We certainly landed under most distressing circumstances. The Queen, who had the heart of a lion, and loved life as a lovely woman should, was crushed by the death of her little child, slain with the sea-sickness when within sight of land, which we could not make by reason of the wind. And the Admiral was overcome by the casting down of all hopes of concerted success against the hated French by the cowardice of the Neapolitan counsels and army, and the incompetence, if it were nothing worse, of General Mack. The attitude, too, of My Lady but added to the situation. This extraordinary woman, I verily believe, found something fascinating in the universal air of gloom and tragedy. To think that the Admiral was the centre of so much peril and anxiety, and yet could be won from his woes by the magic of her companionship, gratified her vanity, which was one of the elements that counted much in her character.
Not that she was either daunted, or willing to see great issues lost while she consoled herself and him in a theatrical Paradise. She had a profound faith in the man she loved—her hero; and she felt sure that in the darkest hour his genius would flash forth and strike the enemy with lightning. Nor had she lost her gay, indomitable heart. If she had thought that the right medicine for the moment was to force cheerfulness, she would have used the whole strength of her beauty and accomplishments and brightness to try and inspire the Court. But she felt, I am convinced, that tragedy was the keynote for the moment. So tragedy it was.
To their Majesties was brought every day the news of some fresh fragment of their kingdom having fallen away from them, yielding like rotten wood to the touch of the French. To the Admiral most days was brought some fresh confirmation of his worst fears. The two points, for instance, in which he was most interested, after the fate of the Kingdom of Naples, were the capture of Malta and the destruction of the transports at Alexandria, which had taken the French to Egypt, and might bring them back again when their fleet, preparing at Brest, should enter the Mediterranean, form a junction with the Spaniards, and engage ours.
At this distance of time, I remember well one morning, when My Lady came on board with that radiant smile, tempered to tender solicitude, at a moment when the Admiral was almost fit to jump overboard under the accumulation of unfavourable dispatches. Not one of the Allies was doing what had been expected of them. One even of his commanders was failing him.
I watched her cross the deck, full of grace and womanly graciousness. I did not mind her calling me Tubby that day: there was an air of affectionateness in her frank greeting. I only conducted her to the Admiral’s state-room door, and there left her; but what passed I had from his secretary, with whom he was too busily engaged to dismiss him, as he was wont to dismiss any one when My Lady came to him. For which, indeed, there was good enough reason, for she seldom came to him alone in this fashion except on a matter of import.
When she entered, the Admiral flew to her agitatedly: “Oh, my dear lady, my dear lady!”
“Why, goodness me, what is the matter, Nelson?”
He was so excited, that she was for the moment quite oblivious of the secretary.
“Matter!” said the Admiral—“matter! The matter is England—their Majesties—the Emperor—Russia—the Bey—Malta—and that infernal jumping monkey, Sir Sidney Smith.”
“The French are all right, then?” said My Lady, in good-humoured sarcasm.