Authors: David Donachie
‘You must understand, Nelson,’ Davidson added, his face still serious ‘that any visitor to this outpost—’
‘How can you call Québec an outpost?’
‘It is that, man,’ Davidson insisted, his high voice exaggerating his Northumberland accent, ‘even from the French who still reside here. This is not London or even Paris. True, we have fine buildings and a vibrant society, and a collective attitude to outsiders that insists on a hearty welcome over all other considerations. That receptive nature is apt to be misunderstood, to impart a gloss it does not truly have. Your Miss Simpson has that same trait in abundance.’
‘Have you ever been in love, Davidson?’
The way Nelson asked that had an odd ring to it, as did the direct gaze that accompanied the question, but Davidson put that down to his anxieties and answered it honestly. ‘Perhaps I’ve been too busy in trade for that, my friend. I love ships, cargoes, bills of lading, profit over loss …’
It was the wrong word to use, and Davidson knew it as soon as he had uttered it. Nelson responded bitterly. ‘Then if you’ve never been smitten you cannot even begin to contemplate the depths of my attraction.’
Davidson closed his eyes and spoke in sorrow, not anger. ‘She is sixteen, and I grant you that she’s a beauty.’
‘A veritable Diana,’ Nelson exclaimed. ‘I quote there the very words of the
Québec
Gazette
.’
Nelson had chosen to set his cap at the one girl who dazzled everyone who came into her orbit. Mary Simpson, with a father who was Provost Marshal to the garrison, was at the very peak of Québec society. She was dazzlingly beautiful and vivacious and to be attached to her was to enter in upon that provenance, a heady prospect for a naval captain of slender means, far from home. All Nelson had succeeded in doing was making a fool of himself.
‘How much do you value your naval career, Nelson?’ asked Davidson, suddenly inspired with an argument that might have some effect.
Nelson tried to wave that aside. His barge was waiting at the river edge to take him aboard.
Albemarle
had orders to join the New York squadron under Admiral Digby. His premier was, at this moment, making preparations to weigh.
‘You propose to stay,’ Davidson insisted, ‘abandoning both your ship and the orders to sail for New York. For what? In order to throw yourself at the feet of a child who even if she did know her own mind, may not have the same
tendresse
for you that you claim to carry for her?’ He was tempted to say that the girl flirted with everyone, and the only person who hadn’t seen it for what it was stood before him, but that would be too cruel.
‘I do not just claim it,’ Nelson replied wistfully. ‘It would be true to say, Davidson, that I live it.’
‘So you will retire from the Navy?’
Intended to shock, it had the desired effect. ‘That isn’t necessary!’
The reply was sharp, querulous and proof to Davidson that what he suspected was true. His friend, in his impulsive way, had simply not thought matters through. He had watched him carefully since that first meeting, noticing that, as a creature suffused with natural spontaneity, he could charm people with ease. It was amusing to witness him engage in conversation, to see that a person only had to propound an idea he half agreed with to face the full force of Nelsonian verve.
Having been a guest aboard
Albemarle
several times, Davidson knew how much his officers admired their captain, just as well as he knew how little the object noticed. It was in their eyes when, his attention elsewhere, they gazed upon him with something approaching awe. In conversation, when he wasn’t present, they would never fail to tell the visitor of his competence as a seaman and his care as a commander.
As an experienced trader, he had great knowledge of ships and the men that manned them. Never had he seen such regard as Nelson received from his crew, such ease of communication between the two constituents, the best part of this the captain’s ignorance, as with his officers, of the depth of the common seaman’s esteem.
‘Not necessary?’ Davidson insisted. ‘You do not think her father, a man of some means and position, might not object to your suit? What are you, my friend, but a post captain with few prospects?’
Davidson saw the hurt, and hurried to ease it. ‘I do not say these things to diminish you, Nelson. I count you a friend and believe that one day what you vouchsafed to me as a friend will come true, that you will astound all who know you. But I doubt that Colonel Simpson could be brought to that view. I do not say he lacks soul, but talk of visions of greatness and a destiny foretold by the Almighty would harm rather than aid any suit. I also doubt, given his obvious regard for his daughter, that he would agree to a marriage that saw you leave here with no known idea of when you might return.’
The shoulders had slumped, the head was bowed. ‘In short, my suit is pointless.’
‘I truly believe that it would not succeed. And if, perchance, I was wrong, I do not think it would bring you happiness. You would be forced to resign from your command and take up residence here. Do not be deceived by the vivacity you witness. That is the desperation of those cut off from the real world. Right now the frost and ice are fresh and pleasant. But be here when the weather truly turns, with a winter six months upon us and you will see a depression of spirit that would make you weep.’
‘Yet you stay here.’
‘I make my way here,’ Davidson replied. ‘And I do not intend to stay for more than another winter. The best advice I can give you is to go about your duties. If your heart is so smitten that you cannot stay away I’m sure you’ll contrive a way to return. Then, if you still wish it and I can be of any help, I will aid you to press your suit.’
Davidson hooked Nelson’s arm and led him back towards the steps where
his barge lay. Nelson looked down at the faces of his crew, red and healthy now. The hesitation was minimal, and once he moved one foot the other was easy. But it was a crestfallen creature who stood in the thwarts as the oars bit the water, a man too sad to return Davidson’s encouraging wave.
It was a doleful commander who had sailed his ship from Québec, a fact noticed by every member of his crew. It was in the nature of sailors to watch carefully the behaviour of a ship’s captain, the man who, without recourse to higher authority, controlled their lives. It was generally held that a man could go mad with solitude or repressed passion and turn from kindness to tyranny in the blink of an eye, and, in the superstitious world of tars, women and their wiles lay at the root of many a puzzle. Horatio Nelson thought that his crew knew nothing of his loss. In this, as in so many other things, he was wrong.
They observed that his spirits began to lift once they had passed Cape Cod, and the prospect of action lay over the horizon. By the time they had entered the Long Island Sound the regular life of a ship at sea, bells, watches, punctual dinners, gunnery and fencing practice and midshipmen’s lessons had salved his wounded soul and returned their captain to the human race. He smiled again, talked to them in that easy manner they had come to expect. Entertaining was possible again and Nelson was invited to the wardroom, which was preferable to all of his officers than dinner in the great cabin, where Lepée seemed to rule, not the Captain.
Then they opened the mouth of the Hudson river, crossing that to their berth at Sandy Hook off the New Jersey shore, and saw there not only the ships of the New York squadron, but elements of the Caribbean fleet. Nelson rattled off the names of both ships and officers, what action they had seen and how they had fared. He seemed to know every fact of every ship in the entire fleet, and it was clear that the sight of these vessels had excited something in him.
Albemarle
had barely dropped anchor before Bromwich was despatched with a letter to the commander of the Caribbean fleet, Admiral Lord Hood.
‘Lord Hood will see you now, Captain Nelson.’
Nelson followed the secretary into the great cabin of HMS
Barfleur,
leaving behind the midshipman who had attended upon him when he came aboard. Hood, too, raised an eyebrow at Nelson’s appearance, which made the visitor look like a vision from another age. Laced uniform coat, a
long waistcoat with flaps, undressed fair hair with a pigtail exceedingly long and old-fashioned, more fitting to a topman than a commissioned officer. The effect, to Hood’s mind, was showy.
In his turn Hood was under scrutiny, though he took his visitor’s look as a bid to establish some kind of parity. It wasn’t, Nelson being frank and open in his admiration. Here before him was the junior admiral who had been under a cloud for failure to prevent the surrender at Yorktown the previous year. Within twelve months of that disaster he had redeemed himself by helping to beat the French fleet in the Caribbean. The battle of the Saintes had been a great victory, but Hood, not content, with ships still battle damaged, had pursued all the way north those Frenchmen who had escaped, scattering them, finally forced to anchor his twelve sail-of-the-line off Sandy Hook. To Nelson, Hood was his kind of admiral.
‘Be seated, Captain Nelson. Can I offer you some refreshment?’
‘A small glass of wine, sir,’ Nelson replied.
‘Then I shall join you, and toast the memory of your late uncle.’
‘You knew Captain Suckling, sir?’
‘Not only knew him, young man, but esteemed him as the kind of officer that this service often lacks, a man of application and proven bravery. And he was as fine an asset to the Navy ashore as he was at sea. My wife’s father was mayor of Portsmouth when your uncle had the seat, and never have I heard anything but positive words attached to his name.’
Nelson’s heart lifted at that, the association and the advantages that might accrue from it raising the hopes with which he had come aboard.
‘That is most kindly put, sir.’
Hood raised his glass, followed by his visitor. ‘Let us hope that blood ties mean the same qualities reside in you.’
Nelson found it easy to conjure up a vision of his late uncle then, the kindly face, its similarity to his mother’s, but more than that his ability, application and reputation. That was what he craved more than anything, to be seen as other officers had regarded Maurice Suckling: brave, resourceful and, most of all, successful in battle, just like the man opposite, whom he was so desirous of impressing.
‘Rest assured, sir,’ he replied, blue eyes fixed on Hood’s, ‘that I can open my character to all scrutiny with confidence. I also will say that my late uncle saw me destined on his deathbed as fitted for the highest attainment.’
‘Quite,’ replied Hood, taken aback by the way Nelson had reacted to a very ordinary compliment.
Hood picked up Nelson’s letter, leaning forward to reread it by
candlelight:
the grey winter skies allowed little light to filter through the long row of casement windows. That allowed the visitor to examine his host: a large man, but not gross, with a kindly countenance. Hood had blue-grey eyes under heavy brows of a whiteness that matched his powdered wig, and a nose, forehead and cheekbones that indicated a strong spirit.
He had made enquiries about Nelson before granting an interview.
Admiral Digby had been less than flattering, which was hardly surprising since upon his arrival at Sandy Hook, Nelson had taken the occasion of his first interview with his new commander to ask for a move to the Caribbean. He had also learned that among most of his peers Nelson was highly esteemed, though held to be a trifle odd. There were those who spoke ill of him, and more who were indifferent, but the most active officers were keen to praise his zeal, expressed envy of his seamanship, and pointed up the fact that, though it had no effect on the recipient, his crew adored him.
‘This is a somewhat unusual request, Captain Nelson.’
‘That you should say so surprises me, sir.’
‘I have officers in abundance asking for a move to New York, but only you seem willing to travel in the opposite direction.’
Hood was looking at him keenly now, trying to discern if there was some motive that made sense. Right now, money was to be made on the North American Station. With a blockade on the harbours north and south of Chesapeake Bay, the pickings in the Caribbean islands were slim indeed.
‘I cannot believe that Admiral Digby will engage the enemy in a fleet action, sir. Money is his object. That may be enough to satisfy his duty to his King and country, but it will not suffice for me. I see my duty – and my destiny – as being to engage the enemy in battle.’ Nelson paused, suddenly aware of his own bombast, and the effect it was having on his host, who had looked away. But he had to finish, even if it sounded in his own head like outrageous flattery. ‘I cannot doubt that you, at the very first opportunity, will do just that, sir.’
Hood coughed to cover an extra degree of embarrassment. The loss of eye contact with Nelson had nothing to do with the young man’s sermonising: Hood had just heard one of his fellow admirals traduced, which he should have checked, and it caused him acute discomfort to let it pass.
But Nelson was right. Digby had been shy when it came to searching out the enemy. All his captains were too busy lining their pockets with prize money to care about defeating the French. The indolent Admiral Digby was in the enviable position of being in receipt of an eighth of their profits.
‘All I ask, sir, is a better ship than my present command, and the opportunity to confound my country’s enemies in a fashion that will bring about a satisfactory conclusion to this conflict.’
Listening, the Admiral was still searching for the pretence that would normally be part of such sentiments. He had heard it often enough in his service life, men claiming one thing while meaning another. But it was absent now. Nelson was sincere, which was of itself somewhat singular.
‘I feel I am ready for a line-of-battle ship, sir, for preference a seventy-four. And should we meet with our enemies I do not fear that either I or those under my command would shrink from any engagement, however hot.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Nelson,’ said Hood, standing up. ‘You must leave this matter with me and allow me to see what I can do. Meanwhile, I feel I have a duty to introduce you to someone.’
Hood marched out of the great cabin, forcing Nelson to follow in his wake. The midshipman who had shown him to this place was there, waiting to escort him back to the entry-port. He stood ramrod stiff when Hood appeared. ‘Captain Nelson. Allow me to name to you His Highness Prince William Henry.’
Nelson tried to prevent his eyes opening wide. Could this slim, unprepossessing youth really be the son of his sovereign? He was unaware that the youngster was wondering if the man before him, who looked as if he carried fewer years than himself, could really be a post captain.
‘Captain Nelson has requested to be allowed to join our fleet, Your Royal Highness, preferring the prospect of honour in battle to that of wealth through taking prizes. He stands as an example to us all, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Why, sir, I’m amazed. When I next correspond with my father I will not hesitate to tell him of Captain Nelson’s sacrifice.’
Nelson was slightly confused, since to him what he was proposing was only right and proper. ‘How can it be a sacrifice when I am merely showing a desire to serve my King?’
‘He will be most grateful, Captain, I’m sure,’ the Prince stammered.
Nelson was wondering if his blood was blue instead of red, this pink-faced youth with the faraway look to his eye. Never having been in the presence of royalty he was at a stand as to how to behave. This boy was by several fathoms his social superior, but by the same degree he was his service inferior. And then there was Nelson’s political inclinations, which were more to the Whig tendency than that of the Tories: he supported monarchical limitation rather than any increase in the royal powers. But there was also the fact that the King was his ultimate superior, the person to whom, on taking up any commission, he swore an oath of allegiance.
‘If you are writing to your father, sir,’ Nelson said, ‘it would be a kindness of you to include the regard in which all we naval officers hold him. And I know that I speak for my men when I say they see in him the father he must be to you.’
Hood coughed, wondering at which poor school Nelson had learnt his social conventions. The only thing that saved his words from sounding like complete tripe was the sincerity with which they were expressed.
‘You might want to pen that very soon, Your Royal Highness, lest you forget the depth of the sentiment.’
‘Sir,’ the Prince replied. The Admiral nodded and Nelson left the pair with a lift of his hat, admiral and prince of blood staring after him as he walked across the main deck of Hood’s flagship. The Prince could not quite believe what he had just seen and heard, and took advantage, as he was wont to do, of his position as the son of the King. ‘Would I be permitted to opine, sir, that Captain Nelson seems an odd fish?’
Hood was tempted to say, ‘You’re a royal prince, jacko, you can say what you like,’ but instead he sought refuge in a change of tack. ‘Perhaps a little oddity would not go amiss in others. He is very much a complete officer,
steeped in the history of the service and wholly committed to it. If you wish to know aught about naval tactics, that fellow has a mind to plunder. I heard of him before he ever wrote to me, and from people whose opinions I esteem most highly.’
‘Does he really not want prize money, sir? I intend no insult when I say that by the manner of his dress he looks in some need of it.’
‘Pen your letter now, then return to me,’ Hood growled. ‘I have a request to deliver to Admiral Digby.’
When Hood’s fleet weighed from Sandy Hook, their course set south, Hood wasn’t the only one who wondered, as he watched
Albemarle
in its futile attempt to stay on station, if he had made the right decision. The man conning the ship had no doubt.
Nelson never saw his longed-for fleet action, nor did he get another, more seaworthy ship. Instead he spent months cruising around the Caribbean, with a few runs ashore, pursing an enemy determined to avoid engagement. He watched, with increasing frustration, as other frigates, swift vessels built for the task, were despatched on independent missions. No such opportunity fell to slab-sided, slow sailing
Albemarle,
stuck to the coat-tails of the flagship.
One thing he had managed, though, was to keep his crew intact, fighting off tenaciously any attempt to pluck men from his ship to man other vessels that were short-handed. Nor would he allow overbearing senior officers to land him with the dregs of their men in exchange for his own, trained by him to be good hands. He fought off even the attempted depredations of Lord Hood, courting unpopularity in an area where it was dangerous to do so.
Then, in the spring of 1783 came news of the peace. The Americans had won their land for themselves, and both France and Spain were exhausted. Nelson’s orders were to return to Portsmouth and decommission the ship, which made him wonder if he had been right to act in such a fashion regarding his crew. Some of the captains to whom he had denied hands had earned prize money. He hadn’t put a penny piece in the pockets of those who followed him, nor had he garnered them anything in the way of glory.
When they sailed in to anchor at Spithead, Portsmouth was a town in a state of riot. The end of the war occasioned the rundown of the whole fleet. Dozens of ships were being paid off in theory, the only problem being that all they were being given was freedom. Pay, even in the simplest case, was a mere warrant to be redeemed at a future date, there being no coin in the coffers to meet the obligations. On top of that, any man who had served in more than one vessel found himself chasing payment for several warrants, forced to sell them at a discount to sharps who lived off the trade.
Standing in the Port Admiral’s office, in a first floor room that overlooked a courtyard full of noisy sailors, Nelson was obliged to listen to a whole spate of excuses from the incumbent, Admiral Sir Ralph Burnaby. All were
based on official humbug, with never even a mention of the truth: that the pay for the men, given by the government to their own Paymaster to the Forces, had been lent by that official at a favourable rate of interest as though it were his own money. Since he refused to call in the capital of those loans there was no coin for the men who had served the nation, because those who ran it had no conception of the meaning of the word corruption.