Victory
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When I am in London, and by that of course I mean the little square-mile plot of the formal City of London, I always visit Nelson. He is down in the crypt, in the center of it, in a gigantic sepulcher of graceful classic proportions. It is quite a contrast from Wellington’s tomb. The Iron Duke is upstairs, and his edifice is something else altogether. His tomb is busy and dark, filled with detail, like the silver table set that even today graces his table at the house at #1 London. He was always in competition with Nelson’s ghost, and remains so. Nelson is smooth and elegant, as he was in life. The walls of the crypt are light and the white marble highlights the solemnity of his rest. It has been too long since I have been there. I need to check in periodically, and remember that there are things worth gambling everything for. And some things that are worth the losing. I like London in the fall and winter, when the hours of light are precious and the rain can be chill. When I rose this morning, the Admiral’s will would have been signed and witnessed by his staff. He was thinking of home, and seemed to know he would not survive the coming battle. He wrote: “I leave Emma Lady Hamilton, therefore, a Legacy to my King and Country, that they will give her an ample provision to maintain her rank in life. I also leave to the beneficence of my Country my adopted daughter, Horatia Nelson Thompson; and I desire she will use in future the name of Nelson only. These are the only favours I ask of my King and Country at this moment when I am going to fight their Battle.” As I made the coffee in North America, the ships of the line would have been bearing down on the French and Spanish combined Fleet. It was warm there still, in the waters south and east of Cadiz. The Admiral was off Spain, commanding two groups of Royal Navy ships that were about to destroy Napoleon’s dream of landing on British soil from the Sea. Trafalgar. The word still drips from tongue and uses the whole palate. The battle was well and truly underway at this hour, the blind eye turned to the telescope, the famous flag signal to the Fleet made. “England expects every man to do his duty.” It wasn’t supposed to be those words. The Admiral had written it beginning as “Nelson confides” but those words are not in the Fleet signal manual, and would have had to been spelled out, letter for letter. The Admiral acquiesced to simplicity, even if some of the subordinates cast their eyes on the signal, and shrugged. Of course they would do their duty. What did the man expect? The sound of cannon booming. Nelson’s flagship Victory was locked with the French ship Redoubtable. Marines in the masts above fired down at the British officers on deck. Nelson was a prominent target, since he was wearing a freshly laundered uniform with his decorations. At about 1.15 pm, or two hundred years almost to the minute that I write, a musket ball fired from Redoubtable’s fighting tops struck Nelson in the top of the shoulder, smashing into his spine. The path of the bullet is known to all. The Admiral’s tunic and trousers are on display across the river at the museum at Greenwich, laid out in the manner that the Admiral himself was placed down below, a handkerchief over his face to conceal his identify in case the close-quarters battle did not go well. But of course it did. Dozens of the enemy ships were captured without loss to the Royal Navy, though hundreds died. Victory herself was towed into Gibraltar a week or two later for repairs, and she still lives in the #2 dry-dock at Portsmouth, restored to the condition she had when the Admiral trod her deck. When the word of the battle reached London, there was delirious joy and great sadness. If nelson remains a hero today, he was at that time The Hero. His loss was felt by great and ordinary alike. The King was said to have taken it hard. One of the Trafalgar night dinners is held onboard Victory each year, in the Admiral’s quarters. There was a time when the annual celebrations girded the globe, but of course there were more ships in the old days, and more stations of the Royal Navy. Fewer or not, I will honor the tradition at Big Pink. I have directed the staff to put out the heavy sliver and have commissioned a great roast, with Yorkshire pudding on the side. I intend to drink sherry- fino- as an aperitif, and will save the port for the formal toasting after, with a fine cigar. It is appropriate. Four days before the battle, the muster book of HMS Victory included the names of those who would serve. In addition to Admiral Viscount Nelson, there were officers and men from England (441), Scotland (64), Ireland (63), Wales (18), Shetland Isles (3), Channel Isles (2) and the Isle of Mann. Of the 71 foreigners on the crew, 22 were Americans. I will of course make a toast to the Queen, and then to the Royal Navy, since that is tradition. But I will also raise a glass to the Ladies that Viscount Nelson left behind. You see, King George’s government ignored the Admiral’s last request. Instead, it showered honors and pensions on his brother and first wife. Lady Hamilton got nothing. She spent extravagantly to try to help Nelson’s friends and captains, and to preserve their home as a monument. By 1812, she was in debt for millions of pounds, and eventually was convicted to debtors prison at King’s Bench. On her release, she moved to France, and that is where she died. It is too bad, really. Nelson expected England to do it’s duty Copyright 2005 Vic Socotra |
