On the Wednesday of the week following, I went in the evening to the Nelson Club, as I do most weeks. Wednesday evenings are open evenings at the club; there is usually someone giving a talk, and members can invite guests or bring their wives (the membership is entirely male; to the best of my knowledge no woman has ever enrolled, though I have heard talk of an Emma Hamilton Club with premises in Battersea, which boasts a large female membership). There is no Fanny Nelson Club, of course. Who would want to identify with the wronged wife?
I had been a member of this club for eight years now. Making up my mind to join had involved me in much travail; three months of painful hesitation elapsed before I felt able to take the plunge. In fact, becoming a member of the Nelson Club and engaging Avon Secretarial Services were the two most decisive steps I had taken in years, perhaps since choosing to confide in Penhas.
I didn’t go there for the company—far from it. I could well have done without that, but I was always hoping to learn something more about him; the smallest fact can be illuminating when it is added to others. It could be anything. Generally, of course, I was disappointed. That evening a man called Robbins, a long-standing member of the club, was due to give a talk on the system of signalling by means of coloured flags, devised by Admiral Sir Home Riggs Popham and introduced into the navy in 1803, not long before Trafalgar.
The premises are on the top floor of a tall, narrow-fronted house off Gray’s Inn Road, above an obscure publisher of devotional literature. There is no lift, the stairs are uncarpeted, and the bannisters have a rickety feel to them; but there is a small licensed bar, open on Wednesday and Saturday evenings, a reading room where you can find the publications of the Navy Records Society and back copies of the Nelson Despatch and the Trafalgar Chronicle, and a lecture room that can accommodate an audience of seventy or so (it is rare indeed to have that many).
They open the bar at half past six. It was about ten to seven when I arrived, and there was no-one there but Hugo, the barman, and a morose, sleepy-looking man called Jimson, sitting on his own at the far end. I was feeling very much on edge, having struggled for hours that day and the one before to disentangle the events of June 1799 in Naples and establish a strict chronology, especially for the period spanning Horatio’s arrival in the city on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, the quitting of their forts by the rebels on the twenty-sixth, and their arrest and imprisonment on the twenty-eighth. It all lay here, in these few fateful days. If I could only get the times right, fix the moments at which things had been said and done, surely I could clear him of blame. How wonderful to be the one to free him from the shadow that has been hanging over him so long. Nearly two hundred years, ever since Robert Southey’s scathing verdict of 1812. Those terrible words of his came frequently to my mind these days: … no alternative but to record the disgraceful story with sorrow and with shame …
I asked for a glass of red wine, with a vague idea of fortifying myself, restoring the corpuscles. It came from a Spanish bottle and was roughish but not unpleasant. While I was paying for it, a couple called Barber came in and stood beside me at the bar.
“Here we are again,” Barber said. “Half of the draught lager for me, please, Hugo, and a Bloody Mary for Barbara. You ready for Popham’s flags?”
This question was put to Jimson, who, however, did not reply. Barber smiled at me and shook his head. He is a shortish, balding, chirpy man with a beakish nose and a thin mouth and a habit of tapping his feet. Upon meeting his eyes and his smile, I at once looked away. For years now I have not been able to sustain eye contact for more than a few seconds, and I found the close proximity of the Barbers distinctly oppressive, especially in a place so nearly empty—I can endure much better the nearness of people in a crowd. I was looking straight before me when he spoke again.
“Your turn coming up soon, old boy, isn’t it?”
“Not for some weeks yet,” I said. I was sure he already knew the exact date of my talk, which was Wednesday, April 9. They had asked me to do it on the second, but that is the date of the Battle of Copenhagen, last of his great victories before Trafalgar, and I wanted to be at home for it, at my table, with nothing to distract me. “It is up on the notice board,” I said. Thinking about it made me nervous—it was my first talk in eight years of membership.
“What is it about again?” Mrs. Barber asked, and she tilted her head a little, like a thrush on a lawn—she is birdlike too, they are both birdlike people. The question irritated me, though of course I showed no sign. There was no interest in it, only a sort of social reflex; she was keeping the conversation going.
“Two Episodes in the Making of a Hero,” I said.
“Ooh!” Mrs. Barber straightened her head from its tilt with an exaggerated suddenness, clearly derisive in intention. Why did she come to these meetings? I wondered, not for the first time. What possible interest could she have in Popham’s system of naval signalling? Anyone might think she would be glad to see the back of Barber for a while. But no, she always came with him.
A short silence followed this exclamation of hers. To the oppression of their closeness was added that of their mockery. I have no friends in the club. People are jealous of me, they envy my intimate knowledge of his life. I never boast of this, but there is nothing I can do about the aura it creates about me.
“Don’t much care for the title,” Jimson said, speaking for the first time, as if emerging from some unhappy sleep. “Heroes are born, not made.”
“Quite right, good point,” Barber said, eager to ally himself against me.
“Well, that is true of idiots,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?” Jimson’s eyelids fluttered; he was rising to an unprecedented state of wakefulness. It came to me that he had misunderstood, he thought I was calling him an idiot. I felt an impulse to prolong this impression.
“What is the point you are seeking to make, old boy?” Barber said. “We lowbrows need things spelling out.”
What could they know about heroes? Jimson was interested in eighteenth-century naval dockyards; Barber dabbled in Horatio’s life, as many do, but had no essential knowledge of him. I felt indifferent now to their hostility. “Fools, cretins, morons, blockheads,” I said, and I paused long enough for them to suspect that I might be ending here, with these terms of abuse. Then I went on. “These are born, not made. You can’t refine on stupidity, can you? But the true hero has to go through the fire, he has to be purified, he has to shed his dross.”
My own words moved me, they came close to my feelings about him, too close—I could feel my hands trembling slightly. I rested them on the bar; I don’t think anybody noticed. I glanced towards his portrait on the wall behind Hugo, high above the glass shelves and the rows of bottles, one of the earliest of the many likenesses of him painted by Lemuel Abbot.
“What about humble heroes, then?” Hugo said from behind the bar. “People you’ve never heard of that do something really brave.”
Hugo is somewhere round the thirty mark and has a narrow, long-nosed face, rather sensitive. He has a gold band passing through the pierced lobe of his left ear. He is not a member, at least he wasn’t then; he just came to do the bar twice a week. What he did with the rest of his time, I had no idea.
“Or what about the people that devote their lives to others?” he said now. “You know, asking for nothing, spirit of service and all that.”
“Hear, hear, good point,” Barber said.
“I have nothing against them. They are not heroes, that’s all. Humble hero is a contradiction in terms. Heroes are public figures, they represent the nation.”
Jimson was beginning to say something indignant about lowly privates who won the VC, he wanted to bring it all down to obscure people, but at this point I withdrew from the conversation. I turned away and rested my elbows on the bar and began to look more steadily at the portrait, which was deeply familiar, a rather good copy of the famous one commissioned by Horatio’s friend William Locker and painted during the autumn of 1797 while Horatio was convalescing at Greenwich after the amputation of his right arm above the elbow. The stump had not healed yet, he was still in much pain from it.
Sparse grey hair swept back, mouth resigned to the maiming, the right eye not much showing its damage, though virtually sightless by now, three years after the injury on Corsica. A face bleak with pain and the knowledge of glory. He would be scarred a year later by a wound on the forehead at the Battle of the Nile, but otherwise this face would not change in the eight years remaining to him. It would, however, change greatly in the versions of him made by Lemuel Abbot, who died insane in 1803. Abbot did at least forty subsequent portraits of Horatio, slowly slipping into idiocy as he did so. In fact, Horatio was his main source of income during this long decline. Versions were painted for Lady Nelson and Collingwood and many others. In these later Abbot portraits, Horatio loses the severe and drawn expression of a man who has suffered much and made a conquest of suffering. His looks become gentler, better-tempered, like a ruddy, benevolent farmer at first, then gradually plumper, softer, more vacuous. Like Abbot’s brain, it occurred to me now. I have always been fascinated by parallel tracks, and this was an almost perfect example. Forty likenesses over the years. Horatio’s face softening back into infancy along with Abbot’s brain.
Oppressed by this thought, which in some way seemed disloyal to him, I turned my eyes away from the portrait. The bar was more crowded now, though I had not been aware of people coming in. I expected to see Jimson and the Barbers, but there was no sign of them. Standing beside me now was Kismet Walters. My glass of wine was still half full. Through the open door I saw people passing down the passage towards the lecture room, among them the president of the club, a tall, slow-moving man named Pratt-Smithers. I had again the feeling that time had slipped away from me, I had somehow fallen behind.
“Heroism is a form of pure energy,” I said to Kismet Walters, and he instantly and fervently agreed, nodding his head so forcibly that his white hair—still thick, though he is well into his sixties—flopped over his forehead. He is the only member of the club who comes remotely near to sharing my feelings for Horatio, but he is a dangerous ally because his notions are very simple, some might say crude. His nickname, which no-one ever uses in his hearing, comes from his lifelong denial that Horatio ever said “Kiss me, Hardy” when he lay dying belowdecks at Trafalgar. Walters regards such a request as out of keeping with the heroic character, altogether too unmanly. According to Walters, what Horatio actually said was “Kismet, Hardy,” this being the Arabic word for “destiny.” Basing himself on this premise, he has spent twenty-five years accumulating evidence that Horatio was early attracted to the faith of Islam, was in fact a secret convert, and made incognito trips to Cairo on three separate occasions for audiences with the sharif. He is intending someday to publish the results of this research.
“Fuelled by faith,” he said now. “A hero has to believe.” He reared his head back and fixed me with his small blue eyes. “Valhalla,” he said.
“Right enough.” I finished my wine in one go. “It’s nearly halfpast,” I said. “Shall we go in and hear what Robbins has to say?”
There were a respectable number of people in there, about thirty-five, I estimated—not too many empty seats. Robbins had fixed up a blackboard so that he could illustrate with coloured chalks the way the system worked, how the same coloured flags or pennants were used for the numbers 0 to 9 and for the letters of the alphabet 1 to 26 and how each ship had a codebook in which common words or phrases were allotted numbers from 26 upwards. Where possible, the ships used these standard forms; any other words had to be spelled out with a flag for each letter. The flags were hoisted to the upper yardarms or the mastheads, wherever they could be seen by the ships they were addressing.
Robbins had faults as a speaker—he was hesitant in delivery and tended to repeat himself—but the miraculous nature of this new form of communication came through all the same, to me at least. He quoted the young Henry Blackwood, commanding the leading frigate, Euryalus, in the build-up to Trafalgar, within four miles of the enemy and nearly sixty from Horatio’s flagship, yet still, as he later wrote to his wife, “talking to Lord Nelson by means of Popham’s signals.” In that slow approach, as the British fleet closed in and the French under Villeneuve tried first to wriggle through the Strait of Gibraltar for the safety of Toulon and then made a run for Cadiz, it was the frigates that kept Horatio informed, using Popham’s system. And in that last, most famous message to the fleet, the word expects was substituted for confides because it was in the codebook and the other wasn’t, and could therefore be signalled with only one flag instead of eight.
It was after half-past eight when the talk finished. I did not return to the bar or speak to anyone; I got my coat and went straight downstairs and out onto the street. It was a cold night, very clear. In spite of the streetlights, the sky looked black, and stars were visible in it. I went across Mecklenburgh Square with the intention of making my way to King’s Cross and getting the tube home. However, when I came out onto Gray’s Inn Road, without pausing to think about it I turned south, towards the river.
At the moment it seemed no more than an impulse, though of an unusual kind for me, perhaps no more than a desire to prolong the evening. But by the time I was crossing Holborn and starting down Chancery Lane, I knew exactly where I was going and why. For the first time, consciously and deliberately, I was following in his footsteps. Of course, it was wrong, it was the wrong time of the year. It should have been December. But I was troubled in spirit, there was this obstinate shadow over our relationship, I needed to do it then, I had to violate the calendar.
December 1800. Those closing weeks of the year saw the end of his marriage. The Naples days were over for Horatio, that strange interlude in the unreal city where his passion for Emma grew at a landsman’s rhythm in gaudy nights and slow mornings, along with his allegiance to the implacable Queen Maria Carolina. Over for the Hamiltons too. Sir William was recalled to London and never returned. The three came home together in close amity, the husband, the lover, and the mistress-wife, arriving at Yarmouth in early November and reaching London three days later. News of the scandalous liaison, conducted under the husband’s roof with his apparent blessing, had preceded them.
It was in London that the historic meeting took place between Fanny and Emma, with Horatio introducing his mistress to his wife. Emma had been carrying his child for six months, but her amplitude of form and the loose clothes she wore perhaps concealed this. Fanny the soul of provincial gentility, angular, reticent, and dutiful; Emma flamboyant and insecure, her Lancashire accent still there after all the years in Naples. Two different sorts of women, divided by temperament and by the traditional roles forced upon them. Each saw in the other her fears and prejudices realized. Below the civilities of the occasion, a palpable detestation that was never to waver. He must have seen it, the instant, inevitable dislike. What else could he have hoped for? Whatever dream of harmony he had, perhaps the hope that the amity of three could merge into one of four, must have gone for good that afternoon, as he watched them together, with the wind bellowing outside and the rain lashing the windows—it was a day of drenching storm, with gales uprooting trees in Kensington Gardens and St. James’s Park. The place of that meeting has long gone, vanished without trace—Nerot’s Hotel on the south side of King Street, where the St. James’s Theatre later stood and office blocks now rear up their undistinguished façades.
According to James Harrison, one of his first biographers, late one night some three weeks after this bleak encounter, Horatio left the rented house in Dover Street where he was living with Fanny and walked for hours through the streets, quite alone. He went eastward along the Strand and Fleet Street as far as St. Paul’s, then down to Blackfriars Bridge, then back via the Embankment and Soho. Slightly built, maimed, wasted in looks, quite unrecognized. Miles of walking in the dead of night.
I came onto Fleet Street and turned eastward. Now I was on his actual route. The streets were quieter in the vicinity of the City. I had the feeling that I was stepping in time with him, my heavier footfalls and his lighter ones making a single rhythm. I knew with absolute certainty where he had lingered, where he had hurried. When I paused at the corner of Pilgrim Street, I knew he had done exactly the same, that he had looked at these same gaunt, unlighted buildings against this same black sky. I knew what his thoughts had been that night—he had been possessed by the strange discrepancy between his private and his public life.
The most celebrated Englishman of his time, victor of Cape St. Vincent and the Nile, scourge of the hated French, destroyer of Bonaparte’s designs on Egypt and India. From the moment of his arrival in Yarmouth, squads of cavalry escorted him throughout the county. In Ipswich the crowd took the horses from their traces and drew his carriage in triumph through the town. In London he was cheered wherever he went, admiring throngs followed his every step. If it was known that he intended to go to the theatre, every seat in the house would be instantly sold; he would enter his box to the strains of “See the Conquering Hero Comes” from the theatre orchestra. By day there was business at the Admiralty and the Navy Office; the evenings were occupied with banquets, presentations, receptions in his honour. He had taken his seat in the House of Lords—he was a peer now, Baron Nelson of the Nile.
Such adulation has seldom befallen mortal man. But at home within the walls of number 17 Dover Street, there was tension and distress. This same evening of our lonely walk, or so I believe, he had earlier insisted that the Hamiltons be invited to dine. He could never accept defeat, it was not in his nature. Emma was advanced in pregnancy, a fact that may or may not have been known to Fanny. During the meal she felt ill and left the table. Rebuked by Horatio for neglecting their guest, Fanny went after her. There followed a painful parody of that mutual good will he must still have been hoping for: the dutiful wife held the basin while the pregnant mistress vomited into it.
Had he witnessed this scene before he set out? As I crossed Ludgate Circus, I felt suddenly convinced that he had. Harrison does not give us the date, but I believe it was on that same night, after the Hamiltons had returned home to Grosvenor Square, after Fanny had gone to bed. It was this grotesque episode that threw him into despair, set him walking the night streets. He expected the fear and antagonism of the women to melt in the warm breath of his enterprise, as the odds had melted at Cape St. Vincent and would again at Trafalgar. Sure mark of the hero, this believing so completely in the transforming power of his desire.
It was well after ten now, and Ludgate Hill was all but deserted. The banks and business houses were darkly cavernous within their Corinthian porticoes, waiting for the next day’s tide. I felt footsore—I was not used to so much walking—but I was happy to be so close to him in understanding and sympathy. I stood looking up at the dome of St. Paul’s, followed the struggling white of pigeons caught up there in some remote alarm, fluttering in the milky shafts of the floodlights. I had the brief impression that they were trapped in the light itself, the rays were like bars.
In the crypt of this great church he lies entombed—this is where they brought him, after the Painted Hall at Greenwich where he lay in state, after the room in the Admiralty where he rested overnight before the funeral service. No-one before him in the whole history of England ever had such a splendid funeral. Thinking of this, and of his nearness and farness, I felt the air around and above me thicken with mourning; that massed cry of lamentation I experienced in my dreams came raining down from the cathedral and the buildings all around—it came like gentle rain, not sound, enveloping, all-pervasive, like rain.
How long this grief endured I could not tell. It was broken by an unkempt man who appeared from some dark place beyond the churchyard and came up to me and asked me for money. He was old and smelled very bad and he did not look at me. I put a pound into his hand, taking care not to touch him.
I walked the whole way back with Horatio, all the way to Dover Street. I was afraid of the streets so late, but I did it. I was tempted briefly to give it up when I reached Trafalgar Square, and take a taxi home. I was tired out and, as I say, afraid. Moreover, it seemed fitting to leave him there with his pigeons and lions, standing on his tremendous column at the farthest reach of the light, too high to be really seen from the common level, endlessly scanning the Thames, keeping his eye on Big Ben. But the parallels had to be kept up. I went on; I went all the way back with him.