Authors: David Donachie
Having served with and been a friend to Maurice Suckling as a youngster, he would not suffer to see the nephew confined to a sick bed below decks. Nelson was accommodated in his own coach, off to the side of his great cabin, the care for his health physical and spiritual the personal
responsibility
of the Captain. Natural daylight came through the casements as well as fresh air. Though his steward administered food for the body, the care of the young man’s spirit was a duty that fell to Pigot. Given the wavering nature of the boy’s illness, in and out of deep fevers that continued to waste an already skeletal body, he veered between sermons on hope and tracts to prepare a troubled soul for the rigours of eternity.
In lucid moments Pigot and Nelson read psalms together. If he was well enough he was taken out on deck to attend the Sunday service. That was an obligatory gathering for the whole ship’s company, a requirement that could not be laid aside for anything other than danger from battle or the elements. An inspection of the ship, by the Captain, followed before the various elements of the crew were permitted to worship in their own manner. When sick, in a half-comatose state, smitten by another bout of fever, Nelson would lie in his cabin listening to Pigot read his service, his grip on reality often tenuous.
‘He has a faith that I fear shames mine.’
A voice close by was inclined to bring Nelson out of his troubled sleep, and Pigot’s voice was the cause of that now. He knew, even with his eyes closed, that he had again been very ill, so much so that he had lost all track of time. He was too exhausted even to open his eyes, as he heard the purser of HMS
Dolphin
reply. ‘Either that or a will that bespeaks pride.’
‘Never. Remember, I have sat with him. I know he loves his God as much as we do ourselves. Odd that though I never clapped eyes on the boy till he came aboard sick, I have come to esteem him almost as much as if he were my own son.’
‘That is a dangerous fancy, Captain Pigot. And if it is true that you feel so you must steel yourself to the prospect of loss.’
‘That I have done already, though I have prayed for a better conclusion.’
‘In truth, he should have expired already. The final spasms cannot be long in coming.’
So I am going to die!
That notion was not new to Nelson, nor was it wholly unwelcome. Death
was a constant, as his father was fond of saying, quoting from Corinthians, ‘As in Adam, all die’, though he would never fail to follow with a message of uplift, like, ‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.’
Nelson was subject to the contradictions of the very sick; death, and the release from pain, suffering and shame, held a deep attraction; against that, life held out a vision of fame and fortune, of a lieutenant’s commission, of being gazetted as a post captain, then an admiral’s command, manoeuvring great fleets and confounding England’s enemies. There was a beautiful wife, too, and a hoard of smiling children, broad acres to shame his Orford cousins and a great palace, a gift from a grateful nation to rival the Marlborough edifice at Blenheim.
The
tableau
vivant
of Wolfe, the hero of Québec, the nobility of his death, the fluttering of the flags recurred in his troubled dreams, a great many of which were attended by his mother, albeit a younger vision of her than the one he remembered. Her message varied little in substance, even if he conjured up new wordings. Duty and diligence were the foundations of her refrain.
She came again now, as he slipped once more into semi-consciousness, wavering between benign concern for a sick child and a hard remonstrance to be about his duty. Anyone still watching him would have seen his lips move, though they would have struggled to hear the whispered words as the boy spoke what he was sure were his mother’s utterances.
‘Step back from the gates of the abyss,’ he hissed, unaware that the ship in which he lay turned on to another tack that brought sunlight streaming through the window above his head. He felt the heat on his face as the hand of benign Providence, and through thin eyelids the world was suddenly the colour of bright gold. ‘Let death be stayed so that you can commit yourself to your nation, free to sacrifice your life, if need be, to raise her standard high.’
He ran the gamut of positive images again: lieutenant, captain, admiral, hero.
Pigot was on deck now, supervising the weekly running in and out of the guns, which rumbled mightily through the deck timbers and carried the tremor of their passing into the fevered brain sweating in the swaying cot. Visions of a stately mansion dissolved into the flame of battle as, using a private supply of powder, James Pigot set one watch against the other in firing the
Dolphin’
s
great guns.
The intensity of the golden light increased behind the invalid’s eyelids, concentrating into an ever-narrowing beam, his mother’s face to one side and that of General James Wolfe to the other. His lips moved again in translation of her pleas, which followed immediately on the boom of the second cannon.
‘Death will spare you only to a purpose, Nelson.’
‘I must be a hero!’ he said out loud, in a cracked voice of enough power to
alert Pigot’s steward, who had been preparing a light repast in the pantry and now rushed to the patient’s side.
The whole ship shuddered at the third shot, which heralded an emphatic ‘Yes!’ from his mother, again evident only on her son’s lips, and not witnessed. But the words that followed were audible and, to a deeply religious man, which Pigot’s steward was, they sounded like portents.
‘I see before me a golden orb,’ Nelson said, ‘a light so strong as to burn the soul.’ The steward crossed himself, then leant forward to try to hear the whispered words that followed.
‘That is the light of the Lord’s grace, Nelson, which shines upon you calling you forth to greatness.’ The voice deepened. ‘That shall be my destiny.’
Pigot’s steward didn’t know whether to run or stay, didn’t know if these utterances were the words of the devil or the incantations of angels.
‘You will be spared if you accept your fate.’
The image melted as two of the great guns fired simultaneously. The worried steward placed a cooling cloth across the sweating brow. Beneath it the face carried a smile, beatific to the impressionable observer, the look of a man at peace with his Maker. Fearing he was about to pass over, the steward ran out towards the deck to alert the captain.
Emma Lyon, now resident in the attics at Arlington Street, learnt many things in a short time, mingled with much teasing from the other residents. Among those was the deep dislike Mrs Kelly had for the word ‘whore’. Any man loose tongued enough to use it faced immediate ejection from her establishment. All those employed at the house were ladies, even if the euphemism ‘nuns’ was quietly applied. There was no prudery, but discretion was everything.
London enjoyed many layers of licentiousness, from street walking strumpets through rookery moll houses to the more salubrious bagnios of Covent Garden. Arlington Street in St James’s was in a different league, close to clubs like White’s and Brooks’s. It was a house that few men were ashamed to be seen entering or leaving, styling itself a place of
entertainment
. The nun’s morality was loose certainly, but the attachments formed were expected to last longer than the few minutes allotted to a heated lecherous coupling with a moll.
In her first few months Emma wasn’t allowed a hint of that. Her employment was simple: to keep the house clean by day and stay out of the way after dark. Time and her own insistent desire changed that. Cleaning remained her true chore, but within six months she was permitted to attend tables and guests, chastely dressed in a maidenly costume, serving wines and sweetmeats, smiling prettily and ensuring that her flawless complexion and fetching green eyes were noticed.
In this she was coached by her mother, who taught her to bob while placing a dish, to serve from the left, allowing the faintest brush of bare flesh to connect with the flapping male hands that came her way. Avoiding anything more telling came naturally to a girl who had been the object of male desire since her earliest years. She knew as she worked that she was under triple scrutiny, the first maternal, the second male and sensual, the third and most exacting, Mrs Kelly’s.
The proprietor watched her whenever chance permitted, coolly
appraising
her ability to deal with men, and judging the worth that could be placed on the unsullied virtue of such a lively and beautiful young creature. If she
made a mistake, it was to mention the subject in the presence of Emma’s mother.
‘Jesus,’ Mrs Kelly protested, when Emma’s mother had finished spitting blood, ‘you make it sound as if I have no notion of how to proceed in such matters.’
‘How can that be, when I’ve seen you carry it through a dozen times?’
‘With proper discretion, for sure. And I know how to take my time. Mother of God, the way you’re talking anyone would think I’d peddle her off to the first guinea laden rake with the wit to enquire.’
That had the ring of truth: the Abbess knew her stuff, knew that virtue could be milked, but that once surrendered the loss was permanent. Conversing with her customers she would promise much and deliver little. But eventually she would surrender Emma, charging a price for the privilege. Emma’s mother was in a bind, and that had much to do with her own standing as well as the rating Kathleen Kelly put on Emma’s virginity. She could only watch as the Abbess prepared Emma for the inevitable, using kind words and flattery to persuade the girl that what must be surrendered one day was best done in comfort, an arranged affair in which the older woman’s experience could be employed on Emma’s behalf.
‘The right fellow can open the gate to a life of pleasure. I’m sure, young as you are, girl, I don’t have to tell you what the alternative is.’ Kathleen Kelly was enough of an actress to make her next word strike terror into an inexperienced mind.
‘Pain!’
Virgins were highly prized, especially by the older men, and a clean, guaranteed one, as opposed to the numerous scruffy urchins on the streets, created a demand that made temptation impossible to resist. Kathleen Kelly had her clients’ trust. They knew she would never sell them short, vend the same girl twice, or lie about the hymen, employing tricks like sheep blood sacks inserted to expend false virginal blood. And the deflowering would be a pleasant affair, with the girl well prepared, fed with good wine and advice, willing instead of tense and anxious. Hardly surprising that bids for Emma had already been placed.
From her own experience, Emma’s mother knew where that would lead. And there was another consideration: the longer Emma spent in the comfort of Arlington Street, the harder it would be to persuade her to return to a less glamorous existence. She would not see that the prospect that faced her mother now would face her in fifteen years’ time. But to complain too emphatically might see them both on the street without a farthing to sustain them. Getting Emma out of this place was a project that needed time for both mother and daughter to garner a little money.
Emma was no help, revelling in the freedom that came her way. As soon as Mrs Kelly saw that she had a way with her, the personality to make her customers laugh – which in turn encouraged them to spend money – her morning duties evaporated steadily. There was a wardrobe full of clothes to wear and, properly chaperoned, she was allowed to go out with the other
nuns, to walk in Kensington Gardens, even on picnics at which some of Mrs Kelly’s clients were present to pick up the bills.
It was an alluring life to a girl of Emma’s age: free from expense, full of laughter and the finer things in life, wine, sweetmeats and attentive companions willing to insist that she was the comeliest thing. Looking older than her years added to her allure and offers from men to attend to her well-being were frequent. Quite a few were genuine, in the sense that a man might take her for a mistress, provide her with rooms, food and comfort so that he could enjoy the exclusive right to her favours. She might have succumbed without competition, but her companions on every occasion were not about to allow this newcomer a clear run at advantage, and scotched any overture that was broached.
Her mother was even more active, scouring the parts of London she knew well, talking to those she could trust to be discreet, hinting to those in whom she had less confidence. She knew that during her service at the Linley house Emma had been attracted to the world of theatre, and although acting was not, for a woman, perceived to be much different from whoredom, Mary Cadogan knew it to be a far more respectable occupation.
‘I have managed to secure a position for both of us, Emma,’ said her mother, having got her daughter alone.
‘We have that here.’
‘You might, I don’t.’
Mary Cadogan fought to remain calm in the light of Emma’s pout; there was no doubt that her daughter relished the life, loved the clothes and male attention, and would put up not one jot of resistance to Kathleen Kelly when the time came for her to fulfil her side of their bargain. She also knew there was a wilful quality in that heaving breast.
‘Emma, do you believe me when I say I care deeply for you?’
That took Emma by surprise, making her answer sound weak. ‘As a mother should.’
‘More than most I know. Do you remember Hawarden?’
She nodded, her first recollection being of that huge feather bed, the kind she occupied by right now. It was soon replaced by the memory of the dark, heavy countenance of Sir John Glynne.
‘I gave myself to a man for whom I had little affection on the promise that he would see you educated.’
Emma’s reply had all the defensiveness of someone who had not appreciated the gift. ‘He didn’t, though.’
The smile on her mother’s face showed a real awareness of her own past foolishness. ‘No. I won’t say he lied to me – the attachment and the way it were governed was plain enough. But he evaded his word at the first chance presented, leaving me to fend for myself in a way that I did not relish.’
‘Here?’ Emma demanded, looking her mother straight in the eye.
‘It’s better in Arlington Street than it could have been. I don’t know that
I’d have fallen so far as the street – I would have gone home rather than that – but have you ever stopped to ask yourself that with all the time I have been in this house, I have never scraped together much in the way of money?’
Emma couldn’t hold that eye contact. She knew that her negative answer would wound before she uttered the word ‘No.’ She heard the sigh though, not deep but a measure of the hurt.
‘You’ve seen the other nuns with the gifts they’ve been given stuck on finger or dress? Look Emma.’ Mary held up her ringless hands, and rubbed the top of her dress, which was free of jewellery. ‘Look back to the Steps, to your uncle Willy sat by the fire, shirking for a living. My da, stuck out on that damned marsh to keep marauding dogs from the sheep, was never much to bring food to the table. And your gran, for all her wiles, can’t fight increasing years. Then there was you!’
There was pain in those eyes a glistening of tears that spoke of years during which her mother’s desires had played second fiddle to the needs of the family, and an unspoken hint that it had scarce been worth it.
‘I know you sent money home.’
‘As often as I could, even selling that which I was gifted.’ The maternal voice was firm again, as Emma’s mother suppressed her memories and focused on her purpose. ‘Now, if you want to stay under this roof, I don’t know as I can stop you. But I hope and pray that you believe I have your best welfare at heart, and that if I was to advise you, you’d abide by what I say.’
Emma’s surrender was so meek and swift that it took her mother, geared up to continue the argument and unaware of how much guilt she had loosed, by complete surprise. It was a bonus that Emma was still young enough to see the need for conspiracy as a game. They had to get out of the house without Mrs Kelly finding out, and have rooms waiting for them to move into. London was no place to be on the streets. A few days without a roof and the deterioration in appearance became manifest. That meant accommodation was even harder to find.
James Graham was the provider. A Scotsman by birth, a doctor by training, he was also an innovator who sought cures outside the tenets of his profession, with its addiction to bleeding, blistering and laudanum. He was not a handsome man, rather stooped in his posture. His wig was rarely properly powdered and his narrow face with large bags under the deep-set brown eyes was far from attractive. But he was blessed with a silver tongue between his thick red lips and a persuasive personality, based on the assumption that if he believed something it must be true.
Graham, determined, forthright and sure of his own brilliance, had thrust himself into the world of fashion, claiming that he held the secrets of cures to innumerable ills that refused to answer to traditional methods,
particularly
in the article of procreation. Such nostrums, especially delivered with assurance, fell on eager ears. The rich and fashionable felt they had a God-given
right to good health and were always willing to pay exorbitant sums to achieve it. But Graham’s great coup was to interest Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, the most fashionable hostess in London, in his electrical cures. With her endorsement, every door in the capital was open to him. If electrical therapy was good enough for her, causing her to shower fees on the Scotsman’s shoulders, it was good enough for the whole
ton.
Society clamoured for his attention in such numbers that he couldn’t cope.
His answer was a fanum, medicine with a touch of the theatricals, to be called the Temple of Aesculapius, which he was in the process of setting up at the Adelphi on the Royal Terrace in Bond Street. A mock Grecian edifice, it would be dedicated to health, with particular emphasis on all matters related to long life and the begetting of children. There he could treat people in numbers denied to him in a mere drawing room.
It also allowed Graham to extend his experiments. That it also added lustre to his name, by spreading it to a sector of society he had yet to reach was an added bonus. Dr James Graham became what he had always wanted to be: the talk of the town. In this round neo-classical hall, he had the perfect conditions he believed, to advance his ideas and take them to an audience that included the merchants, traders and businessmen of London, as well as the landed gentry.
It was no great distance from Arlington Street to Bond Street and Mary Cadogan had come to him through a friend, just at the moment when both were in need. The good doctor was sure that the physical presence of beauty would enhance his lectures, just as the purity of a sweet voice would help to set the tone and calm the nervous. With her connections to the world of the
demi-monde,
Mary was able to provide him with half a dozen handsome women who could be trusted not to disgrace his efforts, while she secured for herself the position of managing them. Emma, with her sweet, high voice, gained the place of
chanteuse.
Not that either was right away thrust into work. Flush with money from the indulgent Duchess of Devonshire, Graham seemed indifferent to the fact that he was employing a pair for his spectacle without them, at that point, having much to do. He was an odd creature, evangelical in the way he propounded his beliefs, yet unable to shake off the impression that a charlatan lurked in his hollow chest. Tall, thin and stooped, with arms and legs that never seemed quite to co-ordinate with his body, he nevertheless had facial features that became compelling when combined with a deep, reassuring voice that in full rhetorical flow was quite spellbinding.
A man who had treated the Duchess and her friends to a dose of electricity was hard to argue with when he insisted on treating Mary and Emma. All his employees must see the benefits too. Emma was thrilled by the idea, unlike her mother, to whom the tingling that coursed through her limbs was the cause of alarm not pleasure.
The Adelphi was transformed: the windows were painted with portraits of the relevant Greek goddesses, those who spoke of good health, wisdom and
fecundity. Doric columns stood at either side of alcoves where at night those recruited and costumed by Mary Cadogan would disport themselves, revealing just enough flesh and outline of figure to titillate the audience. Emma was given song sheets, which she was obliged to learn, her role to sing and so soothe those who came to visit, especially the night-time clients. They paid heavily, a crown a head to enter for the privilege of listening to the good doctor speak, to see him treat a patient or two while enjoying the suggestive portraits and the possibilities latent in the still life, semi-nude figures in the alcoves.