concluding anthem, the pure, soaring resonance a paean of sad beauty.
And then the burial service was complete.
Stepping forward, the Garter King of Arms pealed forth words hallowed in orders of chivalry since the days of Henry V. ‘“That it hath pleased Almighty God to take unto his divine mercy the Most Noble Lord Horatio Nelson, Viscount and Baron Nelson of the Nile and of Burnham Thorpe in the County of Norfolk, Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Vice Admiral of the White Squadron of the Fleet, Duke of Bronte in Sicily, Knight Grand Cross of the Sicilian Order of St Ferdinand and of Merit . . . let us humbly trust, that he is raised to bliss ineffable and to a glorious immortality.”’
While the ringing words sounded the length and breadth of the cathedral, the steward, comptroller and treasurer of Nelson’s household solemnly snapped their staves of office and threw them on to the coffin, stepping back to allow the seamen with the colours to spread the flag as a pall in a last act – but, before the horrified gaze of the princes of heraldry, they did not. Instead they ripped and tore at the flag until each bore away something to retain of the commander they had adored. A rippling murmur of understanding arose from the pews.
The organ, played by a pupil of Mozart, again filled the air with a grand and melancholy piece and the coffin sank from sight to its rest.
It was over.
‘The price of victory was too high, I’m to believe,’ Stanhope said, his tone subdued as though still under thrall to what they had seen.
Baron Grenville raised his glass in solemn salute. ‘It must be admitted, dear chap. Lost to his country at the very moment of his triumph. I do hope the people won’t forget him now he’s gone, poor fellow.’
In the opulent drawing room a large fire was the only cheerful presence among the murmuring, black-decked throng gathered there after the burial. ‘I saw that your cousin did not attend,’ Stanhope reflected. ‘I know the man would have been there if it had been possible, so must only conclude that the waters in Bath have not effected a relief.’
That cousin was William Pitt, prime minister of Great Britain and known to be gravely ill. Grenville sighed. ‘It grieves me to say it, but I’m sanguine he’s not to be long for this world either – days at most. He’s much cast down since hearing of the cost of Trafalgar – and so soon following, that damnable rout at Austerlitz.’
‘If there is a tragic outcome, in these dolorous times the King will wish to form a government with all expedition. And if Hawkesbury declines – as I believe he will – then His Majesty will peradventure call upon your own good self, dear fellow.’
‘I must allow it, Frederick.’
‘Have you . . . ?’
Grenville gave a lopsided smile. ‘An impossibility to conjure a world without a Pitt, as all must declare. I have a mind to gather in a ministry of all the talents, as it were. I shall bring back Windham as secretary of war, young Charles Grey comes to mind for the Admiralty, and Fox – well, he’ll be cock o’ hoop to be made foreign secretary. Oh, and that freelance intemperate Richard Brinsley Sheridan, why, I’ll make sure his energies are absorbed as treasurer of the Navy – plenty of accounts to pore over, what?’
Stanhope paused at the jocular tone. ‘You’re not, who might say, overcome at the prospect? I rather fancy your greatest challenge will not be in domestic politics, my friend.’
‘Ah, yes. Of course, the war.’
Frowning, Stanhope continued, ‘The Tsar and Austrians beaten squarely in the field – it means the utter ruin of the Coalition – and with the Russians withdrawing over the border and Emperor Francis treating for a peace we’re left where we started, without a single friend. I can only see as our crowning challenge the prosecuting of this war when all the chancelleries of Europe are against us.’
Grenville sobered. ‘Old horse, don’t take on so. You’re forgetting that things have changed now. Nelson may be gone but he did his duty – the French are driven from the seas. Your Napoleon can rage up and down all he likes, but with our blockade he’s securely locked up in Europe and we hold the key.’
He smiled expansively. ‘And while Bonaparte’s thus impotent we’ve got that sea as a royal road to every French colony and possession. Don’t you see, Frederick? While we pluck his pieces one by one, the way lies open for us to create an empire such as the world has never seen.’
‘While we rule the seas.’
‘Quite. And, mark you, the process is already under way.’
‘The Cape?’
‘Indeed.’
‘
The sun beat down on the soldiers forming up on the castle parade-ground. Baird had been insistent that, for the march of occupation into Cape Town, full regimentals would be worn and every opportunity taken for display. ‘Find a pair of carriages,’ he growled at his aide. ‘I shall ride in the first, my commanders in the second.’
The Dutch governor’s open carriage was brought out, still emblazoned with the arms of the Batavian Republic on its side. Another arrived and the parade formed up, led by the full panoply of a massed pipe band of the Scottish Highland regiments and followed by one thousand soldiers.
Kydd boarded the second carriage with the senior military, and they set off to the heady squeal and drone of the pipes, the skitter and thump of drums ahead, and the regular measured tread of the soldiers behind. It felt so unreal for him, Thomas Kydd of Guildford, to be in Africa, in such circumstances of pomp and occasion, to be admired – or hated – by the crowds as though he were a potentate.
With Baird in regal solitude, the parade moved away, finding its rhythm as it crossed the vast parade-ground. Then the drum major signalled a left turn into a broad avenue leading to Cape Town proper.
