Nelson's Purse - Couverture rigide

Downer, Martyn

Couverture rigide

ISBN 10 : 0593051807 ISBN 13 : 9780593051801

Editeur : Bantam Press, 2004

A propos du livre

Extrait

I
VICTORY
100 GUNS, CAPTAIN THOMAS MASTERMAN HARDY

William hardly slept; none of them did. The dull ache in his stomach had risen to his throat, bringing with it bile and the sour taste of fear. Men had told him about the morning of battle, bragging of their own bravery. They were lying, of course — it was the grog talking — but everyone went along with their swagger. The men who had fought at the Nile or Copenhagen never spoke of it. Now that day had dawned for him, and he simply felt hollow. He was cheek by jowl with a thousand men but felt as lonely as a lost child. He expected his bowels to open, and they did, and to be sick, which he was; but this awful sensation of helplessness in the face of a brutal, random death was startling.

His hand shook as he shaved, though it still paused instinctively as the ship rose and fell. William took longer than usual over the task, relishing the mundane routine. It was only when he gazed into his glass and imagined himself dead, his torn body sinking into a crimson sea, that he was, for a moment, overwhelmed by such dread that he had to hold himself from running wildly away. But he couldn't move and there was nowhere to run to. Only when his spiralling fears glimpsed Elizabeth asleep in London did he relax, clutching the image. His wife did not know what he was facing here, now, today. He was grateful for that. It would be days, weeks even, before she heard whether he was alive or dead. He vowed, if he survived, never to leave her again.

William, as a mere servant, berthed in the orlop deck, below the waterline, in the dank, fetid bowels of the ship. He watched as it was cleared for casualties. The loblolly boys were rolling bandages, counting out sponges and busily swabbing down the midshipmen's table in the cockpit. Beatty the surgeon was arranging his knives and saws, checking their keenness from time to time with his thumb. The men hid their thoughts, each absorbed in his task. William was thankful the edgy heartiness of the night before had gone. He was reassured by the sight of this orderly calm before the looming chaos. More than ever now he wanted to live.

In one involuntary movement, as if joined together by an invisible thread, all the men on the deck suddenly paused and glanced up. For a moment there seemed no reason for this. Then William realized that the familiar creaking and thudding sound of the rudder, the heartbeat of his wooden world, was changing. The noise rose to a roar as, heaving slowly at first and then with a sudden lurch, the ship slipped steeply to port to go about. The men clutched the beams above their heads. Beatty's tools crashed off the table, clattering chaotically across the deck. For several minutes the ship held this position, shuddering painfully, until slowly the deck straightened and the lanterns hung vertically again. High above the spot where William stood, the wind grabbed the vast sails of the ship and the familiar rolling sensation again surged through his body. His lordship had turned them towards the enemy.

There was no formal breakfast this morning. William was told to prepare bread and plates of ham instead. He would keep up a running supply of tea and coffee not only for his own officers but also for any last visitors to Victory. Going up through the ship to the staterooms, William paused at the galley to collect pots of hot water. Everywhere he saw preparations for action, though the guns were not yet run out and the ports were still down. Some of the men were clustered around their guns talking quietly, but the ship was unusually still and empty. When William reached the main deck he understood why. Most of the men were crowded together on the forecastle, the boys clinging to the masts. All of them were gazing silently east, into the flat, grey dawn.

At first William saw nothing. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the pale, watery light after the darkness below, he noticed a shadow on the horizon, then another and another. Straining his eyes, he counted thirty warships, maybe more, strung out on the seam between sea and sky, apparently motionless. Only the empty, rolling sea lay between him and them. Transfixed by this awesome spectacle, William was seized for a moment by the same cold dread that had paralysed him below. Struck by a sudden thought, he turned to search the faces of the officers gathered behind him on the poop deck, the weak morning sun glinting off their telescopes. Behind them were the ships following Victory, their masts rising and falling like the keys of a giant's piano. There was no sign of his lordship.

Then, from somewhere among the crowd of seamen pressed against the rails, the spell was broken by a lone, low voice singing softly. The words drifted back along the deck.

Farewell and adieu to you fine Spanish ladies,
Farewell and adieu all you ladies of Spain.

As the voice grew stronger and more confident, others joined it. William felt the men stir and rise as if awoken:

We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors...

He turned again to look back at the officers. They were unmoved, their telescopes still resolutely aimed at the enemy. But among them now William saw the slight figure of his lordship. He was not watching the enemy. He was looking at his men.

William tried to concentrate on his work as they were carried inexorably towards the battle. Now and then he dared to glance over the rail, irresistibly drawn by the brooding presence of the enemy ships. Each time they looked bigger and more appallingly beautiful as the blanket of sea between the two fleets was slowly rolled up. Thankfully William was kept busy as the officers went about their rounds. Once he was startled by the clattering sound of the chicken coops being tipped over the side, to the cheers of the men. He tried not to remember that the livestock was being jettisoned to make room for casualties on the lower decks.

Captain Blackwood of Euryalus came on board early. He spoke quietly with Captain Hardy for a few minutes before John Scott, his lordship's secretary, ushered them both into the great cabin. They remained there some time. As William moved among the officers, serving drinks and clearing plates, he observed them closely. Most of the furniture in the staterooms had been cleared and the men — men he knew so well — stood, or perched, where they could. Many spurned the coffee he carried, preferring wine. Some of them, he noticed, the young midshipmen in particular, seemed as unconcerned as if they were going hunting on their estates in England rather than about to face the French guns. He supposed this display of nonchalance was deliberate; in any event, he found it highly unconvincing. Others stood quietly, lost in thought, sipping their coffee, ignoring the food. A few laughed a little too loudly or too long - among them John Scott; but when the secretary turned his flushed face towards the steward as he held out his glass for more wine, William saw the desperate pleading in his eyes. The chaplain, Dr Alexander Scott — no relation to the secretary — was nowhere to be seen. William assumed he was touring the decks, suddenly popular. Yet when his lordship appeared from the great cabin he looked entirely calm and — there was no other word for it — happy. He smiled warmly, taking a cup of sweet, milky tea.

By eleven o'clock the enemy ships loomed like a vast dark forest, casting a menacing shadow towards the British. Spellbound, William stared across at them. He could see hundreds of brightly coloured figures, men like himself, moving on the towering decks. Their ports, he saw, were open and the guns run out. It would be soon now. Calmly he collected the plates, cups and glasses scattered around the staterooms. He rinsed them in his small pantry and stowed them neatly away, taking care to count them carefully first, as he always did. Remembering the fate of the chickens, he sadly threw the scraps overboard.

The last minutes before he went below passed like a dream. He heard music, shouts, the urgent beating of the drums. He shoved bread and cheese into the hands of the officers as they hurried past him to their posts. Turning towards the ladder to leave the deck for the last time, William saw his lordship, watching a signal go up. Beside him was John Scott, staring at the enemy, his face impassive but ashen with fear. The secretary's hands were clasped tightly behind his back, his papers beneath his arm. Even deep within the ship, as he pushed down through the packed decks, William heard the cheers that greeted that signal.

All the men were stripped to the waist, their hard bodies shiny with sweat. As he passed them, William smiled and wished the men well, forgetting that their ears were plugged against the roar of the guns. With the ports up, the decks were lighter and fresher than usual. William thought they looked as lovely as he had ever seen them; but the orlop was the same as usual, as if all the foulness of the decks above had sunk into it. Only a few dimly flickering lanterns broke the darkness, though the midshipmen's table was lit up like a waiting stage. Stoves were warming the surgeon's tools and his sickly-smelling oils, making the deck, which was always uncomfortably close, hotter than hell. William felt the sand through the soft leather of his shoes. The powder boys were clustered excitedly by the dampened curtain of themagazine. William's heart lurched at the sight of their pale, fragile bodies.

Beatty greeted William, shaking him solemnly by the hand. The chaplain, his work done, was talking with Burke the purser. Bunce, the carpenter, kept a respectful distance, waiting patiently with his crew. Dry-mouthed, William took off his coat, brushed it with his hand and placed it tidily on the hook by his berth, before rolling his sleeves up neatly. Then he, too, waited. Time stood still in that loathsome hole, the men all looking silently at one another, too tense for words.

It was hard to tell when it began...

Présentation de l'éditeur

The extraordinary story of a previously unknown cache of Horatio Nelson’s private possessions.

In 2002, Sotheby’s auction house announced the discovery of a major cache of material relating to the life of England’s greatest naval hero, Horatio Nelson. The finding sheds amazing light on the intimate life of Nelson, his wife and his mistress in a way hitherto denied to biographers.

The contents of this once-in-a-lifetime discovery are remarkable — some objects were believed lost, others had previously never been known to exist. Among the latter are some remarkable letters from Nelson’s jilted wife, Fanny, detailing the breakdown of their marriage. For the first time, Fanny’s role in Nelson’s life acquires real biographical substance. Also in the find are medals, swords, porcelain and jewelry, papers and letters (including some emotive letters by Emma Hamilton and Nelson himself) which shed fascinating new light on Nelson’s domestic affairs. Most dramatically, the cache also includes the bloodstained purse Nelson was carrying on the day he was shot on board HMS Victory in 1805, still containing its gold coins.

Martyn Downer, the man who made this extraordinary find and spent a year of his life validating the material, tells the extraordinary historical detective story behind this great find and its progress from discovery to auction.

It’s a gripping work of non-fiction combining historical biography with the uncovering of an extraordinary treasure trove just in time for the 200th anniversary of the battle of Trafalgar.

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Bantam Press
• Date d'édition: 2004
• ISBN 10: 0593051807
• ISBN 13: 9780593051801
• Reliure: Relié
• Numéro d'édition: 1
• Nombre de pages: 329