NELSON AND NAVAL WARFARE
Andrew Lambert
The log-book of the Victory recorded the moment of Nelson’s death amid the details of a battle that was then drawing to a close.
Observed one of the Enemy’s Ships blow up and 14 sail of the Enemy’s ships standing to the Southward – Partial Firing continued until 3.40 when a Victory having been reported to the Rt. Hon.ble Viscount Lord Nelson KB and Commander in Chief he died of his wounds.1
There was something curiously complete about the juxtaposition of explosion, conclusion and transfiguration. Those events formed a pattern, one that highlighted the nature of Nelson’s genius in a striking, artistic manner. Nelson’s achievement was not the product of genetic heritage, undaunted courage or lucky accident. He possessed an educated mind, one that never stopped gathering and processing information, assessing ideas, and using the accumulated understanding to achieve his aims. This commitment to career-long education distinguished him from his peers, moulding the genius that enabled him to transform the art of war at sea from the prosaic to the sublime.
There were many reasons why Horatio Nelson was anointed as the secular deity of the British state, ranging from his great victories in the darkest hour, through popular acclaim and a heroic death in the last and greatest naval battle fought by wooden sailing ships. His effigy stands in majesty, twice life size, far above mere mortals, at the very heart of imperial London in Trafalgar Square, while little more than a mile away his mortal remains slumber in the sepulchral gloom of the crypt of St Paul’s, cathedral of the City of London, at the centre of a constellation of British heroism. This one man defined the naval profession and shaped the very identity of the British.
However, Nelson did not invent naval warfare. The system that Nelson operated had been built in the seventeenth century, and refined in the eighteenth by men he had served under. Battles fought by evenly matched fleets of wooden sailing ships armed with heavy cannon were rarely decisive. Linear battle was an exhausting attritional business, the only way to win was to kill or incapacitate so many of the enemy crew that they could not fight or sail the ship. In most cases this took hours, and the losers had ample opportunity to escape before they lost too many ships. Wars between 1688 and 1763 were decided by sustained British economic blockades, naval victories and colonial conquests which wrecked the treasuries of France and Spain. The American War of Independence (1775–83) changed the character of war. The Franco-Spanish alliance posed a very real threat of invasion and catastrophic commercial losses. Britain was saved by allied incompetence and a devastating epidemic. In 1793, the French Revolutionary government occupied modern Belgium, posing an existential threat. So long as the French occupied the Scheldt estuary Britain would be obliged to maintain the navy on a war footing simply to prevent an invasion. Once Adam Duncan had destroyed the Dutch invasion threat at Camperdown on 11 October 1797, the British government moved ten of his ships to the English Channel, releasing ten more powerful ones to reinforce Admiral Sir John Jervis at Lisbon. Jervis then sent his best ships from the blockade of Cadiz to join the flag of Rear Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson, then searching for a French force deep inside the Mediterranean.
Rear Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson, by Lemuel Francis Abbott, oil on canvas, 1799 (BHC2889)
The Rectory, Burnham Thorpe, Norfolk, by Isaac Pocock, oil on canvas, c.1807 (BHC1772)
While the Victorians were happy to attribute Nelson’s success to character and courage, the reality is altogether more compelling. Nelson developed the building blocks of genius through patient study and constant reflection; his transcendent talent was only realised after twenty-eight years of service. Born in the village parsonage of Burnham Thorpe, Norfolk, on 29 September 1758, Horatio was the sixth of the Reverend Edmund and Catherine Nelson’s eleven children. While the Nelson line contained successful merchants, the odd mayor and several clerics, it offered no warrior heroes. Instead, Nelson inherited a compassionate concern for his fellow human beings, a dry sense of humour and a predisposition to hypochondria from his father, along with a direct, compelling literary style. Despite her early death when Nelson was only nine, his mother Catherine (née Suckling) taught him to ‘hate a Frenchman like the devil’, and opened the door to a naval career. In March 1771, the twelve-year-old Nelson joined the Royal Navy at Chatham; close by lay the Victory, the largest ship in the fleet.
He joined a thoroughly professional organi-sation. No one could become an officer without six years of sea service, certificates of competence from their captains, and the ability to pass a stiff oral examination in seamanship. Here Nelson was doubly fortunate. Captain Maurice Suckling, a prominent naval officer and a childless widower, took his nephew as a surrogate son. He provided an exemplary naval education and excellent postings, secured his commission as lieutenant, and sent him to the frigate Lowestoffe just in time for the outbreak of war against American rebels, and then their French and Spanish allies. The war would fast-track Nelson’s career. Suckling died suddenly in July 1778 but Nelson became a captain in July 1779, aged only twenty. Captain William Cornwallis introduced him to the business of fleet battle, and pointed out the best admiral in the service: Lord Hood. After Rodney’s great victory in the Saintes Passage on 12 April 1782, Hood, his second-in-command, complained that Rodney had missed the opportunity to pursue and destroy the shattered enemy fleet, leaving the triumph incomplete. Nelson understood that tactical success was only the beginning: strategic victory would be secured through annihilation, the relentless pursuit of a beaten foe.
Captain Horatio Nelson, by John Francis Rigaud, oil on canvas, 1781 (BHC2901)
The ten years of peace that followed the American War of Independence nearly wrecked Nelson’s career. Then, in 1793, Nelson left Burnham to join Hood’s Mediterranean Fleet. He learned the art of the admiral by studying Hood’s every move. He wanted to know what Hood was thinking – and why. He wanted to match the insight of the most brilliant officer of the age. Hood had uncommon acumen, supreme self-confidence and excellent political connections. In an age when long-distance communications were painfully slow, Hood understood that the man on the spot had to use his own judgement and act on his initiative. Sent to war in 1793 with orders not to occupy any French territory or take sides in the revolution, he knew when to disobey. When offered the chance to occupy the main French naval base at Toulon he grabbed it, and used the opportunity to destroy much of the French fleet. His bold and effective actions were approved. Nelson would show the same political courage, acting in situations where other admirals sent home for orders. Hood led by example, and always briefed his officers: although he had no interest in their opinions, at least he ensured they understood his thinking. Ultimately defeated at Toulon, Hood was undaunted (another key lesson), seizing Corsica despite the army. Nelson lost the sight of his right eye at the siege of Calvi.
Nelson on board the San Nicolas at the Battle of Cape St Vincent, 1797, by Richard Westall, oil on canvas, 1806 (BHC2909)
Nelson’s first letter written with his left hand, 27 July 1797 (PAR/251)
However, Revolutionary France would fight to the finish. When Hood went home to winter at Bath, massive French conscript armies attacked and overwhelmed their Austrian opponents, destroying nations and reshaping the map of Europe. The military revolution in progress on land meant war at sea would have to change; the old system seemed trifling and feeble. Having witnessed French methods of total war in action, Nelson understood that only annihilation would alter the strategic balance, enabling naval power to affect war on land, where the main decisions must be reached.
He learned the mechanics of total war from Admiral Sir John Jervis, who took command in the Mediterranean in early 1796. Jervis kept the fleet at sea, his professional administration and solid logistics providing the final stage of Nelson’s command education. In late 1796, Spain changed sides, forcing Jervis to evacuate the Mediterranean. Britain had lost the ability to influence the politics of southern and central Europe or to protect the trade of the Middle East. Disaster loomed. Jervis sent Nelson to evacuate Corsica, and then Elba, Britain’s brief Mediterranean empire. Returning from the second mission, Nelson passed through the Spanish fleet and rejoined Jervis off Cape St Vincent on 13 February 1797 with the latest intelligence on the poor state of enemy seamanship and discipline. The next day, Nelson’s dramatic contribution secured victory over the larger Spanish fleet. Rather than waiting for orders, he used his understanding of the admiral’s methods to anticipate them. Although outnumbered and isolated, Nelson’s attack wrecked the Spanish attempt to regroup. Then Nelson drove his crippled ship alongside two enemy vessels, and boarded them sword in hand. While his insight and initiative had turned the battle, Nelson’s skilful manipulation of the resulting publicity secured him a national reputation, and he was made a knight of the Bath. The thirty-eight-year-old, now rear admiral had fully justified Maurice Suckling’s patronage.
Having reached the heights of glory, Nelson suffered a painful reverse in an amphibious attack on Santa Cruz de Tenerife on 24 July. He learned that bravery and determination were useless in the face of impossible odds. That night he lost his right arm. He would carry a reminder of that defeat pinned across the front of his coat for the rest of his life. Beneath Nelson’s heroic posture lay a powerful streak of self-doubt and hypochondria, nowhere better expressed than in his first left-handed letter.
Once his arm had healed, and his shattered self-belief had been restored by an admiring public and a prominent place in a great national celebration of naval glory at St Paul’s, Nelson returned to the Mediterranean. He was given command of a small squadron sent to locate a gathering French invasion armada. When Jervis sent his ten best seventy-four-gun ships to join Nelson he changed the mission to search and destroy. Although he missed Napoleon at sea, the final outcome of his agonising pursuit around the Mediterranean exceeded all expectations. Late in the afternoon of 1 August 1798, the French fleet was sighted at anchor in Aboukir Bay, Egypt, and although the light was already fading Nelson did not hesitate and launched his ships into battle. He directed the attack at the head of the French line.
With the wind blowing directly down the enemy line he could concentrate on the van ships, achieving an overwhelming concentration of force. He could see there was room between the French line and the shore, and so did Captain Thomas Foley who rounded the French fleet to attack from inshore without orders, because he knew Nelson would back his judgement whatever the result. Nelson’s mission-analysis command style set the standard operating procedures, or doctrine, and explained the big picture so that captains could still use their skill andjudgement. This aproah exploited the advantages of a forc possessing superior seamanship and fighting power.
Nelson did not lead the attack: he elected to control its direction. With five British ships attacking the Frech from the sore side, he opened the second phas of the battle, taking the Vanguard to the seaward side of their line, doubling the attack on the enemy ships and hastening the attritional process of grinding down French resistance. Although a nasty head wound sent him below decks for treatment, his captains pressed on. Ben Hallowell and Alexander Ball took up perfect positions to attack the mighty French flagship L’Orient, a ship with almost twice the firepower of her smaller British opponents. When the French ship caught fire, Hallowell deliberately directed his cannon into the blaze to prevent the crew putting it out. By the time a bandaged Nelson reached the deck to witness the final catastrophe, both fleets were bracing themselves for the inevitable. At approximately 11:00pm L’Orient’s two powder magazines exploded. This stunning son et lumière highlighted the defeat of the French fleet, and marked the emergence of a new age of war at sea.
THE DESTRUCTION OF L’ORIENT AT THE BATTLE OF THE NILE, 1 AUGUST 1798 BY GEORGE ARNALD, OIL ON CANVAS, 1825–27 (BHC0509)
Nelson’s genius transformed the inconclusive attritional naval warfare of the eighteenth century into a compound of startling simplicity and awe-inspiring power. His unerring insight reduced complex problems to clear concepts and simple instructions that could be explained to any captain. This approach to war was unique and special. As a self-conscious hero of the Romantic age, Nelson recognised the new cultural sensibilities – sensibilities that echoed the heightened political passions of the revolutionary era. Early in the eighteenth century, the concept of the ‘sublime’ had been shaped by Joseph Addison, one of Nelson’s favourite authors. Addison’s sublime was a fit adjective for Homer’s verse dramas, for the actions of heroes in all ages: noble, god-like, heaven-born figures who, by their very existence, could elevate the mental world of mere morals to a higher plane, closer to god than man. These were the models Nelson wished to emulate when he resolved to be a hero. The defining texts of Nelson’s sublime were the apocalyptic passages of the Bible, his master text.
The year before Nelson was born, Edmund Burke’s A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful argued that the sublime was a suitable description for anything that inspired terror – the strongest of human emotions. In 1790, Burke would establish the philosophical basis of British opposition to the French Revolution. Immanuel Kant took the sublime a stage further as ‘the extreme tension experienced by the mind in apprehending the immensity or boundlessness of the grandest conceptions’.
The sublime was equally applicable to the art of war: never more so than on 1 August 1798, when the French flagship L’Orient blew up – the dramatic highlight of the Battle of the Nile, and an unprecedented pyrotechnic display and thunderous detonation that briefly turned night into day, leaving all the combatants stunned into silence. This cataclysmic metaphor would recur in Nelson’s other battles, with the Dannebrog at Copenhagen and L’Achille at Trafalgar as later examples of his obsession with annihilation. That his sublime talents could only be encompassed by the art of the apocalyptic sublime was established by Philippe-Jacques de Loutherbourg (see here). It became the standard approach to a critical moment in British history. In 1825, the British Institution paid George Arnald £500 for a Nile picture to hang in the new Naval Gallery at Greenwich Hospital. The artist placed the Swiftsure at the centre of his picture, to highlight British heroism. Arnald, previously a landscape painter, recognised the Nile as a sublime subject, in which fire, darkness and drowning men would have called up parallels of biblical judgement to contemporary viewers. After an exhibition in central London in 1827, the picture hung in the Painted Hall at Greenwich for a century, becoming a great national favourite, and itself featuring within a later painting, Thomas Davidson’s ‘England’s Pride and Glory’ of 1894, where it summed up Nelson’s life.
Fede or betrothal ring, one of a pair exchanged by Nelson and Lady Hamilton, 1800–05 (JEW0168)
Border of a dress embroidered in honour of Nelson and worn by Lady Hamilton, c.1799. ‘Bronte’ refers to the Sicilian dukedom bestowed on Nelson after the Battle of the Nile (TXT0304)
Nelson’s writing box, c.1798 (AAA3398)
The ‘Turkey Cup’ presented to Nelson after the Battle of the Nile by the Levant Company, 1799–1800 (PLT0095)
Emma Hart, later Lady Hamilton, by George Romney, oil on canvas, 1785–86 (BHC2736)
The following day, Hallowell had his carpenter fashion a pine coffin out of L’Orient’s mainmast, and presented it to Nelson. It served as a reminder of his mortality amid the glory and the grandeur of victory, and he would be buried in this simple box. He also had a writing box made from the timber of L’Orient. After the battle Nelson, having taken or destroyed eleven of the thirteen French battleships, divided his fleet to exploit British command of the sea, blockading the French army in Egypt, and reviving the Continental alliance against France. The ‘Turkey Cup’, a gift from the Levant Company, reflected the importance of the Nile for British commerce.
Arriving in Naples soon after the battle, Nelson began a startling relationship with Emma, Lady Hamilton, wife of the British minister at the Neapolitan court and intimate of the Queen of Naples. Among the most beautiful and accomplished women of the age, she was the muse of his later years. Emma worshipped Nelson, whereas his wife Frances cautioned him against taking risks – little wonder the marriage broke down. For all his Christian faith, Nelson had no qualms about the relationship, a point made obvious by the rings they exchanged.
Having secured the Mediterranean, Nelson returned to Britain, and sailed as second-in-command of a fleet sent to break up the Armed Neutrality of northern powers. Tsar Paul I wanted the British to renounce their hard-line economic warfare, which was damaging neutral traders. The British refused. When the fleet reached Copenhagen in April 1801, Nelson was given command of a division. Because the British wanted a negotiated settlement, he used a completely different tactical model. His ships were directed and controlled from the quarterdeck throughout the battle. At its height, Commander-in-Chief Sir Hyde Parker signalled for him to break off the action; Nelson famously refused to acknowledge the signal, dryly putting the telescope to his blind eye. Once the Danish defence line of hulks and batteries had been overpowered, he offered the Danish government an armistice, in highly complimentary terms, and brought the combat to an end. Because he had matched his tactics to the strategic and political needs of the moment, Nelson removed Denmark from the Armed Neutrality without inflicting any lasting injury, enabling the British fleet to sail for Russia. Nelson’s importance to Britain was nowhere better understood than at Lloyd’s of London, the shipping insurance centre. Unlike the government and the City of London, Lloyd’s was quick to reward him for Copenhagen. Nelson also used the wealth he accrued through naval service to purchase the trappings of upper-class domesticity, from plate to dinner services (see from here onward).
On his return to Britain, Nelson commanded the Channel defences. The Peace of Amiens of 1802 established an armed truce but in 1803 the war resumed, with the greatest commanders of the age on opposite sides and opposing elements. Only Nelson had the insight and understanding to match Napoleon, as Napoleon acknowledged by keeping a bust of Nelson in his private quarters.
Sea power allowed Britain to blockade the French economy and restrict the French empire to Europe, while securing British control of global trade. For two years the British rested on the defensive, waiting for the French to show their hand, and expose themselves to a devastating counter-attack. If Napoleon tried to invade England, Ireland, the West Indies or Egypt his ships would be destroyed. Late in 1804, Spain joined the war as an ally of France, giving Napoleon enough ships to challenge British sea power. His plan to invade Britain without a fleet action was countered at every move. When Admiral Villeneuve finally escaped the British blockade, Nelson chased him to the West Indies and, in his most daring campaign, smashed Napoleon’s dreams of invasion. By September 1805, Villeneuve’s large, Franco-Spanish fleet lay at Cadiz, ideally positioned to attack Britain’s allies in the Mediterranean, her Atlantic trade, or the British Isles. It had to be destroyed.
Sauce tureen and ice pail presented to Nelson by the Corporation of Lloyd’s after the Battle of Copenhagen, 1801–02 (PLT0101, PLT0096)
Items from the ‘Horatia set’ of porcelain purchased by Nelson, c.1802 (AAA4532, AAA4536, AAA4540, AAA4544)
Coffee pot that belonged to Nelson, 1799–1800 (PLT0120)
Nelson joined the fleet off Cadiz in late September. His presence electrified the officers and men under his command, while his new battle plan (see here), explained in the great cabin of the Victory and followed up in a written memorandum, provided the key to decisive combat. Few of those captains had served with Nelson before; he needed to assess their abilities before he could lead them into battle. If the enemy put to sea, Nelson sought to annihilate them, ending the need for Britain to stand on the defensive.
Napoleon ordered Villeneuve to support an attack on Naples, and Villeneuve, believing Nelson’s fleet was a third weaker than his own, put to sea on 19 October. In fact, his thirty-three ships of the line faced twenty-seven British vessels. Nelson shadowed them as they headed east. At dawn on 21 October the fleets were in visual contact. He ordered his fleet into two columns for a novel, risky, head-on approach that exposed the flimsy, unarmed bows of his leading ships to the full weight of enemy broadsides. Knowing that a storm would come that evening, Nelson had no time for tactical finesse, adopting high-risk tactics to secure his strategic objectives. To simplify the task for his captains, he would lead the attack. Locating and destroying the enemy flagship would reduce the enemy to a confused, leaderless mass that could be defeated by battle-hardened British crews in the remaining hours of daylight. He calculated on taking or destroying twenty enemy ships. Nelson’s unique and original battle plan combined great danger with startling speed.
Nelson devoted time and thought to the morale of his people. Having walked around the flagship, talking with the crew, he spread the effect across the entire fleet with the immortal signal: ‘England Expects That Every Man Will Do His Duty’. The fleet cheered because Nelson, the embodiment of England and the talisman of victory, had spoken to every man. Such courageous, public leadership made it easier for everyone else to be brave. As the fleets closed, at walking pace, the British sailors had time for breakfast, and lunch. The French and Spanish crews may not have had such good appe-tites; they knew exactly what to expect. While his men dined, Nelson kept his eye on the enemy, waiting for Villeneuve to show his flag. Only then would he know where to strike.
As Victory bore down on the enemy fleet she had to endure heavy fire, without being able to reply. Soon round shot were smashing through the ship’s bow and the unprotected men on the upper deck. John Scott, Nelson’s public secretary, standing on the quarterdeck talking with Captain Hardy, was cut in two. His mangled remains were quickly hove overboard, leaving a pool of blood. Then the ship’s wheel was smashed to atoms, and a Spanish bar shot scythed down a file of eight marines on the poop (see here). Nelson quickly ordered the remaining men dispersed to avoid further heavy losses. Yet Nelson and Hardy paced up and down on their chosen ground, the starboard side of the quarterdeck, not a foot from the smashed stump of the wheel, with splinters flying around them. When one hit Hardy’s shoe, tearing off the buckle, Nelson observed: ‘This is too warm work to last for long.’ They had yet to open fire and fifty men had been killed or wounded. Even Nelson was impressed by the cool courage of Victory’s crew.
Finally at 12:35pm the concave enemy line allowed Victory to open fire, shrouding the ship in smoke, and providing some relief from the torment of waiting. Soon after, she ran under the stern of Villeneuve’s flagship, Bucentaure, which shuddered under the impact of 100 projectiles from a full double-shotted broadside. More than 200 officers and men were killed or wounded, Villeneuve was the only man left standing on the quarterdeck. However, the Redoutable blocked Victory’s passage through the enemy line. Immo-bilised at the epicentre of a savage mélêe, Nelson had administered the decisive stroke. The allied fleet had been reduced to a chaotic agglomeration of ships; many fought with remarkable bravery but they lacked the leadership and skill to meet the impact of the impetuous, irresistible British. Nelson knew that each British ship was a superior force to an enemy of equal size. At close quarters the speed and regularity of British gunnery steadily overwhelmed the allies. Over the next three hours, the Franco-Spanish force collapsed under the weight of unprecedented firepower.
Nelson’s battle plan, hastily sketched in the period before Trafalgar, 1805 (BRP/6/5)
The fall of Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar, 21 October 1805, by Denis Dighton, oil on canvas, c.1825 (BHC0552)
The Battle of Trafalgar, 21 October 1805, by J.M.W. Turner, oil on canvas, 1822–24 (BHC0565)
The stockings worn by Nelson when mortally wounded at the Battle of Trafalgar, c.1805 (UNI0067)
England expects every Man to do his duty. Lord Nelson explaining to the Officers the Plan of Attack previous to the Battle of Trafalgar..., by James Godby after William Marshall Craig, published by Edward Orme, hand-coloured stipple engraving, 9 January 1806 (PAG9025)
Nelson’s attack at Trafalgar broke all the tactical rules: treating a fleet waiting for a fight like one running away, substituting speed for mass, precision for weight, and accepting impossible odds. The real triumph was not of twenty-seven ships against thirty-three, but of twelve against twenty-two. British casualties tell the story: Victory had 132 casualties, Royal Sovereign 141, Temeraire 123, Neptune 44, Mars 98, Tonnant 76, Bellerophon 150, Revenge 79, Africa 62, Colossus 200, Achille 72 and Defiance 70. Yet only one of the men who died that day would be remembered. It was not so much the fact of his death as the manner of it that made the event memorable. Had he been cut in half by a round shot like poor Scott, the final emotional twist of immortality might have slipped from his grasp, his life somehow reduced by the random violence of its end. Instead he died as he had lived, the talis-man of the British nation, and the defining genius of the art of war at sea. The fall of Nelson was a truly iconic moment, captured for all eternity by Denis Dighton in his picture of 1825. Walking on the quarterdeck with Captain Hardy, discussing the way the Conqueror had come into the battle, Nelson was hit by a musketball at about 1:15pm. The .69-inch diameter lead ball smashed through his left shoulder blade, punctured his left lung, cut the main artery and lodged in his spine. Knocked to the deck, Nelson landed in Scott’s blood, soaking his stockings and breeches (see here).
He knew the wound was mortal. Hardy had him carried below to the cockpit, where surgeon William Beatty was already hard at work. In addition to the cacophonous roar and smoke of the guns and the shuddering motion of the ship as it ground against the enemy, the cockpit possessed a unique horror. The low deckhead, glimmering lanterns, moaning and screaming men, the stench of blood and the hurried work of amputating shattered limbs made this charnel house as close to hell as any living man could get. Beatty could only confirm Nelson’s diagnosis before the admiral insisted that he attend to those who might live. Above them, the battle with the Redoutable reached a crescendo when French boarding parties were cut down by the ‘Fighting’ Temeraire’s carronades. At 1:30pm, Captain Jean Lucas surrendered: 490 of his 640-man crew had been killed and eighty-one wounded.
At 3:30pm Hardy was able to tell Nelson that a glorious victory had been won. Despite the terrible injury he had suffered, Nelson lingered for over three hours. After Hardy knelt and kissed him on the cheek, Nelson kept repeating his motto: ‘Thank God I have done my duty.’ He died slowly, quite literally drowning in his own blood, the ruptured artery filling his lungs. His breathing began to falter and he slipped away without a sound shortly before 4:30pm, just as the fighting died down. Nineteen enemy ships had been taken and the explosion of L’Achille provided a suitable coda for the last and greatest fleet battle under sail. The cost had been high on both sides: 1,700 British killed and wounded, 6,000 enemy casualties and nearly 20,000 prisoners. Many of those lives were lost in the storm that followed, along with many prizes, among them Villeneuve’s flagship and the mighty Spanish Santísima Trínidad. Never again would France or Spain challenge British sea power.
While any competent British admiral would have won off Cape Trafalgar, only Nelson could have done so in a manner that achieved decisive strategic effect. Immanuel Kant’s remark that ‘genius is the natural ability which gives the rule to art…a talent for producing that for which no defi-nite rule can be given’ is both nearly contemporary and of great significance to students of Nelson.2 In his seminal work On War, Prussian general, educator and theorist Carl von Clausewitz developed Kant’s concept in an attempt to comprehend the nature of military genius. This ‘very highly developed mental aptitude for a particular occupation’ was found in those of superior intellect, whose careers had been shaped by a sophisticated and systematic appreciation of their profession.3 It was the ‘harmonious combination of elements’, which mastered all the rules and regulations of the profession through study and experience to develop the ‘genius’ that could transcend rules. Genius enabled men to take quick decisions in complex situations, achieving an instinctive understanding of the situation, the coup d’oeil that separated the great commander from the competent. Napoleon argued that the calculation required to solve bat-tlefield problems would have taxed Newton, but, as they had to be solved immediately, only highly educated instinct could hope to meet the need.4 For Clausewitz, genius was ultimately an intangible quality that could not be taught. In Nelson’s case, it was the product of a superior intelligence focused through a lifelong dedication to professional education.5 Having settled his concept of battle, Nelson brought his captains over to dine on the Victory and explained his ideas to them; it was, he noted, like an electric shock. Cuthbert Colling-wood understood Nelson’s genius:
He possessed the zeal of an enthusiast, directed by talents which nature had very bountifully bestowed upon him, and everything seemed, as if by enchantment, to prosper under his direction. But it was the effect of system, and nice combination, not of chance. We must endeavour to follow his example, but it is the lot of very few to attain his perfection.6
The death of Nelson, 21 October 1805, by Arthur William Devis, oil on canvas, 1807 (BHC2894)
