DUTY AND DESTINY- The story of a great love.
Preface - London, 2005
Under the great dome of St Paul’s Cathedral the chill of the crypt and damp smell of stone suffuse the senses. Between the marble tombs of we who sleep in the arms of eternity, shadowy figures ebb and flow like surf on the shore. In a sea of naval uniforms they stand in silence before my black marble sarcophagus then lay their wreaths of laurel and cypress to honour me on this, Trafalgar Day, but I, Nelson, am not there.
It is only my body, crumbled to bleached bones that lie here in the coffin that Ben Hallowell had made for me from the timbers of the French flagship L’Oriente after I fought the Battle of the Nile. After that victory they called me England’s God of War, but I was no God. They honoured the Hero, but they knew not the man, for beneath my glittering uniform I was mortal with a man’s weaknesses, for although my duty was to love my country, my destiny was to love another man’s wife.
Then on the day I looked into the cradle where my daughter Horatia lay, every honour, every victory I ever achieved was eclipsed by my love for her and her mother, my dearest beloved Emma, whom some called whore, but I called my true wife before God..
So if you, who stand before my tomb have also known the agony and ecstasy that love brings, come with me into the world I once knew, then judge as you will, for to know all is to forgive all,
Horatio, Viscount Nelson
1798- To Edmund and Catherine – a son.
In the September night the wind howled down the study chimney of the red tiled Parsonage like the voice of a lost soul. In a parody of Edmund Nelson’s anxious heartbeat rain was drumming against the glass of the windows as he paused in front of the walnut long case clock to read the words inscribed on its brass dial, Time – the measure of our Lives, but now those words mocked him with cruel irony for his beloved wife who had not been due to give birth for another seven weeks was already in labour. He covered his eyes with his hands, letting his scalding tears ooze though his fingers for the bleak Norfolk coast spared not the weak , so it would be a miracle if their child lived, but yet…. was the Christ he had served for so many years not Himself the greatest worker of miracles of all?
He turned to the picture of The Holy Family above his desk, where Mary gazed with a mother’s love at the Christ cradled in her arms and then bent his head in prayer,
Blessed Lady, You are a Mother and know how fragile is this thing called life. I beseech you; look down on my dear Catherine with compassion, and Saint Anne, ease her childbed agonies. Yet forgive a foolish man's selfishness, for not my will, but that of Thy son, our Lord be done. Amen.
He had committed his wife and unborn child to God’s will. There was no more to be done. As he heard her scream again in agony he wiped the beads of sweat from his brow then continued his pacing up and down in front of the long dead fire. Then with the realisation that the wind had ceased he wrenched wide the shutters of the window to see a solitary owl glide silently like a wraith across the dawn sky. What would this new day bring - life… or death?
Then as the sweet rolling trill of a lone blackbird filled the room, the shrill indignant cry of a new born child soared high above the birdsong, then abruptly, it ceased He turned to snuff out the candles that had burned throughout the night and then slumped into the nearest chair. … So God has called you home already little one, you were just too small, too weak…
Edmund, who had been Parson of Burnham Thorpe for the past forty three years had buried many infants including two of his own, Edmund, their first born, who had died at fourteen months, and Horatio who had only lived for four. The brothers lay together in the cemetery at Swaffham where the sprig of rosemary that Catherine and he had planted there was now a bush. Strangely, its spring blossom was white- not blue, a reflection, Edmund said, of their innocent souls.
His throat tightened as he saw the midwife enter, carrying a linen wrapped bundle. Grief darted its glacial finger down his spine, for now there was another infant's coffin to lower into the dark gaping maw of the cold earth...that of his own child.
“It was God’s will Mrs Tab .The Lord gives and the Lord takes away and it is not for us to question His will.”
“...but Parson your son is alive!”
Edmund raised his head in astonishment’
“What did you say?”
“Mrs Nelson is safely delivered of a son. He is very small, but he is a fighter .I think… no, I am certain that he will live.”
He dabbed his brimming eyes on a crumpled sleeve,
“God be praised, Mrs Tab!"
She eased back the enveloping shawl to expose two flailing arms and a wrinkled scarlet face then laid him in Edmund's arms. With his tears were dropping unchecked onto his son’s halo of downy hair, he cradled his tiny head in his palm, feeling his son's tiny fingers lock tightly over his own … Such a powerful grip little one... your grasp of life is strong...
The midwife laid a hand on Edmund’s shoulder,
“"There, don't take on so, Parson. Now you be staying where you are, for you look more than tired, near fit to drop, and you need rest .Mrs Nelson is sleeping peacefully but it's been a long hard struggle for her and the child, but she will be well enough in a few days. Rest and good food will put all to rights. Now, let me settle your son and then I will bring you a glass of ale to refresh you.”
Handing his son back to her care he raised his eyebrows.
"Ale you say? I think he deserves more than ale!"
. A shadow of a smile played at the corners of his mouth as he crossed to the decanter on his desk and poured two generous measures of brandy.
“Here, Mrs Tab”
"Oh no sir, I couldn't, not that fine French brandy!"
"I insist for I have a special son. You yourself said so. He deserves a special toast! Nevertheless he was born nearly two months before his time so I will baptise him without delay and I have just realised today is the day we honour St Michael, and I pray that He, the greatest of the Archangels, will guide and protect him."
The midwife smiled,
"Amen to that, sir!"
An hour later, with Catherine watching from her bed Edmund baptised him not daring to hope that he would survive, but he clung tenaciously to life.
He was formally baptised on the 9th of October in his father's church of All Saints, with Catherine's illustrious relative, Horace Walpole having agreed to be his Godfather. As he tapped his gold topped cane down the flagged nave, the village women whispered to each other as they gazed at the embroidery on his velvet coat and pearl- buttoned waistcoat. Not for him, patched homespun and wooden clogs for feet reddened with cold. Their men folk looked with envy at his gold-hilted sword and rounded stomach, for Horace Walpole would never know the gnawing hunger of a bleak Norfolk winter.
Walpole passed the sleeping infant to Edmund who dipped a finger into the font of Purbeck marble and made the sign of the cross on his son’s forehead just as the sun darted a shaft of brilliant light through the window to bathe father and son in a golden glow,
"I baptise you Horatio, born on the Twenty Ninth of September in the year of our Lord, 1758, and by the grace of God my son, may your life be blessed."
. The infant, having been rudely woken by the drops of icy water on his forehead began to howl with red-faced indignation. After handing him back to Catherine’s care Walpole pulled his handkerchief from behind the lace waterfall of his sleeve to wipe his godson's forehead , then turned to Edmund,
“Such a loud cry. Perhaps you’ve been too generous with the water Edmund? What is it that is said? Let me see if I can remember...”
“Ah yes, I have it. A loud cry at baptism is reputed to be the Devil being driven out and a portent for a life that is Heaven blest, is that not so, Edmund?"
As the christening party made their way down the nave towards the great oak doors Catherine paused, her eyes level with the diamonds glittering in the pin of Walpole’s silk stock, and laid her hand on his sleeve,
"You bear an illustrious name, and we are honoured indeed cousin, to have you as Horatio’s Godfather.”
"The honour is mine madam, and I will do all I can for the lad."
Walpole inclined his immaculately powdered head as Catherine smiled. She was always very proud that her grandmother had been Sir Robert Walpole’s sister. Now with
her son's connection with the powerful Walpole dynasty though her cousin, his future was secured. She smiled down at her yawning child...my dearest son; we have done all we can. The rest is up to you...and providence...
Edmund Nelson’s son had indeed been Heaven blessed, for in the year of his birth, the brilliant arc of Halley's Comet appeared in the sky and as it blazed across the darkness, it was to prove no less astounding than the life of Horatio Nelson, the Parson's son from rural Norfolk.