Nelson had been in frequent correspondence with the Hamiltons though he had never seen them since the Agamemnon up-anchored in the Bay of Naples. His mind reverted often to his friend Emma; for friend every officer in that ship had felt her to be, and Nelson most of all. But still more it hovered about her influence with the Queen. That Ferdinand in his purblind folly had been playing fast and loose with France and Spain, all knew. But the Queen? She at all events had the wit to defend her dynasty by truth to England. Or so he believed. Could she be trusted?
He wrote to Emma, interweaving his stern meaning with compliments, allusions to the charming Queen and so forth, and waited for her answer eagerly. She would understand—trust her for knowing what her country needed!
Her answer returned. The Queen was staunch. Her own influence with her had grown and strengthened. What could she do to help? Let him but be frank and he would find her with Sir William at his back. He kissed that letter, not for love’s sake, not a breath of it, unless the true flash from comrade to comrade be called love—as indeed it should until we find as many words as the Greeks for that most under-labelled passion.
From that moment his mind was steadfastly made up for Naples, though to no one but his commander in chief did he break his secret.
It was a lovely day in June, the water calm as a blue pearl, when Hamilton, in the room of the mirrors with Emma writing to his dictation at his elbow, sighted fore-running ships coming up from the westward to Ischia and so on to Capri. He started up. The pen fell from her hand and they stood together at the window fixed in suspense.
“Good God!” said she at last. “What will the King say? He leans on Austria now that Spain has broken under him. This is St. Vincent’s doing—but sure he knows the ships are forbid to enter.”
For, recognized almost publicly now as the Patroness of the Fleet, Admiral Lord St. Vincent had written to her that much depended on her communications with him. She warmed even the cool St. Vincent with her fire, as she did all who came near her.
“The picture you draw of the lovely Queen of Naples and the Royal Family would rouse the indignation of the most unfeeling. I am bound by my oath of chivalry to protect all who are persecuted and distressed.”
Sir William had laughed a little over that letter. It would have been long indeed before St. Vincent would have unbent to write it to him. Well, if women imported the element of romance into diplomacy, and it stirred men into action, so much the better. He was proud of his Emma.
“It’s St. Vincent’s doing!” she repeated, leaning on Hamilton’s arm. “Now who will be in command? I wish it might be Nelson.”