This made him very anxious indeed to join Sir John Jervis, which, to
his great joy, he did two days after.
He now left the _Minerve_, and rejoined his own good ship the
_Captain_.
THE BATTLE OF ST. VINCENT.
Such was the respect and even affection that Nelson never failed to
inspire in the breasts not only of his officers, but even the men
under his command, that those who had once served under him thought
themselves lucky indeed if they could again fight beneath his flag.
Nor was Nelson himself averse to being surrounded by "ken't" faces;
he was like a father to his people, and they to him felt as children.
It is confidence like this that begets bravery and deeds of
derring-do, whether in the field or on the battle-deck, and I have no
hesitation in saying, that a 40-gun frigate with bold Nelson in
command, was as good as, if not better than, most ships of the line.
I think, however, that Nelson to some extent abhorred a cut-and-dry
style of fighting. Like all brave men, he was nervously excitable;
he became in a measure intoxicated with the sound of battle, like the
war horse who scents the combat from afar, but he never lost his
head. He was quick to see any offered advantage or mistake of the
enemy, and to profit by it at once. His object too was often, at the
commencement of a fight, to confuse, bewilder, and paralyse the
enemy, and sometimes they never regained self-control until the
battle was over.
You have heard, reader, of that style of argument, or rather counter
argument, which is called the _reductio ad absurdum_, and also of the
"descent from the sublime to the ridiculous." Pardon me if I use one
of these, the better to illustrate my great hero Nelson's character.
When, then, I was a boy of thirteen or fourteen, a wiry, big, strong
Scotch "nickum," I was at what is called a fighting school. I do not
believe that a day ever passed without a fight between two boys.
They were pitched battles; generally arranged during school hours and
fought to the bitter end the same evening. I myself, although a poor
hand at first, eventually fought my way from the lowest to the
highest factions. I somehow, however, usually preferred fighting a
boy who was bigger and stronger than myself; art came in to my aid,
and if I did happen to be beaten I had no dishonour. Hut there was
one lad who, though of my own age, was considerably smaller. He was
a red-faced, towsy-headed, nervous tyke of a boy, and--he was more
than a match for me. I had several battles with him, in which he
invariably came on like a wild cat. With hard-clenched fists he
seemed positively to claw at my face, and for one swinging blow from
the shoulder I got in, he landed half a dozen at least. It was
puzzling, confusing, and paralysing, and I had to lower my flag each
time, with perhaps two pretty black eyes, a swollen nose, and a few
loose teeth.
Now, that boy--his name was John Aberdeen, and he may possibly read
these lines--was a perfect little Nelson in character. You will see,
therefore, why I have made my descent from the sublime to the
ridiculous.
The morning of the 14th of February was dull and hazy, the British
ships steering southwards with a bit of westering in it.
Although by no means rough, there was a swell on, and it must have
been a grand sight to see those two lines of British men-of-war, as
straight in column almost as soldiers on parade, rising and falling
on the ocean billows.
But when, at about one bell in the forenoon watch, the drum beat to
quarters, a still more lordly sight was visible some distance up to
windward, for the mist had lifted before the morning sun, and there
floated one of the largest and most terrible fleets ever formed in
battle array. Truly they were leviathans afloat. Their tall dark
sides bristling with guns, their lofty riggings and commanding sails
imparting to them a dignity that was awe-inspiring, a dignity from
which the huge flags of orange and red certainly did not detract.
Not all at once, however, was the picture presented to the astonished
gaze of our British tars, for the huge fog-curtain was lifted but
gradually.
Sir John Jervis was walking the quarter-deck of the _Victory_ as
coolly as if the men had only been piped to scrub decks, and as the
Spanish fleet was gradually evolved its numbers were reported to him.
Did the officer who made the report, I wonder, imagine for a single
moment that the admiral was going to be deterred by numbers?
"There are eight sail of the line, Sir John."
"Thank you, Mr. T----."
"There are twenty sail of the line, Sir John."
"Very good, sir."
"There are seven-and-twenty sail of the line, Sir John. Considering
the disparity of numbers, do you think we are justified in engaging
the Dons?"
"Hold, sir!" cried the bold admiral. "Enough of this. The die is
cast, and if there are fifty sail of the line, I should go through
them just the same."
"Hurrah!" cried Hallowell, who was standing near him; so delighted
was he that he clapped the admiral on the shoulder. "You're right,
Sir John, you're right. We'll fight them, and we'll give the Dons a
hiding too."
It is said that confusion seemed to spread among the Spaniards from
the very first. Parsons says: "They made the most awkward attempts
to form their line-of-battle, and looked a complete forest massed and
huddled together."
Now, before going further, I wish the reader to cast his eye down the
following columns, which I give by way of showing the disparity in
numbers and guns between our fleet and that of Spain.*
* I have placed Nelson's ship in Italics, also those that were taken.
BRITISH FLEET. SPANISH FLEET.
SHIPS. GUNS. SHIPS. GUNS.
1 Victory 100 1 Santissima Trinidada 130
2 Britannia 100 2 Mexicana 112
3 Barfleur 98 3 Principe de Asturias 112
4 Prince George 98 4 Conception 112
5 Blenheim 90 5 Conde de Regla 112
6 Namur 90 6 _Salvador del Mundo_ 112
7 _Captain_ 74 7 _San Josef_ 112
8 Goliath 74 8 _San Nicolas_ 84
9 Excellent 74 9 Oriente 74
10 Orion 74 10 Glorioso 74
11 Colossus 74 11 Atlante 74
12 Egmont 74 12 Conquestador 74
13 Culloden 74 13 Soberano 74
14 Irresistible 74 14 Firme 74
15 Diadem 64 15 Pelago 74
16 San Genaro 74
17 San Francisco 74
18 _San Ysidro_ 74
19 San Juan 74
20 San Antonio 74
21 San Pablo 74
22 San Firmin 74
23 Neptuna 74
24 Bahama 74
25 St. Domingo 74
26 Terrible 74
27 Il Defenso 74
Seven-and-twenty huge Spanish ships of war opposed to fifteen British!
Two thousand and two hundred and ninety-two Spanish guns, against one
thousand two hundred and thirty-two British--nearly two to one.
This glorious fight, on this most memorable Valentine's-day, began
about seven bells in the forenoon watch, when Admiral Sir John
Jervis, with all sail set, came dashing at the Dons, and passed right
through their lines. Now the Spanish admiral had nine of his ships
down to leeward, and he at once determined to pass astern of the
British fleet, and thus effect a junction with his divided ships.
And it is at this point where the genius of Nelson becomes so
conspicuous. Remember that the signal had been made for the whole
fleet to engage, and had he strictly obeyed orders he would have gone
on with the rest of the Britishers, and tacked with them. But his
quick eye--poor fellow, he had now but one--noticed the Don's
intention, and he resolved to frustrate it at all hazards. He put
his helm up, therefore, and steered straight for the Spaniards.
No more daring, dashing deed was ever done!
Nothing more confusing could have occurred for the Spanish admiral.
Not a soul on the upper deck of the Captain who did not marvel.
Merryweather confessed afterwards to Tom Bure that he thought
Commodore Nelson had suddenly gone mad.
Even Tom and Raventree, little though they knew of naval tactics,
could not refrain from talking momentarily over the affair. But the
roar of the guns that had been stilled for a minute or two
recommenced now with triple force, and Tom had his duty to perform.
Yonder was the mighty _Santissima Trinidada_ towering high above
them, and Nelson in his Captain was close alongside her.
The position of Nelson's ship at that moment was not one to be
envied, with the monarch of the Spanish fleet beside him beam to
beam, and three-deckers pouring in their fire fore and aft.
But down to his assistance came the _Culloden_ of 74 guns, bold
Troubridge her commander, and the _Blenheim_ of 90 guns.
The fire of the British ships at this time was terrible in the
extreme. Our brave fellows fought half naked at their guns, and
though messmates fell killed or wounded on all sides, they were
speedily carried or hauled on one side and the fight went on. There
was no more thought of leaving their batteries among those Hearts of
Oak, than if the battle had been but a mere parade.
The dangerous position of the _Captain_ may be imagined when we
remember that at one time she was actually exposed to the fire of no
less than nine ships!
Nelson was the hero of this glorious fight. Am I not right in
calling him so, seeing that around his sadly-mutilated ship the
battle raged the fiercest?
But the _Captain_, with her rigging in tatters, her fore-top mast
gone, and her wheel shot away, was now almost unmanageable. She was
at this time engaged with two of the enemy's liners--the _San
Nicholas_ and _San Josef_--and Nelson purposely fouled the former.
The credit of this is due to Miller, his second captain, who,
disabled as the ship was, managed to lay her aboard the starboard
quarter of the Spanish lee, so that her sprit-sail yard passed over
the enemy's poop, and hooked in her mizen shrouds.
"Away--ay--ay, boarders."
It was a scream, it was a yell from a British throat, and it thrilled
every Heart of Oak on board, and was answered by a cheer.
With the butt of his musket a soldier of the 69th (a number of this
regiment being on board) dashed in the window of the Spaniard's upper
quarter-gallery and leapt in. Nelson and many more were with him,
Tom Bure and Raventree among the rest. But they found the cabin
doors secured against them. These were speedily dashed to pieces.
One man in a fight like this has the strength of three. A volley was
fired by our brave fellows, the Spanish commodore fell, and hurrying
onwards, sword in hand, Nelson found that the poop had already been
taken by Lieut. Berry, and our friend Merryweather, and that the
enemy's ensign was coming down by the run. Nelson ran forward and
received the submission and the swords of several officers.
But although the _San Nicholas_ was thus taken, a pattering musketry
fire was kept up from the _San Josef_, which was close alongside.
She too must be captured. Nelson felt in form now to capture a
dozen. The order was therefore speedily given to place sentinels on
the ladders to guard the prisoners of the _Nicholas_, and more men
were ordered into her from the _Captain_----to make sure, for Nelson
forgot nothing. Then once more the shout, "Away--ay--ay, boarders!"
[Illustration: "'Away--ay--ay, boarders,' cried Nelson."]
Our brave and great hero was at the head of his men this time, and
the _San Josef_ fell as her consort had fallen.
The captain of the ship on his knees sued for mercy, saying the
admiral was dying of his wounds below.
Nelson says, "I thereupon gave him my hand, and ordered him to call
to his officers and ship's company that the ship had surrendered,
which he did."
Glorious day for Nelson! There on the quarter-deck of this huge Don,
112 guns, he received the swords of the vanquished Spaniards.
There comes in here an element of the comic, for by the hero's side
stood the bold bargeman, Bill Fearney, to whom the swords were given
as they were received. Bill hitched up his trousers, turned his quid
in his mouth, and stuck the swords under his left arm with less
ceremony than if they had been as many fiddlesticks.
The very essence of this gallant fight lies in the fact that Nelson,
having fought almost to the death, his ship of 74 guns being all but
a wreck, puts this disabled craft of his to such marvellous account,
that he captures two of the enemy's largest ships by the glorious old
British system of boarding.
There they lay, the victor and the vanquished--the three of them all
in a huddle. And was it any wonder that the _Victory_ and every
other British ship cheered our Nelson as they passed?
I do not feel inclined to say any more about this glorious battle.
To mention the bare unvarnished facts is enough, and the boy along
whose spine there does not pass a cold thrill of pride and excitement
while reading these is no true Briton.
CHAPTER VIII.
LIFE IN NELSON'S SHIP.
"The flag of Britannia, the flag of the brave,
Triumphant it floateth o'er land and o'er wave,
All proudly it braveth the battle and blast,
And when tattered with shot it is nailed to the mast."
It goes without saying that Nelson returned thanks, humble but
fervent, to heaven, for his merciful preservation on the day of
battle.
For his services on this Valentine's-day he was knighted, and also
received the Order of the Bath. He was moreover made rear-admiral of
the blue.
Probably after all it was the private congratulations that flowed in
upon him which affected him the most, and chief of these, perhaps,
were the love and respect of his ship's crew. Well they knew that
Nelson was not only a true sailor, but in heart and soul almost a man
before the mast. No one ever heard the hero abuse a man verbally in
bullying language with oaths and fulsome gesture, as many and many a
captain did in those days. Moreover they knew he hated the lash, and
that he even saw the justice of the complaints of the mutineers of
the Nore.
It was when on board the _Theseus_--the _Captain_ was almost a
wreck--that the men's regard for their commodore--now admiral--was
shown in a manner essentially sailor-like, and therefore in a measure
innocently childish, for a round-robin was picked up on the
quarter-deck which read as follows:
"Success attend Admiral Nelson! God bless Captain Miller. We thank
them for the officers they have placed over us. We are happy and
comfortable, and willing to shed every drop of blood in our veins to
support them, and the name of the _Theseus_ shall be immortalised as
high as that of the _Captain_.--Signed, THE SHIP'S COMPANY."
This poor little but heart-felt speech upon paper must have cost much
care and thought to concoct. Meetings on the sly would have been
held down below, as secret and confidential as those of conspirators
or mutineers, and I can almost see the shy and somewhat ungainly
actions of the seaman, who was finally told off to drop the precious
document on the quarter-deck after it had been read a dozen times and
finally approved.
"See you does it properly now, Jack."
"Don't let the officers see you, you know, Jack."
"Don't make a bullocks of it, Jack."
"Keep your weather eye lifting, Jack."
These and a score of other warnings were doubtless given to Jack
before he departed on his mission, and I'll warrant that, when he
performed it successfully, he was welcome to all the grog in the mess
that day if he chose to have it.
Nelson and Miller too appreciated that simple note for all it was
worth, you may be perfectly sure.
But possibly the letters from home affected him quite as much as
anything. His wife's was quite a woman's letter. Nelson must have
smiled to be told that she was very much against the dangerous
practice of boarding, and that he must really promise not to venture
on any such thing again.
But his father's, the dear, kindly, and now proud old man--proud of
his son--affected him most. "I thank my God," he says, "with all the
power of a grateful soul, for the mercies he has most graciously
bestowed on me in preserving you.
"Not only my few acquaintances here, but the people in general met me
at every corner with such handsome words, that I was obliged to
retire from the public eye. The height of glory to which your
professional judgement, united with a proper degree of bravery, and
guarded by Providence, has raised you, few sons, my dear child,
attain to and fewer fathers live to see. Tears of joy have
involuntarily trickled down my furrowed cheeks. Who could stand the
force of such general congratulations? The name and services of
Nelson have sounded throughout this city of Bath--from the common
ballad singer to the public theatre."
* * * * * *
So much for honour and glory, reader. Do you like it? Honour and
glory are but empty baubles, and yet somehow they commend themselves
most heartily to the empty soul.
Honour and glory, however, are, in my opinion, not such empty baubles
as those who never receive them would have you believe. On the
contrary, they are the most satisfactory proofs a hero could receive,
that he has nobly done his duty. They are the payments made to him
by a grateful public and people for services done for which no amount
of money or jewels could ever form adequate reward. Whenever,
therefore, you hear a person railing against honour and glory, you
may be perfectly sure he has never had any such "baubles" offered
him, and never done anything to deserve them. Think of the fable of
the fox and the grapes.
Well, no star can shine by itself without imparting its lustre to
other and lesser stars around it. This is another way of saying that
even Nelson's junior officers shared in his honour and glory. Ah!
well, they deserved to, for right nobly that day had every man done
his duty fore and aft.
But in a great many cases that honour and glory look the form of a
sailor's grave. And alas! poor Jack, many a man before the mast was
buried in the deep sea who had fought as well as ever man fought a
veritable lion with heart of oak, but whose name would not even be
mentioned in his country's story.
As for the doctors? Well, the day had not yet come when doctors were
to have even the least little morsel of honour and glory, and, to
tell the truth, in our own day very little glory falls to a surgeon's
share. Down in the gloomiest depths of a ship he must work--nay,
slave, even on the day of battle. If engines burst he is among the
first scalded; if the vessel is blown up or is sunk, he has not even
the shadow of a chance of saving his life, as have the honour and
glory men on deck whose bravery may after all be but the outcome of
excitement or terror itself. The surgeon, on the other hand, has to
do his duty with a cool head, and even long after the rage and roar
of battle have ceased his duties keep him to his post.
But Nelson was a man who really loved his doctors, both senior and
junior, quite as much as he loved the parson, and had every respect
for their feelings. Even when coming quietly round to see the sick
or wounded, he invariably took a surgeon with him, to ask him
questions about the poor fellows who lay uncomplainingly in their
hammocks.
Young Raventree's letters from home rejoiced him very much indeed,
and he showed several of them to his friend Tom Bure.
Poor Tom had letters also; three--yes, only three, but how he valued
them only those who have been long away on the ocean wave could say.
One was from Dan--Daddy Dan. This he showed to Raventree. "It is
from my dear old foster-father," he explained.
Raventree read it by the light of the moon, as the two lads stood
together under the lee bulwarks.
"It is so good of you, Bure," he said, "to show me this. Bad
spelling, worse writing, stilted and somewhat hackneyed expressions,
but, Tom, a spirit of such kindliness and love, and so noble a nature
breathing through every page of it! Tom Bure, you are lucky in
having a foster-father like this man. Dan Brundell is a hero in
humble life!"
"I'm so glad you like him," said Tom, and the tears came rushing to
his eyes as he spoke.
"Some day I should like to go and see Dan's cottage," continued
Raventree. "My home is away in the midlands. It is one of the
ancestral halls of England, and my people are proud and wealthy; but,
Tom, they would make you right welcome. I think," he added, "I have
some reason to be proud of my family, because, like the Stuarts, of
whom we saw so noble a specimen in that brave Don Jacobo, we gained
all our honours by the sword."
Tom had a letter from Ruth--such a dear, sisterly, old-fashioned
epistle. This he gave to Merryweather to read, knowing it would not
interest Raventree much.
Jack Merryweather, who was in excellent spirits after the recent
battle, because he, for a wonder, had not been wounded, read Ruth's
letter with delight--not once, but twice.
"What a sweet, good girl," he said, as he handed it back to Tom.
But there was one other letter that Tom, singularly enough, showed to
nobody.
It came from Bertha. It was enclosed in Daddy Dan's. Quite a
charming specimen of love letter it was, but so innocent and
childish. She sent it through Dan, she said, because she did not
wish it supervised by her mother and her maid.
I hope the reader will not jump to the conclusion all at once that
this conduct on the part of Bertha was naughty or clandestine. Her
mother, she said, wanted her to write to Tom Bure "all in fine
english and all well speld," and also to address him as "der Mr.
Bure," instead of "der old Tom" all through the letter. So she had
ran off to Daddy Dan's, where sweet freedom awaited her, a huge sheet
of age-stained paper, and an enormous sputtering old quill pen.
However, Bertha's letter, although not "well speld," was very
delightful, and for some reason or another, best known to himself
only, Tom Bure put it under his pillow on the night of the day he
received it.
History is mute as to what his dreams were. O'Grady's letters were
so pleasing to him that he handed them all round the gunroom mess--at
least he handed round the one he had received from his mother, who
lived "in a swate little cottage in the kingdom of Connemara, and
owned the foinest pigs in the county, faith."
O'Grady's mother was "a lady in a small way and in her own roight,"
he explained to his messmates, though what on earth he meant by that
nobody could tell, and as it was getting on for three bells, with a
drop of rosy rum on the table, no one thought of asking him for an
explanation. But Mrs. O'Grady could write a good old-fashioned
letter, there was no mistake about that. No long sentences; all
short and crisp. No tall English; but every line containing an item
of news. There wasn't a person in the parish from the priest
downwards who missed mention in the lady's letter, together with
everyone who had been put in the mould and every baby born, and it
finished up with what honest O'Grady called a red-hot shot, thus:
"And may the Lord's arms be ever around you, son, and sure your old
sweetheart Peggy O'Houghleehan was married yesterday to Rory McKoy,
and may heaven have mercy on his sowl, for the jade was never good
enough for my dear boy, at all, at all. No more from your
affectionate old mother Molly O'Grady. Postage paid, free."
The red-hot shot, however, didn't affect this good old middy much;
for, it being Saturday night, the dead all buried more than a
fortnight ago, and the wounded getting rapidly well, the boys were
enjoying themselves in an innocent, good-tempered way. So presently
O'Grady volunteered a song.
Then somebody else sang, so that really, as Burns puts it--
"The nicht drave on wi' songs and clatter,*
* Clatter=talk.
Away forward in the men's messes, Dibdin's verses very well depict
the scene, bar the lashing of the helm a-lee. Nelson was hardly the
man to have his helm lashed a-lee. With all due respect for the
clever Dibdin, he did occasionally give his imagination a very free
run.
"'Twas Saturday night: the twinkling stars
Shone on the rippling sea,
No duty called the jovial tars,
The helm was lashed a-lee."
But even Saturday night at sea has an end at last, and the bo's'n's
pipe has a disagreeable knack of bringing it to a close at times, far
more suddenly than honest sailors like.
CHAPTER IX.
BOMBARDING CADIZ--A MADCAP EXPEDITION.
Nelson was off Lagos Bay in the middle of March of this year, '97.
"I am here," he wrote to a friend, "looking for the Viceroy of
Mexico, with three sail of the line, and hope to meet him. Two
first-rates and a 74 are with him; but the bigger the ships the
better the mark."
Nelson, however, thought the Spanish ships were the finest in the
world; but he added:
"Though they can build ships, thank Heaven the Spaniards cannot build
men."
The Spanish ships were undoubtedly splendid and vast, but they were
badly fitted, badly found, badly handled, and badly manned.
Nor was it always an easy matter to manœuvre such vast machines of
war in a sea way. If battles upon the ocean wave had been fought
simply by the antagonists drawing themselves up in two lines and
peppering away at each other till one gave in, was blown up, or sunk,
the Dons would have had it all their own way--perhaps. But during an
engagement of any size the British fleet kept pretty much on the
move, delivering terrible broadsides on the foe when least expected.
The Dons didn't like it.
On the 11th of April we find our hero blockading Cadiz, but next day
he started for Porto Ferrajo to bring the troops from there. The
blockade of Cadiz was therefore entrusted to Sir James Saumarez.
This officer had already proved himself to be
A HEART OF OAK.
His story previous to the blockading of Cadiz is briefly as follows:
He was born in '57, and joined the service when thirteen years old,
and was first employed in the Mediterranean. He soon became a
lieutenant, and sailed in the _Bristol_, off America, under Commodore
Sir Peter Parker. He took and destroyed many privateersmen here.
Under Lord Howe, he commanded at Rhode Island a galley, which he
burned to prevent it falling into the hands of the enemy. Returning
home in the _Leviathan_, he, after some service in the Channel fleet,
sailed in the _Fortitude_, and went with Sir Hyde Parker to the North
Sea. Next we find him sailing with a detachment of the Channel
fleet, and being the first to sight the squadron of Count de
Guicheni, and so well did he behave on this occasion that he was soon
after appointed captain of the _Russel_, 74 guns, though then only
twenty-four years of age.
In 1793 we find Saumarez boldly fighting the French frigate
_Reunion_, off Cherbourg, for which he received the honour of
knighthood.
He was next made captain of the _Orion_, and cruised with the Channel
fleet.
And in the battle off St. Vincent it was this brave fellow, who with
his 74, the _Orion_, captured the 112-gun ship _Salvador del Mundo_,
without the loss of a man, having only nine wounded.
I ought here to mention the losses on the British side at the battle
off St. Vincent. They were not large for so spirited a fight, being
but 73 killed and 297 wounded; but in proof that this engagement was
more Nelson's victory than anyone else's, it should be remembered
that his ship alone suffered a loss of 24 killed and 56 wounded: the
next in point of numbers being the _Blenheim_, 12 killed and 49
wounded; Collingwood's _Excellent_, 11 killed and 12 wounded; and
Troubridge's _Culloden_, 10 killed and 47 wounded.
* * * * * *
Nelson returned from his cruise sooner than he expected to do, and
was appointed in the Cadiz blockade to in-shore duties.
"The fatigue, anxiety, and personal danger incurred in this service,"
says Pettigrew, "were very great. To confine the enemy as closely as
possible to their port, it was the custom every night to send from
each of the ships forming the blockade one or more boats, well
manned, armed, and supplied with a good store of ammunition, into the
very mouth of the harbour.
"These boats were supported by gunboats, which had been expressly
fitted out for this occasion, and these could only be protected by
the inner line of ships which Admiral Nelson had posted to render the
blockade complete, and the escape of any of the Spanish ships nearly
impossible."
After the battle off St. Vincent the whole navy of the Dons, it will
be remembered, had taken refuge in Cadiz to refit.
"When the boats were all arranged Nelson was in the habit of rowing
through them for inspection. The duty was therefore most active, and
as far as possible all danger of surprise from the enemy effectually
guarded against.
"But the Dons were also well up in this mode of precaution and
warfare. They equipped numerous gunboats and launches to check the
too near approach of our boats, and many a skirmish thus took place
between the Spaniards and our brave fellows."
* * * * * *
On the night of July 3rd began the awful bombardment of Cadiz.
"I wish to make it a warm night at Cadiz," wrote Nelson. "The town
and their fleet are prepared, and their gunboats are well advanced.
So much the better. If they venture out beyond their walls I shall
give Johnnie his full scope for fighting."
Well, Nelson, in an attack by the Spanish gunboats, had probably the
narrowest escape of his life he ever had. While in his barge with
Captain Freemantle, his coxswain, Sykes, and an ordinary crew of ten
men, he was laid aboard by a huge barge from a gunboat rowed by
six-and-twenty oars beside officers, all under the command of a brave
fellow--Captain Miguel Tyrason. A tougher boat action was never
fought by Britons against such fearful odds.
Our men, in fact, fought like lions. It was a hand-to-hand battle
with sword, cutlass, and knife. Never before was the personal skill
and prowess of this little man Nelson seen to such advantage. Again
and again his sword drank blood, and foe after foe fell before him.
Twice too, during the engagement, his life was saved by bold Sykes,
who even interposed his own person 'twixt his admiral and the
descending sword. The fury of the combat may be best understood from
a statement of the results, for not only was the Don's barge beaten,
but eighteen were killed, and all the others were wounded and taken
prisoners.
If there was a _Heart of Oak_ in humble life on board a ship it was
John Sykes, the admiral's coxswain. He was rewarded--after a
fashion--by being made a gunner, and consequently a warrant officer,
and appointed to the _Andromache_; but the poor fellow was killed on
his own deck by the bursting of a gun.
_Sic transit gloria mundi._
The bombardment of Cadiz was a grim and awful affair.
Not only were houses and public buildings laid low, and even churches
demolished, but the beautiful city was set on fire in three different
places, and, to add to the horror of the situation, the roughs of the
populace had it all their own way, and murdered, robbed, or plundered
wherever they pleased.
* * * * * *
I have told you, reader, very little about Josiah Nisbet, the
step-son of Nelson, for several reasons. Though a very good fellow,
he is not my _beau ideal_ of a hero; secondly, he was separated from
Tom Bure and Raventree, being made lieutenant of the _Theseus_. But
now he comes forward once more--or presently will--in a new light,
which shows that he not only had a heart of oak, but had it stowed in
the right place.
Nelson, then--though never fond of prize money himself--had for some
time been keeping himself awake at night concocting a scheme for the
financial ruin of Spain and the aggrandisement of his own beloved
country.
HEARTS OF OAK AT SANTA CRUZ.
I am not at all sure, boys--now I come to think of it--that Nelson
was not in some way or other distantly related to the Camerons of
Lochiel. One of these days I shall "speel" his genealogical tree and
have a look round, and if I can see a kilt hung out to dry thereon,
or a Highland bonnet and plumes, I shall forthwith claim him as
Scotch; then the English bodies may look for a naval hero somewhere
else, or whistle their dogs to dance. But if he wasn't a Cameron, he
at all events acted on the motto of the Camerons--"Whate'er a man
dares he can do."
Mind you, reader, that this is a very excellent motto, for "nothing
venture nothing win," and the higher one's aim the higher the mark he
hits--if he hits anything.
However, the Cameronian Highlanders' motto does sometimes lead one
into difficulty.
It was very shortly, then, after the bombardment of Cadiz that Nelson
wrote to Sir John Jervis--or let us now call him the Earl of St.
Vincent--proposing his little scheme for the capture of Santa Cruz.
Santa Cruz was a place of not the slightest importance, but it was
rumoured that a Spanish ship--_El Principe de Asturias_--more richly
stored with gold and precious stones than a fairy mine, had arrived
at that port from Manilla, and Nelson's idea was to cut her out--in
other words, to capture her. This would not only put millions of
money into British coffers to carry on the war withal, but tend
considerably to the downfall of Spain by helping to impoverish her.
In fact, and in plain English, Nelson intended for a time to
masquerade and swagger as a pirate bold or a buccanier. So on the
12th of April we find him writing as follows to his admiral of the
fleet:
"My Dear Sir,--Troubridge and I were talking last night about the
Viceroy (of Mexico) at Teneriffe. Since I first believed he might
have gone there I have endeavoured to make myself master of the
situation, and the means of approach by sea and land. I shall speak
first of the sea.
"The Spanish ships then generally moor with two cables to the sea,
and four cables from their stern to the shore; therefore, though we
might not get to be masters of them, should the wind not come off the
shore, it does not appear certain we should succeed so completely as
we might wish. As to any opposition, except from natural
impediments, I should not think it would avail.
"The approach by sea to the anchoring-place is under very high land,
therefore the wind is either in from the sea, or squally with calms
from the mountains. Sometimes at night a ship may get in with the
land wind and moderate weather. So much for the sea attack, which,
if you approve, I am ready and willing to risk, or to carry into
execution.
"But now comes my plan, which would not fail of success, would
immortalize the undertakers,* ruin Spain, and has every prospect of
raising our country to a higher pitch of wealth than she has ever yet
attained; but here soldiers must be consulted, and I know from
experience that, excepting General O'Hara, they have not the same
boldness in undertaking a political measure that we (sailors) have.
We look to the benefit of our country, and risk our fame every day to
serve her. A soldier obeys orders and nothing more.
* By "undertakers" Nelson doesn't refer to the manufacturers of cheap
coffins, but those who undertake to carry out his plan of operations.
"By saying soldiers should be consulted, you will guess I mean the
army of 3,200 men from Elba, with cannon, mortars, and every
implement now embarked. They could do the business in three days,
probably much less. I will undertake with a very small squadron to
do the naval part.
"The shore, though not very easy of access, is yet so steep that the
transports may run in and land the army in one day. The water is
conveyed to the town in wooden troughs. This supply cut off would
induce a very speedy surrender. Good terms for the town, private
property secured to the islanders, and only the delivery of public
stores and foreign merchandise demanded, with threats of utter
destruction if one gun is fired.
"In fact, sir, the business could not miscarry.
"If," the letter goes on to say, "the six or seven millions sterling
thus secured were thrown into circulation in England, what might not
be done? It would ensure an honourable peace, with many other
blessings."
Such was Admiral Nelson's letter to St. Vincent, or the gist of it at
least.
Now had the hero been better supported by soldiers than he was the
result might have been a triumph.
The attack, however, was to be a purely naval one. Nelson sailed for
Teneriffe on the fifteenth of July, and the passage not being a very
long one, got over in under a week. At all events, the fleet which
he commanded was discovered on the 21st of July.
This was a bad beginning, and augured nothing but evil fortune to
follow.
Probably Nelson had but little idea of the kind of place he had made
up his mind to take by storm, for it is fortified by nature. Writing
about this unhappy expedition Brenton makes the following remarks:
"Of all the places that ever came under our inspection, none we
conceive is more invulnerable to attack or more easily defended than
Teneriffe. The island, like most of its neighbours, is a volcanic
production, consisting of mountains, ravines, rocks, and precipices.
The bay of Santa Cruz affords no shelter for shipping; the shore is
nearly a straight line, and the bank so steep that no anchorage can
be found beyond the distance of half a mile, and that in forty-five
fathoms of water; the beach from north to south is one continued
series of broken masses of loose rock and round, smooth stones,
smooth either from friction or from the seaweed. On this a perpetual
surf breaks, rendering the landing at all times difficult, except at
the mole or pier of Santa Cruz. To these obstacles there is another
which Nelson experienced in its fullest force. Teneriffe, like all
other mountainous countries, is liable to calms, sudden squalls, and
violent gusts of wind, which, rushing down the ravines, frequently
take a ship's topmasts over the side without a moment's warning.
The fleet, or rather squadron, appointed for the expedition was as
follows:
SHIPS. GUNS.
1 Theseus . . . . . 74
2 Culloden . . . . . 74
3 Zealous . . . . . 74
4 Leander . . . . . 50
5 Seahorse . . . . . 38
6 Emerald . . . . . 36
7 Terpsichore . . . 32
8 Fox (cutter) . . . 12
There were many Hearts of Oak among the commanders of these ships as
well as daring Nelson, notably Troubridge, Hood, Freemantle, &c.
Indeed, to one and all the honour of their country was as dear as
life itself.
In the next chapter I have to tell of
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK.
CHAPTER X.
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK.
It was not until the 24th of July that the _finale_ to this madcap
expedition was attempted; viz., the landing and the facing of those
fearful odds.
If Nelson had had but men to contend against, it would have been very
different, but in their undertaking it was the forces of Nature he
had to struggle against. There is no doubt about his daring,
however. Nor did he underrate the difficulties he had to encounter.
It was with a feeling of sadness even that he sat down to write his
letter to St. Vincent--the last he was ever to pen with his right
hand.
"This night," he says, "humble as I am, I command the whole. I am
destined to land under the batteries of the town, and to-morrow my
head will probably be crowned with either laurel or cypress."
* * * *
The first plan of attack on Santa Cruz, which, as I have already
stated, was spoiled by the discovery of the squadron, was this: The
boats were to land at night, between the town and the fort on its
north-east side, capture that fort, and afterwards demand from the
governor that the town be given up.
But about midnight the three frigates, with the landing party on
board, had got within three miles of the shore, when it came on to
blow so hard that the forces were still a mile from the shore when
day dawned, and they were seen. A consultation or council of war had
then been held, and it was determined to land at all hazards, with
the object of securing the heights. While the landing forces were so
engaged, Nelson was to batter the fort for the purpose of distracting
the attention of the garrison.
However, as bad luck would have it, a calm had followed the storm,
and owing to this and the contrary current the admiral was unable to
get near enough to rain his iron shower upon the fort. Meanwhile the
heights were occupied and held by a force so great that it was deemed
impossible to take them, and now we come to
THE DARK NIGHT'S WORK.
Well knowing how desperate the attack on Santa Cruz would in all
probability prove, and how valuable were the services of our hero to
his country, the admiral of the fleet, St. Vincent, had given orders
that Nelson was not to land unless "his presence was absolutely
necessary."
Nelson, with his usual headstrong tendencies, interpreted this to
mean that he should do just as he chose.
So to-night he determined in his own person to lead the storming
party.
The last thing that Nelson did was to send for his stepson, Josiah,
into his cabin.
Josiah--Lieutenant Nisbet--was soon there.
"Why, lad, you are armed," said Nelson. "I sent for you to help me
to burn your dear mother's letters."
"Is the affair then likely to be of so dangerous a nature, father?"
said Josiah.
"It is, my boy. I have written to St. Vincent, and in that letter I
recommended you to him and to our country. The Duke of Clarence,
should I fall, will, I am convinced, take a lively interest in my
stepson on his name being mentioned."
"But _I_ am going too, father," said Nisbet, smiling but calm.
"Let me entreat of you, Josiah, to stay behind."
"No, no, dear sir."
"But, Josiah, I comm----"
"Hold, father, hold! Pray do not command me."
"I _beg_ then. Think, Josiah, if we both fall, what would become of
your poor mother? Besides, the care of the _Theseus_ falls to you;
stay, therefore, and take charge of the ship."
"Sir," said the young man respectfully, but with determination, "the
ship may look after herself. I will go with you to-night if I never
go again."
On board the _Seahorse_ frigate the captains all met that night to
dine with the admiral. Captain Fremantle, the commander of the
vessel, had been lately married in the Mediterranean, and, his wife
being on board, presided at the table. There was no lack of
conversation at this little dinner party, no lack of liveliness even,
though an acute observer might have noticed that now and then, on
Nelson's part, it was almost forced. Hardly anyone touched the wine
in the way it was usually touched, tasted, and handled in those old
bacchanalian days, and at eleven o'clock the boats were called away,
and all ready.
The night was very dark indeed, hardly a star shining, and closer in
shore, where the rugged mountains frowned over the ocean, it was
darker still.
There were, however, the glimmering lights of the town to guide them,
and the black shapes of the great hills themselves.
All the boats that could be spared from the ships of war took part in
this invasion, carrying altogether nearly one thousand bluejackets
and marines.
It is almost half-past one now, and the invaders are rapidly nearing
the shore. They can hear the thunder of the breakers that dash and
foam on the stones and boulders, each receding wave adding to the
dreary sound by sucking back with it the smaller stones. They are
not far from the mole.
"I can see it, sir, I can see it!" exclaims Tom Bure, who is in
Nelson's own boat, but forward in the bows.
The lad was right. Keen eyes can now descry the mole or pier, and a
true British cheer rises from a thousand throats, and onwards dash
the boats. But scarcely is the cheer echoed back from rock and hill
ere bells are rung on shore, and a wild huzza tells the invaders that
the Spaniards are prepared to give them a warm welcome.
And now the misfortunes begin; for most of the boats have missed the
mole, and are stove among the boulders. However, Nelson, Fremantle,
Bower, with five other boats, have found it; but how can they storm
it against twice two hundred armed men?
_Whate'er a man dares he can do!_
Another shout, another huzza; the fight has commenced, and the
Spaniards, beaten off the mole, take refuge in flight. But such a
fire of guns as now lights up the darkness of this terrible night few
have ever faced and lived. Musketry and grape from the citadel and
from every window near.
Against this iron hail advance is impossible.
Our brave fellows attempt it over and over again, but fall dead or
wounded on the pier.
And Nelson himself, just as he is about to step on shore, sword in
hand, is struck by a grape shot in the right elbow, and falls
bleeding into the boat.
Nisbet, his step-son--surely it was Providence who sent him hither
to-night--is by his side in a moment. His first thought is that
Nelson is killed.
The hero, however, gathers himself up, and shows that he has not lost
presence of mind, for he clutches his sword with his left hand. That
precious sword had been given him by Captain Suckling, and he will
not part with it while life doth last.
Assisted by Tom Bure, whom even in his agony Nelson recognises,
Nisbet lays the wounded hero in the bottom of the boat, and a hurried
examination is made of the wound. With Tom's and Josiah's silk
handkerchiefs a bandage is formed, the knot placed over the artery
higher up the arm, and by means of this ready-made tourniquet the
bleeding is stopped. A sailor of the name of Lovel tears his own
shirt from his back, and forms a sling to support the wounded arm of
his beloved admiral. Josiah seizes an oar.
"Shove off, lads," he cries; "let us get closer under the battery,
and thus out of its fire."
With the help of Tom, and at his own request, Nelson is raised up in
the boat. But nothing can he perceive except the surf lit up every
moment by the awful flash of the guns, the heaving sea, and the
distant cutter _Fox_.
Suddenly, high above the din of the contending foes, rises a wild
shriek of dying agony from the crew of that very cutter, and before
his eyes, by the fitful light of the blazing cannon, Nelson can
perceive that she is struck--that she staggers, fills, and goes
bodily down.
"Give way, my lads; now for the cutter," cries Nelson, the moment the
shriek is heard. "Give way with a will!"
And on towards the drowning seamen rushes the boat. There is no
thought of self with the hero at this moment. All his kindliness of
heart, all his indomitable British courage, rise to the surface--pain
and danger are forgotten quite. Who is there in all the wide world,
friend or foe, who cannot admire and love a man like this?
Of all the 180 men the cutter had been bearing toward the shore only
83 are saved, and many of these were hauled into Nelson's own boat.
Some are even caught by Nelson's unwounded arm.
Tom Bure does all he can, and helps many aboard; and seeing how
energetically the lad worked--for he is now astern, and had been
helping to support the admiral--Nelson finds opportunity to whisper
these encouraging words: "Well done, my Norfolk lad; I will not
forget you!"
All being done that can be done, no more heads above the water to
clutch at or save, the boat is speedily rowed seawards beyond the
reach of danger.
A ship now looms above them.
"What is she? What is she?" cries Nelson feebly, and even
impatiently, for the loss of blood is telling on his nervous system.
"The _Seahorse_, sir," cried Tom Bure.
"Go on. Go on, Josiah, to the _Theseus_."
"She is farther away!" entreats his step-son. "Think, sir; your very
life may be lost by our going on."
"Shove off, men, for the _Theseus_!" cries the hero himself. "Think
you," he adds, as the men obey, "that I would present myself before
Mrs. Fremantle in this pickle, and bringing her no news of her
husband? I'd sooner suffer death."
The _Theseus_ is made at last.
Nelson will not allow himself to be carried on board. "I have still
my left arm remaining," he exclaims, "and my legs as well."
"And now," he cries, when he reaches the deck, "tell the surgeon to
get his instruments out. I know I must lose my right arm, and the
sooner it is off the better."
* * * * *
We must get back on shore now to see how it fared with the other poor
fellows.
Like Admiral Nelson himself, Captain Fremantle was badly wounded in
the right arm, but escaped to his ship, very much to the relief of
his agonised wife, who was not long in finding out that all was lost.
Captain Bowen was among the slain, and this was a very great grief to
Nelson, who loved him well. Another officer killed was Lieutenant
Weatherhead, a man whom the hero also had much respect for and who,
like our Merryweather, preferred being with Nelson even to taking a
higher grade in another ship.
But Troubridge, the captain of the _Culloden_, and Weller, who
commanded the _Emerald_, were among those who managed to secure a
footing on shore with the crews of several other boats.
The boats themselves were instantly swamped, and dashed to pieces
among the heavy boulders.
Their scaling-ladders were lost, but, although few in number, the cry
was "Forward!"
The gallant little party dashed onwards to the great square of the
town, expecting here to join Nelson, and those who had stormed the
mole. Alas! they were, as we know, all scattered, dead, or lying
wounded and exposed, on the blood-slippery pier.
Had Troubridge succeeded in saving the ladders, he would undoubtedly
have scaled the citadel walls and silenced the guns.
Meanwhile, Captains Hood and Miller had secured a landing on the
other side of the pier, and the two forlorn parties met, or, in other
words, effected a junction. Previously to this a sergeant, with two
of the towns' people, were sent to the citadel to summon it to
surrender. He never came back.
These brave captains at daybreak reviewed their forces, and a bold
little array they made, consisting of about 160 marines and pikemen,
with 180 well-armed bluejackets.
They increased the amount of ammunition they were possessed of, by
requisitioning that of a number of prisoners they had taken.
Wet and miserable, but with hope still aflame in those hearts of oak
of theirs, they commenced to march on now towards the citadel. There
was just a possibility, they thought, that it might be taken without
scaling-ladders.
But lo! thousands of armed Spaniards were already seen advancing
towards them, with hundreds of their allies the French, while every
street was defended by one or more guns.
Troubridge, however, proved himself the hero of the hour. He
instantly formed his plans, and bold they were in the extreme. One
cannot help even smiling at the audacity--call it "cheek" if you
please, reader--of this handful of British tars.
Troubridge then despatched Captain Samuel Hood with a flag of truce,
towards the advancing enemy. His message was to the governor of the
town, and was to the following effect:
"If," said Hood, "the Spaniards come but an inch nearer to the
British, their commander, Troubridge, will immediately set fire to
the town, which he is fully prepared to do. If he has to do so, it
will be with the deepest regret, because he has not the slightest
wish to injure any of the inhabitants.
"He is therefore prepared to treat on the following terms: Provided
the British forces be allowed to re-embark, taking with them all
their arms of every kind, and in their own boats, if saved; if not,
in boats lent us by the town--Troubridge, in the name of Admiral
Nelson, agrees not to molest the town, nor shall the squadron bombard
it. The prisoners to be delivered up on both sides."
The commander smiled as he made reply.
"We think that instead of laying down the law to as, you should lay
down your arms and consider yourselves prisoners of war."
"That," said Hood, "we never shall do."
"And suppose I refuse to treat, sir?"
"Then the destruction of the town and the utter annihilation of all
your troops lies on your head. I give you five minutes to consider.
If in that time your answer is not favourable, Troubridge will
instantly proceed to fire the town and attack your soldiers at the
point of the bayonet, and Nelson will bombard you from the sea."
"I do not think," said the governor, smiling once again, "that you
would find yourselves very successful; but your Commander Troubridge
is a gallant sailor, I shall therefore accede to your request."
This officer's name will be handed down to posterity as that of a
brave and generous gentleman--a gentle maa--Don Juan Antonio
Gutiarraz.
Ah! boys, those were the days of chivalry and romance, for the treaty
being ratified, nothing could exceed the kindness of the governor and
his men to our wet, shivering, and hungry troops. One hundred men
were removed to hospital and carefully tended by the Spanish
surgeons, a young man, Don Bernardo Collagen, even tearing his own
shirt in pieces to make temporary bandages for wounded men who lay on
the mole. The governor, in sending back our fellows to their ships,
sent word at the same time, that while our squadron lay outside any
of our people might land and purchase whatever they cared to eat or
to drink.
Nelson, ill as he was, dictated a letter of thanks to this brave and
kindly fellow, and sent them with presents. He also offered to carry
the governor's letters and despatches to the Spanish government.
This offer was accepted.
There is no doubt about one thing, however. Troubridge was in
earnest when he threatened to fire the town and charge with the
bayonet.
So the madcap expedition was at an end.
But how sadly it had ended; for in killed and wounded our loss was
somewhat over 250 men.
Nelson's letters to the admiral of the fleet after his defeat were
sorrowful in the extreme. But their tenour was no doubt influenced
by the miserableness of his bodily condition and his sufferings, for
owing to the bungling way the operation had been performed both the
chief artery and the chief nerve were included together in the
ligature, and the pain was in consequence of a most agonising
character.
Here are one or two extracts from his letters to St. Vincent:
"I am now become a burden to my friends, and useless to my country;
but by my last letter to you, you will perceive my anxiety for the
promotion of my step-son Josiah Nisbet. When I leave your command I
myself become dead to the world. I go hence and am no more seen. If
from poor Bowen's loss you think it proper to oblige me I rest
confident you will do it. The boy is under obligations to me, but he
has repaid me by bringing me from the mole at Santa Cruz. I hope you
will be able to give me a frigate to convey the remains of my carcass
to England."
"The sooner," he says in another despatch, "I get away to a humble
cottage the better. I shall thus make room for a sounder man to
serve the state, for a left-handed admiral can scarcely be considered
useful."
His step-son was promoted immediately, as he deserved to be.
Great though the admiral's sufferings were, he did not even forget
our Tom Bure, who since the attack on Santa Cruz had been prostrated
with illness. Probably his being promoted to a lieutenancy by Nelson
himself went a far way towards restoring his health. Tom returned
home in the same ship with Nelson.
Merryweather was wounded in a boat action soon after, and by his side
fell Raventree, who was taken on board his ship and stretched for
dead.
O'Grady, however, hadn't a deal of faith in a doctor's opinion, so he
went soon after to the lee side of the gun, where the poor young
officer lay covered up by the flag under which he had served so
gallantly.
His wounds were bleeding afresh. His eyes were open, and he could
talk.
O'Grady rushed pell-mell to the Irish surgeon's mate.
"Come here, you omadhaun," he shouted, "follow me, ye spalpeen av the
world, to go and stretch a poor bhoy for dead that was never dead at
all. Yes, sare, it's Raventree I mane."
"Not dead?"
"Och, no! The bhoy tells me so himself. He is a gentleman that
wouldn't tell a lie for the loife av him. Come to him at onct, or
I'll carry you."
* * * *
All the way home to England poor Nelson suffered agonies with his
arm. He was afterwards most carefully nursed, however, by his wife,
and the pain departed in a single night with the coming away of the
ligature, which the bungling hands of that wretched surgeon had
placed around the nerve.
Honours were heaped upon him.
Britain seldom forgets a true hero.
Nelson was happy now. He seems at this time to have had little wish
to serve again.
There was true religious feeling ever dwelling around the heart of
Nelson, and he did not forget to return thanks publicly, through the
officiating clergyman, at St. George's Church, Hanover Square. There
was the usual modesty about this, however, that marked all Nelson's
actions, for from the pulpit his name was not even mentioned.
The following are the words of this thanksgiving, precisely as they
were dictated by the hero, and precisely as they were delivered by
the clergyman:
"An officer desires to return thanks to Almighty God for his perfect
recovery from a severe wound, and also for the many mercies bestowed
upon him."
CHAPTER XI.
A HAPPY HOME-COMING.
Four long years! yes, they did seem very long to Tom Bure, as he
shipped on board a trading schooner that was to bear him over the
sunlight sea, in bright September weather, to his home in Norfolk.
Four years! Why to look back appeared an eternity, so filled were
they with wild adventures, with battles and sieges, and storms by sea
and on land. We can only judge of distance on the ocean when ships,
rocks, or islands are visible, and so can only judge of distance on
the ocean of time by the events that stand out here and there, and
seem to stud its surface.
"Four years!" he said to himself as he gazed over the taffrail at the
rippling water, that went gurgling past the vessel's side as she
headed north and away from the mouth of the Thames. "Four years!
Why I was but a boy when I went to sea. Now I am a man, seventeen in
a few months, and no mite at that. And a lieutenant! I wonder what
Bertha will say. I do believe I used to make love to the child.
Well, she is but a child yet, not more than twelve. But---- I
wonder what she looks like. She'll hardly remember me. I do believe
I've got her letter still."
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" said the skipper, who had now got his ship
into a safe position. "Lovely weather I calls it for the season of
the year. Just returned from the wars, haven't you?"
"Yes," said Tom, smiling.
"And haven't lost ne'er an arm nor a leg. Sad thing about poor
Nelson, sir; but, lor' bless ye, he's a hero every inch! There isn't
a man in Yarmouth that wouldn't die for him. Mind you, sir,
Yarmouth's precious proud of him."
"As Yarmouth well may be, Mr. Auld."
"You've been to Norfolk afore, sir?"
"Why, I may say I belong there. My father died a poor man. His
sword and his honour were about all he could call his own, but he
belonged to a good family, I believe--the Bures."
"Bless my soul and old hull of a body!" cried the skipper. "You
don't mean to say you're Tom Brundell, or Bure, that lived as a
nipper wi' old Dan, and that we now hears so much talk about?"
"I'm all that stands for that youth," said Tom.
"Who would have thought it? Such a strapping, handsome fellow too.
Why, tip us your nipper, my boy. Taking home Tom Bure am I? Why
this is the happiest day in my life."
Tom shook hands right merrily, and the conversation continued.
There wasn't a man or woman apparently all over the north and east of
Norfolk that Mr. Auld did not know the history of; and every question
Tom asked was answered in a moment, and right heartily too.
He was unfeignedly glad to hear that Daddy Dan was well, and Ruth and
his foster-mother. That the Ashleys were still afloat in the
_Fairy_, and that "there wasn't a bit of difference in Yarmouth or in
anybody or any place anywhere." These were Skipper Auld's own words.
"It seems to me," said Tom, "that all the change is in me alone."
"Ah! you're growing, young sir; but I daresay if one could see into
your heart it isn't a deal of difference he'd see in that after all."
"Not a bit!" cried Tom. "That is in the right place, and I'll never
forget dear Norfolk as long as my head is left above water."
"Bravo! Spoken like one o' Nelson's own!"
And at this point of the conversation Mr. Auld was constrained to
spit in his palm and shake hands with Tom Bure once again.
* * * * *
Yarmouth at last! Not a bit of difference in the long, muddy river,
nor in the quay alongside, nor in the shipping alongside.
Tom felt once more that the change was all in himself, but he was
glad enough to get on shore nevertheless, for he meant to hire a
trap, it being early morning, and drive straight away down to Daddy
Dan's property, and give all hands a pleasant surprise.
He bade Mr. Auld good-bye, hoping they should meet again.
About half way up towards the spot where the town hall now stands he
came abreast of a clean, taut, and trim-looking schooner. He started
and stopped.
"I should know her," he thought. "Why, yes, I declare it's my first
ship--the saucy _Yarmouth Belle_.
"Ship ahoy!" he shouted, in a voice so stentorian that a score of
sailors and fishermen on the quay turned quickly round to look.
"Hullo!" cried a voice from on board; and up from the companion hatch
popped the rough and warty old figure-head of Skipper Hughes himself.
Tom Bure went rushing over the gangway, stuck out his fist, seized
the skipper's, and literally gaffed him on deck as if he'd been a
forty-pound salmon.
Hughes didn't know Tom at first, but when he did he could hardly
utter a word with excitement.
"Mate! mate!" he cried at last, "come up at once."
The mate--same old phizog--came up as quickly as if the ship had
caught fire, and when about a hundred questions had been asked and
answered to the satisfaction of all, "Mate," said Skipper Hughes, "on
this auspicious occasion let us----"
"Hurrah!" cried the mate.
"Let us," continued the skipper most impressively--"let us----splice
the main-brace."
* * * * *
There was a rat at the foot of that poplar tree without the slightest
doubt.
Meg, Uncle Bob's collie, knew that. She had known it for a very long
time. Indeed, the rat made little or no secret of the matter
himself, for there was the door to his sub-arboreal residence close
beneath the exposed portion of a root that Meg had often clawed and
clawed at in vain. This was only the rascal's front door, however;
he had several back doors, and he had an underground tunnel also,
that led all the way to the old mare's stable.
That rat was a married rat too, and to Meg's certain knowledge had
brought up a large family in there this last summer.
Meg was standing with her head turned a little on one side on this
bright autumnal forenoon, and fancying she could almost see the rat
grinning at her from the depths of his long, dark passage. She
couldn't be sure though, for her eyes had grown more dim of late for
some reason or another, which she didn't understand.
Her hearing was not so good as it used to be either. That was very
curious!
"Meg, Meg, old girl!"
Her ears were in the habit of playing her strange tricks at times too.
"Meg!" For example, if she didn't know that Tom Bure had disappeared
from off the earth ages and ages ago, just as her poor dear master
had, she would fancy she heard his voice even now calling to her.
"_Meg_, you silly old girl!"
She turned her head at last.
Fancy? No, no, it was not fancy. Here was Tom himself, grown up
from his puppyhood, as she had known all along he would, but Tom all
the same--the eyes of Tom, the scent of Tom, the voice of Tom. She
went for him straight with a rush and a run, and jumped upon his
breast with a cry of joy that was half hysterical, and for all the
world as if tears were choking her.
Then she must have a caper round and round the grassy lawn, where
poor Bob used to lie so patiently in his cot.
Round and round.
Round and round.
Oh, if she had not capered and danced just then the excitement of her
feelings might have given her a fit!
One more daft caper.
One more hysterical joy-bark. Then off over the bridge she flies,
and in two minutes more comes back with Ruth.
Ruth had been making a cake, but those bare, plump, mealy arms of
hers are thrown round her foster-brother's neck all the same, and she
hugs him to her heart.
And----why the poor lassie is crying!
* * * * *
Altogether, this was indeed a happy home coming.
Neither Daddy Dan nor his wife were a bit changed. The garden was
the same, the porch around the door and the roses and flowers, and
even the jasmine that clung about Uncle Bob's wing.
Nothing altered.
Bob's bed yonder too, in Bob's own end of the house.
Aye, and the hooded crow's nest up in the poplar tree.
"And on fine days in summer," said Mrs. Brundell that evening as they
all sat round the blazing hearth, with Meg, the collie, leaning her
chin on Tom's knee, "on fine days in summer your Daddy will wheel out
poor Bob's cot to its old place near to the shed where he works,
though I tell him it is foolish."
Daddy Dan took his pipe from his lips and gazed upwards at the
curling smoke with a strange moisture in his eye.
"Poor Bob," he said, "I like even yet to think the dear lad's near
me."
Book III
CHAPTER I.
A GIPSY'S WARNING.
Wonders will never cease.
Tom Bure had found something at last that had changed during the time
he had been at the wars.
That something was the dainty little person of Bertha Colmore.
She was not at the Hall when Tom first came to Daddy Dan's cottage,
but in two week's time both she and her mother arrived. Tom had
permitted one long day and night to elapse before he paid a visit.
He did not like to appear too precipitate. Then, with Meg in the
bows of the boat, just as in the dear days of yore, he went paddling
away along the beautiful broads, and finally stood on the green mossy
bank not far from the Hall.
Lady Colmore was delighted to see him.
So was lovely Bertha. Yes; she was a very lovely, though very young,
girl; pretty enough to be a queen, Tom thought.
Bertha said she was delighted to see Tom. That is how Tom knew she
was.
He wouldn't have known else.
She approached him, not with a glad rush, as of old; she gave him no
kiss, but only a little gloved hand. She had just come in from a
walk, and she said:
"How are you, Lieutenant Bure? Mamma and I have been so pleased to
hear about you always, and from you also, and we are delighted to see
you."
Tom was asked to stay for dinner. He needed little persuasion.
After that meal, as they were passing along through the hall, Lady
Colmore stopped Tom near to a picture. It was the portrait of a
soldier of a bygone time.
"Strange," she said, "but, my dear Mr. Bure, you get more like that
picture every day; and, now I come to think of it, he was a Bure, or
some such name. He is my son's great-grandfather by the father's
side." She laughed as she added, "It is just possible, you know,
that you are some distant relation of ours."
Tom found himself in the conservatory with Bertha some time after
this.
"It is cooler here, Lieutenant Bure," she said.
Then Tom found his tongue, and to some purpose too.
"Look here, Bertha," he said. "I'm not going to stand any more
lieutenanting. So there! If I can't be Tom to you, as I used to be,
I'll join the first ship I can get, and go off to the wars and get
shot."
"Oh, Tom!"
"There! It's out at last. I'm always going to be Tom to you and
nothing else."
And thereupon, in good old sailor fashion, he took his little
sweetheart in his arms, and gave her a kiss.
The ice was broken, and the "lieutenanting" all done with from that
day and date.
* * * * *
One morning, about three months after this, the old postman brought a
letter or two for Tom. He had been walking in the garden with his
foster sister, but he sat down in the arbour to open them.
"Why, Ruth," he cried all at once, "who do you think is coming here?
You would never guess."
"Oh! but I do guess," she replied, blushing like the autumn roses
that were clustering overhead. "It is Mr. Merryweather. I dreamt
about him last night."
"Poor Jack Merryweather!" continued Tom, reading to himself. "Poor
Jack!"
"Tom," said Ruth, laying a hand on his arm, "he isn't ill, is he?"
She was very pale now.
"No, no, Ruth, he isn't ill; but he'll never serve his country more.
He has lost a leg. Just fancy honest Jack Merryweather making a dot
and carrying one. Ah, well, I may lose my own next. It is all the
fortune of war, Ruth."
In a week's time Jack arrived. The same old Jack as ever in mind and
manners; the want of both legs couldn't have changed Merryweather a
single little bit.
With him came Raventree, looking somewhat sickly, but very happy to
meet his old friend again.
What a vast cargo of news each one of these three sailors had got
stowed away under hatches. Dan and his wife were exceedingly pleased
to see Merryweather again, though with the real live lord, Raventree,
they didn't know well what to do, nor at dinner did Ruth or her
mother know how to address him. "My lord," and "your lordship" were
words that they thought it was but the proper etiquette with which to
lard every sentence. It amused Merryweather and Tom Bure also.
"Lord Raventree, may I help your lordship to another tatie?"
"My lord, your lordship hasn't got a drop o' gravy."
"Does your lordship like the bishop's nose?"
But Raventree settled the difficulty in fine sailor-like fashion
before the dinner was half finished.
"Now, mother," he said, laughing, "and you, my pretty sister Ruth,
there isn't going to be any more 'lording' at this table; just call
me Raventree, as Tom and Jack do, or Mr. Raventree if you like. If
you don't I shall call you the Lady Brundell, and my sissy here the
Princess Ruth, which title, seeing how modest and beautiful she is,
would suit her to perfection. Now let us be all equal, all fair,
square, and above board. The charm of spending a night or two in a
delightful old-fashioned cottage like this lies in imagining I live
here always, that there are no wild wars, no battles, no bo's'n's
pipe to call me at the dark hour of a stormy midnight, and only cock
robin's song to greet me of a morning. Don't dispel my dream,
mother. I was young and foolish once, now I'm older and wiser. Once
I thought it was a fine thing to be a lord. I'd as lief be a miller
now, I think, if I could always live in a place like this. Do you
quite understand, mother?"
"Yes, dear."
"Ah! that's better. Now I have a mamma and a mother both. Mamma
lives at Raventree Court, mother lives in a sweet little cottage on
the edge of a broad."
"Raventree," said Merryweather, "you're what old O'Grady would call
'a broth of a boy.'"
"His heart's in the right place," said Dan. "It would be better for
this country if we had more lords like this one."
"Why don't you enter Parliament?" said Jack.
"Mamma wants me to," said Raventree. "But it isn't good enough. No,
I shall fight my way to the poop cabin of a 90-gun ship, hoist my
pennant, chase the French from the seas, and then----."
"Then what?" said Jack Merryweather.
"Why, come back and marry Ruth, of course, and live happy ever after."
"That I'm sure you won't."
"Why, Jack, why?"
"Why? Because a man can't marry his sister."
"To be sure," cried Dan, laughing. "It's agin' scripture."
But the ice was broken now, and a right merry evening was spent.
Although, it must be confessed, the younger folks did most of the
talking, Dan was content to sit and listen and smoke.
Merryweather rose to go at last.
"No, no, no," cried Dan emphatically, "you don't leave here to-night.
The missus will stow you both in one room. I shan't even apologise
for it. You've been in a smaller before."
So the matter was ended in that way, and Raventree and Jack stayed at
Dan's cottage, not one day, but several days. It was getting near
Christmas time, however, and Raventree determined to take his two
friends with him to Raventree Court, and to hire a carriage with
postillions for the purpose.
First, though, they all paid a visit to the Ashleys. The old man was
delighted to see his pupil again, and Merryweather too.
"My eyes! though," he said, "you do stump along lovely with that
timber toe o' yours. Nobody 'ud know you hadn't been born with it."
Raventree was greatly delighted with the curious home of the Ashleys,
with room above room, or rather cave above cave.
And with the _Fairy_ too.
"Goin' round, I am," said Ashley, "day after to-morrow, to Yarmouth.
Can't you young 'uns man the _Fairy_, and we'll leave the sons at
home to fish?"
"Ah! we'll be delighted."
"Well, that's agreed. Help yourselves to more rum."
"I say, Ashley," said Merryweather, "pay any duty on this?"
"Never a penny," cried Ashley, laughing; "and what's more, I don't
intend."
* * * * * * *
The next visit of the trio was to the Hall. Lady Colmore was her own
proud self now, and, much to Raventree's annoyance, paid all her
court to him--to the lord--leaving his friends, figuratively
speaking, out in the dark and the cold.
But Raventree hoisted his topsails after a time, and stood right away
on the other tack. He overhauled the saucy craft Bertha, and made
violent love to her, greatly to her mother's delight.
"One never knows what may happen, dear," she told Bertha that
evening. "Why, his lordship might come back some future day and
marry you!"
"Please, mother," said Bertha, "I'd rather marry Tom."
"Tom was dragged up in a cottage, Bertha. You should study dignity,
my love. There, go to bed, child; you are too young yet. Just let
your mother think for you."
Our three friends had a delightful trip Yarmouth and back. Of
course, they boarded the _Belle_, and it goes without saying that the
skipper made his usual speech, beginning: "On this auspicious
occasion," and ending with a strong recommendation to his mate to
"splice the main-brace."
* * * * * * *
There were no railway trams in those days, be it remembered, but
there were good coaches and horses; and just a week before Christmas,
Raventree, with Tom and Jack, left Dan's cottage in an open carriage
with four horses and a pair of postillions.
There was just one matter in which young Raventree delighted to
assert his dignity, and that was the matter of equipage. It was
certainly not for pride, however, albeit, he used to say, "What's the
use of being a lord at all if you can't keep it up on shore?"
Raventree, being a sailor, loved horses, that was all, and he would
have them too. Expense? That didn't signify, for once in a way.
His mamma would pay. She loved her sailor boy. So right merrily
they drove off from the cottage, Dan and Ruth standing on the rustic
wee bridge, and waving their handkerchiefs to them as long as they
were in sight, and Meg barking her hardest.
[Illustration: "Dan and Ruth stood on the rustic bridge, and waved to
them as long as they were in sight."]
Those three sailors were all as happy as sailors could be. Two were
young, and if Merryweather was not precisely a spring duck, his heart
was as fresh as a boy's.
The last thing Dan and Ruth saw, before the bend of the road and the
trees hid the carriage from view, was Jack waving aloft his wooden
leg, with a handkerchief bent on to the top of it. He had unshipped
it for the purpose.
Ninety miles they had to go, but the weather was fine and the roads
were hard. The horses too were as good as gold, and the postillions
smart, and small enough to be coxswains for an Oxford or Cambridge
boat race.
They made the first five-and-twenty miles of their journey that day
in fine style, and slept that night at a cosy little old-fashioned
inn, in front of a market square, where they astonished the landlord
by the sumptuousness of the dinner they ordered.
The landlord was a bit put about too, for he was quite unused to such
an order at this season of the year.
But his wife came to his assistance. G----, Esq., of M---- Hall, was
from home, but his cook wasn't. So a polite request brought her down
to the inn, with the result that the dinner was a repast fit to place
before a Russian Emperor.
Just about sunset, and before they sat down to table, Raventree and
Tom were crossing the village green--a huge great park of a place,
with a pump in the centre--when a couple of swarthy-looking, but by
no means ill-favoured, gipsy men came up to them. One was carrying a
dark-eyed little child.
"Good gentlemen," this man said, "it is near Christmas time, and we
haven't much in the caravan yonder except five small children. We
can't eat those."
He smiled pleasantly as he held out his hand.
Something yellow crossed his palm, and with blessings sounding in
their ears our sailors marched on, and soon forgot all about it, for
the time being.
* * * * * * *
"By-the-by," said Tom that evening to Merryweather, "did you ever
hear anything more of that fellow Jones whom you thrashed so prettily
on the sands?"
"Well," was the reply, "he volunteered, as we call it, and I took him
in the ship with me as I had promised."
"And he showed his gratitude?"
"Yes; he nearly brained me with a capstan bar at Gibraltar, then
jumped into the sea, and the men said he was sucked down in an eddy.
I don't want any more gratitude like that."
In due time the carriage arrived safely at Raventree Court, which of
course was all _en gala_. Tom thought that Lady Raventree was the
most perfect lady he had ever seen, and his friend's sisters after
the first few hours seemed positively his own. Never in all his life
had he felt more completely at ease than at Raventree Court, and time
appeared to fly on golden wings, so that three whole weeks went by
like one long delightful dream.
No wonder that when good-byes were said at last, both Tom and Jack
Merryweather had willingly promised that they would on no account
make strangers of themselves.
The postillions were sorry to go. They had had a real good time of
it, as the Yankees express it, and departed with tears in their eyes.
Crack went the whips, and away rolled the carriage, heading east once
more--east with a little bit of south in it.
Thirty miles made their first day's journey, for the horses were as
fresh as salmon, and although snow had fallen to some extent the
roads were clear and hard, so the whole expedition, as Raventree
called it, was as merry and happy as the traditional sand-boy.
Next day's run, however, would only be twenty miles, so an early
start was not thought necessary. The sky looked thick and hazy, with
the horizon closer aboard than Merryweather liked it.
"There is snow in the air," the landlord said; "but you can do it
easily, gentlemen, if you push on. Good luck to you, and the safest
of journeys."
A little way past the hostelry where they had stayed all night was a
steep hill, that led upwards through a clump of trees. Raventree
permitted the horses to slacken speed here, for the ground was
somewhat slippery, and an accident would have been awkward.
As it was the animals had almost to claw their way uphill, stumbling
often, but keeping on their feet.
By the time they reached the top they were well pumped, and Raventree
called a halt. The steam rose from the animals' hides in the frosty
air in clouds, while their sides heaved like billows.
"I think we can go on now, my lord," said the leading postillion at
last. "'T won't do, your lordship, to let 'em get too cold."
"Right then," said Merryweather.
At that moment a man sprang from behind the trees, and placing a
piece of rather dirty-looking paper in Raventree's hand, disappeared
again as suddenly as he had come.
"Why, what is the meaning of this?" said Raventree, laughing, as he
handed the note to Merryweather.
"Well," said the latter, "it's a warning from a friend, there is no
doubt about that."
"_Look well to your priming as you pass through Blackmuir woods._"
"That's plain enough," said Raventree. "Why, how jolly! We're going
to have a real adventure with footpads."
When they pulled up at the top of the next hill to breathe the horses
once again--for the snow was now whirling round their heads in gusts
that were almost suffocating--
"Boys," said Merryweather to the postillions, "where is Blackmuir
wood?"
"Twelve mile far'er on, sir."
"Are your pistols loaded?"
"That they be, sir. We knows Blackmuir well."
Crack went the whips again, and it was evident the boys were not
afraid of anything.
CHAPTER II.
THE FIGHT ON BLACKMUIR MARSH.
"It is the very captain of the thieves."--TENNYSON.
The sun was setting by the time the carriage reached Blackmuir; going
down in a sky of great rolling snow-laden clouds, with here and there
a rift of blue between; going down with a yellow, angry glare, that
boded no good for the travellers. A more dreary waste than this
wind-swept moor, on such a wintry afternoon, it would be difficult to
conceive. Lonesome and lovely it would be in summer time, when the
linnets sang among the patches of golden furze, when the partridges
called to each other among the grass, and water birds made love in
the reedy ponds, while the blackbird's mellow music, and the wild
lilts of the mavis, made the echoes ring in copse and woodland. But
the pools were now frozen, the bushes were but ghostly shapes, the
spruce trees and pines pointed their snow-laden branches groundwards
and looked like sheeted spectres; and when the carriage pulled up for
a short time, before plunging down into a wooded ravine, there was no
sound to be heard save the moan of the wintry wind.
The forest they soon entered was fully two miles in extent--tall
beech trees, oaks, elms, and pines, but with here and there an ocean
of undergrowth that would afford excellent ambush for a footpad.
Slowly the carriage descended the hill. There was a bridge at the
bottom that crossed a rushing stream, then the hill began to ascend
again. But here the trees almost overhung the road.
No one spoke. The postillions kept their heads constantly on the
move. Tom was kneeling on the front seat of the carriage, which was
an open one, and peeping into the semi-darkness of the wood.
Raventree and Merryweather sat behind, each grasping a pistol, while
several more lay handy.
"If we are attacked," said Merryweather quietly, "take good aim,
lads, each at the man nearest to him. Keep steady, and we'll beat
the rascals off if there be fifty----."
Crack, crack, crack. Smoke and flame came from a thicket near. The
leading off horse stumbled and fell, and the postillion came tumbling
to the ground with him.
"Hold your fire," cried Merryweather.
There was a shout from the wood, and six armed and masked men
suddenly sprang into view.
"Give them fits now," roared Merryweather.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, went a volley, and two men fell. The others
rushed in.
"Hold and deliver!" cried one. "If you fire again you are dead men."
At that moment the other postillion fell, and horses and men were now
so mixed up that to fire at the ruffians was impossible, with any
degree of safety to the postillions or horses.
Four huge pistols were levelled at the carriage, and its occupants
seemed marked.
"You haven't a show for it, Merryweather," cried one of the footpads.
But the fellow's voice, instead of cowing the sailors, appeared to
act like the match that fires a mine.
"By Jove! I know you, Jones," cried Merryweather.
He kicked the door of the carriage open as he spoke, and sprang like
a deer into the road. The wooden-leg seemed an advantage rather than
a drawback.
Pistols cracked again, swords clashed, and horses plunged. There
were shouts, oaths, and screams. Then high above the din of battle a
wild huzza from the woods, and two new combatants, armed with
cudgels, rushed upon the stage of battle.
Were they footpads? No; but gipsies, and right sturdily they laid
around them. In two minutes more the battle was decided, every
robber _hors de combat_ or pleading for mercy, and Tom and Raventree
shaking hands with the two swarthy Romany Ryes they had been kind to
three weeks before.
Merryweather had torn the mask from the face of one of the robbers
with no very gentle hand, and there stood revealed the villainous
face of David Jones, the Welsh smuggler.
Merryweather was angry, virtuously, but _very_ angry. He clenched
his fist, and for a moment it seemed he was about to dash it at the
scoundrel's head; but he restrained himself.
"This is the second time you've attempted my life, Jones," he said,
"you cowardly rascal."
"The third'll come," was the cool reply, "if I have the chance."
"That you never shall. You'll hang as high as Haman."
"We'll see," said the fellow. "If I'm hanged my ghost shall haunt
you."
The prisoners were now secured--death indeed had secured two--and the
postillions once more mounted, much afraid still, but all intact.
One horse had been killed, and this was the only fatality on the side
of the sailors, although the carriage was riddled with bullets.
The gipsy caravan was not far away, and this was requisitioned next
day, and a start made from the nearest inn, for Yarmouth; the
prisoners being shut up in the van, and safely guarded by the sturdy
gipsies.
At Yarmouth three prisoners were handed over to the authorities. No,
not four. Jones was found dying in the caravan the evening before
they reached town. He had loosened one hand, found a small knife,
and therewith done the deed that soon hurried him into the presence
of Him who made him.
* * * *
Every man Jack in those dashing days, who could wave sword or cutlass
or trail a pike, was needed by the service, so it was unlikely that
Raventree or Tom would be allowed to rest at home.
Nelson himself, minus an arm, minus an eye, had once more joined the
service, and was on duty at this time in the Mediterranean.
So Raventree and Tom Bure, who had both passed their examinations
with flying colours, and were therefore full-blown lieutenants, were
appointed to a ship then fitting out for sea at Portsmouth.
Nor was Merryweather entirely overlooked. He was overhauled,
however, by a body of bold ship's doctors. They agreed that,
although a wooden leg would be awkward on board a ship, it would not
incapacitate its wearer from certain kinds of duty on shore. So
Merryweather found himself in command of as brave and reckless a lot
of blue-jackets as ever reefed a topsail. They were nominally called
coast-guardsmen, but no one knew better than the townspeople of
Portsmouth, that their principal mission was connected with the
pressgang.
By no means a very elevating employment was this, nor was it one that
Merryweather cared for, only it had to be done by some one. The king
needed men for his navy, and Merryweather would have carried a musket
for his majesty had he been asked to do so.
In this service--coast-guard--O'Grady, formerly of the ships in which
our heroes had fought, was Merryweather's best man, and between the
two of them they managed to obtain quite a large number of
"volunteers."
They did not confine their operations to any one town or place,
however. They would be in Portsmouth one week, probably, and in
London or Dover the next, Mr. Merryweather thinking it best not to be
too well known in any particular port.
Now the _Highflyer_, in which Tom and Raventree were to take passage
to the Levant, in order to join the fleet under the Earl of St.
Vincent--Sir John Jervis--was short of men, and what more natural
than that Merryweather and O'Grady should undertake to supply them?
Both officers knew every corner and alley of old Portsmouth, and what
was better still, they knew every crimp therein.
A crimp was a mean kind of a reptile that lived in clover upon the
earnings of poor Jack in those days, and that still exists in various
forms about the London docks. But the genus is nowadays threatened
with extinction, for sailors have grown wiser, and instead of going
to low lodging-houses they very frequently are to be found at those
very excellent institutions called Sailors' Homes.
When Raventree and Tom, delighted to be together. joined the
_Highflyer_, they found everything in the direst confusion. The ship
had only just been got out of dock, and the "woodpeckers," as the
carpenters were called, were still on board fitting up, the tapping
of their hammers resounding fore and aft all day long.
The _Highflyer_ was an old-fashioned gun brig, with strong masts and
lofty; capable of good speed under a heavy press of canvas, but at
the same time a craft that needed a sailor's eye and a sailor's head
to watch and manœuvre, in dirty weather at all events. Just the
sort of vessel that, if taken aback suddenly in a squall, was as
likely as not to go down stern foremost in five minutes time or far
less.
The captain of the _Highflyer_ was a much older man than either of
our young heroes. His rank, however, was not post, although he gave
himself all the airs of an admiral of the fleet.
Tom and his friend came off in the gig which had been sent for them,
and McTough, the captain, condescended to meet them as they came over
the side. He smiled as he returned their salute, or rather he made a
grimace that was meant for a smile.
A little short dark man he was, with a Highland accent, and a manner
that was intended to denote that on his own quarter-deck there was no
one in all the wide world to compare with McTough, and that it would
only be waste of time to attempt to get to windward of him.
"We're all in blessed confusion at present," he said, "and sure we'll
be so too for days and days. Not half my men either; but
Merryweather will soon find them. Ah! he's the right sort. I was a
middy with him. Come below, gentlemen, to my cabin. It's the only
place in the ship that isn't thoroughly thro'-other."
"Steward!" he cried, when they had seated themselves, "bring the
wine."
It was Scotch wine that the steward brought--in other words, Highland
whisky.
The captain half-filled a tumbler and tossed it off, and seemed a
little astonished that Tom and Raventree did not tackle the stuff in
the same off-hand way. The captain's first glass was drunk "neat,"
that is, without water; the second was diluted, and this one was
evidently meant only to trifle with as he kept talking, for before
they rose to go on deck he helped himself to another, saying, "Pooh!
no, it spoils the flavour," as Raventree passed the water across to
him.
That evening Merryweather and O'Grady came off, and all four dined in
the captain's cabin. There was plenty here to eat and drink, and the
wines were of the best vintage; but nothing would Captain McTough
touch except the wine of his native land.
"I'll have fifteen as handsome volunteers for you," said Merryweather
in the course of the evening, "as ever kept a watch."
"It's me myself that is pleased to hear it," said McTough, ignoring
the rules of grammar in his excitement. "And they'll come of their
own free will, of course?"
Merryweather smiled.
"Better have your surgeon on board," he said, "for I expect there'll
be a broken head or two to see to among the lot."
"And let me just tell you this, Merryweather, I like the men best
that come on board with broken heads. It shows they're no
hinkumsneevies."*
* Hinkumsneevie--a mean, worthless fellow, with no "go" in him.
"Ah! well, McTough, I like to lay them aboard as easily as possible."
"You always were soft-hearted, Merryweather."
"And, Tom, you'll come with us and see the fun. I know Raventree
will."
"Well," said Tom, "I'd just like to know how it is done. But it
seems rather hard on the poor sailors."
"For king and country," said Merryweather.
"If that's a toast," said McTough, "we'll drink it."
And he did. McTough never missed an opportunity of drinking a toast.
And soon after he went to sleep in his arm-chair, which was always
McTough's way of intimating to his guests that they might leave when
they liked.
"Dine with me to-morrow evening at the 'Fountain,' then," said
Merryweather, as he shook hands with his friends and went over the
side.
"A different kind of craft this from the old _Agamemnon_," said Tom
when the boat had shoved off.
"I don't like her, Tom."
"And I don't like McTough."
"Well, suppose we get clear of her as soon as we can."
"Agreed."
CHAPTER III.
"VOLUNTEERS" FOR THE NAVY.--THE BURNING OF THE
"HIGHFLYER."
"I'm a freeman--a nabob--a king on his throne,
For I've chattels and goods and strong beer of my own."
The "gentleman" who wished to see Commander Merryweather, just as he
and his two friends had finished dinner at the "Fountain" next
evening, was not a person one would have taken to very readily.
A tall, fair-haired, bland, inscrutable kind of man, with a shifty
eye. He bowed most obsequiously to Merryweather, then looked
doubtingly at Tom and Raventree, who were both in mufti.
"Friends," said Merryweather curtly.
"Officers, I presume," said Bloggs, for that was his sweetly-savoured
name, and he smiled and bowed again.
"Enough of that, Bloggs," said Merryweather. "Help yourself to some
wine, and let's get to business. Are your men all ready to
volunteer?"
"To a man, Capting Merryweather."
"There now; no names, please. Where are they now, and what doing?"
"They're all on the carouse. Tossing cans, and singing, at No. 9
back-room."
"How many in all?"
"Over twenty; nearer thirty. I've refused them more liquor."
"Fool!"
"See here, Capting--I means mister. I knows my biz, you knows yours.
Supposing I'd been too liberal wi' the grog, they'd have suspected.
There's some among 'em suspects now. I knows what I'm about."
"All right. And they're in the back hall?"
"Ay, and a fiddler's just gone in."
"Keep them dancing and gay, Bloggs, till after midnight. We'll be
there. Yes, empty the bottle if you like."
Bloggs had a double allowance of wine, bowed, smiled, and retired.
"Awful villain!" said Merryweather. "Those poor fellows we're going
to have, if we can, have most of them been there a week, and hardly
ever seen daylight."
"Does he keep them in the dark?" asked Tom innocently.
"You don't understand," said Merryweather, laughing. "He keeps them
drunk that he may cheat them, and they hardly know whether it is
night or day. If we didn't have them, Bloggs would bundle them,
still drunk, on board some merchantman, five, six, or even ten at a
time, receive their advance, and go smiling on shore again, to allure
more to his dismal den. The ships that take them lie in the harbour
for a day or two, and as soon as the poor seamen are sober it is up
jib and off."
The back hall of No. 9 was considered the safest crimp's crib in all
Portsmouth. It lay fifty yards off the street. You entered by a
narrow alley, then found yourself in a kind of garden, at the bottom
of which stood the hall, or dancing howff. Here poor Jack drank,
danced, ate, and slept, awaking only to eat, dance, and drink again.
Let us look in here to-night. It will be some time before our eyes
are quite used to the clouds of tobacco smoke; then we can dimly see
Jack and Sally, or Poll, seated at tables round the room, smoking,
singing, and yarning. There is a screechy old fiddle at quite the
other end of the big room, and half-a-dozen couples on the floor
footing it lightly on the fantastic toe, or the heavy heel.
The hubbub and din is fearful, for more than one song is going on at
the same time, though if you listen you can just make out the words
of the singer at the nearest table. His eyes sparkle with mirth as
he trolls out the following ditty:
"Wounds! here's such a coil! I'm none of your poor
Petty varlets, who flatter and cringe, and all that;
I'm a freeman, a nabob, a king on his throne,
For I've chattels and goods, and strong beer of my own.
Besides, 't is a rule, that good fellows ne'er fail,
To let everything wait but the generous ale.
_Chorus_--Besides----"
That chorus was never sung.
"Long live the King," shouted Merryweather, entering by the only
door, and apparently all alone.
"Now, good fellows, it's all up; so who's going to fight the French
for St. George and merrie England?"
There was just one moment of stillness after this bold, brief speech,
then pandemonium seemed suddenly let loose. A shower of bottles,
jugs, and cans came floating towards Merryweather, but he ducked and
retired; women screamed, tables were overthrown, and amidst oaths and
maledictions a rush was made for the door.
A few were knocked down and handcuffed as they came, but the rush was
too great, even for the force of bluejackets.
The fight in the garden was a fearful one. The moon shone as
brightly as day, and in less than a minute showed at least a dozen
couples struggling on the ground.
It was not the object of the seamen to stop to fight, however, but to
escape.
The second rush was through the alley, but here they encountered
Merryweather's rear-guard. So well, indeed, had he disposed of his
men, that out of the thirty odd merchant seafarers only about seven
escaped.
There was no happier man next morning than Captain McTough, as he
reviewed his volunteers--twenty-two in all, and scarcely one among
them who had not a cut face or blood-matted hair.
And now a strange thing occurred. The very man who last evening had
been singing about being
"A freeman, a nabob, a king on his throne,"
stepped out of the ranks and saluted the captain.
"Men," he said, "I'm a volunteer."
"And we're all volunteers, Bill," they shouted.
Then he turned to Merryweather.
"It doesn't matter a deal," he said, "now we're here, whether we
volunteer or not. But, sir, I wish you were going with us, timber
toe and all; for, faith! you fought finely, and I love a brave man."
Merryweather shook the man by the hand, and the volunteers cheered
him as he went over the side. But I may as well state here as
anywhere else that Bill Williams--and a bold Welshman he was--turned
out one of the best men in the ship. And if a man could be good
under such a tyrant as Commander McTough he could be good anywhere.
The brig had not got half-way over the Bay of Biscay before this
officer showed the cloven hoof. He had no less than two men down
from aloft in the same forenoon, stripped and flogged--four round
dozen each, _sans ceremonie_.
His language was also, to say the very least, far from polite.
McTough was a sample of the naval officers who are despots on their
own quarterdecks, and who, even in those days, I am happy to say were
comparatively rare.
Tom Bure was sick of the fellow in four or five days' time, and could
hardly be civil to him.
Raventree ventured to take a man's part, and received such a torrent
of invective that he told McTough, there where he stood, that he was
a scoundrel and a villain.
"Mutiny! Rank mutiny!" roared McTough, growing almost black in the
face. "Down--below--under arrest, sir. I have half a mind to hang
you to-morrow morning at the yard-arm. I have."
Raventree smiled, gave up his sword--it was at divisions--and went
quietly below to his cabin.
"I have orders to let no one in to see the gentleman," said the
sentry, when Tom went below that evening.
But Tom got in for all that.