Free Breaking the Line by David Donachie Page A

was connected by marriage to the rebellious Irishman, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, thought of him as a dyed-in-the-wool Jacobin before he ever spoke a word.
    Pique at his reception by the royal pair redoubled the venom of his letters home, in which all the supposed failures of policy were attributed to Sir William’s fading powers. And he did not fail to mention Emma and her affair with Nelson, asking how an openly cuckolded near-septuagenarian could possibly represent his country. Nor was he content to leave Nelson free of scandal, accusing him in writing of financial peculations that played well with the Victualling Board in London, always in dispute with far-flung admirals. In Palermo, when these insinuations came to light, Lock was forced to withdraw with a grovelling apology, but at home his letters added to the growing disquiet about Nelson’s actions and activities.
    To this were added the stories that appeared in the French press, fed by those in Palermo who disliked both Nelson and the English alliance. Reports circulated that the Admiral and Ambassadress haunted low-life taverns in the disguise of common seamen, with hints that they sought young male company to share.
    To those who cared about Nelson, and who knew of these things, it was troubling that, as the year slipped to a close and a new century blossomed, their hero seemed unaware of any trouble he might be storing up for himself.
     
    That Nelson had been proved correct about the French – that the fleet had returned to Brest, that no combination had been possible, that Minorca was safe – cut little ice with Keith. The position into which he had been thrust in taking over from the successful St Vincent and with the nation’s darling as an inferior, exacerbated his irritation. The moment had come for him to look this trouble square in the face, and the opportunity presented itself when he was ordered by the Admiralty to proceed into the Mediterranean. But his dignity demanded that Mohammed come to him – after all, he was the mountain – so he ordered Nelson to join him at Genoa. The richtrading city was held once more by the French and the whole of north Italy stood in peril. Bonaparte had abandoned his army in Egypt and returned to lead the armies of the Revolution on the plains of Lombardy.
    Keith knew he had to be careful: like every other senior officer he had his own troubles with the Admiralty, and he had good cause to be worried about his own standing while he had only limited knowledge of Nelson’s. His greeting, in the great cabin of his flagship Queen Charlotte, though stiff, was polite, and his enquiry as to why his orders had been ignored posed as a query rather than as a demand for an explanation.
    ‘You will be aware, sir,’ said Nelson, ‘of my view of the independence of inferior officers.’
    Keith had to take a deep breath to stop himself choking on his own bile. He was a man who ruled his inferior officers with a rod of iron. No ship in his fleet was permitted to be an inch off station on his flagship, no officer allowed any autonomy in the matter of dress, orders, or of how his ship should be handled. The Beechey portrait that hung in his cabin, which Keith thought excellent, told all who treated with him of his acerbity: a frowning forehead over heavy brows, full cheeks and a ponderous nose over unsmiling lips, the tall, broad shouldered body leaning forward as if to impose.
    He was trying, with a weighty look, to do that to Nelson now, and was aware that it was having little effect. The man before him was half his size, thin, tired looking and pale. He had a light voice, in contrast to Keith’s booming gravel, and was festooned in the most vainglorious way with stars, medals and that Turkish thing in his hat. But just as he knew that Nelson should be intimidated, he was aware that he was not, which smacked of arrogance.
    ‘Our task as fleet commanders is such an onerous one,’ Nelson continued, ‘because we cannot know all