NELSON OF THE NILE.
“_Admirals all, for England’s sake,_
_Honour be yours, and fame!_
_And honour, as long as waves shall break,_
_To Nelson’s peerless fame._”
IT is a gray, melancholy spring day in the year 1771. You are at
Chatham, looking on to the deck of his Majesty’s ship _Raisonnable_,
commanded by Captain Maurice Suckling. The sixty-four is not yet ready
for sea; her chief officers are not yet aboard. On the quay you see a
thin, delicate-looking lad of twelve years of age dressed in a “middy’s”
uniform. The wind bites shrewdly; the lad shivers in his thin jacket,
and there is something like a tear in his eye. This morning his father
left him in London to make the best of his way to Chatham and there join
his ship. He has wandered about, friendless and alone, for hours; he is
hungry, footsore, and weary, and he cannot discover the vessel to which
he is posted. You feel sorry for the lonely little fellow, but his
troubles are now over. A kindly officer accosts him, and brings him on
board. The lad’s eyes gleam as he gazes on the ship which is to be his
home. He glances down at the almond-white decks; he looks around at
grinning lines of black cannon; he turns his eyes aloft to the
symmetrical fabric of spars and sails and rigging. It is a wonder-world
of delight. There is fascination everywhere—in the red muzzles of the
guns, in their white tompions, in the petticoat trousers and long
pigtails of the sailors. His young eyes, brilliant with intellect, dart
hither and thither; he is astonished and delighted by all the novel
sights which he sees.
This frail weakling is Horatio Nelson, the proudest name in the naval
annals of his land. He is to develop into the “unique sailor,” the great
hero of his race, the man whose statue is decked with laurel and whose
fame is eagerly commemorated year by year, though well-nigh a century
has elapsed since he passed away.
Horatio Nelson was born in the year before Wolfe captured Quebec. He was
the son of a plain country parson with a quiver full of children and a
modest income. The future hero first saw the light in the pleasant
rectory of Burnham Thorpe, Norfolk. At nine years of age his mother
died, and the weak, sickly lad grew up under the care of his
grandmother. There was nothing remarkable about the boy’s school days,
though many stories are told of his mischievous exploits, his
fearlessness, and his high sense of honour. The best-known story relates
that as a little boy he strayed from the house on a birds’-nesting
excursion, and was absent so long that his grandmother grew alarmed and
sent out servants to look for him. At length young Horatio was
discovered sitting placidly by the side of a stream which he could not
cross. When brought back his grandmother said, “I wonder that you were
not driven home by hunger and fear.” “Fear! grandma,” said the boy.
“Fear! what is that? I never saw it!” Truly the boy was father to the
man. To the end of his life he never saw fear or knew what it meant.
You already know that at twelve years of age Nelson began his naval
career as a midshipman on board his uncle’s ship, the _Raisonnable_. At
twenty-one he was a captain in the Royal Navy—“the merest boy of a
captain,” as Prince William, afterwards William the Fourth, described
him. Nevertheless, there was no better seaman or more gallant officer in
the service.
Now let us pass on to the year 1789, when Nelson was thirty-one years of
age, and was regarded by those who knew him best as one of the finest
commanders in the service. In this year that huge upheaval known as the
French Revolution took place. For centuries the kings and nobles of
France had grossly mismanaged the country and had bitterly oppressed the
people. The State was well-nigh bankrupt, and the land was full of
starving and despairing men. In July of this fateful year Paris rose,
the Bastille, or State prison, was stormed, the prisoners were released,
and the garrison slain. All over the country the peasants revolted,
murdered the nobles, and burned their castles. The king was powerless to
interfere, and the National Assembly, which had now seized the reins of
power, passed laws sweeping away the privileges of the nobles and the
rights of the Church. Before long the king and his family tried to
escape from the country, but they were brought back and treated as
prisoners. Meanwhile large numbers of the nobles had sought refuge
abroad, and were urging foreign governments to declare war on France.
When the German sovereigns threatened invasion, the French declared war
against Austria and Prussia.
Now we must introduce the most dominant figure of the modern
world—Napoleon Bonaparte. He was born in Corsica in the year which saw
the American colonists beginning to rise against the British Government.
In the first year of American independence he was a “gentleman cadet” in
the military school at Paris. Here he was chiefly noteworthy as a
silent, haughty lad, full of self-love and of great ambition. He was
studious and very fond of mathematics and geography, but his abilities
were not striking. None of his teachers prophesied for him the
astonishing genius which he afterwards displayed. When Nelson was
twenty-seven years of age, Napoleon became a lieutenant of artillery. He
was a zealous republican, and was placed in command of the artillery
which was to besiege the naval port of Toulon, then in possession of the
British, who had been called in by the royalist inhabitants of the town.
Napoleon conducted the siege with such skill that the British were
forced to evacuate the place, not, however, without burning the French
fleet which lay in the harbour and destroying the arsenal.
At this juncture Nelson was detailed to besiege certain coast towns of
the island of Corsica. He captured Bastia and Calvi, but at the latter
place he lost the sight of an eye. A period of dangerous and exhausting
service followed. Napoleon was now in command of the army of Italy, and
was at the beginning of his extraordinary career. He was marching along
the narrow coast-road of the Riviera, and Nelson’s task was to harass
his shoreward march. Scarcely a day passed without a skirmish of some
kind with a battery, a gunboat, or an armed cruiser. Nelson’s force,
however, was inadequate, and Napoleon accomplished his purpose. His
victories in Italy were extraordinary, and speedily he was acclaimed on
all hands as the greatest general of the republic. As he rose in fame
and influence new vistas opened before him, and he soon perceived that
the highest office in the State was his to grasp. Next he advanced into
Austria itself, and carried all before him. When he was within eighty
miles of Vienna the emperor begged for peace, and obtained it at the
price of Belgium and Lombardy. Prussia now deserted the allies, and
Holland and Spain had already purchased peace by promising the republic
the use of their navies. Great Britain was in a state of “splendid
isolation,” and all eyes turned to the fleet as the only hope of
succour. The banks stopped cash payments, alarm was at its height, and
Consols fell to fifty-one. Great Britain had her back to the wall.
Before long, however, the British fleet had its first great success. On
February 14, 1797—that glorious St. Valentine’s Day—Admiral Jervis won
a splendid victory over the Spanish fleet off Cape St. Vincent. In that
confused scene of roaring cannon, rolling clouds of smoke, crash of
falling spars, shrieks of the wounded, and stormy huzzas of the
half-naked sailors wrestling at the guns, Nelson stands out as _the_
conspicuous figure of the day. At one time he was engaging nine Spanish
ships. A little later he was abreast of the _San Josef_, pouring in such
a murderous fire that speedily she was unmanageable. The _San Nicolas_
drifted on to the _San Josef_, and Nelson manœuvred to foul the _San
Nicolas_. He hooked his sprit-sail yard into her rigging, and then
boarded. The ship yielded, but at this moment a fierce fire of musketry
was opened from the _San Josef_—only a jump away. Instantly Nelson and
his men sprang aboard the _San Josef_, and as they did so a Spanish
officer called out that the ship had surrendered. Thus on the deck of a
Spanish man-of-war, which he had boarded across the deck of another then
in his possession, Nelson received the swords of the vanquished
Spaniards. Already he was the darling of his sailors and a source of
pride to the nation.
In a daring but unsuccessful attack on Cadiz he lost an arm, and sank
into a state of deep depression, thinking that he had become a burden on
his friends and useless to his country. For a time our little one-armed,
one-eyed hero retired to a quiet country home; but on April 1, 1798, he
was afloat in command of a fleet scouring the Mediterranean with orders
to seek the French fleet, and use his best endeavours to take, sink,
burn, and destroy it. After a long and anxious quest he at last
discovered it anchored in Aboukir Bay. “We are moored in such a manner,”
wrote the French admiral, “as to bid defiance to a force more than
double our own.” How vain the boast was will shortly appear. The French
ships were anchored in single file along the shore, with three miles of
shoal water between them and the land, and the admiral believed that no
man-of-war could possibly get to the shoreward of him. He had actually
piled up his mess gear on the shoreward side of his ships, thus
rendering the guns on that side unworkable. As the British fleet drew
near, under a press of sail, during the afternoon of August 1, Nelson
observed that the enemy’s ships were moored five hundred yards apart, so
as to permit them to swing at anchor. Instantly he perceived that where
the enemy’s ship could swing there was room enough for one of his
squadron to anchor. The French were trapped, and Nelson cried, “Before
this time to-morrow I shall have gained a peerage or Westminster Abbey!”
Five ships with men in the chains, heaving the leads, now bore down,
rounded the bows of the leading vessel, and got inshore of the French
fleet. The rest of Nelson’s ships took up their stations on the seaward
side, and at half-past six, just as the sun was setting, the action
began. In twelve minutes the leading ship of the enemy was dismasted,
and almost at the same instant the third ship of the line suffered the
same fate. Black night came on at seven, and only the flash of guns,
crimsoning the heavens, lit up the darkness. At half-past eight the
fourth and fifth ships of the enemy’s line surrendered. At ten minutes
past nine the flagship, the _Orient_, caught fire. She lay between two
British ships, and was almost cut in halves by shot. Her gallant admiral
lay dying on the deck, and every moment the flames raged higher.
The burning of the _Orient_ was the most terribly grand spectacle ever
seen in naval warfare. Her magazine was full of powder, and an explosion
was inevitable. Such, however, was the heroism of her crew that while
the lower decks were in flames, her men continued to work the guns on
the upper deck. Huge forked flames and living sheets of fire leapt up as
though from the heart of a volcano. She had ceased to fire now, and the
remnants of her crew crawled out on the spars like flies. The flames lit
up the scene so vividly that even the Arabs could be seen on the shore.
At a quarter past eleven she blew up with a thunderous roar, and the
battle of the Nile was over. All that remained was to render the victory
complete. By three in the morning two ships alone of that proud French
fleet had escaped. Next morning Nelson, with a deep wound on his
forehead, called the fleet to return public thanksgiving to Almighty God
for the most decisive victory that has ever blessed British arms at sea.
The number of the enemy taken, drowned, burnt, and missing was 5,225. On
the English side 218 were killed and 677 wounded.
Napoleon was at this time in Egypt, which he proceeded to conquer as the
first step towards striking at India. The disaster at Aboukir Bay cooped
him up in the East. He crossed the desert into Syria, and drove the
Turks out of the southern part of the land. Before the walls of Acre,
however, his victorious march was checked. The Turks within, and a
British fleet under Sir Sidney Smith outside, completely baffled him. In
later years Napoleon said, “That man made me miss my destiny.” But for
Sir Sidney Smith, Napoleon would have been Emperor of the East. As it
was, he was forced to raise the siege of Acre and retire into Egypt,
where news reached him that the French armies had suffered some
reverses. He left his army in Egypt to get home as best it might, and
returned to France, where his friends arranged a revolution. On December
24, 1797, a new French constitution was proclaimed, and shortly
afterwards Napoleon became First Consul. He took up his abode in the
Tuileries, and was now on the direct highroad to the lofty position
which he meant to attain.
Napoleon had pledged his word to save France from her host of enemies,
and in May 1800 he took the field once more. Crossing the Great St.
Bernard Pass, never before traversed by a large army, he succeeded in
planting himself in the rear of the Austrians, and at the battle of
Marengo achieved a brilliant victory. Later in the year the French
general, Moreau, crushed another Austrian army at Hohenlinden, and then
Austria sued for peace.
The Tsar Paul had already abandoned the allies, and now confessed to
great admiration for Napoleon, who proceeded to form a league for the
purpose of subduing Britain by striking at her trade. He persuaded the
northern powers—Russia, Denmark, and Sweden—to mass their fleets and
close all their ports against British ships. This was a deep-laid
scheme, but it was doomed to failure.
On March 12, 1801, Nelson left Yarmouth Roads as second in command to
Sir Hyde Parker, a man of unflinching bravery but of no original ideas.
The fleet which these admirals commanded was detailed to destroy the
ships of the allies which lay at Copenhagen, backed by formidable
batteries. Parker was irresolute as to the route to be taken through the
dangerous channels that led to the town. “Let it be by the Sound, by the
Belt, or anyhow,” cried Nelson, “only lose not an hour.” We cannot stay
to recount the progress of the terrible battle that followed. When
twenty of the enemy’s ships were almost destroyed, Nelson offered a
truce, which was gladly accepted, and
“All amidst her wrecks and her gore,
Proud Denmark blest our chief
That he gave her wounds relief;
And the sounds of joy and grief
Filled the shore.”
In the very height of the engagement, Parker, greatly alarmed for the
safety of his fleet, battered furiously by incessant broadsides, made
the signal to retreat. Nelson’s attention was drawn to it. “What does it
mean?” asked a colonel of marines standing by. “Why, to leave off
action,” said Nelson; “but hang me if I do! You know,” he went on, “I
have only one eye. I have a right to be blind sometimes.” Putting his
telescope to his blind eye, he exclaimed, “I really do not see the
signal.” So he nailed his colours to the mast, and in the midst of the
most terrible cannonade to which a British fleet has ever been
subjected, Nelson’s signal for “Close action” streamed high aloft, as
clear to every man’s sight as a star in the sky.
Napoleon had thus failed in his attack on the obstinate islanders, and
he was now ready for a breathing-space in which to recruit his armies
and build a navy powerful enough to beat Britain. Accordingly peace was
signed, and Great Britain restored all the colonial conquests which she
had made during the war, except Ceylon and Trinidad. This was all she
gained from a struggle which had cost her thousands of lives, and had
added two hundred and seventy millions to the National Debt.
Before the ink was dry on the treaty, Napoleon was busy planning the
establishment of a vast colonial empire, and aiming at the downfall of
the one power which thwarted him at every turn. The English press
bitterly attacked him, coarse and insulting caricatures of him were
constantly appearing, and French exiles in England frequently plotted
against him. He now demanded the suppression of the hostile newspapers
and the expulsion of the plotters, but the British Government refused.
Every day the relations between the two countries grew more and more
strained, and the breaking-point was not far off.
On May 12, 1803, war was again declared. Napoleon speedily forced Spain
to join him, and then began preparations for an invasion of Great
Britain. One hundred thousand men were marched to Boulogne, and every
road by which the soldiers passed bore the signpost, “To England.” A
huge flotilla of flat-bottomed boats was collected, and exercises in
embarking and disembarking went on within sight of the white cliffs of
Dover. “The Channel,” said Napoleon, “is but a ditch, and any one can
cross it who has but the courage to try.” He meant to put his courage to
the test as soon as the Channel was clear of the British fleet. From
June 1803 to September 1805 his men were waiting the word of command to
cross. It was never given.
The prospect of invasion roused every patriotic man in Great Britain.
Volunteers flocked to the standards, and soon, out of a nation of
fifteen million souls, including the people of Ireland who were not
allowed to volunteer, 300,000 men were in arms, besides 120,000 regular
troops and 78,000 militia. The dockyards worked night and day, and
before the end of the year one hundred and sixty-six new vessels had
been added to the fleet. The fortresses were strengthened, martello
towers were erected along the coast, and every possible preparation was
made. Nevertheless the year 1803 was one of alarm and terror. Next year
Napoleon attained the summit of his ambition—he crowned himself Emperor
of the French.
Still the projected invasion hung fire, and now Napoleon devised a plan
for securing the six hours’ command of the Channel on which the success
of his enterprise depended. His fleet was then in the harbour of Toulon,
which was being watched by a British fleet, with Nelson in chief command
for the first time. Napoleon ordered his ships to slip out of harbour
and sail for the West Indies, in order to decoy Nelson away from Europe.
Arrived at the West Indies, the French fleet was to put about and return
with all speed for Brest, where an attack was to be made on the British
squadron blockading that port while Nelson was far away. The defeat of
the British squadron at Brest would clear the Channel, and then the
grand invasion was to take place.
The plan nearly succeeded. Villeneuve, the French admiral, did slip out
of Toulon. Nelson was deceived, and went off on a false scent. When,
however, news arrived that the French fleet had sailed for the West
Indies, Nelson dashed after it in hot pursuit, and went half-way round
the world and back again before he caught it up. Villeneuve had
thirty-five days’ start, but Nelson arrived at Gibraltar on the return
voyage only three days after the French fleet sighted Cape Finisterre.
Here it found a British squadron under Admiral Calder. An indecisive
battle took place; and though the result was considered in England as a
failure, and almost a disgrace, it ended the grand invasion scheme.
Villeneuve was obliged to put into Ferrol to refit, and, meanwhile,
Nelson had arrived. Napoleon’s plan had failed, and Britain could
breathe freely once more.
In disgust, Napoleon broke up his camp at Boulogne, and rapidly marched
his army across France into Germany, where he met the Austrians and
Russians, who had formed a new league against him. Now began a series of
triumphs which laid the Austrian empire open to the invaders. While
Napoleon was rejoicing in his victories, terrible news reached him. The
greatest sea-fight in the history of the world had been fought, and the
combined fleets of France and Spain were no more. The beginning of the
end had arrived for the “terror of Europe.”
Villeneuve, with thirty-three Franco-Spanish vessels, lay in Cadiz
harbour, and outside was Nelson with twenty-seven British ships. The
French admiral had been stung to the quick by a bitter, taunting letter
from the emperor, accusing him of cowardice. To vindicate his courage,
Villeneuve gave the order to put to sea. On the morning of October 20,
1805, the fleets came in sight of each other.
“The sun never rose on a grander and more impressive ocean-picture. As
the courses and hulls of the hindmost of the British vessels floated up
the sea-line, the blue girdle of the deep became a field of ships; giant
structures bristling with guns, canvas swelling in clouds to the heavens
from their tall sides black with grim and formidable defences, crowds of
sailors motionless in expectation, quarter-decks glittering with
uniforms, and stillness everywhere, broken only by the creaming wash of
the bow-surge as it was shouldered off into yeast by the towering
battleships.”
At daybreak, after a night clouded with the presentiment that he would
die on the morrow, Nelson arrayed himself in his full admiral’s uniform,
and came on deck blazing with orders. Watching the fleet of the enemy
forming line of battle, he exclaimed several times, “I’ll give them such
a dressing as they never had before.” He advanced in two columns,
intending to crash into the enemy’s line, thus breaking it and
destroying the ships in the centre before those on the wings could come
to their relief. Undoubtedly there _was_ a plan of attack, though modern
critics have questioned the fact. The battle perhaps looked like a
“heroic scramble,” but behind the apparent confusion there was a subtle,
daring, and unexpected plan.
Just before the battle began Nelson went to his cabin, and there on his
knees wrote a beautiful and touching prayer. Coming on deck again, he
ordered that signal to be made which is his greatest bequest to his
country—a signal which stirs the pulses of every true Briton even after
the lapse of a century. High above the _Victory’s_ deck flew the
colours, and as the words, =England expects every man to do his
duty=, were interpreted, a great huzza rose from the fleet. “Now,”
said Nelson, “I can do no more. We must trust to the great Disposer of
all events and to the justice of our cause.”
The British ships now bore down, Collingwood in the _Royal Sovereign_
being the first to engage. He was twenty minutes in the midst of a
furious cannonade before he received support. The whole British fleet
now came into action, but not near enough for Nelson, and he signalled,
“Engage the enemy more closely,” and set the example by dashing into the
enemy’s line. Seven or eight of the weathermost ships immediately opened
a terrific fire on him. So fierce was it that for a few minutes the
_Victory_ made no reply. Her mizzen top-mast went over the side, her
wheel was knocked away, and a double-headed shot killed eight marines at
one stroke. Amidst this hail of death the hero moved with the utmost
indifference. As a splinter tore the buckle from his shoe he remarked
smilingly to his captain, “This is too warm work, Hardy, to last long.”
But now the gallant old ship got to work, and with a broadside that
disabled her immediate enemy, drove into the _Redoutable_ so closely
that the muzzles of the _Victory’s_ guns touched the enemy’s side.
At half-past one, when Nelson was walking the deck, a musket-shot from
the _Redoutable_ mizzen-top struck him, and he fell with his face to the
deck. “They have done for me at last, Hardy,” he exclaimed. “I hope
not,” answered the captain. “Yes,” said Nelson; “my backbone is shot
through.” They bore him to the cockpit, and on the way he drew a
handkerchief over his face that his sailors might not see him and be
discouraged. The gloomy cockpit was a shambles, resounding with the
groans of anguished men. Dr. Beatty flew to his side. “Ah, Mr. Beatty,”
said Nelson, “you can do nothing for me. I have but a short time to
live; my back is shot through.” And so it was. The decorations with
which he had adorned himself were too good a mark for the French
sharpshooters.
The hero lay a-dying while the storm of crashing artillery continued to
rage. High above the thunder came the huzzas of his seamen as ship after
ship of the enemy struck. The dying man turned and smiled. “Will no one
bring Hardy to me?” he asked, but the captain could not be spared. All
the beauty, the magnanimity, and tenderness of Nelson’s disposition
shone out in those dying hours. At last Hardy came. “Well, Hardy, how
goes the day with us?” “Very well, my lord,” was the reply; “we have got
twelve or fourteen of the enemy’s ships.” “I hope,” said Nelson
anxiously, “that none of our ships have struck.” “No fear of that, my
lord,” replied Hardy. And now the surgeon tearfully told him that his
life was done. “God be praised,” he whispered. “Now I am satisfied.
Thank God I have done my duty!” Nelson was dead.
As his breath floated away, the cannonading ceased, and Trafalgar was
won. Of the French and Spanish fleet that rose and fell upon the waves
on that October morning all that remained was a huddle of hulks rolling
helplessly in the trough of the sea, with the British colours flying on
the stumps of the wreckage, and a trail of beaten ships staggering
portwards for safety. Nelson had not spent his life’s blood in vain. He
had ensured his land a century’s command of the sea, during which time
she spread her empire far and wide, and developed her commerce to an
extraordinary degree.
[Illustration: =The Death of Nelson.=
(_By Benjamin West, P.R.A. By permission of the Corporation of
Liverpool._)]
[Illustration: =Napoleon on Board the “Bellerophon.”=
(_From the picture by W. Q. Orchardson, R.A., in the National Gallery of
British Art. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co._)]
[Illustration]