She got him on shore that evening after a day of excitement to wear down a man all beef and sinew instead of the worn-out invalid she saw him. A perfect bedroom was appointed to his service away from the hot September sun and full of cool and healing glooms. His sitting-room was adjoining where he could lie and watch at a safe distance the work in hand repairing the wounds of the ships. Troubridge’s Culloden was barely afloat; his own Vanguard—her masts, by good fixing, might or might not hold out until he could get her to Gibraltar to refit. In short, at Naples he must stay awhile whether he would or not.
Officers came and went, but Emma shielded him where she could. He called her his guardian angel. One or two of his Fanny’s letters he showed to her and Sir William with pride. They should see how elegantly she expressed herself, how firm her trust in the Providence which had preserved and would preserve him yet. Indeed, those innocent wifely letters might have been published to the Fleet, so universal were they in the expression of a wife’s calm pride and joy in great achievements. She thanked him also very gratefully and touchingly for her share in his honours. “Baroness Nelson of the Nile”—had she ever thought she would live to see herself so uplifted? She must tell him, too, of the village rejoicings in his greatness. He would not despise these amid the applauses of Europe. The dear old farmer by the parsonage had said so and so. Old Goody Twoshoes had clasped her hands—he would remember! He did, and it touched him like a far, faint echo from days in another lifetime. For here was Emma beside him, cooling his temples with her fan, her lavender essence, her sweet care that shaded the windows to perfection yet admitted the soft Parthenopean breeze. Her voice rehearsed the honours and gifts awaiting him in Naples.
“Oh, my friend, your glory!” she said, leaning her head back in the armchair beside his sofa, a wandering sunbeam caught in her hair and eyes. “We have just had another letter. No, you shall not read it; it wearies your brain. Listen to me. The Grand Turk has written to King George to beg you may wear the diamond feather he took from his own turban to decorate you! Did ever any one hear of such a thing! I declare I could turn Turk for love of the dear old gentleman. I believe it’s the sign of sovereignty in Turkland. ‘Viva il Turco!’ says Emma.”
She cried it, clapping her hands for joy, and must needs twist up a scarf into a turban and parade the room, pretending herself a favourite sultana, and so lovely that had the Grand Turk seen her he must have offered Sir William millions of piastres on the spot to buy her for the Light of the Hareem, as Nelson declared.
“But I wouldn’t go!” cries she, sitting down, still in the turban. “I had rather be the glorious Nelson’s nurse than mistress of the world. Pray, pray, my Lord, if he sends the Turkish frigate here to congratulate you in all the forms, send the commander to me that I may entertain the good Turban soul.”
“Why, what would you do with him?” says Nelson, enjoying the little comedy.
“Why, I would heap him with honours and kindness and send him home convinced that an Englishwoman at all events has a soul. They say theirs haven’t, so I’m told, but God knows I have, and I love him for the honour his master has done to the friend of our hearts. So I do.”
“You wonderful woman—who ever doubted you had a soul!” He was looking at her with all his heart in his face. “Why, it overflows in every word you say and look you look. ’Tis easy to forget you have a body at all for all it’s so beautiful, and think you an angel just touching the earth and to fly away again from men not worthy of you.”
“Flatterer, flatterer!—and I that thought Nelson all truth and simplicity.” She put her finger on his lip to silence him and he kissed it. “But indeed, Nelson, I grudge at the poor beggarly honours from England. They have not done for you what they did for St. Vincent—St. Vincent!—a rush light to a star! Now listen! If I was King of England I’d have made you, with one stroke of my pen, Duke Nelson, Marquis Nile, Earl Aboukir, Viscount Pyramid, Baron Crocodile, and Prince Victory!—so that all the world might stare when you was announced. Now—what do you say!”
He laughed and laughed. She never tired him and her happy laughter was his lullaby. Baron Crocodile, she often called him after that. When she was not with him, she was planning the glorification for his birthday which the Royal Family and all Naples would have whether he would or not.