THE BATTLE AND THE BREEZE.
"The deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave."
"Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,
Uttered or unexpressed;
The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast."
The good ship _Ocean Pride_ was a twenty-gun frigate, with a crew of
nearly three hundred as brave fellows as ever waved cutlass or pulled
lanyard for the honour and defence of their native land. In January
1793, when the great war broke out between Britain and France, she was
homeward bound from the West Indies and South America, where she had
been cruising, and had hardly reached Portsmouth ere she received orders
to take in additional stores and proceed forthwith to sea again. No
leave was granted to men or officers. The sick were simply bundled on
shore, additional men shipped, and she was off again within
eight-and-forty hours of her arrival in port.
For the _Ocean Pride_ was a crack cruiser for those brave days, in which
seamen were sailors and seamanship a fine art.
Sir Sidney Salt was not only brave, but daring almost to a fault. He
believed most thoroughly and completely in the supremacy of British
seamen to French; but discipline and drill he looked upon as his
mainstays, fore and aft. His success had proved that he was correct in
system, not once but often during the past twelve months; for more than
one of the enemy's ships, larger even than his own, had been destroyed
or taken by the _Ocean Pride_ and her gallant crew. Boat actions had
been fought also: she had been engaged with batteries; her men had cut
out prizes from under the very guns of these; and they had fought on
shore too, side by side with marines and soldiers.
"It would be but the fortune of war," said Sir Sidney to his commander
as they stood together on the quarter-deck, "were this frigate, that is
now bearing down so boldly on us, to destroy us."
The commander grasped his sword with his left hand, and his features
were grimly set as he made reply,--
"True, sir, true. It would be but the fortune of war. Well, she may
destroy us; she shall never take us."
"Boldly spoken, Miller. It would indeed be a disgrace to lower our flag
to a ship of about our own size, and that ship a Frenchman. But see how
boldly she carries herself. Top-gallant sails down; all trim fore and
aft; guns run out; and hark! was that a cheer?"
"Yes, sir; a French one."
"Ha, ha, ha! Well, they shall hear a British one anon. Depend upon it,
Miller, that frigate has a consort, and she is not far off at this
moment, and--"
A puff of white smoke, with a point of fire in its centre, was now seen
curling round the enemy's bows, and the roar of the cannon interrupted
the captain's speech, and next moment a shot came ricochetting across
from wave-top to wave-top, and passed harmlessly by on the starboard
side.
"The fellow is beginning to be afraid already," said Miller, laughing.
"Yes; and depend upon it that shot was meant to keep his courage up.
But if he thinks we are to have a long-range duel he is miserably
mistaken. Set the fore-soldier, Miller. We'll walk to windward of him if
we can."
The _Ocean Pride_ was now more closely hauled, and seemed for a time to
bear away from the foe. The movement evidently puzzled the Frenchman.
Was John Bull sheering off? Would he presently put round on the other
tack and show them a clean pair of heels?
Shot after shot came tearing over the water, and when one went clean
through the _Pride's_ rigging and was not even responded to, the
excitement on board the Frenchman grew frantic.
The two vessels were now barely a quarter of a mile from each other,
when suddenly round came the _Pride_ till she was almost dead before the
wind, and began bearing down upon the _Désespéré_--for that proved to be
her name--like a whirlwind, and almost right before the wind. The battle
was about to begin in deadly earnest.
And none too soon; for at that moment a cry of sail in sight was heard
from the maintop-mast cross-trees.
"That's her consort," cried Sidney Salt. "Now, men," he shouted, "be
steady and cool; I need not say be brave. We may soon be engaged against
two, unless we gain the day before that frigate's consort puts in an
appearance."
A brave British cheer was the only reply to the captain's short but
pithy speech. The cheer was feebly answered by the enemy, who from her
uncertain movements was evidently puzzled at the apparent change in Sir
Sidney Salt's tactics. It seemed to those on board the _Pride_ that
contrary orders had been issued; for she first luffed, as if to beat to
windward and fight the British frigate beam to beam. Perhaps the courage
of her commander suddenly failed him, and he came to the conclusion that
he ought to ward off the real tug of war till his consort came up.
Anyhow, just as a shot carried away a piece of her jib-boom she
attempted to wear and fill, and in doing so missed stays.
Now came Sir Sidney's chance, and quick as arrow from bow he took
advantage of it. In less time almost than it takes me to describe it, he
had cut across the enemy's stern, and the well-aimed broadside that
raked the _Désespéré_ from aft to fore, almost completely placed her at
the mercy of the British frigate. The wheel was shot away, the rudder a
wreck, the mainmast went by the board, and both dead and wounded lay
upon the decks.
There were still men on board her, however, and brave ones too, to man
and fight her guns; and as the _Désespéré_ paid off, seemingly of her
own accord, the _Pride_ received her starboard broadside just as she put
about to close with her assailant. This broadside was fairly effective:
it silenced a gun, killed three men, and wounded five.
The _Désespéré_ had got round far enough to save herself from being
raked a second time. Broadsides were given and received; but as soon as
the _Pride_ had tacked again, it was evident she meant forcing the
fighting in the good old English fashion first introduced by bold Hubert
de Burgh.
Down came the _Pride_. She would not be denied. One wild cheer, one more
terrible broadside as her guns almost touched those of the enemy, then
grappling irons were thrown, and the vessels literally lashed together.
"Away, boarders!"
"Hurrah, lads!"
The last shout came from bold young Grant Mackenzie, as sword in hand,
and followed by the men who had so bravely fought his guns, he sprang
nimbly across the bulwarks and leaped down amongst the foe. To describe
the _mêlée_ that followed would be impossible--the shouts of victory and
shrieks of pain, the cracking of pistols, the clashing of sword and
cutlass, the shivering of pikes, the rattle of musketry from the tops.
It was all like a terrible dream to every one concerned in it; for each
British sailor or marine seemed to fight but for himself. Then there
were the final stampede, the hauling down of the flag, and the surrender
of the wounded captain to Sir Sidney Salt. All must have passed in seven
minutes or less.
The loss on both sides was terrible to contemplate. Twenty of our brave
lads would never fight again, thirty more were wounded, while in killed
and wounded the enemy's loss was well-nigh one hundred.
There was no time to lose now, however. The enemy's consort was but five
or six miles off, and coming down hand over hand. So the Frenchmen were
speedily disarmed. The dead were left where they lay, the wounded and
prisoners hurried on board the _Pride_. Then a train was laid to the
_Désespéré's_ magazine, and just as all sail was hoisted on board the
British frigate, the time fuse was lighted. The _Pride_ must fly now; to
fight another ship, lumbered as she was with wounded and prisoners,
would have been insanity.
On comes the enemy's consort. Away flies the _Ocean Pride_. The men on
the British ship still stand to their guns; for if they are overhauled,
they mean to fight and fall.
But see, the two French frigates are now abreast, and the consort hauls
her main-yard aback, and an armed boat leaves her side.
Nearer and nearer she rows. Those that behold her on board the _Pride_
hold their breath. They know she is rowing to destruction.
It is awful, and even brave Sir Sidney turns a little as the boat
reaches the doomed ship, and the men are seen clambering up her sides.
At that dreadful moment a huge cloud of smoke, balloon shaped, rises
high above the _Désespéré_, a sheet of flame shoots into the air, and
yards, and masts, and spars, and men are seen high above all. A sound
far louder than thunder shakes the _Pride_ from stern to stern. Sir
Sidney presses his hand to his eyes and holds it there for a time. When
he takes it away at last the _Désespéré_ has gone. A few blackened spars
bob here and there on the waves, and the cloud rolls far to leeward, but
the silence of death is over all the scene.
* * * * *
Tom Fairlie sat late that night beside poor Jack's couch. Jack's brow
was bound in blood-wet bandages, his eyes were closed.
"O doctor," said Tom anxiously, as his eyes sought those of Surgeon
M'Hearty, "is there _no_ hope? Surely Jack will live?"
"Jack's in God's good hands, lad," was the solemn reply, "and I am but
his servant."
The surgeon went slowly away, nor turned to look again.
"Poor Jack! poor Jack!" cried Tom; "and on his birthday too!"
He bent over the hardly breathing form, and tears welled through his
fingers. He had never known till now how much he loved his shipmate.
Would Jack die? His wounds were very grievous. "He is in God's good
hands," the doctor had said.
Tom Fairlie was a thorough English sailor--no better and no worse than
the average. He attended church on Sunday, and was always on the
quarter-deck when the bell rang for prayers; but the actual praying, I
fear, he usually left to the parson himself. If asked, Tom would have
told you that it was the parson's duty to make it all right with the
Great Commander above in behalf of himself and shipmates; but now it
occurred to Tom that he might himself personally address the Being in
whose hands poor Jack lay. God was good. Dr. M'Hearty had said so, and
the doctor knew almost everything. He hesitated for a few moments,
though. It seemed like taking the parson's duty out of his hands. Was it
impertinence? He looked at Jack's poor, white, still face--looked just
once, then knelt and prayed--prayed a simple sailor's prayer that isn't
to be found anywhere in a book, but may be none the less effectual on
that account.
When Tom rose from his knees Jack's eyes were open.
"I've been sort of praying for you, Jack. I feel relieved. Seems to me
the Great Commander is going to throw you a rope and pull you through
the surf."
Jack's lips were moving as if in feeble reply. But his mind was
wandering.
"The blue flower, Gerty--cull that. Oh, not the other! How dark it is!
Gerty, I cannot find you. Dark, dark, dark!"
And poor Jack relapsed once more into insensibility.
[Illustration: "_I've been sort of praying for you, Jack._"
Page 43.]