NOTE.

The cover is an exact reproduction in the original colours of a rare old print. The dates have of course been added. The clouds, to which Nelson points with his sword, express the wars and rumours of wars, with which the year 1798 was overhung. The sword indicates the spirit with which he approached questions of national honour.

[Pg v]

Preface.

SOME years ago, Professor J. K. Laughton’s admirable selection of “Letters and Dispatches of Horatio, Viscount Nelson,” inspired me with such an interest in Nelson’s wonderfully human and graphic correspondence that I studied the larger and earlier “Dispatches and Letters of Lord Nelson,” collected by Sir Harris Nicolas. The present book is the outcome of a long and affectionate study of these two works, and the well-thumbed pages of Southey and Jeaffreson.

But since, at the time of my first visit to Sicily, a little more than two years ago, I had definitely before me the project of writing a Nelson novel for the one-hundredth anniversary of the Battle of the Nile (August 1st, 1898), I have read most of the important works dealing with Lord Nelson’s life, especially Captain Mahan’s [Pg vi] “Life of Nelson,” which is a monument of impartiality, research, and the application of professional knowledge to literature. I have also, by the kindness of Lord Dundonald, Mr. Morrison, and others, had the opportunity of seeing a quantity of unpublished Nelsoniana, which have been of the utmost value to me in forming a final opinion of the character of my hero.

The main object of this book is to present to the reader, in the year of the centenary of the Nile, the real Nelson, without extenuation or malice. No doubt it would have been easier to ensure popularity by passing over the weaknesses in his character and representing him only as an ever-victorious warrior. But this did not seem to me the right course to pursue with a character like Nelson. Those who have studied his letters in the pages of Nicolas and Laughton, and those who have studied his life in the pages of Captain Mahan (who, it must be remembered, is a professional writer, the chief naval expert of the United States, writing upon the greatest English sea-strategist), cannot fail to have been impressed by the intensely human note which he struck in almost every letter.

People love to read about Nelson, not only [Pg vii] because he was the greatest sea-commander who ever lived, but because his own personal character was so extraordinarily vehement and interesting. He was a law unto himself. As a commander he forced his way into recognition by detecting, and acting in defiance of, the errors of his superiors, even of men like St. Vincent. He continued to do so when he was an Admiral commanding fleets whose destruction would have meant almost national ruin. And he was as much a law unto himself in his private life. “A law unto himself” might have been his motto. It was the keynote of his force.

But even Nelson, absolutely fearless as he was of danger and responsibility, could hardly have extorted the liberty to assert this force of character if it had not been tempered by one of the most lovable dispositions recorded of a public man. Nearly all who were ever thrown into contact with him were his willing slaves, or affectionate friends—even the grim old St. Vincent and the austere Hood. He was the most considerate, the most sympathetic, the most generous of shipmates. His very simplicity was fascinating, and he was wonderfully simple where his affections were concerned, though he showed such intuition in gauging the character of a knave [Pg viii] or an enemy, and in forecasting the movements of politicians, as well as of hostile commanders.

Nelson had the same faith in those he loved as he had in his own genius. In the hour of danger his spirit rose to the sublime, and the bodily ailments to which he was so constantly a prey, left him. In the hours of waiting, when anxieties were accumulating and action was impossible, his state of health sank very low. His passion for Lady Hamilton shows how infatuated he could become over a woman who appealed to his imagination. Few women in history have possessed her great qualities in a higher degree than Lady Hamilton at the time when Nelson first came under her influence, in 1798, after the Battle of the Nile. Her letters to Mr. Greville and Sir William Hamilton prove that she must have had a delightful disposition, and the part she took in the stirring events of 1798 and 1799 shows her imagination, her daring, and her ability.

I have endeavoured, at the risk of raising a stormy discussion, to present the character of Nelson exactly as it was in 1798 and the first half of 1799; and to present a general view of the historical events in which he formed the central figure, though I am aware that certain passages [Pg ix] in the book, such as Chapter XVII., form rather heavy reading for a novel. But, to bring out the character of Nelson, it was necessary to detail the tangled political problems with which he was confronted. As Captain Mahan pointed out, Nelson was one of the most astute politicians of his day, as well as the greatest sea-commander.

A large part of the book is in Nelson’s own words. Appreciating the importance, in treating a national hero, of keeping as close as possible to history, I have, wherever it was feasible, used, whether in dialogue or description, the actual words of Nelson and his contemporaries. These I have derived from his own published and unpublished correspondence and journals, from the narratives of his officers, and similar sources. Similarly, I have derived my chapter on his visit to Pompeii largely from an account of a visit to Pompeii written in 1802. The style of the narrator of the story, Captain Thomas Trinder, is founded upon unpublished journals and letters of the time, in the possession of my father. They were mostly written by his godfather, Mr. Henry Brooke, who lived at Walmer, and may be taken as fair specimens of the writing of the travelled and better-educated Kentish gentleman of his day. Mr. Brooke was one of the last heads of [Pg x] the now abolished Alien Office, and as such had much to do with the French princes exiled in England during the Napoleonic régime. He was

also present at the restoration of the French monarchy. Some of the pieces of queer grammar, such as “I have wrote,” were probably idiomatic at the time, others are mere loose writing.

The scene of the book is mostly laid in Naples and Sicily, and to acquire the requisite local knowledge I have paid two long visits to these places in 1896-8. The Mont’ alto Palace and the Castle of the Favara, in fact nearly all the buildings described, actually exist, though in most cases they are much decayed or altered. The Hamiltons’ Palace at Naples, though now divided into apartments, remains much as it was, except that, in Nelson’s time, the sea came close up to it. The features of the sea-front of Naples are very much altered since then; but the Comte de la Ville, who is at the head of the Storia Patria, the excellent historical society of Naples, was kind enough to show me almost contemporary plans of the places described. And here I wish to take the opportunity of pointing out that the Neapolitans and Sicilians of to-day differ as much from the corrupt hangers-on of the Bourbons as the English public men of to-day differ from the [Pg xi] venal followers of Sir Robert Walpole. I need hardly say that the denunciations of them, and

above all of the French, are not my own, but always derived from Nelson’s expressed sentiments, and nearly always given in his exact words.

In criticising the characters of my heroines it must be remembered that the morals of the Neapolitan court in the time of Maria Carolina are indescribable in an English novel; but this, as a matter of fact, is the one point in which I have shrunk from presenting things without extenuation. It will be noticed that at the period of which I write, the year of the Nile, I believe Lady Hamilton to have been a lovely and enchanting woman, and that I believe that the connection between Nelson and her began as a pure romance, each worshipping the other as the most splendid human being in the world. The beautiful letter of hero-worship which she wrote to him after the battle of the Nile I first saw in its entirety in Professor Laughton’s sumptuous volume, “The Companions of Nelson.”

Before I conclude I have to express my thanks to Mr. E. Neville-Rolfe, British Consul at Naples; to the Marquis A. de Gregorio, and the Messrs. Whitaker, of Palermo; and to Miss A. Mason, a great-niece of Nelson, besides those whom I [Pg xii] have mentioned above. I am also indebted to the writings of Mr. Clark Russell; to the highly valuable and hitherto unpublished Nelson documents which have been appearing in Literature; to the accurate and splendidly illustrated Nelsoniana which have been appearing in the popular illustrated Service paper, The Army and Navy Illustrated, and in the English Illustrated Magazine; and to Lord Charles Beresford’s and Mr. H. W. Wilson’s “Nelson and his Times,” which was published as a supplement to the Daily Mail. I have followed Lord Charles’s view of Nelson himself more closely than any other, because it is so sympathetic, and is written by one who is at once a brilliant naval expert and the sea-commander to whom the nation looks for exploits like Nelson’s.

I am prepared for much censure and acrimonious discussion, especially over the very point upon which I take my stand, that a novel dealing with the character of Nelson ought above all things to be a human document. He is, to me, the most intensely human figure in History.

Douglas Sladen.

Palazzo Monteleone, Palermo, April 6th, 1898.

[Pg xiii]

Contents.

[Pg 1]

The Admiral

Prologue.—Introducing the Reader to the Lady Katherine Fleet.

MY Lord Eastry belonged to the grand old race of East Kent squires, who brought up their sons to fear nothing and hate the French, aye, and brought up their daughters to be the wives and mothers of men who should sail the salt seas till too stiff with age or wounds to climb to their quarter-decks. For how could their sons help going to sea when they saw the boatmen of Deal from their open beach defying the guns of the French and the might of the fiercest storms that blew?

My Lord Eastry began his bold life as younger son of a squire, who bore the old Kent name of Fleet. But of John Fleet, the eldest, there is only an empty memorial in Eastry Church, which records that “his body lies in the great South Seas in the hope of a joyful resurrection.” His ship, full of honour and glory and prize-money, was spoken two days east of Trinidad in the great storm of 1759; and mariners maintain that fighting Jack Fleet’s black frigate sails there still, whenever the cyclone is coming down, with canvas enough on her to overset a hundred-gun ship. And Dick had his call on the glorious [Pg 2] 1st of June—had the van-ship and sailed into the French with the grand air of his family, as if he never could have his belly full of fighting—laid alongside half a dozen of them at one time and another, and had a chain-shot through his middle just as he sent the Vengeur to the bottom with her colours in the act of striking. Once he was hard pressed, though; and Harry, the Lord Eastry that, as he lay dying, drank Wellington’s health when the news was

brought of Waterloo, saw it and, leaving the line flat in neglect of signals, bore up to him. Lord! what a family they were to fight! When the tall Ramillies ran in between the Brunswick and the Achille to receive her fire, it was like an explosion of devils from hell. The men, men of the Cinque Ports that all had a dead father or a dead brother to charge to the French, would have followed Jack, Dick, or Harry into Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace.

Well, Harry Fleet—the Lord Harry, as they called him in the Channel—came safe out of the great battle; and not so many months afterwards fell upon a great convoy guarded by ships that should have blown his squadron of frigates out of the water, drove their escort under the guns of Martinique, and carried the convoy, with the army on board them that should have taken our Indies, safe into Antigua, from which he brought home more prize-money than ever. He was just too late to close the eyes of his father, the tough old squire of Eastry who lived his fourscore-and-odd years like his fathers before him, the few of them that did not die with their shoes on and the flag overhead.

They made him the Lord Eastry and a Knight of the Bath, but he had had so much lead through his leg by that time, that he could never fight a ship again, so he came to the old home at Eastry to find his fourteen-year old daughter the most wonderful bit of woman’s flesh in all the halls of Kent. Captain Jack and Captain Dick [Pg 3] were never married. What children they may have had fell not into any list of the landed gentry, and so it came that the long-descended lands of the Fleets, and Admiral my Lord Eastry’s prodigious coffers of prize-money must all come to Katherine Fleet, now the Lady Katherine.

Now, no man that ever breathed was less of a coxcomb than Admiral Harry, but as the name of his ancient family was to pass out of the earth with his death, he looked to it that the son-in-law who succeeded to his honours and his great estate should be of such rank and fame that it might be no regret even for the Fleets of Eastry to be lost in their greater honours: some Duke it might be, or at least an Earl, whose belted ancestors had fought for the White or Red Rose; and Katherine Fleet, aged now eighteen, might have had any such an one as came within the magic of her moods.

There are some women who are not completely graceful, and yet give the onlooker a great sense of satisfaction. There is a sort of wild freedom, a declaration of strength and health, an evidence of courage and high spirits, which bespeak an animal perfection too intense for the gentle ease of grace. Katherine was one of those mettlesome women who make men’s blood tingle, and whose own red blood never runs cold in the direst peril. I suppose she was tall. She would have looked it had she been more than common short. She was such a noble creature, and she had the same blue eyes that were worth a dozen pikes to the Lord Eastry, when, in his old frigate days, he had jumped aboard a Frenchman and a wave had checked half his boarding party—gay blue eyes withal, that could laugh like her dimples and white teeth—gay blue eyes that could be as loving or reckless as the mobile mouth. And she had the pure curves of cheek and eyebrow which are almost necessary to beauty absolute like hers.

What follows, I, Thomas Trinder, Captain retired on [Pg 4] half-pay in His Majesty’s Navy, and now of Beach Cottage, Walmer, who am writing this chronicle, had from Will the night before I led his sister to Ripple Church.

One March night of 1798 was Katherine’s coming-out ball. And her father’s hopes looked like fulfilment, for the greatest of Kentish peers, the young Marquis of Dover, had been spending week after week at his mansion of Pegwell, where never within the memory of the countryside, which noted all his doings, had he spent two days on end. And Katherine in a ball-room was a witch. She danced as such women do, light-footed and tireless, radiating health and high spirits, and with the unconscious smile of conquest on their lips, until the victor comes who makes them replace it with the most exquisite gentleness.

People looked to see that in Lady Katherine, before the night was dead, for Ralph, Marquis of Dover, Earl of River, Viscount Ripple, and Baron Waldershare, all in the Peerage of England, and Lord Lieutenant of the County of Kent. For he was a fine man, who rode straight to hounds, and had already climbed high in the Government, and Katherine had shown herself well inclined to him.

The great minuet was to be at midnight, and Katherine was promised to Lord Dover for it. In his fine scarlet uniform of Lord Lieutenant, he was already waiting for her in the door of the great barn with transepts like a church, which had been turned into a ball-room, decked with the trophies of Lord Eastry’s wars.

For in another two or three minutes the first stroke would clang from the tower of Eastry’s little Norman church. Katherine had been up to her room,—she had girlish vanity enough to wish to look her best in the great minuet,—and now she was stepping down the stairway with an eloquent hesitancy, her left hand clearing from her lovely [Pg 5] feet the heavy shimmery satin, which, young as she was, it seemed natural for such an imperial woman to wear. Dividing the line between her beautiful throat and her shoulders, were the famous pearls that were the trophy of Lord Eastry’s wildest exploit.

Who could doubt but that when she went out from that minuet, it would be to have the greatest name in all the kingdom of Kent offered for her keeping?

But suddenly, through the open, ivy-shrouded Elizabethan pane at the turn of the stair, came a low voice,—a young voice, with the low distinctness which I shall never forget,—“Kitty Fleet, Kitty Fleet, is it you, Kitty Fleet?”

A light came over the girl’s face, which, I am prepared to swear, the great Marquess of Dover had never seen, as she replied,

“Hush, Will! keep in the shadow, and I’ll come—but only for a minute.”

But, instead of doing as she bade him, he came right into the door,—into the full blaze of light. He was then a fair boy of eighteen, and I can tell you that his charming figure was shown off to great advantage by the quaint dress of our day,—the tight-fitting Nankeen hose and short dark blue jacket. And when he bared his head he showed fair hair, as glossy and golden as Katherine’s own, in a very long queue. I can picture him fidgeting with his sugar-loaf beaver, for he had something great on his mind.

“Oh, Will,” she whispered, “we shall be discovered.”

“No matter.”

“But why?” began Kitty; and suddenly prepared to fly, as the first stroke of twelve rang out painfully clear to her anxious ear.

“I’m going with the Admiral, Kitty, and you know what that means.”

“Yes,—that is, what does it mean?”

[Pg 6] “It means,—well, it’s Admiral Nelson: and it means that I shall never come back at all, or come back a man.”

“When do you start, Will?” asked Katherine, forgetting all about the minuet and her marquess, and coming forward to take his hands and look into his face. At eighteen it was a beautiful face, but even then so proud that its natural frankness was almost obscured. And yet you forgave its haughtiness, for you felt that such pride would not stoop to anything cowardly or mean, anything that would prevent its keeping itself aloof and aloft. As she took his hands in hers I know how the stern, clean-cut mouth melted into one of the irresistible smiles that such mouths mostly have once in a way.

“Oh, Will!” she said, “I was wondering why did you not come to my coming-out ball—you, Will, my best friend.”

“To see my Lord Dover’s triumph when he had won you, Kitty?” he asked almost bitterly: “I could not bear it. No, I should not have come at all if I had not been going by the morning coach with my mother to Portsmouth.”

“Why, Will, what is Lord Dover to me?” she asked.

“He means to marry you.”

“I don’t mean to marry him.”

“But what will your father say?”

“My father will say nothing. I have no need to marry the first lover with a title who presents himself. I am a lord’s daughter, passing rich—and passably good-looking, Will?”

“Be serious, Kitty.”