CHAPTER XII.

"DAN WILL NE'ER BE DAN AGAIN," THEY SAID.

"A boding voice is in my ear,

"We're parting now to meet no more."--OLD SONG.

"See yon bark, sae proudly bounding,

Soon shall bear me o'er the sea.

Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding,

Calls me far frae love and thee."--A. HUME.

It was a sad day for my hero, young Tom Bure, when Mr. Merryweather

resigned command of the sloop, and went on half-pay. When he came to

bid good-bye to Dan and his old shipmate, Uncle Bob, to say nothing

of little Ruth and her mother, everyone was as sad as sad can be. It

was one of those dull, depressing days in December; great waves

tumbling in from the east and breaking in thunder upon the sands of

Yare; hosts of seagulls flying in-land; snow in the air; general

gloom everywhere.

"Good-bye, Bob, my good fellow, I hope to see you again, and see you

well. I'm coming back from the wars with my post-captaincy, Bob;

then you and your good brother Dan here will be the first to bid be

welcome, I know."

There was a huskiness in poor Bob's voice when he made answer that

was not difficult to account for, and there was moisture in his eyes.

"Ah, mate," he said, "you must forgive an invalid for showing the

white feather at the last. I didn't think, you know, I'd be so sorry

to part with you, but your presence, coming back and fore to the

cottage here, brought back old memories, and I've had a right happy

time. Good-bye, mate. Heaven preserve you. I'll pray for you, an

honest tar's prayer. But something whispers to me--we'll meet again

no more."

Ruth went as far as the rustic bridge with Mr. Merryweather.

He kissed her as he bade her farewell.

"I'll meet many a maiden ere I return again, Ruth," he said, "but

none more modest and fair than you, my winsome lassie."

Ruth went away sobbing, with her apron to her face.

Tom walked as far as the beach with Merryweather, for he was Tom's

hero.

Besides, he had promised to use his influence at the Admiralty to get

Tom appointed as a middie in the same ship as he himself joined.

"Good-bye, Tom."

"Good-bye, Mr. Merryweather."

They were now on the cliff.

"Good-bye, sir, I wouldn't cry for the world, I--wouldn't--good-bye."

"There! there! lad. Never be ashamed of honest tears. Just let them

fall. The bravest men that ever drew sword or wielded cutlass on the

blood-slippery battle-deck have wept when saying that little word

'good-bye.'"

He patted the boy most kindly on the shoulder. "Tom," he said,

smiling, "do you know what I'm going to do?"

"No," said Tom, smiling himself, though his eyes were wet.

"Well, as soon as I get up anchor and wear round I'll fire a gun for

you. And do you know what that gun will say?"

"No, sir."

"It'll say 'Good-bye, Tom,' as plainly as ever a gun can speak. Now

sit there and look and listen."

And off ran this honest sailor, while Tom sat down on the cliff-top

to wait for developments.

He saw the boat hauled up. He heard the rattle of the windlass as

the men got up the anchor. He saw the loosened sails fill as the

little craft wore round, then there was a quick wicked-looking puff

of white smoke, with a tongue of fire in the centre of it, and next

moment the cliffs reverberated with the sound of the farewell gun.

Tom took off his jacket and waved it in the air; his cap would not

have been sufficient for the requirements of so auspicious an

occasion.

"Good-bye, Tom," said the gun.

And Tom went sadly home all by himself.

* * * * *

There is one method of getting over sorrow that every boy has in his

power, namely, sticking to his books and his studies.

Many a time and oft, dear reader, has sorrow in this world been the

parent of fame, and Tom Bure found that after a somewhat gloomy

fortnight the time did not hang so wearily on his hands.

Hadn't Mr. Merryweather assured him that war was coming, and that he

would exercise all the influence he possessed to obtain him an

appointment as midshipman.

How glorious that would be! How he wished for the storm to break,

for the war to begin. He did not think of the fine uniform he might

wear, or of the dirk that should hang by his side. He resolved to

emulate Horatio Nelson, and despise dandyism; but whenever a chance

offered to do all kinds of daring, plucky things, he was sure he

should rise rapidly in the service, and have his name written on the

scroll of fame.

Tom had heard of the scroll of fame, but possessed very hazy notions

indeed as to what it was or wasn't. But in an old copy-book Mr.

Curtiss, his tutor, one day discovered the following ready-made

scroll of fame--

"Tom Bure, midshipman.

Lieutenant Tom Bure, R.N.

Commander Thomas Bure, R.N.

Captain the Hon. Thom. Bure, R.N.

Admiral of the Red the Hon. Thom. Bure.

Admiral of the Fleet Lord----."

The scroll of fame was left unfinished just there; it was evident

that young Tom was uncertain what title as a lord he should confer on

himself.

But he happened to enter the room just as Mr. Curtiss was examining

this scroll of fame and laughing heartily over it. Forgetting for

the moment all the respect that was due to his tutor, Tom rushed

forward, seized the paper and tore it in pieces, his eyes flashing

with anger, his face burning like a coal.

"Oh! forgive me, Mr. Curtiss," he said immediately after, "I didn't

mean to be rude, but I really felt so ashamed."

"Say no more, my boy, no more," said Mr. Curtiss, "we all of us

manufacture for ourselves a scroll of fame, though we don't all

transcribe it in an old copy-book. Never be ashamed of ambition, my

boy, so long as it is honest ambition."

* * * *

Christmas of 1792 came round at last, and Tom Bure had the

distinguished honour of being included among the invited guests to a

ball given by his little inamorata, Miss Colmore, at the Hall. This

party was not held on Christmas-day, however, else Tom, much as he

loved the fascinating fair one, would have declined the invitation.

Christmas-day was Uncle Bob's day _par excellence_, for he happened

to have been born on this day of all days; so it was the one festival

of the year at Dan's cottage. The dinner was spread in Bob's own

wing, the room was specially decorated for the purpose with

evergreens and holly-berries and mistletoe nearly a week beforehand,

Bob himself superintending, Ruth and Tom doing the work.

The table, with its snow-white cloth and sparkling glasses, and Mrs.

Dan's very best delf, was placed so that, as Bob lay in his cot and

Dan sat at the foot of the table, the two brothers were close

together, and Dan could attend to Bob's every want.

There were always a few neighbours invited, and mirth and jollity and

songs and yarns were the rule of the evening.

And this Christmas formed no exception. Poor Bob was never merrier,

and declared that he had been able to move his fingers in the morning

better than ever he had done, so that a new hope was awakened within

him. No wonder he was happy.

And Bob being happy, his brother Dan's face was all the evening

brimming over with joy. Even Meg, the collie, knew that something

extra was on the tapis, and when everybody drank to Bob, wishing him

many happy returns of the day, and Dan his brother patted his cheek,

the dog jumped up and licked his ear, then seemed to go to sleep with

her head sideways on his chest in her old loving fashion.

This was indeed a never-to-be-forgotten evening.

Two days after the party at the Hall took place, and though perhaps

Tom was not the greatest dandy there, he nevertheless looked as well

as anyone. And, singular to say, Bertha was kinder to Tom than ever

she had been. She gave him more dances than she gave to the

Honourable Fred Langridge, although the latter wore silver buckles in

his shoes besides silk stockings and a satin waistcoat, and sported a

bunch of seals at his fob as large even as Mr. Merryweather's.

Tom was accordingly very happy indeed, and the evening wore away with

magical quickness. Bertha had never looked so like a fairy before,

but nevertheless this fairy maiden even condescended to let Tom----;

but stay, I shall not tell tales out of school, and the least said

about the mistletoe the better.

But that, too, was a never-to-be-forgotten evening.

Our young hero was now in his twelfth year, and began to think he

really and truly was a man.

It being winter Uncle Bob spent nearly all his time indoors, but Tom

went often to the crow's-nest, and came back and reported to Bob all

about the weather and how the wind was, how the sea looked and what

was in sight, and this used to make Bob so happy.

Tom often went out in the _Fairy_ yawl with the Ashleys. They were a

rather rough lot, but really capital seamen, and taught the boy quite

a deal that was useful to him in after life.

And with all due respect for classical education, the knowledge of

how to reef and steer and splice and knot, and of how to look a gale

of wind and dashing seas in the teeth, is not thrown away even on a

midshipman of the present day.

* * * * *

The cold dreary winter wore away at last, and spring began to clothe

the marshes in tender green, and scatter wild flowers everywhere.

The catkins were showered groundwards from the tall poplar trees, and

yellow-green leaves covered them like the shimmer of evening

sunshine, the tassels hung on the larches, the gold covered the

furze, gentler winds went whispering through the young shoots of the

bulrushes, and the song of birds was heard in all the land.

Happiness, joy, and hope were universal.

Uncle Bob began to look forward now to his first glad day on the

broad in his barge. Dan his brother was to come with him, Ruth and

Meg and all were to go, and Tom intended to invite little Bertha

herself.

It was indeed to be a day of rejoicing.

One evening the stars shone with unusual brilliancy, and yet Dan told

Bob there wasn't an air of frost in it either. Dan sat longer up

with his brother that night than usual. They were talking of dear

old times when father and mother were alive, and they were boys

together. Such joyous days those used to be, and how free from care

and thought.

When at last the old clock in the corner groaned out the hour of

twelve, Dan bade his brother a kindly good-night, and prepared to go.

The last thing Bob asked him to do was to draw back the curtains,

that he might see the beautiful stars.

"Take the candle, brother, take the candle," Bob said. "Good-night,

dear Dan. Now I shall see the stars. Oh, what glory!"

These were the last words ever Dan heard his brother utter. Mayhap

they were the last he ever spoke on earth.

When Tom went in next morning he found Uncle Bob apparently asleep.

But his face was white.

Tom touched his brow; it was hard and cold.

He stood in the chamber of death.

It was Bob's wing no longer.

Tom felt for a moment as if turned to stone, then, uttering one long

and bitter cry, he sank down on his knees beside the bed and burst

into tears.

When brother Dan went in he found two mourners there; one was little

Tom, the other Bob's collie, Meg. Her paws were on the bed, her

cheek leant lovingly against the hard, dead chest of her master.

[Illustration: "Dan found two mourners there, little Tom, and Bob's

collie, Meg."]

* * * * *

A very humble funeral. Only a plain deal coffin, and only a few

friendly neighbours to follow it to its last resting-place.

But when these neighbours looked in the face of poor Dan, who erst

was ever so cheerful, they shook their heads.

"Dan has aged sadly," they said.

"Dan will ne'er be Dan again."

Book II.

CHAPTER I.

TOM'S BAPTISM OF BLOOD.

"Set every inch of canvas

To woo the favouring breeze.

Oh, gaily goes the ship

When the wind blows free!"--OLD SONG.

"Luff, lad, luff," said the skipper to Tom Bure, who was at the

wheel. "We'll give them a race for it anyhow. They'll think none

the less of us for that."

"See," he added, a minute after, but talking now to his mate. Tom

was too busy to look about. "Yonder was a shot, it fell plump into

our wake a quarter knot astern. Blaze away, Frenchie, but we're not

overhauled yet, and not a herring o' mine crosses your throat for the

next two hours anyhow.

"Ah! mate, they don't know the life that's in the _Yarmouth Belle_

when she gets a wind on the quarter. And the more it blows the

faster she goes. Another shot! Ah! Frenchie, you haven't run us

aboard yet even. Keep her as she goes, Tom, lad, keep her as she

goes."

The skipper and his mate might have been taken for brothers, so much

alike were they in face and build. Short, squat almost; men about

forty years of age, with faces as rough as a crab shell, and not

unlike to a crab in colour when that dainty has been boiled; noses

that seemed to have sunk considerably by the pressure of gales of

wind innumerable; eyes that were mere slits from the same cause;

dressed in sea-boots and blue sweaters, with black sou'-westers.

They carried their hands deep in their trousers' pockets when not

handling anything; kept them stowed away, as it were, till wanted;

and they chewed tobacco, as a rule, walking down to leeward when they

wanted to expectorate, which they did apparently for the benefit of

the sharks.

The men belonging to this schooner were five in number, and

hardy-looking fellows every one of them, though not so tough as mate

and master. They wore blue night-caps, and were naked as to feet, in

other respects they were dressed like their superiors.

There was little or no lording it over the men displayed by the

senior officers of the _Yarmouth Belle_, Equality and fraternity was

displayed fore and aft. Even the skipper himself would be seen

forward at times, talking and laughing and yarning with the

forecastle hands, and any one of these would take a pull at sheet or

brace without an order from the officer on duty, if he thought the

sails needed trimming.

But both master and mate looked pleasant enough, and good-natured

too, for men like these, who have been, literally speaking, reared

upon the waves, are not easily put out. At the present moment, for

instance, they were running away from a French cruiser, and it did

seem too that they were likely to win the race.

The stage of action was the Mediterranean sea, or blue Levant, as

novelists often call it. It was blue as blue could be to-day, as

blue as the sky above it, albeit there was a white horse visible here

and there on its surface, for a stiff but steady breeze was blowing,

and if it only held, Mr. Hughes, the skipper, felt sure he could show

that Frenchman a clean pair of heels.

"Wo! wo!" he cried presently, as a shot fell closer astern than was

agreeable.

"I'd let her pay off a trifle, George," said the mate.

"Have it your own way, Tim, only don't let us get hulled."

"For'ard there!" he shouted. "Have the jollyboat all ready. Now,

Tim, let her rip. Sandie, run aft here and haul up the British Jack.

The red rag that makes the Frenchman as mad's a bull. See, I knew it

would, and yonder comes another shot. Short this time though.

Short, you dirty old frog-eating Moosoors. Mate, I'll have a tot o'

rum. Don't see why we shouldn't splice the main brace, eh?"

"Steward!" cried Tim, "fill black-jack, and bring him up here."

The steward, in shirt and trousers, and a pair of slippers down at

the heels, soon appeared, with a cup in one hand and a black iron

measure with rum in it in the other. These were days of can-tossing.

"Here's confusion to the French!" cried the skipper.

Then he tossed his can.

The mate followed suit.

"No good offerin' you, younker, any, I daresay," he said, looking at

Tom.

"Not to-day, thanks."

"Keep her full then, Tom. Keep your eyes aloft, lad. Steward, take

a pull yourself, then trot for'ard with black-jack."

* * * * *

In order to understand how Tom Bure happens to be down here in the

blue Levant, taking his trick at the wheel on board the saucy

_Yarmouth Belle_, it will be necessary to hark back a month or two in

our story, but I promise you that we shall soon make up our leeway.

* * * * *

After poor Uncle Bob was laid in his quiet grave, then, Tom received

several letters from Mr. Merryweather, the last of which was very

brief. He (Mr. Merryweather) was appointed to a ship at Chatham

which was fitting out for sea, the letter explained, and as soon as

possible he meant to have an interview with no less a personage than

Lord Hood himself, with whom he had served out in America. Tom might

rest assured that it was on his account wholly he was going to see

the admiral, and he, Tom, might really hold himself in readiness to

join a ship at any time.

Now, at this date, '93, history was moving on at a very rapid pace

indeed.

Things had not gone over well with Horatio Nelson in '92. Hope

itself seemed dead within him. His applications for service were

utterly ignored by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.

It was not very long, however, before Nelson had proof that the

darkest hour of night is next the dawn, and that "_post nubila

Phœbus_," after clouds come sunshine. He had still two good

friends in high quarters, namely, Lord Hood and the Duke of Clarence.

Both knew how good and enthusiastic an officer he was. Both knew

that the cloud in the east would soon break. The French were, to use

a slang but expressive adjective, "cockie." The French were

insolent. They were already proved to be--so they themselves

thought--the best soldiers in the world, and they thought also there

would not be the slightest difficulty in proving their superiority to

the British at sea.

They had already fired on British ships, and, with every desire to

maintain the peace of the world, our Government saw there was nothing

for it but fight.

Very much to his surprise, therefore, as well as intense delight,

Nelson found himself appointed to the _Agamemnon_, a 64-gun ship of

great excellence.

And so he sailed from England on the 27th of June, making one of the

squadron of Lord Hood, whose ships were bound south, with a large

convoy of merchantmen under their lee.

It was upon the 25th day of this very June that our bold young Tom

Bure set out on a cruise of his own seeking. The _Fairy_, Ashley's

yawl, was running round Hunstanton way, and Tom begged for a passage,

or rather he asked for one. There was very little begging needed in

it, for gruff old Ashley was as proud and fond of Tom as he was of

any of his sons. So in a day or two--the _Fairy_ being delayed by

wicked wee winds--Tom found himself on shore at Wells. His object

was to see Captain Nelson, and beg him to take him with him even as a

cabin-boy.

Alas! Nelson was gone. His father was there, however, and as Tom

sat in a high-backed chair opposite the kind old parson, he was for

fifteen minutes under a fire of good advice, the text of which was,

"Stay at home, boy, and become a useful member of society. Don't go

to the sea to become a target for French gunners, and to feed the

fishes eventually." Of course the worthy parson fixed his sermon up

in a more appropriate guise than this. And there sat Tom as quiet as

a mute; but, in the interests of truth, I am bound to say that, like

round shot which go clean through a wooden ship at close quarters

without doing much harm, the rector's advice went in at one of Tom's

ears and out at the other, making no impression whatever.

"Now, my dear boy," said old Mr. Nelson at last, "you have listened

most attentively to what I have said, and I pray heaven you may

benefit by it."

Tom Bure had hardly heard a word of it.

"Thank you," he said, "and now, sir, might I write to your son?"

"Down you sit, lad, right here at this desk, and scribble away. I'll

forward your epistle in one of mine."

Here is Tom Bure's letter to Horatio Nelson:

"DEAR CAPTAIN NELSON,--This comes hoping you are well and fighting

the french, O, sir, I want to fite the french too. My father was a

galant offiser and fought the french and the americans and Spanish

and all. So did you, sir. You, sir, wanted the admiralty to give

you a cockle-boat if you could not go as captain, if I cannot go as a

midshipman sir, I want to go as a cabin boy.

"Yours Respectably,

"TOM BURE."

It must be confessed that this letter was not free from some errors,

but then action and common-sense were more admired in these brave old

times than grammar and orthography.

Old Mr. Nelson promised faithfully to send the letter, and having

given the lad a good dinner and a little more good advice, Tom

marched boldly and hopefully away to Hunstanton and met the Ashleys.

On the passage back the _Fairy_ ran into Yarmouth harbour, and Tom

went with old Ashley on board a schooner to see a friend of his.

"As plucky a fellow as ever hauled a net," he explained to Tom before

they crossed the plank. "Netted a bit o' money too. For five years

now he's been running down the Levant wi' dried herrings, and comin'

back wi' fruit. But what I tells him is this, 'You may do a thing in

peace times ye can't in war.' Only George is as headstrong as a

mule. And there he is. Ha, George, me and this younker was just

talkin' about you. Here is a young sailor for you, if you like!"

"Can he do aught? A gent, ain't he?"

"Ay, a gent; but I brought him up, and, look see, he's going to be

something yet. Tom Bure'll be a credit to me. He won't miss stays,

you wager. But, George, I was just telling him what an old idget ye

was."

"Oh, thank you!" said George, laughing. "I'm sure I'm obliged. Come

below and have a tot of rum and bit o' baccy. Don't the _Yarmouth

Belle_ look nice?"

"Ah! yes, slick and trim. I'd have no fear o' her and you, George,

if 't weren't war time."

While these two men were talking, Tom Bure had a happy thought. Why

shouldn't he sail with George--as Ashley called the skipper. Nelson

went in a merchant ship. "Sir," he said, "will you take me for a

cruise? I'll obey orders, and do all I can to help you sail the

schooner."

George laughed in a rough but kindly way, and the three went below

together, and it all ended by young Tom Bure becoming one of the

crew, or say rather an apprentice, on board the saucy _Yarmouth

Belle_.

Honest old Dan was much distressed when he heard that Tom had engaged

himself, and poor Ruth, whom Tom always called sister, was

inconsolable.

"However, it may be all for the best," said Dan. "He's been well

brought up, though I say it, wife, and Providence can protect him."

"Besides," said Mr. Curtiss, "he must begin to see life some time,

and the sooner the better, Dan, now-a-days."

Tom's things were gotten ready with all speed. Rough wearing

every-day articles they were, warm and useful. Mrs. Brundell saw to

their abundance and utility.

His outfit for the navy had already been bought and packed, and as

Tom's chest was a good-sized one, Ruth proposed that he should take

his uniform clothes in the bottom. "It may bring Tom luck, mother,"

she said. So this was agreed to.

On the evening before his departure, the Colmores being then at the

hall, Tom launched his boat, and with Meg at the prow started off up

the Broad to bid farewell to his Bertha.

Poor Bertha cried bitterly for a little while; but she brightened up

considerably when Tom told her it was all to win honour and glory for

her he was going to brave the dangers of the treacherous ocean. She

put it to him very straight though.

"What will you bring me, Tom?" she said.

And there wasn't a thing in the world that Tom did not promise to

bring home and lay at his love's feet, so it is no wonder she dried

her eyes and laughed at last. Bertha indeed seemed at this early

stage of her existence quite cut out for a sailor's bride.

"That girl, who fain would choose a mate

Should ne'er in fondness fail her,

May thank her lucky stars if fate

Decree her to a sailor.

He braves the storm, the battle's heat,

The yellow boys to nail her,

Diamonds--if diamonds she could eat,

Would seek her honest sailor."

* * * * *

So away went Tom.

And the voyage had all along been a most pleasant one. In a few

days' time the skipper of the _Yarmouth Belle_ had reckoned upon

reaching the port of destination, selling off his cargo, and

investing in another. But it seemed at present that it was not going

to be all plain sailing with him.

Whizz! Another shot. Much nearer this time too. "That

privateersman," said the skipper, "is a wonderful craft to fly.

Well, it'll be a feather in her cap if she runs the _Yarmouth Belle_

aboard."

Whizz!

"I say, George, ain't it getting a trifle too hot?" said the mate.

When the next shot went ripping through the fore topsail, George

turned his quid in his mouth, and nodded to his mate.

"I must admit, matie," he said, "it's getting a bit warmish. We've

done all we could as Englishmen to maintain the honour and glory of

the flag, now we'll haul her down."

The _Yarmouth Belle_ was now brought to, and ere long was boarded by

an officer from the cruiser.

When he came on the quarter-deck he was in a terrible passion, and

swore roundly in French.

But as no one except Tom Bure understood a word he said, it did not

matter a deal.

Tom did all he could to pacify the French officer, by explaining that

being Englishmen, they were obliged either to fight or retire. Being

unable to fight they naturally ran away to save their cargo, just as

they hoisted the British flag to save their honour.

"Where is that flag?" hissed the officer, striking his sword-scabbard

on the deck. "Give me the rag."

Now Tom had the old Bure blood in him, and his face glowed with anger

to hear his country's flag called a rag. He determined it should not

be surrendered.

"Here is the flag, sir," he said. "Let me roll it up for you."

As he did so he deftly managed to tie within it two marline spikes,

old-fashioned, heavy articles.

Then he coolly pitched the crimson bundle overboard.

"There, sir; a gentleman knows how to respect even the flag of an

enemy. You are not one, and shall never finger flag of ours."

This, it must be confessed, was a bold as well as pretty speech for a

lad of Tom's age. Those, however, were the days of bold speeches,

and doughty deeds as well.

But dire were the results that followed.

The Frenchman drew his sword, and struck poor Tom Bure a terrible

blow with the hilt.

Tom fell senseless to the deck.

Next moment the Frenchman lay beside him.

"Fair play, you cowardly frog-eater," the skipper had shouted,

bringing his fist to bear full between the officer's eyes.

It was too late now to draw back.

"Overboard with the lot," shouted skipper Hughes.

As he spoke he tore the sword from the grasp of the fallen man, and

the pistol from his belt.

The mate seized a capstan bar. The crew followed his example. A few

pistol shots were fired, and cutlasses were drawn by the Frenchmen;

but the attack had been all too quick and unexpected to be met. In

less than a minute the crew of the boat were overpowered and

disarmed, then pitched pell-mell overboard.

Those Norfolk sailors had fought like demons.

The foreyard was hauled forward, and away once more went the

_Yarmouth Belle_, skimming over the water like a living thing.

By the time the cruiser had picked up her boat the schooner had

secured such an offing that, as night was coming on, the baffled

privateer was fain to give up pursuit and go off on another tack.

And this was Tom Bure's baptism of blood.

He certainly lost some, and there was an ugly gash on his brow; but

he was soon sufficiently recovered to sit up and look about him.

The skipper had bound up his brow, and the steward was kneeling

beside him, trying hard to get him to swallow a little

three-water-grog.

Tom couldn't believe his eyes when he looked about him.

There was the _Yarmouth Belle_ once more under full sail, and there

was the French officer sitting disconsolately under the lee rails,

side by side with one of his own men, both with their legs in irons.

And now Tom showed his generosity by begging that both men should be

placed _en parole_.

The skipper consented, and with his own hands Tom unlocked the irons

and set them free.

"The English are von brave nationg," said the officer, and, much to

Tom's astonishment, he was caught and kissed on both cheeks.

The Frenchmen, however, settled down very happily in their new

quarters, and were as merry as merry could be.

After all, it was only the fortune of war.

CHAPTER II.

HOW TOM BURE JOINED THE SERVICE.

"Let cannons roar loud, burst their sides let the bombs,

Let the winds a dread hurricane rattle;

The rough and the pleasant, Jack takes as it comes,

And laughs at the storm and the battle."--DIBDIN.

The _Yarmouth Belle_ had baffling winds for a few days after this,

which considerably delayed her progress to Naples, the port of her

destination. But the weather was beautiful on the whole, and the

skipper and the mate were both philosophers of the happy-go-lucky

school.

"I'm not going to fret my little self," said Mr. Hughes one morning

at breakfast, when Tom reported that the _Belle's_ head was not

directed to that point of the compass he should wish.

"We're not going to fret our little selves," said the mate. "Pass

the ham, skipper. We've plenty to eat, we've plenty to drink, and we

have 'baccy, and there's no hurry home."

"You are rich men den?" said the French officer.

"Oh, no, sir. Rich in content, that is all."

"You veel make one profitabeal voyage?"

"I hope to make fifty," said the skipper.

"Ah, dat is not vot I mean. _Dis_ voyage, saar. Here, I veel pay

you _tres bien_ if you take me to Tunis."

The Briton shook his head.

"That cock won't fight, sir," he said. "I'm a poor man, but I trust

I'm an honourable one; least I hope so."

"Ah, good! I make my respects to you. I honour you, I love you.

Good-bye."

He stretched his hand over the table, seized Hughes' rough fist, and

shook it heartily.

"Are you off then?" said the mate, laughing

"Ah, saar! I not mean that, my good-bye is not all de same as yours."

At this moment Tom entered once more.

He looked excited.

"Three frigates in sight, Mr. Hughes, sir," he said. "I've been to

the mast-head with the glass, and they look like Frenchmen."

It was the officer's turn to laugh now.

"Ah!" he cried, "now it may be 'Good-bye' after all in de Eenglish

way. Ha! ha!"

"Don't you whistle till you're out of the wood, Moosoo," said Hughes,

nodding to him good-humouredly. "You don't know yet what the _Belle_

can do on a wind."

Stout though he was, the skipper found his way into the top, while

the mate stood below looking up.

"Right the boy is!" he shouted down presently. "They are French as

sure's I'm Yarmouth. Ready about, mate! We may as well keep out o'

the way. But, bless you, mate," he added, when he got down again,

"they seem far too busy to bother us."

"May I take the glass and go into the cross-trees, sir?" asked Tom.

"Go on to the truck if ye like, lad. Why, you've got eyes like a

lynx."

Away aloft went Tom. No cat could have gone aloft half so neatly.

Honest pride was swelling his young heart as he brought the telescope

to bear on the Frenchmen.

"On deck!" he shouted presently.

"Ay, ay, lad!" cried Hughes.

"There are three big frigates, a smaller" (? corvette), "and a brig."

Hughes laughed and turned to Moosoo, as he called his prisoner.

Hughes was fond of a joke.

"We can't do it, Moosoo," he said. "Had there been only three

frigates now, we might have boarded and carried them one after

another. But four and a brig to boot--that's just two more 'n we can

eat. Ha! ha! ha! See the point?"

If Moosoo didn't see the point he felt it; for in order to emphasise

his joke Hughes dug him in the ribs with his red fat forefinger.

"One of the frigates has dropped astern, sir," was the next hail from

the cross-trees. "A bigger one than any is coming up on her, hand

over hand."

"Is _she_ French?"

"Can't make out. Shall soon, I think."

In twenty minutes' time came another hail.

"British, Mr. Hughes, British! and now she's fired a shot."

"Hoorah!" cried Hughes. "Mr. Moosoo," he added, "here's news. My

second mate aloft there tells me there's seventeen French sail o' the

line running away from a Britisher. Hoorah!"

"Below there!" shouted Tom.

"Ay, ay!"

"The fight's begun; but they've all borne away on the other tack."

"Ready about!" cried the skipper. "Mate, we'll see the last of this.

Nothing to pay, you know."

In less than an hour the saucy Belle was so near to the

belligerents--no pun meant, reader, the occasion is too serious for

punning--to witness from the deck the running fight between the

frigates.

It was hotly contested on both sides for more than two hours, after

which the foe was silenced.

"They are going to board," cried Tom.

The boy was dancing with excitement on the cross-trees.

"Hurrah!" cried Hughes again.

But they were all disappointed.

The British ship veered round with her head to the west, and men

could be seen in the rigging immediately after making good repairs.

"She means to fight again, I'll wager a barrel of herrings. They're

only putting things right a bit to go ahead."

"Now, mate," continued this valiant skipper, "I move we keep her up

and join the Britisher. Let us see if we can't be of any assistance

to her. Eh?"

"Bravo, sir!" said the mate, "I'm on. The idea's first rate, and we

may share the prize money and the glory, you know."

"Oh, bother the glory! We may sell our herrings."

There was another and final hail from the cross-trees.

"The beaten frigate, sir, has hoisted signals, and the others are

bearing down towards her."

"Now the fun'll begin," cried the warlike skipper. "That British

ship is good enough for the five of them, I know."

But it was soon evident that the French frigates had no desire to

renew the combat. Perhaps they had important engagements in some

other part of the Levant. At all events, after a time they sheered

off.

Then the _Yarmouth Belle_ stood towards the British man-o'-war, and

was duly hailed, and finally ran alongside. The man-o'-war, which

proved to be the _Agamemnon_--Nelson's own ship--had her mainsail

hauled aback, a boat was lowered to board the _Belle_, and in a few

minutes returned, bringing the Norfolk skipper and Tom himself.

Both were sent on the poop.

Tom Bure certainly did not look a very picturesque figure just then,

for his brow was still bound up with the blood-stained handkerchief,

and he wore a sou'-wester and blue jumper.

The glad blood mounted to his face, however, when he saw it was

Horatio Nelson himself who advanced towards him.

There were several officers besides on the quarterdeck, but Tom had

eyes only for the hero.

Tom saluted, and waited to be questioned.

"Why, my lad," said Nelson kindly, "you are Tom Bure, aren't you?

But why this masquerade?"

Tom looked puzzled.

"I received your letter, boy"--Nelson smiled--"and I have it still,"

he said, "and wrote soon after to the Admiralty requesting your

appointment to this very ship. But you must have left England before

that appointment came."

"I hope I haven't done wrong, sir; but I had no hopes you would think

of me."

"Not think of you, boy? Nonsense."

"So, sir, I sailed with Mr. Hughes here, sir."

"Captain of the saucy _Yarmouth Belle_," put in that worthy. "Finest

herrings, sir."

"One minute, Mr.----a----_Captain_ Hughes. Well, Tom Bure, give an

account of yourself and that cut on your head."

Tom briefly related all that had occurred, Hughes helping him now and

then--putting a spoke in his wheel, as he phrased it.

Nelson laughed heartily, and shook hands now with the skipper.

"You're an honour to England, Mr. Hughes," he said, "and I shall not

fail to mention your gallantry in the right quarter. Now I'll

relieve you of your prisoners, and if you can spare me this young

gentleman I'll have his services here in my ship."

"Delighted, I'm sure," said the skipper. "Any herrings, sir?"

Nelson smiled again.

"See my steward about that," he said, "and you can stay here for

twenty minutes and do business forward. Whither are you bound?"

"To Naples, my lord."

"No lord as yet, Captain Hughes; but I'll show my trust in a Norfolk

man by giving you a letter to deliver at Naples."

"I'll give it, sir, if it should be to the king himself."

Seeing Captain Nelson engaged talking to the worthy skipper, one of

the officers now advanced and laid his hand on Tom's shoulder.

"Well, my hero!" he said.

It was Merryweather himself, and Tom's cup of bliss was full to

overflowing.

Mr. Merryweather marched him off to the lee side of the poop after

telling a middy to see "this young gentleman's" chest on board the

_Agamemnon_.

The middy, who was some years older than Tom, saluted as he said "Ay,

ay, sir"; but he surveyed Tom with haughty superciliousness as he

descended from the poop.

So Mr. Merryweather had all the last and freshest news from Norfolk.

"Pity," he said at last, "you have not your uniform."

"Oh, I had forgotten!" said Tom in a low voice. "Ruth put that in

the bottom of my sea chest."

"Bravo! poor dear, winsome, wee Ruth. Shouldn't wonder if I married

her, Tom; but now, lad, bid your skipper good-bye, and come below to

my cabin. There you can dress you know. Wait one moment though."

He advanced to Captain Nelson.

"May Mr. Bure go below now, sir?"

"Certainly, Mr. Merryweather; and he better see the surgeon and have

his face washed."

One of the junior surgeons, who looked more like a butcher's

assistant than anything else, was coming up from the cockpit. He

took Tom in tow, and speedily dressed his wound for him.

In ten minutes he was washed and arrayed in his midshipman's uniform.

And now he reported himself formally to Captain Nelson, who seemed

much pleased. "I hope you will make a good and efficient officer,"

he said. "There are three things you are to bear specially in mind,

Mr. Bure. Firstly, you must always obey orders most implicitly,

without attempting to form any opinion of your own as to their

propriety; secondly, you must consider every man your enemy who

speaks ill of your king or your country; and thirdly, you must hate a

Frenchman as you do the----."

A spar fell on deck, and Tom didn't hear the last word.

The Agamemnon and _Yarmouth Belle_ now parted company, the crew of

the latter with a cheer that was heartily responded to.

Then the skipper turned to his mate.

"Mate," he said, "I've done first-rate. Captain Nelson's a brick. A

brick, mate, and a Briton."

"And being a brick and a Briton, let us say a Heart of Oak ----,"

said the mate.

"That's it, mate, a Heart of Oak. You have it."

CHAPTER III.

IN THE GUNROOM MESS--THE GREAT WAR GAME.

"Though careless and headstrong if danger should press,

And rank'd 'mongst the free list of rovers,

Jack melts into tears at a tale of distress,

And proves the most constant of lovers,

"To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave,

Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer;

He's gentle as mercy, as fortitude brave,

And this is a true British sailor."--DIBDIN.

The gunroom of the _Agamemnon_ was right aft and beneath the

wardroom, and a big empty barn of a room it was, with a large table

athwartships, which was made to be removed at a moment's notice.

There were ports in the place, and guns too; very little light, very

little air, and about twenty junior officers of all sorts and sizes,

from the youngest middy--quite a child--to the tall ungainly form of

the surgeon's mate. There were seats and lockers and coils of rope

and a shockingly bad odour, which seemed to be a compound of tar,

bilge water, stinking fish, and Stilton cheese.

Tom was horrified at seeing huge cockroaches inches long running

about the lockers and bulkheads, and even over the biscuits in the

trencher that stood on the table.

Mr. Merryweather had shown Tom in here without much ceremony.

"Gentlemen," he said, "here is Mr. Bure, a new messmate, son of the

late Commander Bure, R.N. Some of you will perhaps put him up to the

ropes"; and away went Merryweather.

Put him up to the ropes indeed! Why, the first thing Tom did was to

tumble over a coil of that commodity.

"Look out, awkward!" cried one middy.

"Keep your head up and you'll never die," said another.

Tom stood still for about a minute till he became accustomed to the

dim light. Then he was about to step forward and seat himself, when

the midshipman whom Mr. Merryweather had ordered to see his chest on

board stepped forward to meet him.

He lifted his cap.

"I'm Lord Raventree, Mr. Bure," he began.

"Belay your jawing tackle," shouted a mate, "I want to read. What,

d' ye think Bure cares if you were twenty lords rolled into one?"

"You hold your peace, Selby. I'm talking to a gentleman, and not to

you."

"Now, sir," he continued, turning once more to Tom, "I believe I owe

you an apology, and I make it."

"But for what, Lord Raventree?" said Tom, much puzzled.

"I insulted you with my eyes, on the poop."

"Sit down, Cockie. Hit him with a bit o' biscuit, somebody."

"Now I apologise; but if you'd rather fight I'll meet you at Tunis

with pistols."

"I've always fought with fists," said Tom boldly, "and as I'm the

challenged I've got the choice. I have heard it said this was the

rule."

"Sir, fists are not weapons. I've always fought with pistols."

"Fiddlesticks!" cried someone derisively.

Tom turned quickly to the speaker, and won all hearts by saying right

merrily:

"Well, I don't mind fiddlesticks. Will you be my second, sir?"

"With pleasure," cried young Fraser. "Fiddlesticks are good enough

for Raventree anyhow. The last time he fought a duel it was with his

feet against the usher, when he was being birched at school."

The laugh was against his lordship now.

"I won't fight with fiddlesticks. This is an innovation. A

_reductio ad absurdum_. I am sorry to say that there is an absence

of moral tone about the mess that----"

What else he would have said may never be learnt, for the surgeon's

mate entered at that moment.

He looked from one to the other of the would-be belligerents, and

seemed at once to note how the land lay.

"Cookie at it again?"

"Cockie should be cobbed," suggested someone.

"No," said the medico, "we won't cob Cockie. Desperate diseases need

desperate cures. If, my Lord Raventree, you won't round in the slack

of your cockiness, we'll make you fast to a rope and tow you astern

for a minute and a half."

"Cockie on the end of a cable! Ha! ha!"

"Cockie on the end of a lanyard!"

"Or a bit o' spunyarn! That would be strong enough to hold Cockie."

The entrance of some of the servants with the evening meal of salt

meat and biscuits put an end to the squabble. But Tom Bure had

learned a lesson even this early. He had found out that the gun-room

mess was in reality a little republic. That self-assertiveness or

cockieness would not be tolerated at any price, but that merit and

modesty would be fully appreciated if they went hand-in-hand, and,

moreover, that good-nature and a merry temper would go far to make

any member of the mess a favourite.

Lord Raventree, or Cockie, as he was often called for short,

sometimes put "side" on. Consequently he was knocked down and jumped

upon. Figuratively speaking, I mean. Knocking a man down and then

jumping on him is a good (?) old English custom which still prevails

in England. In Lancashire, and some portions of the Midland

counties, the trick is performed literally and physically by the

rougher and probably more honest classes. In polite society it is

done just as often, only figuratively and not physically, and hurts

quite as bad.

There were several men in this mess, and they ruled their juniors in

various ways. Sometimes by rule of thumb, sometimes by rule of

thump. Two or three masters' mates, well grown specimens; two

doctors' mates, one Scotch, one Irish, who were constantly engaged in

verbal battle, banter, or learned discussion, but who stuck together

like amalgamated bricks in the cockpit, and liked each other very

well on the whole; several hairy midshipmen, whom the Lords

Commissioners had forgotten to promote because they lacked landed

interest to push them into prominence, and one middy--two-and-thirty

years of age--with silver hairs among the gold of his temples,

O'Grady to name. He had crept in through the hawse-hole, but would

no doubt be a lieutenant before the war was over. A mixty-maxty kind

of a mess you will observe, not burdened with any very embarrassing

amount of etiquette, but right as well as rough. Hearts of Oak in

fact, for these were the days when true courage, manliness, muscle,

dash, and go were appreciated to their fullest extent. There was

honesty in the mess also--and it is a rare thing to find much of this

in our day--honesty and fair play, so that even a lord or a prince

had as good a chance of becoming first favourite in the gun-room, if

he behaved like a man, as the humblest laird's or parson's son.

When Tom Bure joined the service it would have been difficult to say

who was favourite, or a favourite. Perhaps honest O'Grady was as

much respected as anyone.

Hoste, afterwards Sir William, was a member of the mess, a thoughtful

and undoubtedly clever young officer. Josiah Nisbet also, a

midshipman and stepson to Nelson. This young fellow was really

brave, or "plucky," which is more of a midshipman's adjective than

"brave" is; but at this time, at all events, he was quiet and

unobtrusive. He was a modest lad, and Bure quite took to him.

Perhaps Josiah felt that, being so nearly related to his captain, he

was right in keeping himself in the background to some extent.

Tom did not quite like Hoste. The young gentleman did not say much,

it is true, but, like Paddy's parrot, it was evident that he was

thinking all the more on this account.

Well, this first night had not passed away before Tom found that he

had made several friends. O'Grady took him very much in tow, for

example; the butcher's assistant--I beg his pardon, the Scotch

surgeon's mate--drew Tom out, called him greenhorn in a friendly way,

laughed at his innocence and at nearly all he said, and finished by

ordering him off to his hammock. This he did also in a roughly,

friendly way.

"Here, Master Griff," he said, "we've had enough of you. Bear up for

your hammock. Daddy O'Grady'll put you up to the ropes."

"_Mister_ O'Grady, if ye plaze," said the quondam bo's'n, laughing.

"Let's call you Daddy," said the surgeon's mate. "You're no so vera

mickle older than mysel', but it sounds so friendly like."

"Troth, then, it's little I care, my valiant Scot, what I'm called so

long's I'm not called down to the cockpit when you've got your big

apron on."

Josiah went with Daddy O'Grady, and the surgeon's mate bade Tom good

night in a very friendly way--for _him_.

"Good-night, laddie. Say your prayers, and there's no fears o' ye.

Have ye a Bible in your kist? Weel, read a bittock ilka nicht o'

your life. Then kneel down aside your kistie (sea chest) and commend

yoursel' to Him that hauds (holds) us a' in His ban's. Man, you'll

sleep like a tap aifter that. I like't your bearing the nicht in the

mess. Keep it up, lad. Be friendly wi' all, be ower free wi' nane.

And never be cockie. A cockie younker soon gets the starch ta'en oot

of his frills in oor gunroom. Aff wi' you."

* * * * *

Nelson's ship, in which we now find our little hero, was bound for

Tunis to join Commodore Linzee, and a very pleasant trip or outing it

proved to be. Neither the word trip nor outing is a very warlike

one, I grant you, reader; but it suits this voyage to Tunis

admirably. They had fine weather all the way, and never a single

adventure worthy of the name, so had there been ladies on board it

would have been a very pretty picnic. Nelson had been sent to the

court of the barbarous Dey of Tunis, to endeavour, by means of his

sweet persuasive tongue to get his Highness, or Celestiality, or

whatever he called himself, to kick the French out of Tunis.

"A most cruel and blood-thirsty nation," said Nelson.

"Do you know," said the Dey, "I like them all the better for that?"

"Why," continued Nelson, "they have killed their lawful king!"

"Ahem!" said the Dey. "Pray tell me, Captain Nelson, if it be true

that the English never killed their king."

This settled it, and Nelson rejoined his fleet, and was shortly sent

to the coast of Corsica with a small squadron, to co-operate with

General Paoli, who was the leader of the insurgents in that island.

Now, dear reader, I know that cut-and-dry history is quite as

unpalatable to the young taste as physiology or any other

ology--_i.e._ to the average taste. Still, a little of either is at

times necessary to make sense of a story, and now-a-days especially,

everybody wants to know the reason why of everything. Verily our

private soldiers and common sailors, as they are irreverently

called--just as if any sailor could be common--fight all the better

when they know what they are fighting for.

Why, then, it may be asked, did the British want to banish the poor

nincompoops of Frenchies from Corsica? For this reason: _We_--the

British nation--found it necessary to have the command of the

Mediterranean. It gave us the command of Egypt, and Egypt is the key

to other countries that our enemies even then were throwing

sheep's-eyes upon. Toulon would have suited us nicely.

Pray cast your eagle eye, reader, on a map of the Levant and see

where Toulon lies; also Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, Alexandria, and

that nasty little--but handy--hole of a Tunis.

A great war game was just commencing; the French had mighty armies

and a great navy, as well as mighty commanders and admirals on their

side of the board, and we had----well,

"Our ships were British oak,

And hearts of oak our men."

Our first move, however, did not turn out trumps. Our first move had

been to send Lord Hood out to blockade Toulon with his squadron,

which, by the way, was none too big for anything. And just before

Tom Bure was taken on board the _Agamemnon_ from the saucy _Yarmouth

Belle_, a very wonderful thing had taken place. Briefly it was this,

France being divided against itself, the southern half wished to

become a separate republic under English protection, and so Hood had

not been long in front of Toulon with his lads in blue before, in the

name of the French king, Louis XVIII., Toulon was delivered up to

him, ships and all.

"What an event," writes Nelson to his wife, "this has been for Lord

Hood! Such an one as history cannot produce its equal, that the

strongest place in Europe, with twenty-two sail-of-the-line, should

be given up without firing a shot! It is scarcely to be credited."

Hood, who was at this time along with the Spanish fleet, landed

fifteen hundred men to man the forts; and Naples and Britain being

then for political reasons hand and glove, the king offered to send

six thousand men to Toulon to assist in holding it. Hood, however,

had demanded ten thousand. And these would have been few enough to

defend the royalists in Toulon against the number and fury of the

republicans who marched against it.

The British, however, were before very long obliged to evacuate

Toulon, and I think there is no more awful page in history than that

which describes this evacuation--the blowing up of the arsenals, the

burning of the ships of war.

Sir Sidney Smith acted on that awful night with a bravery that amidst

the fearful surroundings was like that of a demon.

"It was a rehearsal," I make one of my heroes in another book* say,

"of all the glories and all the horrors of war combined in one long

act.

* _For England, Home, and Beauty_. Same publishers.

"I must be brief," he adds, "the recollection is not one of

unmitigated pleasure.

"The thousands of galley slaves, then, got free at last. Sidney had

not the heart to think of them perishing in the flames.

"They got free, soon after the night became almost as bright as day

with the glare of fires that rose up simultaneously in all

directions, such fires as I never witnessed before, and have little

desire ever to see again. Many of the stores were of a most

combustible nature, and every now and then the explosion of a

magazine seemed to rend the heavens and the earth, increasing the

fierceness of the fires tenfold, by scattering blazing brands and

rafters in all directions, and blowing down the walls of the

buildings already in flames, thus admitting the air.

"In the midst of all this there were the constant cannonade of the

fire-ships, the guns of which being heated went off, the wild screams

of the murdering galley-slaves, and the songs and shouts of the

soldiers.

"But more of fearful and awful took place before the work was

finished, and even bold Sir Sidney was staggered at the terrific

forces he had let loose, when first one powder-ship and then another

blew up.

"The fire storm was everywhere--on earth, in air, and sea. Beams of

fiery wood and showers of sparkling, crackling timbers dropped

hissing into the water on every side.

"The sight displayed the magnificence of warfare on a scale perhaps

never before witnessed. But, alas! its horrors were there also; for

the slave-fiends had possession of the town, and were committing the

most frightful atrocities. I must not describe what I saw and heard,

but the shrieks of men and women will ring in my ears till my dying

day."

* * * * *

The next card then played by the British in this war game was

Corsica, and this proved a good one.

CHAPTER IV.

"WERE THERE REALLY TEARS IN NELSON'S EYES?"

"Hame, dearie, hame,

And it's hame that I would be;

Hame, dearie, hame,

To ma ain countrie."--OLD SONG.

We now find Nelson and Tom Bure, our big hero and our little one, on

the coast of Corsica.

Paoli, the insurgent leader, a very brave soldier by the way, desired

the assistance of the British, and it suited the British to grant his

request, for now that Toulon was taken from us, it was a matter of

great importance to have Corsica.

So Paoli ceded the island to us.

In 1824 Nelson was cruising around here, and having "great fun."

That was what O'Grady of the gun-room mess called it. His

object--Nelson's I mean, ably assisted no doubt by both O'Grady and

Tom--was to make it as hot as possible for the French.

The _Agamemnon_ was very busy indeed in that month of February, ever

on the alert, always in chase.

Tom soon settled down to the routine of the service, and being lithe

and active, was plentifully employed indeed, and often on the

outlook. Nothing delighted the lad more than to discover a sail in

sight, and be perhaps the first to report it.

Tom was one of a party who landed near San Fiorenzo, and helped to

set fire to a mill. It was the only one in the district. So the

French would have no more flour there.

Nelson destroyed a dozen sail of ships, laden with wine for the

enemy--thousands of tons of it.

"Sorra another dhrop o' dhrink will they have either," said O'Grady.

"Sure, that is worse than all."

Nelson captured a courier boat.

"Stopped the news," quoth O'Grady.

But Nelson did worse; he bombarded Bastia, "bringing the houses and

the staiples and things down about the poor craytures' ears." Thus

the old Irish middy.

Yes; and Nelson was taking notes all the while, and afterwards

furnished Lord Hood with an excellent report upon Bastia and its

defences.

He was detailed therefore to cruise with his little squadron off

Bastia, and in fact to blockade it. On February 20th he drove the

French from a work they were erecting to the south of the place.

Dundas was commander of the forces at St. Fiorenzo, between him and

Nelson a difference of opinion occurred with regard to Bastia.

Nelson, be it remembered, was a most courageous man, and his enemies

therefore said he was too rash.

One of his mottoes was reported to be, "Hang manœuvres, go at 'em."

He did "go at 'em" to some purpose, as Nile and Trafalgar afterwards

proved.

But he could not induce Dundas to go at Bastia in the way he (Nelson)

would have done.

As Sir David Dundas was a Scotsman, and Scotsmen in those days were

born with swords instead of silver spoons in their mouths--using the

swords afterwards to "mak' the siller speens," he could not have been

otherwise than a brave man, but he was also a cautious one.

"If," says Nelson in a letter to his wife, just after a brush with

the enemy, "I had carried with me five hundred troops, I should to a

certainty have stormed the town, and I believe it might have been

carried. Armies go so slow, that seamen think they never mean to go

forward, but I dare say they act upon a surer principle, though _we_

seldom fail."

"Our fine fellows," he adds, "don't mind shot any more than if they

were peas."

But the day of battle came at last, Hood having arrived with

reinforcements. And on the 4th of April our men were landed, and the

siege was commenced. Not a large army, but little over 1,200 men,

consisting of seamen, marines, and soldiers.

The island of Corsica, reader, is a very beautiful one, and it never

looked more lovely perhaps than some days before the batteries of the

British opened fire. Yonder were the ships at anchor in the blue and

tranquil sea, the white houses of the town seeming to sleep and dream

under the low but fortified hills; and the wild and lovely mountains

in the rear, greenwooded half way up, with many a glade and glen

between.

Now this siege of Bastia, be it remembered, spoke volumes for the

invincibility of the seamen and marines under Hood, and indeed it

redounds to the honour and glory of all who fought there, for the new

general, D'Aubunt, who had succeeded Dundas, was of the same opinion

as his predecessor, namely, that the siege of Bastia was "a visionary

and rash attempt"; he therefore washed his hands so completely of the

affair, that he sent neither men nor guns to aid Hood's brave

fellows, under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Villettes and our

hero Nelson.

Guns were dragged up almost inaccessible heights, and everything

being ready by the 11th of April, an officer was sent with a flag of

truce to demand the surrender of the place. The answer was as

insolent as it was bombastic.

"Tell your admiral I have hot shot for your ships and bayonets for

your troops. Probably when about two-thirds of our brave men are

killed, we shall then trust to the generosity of the British."

The firing commenced at once therefore, and on the 22nd the place

capitulated, the tricolours of France were hauled down, and British

flags hoisted in their place. This is what bold Nelson called "the

most glorious sight a Briton could experience, four thousand five

hundred men laying down their arms to one thousand British soldiers

who were serving as marines!"

At this siege Nelson was wounded in the back. Not severely, however.

The Scotch surgeon's-mate characterised the wound as "a scratch," and

the hero himself made but light of it. For, frail and ill though his

body might have appeared, he was well inured to fatigue, to mental

suffering, and to pain also.

Probably no captain was ever more loved by his officers and men than

Horatio Nelson was on board the _Agamemnon_, of which ship he was so

justly proud. The man had indeed a most bewitching manner about him,

despite the fact that he was a most strict service officer.

To the junior midshipmen he ever behaved as a father, drawing them

out when shy, encouraging them in every way in the performance of

their duties, and inculcating in them reverence for God on high,

obedience to command, and love for their king and country.

He used to have the gunroom officers to dine with him by turns, not

in large batches, but in well-chosen groups at all events. One or

two wardroom officers would also be at these dinner parties, and this

truly great man never failed to put every one on the very best of

terms, not only with himself, but with everybody else. On such

nights there was no preaching either to or at the youngsters, and

this was probably the reason why dining with the captain was

considered such a treat. There was, of course, the more carnal

reason also--"a good blow out." Well, young fellows are, young

fellows, and "a good blow out" is a treat to growing youth.

I am pleased to say that Lord Raventree and Tom Bure soon became very

good friends. Both had been at the siege, and neither had shown the

white feather, even when shot tore up the ground near them,

scattering stones and splinters all around, and wounding seamen or

soldiers. They did not show the white feather, but more than once

during those eleven days they felt its touch. It was one evening,

when the firing was at its very hottest, that Tom, being stationed

not far from young Raventree, looked about and smiled in a friendly,

companionable kind of way.

"Are you afraid, Raventree?" said Tom.

"_Entre nous_, Yes," said his lordship. "How do you feel?"

"Much as you do," answered Tom. "It is a funny sort of fear though.

I'm afraid I'm a coward at heart, and that everybody will soon find

me out; then I'll be shot, I suppose, and serve me right too."

Both Merryweather and O'Grady were at the siege, and perhaps, though

they certainly felt no fear, they were not altogether easy in mind.

"Och! bother, Mr. Merryweather," Tom heard O'Grady say, "this is no

fighting at all. I'm itching all over to have my cutlass in my two

hands, and a Frenchman or two forenenst me."

"I'm not itching," said Merryweather, laughing, "only Irishmen and

Scotchmen itch, but I'm burning to get to close quarters."

"Ah! Mr. Merryweather, you will have your joke; but, you see, this

battery business is a foine thing for sodjers--look out, there's a

shot coming--for sodjers or sailors?"

Another shot filled O'Grady's mouth with grit. He spat gravel and

blood for half an hour, and didn't say much more. But none knew

better than this old midshipman how to train a gun, and he did his

best to repay the French for nearly knocking his front teeth out.

Both Raventree and Tom had a chance of fighting side by side some

months afterwards, at the siege of Calvi; and perhaps, during the

whole course of this sad and eventful war, no operations were more

trying to the health and strength of our brave sailors, and the

troops who fought shoulder to shoulder with them in the batteries,

than those at Calvi.

During this long and trying siege, Nelson had as his colleague the

gallant Sir Charles Stuart, a man quite after his own heart; a man

who was never more happy than when in action, and the hotter the

better; a man too who, like Horatio, never spared himself, and who

slept in the advanced battery every night.

The guns too--five-and-twenty pieces of heavy ordnance--had to be

dragged to the different batteries, mounted and all, but fought by

seaman, with the exception of an artilleryman to point the guns.

Was it any wonder that the men fell ill under such hardships, exposed

to the burning sun, and in a climate which, during the autumn months,

was far from healthy? Of two thousand men, more than half were sick,

we are told, and the rest looked like so many phantoms or scarecrows.

Yet Nelson describes himself as like a reed among oak trees bending

before the storm, while his men--his Hearts of Oak--were laid low by

it. "All the prevailing disorders have attacked me," he wrote, "but

I have not strength enough for them to fasten upon."

Nelson, it seems, had lived to find out a fact well known to medical

men, that thin, nervous people will often recover from illnesses that

prostrate and kill strong, full-blooded men in a few days.

This puts me in mind of a remark once made to Horatio Nelson by his

Scotch surgeon's mate. The captain was attacked by acute pain in the

side during the night, and the honest medico thought it as well to

administer a good dose of a medicine which in another form is used in

the Highlands as a panacea for every ill--namely, spirits.

"I'd drink the rum," said Nelson, "but I fear I am attacked by

inflammation, and the rum may increase it."

"Tak' up your dram," said the Scot. "Inflammation? Man, _there's no

enough blood in a' your body to mak' a decent inflammation!_"

Nelson drank his rum, sighed, and slept.

At this siege, although so many died of illness, the loss caused by

shot and shell was comparatively slight.

But a very sad loss indeed befel Nelson. A shell bursting near the

battery bespattered him with sand and gravel. An officer and several

men with Nelson had thrown themselves on their faces when the shell

was approaching; the latter arose bleeding freely from the mouth and

nostrils. He only complained, however, of pain in his right eye.

And so determined was he to continue his duty, that he could not be

prevailed upon to lie in bed more than one day.

The sight, however, was destroyed, though not at once.

Now, it will hardly be easily credited, that notwithstanding Nelson's

valour and energy at both the sieges of which I have given a brief

description, his services were scarcely mentioned in the reports sent

to the Admiralty at home.

No wonder that a man of his proud and sensitive nature felt himself

sadly aggrieved to be thus neglected. "For one hundred and ten

days," he wrote, "have I been actually engaged at sea and on shore

against the enemy; three actions have I fought against ships; two

against Bastia in my ship; four boat actions; two villages taken; and

twelve sail of vessels burnt. I do not know that anyone has done

more. I have had the comfort to be always applauded by my

commander-in-chief, but never to be rewarded. And what is still more

mortifying, for services in which I have been wounded others have

been praised, who at the time of these actions were far away, and

snug in bed. They have not done me justice."

"But never mind," he adds, "one of these times I shall have a whole

Gazette to myself."

It must have been thoughts like these, combined with weakness of

body, not to say positive illness, that caused the hero at this time

of his career to dream of home. Ay, not to dream of it only, but to

long for the refreshing solace of a humble cottage in the country.

In Norfolk, no doubt.

Nelson, I have already said, was not in the habit of preaching to his

junior middies, or at them either, when he invited them to dinner

(although in my own time I have known captains do this, and quite

take the wind out of the poor lads' sails). But, nevertheless, many

a time and oft, by night especially, he would get hold of some one or

other of his boys on the quarterdeck, and walking along by his side,

perhaps holding him by the arm just above the elbow, would give him

many a bit of sound advice, and many a kindly word of encouragement.

One night, shortly after the siege of Calvi, although still suffering

with his eye, he put his hand kindly on Tom's shoulder, and began to

talk to him and to draw him out.

It was a bright, beautiful moonlight night, the great clouds of

canvas bellying out before the breeze, and the waves to the south'ard

all a-sparkle, as if the fairies were raining showers of flashing

diamonds on them.

He had often given Tom good advice, but all he said to-night was that

he was pleased with his conduct, and would do all he could to advance

him.

"You're a Norfolk lad, aren't you?" he said.

"No, sir; that is--yes. My father was, you know, sir."

"Your father was a brave sailor, Tom Bure; but I am glad you too have

come to our service. Soldiers are not fit to hold the candle to

sailors."

"No, sir."

"They're too slow. Too much manœuvring. Not enough dash and go.

Well, lad, I still have your letter. That was what got you into the

service. Our Merryweather mentioned you to Admiral Hood though, but

he--excellent fellow--is troubled with a bad memory at times."

Then he laughed as he added, "You're a capital diplomatist though.

What an excellent idea, to go to my dear father's house to write your

letter."

"Oh, sir!" cried Tom, looking up in the captain's face, "I assure you

I did not go there for the purpose of writing that letter. I wanted

so much to see you, and I didn't know you had gone."

"I believe you, boy; I believe you. The letter was a forlorn hope

then?"

"Yes, sir; all the world seemed so forgetful and cold to me then----"

"Just as I feel it now, Tom; so cold! so forgetful!"

"And," continued Tom, "you had spoken to me so kindly once in the

garden, that day when you were planting cabbages, you know."

"Yes, lad, the day I was planting cabbages. Egad, Tom, I wish I were

planting cabbages now."

"They wouldn't grow on board ship very well, sir, and you can't go on

shore."

"Why?"

"Because your country has such need of you, sir."

Nelson looked at him for a moment in silence, then sighed.

"Well, sir, I wrote the letter because I felt I would rather be a

cabin boy in your ship than an officer in any other."

"Silly lad! But tell me, Tom, all about Dan, Daddy Dan you called

him, Merryweather says. Daddy Dan's cottage and your adopted sister

Ruth. Pretty cottage, isn't it?"

Then Tom felt in his element, and launched at once into an ocean of

praise of his cottage home, and Dan and Ruth and poor dead-and-gone

Bob. Nelson seemed to listen hungrily to the lad's story of home, of

the house itself, of the garden, with its wealth of old-fashioned

flowers; of the porch around the cottage door, with its sweet and

fragrant jessamine; of the rustic bridge across the stream; of

loving, gentle, Meg, the collie, who used to rest her cheek so fondly

against poor Bob's chest; of the tall, tall poplar trees, so tall

that when not a breath of wind would be stirring the grass on the

earth, their tops were always gently moving, and seemed always

whispering something to the passing clouds; and about the calm dark

waters of the placid broads, with green reeds softly rustling round

them; of the wild birds that made their home among the reeds; and

about wild flowers, rich and rare, that were scattered over marsh and

morass.

Tom stopped at last, half afraid he had said too much.

"Oh, boy," said Nelson, "how you have pleased and delighted me! How

I should like to have just such a happy home. 'Tis now the dream of

my life."

Tom looked timidly up into his face.

Could he be mistaken? he wondered. Was it some trick the moonbeams

were playing? or were there really tears in Nelson's eyes?

CHAPTER V.

THE GLORIOUS OLD "AGAMEMNON."

"Our barque is on the waters deep, our bright blades in our hand,

Our birthright is the ocean vast, we scorn the girdled land;

And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none can bolder be

Then the hoarse-tongued tempest, roaring o'er a proud and swelling sea.

"The warrior of the land may mount the wild horse in his pride,

But a fiercer steed we dauntless breast--the untamed ocean tide;

And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it stems the saucy wave,

While the herald storm peals o'er the deep the glories of the brave."

--MOTHERWELL.

It must not be thought that Tom Bure's life was a very easy one, even

when on board ship, and far away from battle and siege. A sailor's

life in those good old days was not confined to roasting peanuts, or

eating winkles with a pin. It was "hard tack and salt horse" with

Tom in the gunroom, and hard work on deck. Nelson believed in

bringing up his midshipmen as men, thorough men, who could do duty

before the mast below or aloft.

There wasn't a midshipman in the _Agamemnon_ that would be ashamed to

dip his hand in a bucket of tar or slush, if there was any occasion

to, or do any other duty whatsoever either on poop or fo'c's'le.

Work kept the youngsters healthy, and when healthy they were as happy

as the day was long. Nor was their education neglected. In a year

at the most from the siege of Calvi, Tom Bure, Josiah Nisbet, and

even Lord Raventree were going to pass their examination for

lieutenancies, or at all events they were going to make a brave

attempt to do so.

The examinations in those times were far more practicable and less

theoretical, and of course less scientific, than they are in our day.

The _Agamemnon_ was not lighted by electricity; the power of steam

was unknown; there was no such thing as moving guns by machinery, nor

any patent reefing tackle. But a lieutenant at his examination was

placed with his ship in all sorts of hypothetical positions of danger

and difficulty, and expected to be able to extricate her therefrom.

On that green cloth in front of the President of the Board and the

examining officers, all kinds of storms and hurricanes raged, and all

sorts of battles were fought. The ship was taken aback, she was

thrown on her beam ends, boats were washed away, bulwarks were rent

and torn, and sails riven into roaring, rattling ribbons, and the

officer who aspired to be captain must know, and be able to tell

quickly and decidedly, how best to encounter every difficulty.

Enemies' ships appeared too on the horizon of the green cloth, and

the candidate's frigate had to meet them, two to one sometimes. He

had to fight them or chase them, batter them, burn them, or scupper

them; his own ship too might take fire, or his own rudder be blown

away with shot or shell, or he might have to lay alongside the foe to

board her with cutlass and pike. Oh, I can assure you, reader, the

examination was a right tough and right practicable one, and it

needed a Heart of Oak to face it; but having passed with flying

colours, you felt indeed you were a man, and could face the

traditional number of Frenchmen in the field of battle, according to

your nationality--three if you were English, five if Scotch.

Besides, to one who really loved his profession there was probably

less difficulty in a practical examination of this sort than in the

technical ordeal one has to pass now-a-days. And now-a-days you can

cram, and having passed, forget one half the useless and senseless

subjects you have been crammed with.

There was no cramming in Nelson's time. The examinations were

terribly real, just as the Spanish and French fleets were real; every

question the Board put went straight to the mark, like a British

cannon ball.

* * * * * *

Ever hear of Hotham? Admiral Hotham? Well, he certainly does not

live in our hearts as do Hood and Howe and Hardy, Collingwood and

Nelson. But, nevertheless, Hotham was a bit of a power in those

days. He had command of the fleet about this time, but he was rather

easy going, though brave enough after a fashion. He lacked "go" and

enthusiasm. Sir W. Hamilton, who was the British plenipotentiary at

the Court of Naples--his wife, the famous Lady Hamilton, Nelson's

guiding star--summed up the character of Hotham prettily, and in a

very brief sentence. "_Entre nous_," he writes to Nelson, "our old

friend Hotham is not quite awake enough for such a command as that of

the British fleet in the Mediterranean, although he is the best

creature imaginable."

Best creature indeed! Who wanted best creatures in stirring times

like these? Men who were good-natured and fat perhaps, who loved a

pipe and old port, who could tell a good story after dinner, and go

to sleep in an arm chair. Verily, there were men in the service in

those days--pitchforked into power because they happened to be titled

or had interest--who could not have made their mark behind a draper's

counter.

Comparisons are odious perhaps, but we cannot help making them

sometimes. Just think of these two men then for a moment, Nelson and

Hotham, the latter all but minus ambition, certainly minus that

burning ambition which is part and portion of the soul of every true

hero--taking things as they came.

"Contented wi' little, canty wi' mair,"

but hardly going out of his way to fight for fame and glory; the

former full of ardour and zeal, and a noble desire to do the best for

his king and country. When Hotham got word, on March 10th, '95, that

the French were actually on the sea in force, near the Isle of

Marguerite, Nelson felt sure that a grand general action was close at

hand, and writes to his wife thus:

"My character and good name are in my own keeping. Life with

disgrace is dreadful. A glorious death is to be envied; and if

anything happens to me, recollect that death is a debt we have all to

pay, and whether now or a few years hence can signify but very

little."

True philosophy that; but if poor Nelson expected that our old friend

Hotham, "the best creature imaginable," was about to lead him on

either to death or very much victory, he was disagreeably

disappointed. The French fleet, however, were sighted at last, and

the British were in battle array, but the light winds that had been

cavorting all round the compass died away into a dead calm, or nearly.

I must give the French the honour that is here due to them by saying

that during the calm they made a very gallant show indeed, but as

soon as it came on to blow they--ran away.

Hotham chased them.

Bravo! Hotham.

The French cracked on most furiously and famously!

Determined to win the race, if not the battle!

So hot was the race that the great line of battleship, _Ca Ira_, 84

guns, carried away her fore and main topmasts, and fell behind a bit.

The French had had a fair start of about six miles.

A frigate of ours, the _Inconstant_, closed in, but the awful iron

hail from the _Ca Ira_ was too much for her, and she had to withdraw.

Though two other great Frenchmen are close at hand--the _Sans

Culotte_, 120 guns, and the _Jean Barras_--Nelson, in his

_Agamemnon_, boldly heads for the _Ca Ira_, that had been taken in

tow by _Le Censeur_.

This fight between Nelson's ship on the one hand, and the two

Frenchmen on the other, was one of the prettiest and pluckiest bits

of fighting it is possible to imagine. Again and again Nelson raked,

the _Ca Ira_ and he so maneuvered his frigate that, though the French

fought like fiends and did their best, they were unable to broadside

our hero.

Books tell us that the reason why the Frenchmen fought so pluckily

was that they believed they should receive no quarter if taken, so

they used red-hot shot, and threw Greek fire.

Now, with all due respect for the historians, I refuse to believe

that the French had so bad an opinion of us. No, let us rather give

them the credit of being honourable and courageous. Why not be

charitable, even to our enemies? for, like mercy, charity

"----is twice blessed,

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown."

Night fell at last, and our fight-worn men on board the _Agamemnon_

sank wearily down to obtain sleep and rest, even like the soldiers

Campbell speaks about in his beautiful poem, "The Soldier's Dream"--

"Our bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die."

There were, alas! many casualties on board the _Agamemnon_, and many

wounded men in the cockpit fell asleep ere morning light, never to

wake more in this world.

Both the surgeon and his mates were as kind and gentle to those under

their charge as kind could be.

Poor little Raventree was struck down by a splinter of wood close by

Tom Bure's side, and was carried below from the blood-slippery deck

in the arms of a sturdy sailor.

It was not until after dark that Tom found time to go to see his

friend. He was very weak from loss of blood, and looked ghastly

white in the lantern's dim light, as he lay there in his hammock, but

he smiled feebly when Tom pressed his hand.

"I've done my duty," he said; "and what do you think, Tom? The

admiral has been down to see me, and he talked so kindly, Tom, I

could have cried."

"Well," said Tom Bure, "keep up your heart, you lost such a lot of

blood. I tried to carry you below, but you were far too heavy."

"But you bound up my arm with your own neckerchief, Paddy"--Paddy was

the Irish surgeon--"it was so good of you."

"Never a bit of it, Raventree. It may be my turn next, who knows?"

"The captain says he is going to renew the fight to-morrow morning;

so sorry I won't be in it," sighed Raventree.

"Well, good-night. Sleep if the pain will let you."

At earliest dawn the battle was renewed as far as Nelson's portion of

it was concerned, and very soon the _Ca Ira_ and _Le Censeur_ struck

to the _Agamemnon_.

Nelson had now a proposal to make to Admiral Hotham, and he made all

haste to lay it before him.

Tom Bure was Nelson's coxswain, so he had an opportunity of getting

on board the admiral's ship, and even heard the conversation between

his chief and Hotham.

The _Illustrious_ and _Courageux_ were both disabled--British

ships--and Nelson's suggestion was to leave these two and the two

prizes with four frigates, and to chase and destroy the French fleet

with the others.

Hotham laughed blandly, kindly even.

"You're too impulsive, Nelson," he said. "I don't think we had

better give chase. We must be contented. We have done very well."

Nelson returned to the ship silent and crestfallen. He made but one

remark to Tom:

"You heard what our bold admiral said, Mr. Bure?"

"I was close beside you, sir."

"'Done very well,' he said. Bah! Had we taken ten sail-of-the-line,

and allowed the eleventh to escape, when it was possible to take her,

I should not have called it enough. Had we got at them we should

have taken or destroyed the whole fleet."

It was not until the 14th of July that Hotham again caught sight of

the French.

Raventree was by this time well and on duty again, and Nelson had

promoted him to mate, or acting lieutenant. And undoubtedly the

young fellow deserved his promotion, which was afterwards confirmed

by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.

There was no great battle this time either, between the French and

British, although one ship, the _L'Alcide_, 74 guns, struck to the

_Cumberland_.

A terrible thing now occurred, however. This unfortunate _L'Alcide_,

on board which were no less than six hundred men, caught fire in the

fore-top, and in a very short time was sheeted in flames fore and aft.

Boats were despatched from every British ship that was anywhere near,

and they did all in their power to save the crew. But, alas! in the

dreadful scene that followed no less than three hundred were burned

alive, or perished in the waves.

Such is war at sea, dear reader. It was very awful in those days, it

will be ten times more terrible when Britain's naval might next rides

over the waves--

"----to match another foe;

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow."

But what need Britain fear, boys, so long as she is true to her own

glorious story?

"The meteor flag of Britain

Shall yet terrific burn,

Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return."

But--

"The spirits of our fathers

Shall start from every wave,

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And ocean was their grave.

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Our manly hearts shall glow,

As we sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow."

To tell of all the gallant deeds that Nelson performed in the

invincible _Agamemnon_, with the bold Hearts of Oak that so

thoroughly trusted him and loved him, would take all the rest of this

book.

In this year, and towards its close, Hotham was relieved--after all

his arduous conflicts perhaps he needed a rest--and a mightier than

he, namely, Sir John Jervis,* became admiral of the Mediterranean

fleet, and Nelson took his ship to Leghorn to undergo repairs.

* Afterwards made Earl of St. Vincent.

She certainly required refitting. She was an honour to her captain

in one sense, for her terribly battered condition showed how bravely

and well he had fought. We are told that every yard, mast, and sail

was riddled, torn, or splintered with shot, and that even her hull

was only kept together by cables!

In that glorious old _Agamemnon_ Nelson had captured, burned, or

destroyed, in one way and another, no less than fifty sail of vessels

in about two years' time.

But he had to leave his battered old ship in June--with sorrow, no

doubt, for he loved the _Agamemnon_ as if she had been a living

thing. He hoisted his flag now on board the 74-gun ship _Captain_,

with the rank of commodore.

And the _Agamemnon_ went home to England with a convoy.

CHAPTER VI.

A DUEL TO THE DEATH.

"The stern joy that warriors feel

In foemen worthy of their steel."--SCOTT.

This story of mine, lads, is not altogether fiction. Indeed there is

very little fiction about it, and none at all in those portions that

speak of the brave deeds of our Hearts of Oak in those dashing days

of old.

But I should not be true historian were I to lead any of my readers

to infer that we invariably had it all our own way on the wave. War

would be the merest picnic, destitute of the slightest honour or

glory, if there were no terrible obstacles to encounter and to crush.

The navy certainly was never beaten on the whole or in fleets; but in

single ship actions we sometimes had the worst of it.

Nelson knew how to fight, and he knew also that it was discreet to

sheer off rather than be captured by vastly superior numbers. In the

_Agamemnon_, for instance, he had once been chased for twenty-four

hours by a fleet of three-and-twenty French ships. The odds here

were a trifle too great for even Nelson's powers, and had I been in

command of the _Agamemnon_ I'm not sure I wouldn't have ran away just

as she did. Fact!

The French greatly respected Nelson. They wanted to catch him all

the same. His opinion, however, of the French was not a very exalted

one. During that chase he told Merryweather on the poop that the

enemy were neither seamen nor officers, else they could have caught

him easy. He appeared grieved about it.

"Really, sir," said Mr. Merryweather, smiling, "you seem to be vexed

that they haven't caught us."

"Well, not quite that," said the commodore; "but I can't bear to see

even Frenchmen making fools of themselves."

"It's an inshore wind you see, Merryweather," he added, "else we 'ed

soon have our own fleet out to assist us, and, small in comparison

though it is, you'd soon see those Frenchmen working to windward

then."

* * * * *

I have already told the reader about the capture of Corsica. It did

not prove of much service to us in the long run, however; for now a

new page of history is turned over, and we find France in league with

Spain against us, so it is deemed expedient to evacuate Corsica.

The Spanish were probably our friends at heart, but that signified

very little. They were now going to assist in destroying our ships.

Spain had at this time a splendid navy, as far as ships were

concerned; but their officers were certainly not much to boast about.

Indeed, they needed no one to boast about them, they could do this

themselves; but their courage after all was of the Bombastes Furioso

type.

"Whoever dares these boots displace

Must meet Bombastes face to face."

The Corsicans somehow were not ill-pleased to be rid of the British,

and the French were overjoyed at the coming evacuation. Nelson

superintended it with all his skill as a sailor, and all his

adroitness as an undoubtedly clever man.

Of course the French tried to throw as many obstacles in his way as

they could think of. The property of the British was confiscated,

and there was even a conspiracy on foot to seize the viceroy.

Nelson showed his usual energy on this occasion. He despatched

Commander Merryweather with a message into Bastia, to the effect that

if there was the slightest opposition made to the embarkation of

persons and property, he (Nelson) would batter down the town about

the committee's ears.

The committee were Frenchmen who had formed a government, and thought

they could do just what they pleased, and do it in their own way.

They had not only sequestrated British property, but stationed armed

Corsicans everywhere to guard it, while a privateer was moored near

the mole to prevent the exit of our merchant craft. When

Merryweather drew near, he found not only the guns of the privateer

pointed at his boats, but muskets levelled at him from the mole head.

Merryweather, however, had looked down the muzzles of French guns

once or twice too often to be easily frightened, so he delivered his

message, instead of sheering off as the committee had fully expected

he would.

"And now," said Merryweather, pulling out his watch, "I have

delivered my message, and I give you precisely a quarter of an hour

to deliberate. If I do not have your answer by that time, Nelson's

guns shall open fire."

The answer came in five minutes, and a very practical one it was.

The very sentinels had fled at the threat of Nelson's fire, and the

vessels were permitted at once to leave the mole.

The embarkation occupied the greater part of a week, and, independent

of private property, the public stores thus snatched from the harpy

claws of the French were worth to our country about a quarter of a

million of money.

* * * * *

"Well, boys," said Nelson one evening to Raventree and Tom Bure, who

were standing by the bulwarks in the ship's waist, "you have a better

chance of prize-money now than ever."

"Indeed, sir," said Lord Raventree.

"Yes; we have Spain to fight, as well as France."

"Well, sir," said Raventree, "I suppose there is also a better chance

of honour and glory; for I don't care so much for the gold."

"And you, Mr. Bure?"

"Oh," said Tom, laughing, "I should like a share of both."

"Candidly spoken, lads, and I can assure you that it won't be my

fault if you don't have both. I'm going to make the sea uncommonly

hot for somebody."

It was on the frigate _Minerve_ that this conversation took place,

and on which Nelson's broad pennant was now hoisted.

He was proceeding, in company with the _Blanche_, to Porto Ferrajo,

his object being to assume the command of the fleet there, after

which "the fun was to begin."

But adventures commenced before this, one at least; for on the 29th

of December our hero Tom, who happened to be on the outlook, hailed

the quarterdeck, or rather poop.

Merryweather, who had joined Nelson's ship, and was then on deck,

knew that Tom had good news to impart from the very tone of his voice.

"A sail in sight, Mr. Bure?" he said.

"Yes, sir; a large Spanish frigate. I can easily make out her

colours."

This was just off Carthagena, and at once the ship was cleared for

action. In less than three minutes every man was at his quarters.

A more bravely contested fight than this we have no account of in all

the war.

I have said already, that though the Spanish ships were good, they

were badly officered. In the case of the _Santa Sabina_, however, it

was quite the reverse.

You must remember, reader, that after the union of Scotland and

England, in which our king, James VI., fell heir to the English

throne, there was no such outlet as before for the untameable courage

of our great Highland families. The scions of these houses despised

trade--they were warlike to a degree--therefore they took service

freely with their ancient allies the French, and indeed drew sword

for any good nation, when in a good cause they could win honour and

glory.

And this _Santa Sabina_, that scorned to fly, but boldly faced and

haughtily addressed the hero Nelson himself, was commanded by Don

Jacobo Stuart, or, in plain English, Captain Jamie Stuart. He was a

direct descendant of the Duke of Berwick, son of James II. Probably

there were several other Scottish officers in that ship as well, for

our clans keep well together. History, however, does not say.

Now let Nelson himself, in his terse seaman language, speak of what

followed.

"When I hailed the Don," he says, "I told him, this is an English

frigate, and demanded his surrender. His answer was noble, and such

as became the illustrious family from which he descended--'And this

is a _Spanish_ frigate, and you may begin as soon as you please.'"

"I have no idea," continues Nelson, "of a closer or sharper battle.

The force to a gun the same, and nearly the same number of men, we

having 250. During the action I asked him several times to

surrender; but his answer was, 'No, sir, not while I have the means

of fighting left.'

"When only himself, of all the officers, was left alive he hailed,

and said he would fight no more, and begged I would stop firing."

The brave Stuart was then taken prisoner on board the _Minerve_, and

a prize crew, under the command of two lieutenants, one of whom was

Lieutenant Hardy an officer of whom Nelson was very fond, and who

comes into our story again later on. The Irish doctor was also sent

to the assistance of the Spanish. Great indeed was the havoc he

found there, the vessel was badly hurt, and dead and wounded lay

around in dozens, the decks resembling a shambles.

Nor had the _Minerve_ escaped severe damage; so badly crippled was

she, and so many dead and wounded lay on her decks, or hampered the

cockpit, that when next day four other Spanish ships of war hove in

sight, Nelson was unable to give the veriest show of fight, and it

was only through his energy and skill as a seaman that he escaped.

These vessels were two frigates and two line of battle ships, so

that, even had he been in the best of form, discretion would have

dictated to the hero that flight was advisable.

Nelson speaks of Stuart in the highest terms of praise that one good

and brave sailor can use towards another.

The _Sabina_, however, had to be abandoned. In other words, she was

re-taken.

And Nelson returned Don Jacobo Stuart his sword, and sent him under a

flag of truce to Spain.

"I felt it," he says, "consonant to the dignity of my country to do

so, and I always act as I feel right without regard to custom.

Stuart," he adds, "was reputed to be the best officer in Spain, and

his men were well worthy to possess such a commander. He was the

only surviving officer of the ship he fought so nobly."

So ended this awful duel to the death.

CHAPTER VII.

THE BATTLE OF ST. VINCENT.

"The thunder of the battle-deck,

The lightning flash of war."

In my last chapter I stated that Nelson, with his broad pennant

flying on board the _Minerve_, met with and fought the _Santa

Sabina_. I also mentioned that the _Blanche_ was companion ship to

the _Minerve_. Where was she then during the fight? it may be asked.

Did Nelson have her assistance in fighting the gallant Stuart? Was

it two to one after all?

No, certainly not, for during the engagement the _Blanche_ was far

away to windward in chase of the _Ceres_, whom she sadly wanted to

fight, but who escaped.

Porto Ferrajo was a strong fortress on the Isle of Elba, to which,

you remember, Napoleon Bonaparte was banished, but from which he

subsequently escaped.

After the evacuation of Corsica, the viceroy of that island, whom the

French would have captured had it not been for Nelson's guns, was

escorted by the hero to Ferrajo; but Sir Gilbert Elliot--for that was

his name--went afterwards in the _Minerve_ with Nelson to hold a

consultation with the British Admiral of the fleet (then Sir John

Jervis, afterwards Earl St. Vincent), who was at that time cruising

off Cape St. Vincent.

On the 9th of February, '97, Nelson arrived at Gibraltar, and here he

received on board by exchange the two lieutenants, Culverhouse and

the immortal Hardy, who had been taken prisoners with the recapture

of the _Sabina_.

And now comes an adventure worth relating. Hardly had the _Minerve_

got fairly under weigh again than two Spanish ships of the line got

up sail and gave chase.

It seemed indeed that the _Minerve_ would assuredly be captured now,

for no sooner had she entered the Straits, than the foremost line of

battleship outsailed her consort, and was coming up hand over hand

after Nelson's frigate.

Sir Gilbert Elliot made so sure that the _Minerve_ would be taken,

that he had his state papers all ready to throw overboard, so that

they might not fall into the hands of the enemy.

Nelson, however, cleared for action.

It would have been madness for him to have attempted to try

conclusions with two lordly liners, but as the fight was now being

forced upon him, he determined to sell his ship dearly.

Indeed, he never meant to let the Dons get her at all.

Pointing to his flag, he said to an officer near him, "Before the

Spaniards have that bit of bunting I'll have a tussle with them, and

sooner than the ship should fall into their hands I'll run her on

shore."

They were just going below to dinner, when suddenly there was a cry,

"Man overboard."

In a moment all was bustle and stir. Lieutenant Hardy and a few

sailors sprang into the jolly-boat, which was at once lowered away to

pick up the man.

It was soon evident, however, that the boat could make no headway on

her return against the strong current. She was rapidly drifting

onwards to the advancing Spanish ship.

Nelson grew excited.

"I will not lose poor Hardy for all the Dons on earth," he shouted.

"Back the mizentop-sail!"

Now it is here where the smile comes in.

That "cockie" Don was full of warlike ardour as long as the _Minerve_

kept cracking on, but as soon as Nelson stopped ship, the rapidity

with which the Don began to shorten sail was amusing.

He positively refused what he considered Nelson's challenge.

So our boat was picked up, stun'sails were clapped on the _Minerve_,

and with the wind on her quarter, away she went like a thing of life,

and the Dons were left behind.

* * * * * *

The following night a still more strange adventure took place, for in

the thickness and darkness Nelson found himself sailing through what

appeared to be a great fleet of tall spectre ships.