Nelson never replied to her letter; their relationship was effectively finished. Meanwhile, he wrote daily, sometimes several times a day, to Emma. When he returned from the campaign in the Baltic, he and Emma took up residence at Merton Place, a small but pretty country house in a village near Wimbledon in Surrey. Sir William Hamilton, who had remained a staunch friend to Nelson since their first meeting in Naples and had been prepared to turn a blind eye to his wife's infatuation with the naval hero, at last began to complain about Emma's way of life, particularly her lavish dinner parties. “I by no means wish to live in solitary retreat,” he told her, “but to have seldom less than twelve to fourteen at table, and those varying continually, is coming back to what was becoming so irksome to me in Italy during the latter years of our residence in that country.”
16
He wanted to keep their expenses down, but he also wanted a quiet life. In the spring of 1803, he moved to London, and there he died in Emma's arms with Nelson holding his hand.
Following the Peace of Amiens, signed in March 1802, Nelson could have expected to have time to enjoy the pleasures of Merton Place, but it soon became apparent that the peace between Britain and France was only a temporary interlude. Napoleon was determined to resume his plans for the conquest of Europe, and in particular the invasion of England. The Admiralty decided that the man to prevent the realization of Napoleon's plans was Nelson. He was given command of the British fleet in the Mediterranean, and in May 1803, he hoisted his flag on HMS
Victory.
For the next two years, he was almost continuously at sea. When the French fleet under Admiral Villeneuve succeeded in eluding the British blockade of Toulon, Nelson with a fleet of twelve ships chased him across the Atlantic to the West Indies. Villeneuve eluded him there and sailed back to Cádiz to join forces with the main body of the Spanish fleet, where the combined fleet was penned in by twenty-five British ships under the command of Collingwood. Nelson now returned to Portsmouth and hired a post chaise to take him to Merton, where he enjoyed an ecstatic welcome from Emma.
Nelson spent twenty-five days in England before being recalled to his ship and setting off to meet the French fleet off Cape Trafalgar. They were happy days. There were numerous official meetings in London, but there was also time to be with his beloved Emma. The extensive gardens at Merton were flourishing in the late-summer sun, and the house, laden with pictures and trophies of past battles, was full of children. Lord Minto visited one Saturday and found Nelson just sitting down to dinner with a family party consisting of his brother William Nelson, William's wife and their children, and the children of a sister. Emma was seated at the head of the table, and her mother, old Mrs. Cadogan, at the other end. Nelson was unusually relaxed: “He looks remarkably well and in spirits. His conversation is cordial in these low times. . . .” As for the relations between Nelson and Emma, Lord Minto noted that “the passion is as hot as ever.”
17
At five o'clock on the morning of September 2, a carriage swept up the gravel drive. Captain Blackwood had driven straight from Portsmouth with urgent dispatches from the fleet off Cádiz. Nelson hurried to London, where he was asked to resume his command. Within two weeks he was back on board HMS
Victory
and heading down the English Channel. On September 28, the day before his forty-seventh birthday, he rejoined the fleet, where he was greeted with enthusiasm by Collingwood and his fellow officers. Everyone was aware that a great battle was imminent. On October 19, Nelson wrote to Emma from the great cabin of his flagship:
My dearest, beloved Emma, the dear friend of my bosom. The signal has been made that the enemy's combined fleet are coming out of port. We have very little wind, so that I have no hopes of seeing them before tomorrow. May the God of Battles crown my endeavours with success; at all events, I shall take care that my name shall ever be most dear to you and Horatia, both of whom I love as much as my own life. And as my last writing before the Battle will be to you, so I hope in God that I shall live to finish my letter after the battle.
18
On October 20, Admiral Villeneuve slipped out of Cádiz with the combined fleet of thirty-three French and Spanish ships of the line. At dawn the next day, the waiting British fleet saw their topsails on the eastern horizon. Nelson had twenty-seven ships of the line under his command and was so confident of the spirit of his men and the firepower of his ships that he planned to approach the enemy's line of battle in two long columns. This would expose his leading ships to the full broadsides of the enemy but would enable the British to cut the enemy's line in two places, and then outnumber and overwhelm the ships in the center and rear before the van could turn and rescue them. A storm was brewing out in the Atlantic, and the ships rolled in a long ocean swell; but that morning there was only a light westerly breeze, so it took six hours for the fleets to cover the ten miles separating them. Shortly before noon, the guns of the French ship
Fougueux
opened fire on Admiral Collingwood's flagship
Royal Sovereign,
which was leading one of the British columns. Soon the sound of the bands playing martial music was drowned out by the booming roar of great guns and the crackle of shot from the sharpshooters in the fighting tops.
Back in England, Nelson's women anxiously awaited news, and it was Fanny who was the first to hear the outcome of the battle. She was staying in Bath, and on November 6, she received a letter from the First Lord of the Admiralty, which began:
Dear Madame, it is with the utmost concern that, in the midst of victory, I have to inform your Ladyship of the death of your illustrious partner, Lord Viscount Nelson. After leading the British fleet into close action with the enemy and seeing their defeat, he fell by a musket ball entering his chest.
19
Lady Hamilton was in bed at Merton, feeling rather unwell on account of a rash, when a carriage drew up, and Captain Whitby of the Royal Navy was shown to her room.
“We have gained a great victory,” he said in a faint voice.
“Never mind your victory,” said Emma. “My lettersâgive me my letters.” She then became aware that his face was deathly pale and that there were tears in his eyes. Realizing what this meant, she screamed and fell back on the pillows. According to her own account, she could neither speak nor shed a tear for ten hours.
20
When a friend called to see her a week later, she was still in bed and seemed unable to understand the full extent of her loss. “What shall I do? How can I exist?” was all she could say.
21
The entire country mourned with an outpouring of grief that has been matched in our own day only by the assassination of President John F. Kennedy and the untimely death of Princess Diana. Nelson's death overshadowed a victory that was so complete that it ensured British maritime supremacy for the next hundred years and put an end to any French plans for an invasion. After lying in state in the Painted Hall at Greenwich Hospital, the coffin bearing Nelson's body was brought up the Thames, accompanied by a vast flotilla of barges and small craft. It was then paraded through the streets on a magnificent funeral carriage drawn by six black horses to St. Paul's Cathedral and buried in the crypt. Neither Lady Hamilton nor Lady Nelson was present at the funeral service.
During that long morning before the ships were joined in battle, Nelson had drawn up a document in which he left Lady Hamilton as a bequest to the nation and asked that she and his daughter, Horatia, be provided for by his country. While Fanny received an annual pension of £2,000 and Nelson's brother, William, received an earldom and a pension of £5,000 a year (as well as £99,000 for the purchase of an estate), Lady Hamilton was not granted a pension and was deserted by all but a few faithful friends. Nelson had left her Merton Place with its seventy acres of land, and she had an inheritance from Sir William Hamilton. She should have been able to live in reasonable comfort, but she was quite incapable of altering her extravagant lifestyle. Soon she was so deep in debt that she was forced to sell Merton Place, and by the spring of 1808, she owed more than £8,000. In 1813, she was arrested for debt and spent time in the King's Bench Prison in Southwark before friends came to her rescue. She was by now drinking heavily and subject to the blackest of moods. By the summer of 1814, she decided that the only way to escape her creditors was to go abroad. She and her daughter, Horatia, who was now thirteen, boarded a packet boat in the Pool of London and sailed to Calais. They took lodgings in the town, and there Emma died in January 1815. The British consul and his wife arranged for Horatia's return to England, where she was welcomed and looked after by Nelson's family. In 1822, she married Philip Ward, the vicar of Tenterden, Kent. They had nine children, and Horatia lived to the age of eighty. A photograph taken of her in 1859 shows how strongly her features resembled those of Nelson. Although she knew who her father was, she never knew that her biological mother was Lady Hamilton and believed to her dying day that she had been adopted by her.
13
The Lighthouse Women
I
N BRITAIN IN
the nineteenth century, as in previous centuries, the newspapers frequently recorded the bleak details of ships lost at sea or ships driven onto rocky shores. There was one shipwreck in particular that captured the public imagination. It took place in the darkness on a remote stretch of the northeast coast of England during a September gale. The ship was a paddle steamer, the
Forfarshire,
and the event would have received no more than a short notice in the local paper had it not been for the circumstances surrounding the rescue of nine lives.
What made the rescue unusual was that it was carried out by a lighthouse keeper and his daughter. For a woman to row out to a shipwreck in a storm was unheard of, and the story received even more attention for the fact that the woman was twenty-two years old, had a pleasant face and modest manner, and had a name that might have come straight from the pages of a Victorian novel. Within the space of a few weeks, Grace Darling became a national heroine. Artists were dispatched to paint her picture, poems were written about her exploits, Staffordshire figures were made in her likeness, and hundreds of engravings were produced to commemorate the rescue. In households throughout Britain, mementos of the lighthouse keeper's daughter could be found on the mantelpiece or sideboard.
Although Grace Darling was undoubtedly brave and played a crucial part in rescuing some of the survivors of the shipwrecked vessel, her exploits scarcely bear comparison with some of the American lighthouse women, notably Ida Lewis, who single-handedly saved the lives of at least eighteen people over a period of twenty-five years. But there was a peculiar drama associated with the wreck of the
Forfarshire
that made it into a story, and though some key features of the story were entirely fictitious, it is not difficult to see why it should have taken such a hold on the public imagination.
The Farne Islands, where the drama took place, lie off the coast of Northumberland opposite the small town of Bamburgh. Unlike Holy Island, which lies ten miles to the north and is large enough to support a small community, the Farne Islands are little more than a collection of rocky outcrops. At high tide, many of the rocks and islets are partially or wholly submerged and consequently have always presented a dangerous hazard for ships passing up and down the coast. A lighthouse was built on one of the inner islands of the group but failed to prevent frequent shipwrecks, and so a new lighthouse was built on Longstone, the outermost island, and went into operation in 1826.
The Longstone lighthouse consisted of a round tower eighty-five feet high. There were seven circular rooms in the tower, and alongside were some low outbuildings, including an oil store and a boathouse. Grace Darling's grandfather had looked after the earlier lighthouse. His youngest son, William, succeeded him as keeper in 1815 and in due course moved into the new lighthouse with his wife, Thomasina. They had nine children, who seem to have spent more of their time on the mainland than on the barren island. By 1838, when the wreck of the
Forfarshire
took place, the children had grown up, and all except two of them were living in Bamburgh or further afield. Only Grace and her younger brother were living with their parents in the light tower.
1
William Darling, who was fifty-two at the time of the rescue, appears to have been a stolid, resolute character. There is a fine portrait of him by Thomas Musgrave Joy, which depicts a handsome man with a strong, lean face, dark eyebrows, and a watchful expression. He had acted as boatman to the lighthouse for several years before being appointed keeper. He was therefore extremely experienced in handling a rowboat in all conditions and knew intimately all the currents and overfalls in and among the islands. His journal is a model of brevity and is similar in tone to the logbooks of many naval captains. His entry for December 27, 1834, is typical. In a few terse sentences, he describes a heroic rescue during a winter storm in which he and his sons nearly lost their lives:
Wind S. by E., fresh gale. 11pm, the sloop “Autumn” of and to Peterhead, with coals from Newcastle, struck east point of Knavestone, and immediately sank. Crew of three men: two lost, one saved by the Lightkeeper and three sons, viz, William, Robert, and George, after a struggle of three hours. Having lost two oars on the rock, had very narrow escape.
2
William Darling's wife scarcely features in any of the accounts of the drama and remains a shadowy figure. She was sixty-four years old at the time, and having borne and reared nine children, she was probably feeling her age. It is worth remembering that being married to a lighthouse keeper on an offshore tower was a lonely and demanding life that was very much dependent on the weather, particularly during the winter months.
As for Grace Darling herself, we have a multitude of portraits to choose from. As far as one can tell, the best likeness was captured by the little-known artist Henry Perlee Parker, who produced a fine watercolor sketch and a sensitive portrait in oils. They confirm the view of a journalist who interviewed her and said she had “a comely countenanceârather fair for an islanderâand with an expression of benevolence and softness most truly feminine in every point of view.”
3
The journalist had evidently expected to find a big, strapping country girl and was surprised that she was in no way masculine in her appearance. In fact, at five feet three inches, she was somewhat below average height. Everyone commented on her quiet and reserved manner and her modesty, which remained unchanged by the adulation she received.
At the center of the drama was the steamboat
Forfarshire.
She too was painted by several artists, notably by John Ward, a talented marine artist from Hull who specialized in ship portraits. He painted her soon after she was launched in 1834, and his picture shows that she was typical of the early steamers used for coastal trade and passenger traffic. She had large paddle wheels on either side of the hull, a tall, slender smokestack, and two masts with sails in case she suffered from engine failure. She was commanded by Captain Humble, who was later described by John Tulloch, the ship's carpenter, as “a steady, trustworthy man and always attentive to his duty both on sea and land and a good seaman.”
4
The
Forfarshire
sailed from Hull on September 5, 1838, bound for Dundee with a mixed cargo of hardware, fine cloth, soap, boilerplate, and spinning gear. In addition to Captain Humble and his wife, she had on board fifty-five passengers and crew. As the ship headed north up the coast, the wind increased steadily, and by the time they were off Flamborough Head, there was a heavy sea running and the starboard boiler was leaking boiling water into the bilges. The pumps were having difficulty clearing the water, but the captain decided to keep going rather than seek shelter at Whitby or the mouth of the River Tyne. The boiler was repaired, and at six o'clock in the evening of September 6, they passed the Farne Islands, steaming through the Fairway or Inner Sound between the mainland and the offshore islands. The wind was behind them from the south-southeast and swept them northward at a steady pace.
As night fell, the situation deteriorated rapidly. When they were off Berwick, the wind backed from the south to north-northeast and rose to gale force. The defective boiler began leaking so badly that the pumps were unable to clear the boiling water, and the captain had no choice but to shut down the engines. He turned the ship south, set the fore-and-aft sails, and ran before the gale, intending to make for the shelter of the Tyne. With her unwieldy paddle boxes, the steamer would have been difficult to control under sail in storm conditions, and things were made worse by driving rain and flying spray that cut down the visibility. It seems that Captain Humble was planning to retrace the route he had taken and pass between the Farne Islands and the coast. When he saw a light ahead of him, he assumed it was the Inner Farne light and that he was on course to pass through the Fairway. In fact, it was the Longstone light, and he was headed straight for the rocky island in the center of the outer island group. By the time anyone on board had seen or heard the waves breaking ahead of them, it would have been too late, and the 400-ton vessel drove hard onto the western end of Harker's Rock. With the full force of the gale behind her and the sea pounding on the rocks, she began to break up. In less than fifteen minutes, the deck opened up and the ship split in two just aft of the paddle boxes. The stern section was swept away into the darkness and sank, drowning Captain Humble and his wife, and forty-one passengers and crew.
The forward section of the ship was left stranded on the rocks with twelve people, including a woman, two children, a clergyman (Reverend Rob), fireman Daniel Donovan, and John Tulloch, the ship's carpenter. Tulloch took charge, and when daylight came and the tide began to fall, he managed to get them to leave the wreck and take shelter among the rocks. Their situation was bleak. They were stranded on an offshore island. They were bitterly cold and soaking wet from the rain and spray. Their only hope was that they might be seen by the people manning the distant lighthouse before they died of exposure and hypothermia. But the lighthouse was on another island nearly a mile away across a gray expanse of heaving water.
High tide was at 4:13
A.M.
on the day the
Forfarshire
struck. Anticipating an exceptionally high tide, William Darling woke his daughter in the early hours. They went down to the yard at the base of the light tower, carried all the movable gear indoors, and made sure the boat was secured to the stanchions. When everything was secure, Grace took over the watch beside the lantern at the top of the tower while her father went to get some sleep. At 4:45, there was just enough light for her to make out the outline of a ship on Harker's Rock. She woke her father, and they used a telescope to see if they could discern any sign of life; but the overcast sky, the rain, and the clouds of spray thrown up around the wreck made it difficult to make out any detail. They took turns observing the wreck, but it was not until seven o'clock when the tide had fallen further that they observed three or four men on the rock.
William Darling now had a difficult decision to make. The lighthouse boat was a heavily built coble, a local type of craft with a high bow and curving sheer designed to be launched and landed through the surf. The cobles were famously seaworthy, but they were open and could therefore be swamped in heavy seas. The Longstone boat was twenty-one feet in length overall, with a five-and-a-half-foot beam. She could easily be rowed by four men and in normal conditions could be rowed by two. Unfortunately, the lighthouse keeper's twenty-year-old son, William, had gone ashore some days previously, which meant that Darling had only his elderly wife and his daughter to assist him. He presumed there was no possibility of a lifeboat being launched from the mainland in an onshore gale, so he must either leave the people on Harker's Rock to die or attempt to reach them in the coble. He could not row to the rock and bring off the survivors on his own, but it might be possible with the help of his daughter. According to the legend, Grace had to persuade her father to launch the boat and insisted that she come with him to the wreck. The truth seems to be that it was a joint decision. In a letter that he wrote to Trinity House (the institution responsible for the lights and lighthouses around the coast of England and Wales) later, William Darling described how they spotted the men on the rock, and “we agreed that if we could get to them some of them would be able to assist us back, without which we could not return; and having no idea of a possibility of a boat coming from North Sunderland, we immediately launched our boat. . . .”
5
If they took the direct route from the lighthouse to the wreck, they would be overwhelmed by the violence of the waves or swept onto the northern edge of Harker's Rock, which was a lee shore, so they headed through Crayford's Gut toward the more sheltered waters on the south side of the rocky island. The passage through the Gut was exposed to the full force of the gale and would have been extremely turbulent. The reason William Darling needed additional help on the way back was that he would have to negotiate the Gut against the combined effect of the wind and tide. With Grace heaving on one oar and William on the other, they rowed away from the landing place on Longstone Island while Mrs. Darling watched their progress from the lantern. At one point the boat disappeared from her sight, and thinking it had been swamped and she had lost her husband and daughter, she blacked out and collapsed. When she recovered and took another look through the telescope, she caught sight of them rowing steadily toward Harker's Rock.
They succeeded in reaching the relative safety of the lee of the island and headed toward the western end, where the survivors were gathered. The cold had proved too much for three of them. The clergyman had died during the early hours of the morning, and the two children had died in their mother's arms some time later. That left nine people to be rescued, which William Darling reckoned was too many to take in the boat at one time in the prevailing conditions. He jumped onto the rock to prevent them all from crowding aboard and persuaded four of them to wait for him to make a second trip. Meanwhile, Grace was left to manage the heavy coble on her own and to hold it off the rocks. She later recalled her horror at the sight of the wreck and said, “At the time I believe I had very little thought of anything but to exert myself to the utmost, my spirit was worked up by the sight of the dreadful affair that I can imagine I still see the sea flying over the vessel.”
6
The woman and four of the men clambered aboard the coble, and they set off on the mile-long haul back to the lighthouse. This time they were able to use four oars, but with seven people the boat was heavily laden, which must have been particularly alarming as they moved out from the shelter of Harker's Rock and plowed into the broken water of Crayford's Gut. They reached Longstone Island safely, however, and William Darling set off on the second journey to the wreck assisted by two of the men he had rescued. It was now approaching low tide, which meant that there was additional shelter in the lee of Harker's Rock. The four remaining survivors were picked up and brought back to the lighthouse. It was now around nine o'clock. The entire rescue attempt had taken just under two hours.