WILLIE DIED A HERO'S DEATH.
"Then, traveller, one kind drop bestow,
'Twere graceful pity, nobly brave;
Nought ever taught the heart to glow
Like the tear that bedews a soldier's grave."
DIBDIN.
I cannot help thinking that if glory is to be measured by pluck and
skill combined, the battle of the Nile was even a more glorious fight
than that of Trafalgar. The former battle required more physical
exertion from the men individually, and therefore was a greater strain
upon their courage. How? you may ask. I will tell you; and although my
view of the matter may savour of the reasoning of the medico, still I
think you will admit I have common-sense on my side. Besides, I am a
sailor-surgeon; I have seen our brave blue-jackets working, and fighting
too, under various conditions, so it cannot be said I speak altogether
without experience. Well, the battle of Aboukir Bay or the Nile began in
the evening, when the men were more or less jaded or tired. They had,
moreover, just come off a weary voyage or cruise, and a night's good
quiet sleep would have made a wonderful difference to them both in
physique and _morale_. Trafalgar was fought by day, beginning in the
forenoon. Aboukir was contested in the hottest season of the year;
Trafalgar in the cool--namely, toward the end of October. Therefore, I
say, all the more honour and glory to our brave fellows; and may we
fight as well and as fortunately during the next great naval war, which
cannot now be far away.
I never can read or even think about that long hide-and-seek cruise of
Nelson's in the Mediterranean, in search of the French expedition,
without a feeling of disappointment. Why, oh why was it ordained that he
should not catch Napoleon with his fleet and his army at sea? Could he
have but sent the firebrand to the bottom of the salt ocean, what
conflagrations Europe would have been spared, what shedding of blood,
what hopeless sorrow and bitter tears!
But there! I am keeping the fleets waiting. For his part, Brueys, the
French admiral, would have preferred to wait. "He means to attack," he
said to one of his captains, referring to Nelson, "but he cannot be mad
enough to attack to-night."
But Nelson _was_ mad enough. He was burning to give it to the French,
and give it to them hot, for all the trouble and anxiety they had cost
him. He was as eager as a wild cat to spring at the throat of his foe.
Another night of waiting might have killed him. No, no, he cannot, will
not wait. "Make the signal for general action, and trust to Heaven and
the justice of our cause!"
Along the bay lay the great French fleet, with shoal water behind them,
supported by gunboats and bomb-vessels, the ships moored one hundred and
sixty yards from each other, and with stream cables so that they could
spring their broadsides on their enemy.
And their line extended for a mile and a half.
Had Brueys thought that Nelson would attack that night, he would have
got under way, and thus been free either to manoeuvre or show his
heels. He did not know our Nelson. Nor could he have believed that the
great British admiral would have done so doughty and daring a deed as to
get round behind him, so to speak, betwixt the shore and his fleet,
despite the sands and shoals. But Nelson did with a portion of his
fleet, and each war-ship took up position with all the precision of
couples in a contra-dance. Oh, it was beautiful! but when the battle
fairly began, and tongues of fire and clouds of rolling smoke leaped and
curled from the great guns, lighting up the dusk and gloom of gathering
night, while echoes reverberated from shore to shore, oh, then this
thunderstorm of war was very grand and terrible!
To describe the battle in detail, and all the heroic actions that took
place that night, would take a volume in itself. But it is all history,
and probably the reader knows every bit of it as well as, if not better
than, I myself do. We must honour the French, though, for this fight.
They fought well and bravely, and you know the gallant Brueys died on
his own quarter-deck, refusing to be carried below. He was a hero. So we
might say was the captain of the _Sérieuse_ frigate, who had the cheek
to fire into the great _Orion_ (Sir James Saumerez) as she was sweeping
past. It was like a collie dog attacking a mastiff. Saumerez couldn't
stand it. He stayed long enough literally to blow the frigate out of the
water or on to a shoal, where she was wrecked. The _Orion_ then went
quietly on and engaged a foeman worthy of her steel. It was plucky of
the _Bellerophon_--the old Billy Ruffian, as sailors called her--of
seventy-four guns, to attack the great _Orient_ of one hundred and
twenty, and of the _Majestic_ to range alongside the mighty _Tonnant_
and coolly say, "It's you and I, isn't it?" Then one can't help feeling
sorry for poor Trowbridge in the _Culloden_, because he ran ashore, and
had to remain a mere spectator while burning to have a finger in the
fearful pie.
But the two events of this memorable battle which I daresay dwell
longest in the minds of the young reader are the wounding of Nelson, who
was carried below, his brow gashed so terribly that the skin in a flap
hung over his eyes, despite which, you will remember, he bravely refused
to have his wound dressed until his turn came; and the blowing up of the
great ship _Orient_ with her bold Captain Casabianca and his poor boy,
who refused to be taken off or give up his duty without his father's
orders.
There are those who would rob us of this romantic story. I have no
patience with such gray-souled sinners. There are people in this world
who cannot endure romance and beauty; people who would paint the sky a
dingy brown if they could, and smudge the glory of the summer sunsets. I
do not love such people, and I hope you don't, reader. I verily believe
their blood is green and sour, and that they do not see this lovely
world of ours as you and I do, through rose-tinted glasses, but that to
them it must appear an ugly olive green, as it would to us if we gazed
upon it through a piece of bottle glass. No; we shall keep the brave boy
of the _Orient_, and still read Mrs. Hemans' delightful and spirited
verses:--
"The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame, that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him--o'er the dead.
"The flames rolled on--he would not go
Without his father's word;--
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
"There 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 faithful heart!"
* * * * *
The battle is past and gone, a whole month has elapsed since then, and
the swift _Tonneraire_ is homeward bound with despatches. Many were
killed and wounded, among others good old Simmons, the master, who fell
at Jack's side on the deck of a French man-o'-war. He would never
grumble again; his deep bass, honest voice would be heard no more. There
was hardly a dry eye in the ship when the kindly old man's hammock was
dropped overboard in Aboukir Bay.
Yes, the _Tonneraire_ was homeward bound at last, after an absence of
two busy and eventful years. But the saddest, probably, of all her
adventures had yet to come. M'Hearty, Tom Fairlie, and young Murray were
in the captain's cabin one evening towards sunset. Murray was
particularly bright and pleasant to-night, and his laughing face and
merry, saucy blue eyes did every one good to behold.
Suddenly there is a cry on deck, "Sail ahead!" and next minute the drum
is beating to quarters. The _Tonneraire_ has been working against a head
wind, and now down upon her, like some monster sea-bird with wings
outspread, sweeps a huge French ship of war. The battle will be very
one-sided, but Jack will dare it. Already it is getting dusk; he must
try to cripple the monster. He manages to rake her, and a broadside of
iron hail is poured through her stern. He rakes her a second time, and
this time down thunders a mast. Well would it have been for Jack and
the _Tonneraire_ if he had now put his ship before the wind. But no, he
still fights on and on, and suffers terribly; and just as the shades of
night deepen into blackness, he manages to hoist enough sail to stagger
away, and the Frenchman is too sorely stricken to follow.
Very early next morning, before the stars had quite faded in the west,
or the sun had shot high his rays to gild the herald clouds, M'Hearty,
looking careworn, unkempt, and weary--for he had never been to
bed--entered Jack's state-room and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
Jack was awake in a moment.
"Anything wrong, doctor?" he asked quickly.
"Alas, sir!" replied M'Hearty, and there was a strange huskiness in his
voice as he spoke--"alas, sir! poor young Murray is dying fast."
"Murray dying!"
"Too true, sir. His wounds are far more grievous than I was aware of. He
cannot last many minutes. He wants to see you."
The boy--for he was but little more--lay in a cot in the sick-bay. He
was dressed in his scarlet coat, and his sword lay beside him, for he
had refused to be divested of his uniform. He was in a half-sitting
position, propped up with pillows, and smiled faintly as Jack knelt by
his side and took his thin white hand in his.
It was a sad scene but a simple one. There was the gray light of early
morning struggling in through the open port, and falling on the dying
boy's face; falling, too, on M'Hearty's rough but kindly countenance,
and on the figures of the sick-bay servants standing by the cot-foot
tearful and frightened. That was all. But an open Bible lay upon the
coverlet, and in his left hand the young soldier clasped a
miniature--his little sweetheart's.
"Bury it with me," he whispered feebly. "See her, sir--and tell
her--Willie died a hero's death.--Kiss me, Jack--I would sleep now."
The eyelids closed.
Ah! they had closed for aye.
Not a sound now save Jack's gentle sobbing, then the slow and solemn
tones of M'Hearty's voice as he took up the little Bible and read from
the Twenty-third Psalm: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and
thy staff they comfort me." Amen!