Raventree was lying on his cot, reading by the light of a jimble-lamp.

"Tom," he said, "you mustn't stay a minute. I'll be cashiered as

sure as a gun. But you needn't be."

"Keep up your heart," said Tom. "You're not tried yet, and there's

many a thing may happen before we join the fleet."

Tom's prophecy came terribly true.

* * * * *

It was some nights after Raventree had been put under arrest, and

towards the end of the middle watch--kept to-night by Tom, for it was

watch and watch now that his friend was off duty--when Bill Williams,

who had been sent below on some message, returned hastily on deck.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but there is a a terrible smell

of burning between decks. Will you run down?"

Tom had not far to run. Not "smell" alone, but smoke was issuing

from underneath the door of the captain's cabin. The alarm was given

at once, and the fire bell had not clanged for a minute before every

man was on deck. No disorder, however, no confusion. They were

British seamen--Hearts of Oak.

The door of the cabin was found locked inside, but was speedily burst

in, and as speedily flames rushed out. Even had he been alive, there

could have been no hopes of saving the unhappy captain; but ten to

one he himself or the wine of his native land had been the cause of

the terrible calamity.

Tom Bure now assumed command, and he and Raventree, whom fate had

relieved from arrest, at once divided the crew into two parties.

Both worked like heroes, one party to get up the ammunition, of which

there was quite a large store on board, the other in drawing water,

to quell, if possible, the raging demon, Fire. The ship was put head

to the wind, but in less than half an hour she had fallen off, for

the whole afterpart was on fire, and steering was impossible.

Very speedily now the flames took possession of the rigging, and the

scene that ensued baffles description. In less than five minutes

after the vessel broached to, she was on fire from stem to stern.

Everything that could be lifted and launched overboard was thrown

out, but there was no time to lower a boat. The men simply leapt

into the sea by the dozen and score, for there had been nearly 200

men all told when the brig swung out past the Needles.

Tom Bure and Raventree, with many others, including Bill Williams,

had sought refuge on the jibboom and bowsprit. It was but a choice

of deaths apparently, when suddenly Bill shouted:

"Oh! look, Mr. Bure, yonder is a light, and it is bearing this way."

The night was intensely dark, and with the glare of the fire it

seemed impossible that anyone could have caught sight of a light.

Williams was right, however.

In a few minutes' time boats were alongside picking up the drowning

men, who clung to the floating wreckage.

Our brave fellows on the jibboom cheered them, Frenchmen though they

could see they were. Their great black frigate lay out yonder

against the star-studded horizon, gently rising and falling on the

swell of the mighty Atlantic.

"We'll be all prisoners," said Bill.

"Never mind, Williams," said another sailor, "any port in a storm;

but I say, Jack, I----"

Crash! The bowsprit was severed, and down went the jibboom into the

sea. In another minute the brig had filled aft, heeled backwards,

and gone down stern first, leaving but a few black, seething, smoking

spars among the bubbling waves. Half at least of the poor fellows

who had thought themselves safe on the jibboom were sucked down with

the sinking ship.

* * * * *

Of all the crew of the sturdy brig _Highflyer_, only fifty-three

mustered at daylight on board the French frigate.

"My dear Tom," said Raventree, "I have never felt more thankful for

anything than to see your face among the saved."

"And I to see you, Raventree."

"And I to see you both, gentlemen," said bold Bill Williams,

advancing.

Both Tom and Raventree reciprocated by shaking the honest fellow by

the hand.

Nothing could exceed the kindness of the Frenchmen to the men they

had rescued in so strange a manner.

Raventree and Tom were invited into the captain's cabin, and there

they breakfasted.

"It is very kind of you to treat prisoners thus," said Tom.

"It ees all well," said the captain; "and it ees de fortune of de

war. Perhaps it may be my turn next."

A day or two after this, and early in the morning, the strange

spectacle was witnessed of a large French frigate coming straight in

from the north-west, under all sail, towards the fleet of Sir John

Jervis, who was still blockading Cadiz.

Here was a mystery that made every man on every ship stare in

amazement.

Was peace declared, or was that ship mad?

Mad or not mad, she made directly for the admiral's ship, with a

white flag flying at her fore, and the French stripes at her peak.

She wanted to speak, that was evident enough. So a boat was speedily

hastening towards her. When the officer stepped on board he was

quickly told the terrible story of the burning of the _Highflyer_,

and the saving of a portion of her crew, whom the French captain now

desired to give up to the admiral of the British fleet.

"One touch of Nature makes the world kin."

St. Vincent was much affected by this display of genuine kindness and

chivalry. He insisted upon the French captain coming to dine with

him, and when the frigate at last got under weigh a signal was made

to man yards, and a cheer went over the water after the receding ship

that must have rung in the ears of the crew for many a long day after.

CHAPTER IV

THE SEARCH FOR THE FRENCH FLEET--AT LAST.

"Now's the day, and now's the hour,

See the front of battle lower."--BURNS.

We must now return to our hero Nelson.

In an early chapter of this story I mentioned that the great man had

once gone to Paris, and had there met an officer who was somewhat of

a dandy, and whose name was Ball.

Nelson had found it impossible to associate bravery and pluck with

fine clothes. This dislike to fine clothing he had doubtless picked

up in the merchant ship in which he served for a time, and it had

clung to him. However, he lived to find out that though first

impressions are usually very strong, it does not follow that they are

always just and correct.

After joining St. Vincent, about the end of April, the admiral of the

fleet got word that the French were getting ready a great expedition

at Toulon and Genoa.* It was not known for what this armament was

intended, and various conjectures were hazarded. Perhaps the enemy

meant to attack Naples or Sicily, or to invade Ireland. However,

this armament of theirs must be sought for and destroyed if possible.

* _Vide_ Map.

Now there were many officers senior to Nelson on the station, and on

one or other of these--so they thought--ought to have devolved the

command of the anti-French squadron.

The Earl of St. Vincent, however, thought different. He _knew_

Nelson; knew what he could dare and what he could do; knew how wise

and clever he was, how energetic, bold, and determined; knew that if

he undertook a mission of any kind he would, figuratively speaking,

"give neither sleep to his eyes nor slumber to his eyelids" until he

had fulfilled it.

But when the admiral of the fleet appointed him to the

search-squadron there was a howl of rage from all quarters, at home

as well as abroad. Sir John Orde, a senior in the service to Nelson,

let his wrath get such mastery over him that he challenged St.

Vincent to fight a duel. St. Vincent was no fool, and I suppose

quietly lit a pipe with the challenge. Anyhow, it never came off.

But even a lord of the admiralty condemned the conduct of the admiral

of the fleet, who, however, could stand red tape abuse quite as well

as he could the fire of the French in battle.

Still so high did popular feeling run in some quarters, that one

trembles to think what the fate of our great hero would have been,

had he been beaten by the foe when he at last found his fleet. He

would certainly have been brought home, tried, and probably executed.

Can you imagine anything more horrible than that would have been,

reader--executing Nelson? But the mere possibility of such a thing

only proves that the public, which heroes serve so faithfully and

well, is after all like a caged lion or tiger, tame to a fault with

its keeper, the hero, but a savage creature and a fool in its wrath

when crossed or put out of temper. The public will pamper and

idolize a man one day, and trample his bleeding body under foot the

next.

So Nelson sailed with his ships.

He had orders to requisition stores, food, water, &c., in any port of

the Mediterranean he chose. If such stores were not forthcoming,

that port was to be treated as an enemy's. One exception only was

made; viz., in the case of Sardinia.

Well, this expedition of Nelson's had but a bad beginning; for while

crossing the Gulf of Lyons he encountered a terrible storm of wind,

which scattered his ships in all directions, and nearly wrecked the

_Vanguard_, on which his flag was flying. There is almost as much

humour as pathos in the letter he writes to his wife on this occasion.

"Imagine if you can," he says, "a vain-glorious man--your

husband--walking his quarter-deck on Sunday evening, with his

squadron all around him, who* looked up to their chief to lead them

to glory, and in whom this chief placed the firmest reliance that the

proudest ships, in equal numbers, belonging to France would have

lowered their flags, and with a very rich prize lying by him. Figure

to yourself this proud, conceited man when the sun rose on Monday

morning, his ship dismasted, his fleet dispersed, and himself in such

distress that the meanest frigate out of France would have been a

very unwelcome guest."

* The young reader will note that Nelson's grammatical construction

of sentences was not always on an even keel.

But, lo! the very man whom Nelson had so despised in France, and

dubbed a dandy and a fop, came now to his assistance in the

_Alexander_, and at the imminent danger to both ships of foundering,

took him in tow to St. Pierre. No wonder that Nelson loved the man

from that day forth.

* * * * *

In a few days' time, however, Nelson had undergone repairs, and was

able once more to start on his voyage. But, alas! he had lost sight

of his frigates.

Britain and France at this time, reader, you must remember were

playing at cross purposes to some extent, and great wars usually have

been carried on in this way. Britain and France, not content with

hitting each other in the face straight from the shoulder whenever

they had a chance, did all they could to kick the stools from under

each other. For instance, we bolstered up the kingdom of Naples,

which has well been stigmatised as one of the most abominable,

disreputable, and licentious of European governments. The king was

inferior to an English squire. He would have been good in a rat hunt

with fox terriers, or in a rabbit coursing match; but he was utterly

unfitted either to fight or rule a people. His wife, the queen,

was--well, the least said the better. And we, Britain, were to

protect the two of them against the revolutionary schemes of France,

not, mind you, because we loved them, but because we hated France.

This kingdom then was the stool we intended to kick from under

France. But kicking is a game both can play at, and France turned

her attention to India. They would attack us _there_, just as the

Russians will before fifty years are over. May they be as

unsuccessful as old Napoleon was.

But before India could be used as a basis of operations against

Britain, Egypt must be conquered and occupied.

It must be confessed too, that the French carried out their plans for

the invasion of Egypt with consummate skill and boldness, for as your

school history tells you, reader, Napoleon, with an army of 30,000

old and well-disciplined troops, managed to hoodwink the British and

put to sea _en route_ for Alexandria.

Malta fell in the first off-go.

Napoleon landed in the end of June unopposed near to Alexandria.

The conquest of Egypt followed in rapid course. With such troops,

under such a splendid commander, this conquest was all one glorious

picnic. So the battle of the Pyramids was fought, and crushed was

the pomp and panoply of the great Marmelukes. Cairo fell, and on

marched the victorious troops.

So sure of getting his army to India was Napoleon, that as soon as he

landed he dispatched secret envoys to Tippoo Saib, son of Hyder Ali,

who had built up a great new state in the south of India. These

envoys were to inform Tippoo to hold himself in readiness for a _coup

de grace_, because the French were on their way to his assistance.

BUT--and please note this is a very important _but_--Napoleon's

dreams of further glory in India depended entirely upon his being

able to keep up his communications with France, and, says Davenport

Adams, "while France held Italy and the Ionian Islands these could

not be interrupted, so long as the British armament in the

Mediterranean was kept occupied in watching the movements of the

French fleet."

The _raison d'etre_ of Nelson's movements will now be easily seen.

Owing to the shilly-shalling and inactivity of the king of Naples,

who would neither move hand nor foot to save himself or help to free

Italy, Nelson was very much delayed. Meanwhile St. Vincent was

reinforced by ships sent from England. His lordship had previously

received word that such reinforcement was about to be dispatched, and

therefore he had lost not a moment in getting ready another squadron

to send to Nelson's assistance, and this consisted of the most

powerful ships under his command, under the best of his captains.

No sooner, therefore, were the outcoming fleet visible off Cadiz Bay,

than Troubridge's squadron sailed. It was upon the 9th of June that

the hero was joined by this squadron.

Then commenced the great game of hide and seek. Nelson had to solve

a puzzle somewhat similar to the pictorial advertisement, in which

you are presented with an illustration called "The babes of the wood

and cock robin." There lie the babes under the trees quietly enough,

with a few leaves over them, but where is cock robin? That is what

you have to find out. And here was Nelson with his squadron in the

Mediterranean--the Mediterranean was all about him, blue and evident

enough, but where was the French fleet? That was what the hero had

to find out.

The story of Nelson's search for the enemy would make a very pretty

and romantic story all by itself.

Nelson, however, was not a man to be very easily disheartened, so he

started in pursuit, if such a blindman's buff could be termed

pursuit. He learned that the enemy had been seen off Trapani, in

Sicily, in the first week in June, and that they were then steering

eastwards away.

Troubridge next found out that they had gone to Malta, and Nelson

bore up for that city of tumbledown forts and steps and stairs.

Nelson arrived at Malta just too late. So on the 18th of June he

steered for Egypt. Had Nelson only had the frigates with him, which

he had lost sight of in that unlucky gale in the Gulf of Lyons, it

would not have been difficult now to find the French. On his way to

Alexandria, however, he overhauled several merchantmen, but could get

no tidings of the enemy.

"Have you seen anything of the French fleet?" was the question that

seemed to be always put. "Or you? Or you?"

And the answers were always--

"No, no, no."

"Well, they may be at Alexandria," thought Nelson. He arrived off

this city on the 28th of June.

"No," was again the answer to his enquiries; the French had not been

seen or heard of.

But the governor had received intelligence that the armament prepared

by the French was really intended for Egypt.

"It would have been," says Southey, "Nelson's delight to have tried

Bonaparte on a wind. It would have been the delight of Europe too,

and the blessing of the world, if that fleet had been overtaken with

its general on board. But of the myriads and millions of human

beings, who would have been preserved by that day's victory, there is

not one to whom such essential benefit would have resulted as to

Bonaparte himself. It would have spared him his defeat at Acre--his

only disgrace; for to have been defeated by Nelson upon the seas

would not have been disgraceful, and it would have spared him all his

after enormities.

"Hitherto his--Bonaparte's--career had been glorious, the baneful

principles of his heart had never yet passed his lips. History would

have represented him as a soldier of fortune, who had faithfully

served the cause in which he had engaged, and whose career had been

distinguished by a series of successes, unexampled in modern times.

A romantic obscurity would have hung over the expedition to Egypt,

and he would have escaped the perpetration of those crimes that have

incarnadined his soul with a deeper dye than that of the purple for

which he committed them--those acts of perfidy, midnight murder,

usurpation, and remorseless tyranny, which have consigned his name to

universal execration now and for ever."

Not finding the French at Alexandria, Nelson steered north for

Caramania, and thence along the shores of Candia, "carrying a press

of sail both night and day against a contrary wind."

He next returned towards Sicily, only to find that the Government of

Naples were too much afraid of the French to give him any assistance

in the shape of water and provisions, without which he could not have

continued his pursuit of the enemy.

But Nelson had a friend at Court, and after some little vexatious

delay he was permitted to re-victual at Syracuse.

Nelson was glad at heart now, and wrote to Sir William Hamilton, the

British Ambassador at Naples, and to Lady Hamilton, as follows:

"Thanks to your exertions, we have victualled and watered, and

surely, watering at the fountain of Arethusa, we must have victory.

We shall sail with the first breeze, and be assured I will return

either crowned with laurel or covered with cypress."

He wrote also to St. Vincent, telling him that if the enemy was still

above water he should find them; and to the First Lord of the

Admiralty, saying, among other things, "but should they be bound to

the Antipodes, your lordship may rely upon it that I will not lose a

moment in bringing them to action."

* * * * * *

On the 25th of July Nelson got away from Syracuse, and made the Gulf

of Coron on the 28th.

One cannot help pitying poor Nelson at this time, lying awake in his

bed at night after a few hours of sleep, thinking and worrying till

almost ill, asking the officer of the watch again and again what time

it was, and peevishly crying, "Will morning never come?"

There was hardly an hour of the day now that he did not lament and

bemoan the loss of his frigates, that were no doubt looking for him

somewhere, as eager to meet him as he was to catch sight of them.

In this game of hide-and-seek, or blind man's buff, strange as it may

seem, the French and British fleets must positively have crossed each

other's tracks on the night of June 22nd.

Troubridge now entered the port of Coron, and came back with the news

that a whole month before this the French fleet had been observed

steering to the south-east from Candia.

Nelson determined, therefore, to once more bear up for Alexandria,

convinced in his own mind that the fleet of the enemy would be found

there.

Nor was he mistaken.

For on the morning of August the 1st Captain Hood, of the _Zealous_,

hoisted the signal to say he had discovered them.

"Thank God!" said Nelson fervently. "At last!"

He had hardly slept or eaten for a week before this, but to-day he

dined with his captains, while preparations for battle were being

made. As they rose from the table Nelson exclaimed,

"Before this time to-morrow I shall have gained a peerage or

Westminster Abbey!"

CHAPTER V.

THE BATTLE OF THE NILE--HORRORS OF THE

COCKPIT--NELSON WOUNDED.

"Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of the scenery."

Tom Bure and Raventree, after the burning of their ship, and their

wonderful deliverance from what seemed the certainty of death, would,

upon their arrival on board the flagship of the Earl of St. Vincent,

have dearly liked to have been appointed together to the same ship,

but this was not to be. Tom Bure had to join Troubridge, of the

_Culloden_, and Raventree was sent on board the _Zealous_, under

Captain Samuel Hood.

On the very morning that the French fleet was discovered, not

altogether satisfied with the outlook, Raventree had himself run

aloft, and had not been there three minutes before he was able to

raise the topgallant masts of the Frenchmen. He immediately hailed

the deck, and the glad signal was at once hoisted.

It may be to the advantage of the reader to scan the following lists

of the ships, guns, and men of the two fleets that were engaged in

THE BATTLE OF THE NILE.

I. _British Line of Battle at the Nile_.*

SHIPS. CAPTAINS. GUNS. MEN.

14 Culloden . . . Troubridge . 74 ... 590

4 Theseus . . . . Miller . . . 74 ... 590

7 Alexander . . . Ball . . . . 74 ... 590

8 Vanguard . . . _Nelson_ . . 74 ... 525

9 Minotaur . . . Luis . . . . 74 ... 640

6 Leander . . . . Thompson . . 50 ... 343

11 Swiftsure . . Hallowell . . 74 ... 590

1 Audacious . . . Gould . . . . 74 ... 590

10 Defence . . . Peyton . . . 74 ... 590

2 Zealous . . . . Hood . . . . 74 ... 590

5 Orion . . . . . Saumarez . . 74 ... 590

3 Goliath . . . . Foley . . . . 74 ... 590

13 Majestic . . . Westcott . . 74 ... 590

12 Bellerophon . Darby . . . . 74 ... 590

15 _La Mutine_ . Hardy

II. _French Line of Battle_.*

A Le Guerrier . . ....... . 74 ... 600 Taken

B Le Conquérant . ....... . 74 ... 700 Taken

C Le Spartiate . ....... . 74 ... 700 Taken

* The figures and letters prefixed to each vessel marks on the plan

its position in the battle.

[Illustration: PLAN OF THE BATTLE OF THE NILE.]

SHIPS. CAPTAINS. GUNS. MEN.

D L'Aquilon ........ 74 ... 700 Taken

E Le Peuple Souverain ........ 74 ... 700 Taken

F Le Franklin } Blanquet, 1st { 80 ... 700 Taken

} Contra-Adm. {

} Brueys, V.A., {

G L'Orient } and { 120 ... 1010 Burnt

} Com.-in-Chief {

H Le Tonnant ....... 180 ... 800 Taken

I L'Heureux ....... 74 ... 700 Taken

K Le Timoléon ....... 75 ... 700 Burnt

M Le Mercure ....... 74 ... 700 Taken

L Le Guillaume } Villeneuve, { 80 ... 800 Escaped

Tell } 2nd Con-Ad. {

N Le Genéreux ....... 74 ... 700 Escaped

French Frigates.

Q La Diane . . . . 48 ... 300 Escaped

E La Justice . . . . 44 ... 300 Escaped

P L'Artemise . . . . 36 ... 250 Burnt

O La Sérieuse . . . . 36 ... 250 Sunk

It is difficult at this date to determine with any degree of

exactness what were the orders given to the commander-in-chief of the

French fleet by Napoleon Bonaparte. It seems strange that a great

soldier and conqueror like him should not have sent away his ships

after he had effected his landing, and he accused Brueys, after that

unfortunate admiral was killed in the battle of the Nile, of having

lingered in Egypt without his orders. The French fleet was sorely

enough needed in other directions. It might even have succeeded in

raising the blockade of Cadiz.

Be this as it may, here were Brueys and his fleet safely--as the

Frenchmen thought--moored in Aboukir Bay; in a line of battle of such

strength that one would have thought no three navies in the world

could have broken it up.

Brueys would gladly have entered the port of Alexandria, but his

ships were too heavy, so he did the next best thing.

A glance at the plan will show how the Frenchmen were positioned in

this great fight. But besides the advantage of location, it will be

noticed that the enemy had also more ships, more guns, and more men

than the British. Brueys might well have felt certain that victory

would be his.

Perhaps it was the apparent impregnability of his situation that

caused him to wait here for Nelson. He must have known that our hero

was headstrong enough to attack him wherever he found him, and that

in Aboukir Bay he had a reasonable chance of victory, while in the

open sea he would have had none.

I have not the slightest doubt in my own mind that Nelson took into

calculation, even before he fell in with the French here, the

possibility of their being moored in battle array, just as he found

them. Nor do I doubt that an attack, even by Nelson, from the front

or in the ordinary way would have been unsuccessful. But Nelson was

no ordinary man, and never did attack in any ordinary way. So when

he found out how the enemy was moored, it instantly flashed upon him

that if the water of the bay between their fleet and the shore was

deep enough for such great ships as _L'Orient_ and _Le Tonnant_ to

swing, there was room enough for one line of our ships to sail up

behind them, as a landsman would call it, and thus attack them on

their least prepared side, while another attacked on the outside.

These were tactics that Brueys was entirely unprepared for, and never

could have even dreamt of. But as it was getting towards evening

when our ships hove in sight, Brueys must have also flattered himself

that Nelson would not be headstrong enough to attack that night. No,

he would assuredly let go anchor, and commence the battle at the

earliest dawn of day.

Our hero was never a man to wait, however. "Go at the enemy

pell-mell whenever you meet them," was one of his few mottoes, and

now he meant to act upon it.

He ordered his ships to form in line-of-battle ahead and astern of

the flagship, then signalled to Hood, of the _Zealous_, to know if

there was depth enough of water between the French line of battle and

the sandbank. "I do not know," was the reply, "but I shall stand in

and see."

The _Zealous_ started at once on her dangerous mission, taking

soundings as she went leisurely on.

She cleared the shoal.

With her went the _Goliath_.

Nelson's signal was, "that the headmost ship should bear down, and

engage as she reached the enemy's van, the next ship to pass by and

engage the second, the third to pass by and engage the third, and so

on."

And one by one our ships took up their positions. The battle began

in earnest at half-past six, and in half an hour's time it was pitchy

dark.

As long as daylight lasted the streaming flags on our ships could be

seen above the white and curling smoke. As soon as night fell each

British ship hoisted four horizontal lights at her peak. "The third

ship," says Southey, "that doubled the enemy's van was the _Orion_,

Sir F. Saumarez. She passed to windward of the _Zealous_, and opened

her larboard guns as long as they bore on the _Guerrier_; then,

passing inside the _Goliath_ (_i.e._, 'twixt that ship and the land),

sank a frigate that annoyed her, hauled round towards the French

line, and anchoring inside, between the fifth and sixth ships from

the _Guerrier_, took her station on the larboard side of _Le

Franklin_ (Blanquet's 80-gun ship) and the quarter of the _Le Peuple

Souverain_, receiving and returning the fire of both."

The sun had now nearly sunk.

The _Audacious_, Captain Gould, pouring a heavy fire into the

_Guerrier_ and _Conquérant_, fixed herself on the larboard side of

the latter, and when she struck passed on to _Le Peuple Souverain_.

The _Theseus_ followed, brought down the _Guerrier's_ remaining

masts, the main and mizen, then anchored inside the _Spartiate_, the

third in the French line.

So much for the inner or land side of the enemy's fleet. What about

the outer?

"While," continues Southey, "these advanced ships doubled the French

line, the _Vanguard_ was the first that anchored on the outer side of

the enemy within half a pistol shot of the _Spartiate_. He veered

half a cable, and instantly opened a tremendous fire, under cover of

which the other four ships of his division, the _Minotaur_,

_Bellerophon_, _Defence_, and _Majestic_, sailed on ahead of the

admiral."

Captain Louis, in the _Minotaur_, anchored next ahead, and took off

the fire of the _Aquilon_, the fourth in the enemy's line. So

terrible had the fire of this ship been that fifty of the

_Vanguard's_ men were killed or wounded in a few minutes. But bold

Louis quickly quieted her.

The _Bellerophon_, Captain Darby, passed ahead and dropped her stern

anchor on the starboard bow of the _Orient_, seventh in the line.

Captain Peyton, in the _Defence_, took his station ahead of the

_Minotaur_, and engaged the _Franklin_, the sixth in the line; by

which judicious arrangement the British line remained unbroken.

The _Majestic_, Captain Westcott, got entangled in the main rigging

of one of the enemy's ships astern of the _Orient_, and suffered

dreadfully from that three-decker's fire; but she swung clear, and

closely engaging the _Heureux_, the ninth ship on the starboard bow,

received also the fire of the _Tonnant_, which was the eighth in the

line.

The other four ships of the squadron, having been detached previous

to the discovery of the French, were at a considerable distance when

the action began.

Troubridge, in the _Culloden_, was nearest, however, though some five

miles away. He was very unfortunate, and ran fast aground. The

_Leander_ and _Mutine_ came to his assistance, but were unable to get

him off. The _Alexander_ and _Swiftsure_, however, kept off the

reef, entered the bay, and commenced the battle in a most masterly

and seaman-like fashion.

Of all our ships perhaps the _Bellerophon_ suffered the worst. The

_Swiftsure_ met her staggering out of the line, and at first took her

for a strange sail, for she carried not the four horizontal lights.

In fact these had been shot away, with all her masts and cables,

while nearly 200 of her brave crew were either killed or wounded.

The _Swiftsure_ took her place against the _Orient_, which had done

the mischief.

The last to come into action was the _Leander_, which she did as soon

as she found she could be of no service to poor Troubridge. She took

up a position boldly, so that she could rake both the _Orient_ and

the _Franklin_.

So speedy, determined, and terrible upon the whole was the attack of

the British upon the French line of battle, and so completely were

Nelson's instructions carried out on both the inner and outside of

the lint that victory was a matter of certainty in a very short time.

In less than fifteen minutes the two ships first in the French line

were dismasted, and at half-past eight the third, fourth, and fifth

were taken.

When we remember that in a very few minutes after the _Vanguard_,

Nelson's ship, took up her position every man at the six guns in the

fore part of the vessel was either killed or wounded, and that these

guns were several times cleared we can easily believe that down in

the ghastly cockpit the surgeons were busy enough at their terrible

work.

Do not forget, reader, that there was no chloroform in those days, no

way of producing insensibility or of conquering pain, and the brave

men who fell on deck were dragged or carried below bleeding and sick,

often to endure such agonies of pain as only medical men who have

seen gunshot wounds can realise.

At best the cockpit of an old-fashioned man-of-war ship is but a

stuffy place, and during a battle it would be stifling as well as

stuffy. As soon as the orders were given to clear for action, or go

to quarters, all was bustle and stir with the surgeons as with

others. They had their attendants, and "the idlers"--so called--of

the ship were all requisitioned to assist them--spare clerks, &c.

Although the space between decks was so low that an ordinary sized

man had to stoop as he walked along, to save his head from being

knocked against the beams or bolts, there was usually plenty of

length and breadth of beam also, in the cockpit or orlop deck.

Lanterns too were hung here and there in abundance, and there were

carrying lanterns as well, sometimes even naked lights.

The operating table was placed pretty near to the foot of the main

hatch ladder well aft, and close to it the tool table. On this last

was laid out in order every instrument that was likely to be of

service, with plenty of bandages, splints, lint, and tow, with

ointment for dressings, &c. On the deck near to this table were

placed buckets of water and bottles of wine, brandy, or rum, so

positioned that they would neither be in the way nor liable to fall

over with any sudden motion of the ship.

When all was ready the doctors had only to wait as coolly as they

could. The waiting for the first shot was the worst of it. When the

battle was once begun it was not long before the shuffling of feet

overhead, and the unsteady steps of bearers at the top of the stairs

told of a coming case. As often as not blood came pattering down

first, but blood is nothing to a surgeon in working dress. So the

wound, ghastly though it might be, was soon seen to, and temporarily

dressed, and the moaning patient laid down near the bulkheads. Then

cases begin to come down thick and fast. Smoke too, and the

suffocating after-damp of the battle fill the cockpit, the lanterns

burn dimly, the heat is overpowering almost. The doctors are busy

enough now. They throw off their garments, they roll up their

sleeves, their hands and arms are encarnadined, their faces and hair

bespattered with blood, but quietly and firmly they work, and all as

gently as may be. Many a soothing word of kindness helps to rally a

fainting heart, and they give hope even in cases they know are

dangerous.

But, oh, the heat and the smoke and the stifling odour! The decks

all around are slippery with blood, which the sprinkled sawdust is

not sufficient to absorb. There are moans and cries and pitying

appeals for help and water--water--water--coming from every

direction. The very water itself is oftentimes red with blood.

Fainting patients need wine, or even brandy; and but for that wine

and brandy very often the surgeons themselves would faint with very

fatigue and want of air.

A surgeon's operating tent in the rear of a field of battle may be a

sad and fearful sight; but in horrors it could not be compared to the

cockpit of an old seventy-four while a fight like that of the Nile

was raging overhead.

It was into the midst of just such a scene as I have but too feebly

depicted that Nelson, wounded and bleeding, was carried during the

night of this glorious but fearful battle.

The loss of blood has a paralysing effect upon the nerves and spirits

of a wounded man. It is doubly so if he can feel the blood all about

him--feel soaked in it, swamped in it, without being able to see.

That was Nelson's plight. The piece of shot had struck him on the

forehead, and the flap of skin and flesh hung over his one remaining

eye, entirely blinding him.

Nelson believed himself dying.

But not even the darkness of what seemed approaching death could

daunt the heart of the hero.

The chief surgeon would have left his other patients unattended for a

time to see to Nelson's wound, but he would not hear of it for a

moment.

"No," he cried, "I will take my turn with my brave fellows."

And at last that turn came; and even the wounded and the dying raised

a cheer when they heard the wound, despite the amount of blood lost,

was only superficial.

CHAPTER VI.

THE BURNING OF THE "ORIENT"--A HEART OF OAK.

"All is wail

As they strike the shattered sail,

Or in conflagration pale

Light the gloom."

From seven till eight o'clock the scene of conflict must have been

appalling in the extreme. No wonder that Arabs gathered on the

beach, and stood in groups looking on, awestruck and silent. What

sounds those spectators must have heard--the continued thunder of the

great guns, the roar and rattle of langridge and grape, the crashing

of broken timbers, the shouting of orders, and often the shrieks of

the wounded rising high above the din of battle! And what sights

must have been presented to their view--the quick, angry flash of

cannon, lighting up the darkness of the night; lighting up the bleak,

bristling sides of the huge ships; luridly lighting up the clouds of

white smoke that at times quite hid the upper decks; and lighting up

the sea with a crimson glare, so that even floating spars were

visible; aye, and drowning men, with all the debris of great ships in

action.

To an onlooker upon the beach all would appear fearful confusion and

chaos. It would indeed seem almost impossible that anyone should

come unscathed from such an awful scene of battle.

Yet every Heart of Oak in those British ships knew his duty, and was

bravely doing it, and continued to do it, unless shot down.

And no one acted more bravely or coolly that night than young Lord

Raventree of the _Zealous_. Men and officers too fell bleeding at

his side. That such sights affected him there cannot be a doubt, but

they failed to daunt his extraordinary courage. He was here, there,

and everywhere in his battery, issuing his orders as unfalteringly as

if the battle were a mere parade, his very presence seeming to give

additional courage to the half-naked and smoke-begrimed men who so

bravely obeyed his orders.

But more than once during the battle Raventree found time to think

for a moment of his friend Tom Bure. Little did he know--he was too

busy to know anything save what was going on around him--that poor

Tom's ship had gone on shore, and that he and all on board could be

but spectators in the battle that was raging so near them.

Incidents of this memorable fight, and individual instances of

courage, could be related by the score, but space forbids.

Just a word about Nelson, however. His restless spirit could ill

brook being below. Superficial though his wound was, important

arteries were cut through, and unless he could be induced to lie down

and keep still, there was great danger. Even before the surgeon's

verdict was given he sent for Mr. Capel, his first lieutenant, and

ordered him off in the jollyboat to fetch Captain Louis, of the

_Minotaur_, that he might thank him for his gallant and meritorious

service. At this time Nelson believed himself to be dying. "It is

the hundredth and twenty-fourth time," he said, "that I have been

engaged, but I believe it is now nearly over with me."

The meeting with Louis was of a most affecting character, the brave

captain of the _Minotaur_ hanging over his blind and bleeding friend

in grief that precluded any attempt at words. "Farewell, dear

Louis," said Nelson, "I shall never, should I live, forget the

obligation I am under to you for your brave and generous conduct, and

now, whatever may become of me, my mind is at peace."

Everything points to the conclusion that the great hero's mind at

this time must have been a perfect whirl of emotions. It is said

that even after his wound had been dressed, and he had sent for his

chaplain and his secretary, the one to attend to his orders, the

other to administer some spiritual comfort, he desired to be led on

deck once more, that he might behold that awful conflagration--the

burning of the _Orient_.

This ship was in the midst of the fight till her destruction, and

bravely indeed had she been handled. It is said that a little before

nine o'clock the men of the _Swiftsure_ detected "signs of fire in

her mizenchains, and pointed their guns towards the spot with

terrible effect; and the flames glided swiftly along the deck and ran

up the masts, and wreathed the yards and flickered upon the shrouds,

throwing an awful glare on the dense clouds of battle, and distinctly

defining, as in the pageantry of a festal illumination, the spars and

rigging of the contending warships."

Says Clark Russell, in the poetic imaginings of which he is a

past-master: "Fore and aft the flames were waving in forks and living

sheets, and leaping on high as though from the heart of some mighty

volcano. She had ceased to fire, her sprit-sail yard and bowsprit

were crowded with men, who continued to crawl out, blackening those

spars like flies, as the raging fire grew. By the wild mast-high

flames the whole scene of battle was as visible as by the light of

the noontide sun. The colours of the flags of the ships could be

easily distinguished. Every rope, every spar, the forms of the

half-naked crews, smoke-blackened and in active motion, the land

beyond, with all details of the island-fortress and of the distant,

rearmost ships, were startlingly visible by the glow of the burning

ship, the brilliancy of which was that of the conflagration of a city.

[Illustration: "The blowing up of the _Orient_ at the battle of the

Nile."]

"Shortly after ten the great ship blew up. The explosion was like

that of an earthquake. The concussion swept through every seam,

joint, and timber of the nearest ships with the sensation as though

the solid fabrics were crumbling into staves under the feet of the

seamen. The sight was blackened as if by a lightning stroke, and the

instant the prodigious glare of the explosion had passed, the

darkness of the night seemed to roll down in folds of ink upon the

vision of the seamen."

Says another eloquent writer, and what writer is not eloquent on such

a subject as this?--"The whole sky was blotched with the corpses of

men, like the stones of a crater cast upward, and the sheet of fire

behind them showed their arms, their bodies, and streaming hair.

Then, with a hiss like electric hail, from a mile's height all came

down again, corpses first and timber next, and then the great spars

that had streaked the sky like rockets."

The dread silence that followed lasted for nearly a quarter of an

hour. Meanwhile boats from various ships were generously lowered to

pick up the survivors, and thus nearly eighty were saved.

But where was Admiral Brueys? Poor, brave fellow, he had been dead

before the fire broke out. Twice had he been wounded; but he stuck

to his place, till a shot almost cut him in two.

When they would have carried him below, "No," he cried; "let me die

on my quarter-deck, as becomes the admiral of a French fleet."

Among those who perished was Commodore Casabianca and his faithful

little son, a lad of barely eleven years of age, who died, if not on

the quarterdeck, at least by his father's side, who it is said by

some authorities was wounded and below at the time of the explosion.

That rough iconoclast, the dissecting critic, endeavours to dispel

all romance from the beautiful story, immortalised by Mrs. Heman's

verses.

I prefer to believe with the poetess, rather than to sneer with the

saucy critic.

"CASABIANCA.

"The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but him had fled;

The flames that lit the battle's wreck

Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud though childlike form.

"The flames rolled on--he would not go

Without his father's word;

That father faint on deck below,

His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, 'Say, father, say,

If yet my task is done!'

He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

"'Speak, father,' once again he cried,

'If I may yet be gone';

But now the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And on his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death

In still but brave despair;

"And shouted but once more aloud,

'My father, must I stay?'

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,

They streamed above the gallant child

Like meteors in the sky.

"Then came a burst of thunder-sound.

The boy--oh, where was he?

Ask of the winds, that far around

With fragments strewed the sea,

With mast and helm and pennon fair

That well had borne their part;

But the noblest thing that perished there

Was that young and faithful heart."

* * * * * *

The firing was re-commenced, it is said, by the French ship

_Franklin_; and the battle raged until about five o'clock in the

morning, with brief spells of intermission, as when the men of the

_Alexander_, by leave of their captain, threw themselves down beside

their guns and slept for twenty minutes. The _Alexander_ was at that

time lying close to a French eighty-four that she had been engaging

in deadly conflict. The men of the latter were also exhausted, and

sunk to sleep; so that side by side, it may be said, rested French

and British.

When dawn of day began to glimmer faintly in the east there were but

two ships of the French line that had their colours flying--the

_Guillaume Tell_ and _Généreux_. They were the two rear ships, and

had not been engaged. They soon cut their cables, however, and stood

out to sea. With them went two frigates.

Raventree was the first to report their intentions to the captain of

the _Zealous_, and he at once hoisted sail, and stood after them in

pursuit. But there being no other of our ships in a condition for

fast sailing, the signal was hoisted for his recall.

Thus ended the great battle of the Nile, "the most complete and

glorious in the annals of naval warfare."

Our loss was indeed heavy, amounting, in killed and wounded, to 895.

Of the French 3,105, including the wounded, were sent on shore by

cartel (an agreement with an enemy having reference to exchange of

prisoners), and 5,225 perished.

As Nelson himself said, "Victory is not a name strong enough for such

a scene, it is a conquest."

The only British captain who fell was gallant Westcott. He was indeed

A HEART OF OAK.

Westcott was born among the green lanes of romantic Devon, and in

very humble life too. His father was a baker, and not burdened with

too much of this world's wealth, and his son assisted him in his

business while still a little lad. He used to be sent frequently on

messages to a mill in the neighbourhood. The miller, as millers

often are, was a good-natured jovial fellow, but one day when young

Ben went to execute some commission for his father he found not only

the miller, but the miller's-man, pulling very long faces indeed.

"We can't send the flour to-day," the boy was told. "Perhaps not

to-morrow either. We've had a rope broken, and the working of the

mill is quite thrown out of gear."

"But why not splice it?" said young Westcott.

The miller laughed.

"Who's to do a job like that?" he said.

"Why, I will," was the boy's bold reply.

The miller caught him by the shoulder, and pointed upwards to where

the broken ends of the rope were dangling.

"You'd have to be hoisted up there, my boy," he said, "among the

pulleys and wheels and things, and ten to one you'd come down by the

run, and break your neck."

"I can splice that rope," said Ben determinedly, "if you'll let me

try."

"Let the lad try," pleaded the miller's man, and the master then

consented.

The boy, with deft fingers and the aid of a marlin-spike, worked away

for an hour or two, and lo! the rope was as good as ever.

"And a jolly sight better," said the merry miller.

"I tell you what it is, Ben," he added, "a lad like you is too good

for the shore. You're a sailor born, and ought to be fighting the

French."

"I'd fight them fast enough," said the boy, "but I don't see a

chance."

"I'll get you a chance, lad," said the miller.

And he soon did.

Westcott entered his Majesty's service afloat as a humble cabin boy.

But so clever did he soon prove himself to be, and so unflagging in

his zeal and attachment to duty, that he soon found himself a

midshipman. For, mind you, boys, in those dashing days of war,

talent was never allowed to wear itself away before the mast, if it

could be found of service on the quarterdeck.

Young Westcott's advancement went on with rapid strides after this,

and at the battle of the Nile he commanded the _Majestic_, and fell

fighting like a true hero. His ship alone had 50 killed and 143

wounded.

This baker boy with heart of oak has a monument erected to him, at

the public expense, in St. Paul's, which any other boy of the present

day who desires to emulate his deeds may see if he has a mind.

* * * * *

Thanksgiving to Almighty God, who had so blessed his Majesty's arms,

was returned by the whole fleet at the same time. And solemn and

impressive such a service must have been on decks still slippery with

the blood of the fallen, and sad evidence of the battle on every hand.

* * * * *

I have always considered that trophy of the great battle which was

afterwards presented to Nelson as a very ghastly one. The

_Swiftsure_ had picked up a portion of the _Orient's_ main-mast, and

from it Captain Hallowell ordered his carpenter to fashion a

beautiful coffin, and this was sent to Nelson.

"Sir," ran the letter that accompanied the _memento mori_, "I have

taken the liberty of presenting you with a coffin, made from the

main-mast of _L'Orient_, that, when you have finished your military

career in this world, you may be buried in one of your trophies, but

that that period may be far distant is the earnest wish of your

sincere friend, BENJ. HALLOWELL."

It shows how little fear of death Nelson had, and how far from being

superstitious he was, that he ordered the coffin to be placed behind

his chair upright in his cabin.

He was afterwards buried in it.

There are a few words in the above letter of Captain Hallowell's that

strike one as strange, if not indeed amusing; viz., these, "When you

have finished your military career _in this world_." Did honest,

bluff Ben. Hallowell think that--with all reverence be it

said--Nelson would recommence to fight the French in the next?

* * * * *

Immediately after the battle or conquest Nelson had once again to

lament the loss of his frigates. Had he been possessed of these I

doubt not he would have entered the port, and burned all the French

stores and storeships.

"Were I to die at this moment," he is reported to have said, "the

loss of frigates would be found engraven on my heart."

CHAPTER VII.

FACE TO FACE WITH THE DANISH SHIPS.

"Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow,

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow."

The British nation that possibly--very probably indeed--would have

shot our hero, Nelson, had he lost the Battle of the Nile, now

presented him with the title of Baron.

He was once more the people's darling.

Could the British nation have done less?

"It was this battle," says Graviére, "which for two years delivered

up the Mediterranean to the power of Britain; summoned thither the

Russian squadrons, left the French army isolated amidst a hostile

population; decided Turkey in declaring against it; saved India from

French enterprise; and brought France within a hair's-breadth of her

ruin, by reviving the smouldering flames of war with Austria, and

bringing Suwarrow and the Austro-Russians to the French frontiers.

* * * * *

Honours from all directions fell thick and fast upon our naval hero;

yet amid all this glory, what Nelson longed for more than anything

else perhaps was rest.

He was now on his way back to Naples, but his long exertions began to

tell upon his never very strong system. He was, while yet at sea,

seized with a fever, and for eighteen hours his noble life was

despaired of. Even after he got over the crisis, he writes thus

despondingly to St. Vincent:

"I never expect, my dear lord, to see your face again. It may please

God that this will be the finish to that fever of anxiety which I

have endured from the middle of June. But be that as it pleases His

goodness."

However, Nelson was destined to live to accomplish still further

triumphs, as we soon shall see.

As to his doings in the Mediterranean after the Battle of the Nile;

of his return to Naples; of the rejoicing, pomp, and panoply with

which he was received there; of his private opinion of this

corruptest of Courts; of all his sieges and all his successes until

his return to England, history must inform you, reader; but the whole

story reads like one long delightful romance, all the more delightful

of course in that it is true.

* * * * *

The curtain falls for a time on this life-drama, and our heroes leave

the stage for refreshment. As far as fêtes and feasts were

concerned, Nelson was very much refreshed indeed; and so in those

times was every officer, ay, and every tar, who had been at the

Battle of the Nile.

But soon the curtain rises again, and we behold a great fleet

departing from Yarmouth Roads, under the command of Admiral Sir Hyde

Parker in the _London_, 98 guns, with Nelson as his second in command

in the _St. George_, also of 98 guns.

They are bound for the North this time, our gallant ships; but

whither and why? A question that a sentence can answer. In fact, it

can be answered in the refrain of the good old song:

"Britons never shall be slaves."

Three Northern nations had formed a league to make us slaves, at

least to wrench from the grasp of Britannia the sceptre of her rule

over the waves.

Just think for a moment, reader, of the terrible combination that was

now formed against us. Russia, with 82 ships of the line and 40

frigates; Denmark, French at heart, with 23 ships and 31 frigates;

and Sweden, with 18 ships and 14 frigates.

Our Government had boldly determined to resist this combination, and

crush it. A braver man than Hyde Parker they could not have had, but

Nelson ought to have been chief, for he was a born commander.

And so on the 12th of March, 1801, the fleet sailed away.

Their country had forgotten neither Tom Bure nor Raventree. They

were both now commanders, although Tom was only in his twenty-first

year.

They had spent some time at home, however, and a right happy time it

had been.

There was no change in Dan, but poor old Meg, the faithful collie,

would never meet Tom again. She was buried with all honours in a

grave dug for her on the green grassy lawn where she used to lie in

the summer days near her dear old master, Uncle Bob.

All was the same at the Hall, as well as at the cottage, except that

Bertha seemed to have grown quite up, and was a child no more.

Not only she, but her mother and Dan drove to Yarmouth to see the

great fleet sail away towards the cold, inhospitable North, and there

were tears in Bertha's beautiful eyes as she bade her old friend Tom

farewell. Merryweather--the same old Merryweather--was there also,

and no less a personage than Captain Hughes, of the _Yarmouth Belle_,

who made the departure of our hero Tom a "most auspicious occasion"

for splicing the main-brace, not once, but three separate times.

Sir Hyde Parker was just a little nervous at starting; he was candid

enough to tell Nelson so. Only he added: "It is no time for nervous

systems, and icebergs or no icebergs, we shall, I trust, give our

Northern enemies that hailstorm of bullets which gives our dear

country the dominion of the sea. We have it, and all the devils in

the North cannot take it from us if our ships have but fair play."

You have heard, reader, of the "gallant good Riou." He was captain

of the _Amazon_, and when some Danes who were aboard went to him,

saying that they had no desire to quit the British service, but were

unwilling to fight against their country, Riou, instead of snubbing

them as some captains would have done, acceded to their request, and

transferred them. Indeed, so affected was he by their speech that

the tears stood in his eyes. For the brave are ever generous and

kind.

* * * * *

It seemed indeed as if Heaven fought on our side in this great

expedition, for the weather was milder than had been remembered for

many a year, so that fields of ice and bergs floated only in the

dreams of Sir Hyde Parker.

The reader, however, must not jump to the conclusion that it was all

plain sailing with Sir Hyde and Nelson. Very far from it indeed.

Nor was it wind and weather only, but the dangers of straits, and

banks, and shoals that they had to contend against. Yet Nelson would

have made light of all these, and of the enemy's ships as well, had

it not been for the attempts at negotiation that had to go on with

the Danes the while precious time was being lost, and the armaments

of the foe were getting stronger and stronger every day.

The first thing to annoy and fret poor brave Nelson was the

circumstance that the fleet was to anchor out of sight of the Danes,

till the negotiations were at an end. Red tape again!

"I hate your pen-and-ink men," he cried impatiently. "A fleet of

British ships makes the best negotiators in the world. They always

speak to be understood, and their arguments carry conviction to the

very hearts of our foes."

When our fleet was off Elsinore--Nelson had by this time changed his

flag to a handier and better ship, the _Elephant_--the admiral forced

the passage of the Sound. The forts fired on them, it is true, but

it is said that never a shot touched a ship.

The fleet then anchored near Huën, an island about fifteen miles from

Copenhagen; and Nelson, with Colonel Stewart, Admiral Graves, and

others, went in a lugger called the _Lark_ to reconnoitre.

They found that the defences were of all sorts, and fearful to

behold. To begin with, there was the exceeding difficulty of

approach, for the buoys on all the shoals had been taken up or

shifted by the Danes. Then there was the great Danish fleet to

encounter, drawn up in a line that extended for a mile and a half in

front of the entrance to the harbour. The ships were flanked by

strong batteries, while batteries bristled all along the shore.

The Danish forces then consisted of the fleet, which was moored close

to the city, six line-of-battle ships, eleven strong floating

batteries, gun brigs, a bomb vessel, supported by batteries on the

Crown Islands, and four sail of the line drawn up across the harbour

mouth, which was also protected by a great chain. The whole of the

Danish protective armament, including hulks, batteries, and ships,

from end to end, was about four miles in length.

But in order to get near this terrible array of defences, the

attacking force would have to be navigated through a most intricate

passage among the shoals.

Nelson's greatest trouble was to get safely through this natural

deep-water canal.

On the 31st a great council of war was held, to take into

consideration the best mode of attacking the place, as the

negotiations had fallen through.

Nervous active men, in contradistinction to the slower and plethoric

class, have been termed the "salt of the earth." Nelson then might

well have been called the "salt of the sea." At this council, which

was not "fast" enough for him by a deal, he kept pacing up and down

the cabin deck, shaking his "flipper," as the sailors called it,

meaning the stump of his arm. It must have been a grand sight to

behold, and to note his glances of withering scorn at anyone who for

a moment doubted the success of his plans.

And the refrain of Nelson's song at this council was, "Let me have

but ten line of battle ships, and the smaller craft, and the battle

is ours."

Sir Hyde Parker took him at his word.

Twelve ships he gave him, instead of ten, and also gave him _carte

blanche_ to carry out this detached service as he thought best.

Nelson was as happy now as a nervous man can ever be.

Denmark's fleet he looked upon as already in his power. The Russians

and Swedes would be smashed next. He hadn't forgotten them.

But there was much to be done before this battle even began.

Misplaced buoys must be re-adjusted along the channel, and during all

that night of the 31st--and a bitterly cold one it was--he rowed

about with Captain Brisbane, of the _Cruiser_, in his open boat

surveying the channel.

Personal experience of this work in sunny seas has proved to me how

tedious and wearisome it is; but how much more so must it have been

to our hero by night, in that almost Arctic climate.

Despite this, however, the work was satisfactorily accomplished.

Next day the whole fleet moved close up to the great shoal, with its

middle channel, to which the Danes trusted as really their first line

of defence.

Narrow though the channel was, and light though the breeze, the

division under Nelson, headed by brave Riou, in the _Amazon_, went

safely in, and at dusk anchored near Point Draco.

"Here," says Clark Russell, "the narrowness of the waters as an

anchoring ground brought the ships into a huddle, and infinite

mischief might have been done to the British had the Danes taken

advantage of the crowded state of the fleet, by sending shells

amongst the ships, from mortar boats and the batteries of Amak

Island."

Captain Hardy, we are told, who was amongst those who up to a late

hour that night were taking soundings, rowed under the very shadow of

the Danes' leading ship, and felt the bottom of the water with a pole.

To Nelson's great joy, Hardy and the rest returned with the tidings

that there was depth enough of water for our ships to range

themselves in battle array, between the great shoal they had passed

through and the defences of the enemy.

* * * *

As usual, Nelson's chief officers, including Hardy, Foley, Graves,

Fremantle, Riou, &c., dined with him on the eve of the battle, and

the hero was in the highest of spirits.

Riou and Foley remained with Nelson to plan details after the others

had gone, and the great fight was commenced next morning, the ships

filing into line, and taking up their positions with steadiness and

precision, despite the extreme difficulty of navigating great vessels

in a place like this.

Both the _Bellona_ and the _Russell_ went aground.

"Yet never," says Clark Russell, "had British seamanship found finer

illustrations of its capacity of daring and skill than in the manner

in which the vessels of the division calculated their stations, in a

channel bewildering with its complicated and perilous navigation."

Face to face with the foe at last.

Beam to beam with the Danish ships, and the battle at once began.

CHAPTER VIII.

A "GLORIOUS DAY'S RENOWN."

The fight began about ten o'clock, the thunder of war increasing till

twelve, at which time it probably roared its loudest. By one o'clock

four of the Danish vessels--block ships they were--had been silenced.

And now occurred one of those little inter-acts which serve so well

to show our national hero in his true colours.

Sir Hyde Parker, the reader will remember, was outside the great sand

bank, through which Nelson's division was so successfully steered, so

at this distance no very clear notion of the battle that was raging

could be obtained; but noticing that four of the enemy's vessels had

ceased firing, probably he imagined that the battle was won, and that

further havoc was unnecessary. At all events he hoisted the signal

to cease firing. A man with one eye can see as much as a man with

two if he is looking. On this occasion Nelson did not see that

signal--when his head was turned the other way. This is strange, but

true!

Tom Bure, who, though commander, was acting as lieutenant, was

standing near to Nelson, and called his attention to Sir Hyde

Parker's signal.

"It is the signal to leave off action, my lord," said Tom.

Nelson walked up and down his quarterdeck jerking his "flipper,"

which showed he was terribly angry and excited. And that was the

reason why he verbally consigned the good Sir Hyde's signal to a

warmer place than the hottest part of this great battle.

"Besides, Foley," he added, turning to his captain, "I have only one

eye, so have a right to be blind sometimes."

Then he put his telescope to his eye, and turned it towards Parker's

ship.

"Never a signal do I see," he said.

Foley laughed, for the glass was at the admiral's blind eye.

"Hang such signals," Nelson cried. "Make mine for closer action, and

nail the colours to the mast."

Fainter and fainter rolled the thunder of the Danes, till, just

before two o'clock, it had ceased all along their line of battle.

The Danes, however, had fought most bravely, even those prames on

which the flag had been struck had kept on firing till the last,

being constantly reinforced by fresh batches of men from the shore.

From his previous great exertions, want of sleep and rest, Nelson was

irritable, and this irregular action on the part of the Danes angered

him beyond measure. He sat down therefore, with, however, no

appearance of hurry, and wrote that famous letter of his to the Crown

Prince of Denmark. It is worth repeating even in a story, and ran

thus:

"Vice-Admiral Lord Nelson has been commanded to spare Denmark when

she no longer resists. The line of defence which covers her shores

has struck to the British flag; but if the firing is continued on the

part of Denmark he must set on fire all the prizes he has taken,

without having the power of saving the brave men who have so nobly

defended them."

A wafer was suggested to seal this letter withal, but Nelson must

have wax. Want of formality might have suggested impatience or

nervousness to the Crown Prince.

The half-hour that intervened ere an answer came was probably felt to

be one of the longest ever Nelson experienced. For his ships, albeit

victorious, were in a terrible plight, and it would take all the

seamanship that even British sailors could boast of to get them out.

The answer came at last, however, and was all that could be desired.

Nelson went on shore next day, and was hailed with cheers by the

multitude who came to receive him by the waterside. The prisoners

and wounded were sent on shore, and the prizes nearly all burned. No

less than thirteen of the Danes' vessels altogether were

destroyed--our losses, though severe, amounting to no less than 300

killed, and 850 wounded. But the Danes had at the lowest estimate

over 1,700 killed, and nearly 4,000 taken prisoners.

Tom Campbell, our Scottish poet, author of so many well-known

spirited lays, such as "Ye Mariners of England," gives us the

following poem on this great naval action:

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

I.

"Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce went forth

All the might of Denmark's Crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun a lighted brand,

In a bold, determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

II.

"Like leviathans afloat

Lay their bulwarks on the brine,

While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line.

It was ten of April morn, by the chime;

As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death,

And the boldest held his breath

For a time.

III.

"But the might of England flushed

To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

'Hearts of oak!' our captain cried; when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

IV.

"Again! Again! Again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back.

Their shots along the deep slowly boom,

Then ceased, and all is wail

As they strike the shattered sail,

Or in conflagration pale

Light the gloom.

V.

"Out spoke the Victor then

As he hailed them o'er the wave,

'Ye are brothers, ye are men,

And we conquer but to save:

So peace instead of death let us bring.

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

With the crews at England's feet,

And make submission meet

To our King.'

VI.

"Then Denmark blessed our Chief

That he gave her wounds repose,

And the sounds of joy and grief

From her people wildly rose

As death withdrew his shadow from the day.

While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

VII.

"Now joy Old England raise!

For the tidings of thy might,

By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light.

And yet amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep,

Full many a fathom deep.

By thy wild and stormy steep

Elsinore!

VIII.

"Brave hearts! to Britain's pride

Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died,

With the gallant good Riou.

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave,

While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!"

The death of the "gallant good Riou," whom Britain so deeply mourned,

was both affecting and romantic. He was captain of the _Amazon_, and

with the rest of the frigates, that were doing but little apparent

good, hauled off or retreated from the actual ground of battle on

seeing Sir Hyde Parker's "silly signal." These frigates, however,

were being terribly mauled, yet Riou thought only of the disgrace, as

he termed it, of having to retire.

"What will Nelson think of us?" he said again and again.

The fire under which the _Amazon_ then lay was very heavy. The

captain himself was wounded in the head, and leant bleeding against a

gun.

Soon after a shot killed his clerk, who stood near; and another

smashed a batch of marines, who were hauling in the main-brace.

"Boys!" cried Riou, "we can now but die together."

These were the last words e'er he spoke. He fell dead next moment.

"That shot," says Colonel Stewart, "lost to Britain one of its

greatest honours, and to society a character of singular worth,

resembling in no small measure the heroes of old romance."

Poor Riou!

* * * * *

That was a wonderful voyage made by our fleet through the intricate

passage between the islands of Amoy and Saltholm, and full of danger.

It astonished the Northern Powers, who no longer felt themselves safe

from Nelson anywhere.

A mere show of force sufficed to bring the King of Sweden to his

knees. Before, however, this show was made before Carlscrona, Nelson

had an adventure which is well worthy of being related here, bringing

out, as it does, the hero's character for pluck and derring-do in the

most vivid of colouring.

The ship in which he made the difficult passage between the two

islands just named was the _St. George_. For her greater lightness

and safety her guns had been removed into an American vessel,

requisitioned or chartered unceremoniously for the purpose. She got

safely through, but was detained by contrary winds from joining the

rest of the fleet, now far ahead. When, therefore, intelligence was

received that Sir Hyde Parker had sighted the Swedish fleet, Nelson's

anxiety knew neither bounds nor limits.

Says Mr. Brierly, "The moment he received the account he ordered a

boat to be manned, and without even waiting for a boat cloak, cold

though it was, jumped into her and ordered me to go with him.....

All I had ever seen or heard of him could not half so clearly prove

to me the singular and unbounded zeal of this truly great man. His

anxiety in the boat for nearly six hours, lest the fleet should have

sailed before he got on board one of them, and lest we should not

catch the Swedish squadron, is beyond all conception.

"It was extremely cold, and I wished him to put on a great coat of

mine that was in the boat.

"'No,' he cried, 'I am not cold; my anxiety for my country will keep

me warm. Do you think the fleet has sailed?'

"'I should suppose not, my lord.'

"'If they have, we shall follow them on to Carlscrona in the boat.'

"At midnight Nelson, much to his relief, reached his flagship, the

_Elephant_, and his sailors were overjoyed to see him; for Nelson was

worth a fleet in himself."

* * * *

The Swedes made peace therefore.

The Russians did not see their way to fight.

And so the great Northern Confederacy was smashed up, and never

formed again, and our brave tars could still sing

"Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never, never, NEVER shall be slaves."

The fleet, having now boldly accomplished its mission, and proved the

truth of Nelson's words, that "guns are the best negotiators, and

always speak to the point," &c., returned once more to England.

CHAPTER IX.

NELSON'S LAST DAYS AND HOURS.

"I saw before thy hearse pass on

The comrades of thy peril and renown.

The frequent tear upon their dauntless breasts

Fell.

"I beheld the pomp thick gathered round

Through armed ranks--a nation gazing on.

Bright glowed the sun, and not a cloud distained

Heaven's arch of gold; but all was gloom beneath.

"Awe and mute anguish fell

On all. Yet high the public bosom throbbed

With triumph."

There is one individual who, although mention has been made of him,

has never yet appeared on the stage of our story, namely, Max

Colmore, the son of Lady Colmore, and therefore Bertha's brother.

Tom Bure had seen him only once or twice. The first time was when

Tom--a very little boy then--was one day floating on the broad in his

boat. Max, who was far older than he, had come to the bank with his

gun on his shoulder, and ordered Tom to haul off on pain of being

shot. Tom had obeyed, and forgiven his foe too for the sake of

Bertha, but never had he forgotten the insult.

The second meeting was at the Hall after Tom's return from the

Baltic. Our hero was by this time old enough to study the man and

sum up his character, which he might have done, not only in a few

words, but with three letters--F O P.

Tom wondered to himself how such a surly, haughty fellow as this,

such a blood-proud fool, had been permitted to assume his Majesty's

uniform; for he was then a captain in the army, and had even seen

service in the wars.

Well, Tom Bure had quite as much aversion to a fop as his great

chief, Nelson had, so he avoided Max as much as possible. Indeed,

they would soon have quarrelled; for over his wine, of which he took

a grown-up person's share, the captain talked almost disrespectfully

of Nelson and "sailor fellows" in general.

Shockingly bad taste, you say? True, and the man was really no

gentleman at heart.

Tom avoided him, therefore, for Bertha's sake, and although this was

to be his last visit to the Hall for many and many a long day, he

even cut this visit short.

After he had bidden good-bye to Lady Colmore and other guests, he

simply bowed stiffly to Max, who was gaping at him through an

eye-glass, and took his departure.

Slowly, through the shrubbery he was walking towards his boat when he

heard a light step behind him.

He turned quickly.

"Dearest Bertha," he said gently, "I knew you'd come."

The girl was crying.

"Oh, Tom!" she exclaimed, "it seems all so sad and terrible, your

going away like this. And something seems to say to me I shall

never, never see you more."

"You mustn't talk so, my more than sister," said Tom. "True I am

going away, but I shall return, safe and sound. I'm not going to be

killed, Bertha, and I'm not going to lose a leg, like poor

Merryweather. So you see I shall be able to dance on your

wedding-day."

"Mamma says I am too young to think of the future, but she means to

give me to some lord or another, and Max doesn't mind. I'm going to

be sold, Tom."

"Bertha!" cried Tom, "sooner than you should be given away to a man

you didn't care for, were he the proudest noble in Britain, I'd----"

There was the sound of voices heard coming towards them through the

shrubbery, and so Tom's sentence was never finished.

* * * * *

Nearly four years had passed away. Busy and eventful years indeed

they had been to both Tom Bure and to Raventree.

Not once in all that time had either of them seen home or friends.

They had been kept constantly active, and pretty constantly in

action. Tom had been much with Nelson, not in the same ships, but on

the same service. He had been here and there in many lands too, for

many of his duties had been to form a convoy to trading ships.

It was his fate, nevertheless, to be present at the great naval

engagement of Trafalgar--a name that is never heard even to this day

by a true Briton without a feeling of pride and patriotism.

Nelson had been on half-pay for a time. Perhaps he never expected to

serve again. Nevertheless he came, like the hero he was, to his

country's aid at his country's call.

I need not remind my reader of Napoleon's pet ambition, the invasion

of England--he never could have reached Scotland--nor of that grand

review he held on his birthday, August 15th, 1804, at Boulogne,

surrounded by his dignitaries of State, his marshals, his ministers,

his sailors and soldiers, or how liberally he distributed the ribbon

of the Legion of Honour.

"Let us be masters of the Channel," he pompously exclaimed, "for six

hours, and we are masters of the world!"

There was somewhat of honour to us in this sentence of the Emperor,

for in smashing Britain he should certainly smash the world.

But the death of his chief admiral threw his scheme in abeyance for a

time. Yet having the disposal of the Spanish fleet, he believed in

1805 that he had only to crush our squadrons in order to open the

British door, and walk quietly in.

There is sometimes a good deal in that little word only, however. If

you, reader, want to open a door and walk into a room, even if you

are six feet high, and strong in proportion, as doubtless you are,

you will find that you have attempted a task beyond your strength if

behind that door there is stationed even a very, tiny man with his

foot against it.

Now Britain had just such a little man to stand behind her door.

The little man was Nelson.

And the little man made a vow that he would put his foot against the

door, and keep Napoleon Bonaparte on the other side of it.

And the little man did.

* * * * *

My readers have all heard tell and read of the marvellous chase by

Nelson of the combined fleets of France and Spain. I may possibly be

hauled up on the quarter-deck for calling it a chase, but really it

was as much so as it was a search. He followed them all the way to

the West Indies; he heard they were bound for Trinidad. He would

have followed and drubbed them there, but the information was false,

and only meant to mislead him. He would have followed them round the

world, and drubbed them, just as he followed them back to Europe, and

drubbed them there at last. And such a drubbing he administered to

them!

History has no other such great naval fight as that of Trafalgar on

record. No parallel to it.

I have, however, no intention of describing the Battle of Trafalgar.

To do so would be to insult the British schoolmaster, and question

the knowledge of the most ordinary British school-board boy--whoever

that may be--who has mastered even an epitome of our nation's story.

NELSON'S LAST DAYS AND HOURS.

I think that a man who is universally loved must be good and true at

heart. Nelson's was a heart of oak in one sense of the term, but it

was a tender and feeling heart nevertheless, and he wore it,

figuratively speaking, on his sleeve. His kind and gentle nature

could be read in his eyes, as well as in his every action, private as

well as public. His men loved him, his officers, more especially his

midshipmen, loved him, and the people loved him. Ah! there is no

deceiving or dissembling before the people. In the matter of

affection and good-heartedness, it is as impossible to deceive the

people as it is to deceive a dog, and that is saying a deal.

As I sit here writing in my country home, I have but to place my hand

before my eyes, and scene after scene rises up before my mental

vision of Nelson's last days and hours.

SCENE I. It is the night of September 13th, 1805, and half-past ten

of that night, and the hero is leaving Merton--a home of his in the

country. But see, ere he leaves the house, he goes on tiptoe,

fearful lest he should wake her, to the bedroom where his little girl

Horatia lies sleeping. He gazes long and fondly at her, he softly

kisses her, then kneels beside her bed with tear-filled eyes upturned

to heaven to crave a blessing on her. I see him kneeling thus and

there at this moment.

SCENE II. It is very early on the morning of the 14th. Hardly has

the autumn day began to dawn, yet all around the George Inn,

Portsmouth, dense crowds have gathered to catch but a glimpse of the

naval hero before his embarkation. He had their huzzas many a time

before, but now he has their hearts. They follow him even to the

water's edge, they press forward to catch a sight of his face; many

are in tears, and many kneel down and bless him as he passes. They

love him as true and fervidly as he loves England. But, alas! they

will never, never see him more.

SCENE III. Nelson has joined his fleet off Cadiz. Though at his

express desire no guns are fired, no colours shown, that the enemy

may be kept in ignorance of the arrival of a reinforcement, the

loving-kindness and joy shown at his arrival cause him "the sweetest

sensation of his life." The officers who come on board to welcome

his return forget even his rank as commander-in-chief, in the

enthusiasm with which they greet him. He cannot for a time speak for

emotion. But he regains his voice at last, and then while they crowd

around the table he proceeds to explain to them his previously

arranged plans for attacking the enemy. That, he says, is the

"Nelson touch." They see it all in a moment. It is a touch of true

genius. So new, so singular, so simple. Some of them are even

affected to tears, so much are their minds relieved by the prospect,

nay, the very certainty of victory now before them.

SCENE IV. It is the very eve of battle, and among his warlike and

busy thoughts those of home come crowding uppermost, and down he must

sit all alone in his cabin to write to his little Horatia. Only a

little letter, but how full of love and affectionate thoughtfulness.

"MY DEAREST ANGEL,--I was made happy by the pleasure of receiving

your letter, and I rejoice to hear you are so very good a girl. The

combined fleets of the enemy are now reported to be coming out of

Cadiz; and therefore I answer your letter, my dearest Horatia, to

mark to you that you are ever uppermost in my thoughts. I shall be

sure of your prayers for my safety, conquest, and speedy return to

dear Merton. Be a good girl, mind what Miss Connor says to you.

Receive, my dearest Horatia, the affectionate parental blessing of

your father,

"NELSON AND BRONTE."

SCENE V. Ah! this scene is one which is almost too gloriously

dreadful to contemplate. But I can see our noble fleet advancing in

two columns to crash through the enemy's battle line. And now the

flashing guns, and the white wreathing smoke--the tapering masts,

with flags unfurled, towering and swaying high above the battle

clouds. But this scene fades momentarily from my view, or rather it

resolves itself into another and a sadder.

SCENE VI. Nelson and Hardy on the battle-deck, in the very thick of

the dreadful engagement. And, see, Nelson sinks rather than falls,

and his faithful Hardy springs to his side. On that very spot his

secretary, Scott, was killed some time before, and the blood, still

fresh, stains our hero's clothes. I see him being borne tenderly

below to the cockpit. I see him--kindly-hearted even in the hour of

death--place his handkerchief over his face that his brave fellows

may not know 'tis he, their own loved admiral, who is being carried

below.

[Illustration: "The death of Nelson."]

SCENE VII. The cockpit. The dimly-burning lights, the smoke, the

heat, and against the bulkheads the wounded, the dying, and the dead.

The surgeons half naked, with blood-sprinked faces, arms, and

garments; the "idlers"--all too busy here. Moan and groan and

mournful cry. What a terrible scene! What a fearful place to die in!

But as the hero is borne down here, even wounded men forget their own

pains and misery as they draw the chief surgeon's attention to the

bearers.

"Doctor, doctor," they cry, "it is the admiral! It is Lord Nelson

himself!"

The dying Hero is borne tenderly into the midshipmen's berth, and

laid upon a bed. Even the surgeon, who hastens to help him, sees how

unavailing all his efforts must be. The poor admiral can read his

doom written in the surgeon's pitying face. Yet it only confirms

what he himself had thought before. His days are numbered, his hour

is come. He is in pain, in agony, so much so that he wishes death

would come to relieve him--wishes it were all, all over; and yet not

for a little. Hardy he must see, and it seems such an interminable

time before he can come to him. "Will no one bring him?" he moans

piteously. "Perhaps he is slain. He is surely dead."

But overhead the battle rages on and on, and he can hear the wild

"hurrahs!" of the men as ship after ship strikes her flag.

Hardy comes at last and bends mournfully over him, utterly unable to

suppress his emotion. But Hardy must tell him how the battle goes.

Then this faithful officer, with a heart bursting with emotion,

shakes hands, and rushes once again to his post on deck.

But see! Hardy has returned; and Nelson can talk now only of the

dear ones at home.

"God bless you, Hardy," he says feebly, and shortly after, "Thank

God, _I have done my duty!_"

And these are the last words the Hero speaks. His breast heaves,

there is one long-drawn, but half-stifled sigh, and--_Nelson is no

more_.

CHAPTER X.

"JACK, I FEEL THERE IS SOMETHING WANTING IN MY LIFE."

"Then all is well. In this full tide of love

Wave heralds wave: thy match shall follow mine.

. . . . . . . Meanwhile farewell

Old friends. Old patriarch oaks farewell."--TENNYSON.

The character of Captain Max Colmore is not one of those which

commands any very great amount of respect, and I should willingly

have left it out of my story. But then if we have no shading in a

picture we cannot so well appreciate the high lights. Besides, he

was Bertha's brother, and independently of that fact, his death had a

bearing on our "ower true" tale, even if his life had none.

They say that a certain dark gentleman, whose nama it is best not to

mention in polite society, is not so black as he is painted. Happily

the task of acting as his biographer does not devolve upon me, but

the old saying reminds me that even in the character of a man like

Max there may be something of good to record. I am willing to let

him have the benefit of this. He was no coward then. There were

very few cowards in the army in those old days, though I fear it is

different now that men of muscle have in competitive examinations

often enough to lower their flags to those with long memories, puny

bodies, and hearts no bigger than a bantam chick's.

Max Colmore----

"ne'er refused

When foeman bade him draw his blade."

In fact, he rather liked drawing his blade than otherwise, whether

the man who suggested his doing so were a foeman or a quondam friend,

for Max was a somewhat famous duellist, and quite as clever with the

pistol as the sword. Faith in his own ability, however, rendered him

somewhat of a blusterer, while abuse in the matter of potable table

luxuries made him hot-headed, and apt to take offence where no

offence had been meant. Even until this day, although duelling has

gone out of fashion, and is punishable as a crime, we could

understand, and even give some meed of praise to a man who drew his

weapon to defend the honour of his country, the name of majesty, or

injured innocence. But we view matters from a different light when

we read of a quarrel at mess from one hasty word or look, leading up

to a fight to the death.

Such was the case one night at a dinner given in honour of Colonel

Stuart's birthday, and to which nearly a score of as happy young

fellows as ever used knife and fork sat down. The dinner passed by

pleasantly and cheerfully enough too, until even dessert was finished

and the colonel had retired. Some of the younger bloods reseated

themselves at table, among them Max, among them too a youthful

merchant, at whose house many of the officers had been most

hospitably received and treated. Mr. Drake, the name of this young

merchant, had a young sister who resided with him, and whom Max

Colmore, rosy now about the gills, and with a strange sparkle in his

eye, proposed as "a toast" in a not over-complimentary manner.

It was surely only natural that Drake should lose his temper.

"It is only a coward and a fool," he said, "who would dare to behave

so."

"This to me, Mr. Snip, and from such a fellow as you, a miserable

purveyor of silks and sarcenet. Have that," cried Max.

The word "that" was accompanied by the contents of a glass of claret,

thrown full in the face of poor young Mr. Drake.

All rose to their feet, and the insulted gentleman made a motion as

if to throw a decanter at the blustering Max.

But Lieutenant Moore restrained him.

"Stay, Drake, stay your hand," he exclaimed. "This is my quarrel.

You are my guest. Captain Colmore, you account to me for this gross

insult to a friend of mine."

"To the pair of you," said Colmore, "if you prefer it."

"Mr. Snip," he added, "I'll have you first, if you please."

"So be it," said Drake, very calmly and quietly.

Early next morning, soon after the birds had begun to sing, and

before the dew had left the grass, or the cicada had given voice, the

combatants met with all due formality in a beautiful green grove, not

far from the chief fort.

Did no thoughts of his far-off home, near the quiet and peaceful

Norfolk broad, or of his mother and gentle sister, steal across the

young man's mind as he stood, pistol in hand, waiting the word to

fire? Probably none, for he looked half dazed from the dissipation

of the previous evening, and his body was far from steady.

"At the word 'three' you will fire. One--two--three."

The pistols rang out almost simultaneously on the still air of

morning, and for a second or two it seemed as if neither belligerent

had been hit. Then Max Colmore's weapon dropped suddenly from his

hand, and he sank in a heap on the ground beside it.

He neither opened his eyes again, nor spoke.

Captain Colmore was dead.

And to all intents and purposes he had died a death that was fraught

with dishonour, for he had owed an apology, and had refused to pay it.

* * * *

At the time that Captain Max Colmore met with his death the great

battle of Trafalgar was quite a thing of the past; indeed, two years

had passed away since that splendid victory, which had cost Britain

her cherished hero, but gained for her the supremacy of the seas.

These years had not been uneventful for either Tom Bure or Lord

Raventree. Both had gained additional glory and renown at sea, and

poor Tom had gained something else--which in the dashing days of old

frequently accompanied honour and glory--a severe wound in the left

forearm, which would prevent his serving again for a year at least,

if not for ever.

He was brought home an invalid in the end of 1807, from that

marvellous expedition against the Danes, by which they lost the whole

of their large navy, and had their capital city, Copenhagen, laid in

red-hot ashes.

Tom was not sorry to find himself once more an inmate of his

foster-father's little cottage, near the peaceful broad, with Ruth

and his foster-mother to wait upon him.

He found but little change in either of the latter; but Dan was

getting old, yet hale and hearty in his declining years, and it was

the greatest delight of his life when the sweet springtime brought

bud and burgeon to the trees, and the wild flowers to the marshes, to

row the invalid Captain Tom, as he with some pardonable pride called

our hero, out and away over the broad.

Nor were his friends at the great hall, as Colmore Manor was

invariably called, otherwise than delighted to see him on their

return from the south.

But partly through his being an invalid, and partly, perhaps, through

being a sailor--sailors being, you know, always shy--Tom was half

afraid to address the tall and willowy girl who now stood before him

as Bertha.

Bertha had grown up very beautiful, and was likewise very

accomplished, as far as accomplishments went in those days. She

could talk more than one language at all events, and play well on the

harp and spinet. But there were times when the graceful and

accomplished girl had moods of innocent playfulness, in which she

appeared to Tom precisely like the wilful wee tottie of six or eight

she was in the early days of his acquaintance with her. Strangely

enough, Tom Bure liked her best in these moods, and longed to catch

her in his arms, or rather in his one utility arm, and give her a

kiss; but then his invalid or sailor shyness, whichever it was,

overflowed his breast, and he didn't or couldn't.

* * * * *

Those days of war and bloodshed were eventful enough both by land and

sea, and it need surprise no one to be told that the ship which ought

to have brought the news of Max Colmore's sad death, as trim a brig

as ever sailed the seas when she left Jamaica, was never heard of any

more. Whether she had caught fire and been burned at sea, foundered

during some terrible gale, or been taken aback and gone down in a

white squall nobody ever knew. But her non-arrival prevented the

account of her son's end from reaching Lady Colmore for many months

after she ought to have known of it.

When the news did arrive at last, then the crash came, and her

ladyship knew she was no longer mistress of Colmore Manor, and that

its real owner was some distant relative of her late husband, for the

estate was an entailed one.

Very soon after Lady Colmore did a thing which proves that her

pride--and she had a good deal of it--was really genuine and

heartfelt, that it was indeed part and parcel of her nature. As soon

as the heir, or the gentleman who was described as such by his

solicitors, put in an appearance she left the county, and went no

soul knew whither. To all seeming she and Bertha had vanished from

off the face of the earth.

Tom, before the crash came, had found himself so much better, that he

determined to travel for a month or two for the benefit of his

health, and wounded arm, which still remained a most unserviceable

limb to him.

Previous to his going away, his old friend, Jack Merryweather, became

the husband of poor little innocent Ruth. Jack was indeed a happy

soul, and I believe I am justified in adding he was not the only

happy soul at the quiet wedding in Dan's cottage.

One thing Jack had done before leading his bride to the altar, was to

polish up that wooden leg of his till it shone like Whitby jet.

It so happened that Captain Lord Raventree was in the country at that

time. There was no word of his marrying. His sword was his bride,

and would be till the peace came. But he came to Jack Merryweather's

wedding all the same, and it is currently reported that he had even

kissed the bride. If he did it was quite in accordance with his

character.

Then away went Tom and he together in Ashley's boat, which they

chartered for the occasion, for a coasting cruise up north.

They enjoyed themselves as only sailors and old messmates can. Tom

going so far as to affirm it was the happiest time ever he had had in

all his life.

Of course these two friends were like brothers, and had no secrets

the one from the other. So Tom had confessed that he was exceedingly

fond of Bertha, and that he wasn't at all sure Bertha wasn't just as

fond of him.

"Then why don't you go in and win, man?" cried Raventree. "What

would our mutual friend, Nelson, have thought of any officer hanging

fire when there was something before him that was a duty?"

"A duty, Raventree?"

"Yes, your duty to posterity, Tom."

"Not that posterity ever did anything for me as yet," said Tom Bure

thoughtfully; "but now that you've mentioned dear old Nelson,

I--I--will go in and win."

But lo! when Tom returned to the cottage, and his friend went off to

Raventree Court, the first thing he heard was about the Colmore

crash, the second the disappearance of Lady Colmore and her daughter,

and the third and most wonderful of all, that he, Captain Tom Bure,

R.N., was the nearest heir to the estates of Colmore, and not the

other fellow.

All this news coming of a heap, as old Dan phrased it, quite took our

hero's breath away, and it was some time before he fully realised his

position.

"It was all owing to that black box," said Dan, "that your poor Uncle

Bob took so much pains to save, and that I took up to the banker at

Yarmouth. That proved it all, and there's none livin' that can

disprove it."

Whether Tom's uppermost thoughts at this moment were those of joy or

sorrow, it is probably hard to tell.

"Poor Bertha!" he muttered half aloud, "shall I never, never see her

more?"

* * * *

Long months after Tom Bure was settled in his new home, he continued

by every means he could think of, his endeavours to find out the

whereabouts of Lady Colmore and Bertha. But all in vain. It was

rumoured that her ladyship had died of a broken heart, or of a

combination of pride and poverty, leaving her daughter to stem a sea

of adversity as best she might.

Tom, in something akin to hopeless sorrow, settled down to look after

his estates in good earnest now.

He fain would have built a new house for his foster-father Dan on the

grounds, so that he might have the old couple close to him. But Dan

would not hear of leaving his bit o' property, where he and his old

wife had lived so long and happy, and where poor Uncle Bob had died.

Tom soon found out that recreation was good for him, or diversion, as

Jack Merryweather phrased it, so he often went to town, and with his

friend was frequently at concerts, fêtes, and plays.

One evening, after a quiet dinner together, Jack addressed his friend

as follows:

"Tom, you appear in doleful dumps to-night. You have sat opposite me

for ten minutes, and never said a word."

"I'm not over merry at heart, Jack," said Tom. "The fact is, amidst

all this fun and gaiety I feel there is something wanting in my life."

"And isn't it a fool you are," cried Jack, "to go on mourning for the

partial loss of one hand? Look at me--one leg only and a timber toe.

Do I mourn and lament?"

Jack held up that wooden extremity of his, which shone to-night like

an ebony ruler.

"Bah! Tom, what's the use of it?"

And Merryweather burst into the old song--

"Life let us cherish

While the wasting taper glows."

"Come along with me, Tom. There's something good going on to-night

at the old Drury."

Tom Bure yawned through three acts of a somewhat dreary play.

As shifting of scenery necessitated a longer interval than usual

between the third and fourth acts, a beautiful girl came on to sing a

charming Irish song. It was, the play-bill said, her first

appearance on any stage.

At the first sound of her voice Tom pricked up his ears.

At the first glance he started as if he had been shot again.

Then he disappeared--went tearing out of the box, as Jack afterwards

described it. He tore down below, and almost fought his way behind

the scenes.

He was just in time to meet the young lady walking off the stage with

a whole lap-full of bouquets.

"Bertha!"

It was Tom's voice.

And as he went awkwardly rushing forwards, somehow or other she

dropped everyone of those bouquets on the deck of the stage--I think

they call it the deck. If they don't they ought to.

Never mind, I have this to add: Bertha's first appearance on any

stage was likewise her last.

And just as Bertha dropped those bouquets am I now going to drop

anchor, and almost quite as suddenly. I do not wish that a good

boy's story should degenerate into an ordinary love yarn, else I

should devote a dozen pages to telling you how it came about that two

months after this our hero, Tom Bure, was married to the orphan girl,

Bertha Colmore, in presence of Jack Merryweather, Lord Raventree, and

honest Dan himself.

And just as the happy couple were standing on the deck of the saucy

_Yarmouth Belle_--same old skipper, same old mate--that was to bear

them from London to the North, "I say, Tom," said the same old

Merryweather, "I misunderstood you that evening after dinner."

"Never mind," said Tom, "I have at last found the something that was

wanting in my life. Good-bye."

"Mate!" roared the skipper.

"Yes," cried the mate.

"On this auspicious occasion, mate----"

"Let us----" said the mate.

"That's it. _Let us splice the main-brace_."

"Hurrah!"

FINIS.

LONDON:

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.