Lord Keith wrote coldly to him, commanding his presence at the final destruction of the French-Egyptian Fleet. He ordered that Palermo no longer should be the rendezvous of the British Fleet, and that Syracuse should be substituted. Nelson received it furiously as censure on his lingering at Palermo. He sent his Foudroyant to help in the blockade of Malta, but himself he would not go. He would stay; he was in weak health; he would return to England.
Troubridge once more wrote passionately:
“Will your Lordship come and hoist your flag in the Culloden? Rely on everything I can do to make it pleasant. Your friends absolutely, so far as they dare, insist on your staying to sign the capitulation. Be on your guard. I see a change in language since Lord Keith was here.”
And yet, to the grief of all his friends, the last surviving of the French Fleet in Aboukir Bay surrendered to Nelson’s ship, but with Nelson himself in the Garden of Armida. Troubridge had entreated in vain.
Nelson was so angry with himself that his anger overflowed on others. He wrote passionately to Lord Spencer at the Admiralty that his spirit was broken by the indignities inflicted on him and he must have rest, and orders were sent to Lord Keith that if Nelson’s health rendered him unfit for duty he must return to England. Lord Spencer wrote again coldly and sensibly to Nelson:
“It is by no means my wish or intention to call you away from service, but having observed that you have been under the necessity of quitting the blockade of Malta on account of your health, it appears to me much more advisable for you to come home than to be obliged to remain inactive at Palermo. I believe I am joined in this opinion by all your friends here that you will be more likely to recover your health and strength in England than in an inactive situation at a foreign court, however pleasing the respect and gratitude shown to you for your services may be. I trust you will take in good part what I have taken the liberty to write to you as a friend.”
The hint was terribly plain and could not be less, for the scandal of Palermo was raging in England now. Nelson was furious; Emma’s rage unrestrained. Their noble services to be so misunderstood, so under-valued. Good God, what ingratitude? That was her daily cry, and every evening she fled to the arms of her Queen, and they wept together over the black hearts of men.
Lord Minto, who knew and understood Nelson better than most, wrote in extenuation of the infatuation that all the world now ridiculed. The pitiable side of it was that Emma’s past, and indeed her present, made it far more a subject of ridicule than of anything else. A mere light woman! A woman who had—and then followed the black catalogue. That Nelson should trifle with his honour for such as she! But Minto wrote more wisely, more kindly.
“I have letters from Nelson and Lady Hamilton. It does not seem clear whether he will go home. He will, at least, I hope, take Malta first. He does not seem at all conscious of the sort of discredit he has fallen into or the cause of it, for he still writes, not wisely, about Lady Hamilton and all that. But it is hard to condemn and ill-use a hero, as he is in his own element, for being foolish about a woman who has art enough to make fools of many wiser than an admiral.”
True enough, and “the woman” meanwhile was planning on her own account to meet these strokes of fate. Nelson should linger until she was sure of Sir William’s position with the English Government. Sir William should apply for leave. Then, at least, they could return with Nelson, and he would not be exposed to the artifices of a wife most anxious to regain his love. None knew better than Emma that a wife with the world behind her and the sympathy of high and low is a dangerous antagonist for even the most heart-holding mistress.