He declined to change that plan.
Ruffo’s Army of the Holy Faith controlled the country around Naples, as well as the city, and a steady stream of captured rebels were brought aboard Foudroyant by the cardinal’s ruffians. One prisoner, handled none too gently, was Commodore Caracciolo, no longer proud and disdainful but ragged, unshaven, dispirited and in handcuffs. Hardy, seeing a fellow sea officer in distress, and unaware that the Commodore had been dragged from a hiding place in a well, immediately ordered the handcuffs to be removed and put a cabin at his disposal with a sentry. Caracciolo needed protection from his own countrymen, who appeared to have administered a sound beating before handing him over.
Arraigned before the officers Ferdinand had sent along for the purpose, the Commodore swore that his sole intention in leavingSicily had been to see to his estates; that he had been forced to take command of the rebel marine, and that even when he had fired on his own one-time flagship Minerve, he had had no choice. The majority of his six judges did not believe him, and Caracciolo was swiftly condemned to be hanged.
The execution was Nelson’s to approve or commute, he being the King’s representative. It was his own dislike of the man that made him hesitate, the memory of his arrogance. Caracciolo had resented the flight of the royal family from Naples in a foreign ship, was that the cause of his disaffection? Nelson turned to the two people aboard whom he trusted to advise him.
Emma was troubled. She was no partisan of the Commodore, but she had a mental list of those who had rebelled, many of them personal friends and former guests at the Palazzo Sessa. She had no idea if they were still in Naples, or if they had fled. But it was certain that if they were taken, they would suffer a similar fate. Sir William seemed unconcerned: his own mind was fixed on what he called ‘the necessities’: a stable kingdom that could take due part in the war against the French. For that, rebellion must be punished with full rigour. Clemency would only be construed as weakness.
Nelson had never hanged a man, though he had seen it happen after the mutinies of ’97 at Spithead and the Nore. Some of that discontent had spread to infect St Vincent’s fleet, and the old Admiral, Sir John Jervis before his peerage, had reacted with a swift harshness that many of his captains admired, stringing up several malcontents after a short trial. But that fleet had been in sight of the enemy: they were just over the horizon, armed and in well-found ships. He could have faced battle at any minute, and that had taken precedence over everything else. Nelson knew that most of his officers would not hesitate: Hardy and Troubridge would have signed without asking a soul.
In the end, what moved his pen was the knowledge that, though he might be the King’s representative, he was not empowered to interfere in an internal matter. Caracciolo’s Neapolitan peers had condemned him. All a British admiral could do was confirm the sentence, state that it should take place at five o’clock in the evening – and attend it.
It was a dishevelled, shambling figure that came on to the deck of Minerve, hands and feet secured by chains, a priest beside him murmuring, a steady incantation for his soul. Every Neapolitan officer, including the men who had judged and sentenced him, werealso on that deck, some to whom he had once been a commander. Alerted to what was about to happen, Minerve was surrounded by boats full of silent spectators. Aboard HMS Foudroyant the sides and rigging were lined with Hardy’s crew. The chains were struck off, and Caracciolo’s hands were bound behind his back, as his eyes raked over both his accusers and the man who had signed his death warrant.
Gently the Neapolitan sailors led him to the scaffold, for it was no part of their nature to be unkind to a condemned man. Too many of them feared death to do other than
Ruffo’s Army of the Holy Faith controlled the country around Naples, as well as the city, and a steady stream of captured rebels were brought aboard Foudroyant by the cardinal’s ruffians. One prisoner, handled none too gently, was Commodore Caracciolo, no longer proud and disdainful but ragged, unshaven, dispirited and in handcuffs. Hardy, seeing a fellow sea officer in distress, and unaware that the Commodore had been dragged from a hiding place in a well, immediately ordered the handcuffs to be removed and put a cabin at his disposal with a sentry. Caracciolo needed protection from his own countrymen, who appeared to have administered a sound beating before handing him over.
Arraigned before the officers Ferdinand had sent along for the purpose, the Commodore swore that his sole intention in leavingSicily had been to see to his estates; that he had been forced to take command of the rebel marine, and that even when he had fired on his own one-time flagship Minerve, he had had no choice. The majority of his six judges did not believe him, and Caracciolo was swiftly condemned to be hanged.
The execution was Nelson’s to approve or commute, he being the King’s representative. It was his own dislike of the man that made him hesitate, the memory of his arrogance. Caracciolo had resented the flight of the royal family from Naples in a foreign ship, was that the cause of his disaffection? Nelson turned to the two people aboard whom he trusted to advise him.
Emma was troubled. She was no partisan of the Commodore, but she had a mental list of those who had rebelled, many of them personal friends and former guests at the Palazzo Sessa. She had no idea if they were still in Naples, or if they had fled. But it was certain that if they were taken, they would suffer a similar fate. Sir William seemed unconcerned: his own mind was fixed on what he called ‘the necessities’: a stable kingdom that could take due part in the war against the French. For that, rebellion must be punished with full rigour. Clemency would only be construed as weakness.
Nelson had never hanged a man, though he had seen it happen after the mutinies of ’97 at Spithead and the Nore. Some of that discontent had spread to infect St Vincent’s fleet, and the old Admiral, Sir John Jervis before his peerage, had reacted with a swift harshness that many of his captains admired, stringing up several malcontents after a short trial. But that fleet had been in sight of the enemy: they were just over the horizon, armed and in well-found ships. He could have faced battle at any minute, and that had taken precedence over everything else. Nelson knew that most of his officers would not hesitate: Hardy and Troubridge would have signed without asking a soul.
In the end, what moved his pen was the knowledge that, though he might be the King’s representative, he was not empowered to interfere in an internal matter. Caracciolo’s Neapolitan peers had condemned him. All a British admiral could do was confirm the sentence, state that it should take place at five o’clock in the evening – and attend it.
It was a dishevelled, shambling figure that came on to the deck of Minerve, hands and feet secured by chains, a priest beside him murmuring, a steady incantation for his soul. Every Neapolitan officer, including the men who had judged and sentenced him, werealso on that deck, some to whom he had once been a commander. Alerted to what was about to happen, Minerve was surrounded by boats full of silent spectators. Aboard HMS Foudroyant the sides and rigging were lined with Hardy’s crew. The chains were struck off, and Caracciolo’s hands were bound behind his back, as his eyes raked over both his accusers and the man who had signed his death warrant.
Gently the Neapolitan sailors led him to the scaffold, for it was no part of their nature to be unkind to a condemned man. Too many of them feared death to do other than
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