She had vouchsafed a little consideration with Nelson to Sir William’s art treasures, the collection of a lifetime, and a part had been embarked on board the Colossus, but that was all the thought she could spare from her more pressing duties.
It was a night of storm and rain, possibly the safer on that account, but infinitely terrifying to fair-weather travellers. Marie Caroline had written her last farewell letter from the Palace, to her daughter, the Empress of Austria. “Once on board, God help us!” she wrote, “Saved, but ruined and dishonoured.”
Yet no way out, for every hour Naples grew more dangerous. Afterwards she wrote again to the Empress:
“We descended, ten in number, with the utmost secrecy in the dark, without our ladies in waiting, or other attendants. Nelson was our guide.”
But even the Empress was not told all the particulars. Emma wrote them to Greville, and it is permissible to imagine the feeling with which the cool, the sedate Greville would read the heights to which his heroine had soared. Emma—Good God!
“On the twenty-first, at ten at night, Lord Nelson, Sir William, mother and self went out to pay a visit, sent all our servants away and ordered supper at home. When they were gone, we set off, walked to our boat, and after two hours went to the Vanguard. Lord Nelson then went with armed boats to a secret passage adjoining to the palace, got up the dark staircase that goes into the Queen’s room and with a dark lantern, cutlasses, pistols, etc., brought off every soul, ten in number to the Vanguard at ten o’clock. If we had remained to the next day we should all have been imprisoned.”
It was done, and as the last boat reached the Vanguard, and the Royal fugitives ascended from the tossing waves, pale, terrified, rain-wet and wind-blown, Emma, leaning over the side, to watch their reception, felt her heart beat high with pride and triumph. Glory, even more glorious than her imaginations, was gained. She had saved a King and in so doing had proved her own courage and address to all the world.
The famous flight to Varennes of the unhappy Marie Antoinette and the King of France had failed for want of courage and address like her own. She had not failed. She had triumphantly rescued them and not only themselves but all their family and treasures. No half successes for her. It could not have been better accomplished. Nelson had been her instrument; without him it could not have been done; but she had been the brain, the soul of the enterprise. She triumphed, triumphed, as the Queen clasped her in her arms, seasick already, half fainting, and the terrified Royal children clung to her skirts. She led them to their cabins; she provided for every want.
She bestowed Sir William in such comfort as was possible, and had then one word with Nelson on the heaving rain-swept deck.
“Emma, my angel, my wonder; there is none like you—none. Thank God for your courage and wisdom.”