The Private Misadventures of Nell Nobody

Short-listed -- 2022 CIBA Goethe Award for Historical Fiction
Long Listed -- 2022 Page Turner Awards Book Award

Who do you become when you can no longer be yourself?

1793: France and Britain are at war. Traumatised and grieving the loss of her infant son, Eleanor Buccleuch leaves behind her previous life, dons waistcoat and breeches, and becomes Ned Buckley.

Ned enlists in the British army and vanishes amongst the soldiers of the 69th Regiment of Foot. Sent to the Mediterranean, Ned is pulled out of his squad and assigned to work with a zealous Royal Navy captain named Horatio Nelson, who is goading the army to besiege the Corsican town of Bastia.

Ned becomes a participant in momentous events of victory and defeat, forming an unlikely friendship with the man who will one day become Britain’s greatest naval hero. But even as he witnesses Nelson’s trajectory towards immortality, Ned’s past is stalking him, threatening him with a downward slide into discovery, ignominy, and the prospect of his own destruction.

May not be appropriate for readers under the age of sixteen.
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Victory rides the chop out beyond sight of the shore. Two frigates, Meleager and Lowestoff, and 64-gun Agamemnonsit in attendance, within easy distance of each other.

The sea-state makes the leap for the boarding ladder more precarious than usual. My Ferguson in its sling whacks me sharply as I mount the ladder and clamber up the side.

On board, I hand Nelson’s other letter to the officer of the watch and stand at attention while he reads it. He tells me to wait as he goes below.

An older marine whom I recognise from Gibraltar gives me a brief nod. He outranks me. Everyone outranks me. I nod stiffly in return. All around me, the business of maintaining a one-hundred-gun ship of the line goes on, as I stand there without any business to keep me from feeling foolish.

After an eternity, the lieutenant returns and bids me follow him down the companionway to the upper gun deck and into the stern of the ship. The marine at the door of the admiral’s cabin stands stiffly at attention as I’m admitted to the cabin, then the door shuts behind me and I am standing alone in front of Admiral Lord Hood.

I never expected to be face to face with him. His craggy, hook-nosed features make Colonel Moore’s disgruntled expression look benign. He looks up from the letter I carefully transcribed this morning and snaps, ‘More powder. More shot. What the devil do they think this is, an armoury?’

I know I’m not supposed to answer this, so I stay silent.

‘Who are you, anyway? Why is Nelson sending me some ratty little soldier instead of coming himself?’

Ratty little soldier. I try not to let this shot rattle me. But I’m thankful that Captain Nelson made me wash my face and tidy my hair before coming here.

‘My name is Buckley, my Lord. I was assigned to act as Captain Nelson’s liaison to the army. He intended to come himself, but he is unwell today.’

‘Thinks he’s the only one who’s unwell?’ Lord Hood growls.

‘Nosir. I don’t believe he does.’

‘Why does Captain Nelson need a liaison to the army?’

I think I can be candid here. ‘I believe it was because Colonel Moore and General D’Aubant didn’t want to deal with the captain directly, my Lord.’

Hood stares at me, then mutters, ‘Sounds about right.’ He tosses Nelson’s letter on his desk. ‘You speak well, boy. I presume this is your penmanship, as well?’ He gestures at the discarded letter.

‘Yessir.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Hood corrects me.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ I repeat stoically.

‘Nelson thinks that this General Stuart is more cooperative than that fool D’Aubant.’

If he’s trying to get a rise out of me, it isn’t going to work. I know General D’Aubant is a fool.