Authors: James A. Michener
W
HEN THE INFAMOUS PIRATE DEN AT
P
ORT
R
OYAL ON THE
southern shore of Jamaica sank beneath the sea during the terrible earthquake of 1692, a long, thin sliver of land escaped oblivion. It formed only a small percent of the former area, but since it contained a stout fortress with thick stone walls properly disposed to withstand attack from the sea, Parliament in London had decreed that additional gun emplacements should be added, making it strong enough to withstand any French assault.
Unlike the days of Queen Elizabeth and Francis Drake when Englishmen grew nervous anytime the Spanish made a warlike gesture, now, two hundred years later, no one took a Spanish threat seriously. It was the French whose misbehavior attracted attention, for the skilled navy of that country was a constant threat to British independence. Curiously, the great battles of this period were fought not in European waters but in the Caribbean, where fleets of the two nations met often in battle, sharing alternating victories and defeats. In one great clash in the waters off the Carib island of Dominica, Britain won a signal victory, but in the years about to be discussed, the French showed every capability and intention of striking back. To be a naval officer in this sea was to be constantly on the alert for the
ominous cry from the lookout: “French ships on the horizon!” for then one leaped to his battle station.
It was in such a climate of fear that the remnant of Port Royal left above water after the dreadful earthquake became of crucial importance to the British fleet, for whichever nation controlled Fort Charles, at the tip of Port Royal, controlled huge Jamaica Bay, and the heart of the Caribbean. To keep it secure, the British government in the turbulent year 1777, when the British were still trying to discipline the American colonies, placed in command an amazing young officer not yet twenty and soon to become the youngest captain in the fleet. When hardened veterans, some twice his age, saw this frail figure less than five feet five and weighing not much over eight stone, they muttered: “London’s sent us no more than a lad,” but even as they said this the young fellow was looking at the vast anchorage and saying to himself: We could anchor all the ships of the world in this safe harbor, and I shall defend it with my life if need be.
He was Horatio Nelson, an unlikely lad for service at a post so distant from England: unimpressive figure, washed-out blond hair, high-pitched voice, and the sometimes unintelligible country accent of easternmost England. In fact, as he stepped forward to assume command he looked much like a newly ordained clergyman applying to some rich relative for an appointment to one of the churches on the family estates, and this would have been logical, since his father, both grandfathers and numerous great-uncles had been ministers, in the Church of England, of course.
The force under his youthful command was as frail as he, for he had seven thousand fighting men at most, while it was well known that the French commander in the Caribbean was prowling the sea with at least twenty-five thousand tough veterans in a fleet of ships bristling with heavy guns. So on his first evening in the fort he ate a hasty meal, then walked back and forth upon the battlements of his new command, giving himself orders: You’re to install additional guns at this point. You’re to organize musters to see how rapidly the men can reach their posts when the bugle sounds. You’re to clean away the rubble on the foreshore—we want no French spies hiding there.
As he made his rounds he became aware that a young midshipman who had sailed with him from England, a red-headed lad of thirteen, was trailing along, so without warning he stopped, whirled about, and demanded: “What brings you so close behind?” and the
boy said in a high voice: “Please, sir. I want to see our new fort too. To pick my spot when the Frenchies come.”
“And who are you, lad?”
“I served in the
Dolphin
with you.”
“I remember, but who are you?” and the boy gave a surprising answer: “Alistair Wrentham. My grandfather is the Earl of Gore and my father was an officer on the Indian Station, but he died in battle.”
Nelson, superior and aloof in manner, was excited by this information, for if the boy was in line to inherit the earldom, he might prove of enormous value to Nelson’s ambitions, but the boy disappointed him: “My father was the fourth son and I’m the fourth son, so I’m far removed.” Still, recalling that on the voyage the lad had demonstrated intelligence and valor, Nelson said: “I shall want you close to me. To mind the little things,” and they walked the battlements together.
Soon the soldiers and seamen stationed at Port Royal had acquired a solid understanding of their young leader. They found that he possessed a backbone of unyielding oak, an insatiable lust for fame and a devotion to heroic behavior and rectitude that was enviable. During the long night watches when no French invaders could be seen in the tropical moonlight, he revealed, never boastfully, incidents of his amazing career, for at twenty he’d had more experiences than most seagoing men had accumulated at forty.
“My older brother became the clergyman our family wanted, so I was free to become a sailor. I went to sea at thirteen and first sailed in this Caribbean at fourteen. I came back later, so I know these waters. When I was fifteen, or maybe still fourteen, I went to the Arctic. Great exploration, that one.”
“Is that when you fought the polar bear?” Alistair Wrentham asked, for drawings of Nelson in mortal combat with a huge white bear had circulated. Since he was often asked about this incident, Nelson was meticulous in his answer: “Thomas Flood and I, he was fourteen too, we’d left the
Cargass
to go exploring on our own. We were on an ice pack not too far from the ship when a huge polar bear roared up behind us, and he might have killed me had not Captain Lutwidge shouted a warning.”
“Is that when you turned to fight the bear?” Alistair asked.
“Fight? I wouldn’t say that. I’d been walking with an oar, a piece of wood maybe, and I did try to fend him off. But fight? No.”
“How were you saved?”
“The captain of our ship saw the peril we were in and ordered a cannon to be fired. The noise terrified Flood and me, but it also frightened the bear, and off he ran.”
“What did the captain say when you came aboard?”
To this question, Nelson would always reply honestly: “Never again were we to go exploring on our own.”
At other times he told how, while still only a lad of seventeen, he had sailed to India: “The great ports, the strange people, we saw them all. We fought the pirates and protected the merchant ships.” Then he would grow silent, and after a while tell his listeners: “The fever trapped me and I would have died had not a wonderful man, Captain Pigot, James Pigot, and remember that name, taken me under his protective wing and saved my life.” Here, when talking with fellow sailors, he would invariably stop, look at each one, and say: “There is nothing on earth or sea that is finer than the tested friendship of comrades in arms. On the battlefield, in political fighting and especially at sea, we are propped up by the bravery of the man who shares our dangers. I’m here today only because of Captain James Pigot.”
At night, especially when a tropic moon flooded the old fort with a silvery light and mysterious shadows, the young captain liked to gather about him a group of established officers and young midshipmen, plus any ordinary sailors who showed an interest, and instruct them in military matters, especially the handling of ships in times of war. But he was insistent that they first appreciate the significance of their present work in the Caribbean:
“This elegant sea has always lain close to the heart of Europe, because whatever happens in one arena determines what happens in the other. Suppose a war is fought only on land in Europe, when the peace treaty is written, its terms decide whether Spain, France, Holland or England will own this Caribbean island or that, and nothing we can do out here changes the matter.
“But also, when our navies clash at sea out here, they determine what happens on land in Europe. Why, you ask, when our islands are so small and their countries so large? Because we grow sugar, one of the most valuable substances on earth, and Europe waxes rich when we ship our sugar and molasses and rum to the homelands. Jamaica, that brooding island over there which we protect with this fort, provides the money
which keeps England alive. The ships we sail in are built with Jamaican money.
“France the same way. Their small island of St.-Domingue just a few days’ sail north of that mountain is the richest land in the world. If we could cut navigation between St.-Domingue and Rochefort, we’d strangle the French fleet, because it’s the sugar riches of the Caribbean that keeps the homeland functioning. Gentlemen, you are serving in a sea of tremendous importance to England.”
But in these night meetings, which many men would remember in later years, Nelson also spoke of naval strategy, for his agile brain was perpetually speculating on new procedures which might give English ships even a slight advantage in the battle against the French:
“Always remember that just a few years ago, in 1782, the fate of England was decided off the island of All Saints, when our Admiral Rodney met the entire French battle fleet under De Grasse. Always before in such an engagement, the two fleets disposed themselves in line ahead, broadside on, with cannon blazing all the while. Do you know what Rodney did?”
Midshipman Wrentham did know, but before he could speak, Nelson placed a restraining hand on his knee, because he did not want the effect of his narration to be spoiled:
“He opened the engagement with his fleet in line ahead, as always, like dancers in a set formation, but halfway down he turned the line ninety degrees and dashed boldly right at the middle of the French line, smashed the French ships head-on, broke through their line, and caused havoc. He created a whole new method of war at sea.
“Let us suppose that you nine men are the French ships, we’ll be the English. Form lines as in the old days. Pass, pass, guns booming. Bang, bang, bang! Now here we break the rules and smash! Right into the middle of the French line. See the confusion. See how we can chop and chivvy the bewildered French ships. Another victory for England.”
“Please, sir,” Midshipman Wrentham said. “My father taught me that now we must always say Great Britain,” to which Nelson replied:
“Your father’s right. Scotland and Wales and Ireland are fine lands with stout sons, but remember that our ships are built by English workmen using English oak and are manned by English sailors, none better in the world, and if we ever fail our duty, the less important parts of Great Britain sink with us. We are England, the heart of Great Britain, and never forget it.”
There was one revealing incident in Nelson’s career about which he never spoke himself, and he refrained, not through modesty, a virtue he did not have, but rather because when Midshipman Wrentham told the story in his boyish enthusiasm, Nelson came off the greater hero:
“Last year we sailed out of Port Royal to punish the privateers from the rebellious American colonies … they were trying to trade with our islands … Captain Nelson called them ‘arrogant swine.’ We had many great chases and sank two of them.
“But the last time we didn’t have to sink their ship, because our gunners really hammered them and they were glad to surrender, I can tell you, and bring their insolent flag down. But now a problem. The seas were so choppy that sailors near me asked: ‘Can we possibly row a small boat from our ship to theirs and deliver a boarding crew to take possession?’
“I was sure it could be done, so I jumped in early, and I expected the first lieutenant to jump down beside me, but when he saw the violence of the sea and the waters so high, he became timid and cried: ‘No small boat can get to there from here,’ and he refused to join us.
“Now Captain Locker dashed up: ‘Why aren’t you boarding her?’ and he became so angry, seeing us down there in our small boat without a leader that he shouted scornfully: ‘Have I no officer brave enough to board that prize?’ and he made as if to jump down with us, but at that moment Lieutenant Nelson, he wasn’t captain yet, leaped forward, restrained the captain, and cried: ‘It’s my turn now. And if I fail, then it will be yours.’ And down he leaped, and off we went through the great seas that tossed us about like a cork in an agitated basin. Finally we reached the American and Nelson climbed aboard, with me right behind, and I heard him shout: ‘Lieutenant Horatio Nelson, officer of His Majesty King George
Third and commander of this vessel.’ And let me tell you, when the cargo from that capture was sold in Jamaica, we all profited richly.”
Other stories were told, there in the fort as the Englishmen awaited the attack that never came, and all attested to the bravery of Nelson but also to his stubbornness and his determination to do things his way, but always clearly within the rules of the British navy and obedient to the time-honored laws of the sea. Poor performance he would not tolerate in men serving under him, even though they might often be twenty years older than himself, nor would he silently suffer incompetence in his superiors. If the latter flagged in their duty, he was quick to reprimand them.
For the moment, in the old fort at Port Royal he bided his time, preoccupied with other concerns. As a young man entering his twenties he was of course interested in women. Avidly he sought a wife who would support him emotionally in his naval career, so with his fellow officers, all junior to himself and like him unmarried, he conducted long and amazingly frank discussions regarding the type of young woman who might be suitable. And often in these discussions he would lay out his two basic rules for a navy marriage: “First, an officer is only half a man if he lacks a wife and children, so get married. Second, he must pick that wife with extreme caution, for she must be his firm support and not the cause of his downfall.” He was sometimes reluctant, when speaking in public, about revealing his two final rules, for he applied them particularly to himself: “Third, the woman I pick must be rich, so that I can cut a responsible figure among my equals. Fourth, she must come from an important family whose members can help me gain promotions. And I’m sure that somewhere in this world there is a young woman who fulfills those requirements.” Then he quickly added: “And it would help if she hates the French, as we must do when engaging them in battle.”