The next morning, the 29th of August, 1782, broke clear, bright, and
beautiful. A magnificent fleet lay out in the roads, and, towering among
them, Archy recognized the _Royal George_, with her three great decks,
her huge, broad-beamed hull, and her lofty masts. No one who ever sailed
on this ship but liked her. She had a record of good fortune which made
her a favorite with both officers and men. Her quarters were
comfortable, and she was commonly thought to be a weatherly ship,
although the terrible fate which was impending over her on that August
morning made it a miracle that she had survived so long, for at that
time she was the oldest ship of the line in the British service.
Afloat and ashore, all was the orderly bustle and despatch of getting a
fleet of more than thirty ships ready for sea in short order. Every
moment was precious, but Archy saw for himself that much remained to be
done, and it would be many days yet before the ships could be made
ready to leave.
About ten o'clock in the morning he hired a small boat and put out to
the _Royal George_. As he neared her, he saw her great hull slowly and
almost imperceptibly careen on the starboard side, by which he was
approaching her, and, presently, a gang of men in slings were let down
over her port side. Archy knew very well what that meant. Something was
to be done to her hull below the water-line, and as the day was
perfectly still, without a breath to ruffle the dead calm of the water,
the ship had been heeled over to save time, instead of the more tedious
process of being put in dry-dock to have the work done. Soon the sound
of ripping planks off and the noise of hammers and chisels echoed over
the water. A swarm of little boats were gathered around the monster, and
her decks were alive with people. Forward was a crowd of women and
children, families of the men, who were allowed on board for an hour or
two, as all work was suspended while the ship was being heeled over.
The ladder was over the starboard side, and as Archy, on reaching the
ship, ran lightly up it he felt a strange joy at again touching the
deck of a ship; and, with the joyful expectation of youth, he fancied
that in a little while the American navy would possess a whole fleet of
noble ships like those he saw around him.
As he stepped over the side the officer of the deck was standing close
by, and, on Archy's explaining that he knew Admiral Kempenfelt and had a
letter for him, the lieutenant called the Admiral's orderly, and in a
few moments Archy was shown into the great cabin.
"Ah, my young friend, happy to see you!" cried Admiral Kempenfelt,
rising from his table, where he was writing, and shaking Archy's hand
cordially. "So it seems, from Lord Bellingham's letter, which I have
glanced over, that you have had some adventures since I saw you last."
"Yes, sir," replied Archy, smiling, and returning the Admiral's kindly
grasp. "But not the sort I want. The _Seahorse's_ people seem to have
ended my fighting career when they picked me up at the Texel nearly
three years ago, and now that our countries are on the verge of peace,
it looks as if I would never have another chance to do a little whacking
on my own account."
"Ah, that's the way with you youngsters; nothing but whack--whacking all
the time. Wait until you get my age and you will love peace, as I do. I
am heartily glad, though, that this quarrel with our late colonies is
over. Not one-tenth of our people have been in favor of the war for two
years past, and both sides have done enough now to come to an honorable
peace. I have heard something of you since you have been in England this
time. So you won't turn Englishman for Bellingham and all it carries
with it?"
"No, sir. Would you turn Frenchman for Versailles and St. Cloud, and the
Louvre thrown in?"
"No, hanged if I would!"
Archy bowed and slapped himself on the breast, saying:
"I perceive I am in good company, sir."
"Well, now, Mr. Baskerville, let us see about getting you to Gibraltar
before we get there. A vessel--the _Fox_--is now waiting for a wind to
carry some French officers across, to be exchanged off Ushant. You could
go very well in her, and, once in France, you can take care of yourself.
I apprehend no difficulty in your communicating with your cousin. The
Duc de Crillon is well known to be most courteous in conveying letters
to the garrison, and even sent some delicacies to General Eliot, who was
forced to decline them, and there is actually much polite communication
between the two commanders-in-chief. I will myself give you letters to
the Admiral, and to Captain Wilbur, of the _Fox_, which, I am sure, will
secure you a berth in her."
Admiral Kempenfelt took up a pen and began writing rapidly; but the
cabin floor, which had been at an angle, was tilted still more, and his
chair slid down, while Archy caught the table as it was slipping after
the chair.
"Deuced inconvenient, this heeling of the ship; but it saves time, and
time is everything to our brave fellows at Gibraltar," and the Admiral
calmly resumed his writing. But Archy was not so calm. He looked out of
the cabin windows on the starboard side, and the nearness of the
rippling water gave him a kind of shock. He tried to calculate the angle
of the floor, which perceptibly became more acute, and a sudden
apprehension flashed over him that the ship was over too far to one
side--but he dared not speak.
Meanwhile the Admiral went on calmly writing, threw sand on the two
letters he had written, and after reading them over handed them to
Archy.
"There," he said, "I hope these will serve your turn. It gives me
pleasure to do you a kindness, even if you are an enemy," and he placed
his hand affectionately on Archy's shoulder. "May we meet again under
happier circumstances: in peace, all our quarrels forgot, and nothing
but good-will between us all--amen."
Something in the Admiral's kind voice, the grasp of his manly hand,
touched Archy's heart. The feeling of instant and dreadful apprehension
had grown upon him in the few minutes that the Admiral continued
writing. Every moment he hoped that the ship would be righted; instead
of that, the floor became a more sharply inclined plane. Against her
stout wooden walls he could hear the ringing of the carpenters' blows,
and it sounded like a knell of death to him. He looked closely into
Admiral Kempenfelt's eyes to see if there was any premonition of danger;
but the Admiral seemed strangely unconscious of what so powerfully
affected Archy, and although barely able to keep his feet on rising,
gave no sign of fear that the ship might go over.
Archy longed to ask the Admiral to go on deck with him, and even
faltered out:
"Will you not come above, sir?"
"No," replied the Admiral, surprised at the suggestion. "I have work to
do. Remember me to my friends at Gibraltar. Good-bye, and all good go
with you."
"If we do not meet again, Admiral," said Archy, in a voice which
trembled a little, and then, all at once, the words he had meant to
utter left him, and an overmastering impulse made him turn and walk out
of the cabin as quickly as he could.
Outside the door the orderly had braced himself against one of the
quarter-deck guns. Something in the man's face arrested Archy's
attention at that instant. There were strange noises about the ship, a
dull reverberation like thunder, followed by a slight crash, and the men
were running to and fro.
"What is the matter?" asked Archy of the man.
"Nothing, sir, except that the ship is heeled over too far; the guns
have broken loose, and I believe in five minutes we shall all be under
eighteen fathom of water," coolly replied the orderly.
The appearance of the deck was far from reassuring. As Archy took off
his cap in passing the officer in charge of the deck he observed the
carpenter say a few words in a low tone to the officer, whose reply was
perfectly audible.
"If you know more about this ship, sir, than I do, you had better take
the deck."
Archy ran to the ladder. The platform was far under water, and on
looking for his boat he saw the boatman about twenty yards off, pulling
away for his life.
"Come here!" shouted Archy.
The man simply shook his head, pulled a little farther out, and then lay
on his oars. Archy put his hand in his pocket and held up his purse. At
that the boatman quickly picked up his oars, and, rowing as if his life
depended on it, in a few minutes was alongside.
Archy's conduct had not escaped observation. Several officers were
walking about the deck, and, although they said nothing, their faces
were grave enough as they leaned over the rail and watched the boat,
into which Archy sprang while it was yet several feet away from the
half-submerged ladder.
"It wasn't the money for myself, sir, that brought me back," gasped the
boatman, as with tremendous strokes the boat shot away from the leaning
hull of the ship; "but it was worth while to try for my wife and family.
That there ship is in the most dangersome way I ever see a ship. One
puff of wind now will send her over."
"Lay on your oars," said Archy, watching with painful interest the
mighty hull on which the hammering and pounding sounded preternaturally
loud.
The perilous position of the ship was plain to the whole fleet, and
every eye was turned towards her. On several of the ships near her the
order was quietly given to stand by to lower the boats. In the stillness
of the August morning every sound could be heard, and on board the
_Royal George_ was much noise. The women and children forward were
laughing and chattering with the sailors, and every moment a burst of
loud laughter showed that the men were enjoying their little holiday
time. The noise of the workmen striking the hull was incessant, but
above all there would come the frequent ominous sound of a gun that
would break loose from its fastenings and roll down the inclined plane
to starboard. The officer of the deck continued to walk up and down in
what seemed to every eye that watched him an almost insane ignorance of
the danger of the ship. The boatman turned to Archy and said:
"I see the carpenter go up to him once afore, but he didn't take no
heed. I dare say the carpenter won't ax him no more."
However, at this moment the officer turned and disappeared below.
Thousands of eyes were fixed upon the _Royal George_ in agonizing
apprehension. Archy, in uncontrollable agitation, cried aloud:
"Why don't they haul the guns back? The ports are all open, and if she
heels a foot more she is gone. Oh, God!"
For the _Royal George_ was slowly, inch by inch, heeling over more; and
at the same instant, afar off, the bright water grew dark with an
advancing wind--the wind of death--which stole towards the great ship
softly and silently.
Suddenly the people on board the doomed ship seemed to realize their
peril. The officer of the deck reappeared and ran quickly aft. The crowd
forward stopped its shouting and singing and laughing; the sharp blare
of the boatswain's pipe was heard, calling all hands on deck--but it was
too late. The towering hull gave one lurch as the wind struck it, the
awful shriek of a thousand voices smote the air, and in another moment,
with a roar that was heard for miles, the _Royal George_ went down, head
foremost, in a black vortex of her own making.
For a few minutes Archy was dazed and paralyzed with the horror of the
sight. He saw the black and seething whirlpool made by the monster,
with her hundred and twenty guns, her giant masts and spars, her huge
anchors and cables, for one horrible moment upon the blue and sunlit
water. He heard the roar of the rushing air through her ports, the
thunder of guns and anchors breaking through the decks, and a frightful
crashing, as if every mast and spar and deck in the ship had been
splintered at once; and, worst of all, one wild shriek from twelve
hundred souls, swallowed up with her; and never, to his dying hour,
could Archy Baskerville forget that cry--a cry that haunted forever,
night and day, all who heard it. It was only when it had ceased, when
instead of the stately ship he saw a seething mass of waters where she
lay a minute before, and where now a few human beings were tossed like
leaves upon the water--it was only then that he came a little to his
senses, and shouted to the boatman:
"Give me an oar, and pull--pull!"
In a little while they were among the floating bodies. The few minutes
had somewhat sobered Archy. He still felt as if he were in some terrible
dream, but almost without his own volition he began to act rationally.
He threw down his oar, and, leaving the management of the boat to the
boatman, stripped off his jacket, trousers, and shoes, and, plunging
into the water, swam vigorously towards the first man he saw. As he got
near enough he recognized the orderly who had been on duty at the
Admiral's door. The man could not swim; but, although almost sinking in
his heavy clothes, quietly obeyed Archy, who called to him:
"Don't catch me around the neck--put your hand on my shoulder."
He would have been hard to save, as his clothes were heavy with water,
but the boat came alongside at that moment and he was hauled in. Archy
cried to him:
"The Admiral?"
"Gone," briefly answered the marine. "He never left the cabin."
Every ship in the fleet sent boats, and in half an hour all of the
survivors were picked up, and then came a terrible reaction. The flags
were half-masted, the booming of minute-guns over the water was heard,
and the people on the ships and crowds that ran to the shore gave way to
paroxysms of grief and horror. Even those who had lost no friend or
relative, and they were few, were overcome with the dreadful shock of
the disaster.
Archy Baskerville's nerve lasted him until, with the boatman's help, he
had handed the orderly and three other men they had saved over to the
large cutter which was collecting the survivors from the small boats,
and then he gave way to a perfectly hysterical burst of grief. Within an
hour from the time that he had shown the utmost coolness and courage in
saving life, he could only throw himself down in the boat and weep and
sob like a nervous woman over the horrors he had seen. The boatman, his
stolid face ashy pale, sat trembling, and presently said, in a thick
voice, to Archy:
"'Tis lucky, sir, that both of us wasn't took this way when there was
something to do. I swear to you, sir, my arms is so weak I can hardly
pull the boat ashore, and I know my wife is near wild with fright,
and--and--I don't seem to feel that, nor nothin', sir."
"Pull me to the _Fox_, and then you can go ashore and fetch my
portmanteau," said Archy. All he wanted then was to get away from that
dreadful spot.
The _Fox_, a small gun-brig, was then getting up her anchor, as the wind
was increasing, for which she had waited, and her orders admitted of no
delay.
As Archy came over the side of the brig, the men, with white, set
faces, were walking around the capstan in silence, the creaking sound
painfully audible. The officers, mute, and, as Archy could see, many of
them as shaken as he, were standing about the deck, and as Archy handed
Captain Wilbur--a stern, weather-beaten man--Admiral Kempenfelt's
letter, on which the ink was scarcely dry, he tried to speak, but he
could only say, "Admiral Kempenfelt," and burst into tears.
Captain Wilbur lifted his cap as he took the letter, and then turned
aside, to conceal his agitation. Presently he spoke in a low voice:
"Everything shall be attended to at once. I will send Admiral
Kempenfelt's letter to the flag-ship immediately, and we will not be
detained more than an hour. Would that we had sailed before we saw that
awful sight!"
The afternoon sun was declining when the _Fox_ passed out to sea. Archy
looked resolutely seaward--he could not bear to turn his eyes towards
the dreadful spot where the _Royal George_ had gone down.
At eight bells, after relieving the watch, Captain Wilbur called all
hands on deck, and, having no chaplain, he himself held a simple
religious service, in which all, both officers and men, joined
fervently. Captain Wilbur, although a dashing officer, was a stern man,
a rigid moralist, and counted as puritanical--but all hearts were
subdued by the terrible calamity they had just witnessed. Archy felt
that he had special cause for gratitude, and he gave thanks with a
greater devoutness of spirit than he had felt since the hour that
Commodore Jones--a man of deep though unobtrusive piety--had exhorted
him to thank God for the glorious success of their country.
They had sailed on the 29th of August, and by extraordinary good-fortune
found themselves off Ushant within thirty-six hours. There, waiting for
them, was the French frigate _Alceste_, with the English officers to be
exchanged for the French. To Archy's delight and surprise he found that
as soon as the French officers were landed at Ushant the _Alceste_ was
to take aboard the Comte d'Artois, the King's brother, and the Duc de
Bourbon, who were determined to see the last act in the tragedy and to
sail for Gibraltar.
The gallant French officers expressed the utmost sympathy for the
terrible disaster suffered by the British navy, and especially at the
loss of Admiral Kempenfelt, who was admired and respected even by his
enemies. The Admiral's letter--the last he had ever penned--was
recommendation enough to Archy, even without his prestige as having
served under Paul Jones. He was at once offered a berth on the
_Alceste_, which he gladly accepted, and on the 12th day of September he
came in sight, for the third time, of the Rock of the Lion.
So celebrated had this siege become that persons from all parts of
Europe came, as the Comte d'Artois and the Duc de Bourbon, to see the
last mortal struggle between Spain and England for this mighty fortress.
On that September day when they cast anchor in the harbor of Algeciras,
the shore, as far as the eye could reach, was an armed camp. The
gigantic fortifications, armed with hundreds of the heaviest siege guns,
were manned by forty thousand men. Fifty French and Spanish
battle-ships, nine of which wore admiral's flags, were drawn up in
menacing array, and beside them were a hundred gunboats, mortar vessels
and bomb-ketches, ten enormous floating batteries, and three hundred
smaller boats, to land men when a practicable breach in the defences
should be made.
From these enormous forces of attack, Archy turned his eyes on the
great fortress. The golden light of morning bathed the summit of the
Rock in fire, and the ensign of St. George floated proudly above it.
There were not six thousand men, and less than a hundred guns, to oppose
the tremendous bombardment of the Spaniards and French; but these were
the seasoned sailors, soldiers, and marines who had held out stubbornly
against death and defeat in every form for more than three years.
Precisely at seven o'clock in the morning a signal-gun boomed over the
water, and then began the unparalleled assault, which made all that had
gone before it mere child's-play.