stuck on the beach! Any berth has the legs on half-pay.’ He was also the father of four boys, whom he hoped one day would follow him into the Navy.
Frears had listened with understanding to the youngster’s tale of himself and his family, of his father, a widower who showed little inclination to remarry despite his brood, and the need for a man on a clerical stipend to place his children where they might prosper, taking advantage of a family relationship to get his third son a naval berth.
The sky had cleared to reveal twinkling stars by the time they hired a wherry from the naval dockyard. Out in the main channel, close to the point where the Medway joined the river Thames, a whole fleet lay moored. Horatio Nelson had never seen a ship-of-the-line close to, so the size of the great warships was astounding. The boat swept him past the
Victory
as Frears reeled off details about her size, complement when commissioned, and armament. A hundred guns, displacing two and a half thousand tons fully rigged and supplied, she was enormous, towering above the little boat he had hired to bring them out. ‘There’s your vessel, young Nelson,’ Frears said, finger pointing past the oarswomen, square-faced brutes with bad skin and arms like tree trunks. He was indicating a ship just visible in the gathering gloom as they ran under the gilded décor of the
Victory
’s
stern.
Raisonable
lacked the third deck that made Frears’s ship so impressive, yet up close she seemed even bigger. Horatio understood a fraction of what he was being told about her crossed yards and the standing rigging. That was partly through ignorance, but more because the knot of anxiety in his stomach made it difficult to concentrate. The rowers, pipes clamped firmly in their mouths, took their wherry deftly in a long arc, and swung it in expertly to touch against the platform at the bottom of the long, sloping gangway.
‘You will visit me, I hope, young man,’ said Frears, as a rope appeared and
was lashed to Horatio’s chest, which disappeared into the night air. ‘And pray be so good as to mention me to your uncle, Captain Suckling.’
Horatio nodded to the older man and, with some assistance from the hard-faced Medway women, stepped over the counter from the bobbing boat on to the empty, floating platform. Climbing the gangway brought him to the entry port, which led on to a long, dark, deserted main deck spliced by two sets of open stairways that led aloft. From the bottom of the nearest he could see starlight, and ascending that he rejoined his chest where it had been dropped. The men who had hauled it aboard were nowhere to be seen.
The upper deck was empty and
Raisonable
rocked gently, creaking and groaning. Occasionally someone would appear from a companionway and walk to another part of the ship, but they didn’t acknowledge him, and he was left to pace back and forth, once more shivering and a victim of the penetrating cold.
Horatio wondered if he was forever to be a deserted soul in an unfamiliar landscape. Did the jolly tars he had been led to expect, the decorated fellows singing and dancing that were the stuff of naval legend, really exist? Was that image a myth? Could this be the reality? A cold, harsh, indifferent world that made him long for the comfort of home?