THE BATTLE OF CAMPERDOWN.
"The flag of Britannia, the flag of the brave,
Triumphant it floateth on land and o'er wave,
And proudly it braveth the battle and blast,
For when tattered with shot it is nailed to the mast."
_Old Song._
It was early on the morning of one of those bright and bracing days in
the beginning of October, when summer seems to return as if to say
good-bye before giving place to winter with its wild winds, its stormy
seas, its driving mist and sleet. The _Tonneraire_ had sailed in towards
Havre on the previous evening. To put it in plain English, she was on
the prowl. Jack had received word from a fisherman that lying at anchor
was a very large store-ship belonging to the French, and he meant to cut
her out or destroy her. But either the fisherman had deceived him or
the vessel had sailed. He found no vessel that he could make a prize of,
nor any foeman worthy of his steel.
Having been up half the night, Jack Mackenzie was tired, and had lain
down to sleep. The ship was under easy sail, and going to the north and
west, right before the wind. Jack was dreaming about his old home of
Grantley Hall. He was walking in the garden on a bright moonlight night
with his sister and Gerty; but the sister had gone on, up the broad
green walk, while the other two stopped beside the old dial-stone, the
figures on which were quite overgrown with green moss and gray
pink-tipped lichens.
"See, see, Gerty," he was saying, as he hurriedly cleared the stone,
"the old time appears again, the dear old days have come once more. The
figures were always there though we could not see them. Our old love,
Gerty, like the figures in the dial, has been obscured, but never, never
lost." A bonnie blush had stolen over her face, and her long eyelashes
swept her cheeks, as she glanced downwards at a bouquet of blue flowers
Jack had given her. She was about to reply, when sharp as a pistol-shot
on the quiet morning air rang out the voice of the outlook aloft,--
"Sail ahead, sir; right away on the starboard bow!"
Gerty with her flowers of blue, Gerty with the bonnie blush on her cheek
and the love-light in her eye, Grantley Hall, green grassy walks,
dial-stone, and all vanished in a hand-clap, and next moment Jack was
hurriedly dressing to go on deck.
She was a French sloop of war. Disappointed at his want of success on
the previous night, Jack announced to Tom Fairlie his generous intention
of blowing her sky-high.
So all sail was crowded in chase.
The sloop bore away before the wind. She knew, perhaps, her best course
for safety and escape.
It was very tantalizing but very exciting withal. She might have been a
phantom ship, so steadily did she crack on all day long, Jack never
getting a knot nearer, nor she a knot farther off. Stun'-sails were set
and carried away, all was done that could be done; but when at last the
crimson sun sank in a pink and purple haze, all on board could see that
the sloop had won the race.
But strange things happen, and but for this sloop Jack would never have
had the honour of being at the battle of Camperdown. They had sailed
very far north; and about five bells in the morning watch, while it was
still dark, the _Tonneraire_ found herself surrounded with mighty
men-of-war. Now, if these were Frenchmen, the days and years of the
swift _Tonneraire_ were assuredly numbered. But they were not. They were
the ships of Britannia, who was even then ruling the sea--the fleet of
bold Scotch Duncan, who had been refitting at Yarmouth, when he had
heard that the great Dutch fleet of De Winter had at last crawled out of
the Texel, and was on its way south to effect a junction with the
French, then--Heaven help Britannia!
"Going to join the French fleet De Winter is, is he?" Scotch Duncan said
when he heard the news. Duncan never said a bad word, but on this
memorable occasion he hitched up his Scotch breeks and added, "I'll be
dashed if he does. Make the signal 'Up anchor!'" Having issued this
order, he coolly entered his state-room to lock his drawers and put away
his papers and jewellery, for he knew the ship would be knocked about a
bit. As he did so he whistled "Johnnie Cope."
And now the _Tonneraire_ was hailed by the flagship, and told to fall in
with the fleet.
Tom Fairlie rubbed his hands with delight, M'Hearty chuckled, and old
Simmons rumbled out some remark to the effect that he knew Duncan well,
and that "you youngsters" (that was Tom and Jack) "will soon have your
fill of honour and glory."
So they did.
And braver battle than Camperdown was never fought. Not only did our
fellows exhibit the greatest of courage, but gallant De Winter as well.
The Dutch had about twenty ships, and we nineteen in all. Since the
suppression of the mutiny at the Nore, Duncan had regained all his
fleet; and the men seemed determined to wipe out the stain that had
blackened their characters. And right well they succeeded.
You must go to history for a complete account of the battle. Suffice it
for me to say that on coming up with the enemy's fleet on the 11th of
October, Duncan broke right through it and got inshore. De Winter could
not have got away had he wanted to ever so much. The great battle was
fought dangerously near to the coast indeed, for here were shoals and
sands that were quite unknown to our fleet. The beach was lined with
spectators, who must have been appalled at this terrible conflict of
giants.
The _Tonneraire_ was splendidly handled. Old Simmons himself took the
wheel, and carried her grandly alongside a Dutchman nearly double her
size, so close that the guns touched, and seemed to belch fire and
destruction down each other's iron throats. But Jack had no intention of
stopping there to be blown out of the water by the Dutchman's
broadsides.
"Away, boarders!" It was Jack's own brave voice sounding through the
trumpet, high over the din of battle.
Then, ah then! a scene ensued that it may be just as well not to
describe too graphically. Our marines and blue-jackets boarded pell-mell
and together, and amid the roar of cannon from other ships, the
incessant rattle of musketry from the tops, the hand-to-hand fight raged
on, with shouts and groans and shrieks of execration. Hitherto no
wounded man had been borne below to the cockpit, so that M'Hearty was
idle as yet. He was on the rigging with the captain, from which they had
a bird's-eye view of the battle.
"Look, sir, look, the captain of marines has fallen. Oh, I can't stand
this!"
Next moment he had leaped below. Off went his coat and waistcoat and
hat. He seized a cutlass, and in a minute more was on the Dutchman's
deck, flailing away like a perfect Wallace Redivivus. Many a head he
broke, for he literally showered his blows like wintry rain.
He saved the marine captain's life, although that sailor-soldier was
severely wounded. It is almost unnecessary to say that, under the
circumstances, Captain Jack Mackenzie forgave the gallant doctor for
leaving his ship without permission.
But the toughest fight of all raged around Duncan's flagship, the
_Venerable_, when she tackled that of the Dutch admiral De
Winter--namely, the _Vreyheid_. Just as in days of long, long ago the
chiefs of opposing armies used to delight to single each other out and
fight hand-to-hand, so did bold Duncan keep his eye on the Dutchman, and
as soon as the battle had commenced he went straight for her. As he bore
down towards her, however, the _States-General_ presented a target that
he could not resist, for she was stern on to the _Venerable_. Murderous
indeed was the broadside Duncan poured into her, raking her from aft to
fore. This vessel soon after left the battle ranks, with a loss of over
two hundred and fifty killed and wounded.
[Illustration: "_Bold Jack Crawford nailed the colours to the mast._"
Page 169.]
And now the great tulzie commenced in awful earnest, for Duncan ranged
himself up against the _Vreyheid_ to the lee, while to windward of
her was the _Ardent_. But three mighty Dutchmen came down hand-over-hand
to the defence of their brave admiral's ship. So fearful was the fire of
these latter that Duncan's ship would speedily have been placed _hors de
combat_, had not others come to his rescue and restored the balance. But
nothing could withstand the fury of Duncan's onslaught; and at last,
with every officer dead or wounded, the brave Dutch admiral hauled down
his flag. Twice during the terrible combat had Admiral Duncan's flag
been shot away. It was then that bold Jack Crawford, whose name
indicates his Scottish origin, wrapped the colours round his waist, and
providing himself with nails and a hammer, climbed nearly to the
main-truck and nailed the ensign to the mast.
Duncan received De Winter's sword, and soon after the battle was over
and the victory ours. A glorious day and a glorious victory, but, ah!
how dearly bought. It gives us some faint notion of the pluck and go of
our navy in those fighting days of old, to learn that the _Ardent_ had
her captain and forty officers and men slain outright, and no less than
one hundred and seven wounded.
The scene in the cockpit during a fight like this is one that genius
alone could graphically depict. The centre-ground of the picture is the
big table, around which the surgeons are at work, stripped to their
shirts, their faces stained, their hands and garments dripping gore. The
whole place is filled with stifling smoke, through which the glimmering
lights are but faintly seen; but all around are ranged the wounded, the
gashed, the bleeding, awaiting their turn on the terrible table. You can
hear them if you cannot see them--hear them groaning, sometimes even
shrieking, in their agony; and the mournful call for "Water! water!" is
heard in every lull of the fight or momentary cessation of cannon's
roar. And bending low as they move among them are the stewards and
idlers of the ship, serving out the coveted draught. But down the
blood-slippery companion-ladder come the bearers incessantly, carrying
as gently as a Jack can their sorely-stricken messmates. Verily a sad
scene! On deck war is witnessed in all its pomp and its panoply, on deck
is honour and glory; the dark side is seen in the cockpit--the sorrow,
the despair, the hopelessness, the agony, the death.