QUIBERON.
The storm was at its height, the darkness was intense, and from the
black heavens the rain poured down in torrents. Yet, by now, all those
who for thirty-one weeks had been on board their ships had become
inured to toil and travail, to wet and cold and misery, relieved only
by an occasional putting in to Torbay or Plymouth before going out
again.
They had once more been at sea for some days, and, though driven to
the westward by rough south-easterly winds, were, with pressed sails,
directing their course towards Brest--towards Quiberon. For it was the
night of November 19th which was passing away amidst darkness, cold
and storm; it was the dawn of the 20th which was coming. And, although
none in the great English fleet knew it for certain--though many
suspected such to be the case!--that dawn was to herald one of those
great English triumphs which are to be for ever blazoned on her scroll
of fame--a victory which, if not as great as that of La Hogue in the
past, nor of Trafalgar yet to come, was to take a worthy place beside
them in our annals.
Ere that horrible night which was to usher in the great day had
fallen, the fleet had been joined by frigates left behind to bring the
last words from England--the _Maidstone_ and _Coventry_ being amongst
them--and, if there was aught that could add to the happiness of all
on board, it was the news of how, with official despatches, letters
had come for some few amongst the number--bringing news from home.
Letters from loving wives and mothers, all breathing prayers for
safety and a happy future; letters full of sadness, yet which, though
bitter, were sweet, too, to those who received them.
Amongst the recipients of such correspondence was Sir Geoffrey Barry,
who, when he could snatch a moment from his duties, retired to his
cabin to peruse that which had come to him--from his beloved and
darling Ariadne! Need one write down for those to read who have
themselves wandered across the seas, or taken part in storm or stress
of battle, with what joy such a letter would be eagerly perused, or
how, from the pen of the woman who wrote it would fall the words of
gentle regret at the adored one's absence, as well as the hopes of
bright and happy days to come and to be passed for ever side by side
with those they loved? No need to tell these words, yet all were
there--as we who have been parted from the one we value most in the
world know well. We who have been parted, if even for a week or less!
But there were other matters besides--matters strange and full of
significance, to one at least in that ship.
"Lord Glastonbury is dead," Ariadne wrote; "he was found dead and cold
in his bed. And, oh! Geoffrey, she is free. Is it wicked of me to
write like this, and as though I rejoiced in it? I hope not, yet I
think ever of poor Sophy's broken happiness, of Mr. Granger's sad lot.
Now they can be--but I will say no more. It is too soon."
The first impulse that rose to Geoffrey Barry's mind was to at once
send for Granger and inform him of the tidings that had come. But,
then, after a moment's reflection, he decided that it would be best
not to do so. To-night, to-morrow, at any moment, they might be in
conflict with the enemy, whom all knew now to be in their
neighbourhood. After the victory which none doubted they would
achieve, it would be time to tell him. Therefore he would not disturb
Granger at his duty, nor agitate him with thoughts best not indulged
in while there was work to do. So, for the present, he held his peace.
That there was work to do was soon apparent, when, at last, the dawn
broke. Some English transports had been fallen in with a day or so
before, and from them Hawke learnt that the French squadron of
twenty-four sail had been seen several leagues west of Belleisle, and
that there could be no doubt that this was the Brest fleet under
Conflans. Now, at daybreak, all knew that this information was
correct, for, as the full light came, the whole French squadron was
observed chasing some English frigates and bomb-ketches in the hopes
of destroying them. Then, when the enemy saw the English fleet so
near, they desisted from the chase, and, although they formed a line
to receive Hawke's attack, a moment later they ran before the wind to
seek safety.
In an instant there flew the signal from the _Royal George_ for every
ship to make her way towards the enemy, no regard being paid to the
line of battle; the first to engage the French being the _Warspite_
and the _Dorsetshire_, while from almost every vessel might be seen
the strange sight of men tossing their caps overboard in defiance of
that enemy. And from each ship was heard ringing cheers as the fleets
drew near to one another. The battle had begun.
Amidst the tempest and fury, amidst the strife of the elements
themselves, that battle commenced, while, so thick was the reek and
smoke of the powder, that soon neither the white flag spangled with
lilies nor the Union Jack could be distinguished as they flew from
their respective masts and staffs. Yet each knew where his enemy was,
and towards that enemy each pushed upon the rolling, tossing waves.
Amongst those distinguishing themselves upon this fateful day was that
great ship of honoured and long-transmitted name, the _Swiftsure_.
Never did any noble vessel that had served to make England's fame
widespread perform greater feats of valour than did she upon this
occasion. Forcing her way towards the enemy, she encountered Conflans'
flagship, the _Soleil Royal_--a name of evil omen to France, as some
recalled who brought to their recollection another _Soleil Royal_,
crushed and destroyed at La Hogue--attended by two great French
seventy-fours; and in an instant the _Swiftsure_ had flown at them as
flies the gallant hound at treble the number of wolves. Broadside upon
broadside she poured from her seventy guns--above their roaring being
heard the ringing cheers from those on board her as well as the howls
of contempt and hideous oaths of the British bull-dogs; and so she
fought and fought till her guns were almost too hot to touch. Yet
still she fought, not with the courage of despair, nor with the doomed
energy of one o'ermastered, but with the spirit of some wild and
savage tigress, recking neither of death nor wounds nor destruction to
herself, so that, amidst them, she tore and mangled and destroyed,
while still thirsting for more death and destruction. Tossed on the
rolling seas, hurled backwards and forwards as were those other three
with whom she strove, she poured forth her deadly venom, until at
last, outnumbered, with her main topmast shot through, her main
top-gallant mast gone, and her tiller-ropes cut away, she broached-to
in the tempest, the three enemies rushing forward to encounter next
the English Admiral in his flagship.
That all the rest were fighting with grim determination, be very sure.
The _Resolution_ was pouring a terrible cannonade into the
_Formidable_ (flagship of the French Rear-Admiral); the _Royal George_
had been laid alongside the _Soleil Royal_ by now; the _Torbay_ was
sinking the _Thesée_--with an awful cry from all on board, the latter
went down amidst the turbulent waves! the _Magnanime_ was destroying
for ever the _Héros_. Meanwhile the _Royal George_ was driving the
_Soleil Royal_ from out the fray, she being followed by the _Tonnant_
and three others. The _Superbe_ had drawn the _Royal George's_ fire
next, receiving the whole of the latter's broadsides, and was sinking
close by her victress. And because of how she, this gallant French
ship, had fought; because she was a foe worthy of England's best shot
and steel; because she bore bravely the hell of fire rained into her
by the great English vessel as she went down with her colours flying,
there arose from her enemy's decks a long and ringing cheer of
applause. She was a conquered foe, but still a noble one, and the
hardy British throats could not refuse to her the tribute she had so
nobly won.
And then there came the greatest incident of this terrible fight. Upon
the _Royal George_ there sprang seven great French ships, and they
surrounded her while pouring their broadsides out from all their guns,
so that those in her consorts, because of the vessels which hedged her
round, could do nought to help her--could, indeed, do nought but
bewail her sad fate and gnash their teeth with rage. Yet, too,
Providence watched over her: the guns that should have sunk her were
not well served, the enemy were in a terrible state of discomposure,
and the turbulence of the sea was now such as to make their broadsides
uncertain. It almost seems a miracle to relate, but of all the balls
hurled against her, not more than fifty struck the mark, and not one
was below the water-line. But there were others of her own side
crowding to her assistance now--amongst them was the _Mignonne_, with
her captain shot through the arm, yet giving his orders as calmly from
the quarterdeck as though he were upon some tranquil cruise, as well
as the _Hero_, the _Mars_, and the _Union_; while, to leave England
the conqueror in this great fray, there was something else coming.
That something was the night. And the French, taking advantage of it,
sheered off--they had had enough! The _Soleil Royal_ soon ran ashore
with the _Héros_, when both were burnt. The _Juste_ was on the rocks
and overturned; beneath the water were several others, and a dozen
more were aground. Well might the ten thousand French spectators
ashore who had witnessed the great fight turn white and weep as night
closed in on all around.
Of our losses the principal were the _Resolution_ and the _Essex_; the
remainder were not important.
And so the great fleet which was to have invaded England was utterly
destroyed, Conflans' threats were idle and empty now, France had
received another death-blow to her ambitions, and Hawke's peerage was
assured.
It was enough.
* * * * * * *
In the darkness of the November night they called the roll on board
all the English vessels and wrote down the names of the dead and
dying, as well as of the missing.
In the _Mignonne_ they were doing it now, as slowly, with her topmast
shot away, she followed in her turn. Two of her lieutenants did not
answer to their names--never again would they reply to them!--and her
master also was silent.
"Mr. Granger," next called out the quartermaster, himself uninjured.
But neither to his name was any answer given.
"Is he dead or wounded?" asked Sir Geoffrey Barry, pale from his
wound.
"Who's seen him?" roared the quartermaster. "Has any one seen the
master-gunner?"
"I saw him," cried a man, himself wounded and bleeding, "not half an
hour ago. He was at his post then--where he've been all day."
"Call his name again," said Sir Geoffrey.
But still no answer was returned, as indeed no answer was returned to
over forty names similarly called.
Then, later, they set forth to go the rounds of the ship and find
those who had not replied, the captain going first, accompanied by a
midshipman with a lanthorn. And many were found dead at their posts
before, at last, they came to Lewis Granger.
He was lying upon his side by the middle-deck port-sills with his face
turned downwards, while all around and beneath where his head lay was
a great pool of blood--his own and others--that slowly drained towards
the scuppers and so ran out to mingle with the heaving waves beneath.
"Is he dead?" asked Sir Geoffrey, gazing down at him while the
midshipman held the lanthorn so that they could see his face. "Is he
dead?" And as he spoke there were tears in his voice.
Was this to be the end of all, he thought; the end of the man's hopes
for a better life, the end of his unchanging, unchangable love for the
woman who, even now, was free?
"He is not dead, sir," the boatswain answered, kneeling by Granger's
side and supporting his head above his own knee, "but he is dying;
must surely die. Observe the great wound in his throat."
"Granger," said Geoffrey, kneeling by his side, "Granger--do you know
me?"
Then the dying man opened his eyes and looked up at the other, who by
that glance understood that he did know him.
"Shall I tell him?" thought Geoffrey. "Shall I tell him now, at the
last moment? Will it make him happier? What is best to do?"
"He is going, sir," the boatswain whispered, "he is going. His heart
is getting more feeble, growing fainter."
"Granger," then whispered Barry, "can you hear me--understand me?
Listen, ah! listen, and so part happily. She whom you love is
free--free now to come to you. Does that in truth make you happier?"
"It--is--too--late," the dying man muttered hoarsely, for the last
time!
His head lay even heavier now than before upon the rough sailor's
knee; while the man, with a glance at his captain, put up his hand and
removed the cap he wore--he being followed in the action by all
present.
Yet, still, Granger was not quite dead; still some life was left in
the strong, suffering heart. Once again he spoke.
"Tell her," he whispered, as Geoffrey bent his ear,
"that--I--died--blessing--loving her--to--the--last. Tell her--I never
loved but one; and that--my first--love was my last. Also--in your
mercy--leave her picture upon my--breast--where it has always lain
since--I lost--her."
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Fortune's My Foe, by John Bloundelle-Burton