In the basement of a large Victorian house in London, Charles Cleasby painstakingly re-enacts the great sea battles of his hero, Horatio Nelson. He is also writing a faithful biography of the great man, as a true English hero for an age without idols, a 'bright angel' to Charles' dark shadow. But as Charles' visiting typist, Miss Lily, begins to question Nelson's heroism, and as Charles unearths evidence which tarnishes the image of his icon, his own precarious sense of identity is undermined and the battle raging inside him, between darkness and light, reality and fantasy, threatens to overwhelm him.
Losing Nelson may be Unsworth's best book to date; it is accomplished, effective, exciting and intelligent...information is cunningly deployed, the pace is perfectly controlled: the mood of zealous desperation...is heightened from page to page.
The Sunday Times
This truly excellent novel delves deep into the tragic side of hero-worship and heroism, and is a work of pathos and power, ending with a dramatic denouement.
The Guardian
Ingenious...richly informative and sardonically entertaining' Sunday Times Books of the year. 'In spite of many moments of hilarity this is a serious novel about obsession, disillusionment and about faith and its loss. I know it will stay in my mind for a long time to come.
Daily Mail
She looked at me now in silence for a moment or two, compressing her lips as if considering how to reply. The expression gave an unaccustomed severity to her face, slightly increasing the prominence of her cheekbones, thinning out the rather full lower lip. 'Well; she said, 'instead of talking about honour to her sex and so forth he should have had the sense to see that she was just making a big scene of it. How long had she known he was on the way, three or four weeks, wasn't it? She had plenty of time to get the act together.'
'Perhaps we could move on?' I said. I spoke rather coldly. It was true of course that Horatio was simple-hearted and devoid of guile, but I didn't like Miss Lily's tone, it reflected on his intelligence. She was not much taken with Emma, that was obvious - but I didn't want to lose more time discussing the matter, I was keen to make the two-year hop, to reach the haven of June 1800, the departure from Naples. All the same, we had not proceeded far when there was another interruption. I was dictating a passage very much altered and revised, describing the return to England of Horatio and the Hamiltons. A strange trio they must have seemed to those who met them at this time: the admiral so wizened, so decked with stars and medals, returning to popular applause and establishment disfavour; Sir William not far from his end, his face like parchment, his liver in ruins after thirty-six years at the Naples Court; Emma large and flaunting and noisy, heavier now but beautiful still, facing an uncertain future in England, on affectionate terms with both husband and lover, as were these with each other. Tria juncta in uno, they called themselves; three joined in one. The motto of the Order of the Bath, to which both men belonged. Emma's phrase, perhaps. Horatio could never have said it; he was joined with no one, ever, he was unique. He travelled with them, yes, so much is true. As a trio they did not make a good impression, at least not on their compatriots. I was obliged to admit this, though it pained me he could be so misjudged. It was not any fault of his. He was on land, he was in travesty. And he was envied. In my book I was intending to quote a passage from General Sir John Moore's diary as typical of this prejudice against him. In the summer of 1800, in Leghorn, Moore made a brief note: Sir William and Lady Hamilton were there attending the Queen of Naples. Lord Nelson was there attending on Lady Hamilton. He is covered with stars, ribbons and medals, more like a Prince of the Opera than the Conqueror of the Nile. It is really melancholy to see a brave and good man, who has deserved well of his country, cutting so pitiful a figure.
Moore did not remark on the strangest fact of all: Rear- Admiral Lord Nelson of the Nile and of Burnham Thorpe was returning home overland. It was a decision that had always perplexed me. An admiral recalled after famous victories, his flagship waiting in the bay... I was arriving at this point now, in my dictation:
'In Nelson's life, as in all lives, there were concurrent paths, lines running in parallel, each characterized by a cluster of attributes particular to itself, appearing simple in stated form but complex and subtle in suggestion. The obvious broad division in Nelson's case was between sea-life and land-life. At sea he was himself, he was performing the task for which he was gloriously fitted; on land he sometimes faltered, his faculties lost the concentration of genius they possessed at sea. Why then, in that June of 1800, did he choose to return home by land? Was it for the pregnant Emma's sake, because she was unwilling to face the long voyage? Had Sir William some business to see to on the way? Or was it that Nelson himself was anxious to postpone -'
Miss Lily had paused again. Without looking at me - she was regarding the screen of her computer - she said, I've a good idea why they went by land.'
I became aware of needing patience, a considerable store of it. 'Have you?'
'It was the obvious choice, really. I mean, they were a travelling show by this time, weren't they?'
'What on earth do you mean?'
'Everybody knew about them in advance, wherever they went. So the more places they went to the better, that's all I am saying. From the point of view of the spectacle, that is. It was like a tour. I mean, they took risks going by land, didn't they? Napoleon had just defeated the Austrians at the Battle of Marengo. He was invading Italy again. Their carriage passed within a mile of the French outposts. It would've been much safer by sea, but that way they wouldn't have been able to put on the show, would they ? Trieste, across Slovenia, then through the Alps to Klagenfurt and Vienna, then Prague and Dresden, then all those little courts in Germany, all the way to Hamburg. Everywhere they went, fireworks, bands playing, spectators by the thousand. I mean, it's obvious, isn't it? It was a show, they were stars, that's all I'm saying.'
For some moments, hearing her say these things about Horatio, hearing her compare this greatest of men to a travelling player, I felt a mixture of fury and distress that I was afraid might have drained the blood from my face. I turned away from her in a pretence of looking at the shelves of books, as if in search of some reference. I could not read the titles, agitation blurred my sight. But I felt no urge to move round behind her, no impulse to renew that terrible scrutiny. All I wanted was to hide my feelings. She was immune and somehow she knew it. I cannot describe my sense of this more exactly. It was as if she had got inside my guard.
