not look fierce at all this morning, as H.M.S. Victory drove toward Barbados with the might of the Mediterranean Fleet spread in glorious array behind her. He had invited his little midshipmen to breakfast with him after they’d come off their watch, and on this bright morning in June, he was sharing in their childish, giggling jokes and behaving with youthful abandon, when calls from the masthead— and moments later, the appearance of his flag-captain, Thomas Masterman Hardy—brought him news that the returning frigate Amphion was hull up on the horizon and closing fast.
Nelson, ecstatic, set down his tea and leapt to his feet. “Now, my young gentlemen, we shall learn what Captain Sutton has found out about our friend Villeneuve” —he pronounced it Veal-noove, for Nelson may have won mastery over the French fleet but never their language—”and whether or not he is indeed here in the Indies! May we bring the French to battle at last!”
Cheers, all around the polished mahogany table, from a circle of children and a grinning
admiral whose height could not rival the shortest of them.
He saw the wild eagerness in their eyes. “Dismissed!”
They fled topside, but a sharp reprimand from Captain Hardy reminded them to walk like
young officers and not undisciplined children.
It was all Nelson could do not to go charging up after them. He began to pace, and by the time the frigate was hove to under Victory’s lee and her grave-faced captain, soaked with spray and flushed with news, piped aboard and brought to his cabin, the admiral had worked himself up into a state of high excitement and agitation.
“News, Captain Sutton!” Nelson said anxiously, seizing the officer’s arm and pulling him
into the cabin. “You have news of the Combined Fleet, of Villeneuve?”
Sutton looked at Hardy, and then at his admiral, and swallowed tightly. “I spoke with the governor of Barbados, milord, and delivered your dispatches to him.”
“And?”
“Our pursuit has not been in vain, sir.”
“See, Hardy!” Nelson exclaimed, flushed with triumph. He pounded his single fist down on
the table for emphasis. “By God, the French are here and I shall have them yet, you may depend on it!” He swung anxiously to the somber-faced captain. “And Admiral Falconer—he is prepared to assist me, I hope?”
Sutton looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced at Hardy, as though for
reassurance, but caught Nelson’s sharp and questioning look. Slowly, he said, “Admiral Falconer has a squadron at Barbados, sir, as well as a sugar convoy assembled there that is ready to sail for England. He has a frigate patrolling the Windwards, another stationed off Antigua, several seventy-fours at Jamaica—”
“Thank God Falconer has the safety of that island in mind!”
“Indeed, milord. Admiral Falconer had the safety of all his islands in mind.”
Had?
Nelson’s keen mind did not miss the implication of that single word. He saw the grave look on Sutton’s face, and felt the blood going cold in his heart. “What do you mean, had?” he demanded.
The unhappy captain shuffled his feet and looked up. “I’m sorry, sir. Admiral Falconer is . . .
dead. I went aboard one of his ships at Barbados and spoke to a Captain Warner, who confessed it was the result of a duel, sir.” Sutton paused, as he saw the look of shock and horror washing over his beloved leader’s face. “Falconer’s flag-captain has been assuming the admiral’s duties until a new commander in chief can be appointed in his place. He—he sends his regards, sir.”
The words devastated Nelson. For a full minute, maybe two, the little admiral stood staring at the hapless Sutton as he tried to absorb the shock. His single hand reached for the back of a chair, gripping it as though it was all that kept him on his feet. Without speaking, he turned toward the window, his slight body looking very frail in its glittering uniform, his face in profile, his lips
Nelson, ecstatic, set down his tea and leapt to his feet. “Now, my young gentlemen, we shall learn what Captain Sutton has found out about our friend Villeneuve” —he pronounced it Veal-noove, for Nelson may have won mastery over the French fleet but never their language—”and whether or not he is indeed here in the Indies! May we bring the French to battle at last!”
Cheers, all around the polished mahogany table, from a circle of children and a grinning
admiral whose height could not rival the shortest of them.
He saw the wild eagerness in their eyes. “Dismissed!”
They fled topside, but a sharp reprimand from Captain Hardy reminded them to walk like
young officers and not undisciplined children.
It was all Nelson could do not to go charging up after them. He began to pace, and by the time the frigate was hove to under Victory’s lee and her grave-faced captain, soaked with spray and flushed with news, piped aboard and brought to his cabin, the admiral had worked himself up into a state of high excitement and agitation.
“News, Captain Sutton!” Nelson said anxiously, seizing the officer’s arm and pulling him
into the cabin. “You have news of the Combined Fleet, of Villeneuve?”
Sutton looked at Hardy, and then at his admiral, and swallowed tightly. “I spoke with the governor of Barbados, milord, and delivered your dispatches to him.”
“And?”
“Our pursuit has not been in vain, sir.”
“See, Hardy!” Nelson exclaimed, flushed with triumph. He pounded his single fist down on
the table for emphasis. “By God, the French are here and I shall have them yet, you may depend on it!” He swung anxiously to the somber-faced captain. “And Admiral Falconer—he is prepared to assist me, I hope?”
Sutton looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced at Hardy, as though for
reassurance, but caught Nelson’s sharp and questioning look. Slowly, he said, “Admiral Falconer has a squadron at Barbados, sir, as well as a sugar convoy assembled there that is ready to sail for England. He has a frigate patrolling the Windwards, another stationed off Antigua, several seventy-fours at Jamaica—”
“Thank God Falconer has the safety of that island in mind!”
“Indeed, milord. Admiral Falconer had the safety of all his islands in mind.”
Had?
Nelson’s keen mind did not miss the implication of that single word. He saw the grave look on Sutton’s face, and felt the blood going cold in his heart. “What do you mean, had?” he demanded.
The unhappy captain shuffled his feet and looked up. “I’m sorry, sir. Admiral Falconer is . . .
dead. I went aboard one of his ships at Barbados and spoke to a Captain Warner, who confessed it was the result of a duel, sir.” Sutton paused, as he saw the look of shock and horror washing over his beloved leader’s face. “Falconer’s flag-captain has been assuming the admiral’s duties until a new commander in chief can be appointed in his place. He—he sends his regards, sir.”
The words devastated Nelson. For a full minute, maybe two, the little admiral stood staring at the hapless Sutton as he tried to absorb the shock. His single hand reached for the back of a chair, gripping it as though it was all that kept him on his feet. Without speaking, he turned toward the window, his slight body looking very frail in its glittering uniform, his face in profile, his lips
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