path: root/75979-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75979 ***






[Illustration: Cover art]



[Frontispiece: "Nelson is struck by a grapeshot and falls bleeding
into the boat." _p_ 244.]



[Illustration: Title page]



  _Hearts of Oak._

  A STORY OF

  Nelson and the Navy.


  By

  GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M.
  (_Surgeon Royal Navy_),

  AUTHOR OF "FROM SQUIRE TO SQUATTER;"
  "IN THE DASHING DAYS OF OLD;" "EXILES OF FORTUNE;"
  "ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY;"
  ETC. ETC.



  "'Hearts of oak!' our captain cried; when each gun
    From its adamantine lips
    Spread a death-shade round the ships
    Like the hurricane eclipse
      Of the sun." CAMPBELL.


  NEW EDITION.


  _LONDON:_
  JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.,
  48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.




  UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.

  HEARTS OF OAK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . By Dr. GORDON-STABLES.
  FOR ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY . . . . . . Dr. GORDON-STABLES.
  EXILES OF FORTUNE . . . . . . . . . . . . Dr. GORDON-STABLES.
  IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE  . . . . . . . . . . Dr. GORDON-STABLES.
  TWO SAILOR LADS . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dr. GORDON-STABLES.
  IN THE DASHING DAYS OF OLD  . . . . . . . Dr. GORDON-STABLES.
  FACING FEARFUL ODDS . . . . . . . . . . . Dr. GORDON-STABLES.
  GRAHAM'S VICTORY  . . . . . . . . . . . . G. STEBBING.
  THE TWO CASTAWAYS . . . . . . . . . . . . LADY F. DIXIE.
  HONOURS DIVIDED . . . . . . . . . . . . . W. C. METCALFE.
  ON TO THE RESCUE  . . . . . . . . . . . . Dr. GORDON-STABLES.
  BEL-MARJORY.  A Tale of Conquest  . . . . L. T. MEADE.
  EUSTACE MARCHMONT . . . . . . . . . . . . E. EVERETT-GREEN.
  A TRUE GENTLEWOMAN  . . . . . . . . . . . EMMA MARSHALL.
  THE END CROWNS ALL.  A Story of Life  . . EMMA MARSHALL.
  BISHOP'S CRANWORTH  . . . . . . . . . . . EMMA MARSHALL.
  FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM  . . . . . . . . . . ANDREW REED.
  CITY SNOWDROPS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . M. E. WINCHESTER.
  COUNTESS MAUD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . EMILY S. HOLT.
  HER HUSBAND'S HOME.  A Tale . . . . . . . E. EVERETT-GREEN.
  IDA VANE.  A Tale of the Restoration  . . ANDREW REED.
  ONE SNOWY NIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . EMILY S. HOLT.
  FOR HONOUR NOT HONOURS  . . . . . . . . . Dr. GORDON-STABLES.
  WINNING AN EMPIRE . . . . . . . . . . . . G. STEBBING.
  A REAL HERO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . G. STEBBING.
  A TANGLED WEB . . . . . . . . . . . . . . EMILY S. HOLT.
  DOROTHY'S STORY . . . . . . . . . . . . . L. T. MEADE.
  BEATING THE RECORD  . . . . . . . . . . . G. STEBBING.
  BRITAIN'S QUEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . T. PAUL.
  THE FOSTER-SISTERS  . . . . . . . . . . . L. E. GUERNSEY.
  A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY  . . . . . . . . . . . L. T. MEADE.
  NEVER GIVE IN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . G. STEBBING.
  EDGAR NELTHORPE . . . . . . . . . . . . . ANDREW REED.
  MARION SCATTERTHWAITE . . . . . . . . . . M. SYMINGTON.

  LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.




PREFACE.

I have no need, I trust, to apologise for the introduction of the
name and chief exploits of so great a naval hero as Horatio Nelson
into this story of sea life.  It is due to my readers as well as
myself, however, to state that it _is_ a tale of the sea, and not
intended as a life of Nelson.  Nevertheless I have endeavoured
throughout to paint his character to the life by a series of
_tableaux vivants_, which I humbly hope will not be found altogether
ineffective.

With the exception of the calm and peaceful days that Nelson spent at
the old parsonage of Burnham-Thorpe, I have dealt _solely_ with his
doings and deeds afloat, and from the time he joined the grand old
service until the day of his death on board the _Victory_ the sword
is seldom out of his hand.  My Nelson is Nelson on the quarter-deck.
With Nelson at Court, whether at home or abroad, I have nothing
whatever to say.  The young fellows for whom I write, I know well,
infinitely prefer the sailor's cutlass to a lady's fan.

And Nelson is notably a boy's hero; so good, so gentle, and yet
withal so brave!  And never during all his career was his mind so
overwhelmed with his own cares on shipboard, as to preclude him from
interesting himself in what pertained to his junior officers, with a
tenderness too that was almost fatherly.  Another trait in his
character that must cause every true boy to look upon Nelson as a
hero, was his love of duty and justice.

Says Alison, "He was gifted too by nature with undaunted courage,
with indomitable resolution, and undecaying energy.  He possessed
also the eagle glance, the quick determination, and coolness in
danger, that constitute the rarest qualities in a consummate
commander."

I pray heaven that in our next naval war--and it cannot be very long
ere this rages over the seas--our country may be in possession of a
few admirals who shall emulate the dash and _elan_ of our great and
mighty Nelson.

* * * * *

Descending to my lesser heroes, young Lord Raventree, and Tom Bure,
they are neither greater nor less than any true-hearted British boy
may be, who has the honour to draw dirk or sword in the dashing days
of warfare which most assuredly are before us.

Descending to still humbler heroes, it will do the reader no harm to
know that poor Uncle Bob, and his honest and gentle old brother Dan,
have had their counterparts in real life.

So, too, has the faithful collie dog Meg, with all her gentle,
winning ways, who so cheered the last sad days of her helpless
invalid master.

May we not love even a dog for the possession of virtues higher far
than many mortals can lay claim to?

GORDON STABLES.

  TWYFORD, BERKS,
    _March, 1892._




Dedication.


TO

FRANK SMITH, ESQ.,

JOURNALIST, ETC.,

A FRIEND WHOM I HAVE NEVER YET SEEN,

BUT WHO SO VERY OFTEN

CHEERS ME WITH BRIGHT AND WITTY LETTERS,

Himself a Heart of Oak,

THIS BOOK

IS DEDICATED WITH EVERY KINDLY WISH

BY

THE AUTHOR.




  CONTENTS.


  Book I.

  _IN PEACE AND AT HOME._

  CHAPTER

  I. Poor Uncle Bob
  II. The Wreck on the Gorton Sands
  III. "I see it all," He said; "I see it all"
  IV. Uncle Bob tells Tom's story
  V. A Mountain Wave comes swelling o'er the Sands
  VI. Summer Morning on a Norfolk Broad
  VII. The Launch of the "Queen of the Broads"
  VIII. "Stay at Home, my Lad, and plant Cabbages"
  IX. Horatio Nelson's Earlier Days
  X. "I will be a Hero, and trusting to Providence
     brave every Danger"
  XI. "There's a Storm brewing, and you'll be in it, Tom"
  XII. "Dan will ne'er be Dan again," they said


  Book II

  _WILD WAR'S BLAST._

  I. Tom's Baptism of Blood
  II. How Tom Bure joined the Service
  III. In the Gunroom Mess--The Great War Game
  IV. Were there really Tears in Nelson's Eyes?
  V. The glorious old "Agamemnon"
  VI. A Duel to the Death
  VII. The Battle of St. Vincent
  VIII. Life in Nelson's Ship
  IX. Bombarding Cadiz--A madcap Expedition
  X. A Dark Night's Work
  XI. A Happy Home-coming


  Book III.

  _IN HONOUR'S CAUSE._

  I. A Gipsy's Warning
  II. The Fight on Blackmuir Marsh
  III. "Volunteers" for the Navy--The Burning of the "Highflyer"
  IV. The Search for the French Fleet--At Last
  V. The Battle of the Nile--Horrors of the Cockpit--Nelson Wounded
  VI. The Burning of the "Orient"--A Heart of Oak
  VII. Face to Face with the Danish Ships
  VIII. A "Glorious Day's Renown"
  IX. Nelson's Last Days and Hours
  X. "Jack, I Feel there is Something Wanting in my Life"




HEARTS OF OAK



Book I.


CHAPTER I.

POOR UNCLE BOB!

  "Happy Britain! matchless isle,
    Whose natives, like the sturdy oak,
  Secure in inborn force, may smile
    And mock the tempest's heaviest stroke.

  "If roused in war, shall dreadful move
    Britannia's vengeance on her foes; to prove,
  Where'er again her banners are unfurled,
    The dread and envy of the wond'ring world."--DIBDIN.


"I wonder what makes Tom so late?" said Uncle Bob to himself, as he
opened his eyes and looked around him.  "Why," he added, "it is
precious nearly three bells in the second dog-watch, as sure as I'm a
living sailor.  Living!  Well, there isn't a deal of life about me,
for the matter of that; but I'm right about the time.  The shadow of
yonder poplar tree just touches my toes at four bells, and it doesn't
want a yard of doing so now.  I must have been dozing a bit, too.  It
is a drowsy kind of an evening anyhow.  But it was that blackbird in
the cherry-tree that set me off, and maybe the hum o' the bees round
their hives yonder, and the whispering of the wind in the old cedar
must have helped a bit.  Heigho!"

Poor Uncle Bob yawned a little, then listened.

"Made sure I heard Tom singing just then," continued the invalid half
aloud, "but I dare say it was the sea-gulls.  They're coming inland
to-night, and I'm no seaman if it doesn't blow big guns before
morning."

Uncle Bob talked to himself for the best of reasons: there was no one
else to talk to.  For little Ruth, his niece, was helping her mother
in the house, and Daniel, his brother, had gone to the Hall with a
boat.  No chance of Dan being home early to-night, for the boat
required the heaviest cart for its conveyance, and the mare had gone
a bit lame lately.

To have looked at Uncle Bob's face as he lay there in his cot, which
had been wheeled out under the shade of the trees on the daisied
grass, no one would have taken him for an invalid.  His rather
handsome face, with its short brown beard and well-chiselled features
was placid and contented, nay, even happy and hopeful-looking.

O, yes, Uncle Bob had not ceased to hope.  For seven long years and
over, day after day, whenever the sun shone, or it was dry weather,
that cot upon wheels had been hauled out of doors, where it is now in
this sweet May evening, by the sturdy and kindly hands of Brother
Dan.  Yet if the boat-shed close by had taken fire, poor Uncle Bob
could not have lifted hand or foot to save himself from destruction.
The paralysis from which this seaman suffered had been accidental.
It was this, probably, that gave him hopefulness and made his sad
life in a measure bearable.  And in certain states of the weather,
strange to say, Uncle Bob could move his fingers.

Dr. Downs used to call as he passed by to talk with him for a few
minutes, and never failed to tell Uncle Bob that as he wasn't an old
man by any means, time might work wonders.

Mr. Curtiss, the curate, a kindly-hearted young fellow from
Yorkshire, often dropped round, and would sit and talk to the invalid
for a whole hour at a time.  Nor did he ever leave without some words
of consolation that, to say the least, were well-meant.  Bob had very
much to be thankful for, the curate would say; he wasn't in pain of
any sort; he had his appetite and the use of his eyes and ears, and
everybody loved him and was good to him.

Uncle Bob being a sailor, the curate thought it was his duty to
always introduce an allegorical ship of some kind in his conversation
with the stricken mariner.  Besides, wasn't Mr. Curtiss himself
somewhat of an authority on nautical matters?  Hadn't he been down to
the sea in ships--well no, not quite that, but he had made one long
and dangerous voyage from Great Yarmouth to London in a herring yawl,
which enabled him to talk with some degree of confidence about "green
seas," "contrary winds," "luff tackle, main sheets and shrouds," and
all the rest of it.  Mr. Curtiss meant well therefore, and he never
left the invalid without leaving him something nice to think about,
without, in fact, leaving him better in mind, if not in body, than he
had found him.  But after all said and done it isn't everyone who
could have lain in a cot all these years so peacefully as Uncle Bob
had done.

Brother Dan, you must know, reader, was a boat-builder--not of
pair-oared gigs or outriggers, or any of the beautiful dashing boats
you see on the Thames and other rivers--Dan's speciality was cobbles,
or good, honest, strongly-built, broad-beamed boats, on which you
could float on the lovely waters of the Norfolk lakes, and at times
step a mast and hoist a bit of sail, without much danger of turning
turtle, so long as you sat to windward.  Ay, and you might venture a
long way out to sea too in one of Dan's boats, and if you kept your
weather eye lifting now and then, and your hand on the main sheet,
you could crack on very prettily indeed through a lumpy sea-way.

And Brother Dan's house was just over the way yonder, across a little
rustic private bridge that brought you here to this half lawn, half
paddock, but wholly pleasant and tree-shaded spot, where Bob's cot
was safely moored under the shade of the cedar.  After you passed the
bridge you had to turn sharp round to the right, and on through the
garden by a well-kept gravel path, before you came to the porch of
Dan's old-fashioned, but comfortable, Norfolk cottage.

Lying out here all by himself, one might have said that Bob looked a
little lonesome this evening.  And perhaps he was, for with the
exception of the blackbird that seemed to be singing to the invalid,
and to him alone, he had no companion.  Now and then the bleating of
sheep in the distance, the low contented moan of cows, or the barking
of a dog fell on his ear, and in a small lake almost close by his
cot, and over which the shadows of some giant poplars were thrown,
half-wild ducks played at hide and seek among the tall reeds, while
occasionally a fish leapt up and made rippling rings on the surface
of the water, but that was about all of life that was at present
indicated.

In fine weather it was cheerful enough for Uncle Bob here, because
Dan worked close beside him in the boat-shed, into which he could
wheel the cot if a shower threatened.  And Brother Dan with his rosy
face and his square paper cap, hammering at a boat, or making the
white curly shavings fly from his plane was a very cheerful figure
indeed.

Over and above all this, Dan's property--he always called it his own
property--was situated on high ground, or what is called high ground
in this part of the world, for Norfolk is not Switzerland; so that
from between the trees Bob could catch glimpses of the far-off
country side, at which he never tired looking.  For it takes very
little indeed to create interest in the mind of the confirmed
invalid.  The trees in front of him were mostly tall and weirdly
Scottish pines, whose brown pillar-like stems hardly obstructed the
view.  So Bob could feast his eyes on green fields, where sheep and
cattle sheltered themselves from the sun's rays under the spreading
elms; on an ancient gray-stone hall that rose boldly above a
cloudland of foliage; on an archery lawn near it; on the shimmer of a
silvery lake or broad, and on the flashing waters of a winding
reed-bordered stream.  Among the woods to the right and left of the
centre of this picture was here and there a touch of red among the
greenery of the trees, representing the tiled roofs of farm-houses or
cottages.  All combined did not make much of a picture perhaps, but
it was nevertheless a very peaceful and very pleasant one.

Gazing dreamily at it, Uncle Bob had almost gone to sleep again, when
the voice of a young girl raised in song, awoke him thoroughly, and
looking up he saw Ruth herself, right on the centre of the rustic
bridge, waving a handful of wild flowers towards him.  In front of
her bounded a beautiful black and tan collie dog.

"Dear old Meg!" said Uncle Bob, as the animal put her fore paws
almost on his pillow and licked his ear.  "Been away for hours I'll
wager, haven't you now, Meg, ranging over the hills and fields and
chasing the squire's rabbits?"

The collie leant her cheek against her master's breast, in that
inexpressibly pretty way that such dogs have of showing pity and
affection combined.

"Hullo!  Ruth, my little sweetheart, you look as fresh and lovely as
the figure head of the old Queen Bess in a new coat of paint.  Come
and kiss your old uncle, you rogue.  Now I've been picturing you to
myself with your sleeves rolled up, washing plates and things in the
kitchen; 'stead o' that you've been gathering wild flowers."

[Illustration: "Hullo!  Ruth, you look as fresh and lovely as the
figurehead of the old _Queen Bess_."]

"All for you, Uncle Bob.  Look at the buttercups and the ox-lips, and
oh, uncle, just smell those red ragged Robins.  See I've tied the
posie with grass, and I'll lay them on your breast so you can scent
them."

She patted her uncle's brow, and added, "I've wetted both my feet
trying to get a yellow iris, so I shall run and change my stockings,
and get supper ready 'gainst father and Tom comes home.  Ta, ta,
uncle.  Meg will stop here, so you won't feel lonely."

Ruth was a fresh-complexion, pretty girl of sweet thirteen, with shy
dark eyes, blithesome face and a lithesome figure.  Mr. Curtiss, the
curate, had said more than once, than only to see Ruth going singing
about at her work of a morning made him feel good all day.

Uncle Bob was naturally very fond of his little niece, but between
our two selves, reader, he was fonder far of Tom; for when the boy
was not away at school, or scouring the woods and hills with Meg, he
was the invalid's constant companion.

"Tom won't be long now, Meg, will he?" said Uncle Bob when Ruth had
disappeared.  "Ha! you're cocking your ears, old lady.  D'ye hear
young master?"  Meg emitted just one half-hysterical bark of joy and
jumped down.

Her sharp ears had caught the sound of the boy's footsteps on the
road not far off, so away she bounded.

A few minutes after, young Tom himself, red and dusty with running,
his eyes sparkling with joyous health and excitement, appeared upon
the scene.

Instead, however, of coming quietly up behind Uncle Bob, and kissing
his brow--for the lad was almost girlish in the affection he
displayed for the helpless invalid--Tom stood at the foot of the cot,
a _Times_ newspaper over his head, and shouting--

"Hip, hip, hooray--ay!

"Hip, hip, hooray--ay--ay!"

"Whatever ails you, sonny?  Where have you been to, and what have you
got?"

"Why _The Times_, Uncle Bob.  I walked all the way to the Hall, round
by the broad, to borrow it, after my tutor told me the news.  'Cause
why, uncle, 'cause I knew you'd like to read the news with your own
old-fashioned eyes.  Oh! glorious news, I can tell you.  That is what
Mr. Curtiss called it.  The French are going to fight again, at least
he thinks so.  Won't it be glorious? won't it be fun?  After supper
Uncle Bob, after supper--oh, not now.  It is too good to be scamped
and hurried over; besides, I'm so hungry.  And, poor uncle, so must
you be.  But there!  I haven't told you all the news.  The most
glorious part of it is to come.  I went to the Hall, you know.  Well,
I saw Lady Colemore, and she sent the footman into the garden with me
to see I should eat as many strawberries as I could hold, and
to-morrow, little Bertha Colemore and her maid are going to bring you
a great big, big basketful all to yourself, and I'm to feed you with
them, and not eat one."

Then Tom laughed so merrily, that he was forced to lie down on the
grass and roll, and Meg was by no means slow to follow his example.

Uncle Bob laughed too, though there wasn't anything very special to
laugh about, but the sight of happiness in others always pleased Bob.

"Look here, you young rascal," said Uncle Bob at last.

"That's me," cried Tom, springing up.

He stood at attention, after touching his cap.

"Away aloft, young sir, and have a look round the horizon.  Take the
glass, sir."

"Ay, ay, sir," said Tom.  "Away aloft it is!"

And next moment he was swarming up the rigging with all the agility
of a practised sailor.

Up and up and up, hand over hand, till his head touches the bottom of
the crow's-nest, then he enters it from below and settles himself to
have a good look round through the glass.

Now in case this last sentence should seem enigmatical to the reader
I must explain.  The crow's nest was a hugely large and strong
barrel, that had been hoisted up into one of the poplar trees, and
firmly secured at a distance of forty feet above board, that is above
the level of the lawn.  The tree, which was a very beautiful one,
with one strong trunk which reached a height of five-and-twenty-feet,
then bifurcated into two that tapered skywards for fully fifty feet
more, grew almost in the water of the little lake, and strong
ratlines or rigging, similar to that on a ship, led upwards to the
nest.  Above this nest was a kind of Jacob's ladder, up which Tom
could swarm for twenty feet higher and seat himself on what he and
Bob called the top-gallant cross-trees.

From near the bottom of the nest hung a stout rope, and up this Tom
could climb when he chose, or come down by the run.

This out-look or crow's nest was one of the pleasures of poor Uncle
Bob's lonesome life.  It was a pleasure even to look at it when Tom
wasn't there, but when the lad did come home--and his arrival was one
of the chief events of the day with Bob--hardly had he exchanged
greetings with uncle ere the order was, "Away aloft, lad!"  Then
standing in the cosy nest, or seated high up on the cross-trees, Tom
would keep the invalid informed, for half-an-hour at a time, or even
a whole hour sometimes, of all that was going on at sea.

"Now then, lad," shouted Bob, "is the brig still there?"




CHAPTER II.

THE WRECK ON THE GORTON SANDS.

  "How hard the lot for sailors cast,
    That they should roam
  For years, to perish thus at last
    In sight of home."--DIBDIN.


"Yes, sir; and she has dropped anchor at the tail of the Gorton
Sands."

"Her skipper's mad," cried Bob; "as mad as a March hare.  Why it's
coming on to blow big guns from the south-east, or soon will be, and
if he doesn't trip it and be off, there won't be a stick of him left
together by moon-set.  Don't look at him, Tom, he's no sailor."

"Five yawls, sir, tacking through Hewett's Channel.  Foremost has got
into the blue, filled, and is running north away."

"Thank you, Tom.  Fishermen, I suppose."

"There's a three-masted ship, sir, coming straight in from the east,
under all sail.  But there isn't above a capful of wind."

"Did you say a ship, Tom?  Now, be careful."

"Yes, sir; I'll look again.  Now she's gone about, and I can see
she's a barque."

"Bravo, Tom!  But mind you this, lad, I've seen a man had down from
aloft and receive four dozen at the grating, for just such a trifling
mistake as that."

"Now," continued Tom, "I can just raise the topga'nt sails of a ship
far away north.  It is a ship right enough, sir.  Appears to be on
the la'board tack, and standing over for the French coast."

"Fiddlesticks, Tom!  She'll be about in half-an-hour."

"Why, sir," cried Tom presently, "four of the fishermen are crowding
all sail to the nor'ard, but the fifth----"

"Yes, Tom.  What's the matter?"

"She's luffed, and hugging the Gortons!"

"See anything strange about her, Tom?"

"Never saw a yawl so deep in the water before.  She can't be going
fishing, uncle.  I see something else, sir, now."

"Well, Tom?"

"But what are you whistling for, Uncle Bob?"

"I'm whistling for the wind, lad."

"Oh, you needn't, sir!  That--that--strange craft is bringing it up
with her.  But I can't quite make her out.  She is long and low, not
big; and carries a press of fore-and-aft sail on two thin masts."

"That isn't a very lucid nor very seaman-like description, Tom,"
cried Bob, laughing.  "Has she any top-masts?"

"Ye--es, but----"

"But what?"

"But I can hardly see them.  She seems in a hurry, but doesn't carry
topsails.  She puzzles me."

"Ah, lad, she's playing a game!  She's the d----l in disguise, Tom."

"Oh, uncle, if Ruth heard you!"

"That's what shore folks call these craft, Tom.  Now the brig must
see the strange sail.  What are they doing?"

"Why, they're signalling to the yawl, I think."

At this moment the trees caught the wind.  The cedar rattled its
great limbs as if in proud defiance of any blast that could blow.
The pine trees waved their dark heads like the plumes on a
Highlander's bonnet.  The elm trees rustled, then roared, and the
tapering poplars bent like fishing-rods before the force of the
breeze.

Uncle Bob laughed aloud.

"Hold firm there, lad," he shouted.  His long illness had not
weakened his voice.  "Don't get emptied out.  I knew that I could
bring the wind by whistling."

"It is only a squall, I suppose, Uncle Bob?"

"That's all; but there's another to follow, and one or two more to
follow that.  Then it'll settle down for a dirty night and blow a
sneezer.  Look at the blackhead gulls going shrieking round your
head, Tom."

"But now, lad, tell me what's doing at sea.  How does the sea itself
look, Tom?"

"Waves all flecked with froth, sir."

"With foam, Tom."

"Yes, foam I mean."

"Well, Tom, say so, else I'll have you down, sir, and introduce you
to the gunner's daughter.  Liken the waves to white-maned horses if
you please, but not to quarts o' beer with good heads on them."

Tom was very busy up in the nest for the next few minutes.  There was
some little difficulty in holding the telescope steady, owing to the
breeze, and Bob noticed that first he would direct it east and by
south, then south-east, then east by north.

"Oh, Uncle Bob," cried Tom at last, talking excitedly, "I do wish you
could come up here for a few minutes."

"Ah! lad, I wish I could.  I'd give my left eye for that pleasure."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!  I forgot you couldn't walk."

"Never mind.  What's doing, my boy?"

"Why, sir, they've all gone mad."

"The brig was mad before, else she wouldn't have got so close to the
Gorton bank.  What is she doing now?"

"Shaking loose her sails.  And she's getting up anchor to be off."

"And the yawl, the deep one, uncle, has put right about, and is
driving north after the fishermen.  Wind's gone two points more to
the south'ard now."

"I notice that, lad.  It's only the play o' the squall.  What about
the d----l in disguise, Tom?"

"She's mad too.  Instead of taking in sail she has hoisted her
topsails, and she's heeling over till she looks like a paper kite, or
a kite's wake."

"How's her head?"

"She's close hauled, sir, and bearing down towards the brig."

"And the brig?"

"Just ready, sir.  Going off on the sta'board tack."

"Close work, won't it be, Tom?"

"At least, I think she is----.  Oh-h-h, uncle!"

"What is it, Tom?  Speak, boy; tell me, quick."

"Why, she has----yes, Uncle Bob, she has missed stays, and is driving
on to the Corton sands.  Oh, it's awful, awful!"

A pause of some minutes.

"Now she has struck.  Down go the masts, and the seas are leaping
over her like wild hyenas."

"Heaven help the poor ship," said Uncle Bob.  "What a lubber of a
skipper.  I told him, Tom--I told him--at least, I told you.  I don't
know exactly what I'm saying, Tom.  But what's the yawl doing?"

"Carrying on, sir, heading right away north.  But it's getting so
dark, what with the rising clouds and the dusk, that----."

"You're sure, Tom, the yawl is cracking on?"

"Sure, sir."

"The dastard, not to help her consort."

Tom looked down from aloft.

"The wind caught the last word, Uncle Bob," he shouted.  "I didn't."

"I said 'consort,' Tom," cried Bob.  "You don't understand the drama
that's being enacted before your eyes.  Tom, it's a tragedy now.
That brig is or was a smuggler.  They're not so likely to suspect
lubberly brigs of playing that game.  The yawl was coming down with a
cargo to her.  See, Tom.  And the d----l in disguise is a government
sloop."

"I understand now.  But, sir, I can just see that a boat has been
lowered from her, and is making straight for the wreck with a bit of
sail set."

"Bravo! bravo!  I hope they'll save the men.  The skipper deserves to
be choked in the Gorton sands.  Now, lad, come below.  Here is Ruth,
just heaving in sight at the other side of the bridge.  Ah!  Ruth,
lass, there is terrible news.  The brig we talked about in the
morning has gone on shore on the tail of the Gorton bank.  Heaven
help them, little sweetheart; but I fear by this time it is a sad
case."

Ruth put the end of her apron up to her eyes as if to shut out the
terrible vision of breaking spars and timbers, rolling surf, and
waves more than houses high.

"Come, Ruth," said Tom, touching the girl on the shoulder, "let us
wheel Uncle Bob home over the bridge.  There is no time to lose."

"Why what does the boy mean?" said Uncle Bob.

"Wait, uncle, till you're in the house, and I'll tell you.  Come,
Ruth, you pull and I'll shove.  Heave-o-ee.  There she goes.  A
little more to sta'board, Ruth.  That's it.  Now then, steady as you
go; a long pull and a strong pull.  Ruth, you're a beauty.  What a
capital sailor's wife you'll make!"

Talking thus, with Bob smiling in spite of himself, in spite of the
tragedy he knew was at that moment being enacted on the Gorton sands,
Tom and Ruth speedily wheeled the invalid's cot towards and right
into his own wing of the cottage.

If ever a helpless man had a kind and thoughtful brother that man was
Uncle Bob.  The whole aim and object of Daniel Brundell's life,
indeed, seemed to be to make the lad--as he often called Bob--happy
and snug; and in this good work he had a most faithful helpmeet in
his wife.  As regards inventing invalids' comforts, I do believe that
such a man as Dan would in our days make his fortune.  Let us follow
the cot on wheels for instance.  Not into the house by the main
doorway was it taken, for it could not have been turned, but into
what was called 'Uncle's wing,' the door of which, although
surrounded by a rustic jasmine-covered porch, opened straight into
the room.  Once inside, the cot was wheeled broadside on to a small
bed of the same height, a block and tackle were attached to the upper
or hammock portion of Bob's cot, both at the head and at the feet,
Ruth hoisted one end and Mrs. Brundell the other, and lo! in ten
seconds uncle was raised and swung easily and carefully on to his bed.

Then the cot was wheeled out to a dry shed till it should again be
required; the invalid's head and shoulders were raised, and he was
snug and happy for the evening.  As a rule Tom fed the poor fellow,
but to-night the lad had something else on his mind.

"I'm going to drink a pint of milk," he said, "and put some bread and
cheese in my pocket to eat by the way, then run all the road to
Lunton Cave, and get Ashley's yawl under way to go round Gorton.
They'll meet the navy boat, won't they, uncle?"

"Why, boy," said Bob, "as soon as the navy boat saves whom she can
off the brig she'll stand off for the sloop, and be picked up."

"That she won't, uncle.  I saw what you didn't."

"Well, boy?"

"Just before I came down I had another look, and could see that the
Government craft had filled sail, and was standing right away north
in pursuit of the yawl.  So, of course, her boat will run in shore
and try to land at Gorton, or head away for the north pier at
Gorleston.  Am I right, uncle?"

"Why, lad, I'm proud o' you!  My own bringing up too.  Right?  Yes;
an admiral of the fleet couldn't be righter.  Well, God speed you,
Tom.  Strikes me, though, that the disguised sloop has all her work
cut out if she means to overhaul that yawl.  They'll slip their cargo
over the bows without being seen, and the lighter she is the faster
she'll fly.  Besides in the dark and storm----"

"Not so dark, though, uncle.  There's a big round moon peeping up
already.  But, good-bye, uncle, mother, and Ruth--I'm off."

And away he went, and certainly very little grass grew under his feet
ere he reached the fisherman's cave.

Ashley was there himself, and his two sons also, and Davies, a Welsh
fisherman, who lived at the cave.  The yawl too was all ready in a
little artificial harbour the men had dug close to the cave in which
they lived.

Tom soon told his story, and the men were in no way loth to try their
luck at piloting, as they phrased it.

"But," said Ashley, "it'll be a dirty night, and we'll have to work
every inch o' the way to windward.  Never mind, boys, it's to save
precious life!"

"Yes, yes," said Davies, "and doubtless we will have the king's money
too, into the bargain, Mr. Ashley."

Old Ashley looked at the man and laughed.

"Take care," he said, "you don't have to take the king's money in a
way you'd little relish, now you've married a nice young wife."

Ashley's sons laughed, and the Welshman was silent.  The owner of the
yawl went up the steps to the door of the cave, which by-the-way had
once been a smuggler's den, but was now a comfortably-furnished
house, high above the sea-level, except during very high tides.

"You're surely not going fishing to-night!" cried Mrs. Ashley, a
tall, lanky woman, as brown as a gipsy.

"What if I were, good wife?" answered the old man gruffly.  "Haven't
I been out on many a dirtier?  See to it that you have plenty of hot
water, and some supper.  We're expecting company."

"Maggie," he added, addressing a young and pretty woman, "you help
mother.  There's been a wreck on the Gorton, and we're going to bear
a hand in saving life."

"All right, daddy," said Mrs. Davies.

He beckoned to her, and she followed him out.

"Is the brick cave safe?" he asked.

"Yes, daddy," she answered, surprise and alarm depicted on her face.
"But----are they _friends_?"

"No, not quite.  Revenue."

Maggie nodded and smiled, and went indoors.

In a few minutes more the sail--all that could be carried--was
hoisted, and the yawl rushing out into the mist and darkness of a
squall, the spray dashing inward over the bows, while the cutwater,
rising and falling, struck angrily at each advancing wave.

The _Fairy_ yawl was a handy little craft, and, _sub rosâ_, had been
found handy in many ways as well as in fishing.  The Ashleys used to
boast openly in Yarmouth harbour, that in the _Fairy_ they could go
anywhere and do anything, high water or low, blow or fine.  And
everybody admitted that the _Fairy's_ crew were just as daring as
they looked.

It really wasn't all for the sake of gain, however, that the _Fairy_
was now braving the dangers of this ugly night, nor had Ashley
anything at all to do with the brig that had gone on shore.  The old
man really had a good heart of his own, and he could not have borne
the thoughts of men drowning or clinging to the hull of a wreck
without his doing his best to save them.

"I don't think you should have come, boy," he said kindly to Tom.
"Here, get inside this spare oilskin, or bury yourself in the cuddy."

"Thank you, Mr. Ashley," said Tom, putting on the oilskin and an old
sou'wester, "but I like to look about me."

The sky soon cleared, and the moon was now well above the horizon,
and as they bore away on the sta'board tack everything around seemed
as bright as day.  Indeed to Tom the cliffs on the shore they were
soon approaching looked most dangerously near.

But to old Ashley at the helm all was plain sailing.  He could read
the sea around here, and the wild sand banks, and rock or cliff and
cloud, as one reads a book.




CHAPTER III.

"I SEE IT ALL," HE SAID.  "I SEE IT ALL."

  "Be good, be honest, serve a friend,
    Are maxims well enough;
  Who swabs his brows at other's woe
    That tar's for me your sort;
  His vessel right ahead shall go
    To find a joyful port."--DIBDIN.


No yacht ever sailed more closely to the wind than did the _Fairy_.
She needed all her powers to-night however to beat to windward, and
indeed there must have been times, while the squalls were at their
worst, when she was hardly holding her own.

Old Ashley, with his bronzed and wrinkled face, was the very image of
an ancient mariner.  His wet oilskin and sou'-wester glittered yellow
in the moonlight, his wet face glimmered red, his eyes positively
shone at times, despite the fact that they were almost hidden by his
bunchy eyebrows.  Many and many a gale of wind the old man had stared
into, his eyes seemed formed indeed to face the tempest and the spray
from dashing waves.

As he lay there snugly curled up in his oilskins, the boy, young
though he was--but little over ten--could not help admiring the old
man's coolness and courage, nor the way he steered.

His sons, and Davies too, sat grimly staring ahead and watching the
sea, but ready to spring to sheet or tackle at the first word of
command.

They had been out nearly an hour and a half, and in that time had
hardly made two miles of southing.  Hardly anyone had spoken all this
time, certainly there had been no attempt at conversation, but now
just as the moon escaped from behind a great grey snowy-edged cloud,
Davies half rose, and pointing ahead and to windward shouted:

"I was see her!  I was see the boat!  Look you quick, Mr. Ashley!"

Luckily the wind had gone down between the squalls, when they drove
near the boat, a voice from which came loudly calling for assistance.
It was answered by Ashley himself.

The sloop's boat had her mast carried away; she was swamped, and,
loaded as she was, would soon have gone down.

Ashley passed her with a cheering word or two, put his yawl prettily
round, lowered his mainsail, and driving down under his jibs ashiver,
and little after sail, laid the boat aboard in the neatest way
imaginable.

With some further skilful management everybody was got on board, with
the exception of two left to bale, and the boat was taken in tow.

It was a lieutenant of the Royal Navy who came on board with his men
and prisoners--five only had been saved off the brig--about a third
of her crew.  The officer was in undress uniform, but armed with
sword and pistols, and he was proceeding to thank old Ashley, when
that ancient mariner gruffly told him to "flop down out o' the way,
else how could he steer."

The lieutenant said no more.  But presently the yawl drew in near the
shore, for she had been positively flying before the wind.

"Stand by," roared Ashley, "to lower away."

So quickly did the _Fairy_ come round, that the proud lieutenant
found himself down to leeward with his sword between his feet, and
his cap in the sea.  Next minute the yawl was in harbour.

"'Scuse me," said Ashley, "if I talked a bit rough.  We aren't much
used to king's officers here away.  What, lost your cap?  Here, take
mine."

The ancient mariner pulled his own sou'-wester off as he spoke and
clapped it unceremoniously on the lieutenant's head, almost
extinguishing him.  But the officer laughed right merrily, again
thanked Ashley, and then gave orders to his men to form a guard round
the prisoners, who had already begun to cast sheep's eyes towards the
cliffs, as if they'd like to be off.

"Come, sir," said old Ashley, "follow me up the steps, and all your
merry men.  What's your name, captain?"

"Merryweather, at your service, my good fellow."

They had just entered the lower and outer cave, a large room with a
rough deal table and wooden benches, but well lighted with whale-oil
lamps.  Old Ashley turned to his guest, and laughingly edged the brim
of the sou'-wester off his brow, exposing the whole features of a
sun-bronzed but pleasant face, slightly disfigured, or, let us say,
rendered all the more interesting, by a white scar there over brow
and cheek.

"Did you say Merryweather?  Well, 'scuse me, but durn me if ye look
the least little bit like a merry-weather sailor.  Got that cut
across your figure-head by fallin' on a foot-stool in church, eh?"

And Ashley laughed at his own joke till the cave rang again.

Meanwhile the sailors and their prisoners crowded in _sans ceremonie_.

"Sit down there, lads," said Ashley; "you'll all have bite and sup
before long.  Captain Merryweather, this way, sir, please."

Up another staircase, through a short passage and into another cave,
far better furnished and more brilliantly lighted than the last.
Here, May though the month was, a fire of peats and wood burned on a
low hearth, and Ashley pointed to a chair near it and bade his guest
sit down.

A table stood near, and presently Mrs. Davies bustled in and laid the
supper, the captain rising and bowing to her most gallantly.  A huge
dish of potatoes boiled in their skins, and a great joint of beef,
the steam from which went curling to the cave's roof.

Ashley went to the door, and shouted down to the under cave.  "Below
there, sons! see that those poor fellows have plenty o' bread and
fish and beer.  Tom Brundell, what are you doin' down there?  Come up
here, quick."

Tom entered shyly, and threw down his hat.

"There, captain," cried Ashley, "that's the chap you have to thank
for savin' your life."

Tom turned as red as a beet at first, but in five minutes he was
perfectly at ease, and thought this officer was by far and away the
most pleasant gentleman he had ever met in his life.

But it really was love at first sight with both of them, and
Merryweather was soon laughing right heartily at Tom's description of
the poplar tree rigged like a ship's mast, and the crow's-nest and
cross-trees and all the rest of it.

"And whose idea was it, my boy?"

"Poor Uncle Bob's, sir.  At least, he isn't my uncle, sir, but he
brought me home with father from Jamaica, where I was born.  Father
was drowned, you know, sir--at least not quite drowned, because he
lived some time after--and Uncle Bob's brother Dan, my daddy, you
know, reared me.  He and old mother, who isn't mother exactly----"

"Stop, stop, boy!  Why I am getting mixed, or you are getting mixed,
or----  Oh, I know how it is!  Mr. Ashley, that rum of yours, that
you say has never paid duty, has gone to my noddle.  Now, Tom, my
brave lad, will you begin again?"

Ashley laughed right pleasantly now.

"Why," he said, "that little birkie has a story to tell, or there's a
story to tell about him.  It's too long though; besides, here is Mrs.
Davies and my old woman waiting."

"I beg a thousand pardons," said Merryweather, jumping up and drawing
a chair towards the table.  "What a pleasant home you have, Mrs.
Ashley!"

"Handy enough at times," said the old lady.

Mrs. Davies trod on her toes under the table.

"Mother means," said old Ashley, "that it is a good habitation in
fine weather; but when the sea takes charge o' the downstairs, and
sobs and sighs against the door here, why it ain't quite so cheery.
Now heave round with the beef.  The 'taties grew over your head on
the cliff-top, and, as I said afore, the rum never paid duty.  Fine
thing to tell a king's officer.  Ha! ha!"

"Now Tom, birkie, fill the captain's glass."

But though this story dates back to the old drinking days,
Merryweather was a very abstemious officer.  He was very much
pleased, however, with his strange surroundings, and after supper sat
long in the easy chair, smoking and listening to stories of the time
when this had really been a smuggler's cave.

"But now," said Merryweather at last, "I must go to my boat and try
to snatch a few hours' sleep.  The little _Porcupine_ may be back
to-morrow, and then----"

"Back to-morrow, eh?" said old Ashley, laughing.  "No, sir, not if
she means crackin' on after the Dorothy yawl."

"Yes, and my mate'll have her too," said the lieutenant.

"Oh, sir!" said Tom, blushing at his own boldness, "do come home with
me.  Father and mother have a nice little spare room, and----"

"Why, Tom, you said your father was drowned?  But come, my lad, I'll
go with you, if it isn't too far."

"Only about a mile, sir, and I'll be up and down to the crow's nest
all the morning, and will see the _Porcupine_ ten miles away."

"I'll go, lad."

In another minute the ancient mariner had conducted his guest by a
private staircase to the breezy cliff-top.  Merryweather shook hands,
and off went Tom and he together.

When they reached home, Meg came joyfully barking to meet them, and
there was the wagon in the yard, and Tom could hear the mare stumping
her lame foot in the stable; so he knew that daddy had come.

There was a light in Uncle Bob's window, and it occurred to the boy
that he might as well take Lieutenant Merryweather in here first.  So
he began to sing, which was the invariable signal to Uncle Bob that
announced his arrival.

Tom opened the door a little way and peeped in.  "May I come in,
Uncle Bob, and bring--a friend?"

"Come in, you young rascal.  Wager two-pence you've got one o' the
crew o' the d----l in disguise with you."

So in walked Tom.

And in marched the officer.

But certainly the boy was not prepared for what followed.  Uncle Bob
had turned his eyes towards the door, but they positively seemed to
grow as large and round as saucers when they alighted on the
sun-browned features of Lieutenant Merryweather.  Nor did the latter
appear one whit less surprised than Uncle Bob.  But he recovered
himself sooner.

"What!" he cried, "can it be possible?  My old shipmate, Bob
Brundell, that sailed with me for years in the old _Turtle_, and was
in my own watch?  Wonders will never cease.  Why I heard you were
drowned ever so long ago.  Wonders never do cease; but tip us your
nipper, for auld lang syne."

Then Uncle Bob's face fell, and tears sprung to his eyes, aye, and
trickled over his face.

"Ah! sir," he said mournfully, "poor Bob is on his beam ends, and
couldn't move a toe if the ship was on fire."

"Oh, this is inexpressibly sad," said Merryweather.  patting his old
shipmate's cheek.  "But there is hope, isn't there?  Ah! here comes
your elder brother.  I knew him at once from you, Bob.  How d' ye do,
sir?  Glad to make the acquaintance of my old friend's brother.  How
glad I am to see you both!"

"Tom," cried Uncle Bob, "bring my pipe and light it for me.  Sit you
down, mate.  Well, you were mate you know in the dear old days,
though now you're lieutenant.  Sit down, brother Dan.  Thank you,
Tom.  I do believe the young rascal'll soon learn to smoke just with
lighting my pipe.  What's the time, youngster?"

"Just gone one bell in the middle watch," said Tom seriously, after
consulting an old silver turnip that he pulled with an air of
manliness out of his fob.

"Going to be a sailor, my boy?" said the lieutenant, putting his hand
on Tom's head.

Uncle Bob answered for him.

"Why, old shipmate," he said, "he's almost a sailor already.  And he
was born in the service."

"Oh, by the way," cried Merryweather, "I must hear the lad's story.
It's mixed up with yours I know, Bob.  One bell in the middle watch
is no time at all, so heave round with your yarn."

"I'll heave round," said Bob; "but brother Dan's mixed up in it too,
so he'll have to put a hand to the wheel as well.  Light your pipe,
Dan.  Ah! if you only knew what a dear old brother Dan is to me, Mr.
Merryweather----."

"Hush, hush," cried Dan.

But Merryweather stretched out his white, soft hand, and squeezed the
rough, red fist that Dan put in it.  "I can see it all," he said.  "I
can see it all.  Now, Bob, it is you to begin the story."




CHAPTER IV.

UNCLE BOB TELLS TOM'S STORY.

  "If to engage they give the word,
    To quarters all repair;
  While splintered masts go by the board,
    And shots sing through the air."--DIBDIN.


"Mr. Merryweather," Uncle Bob began, "it's many years since the old
_Turtle_ was re-commissioned out at Bermuda, and you and I parted."

"That it is, Bob.  Ten, if a dog-watch."

"And you stopped in the tub, as we used to call her, and I went out
to join the _Billy Ruffian_ at Jamaica.  Now, mate--for mate I will
call you, though you're a bold lieutenant now--take a hold o' young
Tom there, and turn him round to the light.  Focus the little chap
right, and see if he doesn't put you in mind o' someone you know."

Lieutenant Merryweather did as he was told.

"Why not Miss Raymond, surely?  Yet indeed he does.  The dark eyes,
the small mouth and nose, and all complete.  Come, Bob, I shall
listen with more marked attention to this yarn of yours, now."

"Well, first and foremost, it must be pipe down hammocks as far as
young Tom is concerned," Bob began.

"I'll turn in at once, Uncle Bob," said Tom.

So he bade good-night to all hands and trotted off.

"Did you say ten years, mate, since you and I parted?  Why it's going
on for a round dozen.  Let me see, I'm two-and-thirty, and you can't
want a deal of thirty."

"Worse luck, Bob, and only lieutenant yet.  Should have been promoted
long ago.  Don't think me on the swagger, Bob, if I say that my
services have been meritorious enough since I saw the last of you.
But I've seen youngster after youngster promoted over my head.  More
interest, Bob; more interest!"

"Well, Mr. Merryweather, you were a jolly young waterman anyhow when
I left you in Bermuda.  And it was about this very Miss Raymond you
fought the duel on the very morning after the ball--aye, and winged
your soldier too."

"So it was, Bob, and I remember how sleepy I was.  But I resolved not
to take life; so instead of firing at the major, I took aim at a
bunch of bananas that hung on a tree some yards to his right."

"Yes," said Bob, laughing, "and that was why you hit the major.  If
you'd aimed at the major you'd have hit the bananas.  Plucky little
fellow, though, he was, for even when the surgeon was probing his arm
with his pipe-cleaner he apologised to you most handsomely.  Think I
see him yet, reclining in his second's arms on the grass, and you
standing forenenst him, stem on, and taking all the honour and glory
of that shot.  'Sir!  It was a pretty shot,' cried the major, 'and I
owe you my life.  A man who could rip open his opponent's pistol arm
so neatly as that could have put his bullet through the bridge of his
nose and spoiled his beauty for life.  Excuse my left hand, sir, but
I want to grasp the fist of a brave and generous gentleman.'

"'I don't believe in taking life, major,' you drawled out, 'when it
can be avoided, and so----'

"'And so you wing your men.  Bravo!  I shall remember that, and sir,
you must dine with me as soon's I'm out of the doctor's hands.'"

"Did you dine with him, Mr. Merryweather?"

"I did, Bob, and he proved a brick; but then the bone of contention,
pretty Miss Raymond, had disappeared.  I' faith, Bob, I did fall in
love with that girl, head over heels, and if she'd asked me to cut
the buttons off my coat, and pitch them at the admiral's head, I'd
have done it.  But heave round, Bob."

"Well, mate, Miss Raymond came to Jamaica with her father the
colonel.  There were some disturbances in the bush, and Commander
Bure was sent on shore with a party of bluejackets to support the
soldiers.  Why these Joeys were behaving about as silly as silly
could be, marching through the country with drums and pipes, to
attack an enemy that killed them right and left from behind the scrub
and the bush, but never showed a head.  We altered all that, we took
the enemy in the rear, we never piped, and we never drummed, but we
killed 'em by the score, and the prisoners we hung like herrings on
the trees.  It was wild work, but it had to be done."

"Well, mate, Bure, our good commander, was a very active gentleman,
he would push on, and he would show himself at times when he didn't
ought to; so he got downed, ay, and would have been scuppered too, if
I and my mates hadn't rushed in and drove the butchers off."

"Where did you drive them to, Bob?"

"Made flies' meat o' them, sir.  But the commander swore I'd saved
his life, and he would make me his servant, and have me always about
him on shore or afloat; and when he got engaged to Miss Raymond, why,
mate, it was me that carried all the billy-doos back and fore, you
know.  Sometimes I'd be ashore and off again twice in every watch.
Well, Mr. Merryweather, what with all the billing and cooing and
billy-doo-ing the commander and she got spliced at last.  Ah! that
was a spree, I can tell you.  And a sweet bonnie bride the charming
lady looked!"

"Hush, hush, Bob; you're opening old sores."

"Well, mate, the commander was nearly always on shore after this, and
our old captain--O'Hare was his name--told Bure one day straight to
his face that marriage made muffs of men, and spoiled 'em for the
service."

"It was pretty nearly ten months after my good commander's marriage
that we hove up anchor and went off east to look out for some flighty
Frenchees, that were playin' fast and loose with our merchant ships
that scorned to go in convoys.  I never saw anything in my life,
mate, so affecting-like as the parting atween the commander and his
young wife--she in tears and clinging to him, and he----, well, it
doesn't do to say that a sailor pipes his eyes, but la! sir, I was
glad when it was all over and our boat was speedin' away towards the
ship.

"For six mortal months we kept our weather eyes open looking for the
Frenchee's cruisers, and then we came up with two.  And--why they
must between the pair of them have carried twice our number of guns.

"We crowded all sail, mate, put her dead afore the wind, and the race
began.  We were running away though, and however the Frenchees didn't
see through the caper is more than I can tell.  In less than half an
hour there was three-quarters of a mile betwixt the foremost Frenchee
and her consort.  So we got ready for action without making any extra
fuss about it.  Then we wore ship, and the captain of that foremost
frigate must have begun to scratch his head.  Seems to me, Mr.
Merryweather, he knew just as much about navy tactics as a cow does
about chess.  Presently she put about though, with signals flying to
her consort--signals of distress we called them.  When near enough we
sent a round shot or two roaring through her rigging, but if the
Frenchee thought our game was to be a stand-off fight he was
miserably mistaken.  Under one pretence or another, and always firing
another shot or two, we got far enough to windward to bear down on
her with a beam wind.  Why we were near enough to shave her stern
almost when we raked her.  I think her wheel and steersman must have
been blown up to the moon.  Down went her mast, and before the
confusion was over we had tacked and filled, and come up on her port
quarter.  Our master laid the _Ruffian_ aboard as prettily as you
please, and next minute we were on the Frenchman's decks.

"It was hammer and tongs for a good five minutes, then, on a
blood-stained battle-deck, a smiling and bowing French officer gave
up his sword to our bold Commander Bure.

"O'Hare complimented him when he returned on board.  'Marriage,' he
said, 'may make muffs of some men, but it hasn't taken the heart of
oak out of you, Bure.'

"I must make a long story short, Mr. Merryweather, for it's two bells
if it's a tick.  Almost the first man to board us when we got back to
Kingston harbour was Colonel Raymond himself.  I knew the moment I
saw him that poor Mary, as my commander called her, was dead.  But
I'll never forget the state of utter collapse--the doctor called it
that--I found Bure in when I entered his cabin.

"'Oh, Bob, Bob,' he cried, 'My poor Mary! my poor Mary!'

"He was weeping like a school-girl, the self-same hero that had
received the French commander's blood-stained sword.

"For months Bure never laughed or smiled.  His chief pleasure and
delight was to go on shore and play with or talk to his baby boy.

"Well, mate, we stuck together all the commission, and did a bit o'
fighting too whenever we had the chance.  To tell you the truth,
after poor Mrs. Bure had been dead about two years, there were only
just two situations in which you might have said the commander was
happy--one was when little Tom was brought on board by his nurse, and
the other when Bure had a sword in his hand, and was boarding a
frog-eating Frenchee.

"But it was in a boat action that my dear commander received a shot
that, for the time being, seemed to have clean knocked the life out
of him, and--I do think even now--was the beginning of the end.  He
lay in hospital on shore for a long time, three months I think, and
it wasn't till the end of that time that the doctors found the
bullet.  The beggarly thing had entered his shoulder in front, and
instead o' lodging there as a respectable bullet ought, it must go on
a cruise on its own hook, and was finally fished out of the poor
fellow's side.

"'Bob,' he said to me one day, sometime after this, 'they are going
to send me home with a batch of invalids in convoy.  I'm not sorry
for my little lad's sake, but, mind you, I don't think I'm going to
weather this illness.'

"I tried to laugh away his fears, but he stopped me.

"'Belay that, Bob!' he said, or words to that effect, 'and listen.  I
like you, Bob, because you're a good, faithful fellow.'

"I felt ashamed like when he told me that, and maybe he noticed it,
for he spoke up.

"'Oh, yes, you have been faithful to me, Bob, and you love my little
chap Tom.  Well, Bob, I'm not saying that I can't weather this, the
doctor says I may; but just for the present, imagine that you're
listening to the words of a dying man.  You're like myself, Bob, a
Norfolk man, and, singularly enough, you come from the very coast
where relations of mine have estates that might--mind you, Bob, I
only say might--eventually belong to my little fellow.  But--are you
listening, Bob?'

"'That I am, heartily, sir,' I replied.

"'Well, Bob, my cousin, who owned these estates, is dead, only a
month ago.  He leaves behind him a son some years older than Tom, and
a baby daughter.  Now this baby daughter doesn't count, the son is
the owner, and the mother, who loves me, Bob, about as a much as a
Frenchman loves red-hot shot, holds the estates in his behalf.  I
hear the lad is sickly, and if anything happened to him I'd come in,
if alive, and if dead, my little Tom.  If there was no little Tom,
Bob, the estates would pass to her ladyship's male relations, second
cousins of mine and hers, for there has been marrying and
inter-marrying, Bob.'

"'Well, sir?'

"'Well, Bob, you see that box?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Look to that, Bob, if I should die.  Take it with you to your
brother's house when you go there.  If your brother is half as good
as you, Bob----'

"'He's twice as good, sir,' I cried.

"'You and he will take it to my Yarmouth bankers, and they will keep
it safe for Tom.'

"He held out his hand--a thin white one it was--and I gave him mine
with a heave O! and a hearty O! and the compact was made.

"'About little Tom, here,' he said after a pause.  'I don't want him
to be a sailor you know, but if he wants to be--why he must be.'

"'And his friends and relations, sir?' I made bold to ask.

"The commander laughed bitterly.

"'Friends, he has none,' he replied, 'except his father, you Bob, and
perhaps your brother.'

"'Well, sir,' I said, 'I hope it won't come to that.'

"'Hush!  Bob, hush!' he said, 'It is our duty in this world to be
always prepared for the unseen.'

"Well, Mr. Merryweather, I thought my poor commander was much better
after this.  So indeed he told me.  'I've relieved my mind, Bob,' he
said, 'and the doctors have relieved my body.'"

"After this he would chat with me for an hour at a time, about the
quiet and happy life he meant to lead on shore with his little son.
How they would shoot and fish on the broads throughout all the long
summer days, and how they'd live in a pretty little cottage in the
land o' poppies, all surrounded by gardens and shrubberies, and how
he himself would attend to the boy's education, and try to make a man
of him, fit to take his place in the battle of life, whether that
battle was to be fought on shore or on the deep blue sea.

"Our voyage home in convoy was a long but not very eventful one.  It
was long because the fleet o' merchantmen guarded by the convoys was
a very big one, and some kept dropping behind, or getting lost, and
as there was always, or nearly always, a Frenchman or two hovering
like hawks about us, we had to be cautious I can tell you.

"But long before we reached the Downs little Tom had received his
baptism o' the briny, there wasn't a doubt about it.  He was the pet
of the ship, he was dressed like a little tar, and looked it all
over.  I only wonder he never tumbled overboard, for I've seen the
young nipper half-way up to the maintop, and nobody near him.

"One day he told his father on the quarter-deck that he was going to
be 'a sailor man, and nuffin else, and fight the Flenchman for his
king and country O!'

"I daresay some of the blue-jackets had piped this into him, but his
father looked about to where I was standing laughing--I couldn't help
it--and said, 'Ah, Bob, I'm afraid it's born in him.'

"'I'm afraid so too,' I said, and his father kind o' sighed, but
didn't say any more.

"We got into the Downs at last safe and sound, and lay there
wind-bound for a fortnight.  But at last we got just the breeze we
were waiting for, and slipped away past the North Foreland, and in a
day or so more our ship was safe in dock.

"I wrote to brother Dan here, and told him my master and myself would
start for Yarmouth within a week in the saucy _Polly Ann_.

"But there, now, Dan will tell you the rest, but just stick my pipe
in my mouth first, Dan.'"

Dan cleared his throat, lit Bob's pipe, and sat down near his bed to
hold it for the poor helpless fellow, while he himself continued the
yarn.




CHAPTER V.

A MOUNTAIN WAVE COMES SWELLING OVER THE SANDS.

  "His form was of the manliest beauty,
    His heart was kind and soft;
  Faithful below he did his duty,
    But now he's gone aloft."--DIBDIN.


"When I heard," said Dan Brundell, "that there was a brig ashore on
the tail of the Gorton Sands, I had no more notion that it was Bob's
_Polly Ann_ than I have o' what the weather will be this day month.
I'd been down with some oars Gorton ways, and I met old Ashley while
returning.

"Would I volunteer, he said, to go in the _Fairy_; one of his sons
was from home, and we might, he said, pick up a bit o' salvage, as
well as flotsom.

"'She's hard and fast now,' he says, 'but is bound to break up.'

"So I thought too, when I embarked, for it was blowing 56-pounders,
and a heavy sea tearing in from the east.  It was the heavy, tearing
sea that did it.  'Fore we had got well abreast o' the Gorton Tail,
we could see in the bright moonlight the dark hull o' the brig, both
masts snapped short off, lifting and falling in the jaws of the
foaming seas like a creature in agony.

"'She can't stand it for half-an-hour," said Ashley; 'and what's
more, Dan, we can't get anyw'eres near her.  There'll be widows
a-weeping to-morrow mornin', mate, at old Yarmouth docks.'

"But what we saw next astonished Ashley himself, though, man and boy,
he'd been on the water all his life.  It was a mountain sea coming
swelling over the sands and swallowing everything up before it, and
lo! sir, in a minute more, there was the dark hull of that brig being
borne bodily toward us.'

"What happened after this I can't well describe, bein' as how I'm
slow o' speech like, but in half-an-hour all the beach for a mile and
more, was strewn wi' wreck, and many a body was washed in on the surf
and left dead, or for dead, on the sands.  But lawk! sir, you could
have knocked me down with a sledge-hammer when, on turning over one
of these bodies, I found it was poor Bob yonder, and no one else."

"He had a small deed-box alongside him, with a piece o' manilla round
it.  He had come ashore with this.  I didn't doubt that, even then.

"At first I thought him dead.  But he soon opened his eyes and spoke.

"'Haul me high and dry,' he said, 'high and dry, dear brother, for I
can't move.  It isn't drowned I am at all.  It's a stroke, Dan; a
stroke."

"This was a sad sort of a meeting 'twixt two brothers that had always
loved each other same as Bob and me has, and for the life of me I
couldn't have spoken then, no, never a word.  I tried to swallow back
my grief and tears, as it were, and lifted the lad right up in my
arms, and carried him away beyond the reach o' the raging surf, and
there I laid him down.  I knelt beside him there in the pale
moonlight.  I cared for nothing nor nobody just then, but only Bob.
I noticed though, that his eyes and head were turned wistful-like
towards the boiling sea.

"'Dan,' he said, 'bring the box and put it close by me.  Thanks, dear
Dan; you were always good.  Now go at once, Dan, and look for Captain
Bure and his little boy.'  It wasn't long either 'fore I found 'em.
The poor little tot of a chap with long, silken hair, and bonnie
black eyes, was weeping and wailing over his father.

"'Oh, sailor man,' he said to me, 'poor pa! poor pa!  He's deaded!
he's deaded!'

"'No, no, my little man,' I answered.  'Your father isn't dead.'  So
I hurried away and got the gentlemen into the cave.  Gentle and
simple, dead and maimed and living, they all lay there, with the cold
moonbeams glinting in through the doorway, and struggling like wi'
the yellow rays of the whale oil lamp.

"In two hours' time the doctor had come, and we--the living
ones--began to gain hope and courage.

"The good man did all he could for everybody, and next day Captain
Bure, with his little boy Tom--yes, Tom that has just gone to turn
in--and poor Bob, were fetched in the boat waggon to our cottage
here.  The captain was soon able to get about, but Bob lay quiet
enough, and never yet has he lifted hand or foot.

"But it wasn't a stroke, the doctor said, not of the 'pplexy, anyhow.
'More likely,' he said, 'it's been a stroke with a floating spar, and
the neck is injured right smart.'

"Well, sir, it would have done your heart good to have seen how kind
and attentive the captain was to Bob.  'He's been my nurse many's the
time,' he said, 'and now, Mr. Dan, it's my turn.'

"But all the time I could see as plain's I see the moon shining on
the curtains yonder, that the poor captain himself would soon be
under the daisies and grass."

"One morning, says the gentleman to me smiling-like, 'I'm going to
charter your boat-waggon to-day, Dan, if you'll come with me to
Yarmouth, and young Tom'll stop with Bob till we return.'

"It was a lovely day, sir, with the birds all singing as if their
hearts were swelling with the joy that was in them, and their
feelings had to find vent somewhere in song, or in lofty flight.  So
we drove round by the big hill on the broad.

"I could see the captain meant to make a day of it, and so I drove
slow.

"When I came near the hall and the pretty grounds and the swaying
trees and rookeries and things, he told me to drive slower still,
that he might enjoy every thing, and all the beauties of nature
around him.  But la! sir, I was surprised to see him so white and
pale like.  At last he said, 'Drive on now, Dan as fast ye like.'  He
was still white and ghastly-like, though, so I jumped down at a pub
and got a tot of rum.  I took a sip myself, more for fashion sake
like, and made him swallow the rest.

"He was better all day after that; but I remember he laughed once or
twice as he told me his feet were so cold.  'Seems funny,' he said,
'on so fine a day.'

"I didn't answer much.  I knew well there wasn't a deal of fun in it.

"We had that deed-box with us, and we went into the bank.  We left
the box there, and had a long talk with the banker.  Leastways,
Captain Bure had.

"Then he turned to me, and laughed again.

"'My good Dan,' he said, 'if the cold of my feet gets higher up and
goes round the heart----'

"The tears sprang to my silly eyes, sir.

"'Oh, sir!' I cried, 'don't talk so, it grieves me to hear it.'

"'There are times,' he said, 'when men must talk straight.  Now, I've
known your brother so long, Dan, and heard so much about you, that I
want you to be a father to little Tom--if----'

"'I know, sir!' I cried.  'Don't repeat it.  My wife and I have
neither chick nor child savin' little Ruth.  We'll see to Tom.'

"He clasped my hand.

"'Mr. Mackay,' he said, 'has full instructions, and enough money of
mine to give Tom bite and sup, and a good education.  Come, Dan, and
we'll buy some comforts for poor Bob.'

* * * * *

"I am not sure," continued Dan, after a pause, "if that isn't all the
story."

"Not quite," said Mr. Merryweather.  "There is the death of Captain
Bure, you know."

"Ah, sir, we won't speak of that.  It happened soon; and he lies in a
quiet corner of the great churchyard at Yarmouth.  Little Tom and I
go there one Sunday every month to put flowers upon the grave."

The honest boat-builder ceased talking and lit his pipe.

"Dear droll little Tom," he added a moment after, "he does say such
queer things.  Maybe other folks wouldn't notice 'em, but I do.
'It's only pa's body that lies here, you know, daddy,' he said to me
two Sundays ago, 'his soul has gone up to the clouds to live, hasn't
it?'

"I didn't speak for a minute, I was thinkin' o' the words of that
song, sir--

  'For though his body's under hatches,
    His soul has gone aloft.'


"The little chap sat down beside the grave and arranged the flowers,
then smoothed all the long grass out straight as if it had been hair.
He took my hand after that, and we walked quietly and silently away.

"'Pa,' he said afterwards, 'is only afraid I'll be drowned if I go to
sea.  But I think he'll be pleased when I am a sailor all the same.'

"No, Tom never looks upon his father as really dead, you know.

"Mr. Curtiss is our curate, and he is Tom's tutor, though Bob there
teaches him a lot, and has pretty nearly made a sailor of him
already.  And I'm sure I cannot blame poor Bob----for----"

Dan paused now, and held up his forefinger warningly, while his eyes
rested on his brother's face.  He took the pipe away and shifted the
light, for the invalid was fast asleep.  Then he went silently away
on tip-toe, and Mr. Merryweather followed him, with just one
good-night glance at the sleeping form of his old shipmate, Bob.




CHAPTER VI.

SUMMER MORNING ON A NORFOLK BROAD.

  "The coot was swimming in the reedy pond,
    Beside the water-hen so soon affrighted;
  And in the weedy moat the heron, fond
    Of solitude, alighted.

  "The moping heron, motionless and stiff,
    That on a stone as silently and stilly
  Stood, an apparent sentinel, as if
    To guard the water lily."--TOM HOOD.


Our little hero, Tom, was early astir next morning.  In fact he was
up with the lark.  High up, too; for his first act, after sluicing
his sleepy face in a bucket of water, and drying off with a rough
brown towel, was to swarm up into the crow's nest and have a look
around.

The morning was bright and clear, and the beach was swarming with
country people; but there was no sign of the government vessel or of
the yawl she had gone in pursuit of.  Not content with scanning the
horizon from the crow's nest, Tom must needs climb up as high as the
cross-trees, and take observations from that coign of vantage.

The wind had gone down to the gentlest breeze, but a heavy sea still
rolled over the sands, and broke in white surging waves upon the
beach.  From where he stood, or rather hung, Tom could easily hear
the boom or roar of each mountain breaker, keeping up a kind of deep
bass to the screaming of the sea birds that floated near him.

The sun had only just risen, and was flooding the ocean with a
strange yellow light, while bars of silvery and crimson clouds lay
parallel with the horizon, even far away to the west.

It was indeed a lovely morning, one to make a person feel as light
and happy as the birds that sang in every bush or thicket.  But
nevertheless a wave of sadness passed over the boy's heart as he
thought of the drowned men who lay so quiet and still upon the sands
out yonder, and of their friends and relations who were left to mourn.

It somehow seemed to Tom unnatural that so much of sorrow should
mingle with the gladsomeness of this sunny summer's day.  He had yet
to learn that all the world and all our lives are made up of light
and shade, and that even in the midst of life we are in death.

But as he walked homeward now over the rustic bridge, he checked the
song that rose to his lips.  He would not sing, with dead men lying
unburied on the sands of Yare.

* * * * *

It seemed to Tom that this morning would take a long, long time to
pass by.  He got his books, and went with Meg to the little
summer-house by the lake, and tried hard to settle down to the tasks
Mr. Curtiss, his kindly tutor, had set him to perform.  But all in
vain; so he left the books on the garden seat, putting a stone over
them lest a spiteful puff of wind might blow the leaves about.  Then
"Come on, Meg," he cried, "we'll go for a row."

"Wouff--ff," barked Meg, and away they went.

For a boy of his years Tom was wonderfully well developed, and when
he stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, the white
forearm he showed seemed as hard and round as the backstay of a
gun-brig.

Meg sat forward in the bows of the little boat, with her forelegs
leaning over the gunwale that she might bark at the fish and the
birds, and make brave pretence that she meant to jump over and catch
them.

By-and-by Tom came to a winding worm of a stream or lead that he had
some difficulty in navigating his craft through, but he managed at
last, and soon found himself afloat in one of the most beautiful of
all the Norfolk broads.

The lake was a deep one, and not only plentifully encircled with
tall, reedy bulrushes, but in many places lined with "wild woods
thickening green," and banks whereon grew the most lovely of wild
flowers.  Tom paused often that he might inhale the early-morning
perfume of these wildlings of nature, and watch the movements of the
numerous birds that had their homes on this peaceful broad.

And not a bird is there among them all that seems very much afraid of
the boy in his little boat or of Meg either.  Perhaps the birds know
Tom, for wild creatures are very observant, and know too that neither
he nor that gentle-faced collie will do them any harm.  Indeed Meg
has dropped her bonnie head upon her paws, and appears to have gone
fast asleep.

The sky above is very blue, albeit a fleece-white cloud is floating
here and there, and the waters of this still lake are very dark, yet
clear.  How richly, softly green is the foliage on yon cloudland of
trees, how tender the tints of verdure on the rustling, whispering
reeds.  Look at the pink on that flowering rush, to which a
reed-warbler is clinging as it sings its low, sweet lilt.  Only for a
few moments does it cling there, however.  It is far too busy to
spend all the morning in song, for the pretty thing has a grass
hammock of a nest swung between some reeds close to the bank.  No boy
in the neighbourhood knows where that nest is save Tom, and he won't
touch it, but he marvels while he admires the freak of nature that
has almost surrounded the birdie's hammock with the bells of the pink
convolvulus.

Hark! there is a nightingale trilling its heaven-taught song in a
thicket not many yards away.  How sharp and clear is every note, and
yet how pathetic and mournful are the lower ones!  But presently the
bird ceases to sing, for he too has a mate sitting close at the foot
of a bush in a nest so artfully disguised as hardly to be discerned,
and this little mate needs her breakfast of succulent slugs and
beetles.

"Cheeky--cheeky--chee--chee--chee," sings the sedge bird, who has far
too much to say, and instead of listening reverently to the song of
the nightingale, the thrush, or the blackbird, must needs put his oar
in and throw harmony quite out of joint.  But there are many other
birds that do the same, for each and all sing for their own mates
only.

Very quietly now glides Tom's little boat; very still the boy sits
too, fascinated as it would seem by the beauty of his surroundings,
and as if afraid to disturb the privacy of the lovely feathered
creatures whose home he has invaded.

He almost holds his breath as a pair of dark-plumaged coots with
white brows go quietly sailing past ahead of him, gazing at him with
their expressive beads of eyes, but ready to start off at the
slightest movement on his part.  A little way farther on are a family
of charming water-hens, that go paddling and nodding on across the
deep dark water, so intent on their own business that hardly do they
notice the slowly-gliding boat.

But Meg lifts her head to look about her and take her bearings, and
off scurry the coots; the water-hens too take alarm, and in a moment
more all have sought the shelter of the whispering reeds.

More birds take the alarm here and there among the sedges; and in the
water there is plashing and whirring and diving, while, uttering a
sound that is partly a croak and partly a cry, a great heron, that
had previously been standing as still as a statue on the edge of a
bank, goes sailing away high in air.

Tom lies on his oars now, and in a few minutes peace and repose is
once more restored to the reed-bound brood.

"Meg," says Tom quietly, "you just go to sleep there please, or at
least pretend to."

Meg shuts one eye and gives one little wag of her tail, and the boat
forges slowly ahead.  Tom pulls more in towards the edge now, where
the flat round leaves of the water lilies are floating, with flowers
snow-white or brilliant yellow just appearing, where the flowering
ash blooms prettily, and the orange iris shows against the fresh
green of young reeds.

Though it is very early in the morning, the sun is gaining power, and
busy among the gnats and midges that dance over the water and over
the whispering reeds, filling the air with their dreamy humming, flit
and fly the swallows and martins.  They even touch the surface at
times, long enough to drink or have a little bath, then off and away
again, like chips of lightning with the sunlight on their wings.

Tom lands at last among soft green moss, among many a budding alder,
many a silvery drooping, dwarf birch-tree, and many a feathery fern.
He warns Meg that she is not to follow, but only lie and watch, while
he goes wading over the marsh.  Oh, what beauty and loveliness on
every side!  Oh, what a wealth of wild flowers!  Yonder is a bush of
yellow furze, and a rose-linnet's nest is there.  The cosy wee mother
sits still on the eggs even when Tom peeps in under her scented
golden roof-tree, but the cock-bird that erst sang so sweetly on that
bush of sallow changes his notes to a peevish cry of alarm.

Not a nest of any kind of bird that Tom does not know where to seek
and find; the titlark's and skylark's near tussocks; the yellow
bunting's in the low, close thorn or bank; the sedge-bird's, with its
warm wee eggs and even nests of snipe, and coot, and teal--all are
known to him, but all are sacred.

The boy spends fully an hour roaming around here; but, getting very
hungry, he begins to retrace his steps at last, yet not before he has
culled a bouquet of the choicest wild flowers, the flowers that uncle
Bob loves best.

In his way back to the boat Tom goes round by a patch of woodland, a
closely-planted thicket of pines, the tasselled larch, the
dark-nodding fir, and the sombre spruce, each branch of the latter
bedecked with points of tenderest green.  He has to pass a reedy
pond, when, as he stoops to gather some pink silenes, he startles a
wild duck that with outstretched wings goes whirring over the water;
there is a wagtail nodding to him on the opposite bank.  High in the
air the skylark sings, from bushes near come the babbling notes of
sedgelings, and soaring over the marsh he can just distinguish a
mire-snipe, its intermittent cries sounding like bleating of a goat.
He crosses a green bog that moves and heaves under his footsteps, as
if ocean waves were all beneath.  And now he enters the thicket, and
a different kind of bird-song falls on his listening ear--the mellow
notes of the blackbird, the sweet wild lilt of the chaffinch, the
mocking voice of the mavis, and the low mournful love-croodle of the
cushat.

Tom walks through this woodland as solemnly as if he were in church.
He is almost awed by all the beauty and loveliness he sees around
him, and actually sighs as he stands once more in the open, with the
waters of the reedy broad spread out before him like a mirror, and
only the blue unfathomable sky above.  He reaches the boat at last.

The boat is there right enough, the painter tied to the alder bush
just as he left it, but Meg has gone.  While he is wondering what
could have induced her to leave her post, he hears her glad bark in
the distance, and next minute she comes bounding over the marsh
towards him.

But not alone, for behind her, laden with a huge and
sadly-disorganised bunch or wisp of wild flowers, comes a little
blue-eyed lassie.  So large are her eyes, so small her rosebud of a
mouth, that, with her hair all afloat behind her as she runs, she
might easily be mistaken for the good fairy of this flowery marsh.

"Oh, Tom," she cries, "I'm so glad you've come'd!"

"But, dear me, Bertha, what _are_ you doing here so early?"

One of Bertha's legs is clothed in a pure white woollen stocking, the
foot encased in a buckled shoe; the other leg, which, laughing
roguishly, she extends for Tom's inspection, is clad in black, slimy
mud up to the knee, and the shoe is gone.

"Such fun," she says, panting a little.  "You know, Tom, I'se been
nearly dwownded.  And I screamed, and Meg come running; but I'se lost
my shoe, and perhaps ma will punish me--perhaps not, 'cause she loves
Bertha--sometimes."

"But I'm lost," she added, "and where my home is _I_ don't know."

"Well, Bertha," said Tom, looking very old and serious, "I love you
always, you know.  And when I grow a big rich man, with a cocked-hat
and a sword, I'll perhaps marry you--if you are good, that is."

Bertha shook her yellow hair rebelliously.

"Oh, I can't be always good," she said.  "It wouldn't be fun at all,
Tom."

"Well, jump in, Bertha, and Meg and I will take you right to your own
grounds."

Bertha was happy now, and soon began to sing a little song to herself
and Meg.

With the thoughts of the shipwreck on her mind, somehow the child's
singing jarred on the boy's feelings.

"Bertha," he said, "there was an awful thing happened last night!  A
brig was knocked to pieces on the Gorton Sands, and the dead sailors
are all lying on the beach."

"Well, silly Tom," cried Bertha, laughing, "it isn't my fault."

Tom didn't know what to reply to this, and Bertha commenced to sing
again.

But the boy and this little light-minded maiden were very old friends
indeed.  For Tom was a favourite with Lady Colmore, and was
frequently invited to the Hall, when her ladyship was there, which
she usually was during the summer and autumn, spending most of the
winter and spring in the south of England, where her son was at
college.

Tom was a gentlemanly boy, and Mr. Curtiss had informed Lady Colmore
that there was some strange mystery about his birth, which, however,
even he was not altogether acquainted with, though it was in some way
connected with a Jamaica marriage.  But this was quite enough.  A boy
of manly bearing, and big dark eyes, evidently of gentle birth, heir,
when of age--as she had heard--to a large fortune, and with a
mystery, was a very interesting character indeed, despite the
additional surmise that his mother might have been a Creole or
half-caste.

Bertha sprang lightly on shore when the boat was rowed alongside the
bank.

"Good-bye, Tom," she cried.  "After breakfast me and Brown'll bring
the strawberries to your Uncle Bob, and then we can all go and see
the rows upon rows of dead men.  Such fun!  Good-bye."

Next minute Bertha, with her yellow hair and shoeless foot, had
disappeared, and Tom, after a moment or two of thoughtfulness, made
all haste back home.

In half-an-hour, or a little over, he had once more moored his boat.
Then he hurried away aloft again to scan the horizon.

Yes, yonder was the sloop--the something naughty in disguise--she was
tacking slowly up to windward, still about seven or eight miles off,
and there was no yawl near her, so she had not won the race.

This was news to carry to Captain Merryweather, anyhow.

He found that bluff, good-natured sailor walking about on the gravel
path smoking, early though it still was.

"Oh," said Tom, saluting him military fashion, "I'm so sorry to bring
you bad news, sir."

"Bad news, youngster?  What is it?"

"Well, your sloop, sir--if she _be_ a sloop, sir--is in sight, and
she hasn't caught the yawl!"

"Ah, never mind, Tom!  Better luck next."

"Yes, sir," said Tom.  "I hadn't thought of that, sir."

Ruth now came blushing and smiling to call the captain to breakfast,
and he gallantly took her hand and led her back to the cottage.

They breakfasted in Uncle Bob's wing, so that he might join in the
conversation.

And breakfast was not long over when Bertha and her maid Brown came
in with that basket of beautiful strawberries for Uncle Bob.

"What a charming little lady!" said Merryweather, who had been
looking at Bertha.  Like most sailors, he was fond of children.
"Come hither, dear, and talk to me."

Bertha seemed used to obey, for she came at once, and stood demurely
by his side.  This pensiveness of hers, however, did not last long.
She and the captain were soon the best of friends, and he on his part
hardly knew which to admire most, her beauty or her candour.

"Do you know," he said laughing, "you are very pretty, Bertha?"

"Oh, yes!" she answered, her head a little on one side, "I know well
enough, but mamma says people are not to tell me so."

"Why, dear?"

"Cause it spoils me, of course."

"Ma doesn't spoil me.  No!  Everybody else spoils me, though."

Then she noticed the scar on Merryweather's brow, and touched it
tenderly with her little forefinger.

"Have you been fighting with the cat?" she asked innocently.

"Yes, dear; a big disagreeable old cat."

Seeing her gazing admiringly at the big bunch of seals that dangled
from his fob, he pulled out his gold watch and placed the whole in
her lap.

"Is all this yours?" she asked wonderingly.

"Yes, _petite_."

"Your own _own_ yours?"

"Yes, my own own."

"And your mamma doesn't take them away, and say, 'By-and-by, dear,
when you're grown up'?"

"No, my mamma lets me do as I like."

"How lovely!"  She was examining the seals.

"They shall be all yours," said the captain, "all your own _own_
yours, if you marry me."

"All my own own mine?"  Her eyes were bigger now than ever.

"Yes, dear."

"You see," she said thoughtfully, "I'se goin' to marry Tom; and you
is not so pretty as Tom."

"No, he certainly has the advantage of me in good looks; but then I
have so many nice things that Tom hasn't, you know."

"Yes, and you spoil me.  Tom doesn't."

"I daresay," she added after a pause, "I mustn't marry both."

"Oh, no! that wouldn't be allowed in this country; you must decide to
have me or Tom."

She looked at Tom, and she looked at the jewels.

"I think," she said at last, "I must marry you, and poor Tom can
marry Brown."

"Hurrah!" cried Merryweather.  "What a perfect little woman it is!
Tom, you're jilted.  Now, Bertha, get on my back, and we'll go off
out into the sunshine and spend our honeymoon."

And away they went galloping and rollicking round the garden paths,
and it was evident, from the shouts of merry laughter, that Bertha
thought very little of her discarded lover.

"Now," she cried at last, "let us all go and see the lovely dead men,
all in rows and rows.  Hoor-ay!"




CHAPTER VII.

THE LAUNCH OF THE "QUEEN OF THE BROADS."

The men saved from the wreck of the brig on the Gorton sands were
dealt with in a very summary way indeed.  They were Englishmen all,
and were told by Merryweather that if they chose to "volunteer" into
the service of the King and serve in the Royal Navy, they should
receive a free pardon; but if not, they must stand the consequences.

Four of the smuggler-sailors volunteered at once and cheerfully.  The
fifth was the redoubtable skipper of the brig, a dark-haired,
eagle-eyed little fellow, little as to stature, but of powerful
build, and a Welshman by birth.

"I refuse," he cried, "to serve your King of England.  He is not a
man, but a baboon!"

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Merryweather struck
him straight from the shoulder, and down he rolled on the sand.

[Illustration: "Merryweather struck him straight from the shoulder,
and down he rolled on the sand."]

He got up, scowling at the lieutenant, and wiping the blood and sand
from his face.

"Coward!" he hissed, "to treat a prisoner so.  But faugh! it was
always the way with the lily-livered Saxon.  See!" he added, "you
daren't do it, but for the gold swab on your shoulder, the sword by
your side, and your hired assassins around you."

Off went Merryweather's coat and his sword.  He flung them to Dan
Brundell, who was standing scratching his head and looking very
puzzled.

"These good fellows," he said, "will see fair play between us.  I am
no longer lieutenant in the King's service, but plain Jack
Merryweather.  Stand forth, David Jones, and see how soundly a Saxon
can thrash a Welshman."

Jones sprang upon the lieutenant almost before he had finished the
sentence.

  "Like mountain cat that guards its young,
  Full at the Saxon's throat he sprung."


That Welshman had arms like a gorilla, and Merryweather was all but
strangled before he got clear away.

"Keep out of grips," shouted his own men.  "Fight fair, skipper, and
good luck to you."

He didn't mean to fight fair, however, if he could help it; but
Merryweather got in one with his left and, figuratively speaking,
knocked his man clean over the ropes.  The Welshman never had another
chance.  He was no sooner up than down again.  Embracing the soft
sands didn't hurt him, it is true; but Merryweather's fists were
rapidly making a mummy of him.

"I cave in," he cried at last.

"That isn't enough.  Do you volunteer?"

"I do, sir," said Jones.  "I've never met a harder-fisted Saxon in my
life.  Shake hands, Englishman.  I volunteer on one condition."

Merryweather began to spar again.

"No more, thanks," said Jones, smiling grimly.  "I want to serve in
your ship when you go to fight the French.  I want to be with a brave
man.  That is the condition."

"Granted," said Merryweather, coolly putting on his coat, "and I
won't forget it."

"Neither will I," murmured David Jones; but no one heard him except
Tom.

And just at that moment a bright idea occurred to young Tom.  Why
shouldn't he also sail with Merryweather?  He determined to broach it
to the kindly officer as soon as he had an opportunity, and it was
not many weeks before this opportunity came.

All haste was now made to ship the prisoners.  Prisoners now no
longer, but brave "volunteers."  The sloop had quietly dropped anchor
at the very time the fight was going on between her commander and the
skipper of the wrecked brig.

Before embarking Merryweather shook hands with Dan and Ashley,
thanking them most heartily for their hospitality.  Then he shook
hands with Tom.

"Good-bye, youngster," he said; "but just take my advice.  Don't be a
sailor.  Stay at home and plough the fields; be an honest fisherman,
be a gardener, a hedger, or ditcher; but don't come to sea."

Young Tom was astonished at his own boldness as he made reply: "I
shan't be a ditcher, nor a hedger, nor a gardener, nor a fisherman,
and I shan't plough the fields; but I shall plough the sea."

Merryweather laughed as he leapt into his boat.  He waved his hand
again, then away he went, leaving the people to bury the dead, and
pick up the spoils of the wreck as their reward.

* * * * *

Tom went off to school that day as usual, though he was very late.
But Mr. Curtiss forgave him.  Yet somehow he could not fix his
attention upon either his books or his sums; and probably, therefore,
the curate was just as glad when lessons were over as the boy was.
He went home more slowly than usual, and less joyfully.  He kept
kicking the pebbles as he marched along the road, a sure sign he was
deep in thought, and the first words he said to Uncle Bob on his
return were these, "I wonder if ever Captain Merryweather will come
again?"

"He is sure to, my lad.  He said he would call and see us.  Besides,
he has an old shipmate not a great way off."

"What, another old shipmate as well as you, Uncle Bob?"

"Why, bless your dear heart, boy, I was only a man before the mast
when in the same craft with Mate Merryweather, but since that time
he's been in many a ship; kicked about like a wet swab.  No, Tom, his
friend is an officer and gentleman."

"Where does he live, and what is his name?"

"He lives, my lad, at Wells, or rather near it, at his old father's
parsonage at Burnham Thorpe."

"And with his mother, Uncle Bob?"

"His mother is dead, long, long ago, lad."

"Is he as tall and pretty as Mr. Merryweather?"

"What droll questions you ask, Tom.  But I have never seen Mr.
Merryweather's friend.  But I am told that he is but a little man,
and very delicate in health."

"Oh! then he isn't a hero like brave Captain Merryweather.  Oh,
uncle, you should have seen how he fought the skipper of the brig;
and Mr. Jones didn't know where to hit, and his nose and mouth were
all blood and sand.  I'd like to be a hero like the captain.  What is
the little man's name?"

"Horatio Nelson, lad."

"Oh!" said Tom.  "It isn't much of a name, is it?"

But from that moment this strange boy seemed to regain his wonted
spirits.  He had something to live for.  His hero, Captain
Merryweather, who thrashed the Welshman, was coming back.  Hooray!
and he should count the weeks and days till he returned.  So he went
about his studies more energetically now, only one day he told Mr.
Curtiss that he must teach him all he knew about navigation, because
a sailor he meant to be and nothing else.

All that Mr. Curtiss _didn't_ know about navigation would have filled
a big book, only he was a right good fellow, and determined that he
should at least teach his little pupil the history of the British
navy, and the geography of the world.  And I may as well say here,
that these subjects proved of great present interest to Tom, and of
future utility also.

* * * * *

It was about this period of young Tom's career that Daddy Dan
completed a project he had long had in view, to give his poor brother
Bob a little more interest and pleasure in life.  Dan, it should be
remembered, was a very hard-working man, and seldom either idle or
laid up, so that the building of a private barge for Bob was work
that he could not keep steady at.  Rome, however, was not built in
one day.  Indeed, I question if that ancient city was completed in
two.  But "every little helps the mickle" you know, reader, and it is
surprising what a deal one can do by degrees, and day by day.  So in
the merry month of June, much to Bob's joy and Tom's delight, the
barge, _Queen of the Broads_, was all finished and ready for
launching.

Little saucy Bertha, who had made it all up again with Tom, came with
her maid Brown to the cottage to christen the barge with a bottle of
gooseberry wine and she--the ship I mean--left the slips in grand
style and took the water like a duck, amidst the wild huzzas and
hoorays of the children and the neighbours, who had gathered from all
quarters to behold the ceremony.

The _Queen of the Broads_ was nothing much to look at, she was square
in bows and square in stern, with no freeboard to speak of; in fact
she was a kind of punt, but so constructed that Uncle Bob's
low-wheeled cot could be run on board and on shore with the greatest
ease, and without the slightest danger.  She had a bit of a mast
forward, and a little yawl mast aft, where there was room enough for
quite a party.  Moreover the barge was provided with oars and punting
poles, so it must be confessed she was pretty complete upon the whole.

Well, after the barge herself was launched, Bob's cot was launched on
board of her, and everything passed off so beautifully and
"lovelily," as Bertha put it, that once more wild huzzas rose from
the assembled multitude, and Meg, barking and frantic with joy,
jumped on board, and took her place in the bows, just like a
Christian.

Old Daddy Dan was so gratified that he couldn't speak for some time
after the cot was successfully run on board.  He just stood smiling
and scratching his head.

Then everybody gathered round him and shook hands, and wished him so
many good wishes that the tears rose to his eyes, and he had to
swallow a big lump in his throat before he could make any adequate
reply.

But the day was fine, with a gentle breeze rippling the broad, and
whispering softly among the reeds, and so with Dan at the helm sail
was hoisted, and the barge glided silently away into the open water.

This was but a trial trip, but it was a very successful one;
everybody, including Bertha and Meg, returned happy and hungry, and
Mrs. Brundell and Ruth, met them on the quay.

Somebody else as well.  You see it never rains but it pours, and
'there, sure enough, with one arm round Ruth's waist, as gallantly as
you please, and waving his cocked-hat in the air with the other,
stood the bold Captain Merryweather himself.

You may be sure Tom was glad to see him, and took no pains to hide
his joy either, for his eyes sparkled like farthing candles, and he
turned as red as a ripe tomato with perfect joy.

Merryweather's "ship" was in the bay, and she had a consort this
time, no other than the smuggling yawl, which it had taken him a
whole fortnight to chase and secure.  So the gallant officer had
secured not only prize money, but several new "volunteers" for the
Royal Navy.  No wonder therefore that he was merry, or that the
dinner which was partaken of on the lawn was--as the lieutenant
himself phrased it--one of the pleasantest meals he had ever partaken
of, either on board ship or on shore.

After dinner Tom volunteered to row Bertha and her maid home across
the broads.  But the child stipulated that Captain Merryweather
should come also, and although this was a heavy cargo for the little
boat, Tom was very glad indeed to have his hero on board.

Bertha had arranged her flirtations on a basis that was eminently
satisfactory from her own point of view.  When Mr. Merryweather was
away at sea Tom was to have her company, and as much of her affection
as could be spared from her pets and playthings; but whenever the
captain should arrive, then Tom was to be, for the time being, thrown
overboard.

And with this arrangement Tom was obliged to be content.

Well, Mr. Merryweather, much to the boy's sorrow, went off that very
night, but promised that he would return in about a fortnight, and
then--if Mr. Curtiss would spare him--would take Tom with him for a
trip to Wells to see

HORATIO NELSON.




CHAPTER VIII.

"STAY AT HOME, MY LAD, AND PLANT CABBAGES."

  "The Yarmouth Roads are right ahead,
    The crew with ardour burning;
  Jack sings out, as he heaves the lead,
    On tack and half-tack turning,
                  'By the d'p eleven!'"--DIBDIN.


It is just one hundred years to-day--June 25th, 1892--since Tom
started off with his friend Merryweather in the saucy sloop he
commanded, on a visit to the home of the man who in future was
destined to be Britain's greatest naval hero.  The weather was fine,
and the short voyage quite uneventful.

After they landed they had some distance to walk; but it was early
morning, and Tom Bure felt quite equal to a journey of fifty
miles--he told his friend--so on they marched right cheerily, till
they came to the little village of Burnham Thorpe, and enquired for
the parsonage.  It wasn't very far from the old-fashioned,
square-towered church, with its rather dilapidated looking graveyard.
Not a beautiful house by any means, nor a large one either; little
more, in fact, than an old-fashioned, high-roofed Norfolk cottage,
with an additional wing to it, which latter, seeing the large family
that the clergyman, Horatio's father, had, was very much needed
indeed.

There were plenty of trees of a sort about the place, however, with
flowers and bushes, and a rough attempt at a lawn, and on the whole
the house looked homely, if not neat.  The first to welcome Mr.
Merryweather, in the small and curiously-furnished parlour into which
he was shown, was the old parson himself.  That they had met before
was evident even to Tom.

"But, dear me, I'd hardly have known you," said Mr. Nelson.  "Time
works such wonders, and, you see, it has turned me pretty grey.  Ah!
well, we've got to work in this world; we'll rest in the next.
You'll stay to dinner, of course.  Horatio?  Yes; and you'll find him
in the garden doing a bit of work.  No, poor lad, he is far from
well, and he frets and fumes and worries so, I wonder he is alive or
so healthy as he is.  You'll find him if you go round.  And this bold
little man?"

"A boy whom Horatio will be glad to see for the sake of old times.
He is determined to go to sea."

"Go to sea, eh!  Well, I pity him.  Better a millstone were placed
about his neck, and he were cast into it.  But there, I shan't say a
word to discourage the youth."

Merryweather laughed, and went away to look for Horatio.  They had
not to walk far to find him.  In an old coat he was; old shoes, old
everything, and looking very serious over his work of digging and
raking some ground from which potatoes had been dug in order to stick
a few cabbages in.

"Shall I run down and ask that old gardener fellow," said Tom, "where
the lad is?"

"What lad?" said Merryweather.

"The sailor.  The lad his father spoke about."

"Why, that's our hero.  That's the boy himself.  What ho, there,
Horatio!  What cheer, my hearty?"

Nelson turned towards them, pitched away his spade, and ran up to
shake hands with Merryweather.

A bright smile lighted up his whole face as he did so.  Not a smile
from the lips alone, for it went curling up round his large and
expressive eyes, and seemed to change the contour of his whole
countenance.

"Come and sit down, Jack, and sniff the roses.  I heard you had been
cruising round here, and doing all sorts of nasty things to our bold
boys of Norfolk, who can neither get a drop of good rum nor a pinch
of snuff for you.  There you are; bring yourself to anchor.  I'll sit
on the tub."

"So you expected me?"

"Half-expected you.  You always were such an erratic customer, you
know, Jack, that I couldn't be sure of you.  Seen my wife?  No.
Father's failing, isn't he?  Ah! it hurts me to see it.  His
companionship, even more than that of my dear wife, is what partially
reconciles me to this life of inactivity.  Mind, I say more than my
wife's society only for one reason--the young you may meet again, you
know; but the old, ah! never."

Nelson kept rattling on, as Merryweather afterwards called it,
without giving him much chance of putting an oar in.  He would ask
questions, and then answer them himself supposititiously, and go from
one subject to another as quickly as he sometimes put his ship about
in action.

"Egad, Merryweather!" he continued.  "After all, you must consider
yourself a very lucky fellow.  While you are bounding o'er the ocean
blue, chasing herring-boats, I'm doomed to--to plant kale.  It is
hard--hard--hard, after all I've done."

Here his brows were lowered, and his face became set and stern.

"But I have enemies at head-quarters, Jack."

"I think, Nelson," said Merryweather, getting in a sentence edgeways,
"your greatest enemy is influence, or the want of it."

"Yes, yes, that's it, I do believe.  I'm but a humble parson's son.
I possess few if any great friends.  Merit alone isn't worth a
cabbage-stump.  Your lordling, your duke or duckling, your moneyed
scoundrel, your toady, your pimp, can walk into good positions, while
honest men like myself are left to shiver in the cold.  Come, we must
change the subject, or I'll get angry and kick over the tub.  I even
wrote to the Admiralty to appoint me to the command of a cockle-boat,
but--no.

"Heaven save me from my friends," continued Nelson bitterly.

"Your friends, Horace?"

"Ay, my friends.  Not men like your honest self, Jack, but those
old-wife fellows, who, by a few careless words, after dinner, for
instance, can do more harm to a man under the guise of friendship
than volumes of abuse could do.  Ah, Jack Merryweather, I've known a
tiny spark light a bigger conflagration than a red-hot shot.  Why, it
was only a day after my marriage that a friend fired off the
following remark: 'Poor Horatio Nelson!  Married and done for.  And
this marriage loses to the navy one of the brightest and most
promising ornaments.  It is a national loss, for otherwise he might
have become the greatest man in the service.'

"But, Jack, did my marriage prevent my activity?  Did it not rather
increase it, just as it did my happiness?  Did I not save to my
government and my country over a million sterling by exposing in the
West Indies the devilments of contractors and prize-agents who were
robbing right and left?

"Burn and sink 'em, Jack; but I'd----."

"Horatio!"

"What, you here, Fanny?"

It was his wife who stood smiling behind him.  He laid a gentle hand
on her shoulder, and his whole demeanour altered in a moment.

"There!" he cried, "I'm glad you've come.  Entertain my friend Jack
Merryweather--Jack, my wife--till I dig away my wrath.  These
cabbages ought to go in."

Not only was Jack himself, but even little Tom, amused at the way
Nelson now threw the earth about.  He seemed burying old sores and
paying off old scores.  Finally he planted the cabbages, handling
them meanwhile as tenderly as if they had been living, sentient human
beings.  Then he came back his smiling old self to his tub, beside
Jack Merryweather.

"What a peevish old hulk you must think me, Jack!" he said; "but
then, you see, I'm not over well; for really my activity of mind
preys upon this poor, puny bit of a body of mine, because it is the
only fuel within its reach.  But who is this modest but wondering
young lad?"

"A sailor born, Nelson."

"I hope not."

"And I hope not too," said Mrs. Nelson.  "He is far too handsome a
boy to be wasted on the service."

"Fanny!  Fanny! look at me.  Behold the Herculean proportions of this
husband of yours, thrown like pearls before the pigs."

"Horatio," said his wife, "I won't have you kick over the tub again,
so beware, sir."

"Come hither, youngster."

Tom went over and stood beside Britain's future hero, and Nelson
kindly took his hand and held it as he looked him in the face.  Tom
never winced.

"I believe you're a brave boy, and I hope not a bold one; but who is
he, Jack?"

"You've heard speak of Miss Raymond?"

"Yes.  Old Tom Bure wrote me about her, and said he was going to
marry the most beautiful woman in all creation."

"And so he did," said Jack.  "I was all aflame in that quarter too;
but Tom wed her.  Poor Tom is dead.  Died on this very coast."

"And this is young Tom?"

"That is young Tom.  Now, as an old sailor, give him a word of good
advice."

"Stay at home, my lad, and plant cabbages."

Merryweather laughed heartily, though Tom felt ready to cry.  But his
friend came to his rescue.

"He won't thank you for that advice, and between you and me, Horace,
there are signs in the air that tell me your days of cabbage planting
are nearly numbered."

"You think I'll be put under the ground myself then?"

"No, not planted that way, but planted on the quarter-deck of a jolly
ship of war."

"Wouldn't I make it hot for the enemy if I were.  But it's too good
to come true."

"Well, if I turn out a correct prophet, will you remember this boy?"

"If he comes to a ship that I command I'll be his friend for your
sake, Jack."

"Aha!  Horace, perhaps Jack will be there himself, then you'll have
two to look after."

"Well, Jack, I'll show you both some fun, if the Frenchmen will but
give us a chance."

"Never fear about the chance, my friend.  It is coming; there is
something in the air."

"You smell powder, then?"

"I do, and shot as well."

"So glad you've come, Jack.  Come along, Tom.  Merryweather, just
give Fanny a convoy.  Tom and I want to have a talk.  Go right away
in and tell father to commence carving.  I'm going to show Tom a
flower."

Ten minutes after the boy came in with a beaming face, and behind
him, looking contented and happy, walked Horatio Nelson.

Tom forgot to tell his friend Jack Merryweather what Nelson had said
to him, but all the way back to the shore that evening he could speak
of no one else except the coming hero.

"He is such a dear, nice, good man," he said more than once, "and I
don't care a bit for Bertha now.  That sailor gentleman is so brave
and good!  But, Captain Merryweather, you must tell me his story.  I
know he has a story, because he has been fighting, and been at the
North Pole too.  He said he ran away from a great bear; but I don't
believe that.  He was laughing when he said it."

"Well, Tom, when next we go on the barge with Uncle Robert, I promise
you I'll tell you Nelson's story; all, at least, that there is of it
as yet."




CHAPTER IX.

HORATIO NELSON'S EARLIER DAYS.

"The child's the father of the man."


The broad or lake on the banks of which Dan Brundell's property stood
in days of old has diminished considerably in size since then; but
even at that time it was not very big, while the worm of a stream,
that led therefrom into the larger and more beautiful lake, presented
here and there difficulties that militated against the easy
navigation of the barge.  But Dan was not a man to do anything by
halves, so he hired hands to widen the stream wherever necessary, and
they did so in less than a week.  Tom, with Ruth's assistance, was
then able to guide the barge right away into the large Decoy, and a
new life seemed to open out before Uncle Bob from the day of his
first visit thereto.  He even began to move his fingers more, and
there were great hopes that in time his cure would be complete.  Mr.
Curtiss's duties were very light, and he used often to take Ruth's
place in the barge.  Then the party would embark, and on the broad
itself and in the barge Tom's lessons would be conducted; Bob
listening intently, and appearing to be quite as much edified as the
boy himself.

And so the summer wore away, and autumn came with its tints of
yellows and browns, and its darker and more sombre foliage for the
trees.  But the fine weather continued, although there were, of
course, dark, rainy days now and then, which are to be expected even
in sunny Norfolk.

And one fine morning, when Tom was away aloft in the crow's nest,
telling Bob, who lay below, everything that was going on at sea, he
suddenly gave vent to a wild whoop, that would have made a Sioux
Indian bite his lips with envy.

"The _Porcupine_ is in sight, Uncle Bob.  Hooray-ay!"

Bob was quite as much pleased as Tom, for nothing delighted him more
than a talk about old times with his quondam shipmate.

"Are they bearing up in this direction?" he asked.

"Yes, Uncle Bob.  On the larboard tack, with the wind on the quarter,
standing in shore-ways."

"Well, Tom, I don't think you can do better than run and meet him.
Take Meg with you; she wants a run too."

Within an hour Merryweather was standing by his old shipmate's side,
and the very sight of his happy face seemed to make Uncle Bob the
happiest invalid that ever existed.

Dan came out of the shed in his paper cap to welcome Merryweather;
Meg ran off to the house to say that somebody had come; and Ruth
herself was very quickly on the spot; so everybody was as jolly as
jolly could be.

After an early dinner, Bob's cot was wheeled on to the barge, and the
young folks, including Meg and Ruth, went off to spend the afternoon
on the beautiful broad.

The sun was shining very brightly to-day, and an awning was stretched
across the middle part of the barge.  She was anchored in a cosy
corner, close to the tall whispering reeds.  Merryweather lit his
pipe.  Tom sat down beside Uncle Bob and lit his for him, while Meg
and Ruth curled up in the bows.  Then there was silence for the
interminably long space of fifteen seconds.

"What are you all waiting for?" asked Merryweather, "and all looking
at me for?"

"Why," answered Tom, "you said you would tell us all you know about
Nelson, you know, who is going to thrash the French, with--with my
assistance."

"Bravo, Tom!" cried Bob, "you're made of the right stuff."


HORATIO NELSON'S EARLIER LIFE.

"Well," said Merryweather, "no one in the service has been more
talked about than my friend Horatio.  Nobody who knows him can help
liking him, and yet, I believe, it is his friends who have caused him
to be overlooked so far.  All I know about him has not been gleaned
from any one source, but from dozens, but being interested in my
friend, I have tried to winnow the chaff of untruth from the solid
grains of fact, and it is these I'm going to serve out to you."

"Well done!" cried Uncle Bob.  "You were always a regular reefer at
spinning a yarn, mate.  So heave round.  Cheerily does it, Mr.
Merryweather!"

"Well," said Merryweather, "be that as it may, I first knew Horatio
Nelson when my grandmother took me to that same old-fashioned village
of Wells, Tom, where you and I went the other day, though there
weren't quite so many houses there then.  We went from Cromer in a
fishing-boat, and a rough sail I mind we had.  But this was nothing
to me.  I was a regular sailor even then, and I wasn't five years of
age.  I'm not sure that the rector of Burnham Thorpe wasn't a distant
relation of grandma's; anyhow, I know the family were very good to
us, and I know something else, namely, that Horatio's father turned
out of his own room that we might have it.  There was but little
ceremony in the Rectory; but plenty to eat, without a superfluity of
dainties.  That didn't trouble me in those days; why, I could have
eaten a seagull.

"Horatio would be about ten at the time of my visit, for he is a good
five years older than I am.  But he wasn't much of a chap, and I
couldn't help thinking, young as I was, that his grandmother--for he
had a grandma as well as myself--spoiled him.  My grandmother didn't
spoil me; but she often spanked me.

"Well, poor lad, he had only recently lost his mother--about a year
before, or thereabout--and this loss, I think, was the hardest blow
to the rector ever he had.  His family was a big one; eleven, if I
remember rightly, and the majority sons.  Rough and right boys they
were, and though Horatio was delicate, there wasn't a bit of the girl
about him.  He was as fond of a joke as any lad in creation; but
always tender towards the inferior animals.  How he would have adored
a dog like Meg there, for instance!

"I went to school at North Walsham two years after this, and found
young Nelson there.  He hadn't grown much; but he was tough--tough as
regards enduring pain.  He had many a thrashing; but he would purse
up his mouth, lower his brow, and never cry a bit.  Our flogger was
called Jones, and I need hardly say he was a Welshman.  The only
revenge we could take upon Jones--or rather the bigger boys, for
being but a nipper I shouldn't include myself--was pretending he
couldn't hurt us.  That used to make the Welshman wild.

"Geography, maps, and stories from history, were young Horace's chief
delight in those days.  In the house I mean; out of doors or away on
the marsh and moor, hunting for birds' nests, it was quite another
thing.  He seemed born to live in the fresh air, and I'm sure that it
was doing him an injustice and stunting his growth to keep him poring
over old musty books so constantly.

"I used to visit at the Rectory pretty often after this, and
Horatio's grandmother had always something to tell about him, that
redounded to his credit.  But she never told the same story twice the
same.

"'Horace is such a brave lad,' she would say, 'I don't believe he
knows what fear is!'"

"And she would go on to exemplify this in a dozen different ways.
'And he is a God-fearing boy too,' she would add.

"This last I could well believe.  His father is one of the most
simple-minded Christians I ever met.  His faith is like that of a
little child.

"But about his not knowing what fear was I always had my doubts.
However, there was one boy whom Horace had invited to the Rectory for
a few days, and who used to spin wonderful yarns to the old lady
about her grandson's pluck and courage.  But he rather overdid the
thing, and he didn't always blend piety with the bravery he imputed
to Horace.  For instance, he told his grandma that at Downham Market,
where he and Horace were at school, there was a nasty snarly old
woman who used to paddle through the muddy streets on high pattens,
knitting stockings and mumbling to herself.  The boys used to imitate
her, when off would come one of the pattens, which she threw like a
boomerang, and always hit some of them.  But one day Horace, who
happened to be in the crowd, coolly picked up the patten, and
marching home with it put it in the fire.  The old creature had to
limp to her house in one patten, and she never threw another.  A very
limp yarn, I thought, and one that was so little appreciated that
Horace was told not to bring that lying boy back again to the Rectory.

"Of course, all brave, good boys rob an orchard, because the others
are afraid; and, of course, they never eat any of the apples
themselves.  Oh, no!  Whenever, Tom, you hear a story of this kind,
you are safe enough to put it down as a grandmother's yarn.

"Independent, however, of my friend Horatio's love of freedom and
stories of the sea, he was a thinking lad, and he couldn't but notice
that his father had more than enough to do in supporting so large a
family in a semi-genteel way.  He thought of this, and made up his
mind to go to sea.  If he couldn't go as a young officer he would go
as a cabin boy, in the old-fashioned style.  But he had an uncle in
the navy--a rough and right true blue sailor, Captain Suckling--and
Horace induced his father to write to him in his behalf.

"The reply came pat enough, and I have seen it.  'What on earth has
poor little Horatio done,' the letter ran, 'so weak a boy that he,
above all the rest, should be sent to rough it out at sea?  Well, let
him come, and the very first time we go into action a cannon-ball may
knock his head off, and so at once provide for him.'"

"There was a rough kind of jocularity in this; but for all that
Captain Suckling was a kindly-hearted man.

"And now, young Nelson was destined for the sea.  He had only to
wait.  He returned to the Walsham school, and in the spring of 1771,
one miserable, drizzly morning--such a morning as gives one the
shivers to think of getting up--a man came from the Rectory to take
poor Horace away.

"Were those tears, I wonder, in his eyes, as he said 'good-bye' to us
all?  I think they were, and I know that as he got together his small
belongings he did not speak much, and was so nervous that some of us
helped him; but I'm sure we didn't envy him.

"His ship was the _Raisonnable_, 64 guns, his captain Maurice
Suckling, and Horace was rated as middie.  To add to his small
outfit, and see him on the way, his father went with him as far as
London, then the poor boy had to bundle and go all by himself to
Chatham, off which his ship was lying.

"Horace has told me that the misery of arriving in that strange, busy
port, all friendless and alone, was about the most acute ever he
suffered in his life.  There were scores, ay hundreds, of ships
there, hundreds, ay thousands, of bluejackets and marines in the
slushy streets, revelling, drinking, brawling, and fighting.  He was
hustled by dockyard-men, he was mocked and laughed at by women of the
bare-headed class; cold, damp, and hungry, yet no one knew or cared
where the _Raisonnable_ lay.  When he asked some sailors if they knew
Captain Suckling, they suggested his standing a flowing can and
they'd soon find out.

"Young Horace was hesitating what to do, when a stern voice shouted,
'Gangway, lads.'  The men saluted and made room at once, and here,
with his sword under his arm, stood a tall naval officer.

"'Captain Suckling, my boy?  I know him well.  Come along with me.'

"He led poor hungry Horace, not to his ship, but to his own quarters
in the dockyard, and gave him a good dinner, asking him many
questions about his life in the country, his father and brothers and
sisters.  He finished off by saying--

"'Well, whatever brings some boys to sea I can't tell, though I was a
boy myself once upon a time.  Never mind, lad, I'll see you off, else
the rascally boatmen will cheat you.'

"The _Raisonnable_ lay well off in the middle of the tideway, and
braced up by the good dinner he had eaten, he began to think a
sailor's life was just the thing for him after all.  Besides, with
her frowning red-muzzled guns, her tall and tapering spars, and
spider-web of rigging, the frigate was a noble sight.  Then there
were the neatly-arranged hammocks over the bulwarks, a flash of
crimson here and there, and here and there the glitter of a bayonet.

"Horace got in over the port or larboard side, up a rope ladder, and
his box was hauled up after him.

"Then he stood there, alone in a crowd, for many an interminably long
minute.  No one took any more notice of him than if he'd been a bag
of biscuit.  Nor did Horace know what to do, or what to say, or whom
to address.

"He spoke to a man in a dark blue jacket at last, and called him
'sir.'  It was only the doctor's servant, but he answered him kindly,
and in due time he found his way to the cock-pit, and was afterwards
bundled into his own mess--the gunroom.

"Captain Suckling did not join for days after this, so Horace had to
fight his first battles single-handed.  Bloodless battles no doubt
they were, for Horace was but a weakly lad at this time, and but ill
able to play that game of fisticuffs which, Tom, I think you will
admit I played with some skill that day when the Welsh giant, David
Jones, challenged me to mortal combat on the sands of Yare.

"No, poor Horace at this time, you must remember, was only newly cut
loose from his grandma's apron-strings.  But, Bob, your pipe is out.
Tom, my hearty, light Uncle Bob's pipe before I put another spoke in
the wheel."




CHAPTER X.

  "I WILL BE A HERO, AND TRUSTING TO PROVIDENCE
  BRAVE EVERY DANGER."

  "Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft
    To be taken, for trifles, aback;
  For they say there's a providence sits up aloft,
    To look after the life of poor Jack."--DIBDIN.


"There is one trait in my friend Horatio's character," continued Mr.
Merryweather, "that I think is prominent enough, and that is
decision.  Mind you, Tom, lad, I like it in a certain way, but it may
lead one wrong at times.  But nevertheless, it is better to leap than
flounder in a bog, and if you've got to do a thing there's no time
like the present.  If ever Horace _did_ rob an orchard--and I rather
think he did more than once--I feel certain he didn't hang about long
before commencing operations, that he didn't wait to see whether the
farmer's wife was having a walk in the garden, or whether Bouncer,
the dog, was tied up or not.  No, Horace is a bad hand at waiting.
He wasn't long in the navy, however, before he found out it was
pretty nearly all waiting, that the youngsters or griffins had to
wait on their elders, and the elders to wait on those older still.
Even the captain himself has to wait, and very often in vain, for
promotion.  Horace, poor fellow, expected to find as much courtesy,
sympathy, and kindness in the behaviour towards each other of the
junior officers of ships in the navy as was displayed among his
brothers in his happy and well-regulated home.  Alas! he was sadly
disappointed.  He found roughness and brutality displayed on deck,
between decks, fore and aft, and a good deal in the wardroom as well
as in the gunroom.  If he expected to meet with young gentlemen full
of zeal for the service, burning with a desire to serve their king
and country, or even to die, if need be, for their fatherland on the
blood-stained battle-deck, he was terribly disappointed.  If he
expected even to find naval affairs discussed at all in his mess,
again he was disappointed.  If ambition dwelt in the hearts of the
young fellows he found around him, they kept it to themselves.  It
was every man or lad for himself, and 'hang the service'; 'hang
superior officers'; 'hang etiquette'; 'hang fine language';
'hang--hang everything'; only let the beef and the biscuit have a
fair wind, and if anybody smaller wanted the beef first, let him wait
or have a dig in the eye.  _Meum_ and _tuum_?  There were no such
words, except in the Latin dictionary.  If you had anything to eat,
_I_ must have a bit, if 't were only an oyster, that is, if I were
bigger than you, or harder in the shell and in the fist.

"So Horace, who was really a tender-hearted boy, although ambitious,
saw nothing but roughness around him, and not a little sin.  That he
soon was sick of all this goes without saying--that he was not
polluted by the filth among which he had fallen is a marvel, but he
never did forget his father's teaching, nor the prayers he had
learned at his mother's knee.

"When my friend, then, joined the _Raisonnable_, there were
reasonable expectations that he would soon see a little fighting,
from the fact that the Spaniards were cutting up rough about a
certain harbour in the Falkland Islands.  Britain wanted that
harbour; Britain was a bigger boy than Spain, and a bigger
bully--always has been, and ever will be--so Britain threatened to
punch Spain's head if Spain didn't hand over the harbour, quietly as
well as quickly.  Spain did so, and after five months of waiting in
the 64-gun frigate, she was put out of commission; the boy's uncle,
Captain Maurice Suckling, was appointed to the _Triumph_ for harbour
service in the Medway, and as this did not suit Horace, who was
burning to be on blue water, his captain sent him on a voyage to the
West Indies, in a small ship commanded by John Rathbone, who had
served in the _Dreadnought_ as master's mate, until he had either got
sick of the service, or the service had got sick of him.

"Nevertheless, it seems that Horatio got better on with 'old
Rathbone,' as he somewhat irreverently styled him, than with his
uncle Maurice, or rather with the idle dandies on board the guardship
_Triumph_.  Rathbone succeeded in making a man of him, for, mind you,
Tom, even a boy can be a man--at heart.

"Perhaps Horace roughed it considerably in Rathbone's ship.  He
doesn't say much, but I'll warrant you it was 'away aloft to reef
topsails' on many a dark and stormy night.

"When my friend Horace returned, he was a sailor every inch, 'every
hair a rope-yarn, every finger a fish-hook.'

"Indeed Horatio himself says, in speaking about this cruise in the
merchant service, 'If I didn't improve much in my education during
the voyage, I came back a practical seaman, with a horror of the
Royal Navy, and with a saying then very common among sailors, "Aft
the most honour, for'ard the best man."  It was many weeks before I
got in the least reconciled to a man-o'-war, so deep was the
prejudice rooted, and the pains taken to instil this erroneous idea
in my young mind.'

"Well, anyhow, when Horace returned from his delightful cruise in the
West Indiaman, he came once more under the lee of his uncle Maurice,
of H.M.S. _Triumph_.  This gentleman, with most disinterested
kindness, did all he could--though for a time with only partial
success, to reconcile young Horace to man-o'-war routine.  As a
reward for services done, and attention to his duties, he was allowed
to go piloting in the decked long-boat or cutter to the commanding
officer's quarters at Chatham, and from Chatham, sometimes round to
the North Foreland, or up stream to the Tower of London itself.

"But Horace stuck manfully to his duties, and gradually came to love
the Royal Navy.

"It was in the year 1773, if my memory serves me well, that an
expedition was set on foot to visit the North Pole, or, in other
words, to find out how far north the sea was navigable in a northern
direction.

"Two ships were commissioned for this purpose, namely, the
_Racehorse_, Captain C. J. Phipps, and the _Carcass_, Captain
Lutwidge.

"It was the _Carcass_ to which, much to his joy, Horatio was
appointed.  In the old _Triumph_ he had first been rated as captain's
servant, then promoted to midshipman, and it was as captain's
coxswain he joined the _Carcass_.

"His seamanship--learned, be it remembered, in the West
Indiaman--came well to the front now.  He was permitted to take his
trick at the wheel, and steered the ship safely through very heavy
ice.  The ship, however, had the misfortune to get frozen in, and the
wonder is ever she got back to tell her tale.

"Horatio is very reticent as to his adventures in Polar seas, but he
told me that he was severely reprimanded for disobeying orders.  He
followed a bear into a position of imminent danger, for Horace not
for the bear.  He says his gun missed fire, and that he thought he
might as well try to brain the beast with the butt end.  The bear
seemed not at all reluctant to be brained, for he came boldly on to
meet the boy who was to perform the operation.  No doubt, this
particular bear had the utmost confidence in the thickness of his own
skull, and if a well-directed bullet had not caused him to change his
mind and sheer away on another tack, Horace would never again have
planted cabbages in his father's garden at Burnham Thorpe.  (That
bear's skin, by the way, Horatio had meant to give to his father as a
Christmas present).

"Well, on the paying-off of the _Carcass_, which, with her consort,
got safely back to England, Horace, who, although only fifteen, was
an out-and-out able seaman, was recommended for service to Captain
Farmer of the _Seahorse_, a smart and saucy craft of twenty guns.  He
was a watch-and-watch seaman of the foretop now, but Farmer soon
recognised his ability, and so he was promoted to the quarter-deck
and made one of the midshipmen.

"Not only that, but he was allowed to carry on the duty, and crack on
too when he pleased--in fact he was, to all intents and purposes, a
naval officer.  His cruising ground was now the Indian Ocean and all
round about there.  But in eighteen months his health began to break
down, owing, not so much to the badness of the climate, he told me,
as to the beastliness of the beef and evil disposition of the water.

"So he was transferred to the _Dolphin_, and in this ship returned
for a spell to his native land."

"Not interrupting you, Mr. Merryweather," said Bob, "mightn't you
tell Tom about the gallant end poor Captain Farmer had?"

"Ah! that was sad enough, though it was gallant, Bob," said Mr.
Merryweather.  "I hadn't meant to mention it, but here goes--

"It was on the fatal sixth of October, 1779, that bold Captain
Farmer, in the fine old frigate _Quebec_, of thirty-two guns, sighted
_La Surveillant_, off Ushant.

"This ship carried forty guns, and was more heavily manned, as well
as more heavily metalled, than the _Quebec_.  That didn't signify to
Farmer.  The drum beat merrily to quarters, and at it the two ships
went pell-mell.

"It was a long and terrible struggle, lasting for over three hours
and a half.  Both vessels were utterly dismantled.  Unfortunately in
the struggle the sails of the _Quebec_, shot down by the enemy,
caught fire by falling over the guns, and very soon the whole ship
was wrapped in flames.

"The brave Captain Farmer however, although grievously wounded,
refused to surrender, and was blown up with his ship, the colours
flying defiantly till the last.  So that was the glorious but
terrible end of poor Farmer."

Merryweather paused here for a minute or two, busying himself in
refilling his pipe.

No one spoke, however; for even Meg seemed to know that his story was
not finished.

The midges danced above the quivering reeds, the twittering martins
went skimming to and fro, there was a hum of insect life in the air,
and all nature seemed rapt in blissful content.

"On so lovely a day," said Merryweather at last, "I am loth to sadden
my yarn by any allusion to death or to gloom, but the truth must be
told, else you, Tom, and you, Bob, will not understand my friend
Horace's inner character, and it is the mind, you must remember, that
prompts our every action.

"It was on board the _Dolphin_, then, on her homeward voyage, that
Horatio Nelson first learned to think.  The passage was not a
pleasant one, for the ship was badly found.  There were many men ill
on board as well as Nelson, and it was the thoughts of getting back
to merry England that kept those poor fellows hopeful and alive.

"When one is sick and ill, especially if tossed about on the ocean
wave, one cannot help feeling both despondent and weary.  Hear what
Horatio himself says about this:

"'I felt impressed,' he writes, 'with the idea that I should never
rise in my profession.  My mind was staggered with a view of the
difficulties I had to encounter and the little interest I possessed.
I could discover no means of reaching the object of my ambition.
After a long and gloomy reverie, in which I almost wished myself
overboard, a sudden flow of patriotism was kindled within me, and
presented my king and my country as my patrons.  "Well then," I
exclaimed, "I will be a _hero_, and, trusting to Providence will
brave every danger."'

"That then, Tom, was the resolve my good friend made when still a
boy.  The thought of being a hero was the star that guided him on,
and that will, I trust, guide him still to victory; for that he is
the coming man I have not a doubt.

"But, lads, I can, I think, read Horatio's mind even better than he
can do himself.  You see, it was in the hour of sickness and gloom he
made this firm resolution.  He could not help remembering that he was
but of puny frame, though with a mind fitted for a far stronger body.
He might be cut down by disease at any time.  What bolder or better
resolve therefore could he make than to give his life to his king or
country, be it long, be it short.  If short it were doomed to be, the
more deeds of heroism he could crowd into it the better.  'Let us
work while it is called to-day, for the night cometh when no man can
work.'  These were the words on which his father once preached a
sermon, and lying in his weary hammock Horatio remembered them.  They
gave him hope, they helped to raise his spirits, and with this
new-born hope came strength and happiness.  And so far as he has had
it in his power Horatio has kept his resolve, but now that he is
lying on his beam ends at Burnham Thorpe, is it any wonder that he
chafes and fumes?  He told me he felt as if standing high and dry on
a rock beholding a ship on the sea-ridden sands, and powerless to
help; for, he added, 'Am I not witnessing the shipwreck of all my
hopes and ambition?'"

"Pardon me, mate," said Bob, "but you've kind o' drifted away from
your story.  Your friend Nelson didn't come straight away from the
_Dolphin_ to his father's parsonage.  He hasn't been planting
cabbages there since '76, I'll lay a wager."

"No, Bob, no.  Thank you for bringing me up with a round turn and
holding me with a clove hitch.  Just let me, however, make one
digression, Bob, and I'll go ahead again right cheerily with my yarn.
You've just spoken, Bob, about laying a wager.  When you get well,
Bob, as I trust you will, let me tell you that the less you have to
do with wagering or betting the better.  Horatio tells me that when
still in his teens he one night sat up playing cards till very late.
He thinks now that the devil must have sat by his side, tempting him
and leading him on to good luck, for during the whole evening his
winnings, and the 'devil's picture-books' that he held in his hand,
were all he thought about.  Duty, resolution, ambition itself, were
in abeyance, were far away from his thoughts.  And he rose up from
the table at last, flushed and excited, the winner of £300!  'You'll
play to-morrow night, too,' the devil appeared to whisper to him, and
he appeared to promise.

"But with the morrow came reflection.  'Oh!' he thought, 'what, if
instead of winning, I had lost.  I, without money to pay?  Horrible!
I should have been broken, ruined, disgraced, and my father--I will
never touch a card again.'

"Nor has he, Tom.

"You see the devil doesn't always have his own way in this world, no
matter how alluring the bait may be that he dangles before the eyes
of his would-be victims.

"Well, then, young Nelson's next vessel was the 46-gun ship the
_Worcester_.  And with kindly Mark Robinson as his captain, he sailed
for Gibraltar across the stormy Bay of Biscay.

"Stormy then at all events, for the wind rose and the billows were
houses high.  It was indeed a fearful night, what with guns broken
loose from their moorings, with racing shot and shifting ballast,
with boats and bulwarks broken, with rent and riven canvas, there
were few on board who hoped to see the morning light.

"It had been the old, old story--a ship hurried away to sea before
things were properly stowed and everything made ship-shape, with a
half-drunken crew, and officers wild with rage because the duty could
not be carried on as they desired it.  Ah! many and many a good ship
has the stormy bay swallowed up at darkest midnight from causes such
as these.

"But the _Worcester_ weathered the storm, and Captain Robertson was
not slow in telling his officers they had done their duty in this
trying time, like Hearts of Oak or British sailors.

"Above all he thanked young Horatio.

"'I shall have quite as much confidence in you in future,' he told
him, 'as in any one of my older officers, and, indeed, I shall feel
quite easy in my mind when you are on deck.  You are a man in actions
if not in years.'

"No wonder Nelson's face glowed with pleasure and shyness combined to
hear these words of praise.

"For, Tom, your brave man is ever shy to some degree.

"We next find Nelson passing his examination as lieutenant, which he
did with flying colours.  His uncle, Captain Suckling, was the chief
officer on the examining board, nor did he spare his nephew.

"At the conclusion of the examination he put the usual question to
the other officers.

"'Are you satisfied, gentlemen?'

"'I am more than satisfied,' said a senior.

"'Hear, hear,' from all the others.

"Then Horatio was called in, and informed gravely that he had
sustained the examination.

"'And now,' added the kindly-hearted Captain Suckling, 'let me
introduce you to my nephew.  My nephew, Horatio Nelson, gentlemen.'

"They were taken aback.

"'But why,' they asked, 'didn't you let us know this before?'

"'Well,' replied the bluff old uncle, 'I was afraid that, had I done
so, you might have favoured him.  I felt convinced he would pass a
good examination, and you see, gentlemen, I have not been
disappointed.'

"Right heartily then every officer on that board shook young Nelson
by the hand, and hoped he would be an honour to the glorious old flag
under which they all served their king and country.

"The very next day Nelson was made second-lieutenant of the
_Lowestoft_, which after a time sailed for the West Indies.

"Nelson during the voyage became a great favourite with the captain,
owing to the prompt way he obeyed all his instructions and carried on
the duty.

"One day an American privateer hove in sight, and the
first-lieutenant was ordered to board and capture her.  However, the
sea was so high and stormy that he lost heart, and returned to the
frigate.  The captain was wild with rage.  'Is there,' he cried, 'an
officer in this ship who can make a prize of that letter of marque?'

"Both Nelson and the master stepped up at the same time.  But Nelson
had the honour, and honour it proved.  He not only reached the
privateer, but boarded and carried her, although the waves really
were so high that the boat was washed over the Yankee.

"Horatio was a greater favourite now than ever with good Captain
Locker."




CHAPTER XI.

"THERE'S A STORM BREWING, AND YOU'LL BE IN IT, TOM."

  "D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch
    All as one as a piece of the ship,
  And with her brave the world without offering to flinch,
    From the moment the anchor's atrip.
  Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft
    As with grief to be taken aback,
  For the same little cherub that sits up aloft,
    Will look out a good berth for poor Jack."--DIBDIN.


"The _Lowestoft_," continued Merryweather, "arrived at Jamaica, and a
proof was given now that Captain Locker was a true friend to Nelson.
For knowing that he was running over with zeal for the service, he
had him appointed to a separate command.  Though, had the captain
consulted his own wishes, he would much have preferred having the
bold young lieutenant with himself.

"In the saucy wee schooner, _Little Lucy_, Nelson could lord it on
his own quarter-deck, monarch of all he surveyed, and, in his own
words, he made himself a complete pilot of all the passages through
the islands situated to the north of Hispaniola.

"My friend's next preferment--through the interest of Locker--was to
the third lieutenancy of the flagship _Bristol_, under Admiral
Parker.  But he was after a time promoted to the rank of first
lieutenant.  During his cruise in the _Bristol_, though Nelson
himself says but little about it, he was not idle, and undoubtedly
did his share of the duty of capturing no less than seventeen sail
belonging to the enemy.

"Then Horace was appointed to the command of an old-fashioned, sturdy
brig called the _Badger_, and was sent off to the coast of Mosquito
and Bay of Honduras, to make it hot for the swarms of Yankee
privateers that were cruising around there on the outlook for British
shipping.

"I fear, Bob, that if I told you how excellently well young Nelson
performed the duties required of him, you would imagine I was trying
to make my friend too much of a hero; but if he joins our service,
Tom will soon know that the Admiralty considers the performance of
duty no act of heroism, however well it is done.  But Nelson
protected the settlers on this coast so faithfully and well, that he
was not only admired, but in reality adored by them.

"It was while still in the _Badger_, and lying in Montago Bay, that
the _Glasgow_, a 20-gun vessel, arrived.  In about two hours' time
she was wrapped in vast sheets of flame, and it was only through the
extraordinary exertions of Nelson, aided by Captain Lloyd himself,
that the crew were saved.  Nelson, in speaking of the disaster, gives
Captain Lloyd his due meed of praise.  But he deserved it.  There was
one man on board the poor _Glasgow_ who richly deserved flogging
first and hanging afterwards; this was the steward."

"Was he flogged and hanged?" said Tom.

"I don't know, lad.  I expect he was flogged at the very least.  The
scoundrel had gone to steal rum for himself and mates from the after
hold.  He succeeded in capsizing a cask of rum, and setting fire to
it with the purser's dip he carried.

"Now the _Glasgow_ was laden with gunpowder, and Captain Lloyd knew
that if she blew up, not only would every one on board perish, but
the magazines and warehouses on shore would also be destroyed.  He
immediately called all hands therefore, declaring that until every
cask of powder was had up and thrown into the sea, not a man should
leave the ship.

"The crew, who dearly loved their honest Welsh commander, obeyed his
instructions, and saved themselves and him from a fearful death.

"Then Nelson came to the rescue, and the crew were got off before the
charred timbers sank hissing in the waves.

"On the 28th of April, '79, my friend Horace, in his bold brig
_Badger_, carried and captured _La Prudente_.

"Well, Tom, I haven't time to tell you all Nelson's brave deeds in
the West Indies, and indeed I do not remember half of them, but about
this time both France and Spain, you know or ought to know, were at
war with Britain, and what with having now no men from America, we
were not only rather short-handed, but somewhat short of ships, and
by way of encouraging good men and officers to join the service,
Prince William Henry became a midshipman, and many more of the scions
and offshoots of nobility followed his example.

"Nelson received his post-captaincy, and Collingwood* became
commander of the _Badger_.  Horace was appointed to the
_Hinchinbrook_, and during the cruise with the _Major_ and _Penelope_
took many prizes.


* Afterwards Lord Collingwood.


"But now, at the age of twenty-one, Horace had still higher
promotion, for, as it was expected that the French admiral, Count
d'Estainy, would attack Jamaica in force, he was appointed to the
command of the batteries of Fort Charles, at Port Royal.

"But this bold count did nothing, and did it well.

"Nelson's next service was one of great importance.  General Sir John
Balling had formed a plan for an expedition against Fort St. Juan, in
the Gulf of Mexico, and the sea operations were entrusted to Horace.

"It was the object of this expedition, by taking the fort and
obtaining command of the Rio San Juan, running between the lake
Nicaragua and the Atlantic, to obtain possession of the cities of
Granada and Leon, and thus cut the communication of the Spaniards
betwixt their northern and southern possessions in America.

"My friend's duty was the conveyance of the transports and the
landing of the troops.

"But Nelson was not to be satisfied with so simple a share of the
honour and glory of this expedition, and both Sir John and Captain
Polson, of the 60th, testified in words of burning admiration to the
great skill and indomitable energy of poor Horace.  'He was the
first,' says Polson, 'on every service, whether undertaken by day or
by night, and hardly a gun was pointed that was not laid by himself
or by Lieutenant Despard.'*


* Twenty years after this, Despard was tried and executed for high
treason with six of his fellow conspirators.  He was, nevertheless, a
brave and daring, though misguided man.


"It was a sad expedition this from beginning to end.  The game,
indeed, was hardly worth the candle; but Nelson was its real head.
He not only landed with the men, and led them on to death or glory,
but piloted them up the river, and took port after port from the
astonished Spaniards, and all this in a climate so unhealthy, so
rotten and malodorous, that pestilence was a greater foe to success
than the resistance offered by the enemy.  For on the march men fell
dead in the ranks, others were poisoned by water, they were short of
provisions, being forced to kill and eat monkeys, while several were
killed by serpents.  Not since the days of old Spanish buccaneering
had any troops suffered as did those with bold Nelson.  He says
himself he carried troops a hundred miles up the river, he boarded
the enemies' outposts situated on an island in the river, and made
batteries and afterwards fought them, and was a principal cause of
the success that attended our operations.

"Was it any wonder that in a place so pestilential fever broke out?
It was fearful, Tom.  I should not talk about such things to-day, but
in Nelson's ship of 200 men, 87 were seized and confined to their
beds in one night, and 145 were buried there, only ten men surviving
the terrible expedition.

"Nelson himself was nearly dead, and but for the kindness of Sir
Peter Parker, who appointed him to the 44-gun frigate _Janus_, at
Jamaica, he would doubtless have succumbed.  But even the tender
nursing of Lady Parker and her little girl on shore was unable to
restore my friend to health, and on the first of September, '80, he
sailed for England with Captain Cornwallis.

"He lay ill for a year at Bath, and was then sent on a winter's
cruise to Elsinore to protect the homeward trade.  This cruise was
but little relished by Horace, who rightly thought that his service
in the West Indies, where he fought so well and so nearly lost his
life in the service of king and country, deserved higher recognition.

"In '82 Horace sailed with a convoy of traders for Newfoundland, in
his ship _Albemarle_.

"One clever action out there can be laid to Nelson's credit.  It
should be remembered that he was a perfect sailor and pilot.  When
chased, therefore, by three of the French ships of the line and the
_Iris_ frigate whilst cruising off Boston, and finding they were
coming up with him hand-over-hand, he boldly sought the shoals.  The
frigate alone could follow, and Nelson made all preparation to fight
her, but the _Iris_ refused to accept the challenge, and sheered off.

"Horace next took a convoy to New York, and there he joined the fleet
under Lord Hood.  Here he was introduced to the Duke of
Clarence--Prince William--and each found in the other a true-blue
seaman and British sailor.

"On the return of the fleet, Lord Hood took Nelson to St. James'
Palace, where he had the high honour of an introduction to the King.
And, to use the words of Scripture, Tom, he found 'favour in the
King's sight,' though there wasn't much to boast of in that.

* * * * *

"Peace was concluded with France in '83, and in July of that year
Nelson was placed on half-pay.

"He next went to France--not to learn to dance Tom, but to improve
his knowledge of the language.  He, however, managed to fall over
head and ears in love with a clergyman's daughter--a Miss Andrews.
Many a ship and many a fort had my friend captured, and now, lo and
behold, he himself had to haul down his flag to a girl.

"Oh, he would have died for her I doubt not, but she would not marry
him.  She showed bad taste in my opinion, Bob, but _n'importe_, there
was happiness in store for Horace independently of this fair girl.
Having sailed the ocean so long, no doubt he had found out the truth
of the proverb, 'There's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of
it.'

"In France, Nelson met two naval officers, to whom he seemed to take
a dislike from the very first, for the simple reason that they tried
to keep up the dignity of the service to which they belonged, by
dressing in a somewhat dandified fashion, and wearing epaulettes.
One of these was Captain Ball.

"Nelson, my friend and hero, is a man of deeds, and his hatred of
vain-glory and show has ever been very marked.  We did not find him
digging in his garden, Tom, and planting cabbages, with his
cocked-hat on his head and a sword by his side."

"No, sir," said Tom, laughing.  "He would have looked funny like
that; but he wore very old clothes indeed.  He was droll."

"Yes, my lad, and when the Duke of Clarence first saw him, he seems
to have been droller-looking still.

"'I was,' said his Royal Highness, 'then a midshipman on board the
_Barfleur_, lying in the narrows off State Island, and had the watch
on deck, when Captain Nelson came alongside in his barge.  He
appeared to be the merest boy of a captain I had ever beheld, and his
dress made me smile.  He had on a full-laced uniform, his lank,
unpowdered hair was tied in a stiff Hessian tail of an extraordinary
length, and the old-fashioned flaps of his waistcoat, added to the
general quaintness of his figure, produced an appearance which quite
riveted my attention.  I had never seen anything like this before,
and could not imagine who he was or what he had come about.  My
doubts were however removed, when Lord Hood introduced him to me.
There was something irresistibly pleasing in his address and
conversation, and an enthusiasm when talking on naval matters, that
showed he was no ordinary being.

"'I found him,' continued the Duke, 'warmly attached to my father and
singularly humane; indeed he had the honour of the King's service,
and independence of the British Navy, particularly at heart.  As for
prize money, such a thing never entered his thoughts.'

"Now, Bob, I want you to note this, my friend Nelson, God bless his
honest heart, hated dress and foppery, and he hated Captain Ball
because he was a fop; but, as I said once to Horace, Miss Andrews
would have thought a deal more of him, had he too donned the
epaulettes and been a little less old-fashioned, for, Bob, the ladies
are attracted by gay colours.  It is nature you know.  Look even at
the birds of the air, they don't care a slug how they knock about all
winter; but as soon as spring time comes, and they go a-wooing,
behold how gay and brave they are.  They know precisely when to put
on their fancy waistcoats, and when to leave them off.  But _Nelson
didn't_.

"Well by-and-by Horace was appointed to the _Boreas_, twenty-eight
guns, and sailed for Barbadoes.

"Sir Richard Hughes was then commander-in-chief of these colonies,
but he was an easy-going commander and did not trouble his head very
much about British interests.

"But Nelson meant to do his duty _maugre_ fear _maugre_ favour,
although the big soldier men out there did not thank him for his
interference.  So he seized many vessels that he knew had no business
at all to trade in British colonies, and got persecuted in
consequence, as Horace himself says, 'from one island to another.'

"Out on this station Nelson met the charming widow Nisbet, and
married her.

"Tom, the story stops here.  You know pretty well all the rest, how
the _Boreas_ came back in 1787 and was paid off on the 4th of July,
and how my dear friend went on half-pay, and has been left high and
dry to fret and fume and 'rot,' as he calls it, ever since, waiting
in vain for the appointment that, it seems to him, will never, never
come.

"Tom, look eastward, lad, there is a storm brewing, and we better
take the advantage of the cat's paws before it breaks and get
homewards."

Tom did as he was desired, poled round the barge, set sail and got
home before the rain and high wind ruffled the lake.

Just as they had landed, however, and Bob's cot was being wheeled
towards his own wing of the cottage, Mr. Merryweather touched young
Tom on the shoulder.

"Tom," he said, "look eastward, there is a storm brewing."

"Yes," said Tom, "but didn't you----"

"Didn't I tell you that before?

"Yes, lad, but I mean it now in a figurative sense.  There is a storm
brewing in the east, and you'll be in it, I'll be in it, and brave
Horatio Nelson too."

"You mean war, sir?'"

"I mean war, Tom."

"Hurrah!"




CHAPTER XII.

"DAN WILL NE'ER BE DAN AGAIN," THEY SAID.

  "A boding voice is in my ear,
    "We're parting now to meet no more."--OLD SONG.

  "See yon bark, sae proudly bounding,
    Soon shall bear me o'er the sea.
  Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding,
    Calls me far frae love and thee."--A. HUME.


It was a sad day for my hero, young Tom Bure, when Mr. Merryweather
resigned command of the sloop, and went on half-pay.  When he came to
bid good-bye to Dan and his old shipmate, Uncle Bob, to say nothing
of little Ruth and her mother, everyone was as sad as sad can be.  It
was one of those dull, depressing days in December; great waves
tumbling in from the east and breaking in thunder upon the sands of
Yare; hosts of seagulls flying in-land; snow in the air; general
gloom everywhere.

"Good-bye, Bob, my good fellow, I hope to see you again, and see you
well.  I'm coming back from the wars with my post-captaincy, Bob;
then you and your good brother Dan here will be the first to bid be
welcome, I know."

There was a huskiness in poor Bob's voice when he made answer that
was not difficult to account for, and there was moisture in his eyes.

"Ah, mate," he said, "you must forgive an invalid for showing the
white feather at the last.  I didn't think, you know, I'd be so sorry
to part with you, but your presence, coming back and fore to the
cottage here, brought back old memories, and I've had a right happy
time.  Good-bye, mate.  Heaven preserve you.  I'll pray for you, an
honest tar's prayer.  But something whispers to me--we'll meet again
no more."

Ruth went as far as the rustic bridge with Mr. Merryweather.

He kissed her as he bade her farewell.

"I'll meet many a maiden ere I return again, Ruth," he said, "but
none more modest and fair than you, my winsome lassie."

Ruth went away sobbing, with her apron to her face.

Tom walked as far as the beach with Merryweather, for he was Tom's
hero.

Besides, he had promised to use his influence at the Admiralty to get
Tom appointed as a middie in the same ship as he himself joined.

"Good-bye, Tom."

"Good-bye, Mr. Merryweather."

They were now on the cliff.

"Good-bye, sir, I wouldn't cry for the world, I--wouldn't--good-bye."

"There! there! lad.  Never be ashamed of honest tears.  Just let them
fall.  The bravest men that ever drew sword or wielded cutlass on the
blood-slippery battle-deck have wept when saying that little word
'good-bye.'"

He patted the boy most kindly on the shoulder.  "Tom," he said,
smiling, "do you know what I'm going to do?"

"No," said Tom, smiling himself, though his eyes were wet.

"Well, as soon as I get up anchor and wear round I'll fire a gun for
you.  And do you know what that gun will say?"

"No, sir."

"It'll say 'Good-bye, Tom,' as plainly as ever a gun can speak.  Now
sit there and look and listen."

And off ran this honest sailor, while Tom sat down on the cliff-top
to wait for developments.

He saw the boat hauled up.  He heard the rattle of the windlass as
the men got up the anchor.  He saw the loosened sails fill as the
little craft wore round, then there was a quick wicked-looking puff
of white smoke, with a tongue of fire in the centre of it, and next
moment the cliffs reverberated with the sound of the farewell gun.

Tom took off his jacket and waved it in the air; his cap would not
have been sufficient for the requirements of so auspicious an
occasion.

"Good-bye, Tom," said the gun.

And Tom went sadly home all by himself.

* * * * *

There is one method of getting over sorrow that every boy has in his
power, namely, sticking to his books and his studies.

Many a time and oft, dear reader, has sorrow in this world been the
parent of fame, and Tom Bure found that after a somewhat gloomy
fortnight the time did not hang so wearily on his hands.

Hadn't Mr. Merryweather assured him that war was coming, and that he
would exercise all the influence he possessed to obtain him an
appointment as midshipman.

How glorious that would be!  How he wished for the storm to break,
for the war to begin.  He did not think of the fine uniform he might
wear, or of the dirk that should hang by his side.  He resolved to
emulate Horatio Nelson, and despise dandyism; but whenever a chance
offered to do all kinds of daring, plucky things, he was sure he
should rise rapidly in the service, and have his name written on the
scroll of fame.

Tom had heard of the scroll of fame, but possessed very hazy notions
indeed as to what it was or wasn't.  But in an old copy-book Mr.
Curtiss, his tutor, one day discovered the following ready-made
scroll of fame--

  "Tom Bure, midshipman.
  Lieutenant Tom Bure, R.N.
  Commander Thomas Bure, R.N.
  Captain the Hon. Thom. Bure, R.N.
  Admiral of the Red the Hon. Thom. Bure.
  Admiral of the Fleet Lord----."


The scroll of fame was left unfinished just there; it was evident
that young Tom was uncertain what title as a lord he should confer on
himself.

But he happened to enter the room just as Mr. Curtiss was examining
this scroll of fame and laughing heartily over it.  Forgetting for
the moment all the respect that was due to his tutor, Tom rushed
forward, seized the paper and tore it in pieces, his eyes flashing
with anger, his face burning like a coal.

"Oh! forgive me, Mr. Curtiss," he said immediately after, "I didn't
mean to be rude, but I really felt so ashamed."

"Say no more, my boy, no more," said Mr. Curtiss, "we all of us
manufacture for ourselves a scroll of fame, though we don't all
transcribe it in an old copy-book.  Never be ashamed of ambition, my
boy, so long as it is honest ambition."

* * * *

Christmas of 1792 came round at last, and Tom Bure had the
distinguished honour of being included among the invited guests to a
ball given by his little inamorata, Miss Colmore, at the Hall.  This
party was not held on Christmas-day, however, else Tom, much as he
loved the fascinating fair one, would have declined the invitation.
Christmas-day was Uncle Bob's day _par excellence_, for he happened
to have been born on this day of all days; so it was the one festival
of the year at Dan's cottage.  The dinner was spread in Bob's own
wing, the room was specially decorated for the purpose with
evergreens and holly-berries and mistletoe nearly a week beforehand,
Bob himself superintending, Ruth and Tom doing the work.

The table, with its snow-white cloth and sparkling glasses, and Mrs.
Dan's very best delf, was placed so that, as Bob lay in his cot and
Dan sat at the foot of the table, the two brothers were close
together, and Dan could attend to Bob's every want.

There were always a few neighbours invited, and mirth and jollity and
songs and yarns were the rule of the evening.

And this Christmas formed no exception.  Poor Bob was never merrier,
and declared that he had been able to move his fingers in the morning
better than ever he had done, so that a new hope was awakened within
him.  No wonder he was happy.

And Bob being happy, his brother Dan's face was all the evening
brimming over with joy.  Even Meg, the collie, knew that something
extra was on the tapis, and when everybody drank to Bob, wishing him
many happy returns of the day, and Dan his brother patted his cheek,
the dog jumped up and licked his ear, then seemed to go to sleep with
her head sideways on his chest in her old loving fashion.

This was indeed a never-to-be-forgotten evening.

Two days after the party at the Hall took place, and though perhaps
Tom was not the greatest dandy there, he nevertheless looked as well
as anyone.  And, singular to say, Bertha was kinder to Tom than ever
she had been.  She gave him more dances than she gave to the
Honourable Fred Langridge, although the latter wore silver buckles in
his shoes besides silk stockings and a satin waistcoat, and sported a
bunch of seals at his fob as large even as Mr. Merryweather's.

Tom was accordingly very happy indeed, and the evening wore away with
magical quickness.  Bertha had never looked so like a fairy before,
but nevertheless this fairy maiden even condescended to let Tom----;
but stay, I shall not tell tales out of school, and the least said
about the mistletoe the better.

But that, too, was a never-to-be-forgotten evening.

Our young hero was now in his twelfth year, and began to think he
really and truly was a man.

It being winter Uncle Bob spent nearly all his time indoors, but Tom
went often to the crow's-nest, and came back and reported to Bob all
about the weather and how the wind was, how the sea looked and what
was in sight, and this used to make Bob so happy.

Tom often went out in the _Fairy_ yawl with the Ashleys.  They were a
rather rough lot, but really capital seamen, and taught the boy quite
a deal that was useful to him in after life.

And with all due respect for classical education, the knowledge of
how to reef and steer and splice and knot, and of how to look a gale
of wind and dashing seas in the teeth, is not thrown away even on a
midshipman of the present day.

* * * * *

The cold dreary winter wore away at last, and spring began to clothe
the marshes in tender green, and scatter wild flowers everywhere.
The catkins were showered groundwards from the tall poplar trees, and
yellow-green leaves covered them like the shimmer of evening
sunshine, the tassels hung on the larches, the gold covered the
furze, gentler winds went whispering through the young shoots of the
bulrushes, and the song of birds was heard in all the land.

Happiness, joy, and hope were universal.

Uncle Bob began to look forward now to his first glad day on the
broad in his barge.  Dan his brother was to come with him, Ruth and
Meg and all were to go, and Tom intended to invite little Bertha
herself.

It was indeed to be a day of rejoicing.

One evening the stars shone with unusual brilliancy, and yet Dan told
Bob there wasn't an air of frost in it either.  Dan sat longer up
with his brother that night than usual.  They were talking of dear
old times when father and mother were alive, and they were boys
together.  Such joyous days those used to be, and how free from care
and thought.

When at last the old clock in the corner groaned out the hour of
twelve, Dan bade his brother a kindly good-night, and prepared to go.

The last thing Bob asked him to do was to draw back the curtains,
that he might see the beautiful stars.

"Take the candle, brother, take the candle," Bob said.  "Good-night,
dear Dan.  Now I shall see the stars.  Oh, what glory!"

These were the last words ever Dan heard his brother utter.  Mayhap
they were the last he ever spoke on earth.

When Tom went in next morning he found Uncle Bob apparently asleep.
But his face was white.

Tom touched his brow; it was hard and cold.

He stood in the chamber of death.

It was Bob's wing no longer.

Tom felt for a moment as if turned to stone, then, uttering one long
and bitter cry, he sank down on his knees beside the bed and burst
into tears.

When brother Dan went in he found two mourners there; one was little
Tom, the other Bob's collie, Meg.  Her paws were on the bed, her
cheek leant lovingly against the hard, dead chest of her master.

[Illustration: "Dan found two mourners there, little Tom, and Bob's
collie, Meg."]

* * * * *

A very humble funeral.  Only a plain deal coffin, and only a few
friendly neighbours to follow it to its last resting-place.

But when these neighbours looked in the face of poor Dan, who erst
was ever so cheerful, they shook their heads.

"Dan has aged sadly," they said.

"Dan will ne'er be Dan again."




Book II.


CHAPTER I.

TOM'S BAPTISM OF BLOOD.

  "Set every inch of canvas
    To woo the favouring breeze.
  Oh, gaily goes the ship
    When the wind blows free!"--OLD SONG.


"Luff, lad, luff," said the skipper to Tom Bure, who was at the
wheel.  "We'll give them a race for it anyhow.  They'll think none
the less of us for that."

"See," he added, a minute after, but talking now to his mate.  Tom
was too busy to look about.  "Yonder was a shot, it fell plump into
our wake a quarter knot astern.  Blaze away, Frenchie, but we're not
overhauled yet, and not a herring o' mine crosses your throat for the
next two hours anyhow.

"Ah! mate, they don't know the life that's in the _Yarmouth Belle_
when she gets a wind on the quarter.  And the more it blows the
faster she goes.  Another shot!  Ah!  Frenchie, you haven't run us
aboard yet even.  Keep her as she goes, Tom, lad, keep her as she
goes."

The skipper and his mate might have been taken for brothers, so much
alike were they in face and build.  Short, squat almost; men about
forty years of age, with faces as rough as a crab shell, and not
unlike to a crab in colour when that dainty has been boiled; noses
that seemed to have sunk considerably by the pressure of gales of
wind innumerable; eyes that were mere slits from the same cause;
dressed in sea-boots and blue sweaters, with black sou'-westers.
They carried their hands deep in their trousers' pockets when not
handling anything; kept them stowed away, as it were, till wanted;
and they chewed tobacco, as a rule, walking down to leeward when they
wanted to expectorate, which they did apparently for the benefit of
the sharks.

The men belonging to this schooner were five in number, and
hardy-looking fellows every one of them, though not so tough as mate
and master.  They wore blue night-caps, and were naked as to feet, in
other respects they were dressed like their superiors.

There was little or no lording it over the men displayed by the
senior officers of the _Yarmouth Belle_, Equality and fraternity was
displayed fore and aft.  Even the skipper himself would be seen
forward at times, talking and laughing and yarning with the
forecastle hands, and any one of these would take a pull at sheet or
brace without an order from the officer on duty, if he thought the
sails needed trimming.

But both master and mate looked pleasant enough, and good-natured
too, for men like these, who have been, literally speaking, reared
upon the waves, are not easily put out.  At the present moment, for
instance, they were running away from a French cruiser, and it did
seem too that they were likely to win the race.

The stage of action was the Mediterranean sea, or blue Levant, as
novelists often call it.  It was blue as blue could be to-day, as
blue as the sky above it, albeit there was a white horse visible here
and there on its surface, for a stiff but steady breeze was blowing,
and if it only held, Mr. Hughes, the skipper, felt sure he could show
that Frenchman a clean pair of heels.

"Wo! wo!" he cried presently, as a shot fell closer astern than was
agreeable.

"I'd let her pay off a trifle, George," said the mate.

"Have it your own way, Tim, only don't let us get hulled."

"For'ard there!" he shouted.  "Have the jollyboat all ready.  Now,
Tim, let her rip.  Sandie, run aft here and haul up the British Jack.
The red rag that makes the Frenchman as mad's a bull.  See, I knew it
would, and yonder comes another shot.  Short this time though.
Short, you dirty old frog-eating Moosoors.  Mate, I'll have a tot o'
rum.  Don't see why we shouldn't splice the main brace, eh?"

"Steward!" cried Tim, "fill black-jack, and bring him up here."

The steward, in shirt and trousers, and a pair of slippers down at
the heels, soon appeared, with a cup in one hand and a black iron
measure with rum in it in the other.  These were days of can-tossing.

"Here's confusion to the French!" cried the skipper.

Then he tossed his can.

The mate followed suit.

"No good offerin' you, younker, any, I daresay," he said, looking at
Tom.

"Not to-day, thanks."

"Keep her full then, Tom.  Keep your eyes aloft, lad.  Steward, take
a pull yourself, then trot for'ard with black-jack."

* * * * *

In order to understand how Tom Bure happens to be down here in the
blue Levant, taking his trick at the wheel on board the saucy
_Yarmouth Belle_, it will be necessary to hark back a month or two in
our story, but I promise you that we shall soon make up our leeway.

* * * * *

After poor Uncle Bob was laid in his quiet grave, then, Tom received
several letters from Mr. Merryweather, the last of which was very
brief.  He (Mr. Merryweather) was appointed to a ship at Chatham
which was fitting out for sea, the letter explained, and as soon as
possible he meant to have an interview with no less a personage than
Lord Hood himself, with whom he had served out in America.  Tom might
rest assured that it was on his account wholly he was going to see
the admiral, and he, Tom, might really hold himself in readiness to
join a ship at any time.

Now, at this date, '93, history was moving on at a very rapid pace
indeed.

Things had not gone over well with Horatio Nelson in '92.  Hope
itself seemed dead within him.  His applications for service were
utterly ignored by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.

It was not very long, however, before Nelson had proof that the
darkest hour of night is next the dawn, and that "_post nubila
Phœbus_," after clouds come sunshine.  He had still two good
friends in high quarters, namely, Lord Hood and the Duke of Clarence.
Both knew how good and enthusiastic an officer he was.  Both knew
that the cloud in the east would soon break.  The French were, to use
a slang but expressive adjective, "cockie."  The French were
insolent.  They were already proved to be--so they themselves
thought--the best soldiers in the world, and they thought also there
would not be the slightest difficulty in proving their superiority to
the British at sea.

They had already fired on British ships, and, with every desire to
maintain the peace of the world, our Government saw there was nothing
for it but fight.

Very much to his surprise, therefore, as well as intense delight,
Nelson found himself appointed to the _Agamemnon_, a 64-gun ship of
great excellence.

And so he sailed from England on the 27th of June, making one of the
squadron of Lord Hood, whose ships were bound south, with a large
convoy of merchantmen under their lee.

It was upon the 25th day of this very June that our bold young Tom
Bure set out on a cruise of his own seeking.  The _Fairy_, Ashley's
yawl, was running round Hunstanton way, and Tom begged for a passage,
or rather he asked for one.  There was very little begging needed in
it, for gruff old Ashley was as proud and fond of Tom as he was of
any of his sons.  So in a day or two--the _Fairy_ being delayed by
wicked wee winds--Tom found himself on shore at Wells.  His object
was to see Captain Nelson, and beg him to take him with him even as a
cabin-boy.

Alas!  Nelson was gone.  His father was there, however, and as Tom
sat in a high-backed chair opposite the kind old parson, he was for
fifteen minutes under a fire of good advice, the text of which was,
"Stay at home, boy, and become a useful member of society.  Don't go
to the sea to become a target for French gunners, and to feed the
fishes eventually."  Of course the worthy parson fixed his sermon up
in a more appropriate guise than this.  And there sat Tom as quiet as
a mute; but, in the interests of truth, I am bound to say that, like
round shot which go clean through a wooden ship at close quarters
without doing much harm, the rector's advice went in at one of Tom's
ears and out at the other, making no impression whatever.

"Now, my dear boy," said old Mr. Nelson at last, "you have listened
most attentively to what I have said, and I pray heaven you may
benefit by it."

Tom Bure had hardly heard a word of it.

"Thank you," he said, "and now, sir, might I write to your son?"

"Down you sit, lad, right here at this desk, and scribble away.  I'll
forward your epistle in one of mine."

Here is Tom Bure's letter to Horatio Nelson:


"DEAR CAPTAIN NELSON,--This comes hoping you are well and fighting
the french, O, sir, I want to fite the french too.  My father was a
galant offiser and fought the french and the americans and Spanish
and all.  So did you, sir.  You, sir, wanted the admiralty to give
you a cockle-boat if you could not go as captain, if I cannot go as a
midshipman sir, I want to go as a cabin boy.

  "Yours Respectably,
      "TOM BURE."


It must be confessed that this letter was not free from some errors,
but then action and common-sense were more admired in these brave old
times than grammar and orthography.

Old Mr. Nelson promised faithfully to send the letter, and having
given the lad a good dinner and a little more good advice, Tom
marched boldly and hopefully away to Hunstanton and met the Ashleys.

On the passage back the _Fairy_ ran into Yarmouth harbour, and Tom
went with old Ashley on board a schooner to see a friend of his.

"As plucky a fellow as ever hauled a net," he explained to Tom before
they crossed the plank.  "Netted a bit o' money too.  For five years
now he's been running down the Levant wi' dried herrings, and comin'
back wi' fruit.  But what I tells him is this, 'You may do a thing in
peace times ye can't in war.'  Only George is as headstrong as a
mule.  And there he is.  Ha, George, me and this younker was just
talkin' about you.  Here is a young sailor for you, if you like!"

"Can he do aught?  A gent, ain't he?"

"Ay, a gent; but I brought him up, and, look see, he's going to be
something yet.  Tom Bure'll be a credit to me.  He won't miss stays,
you wager.  But, George, I was just telling him what an old idget ye
was."

"Oh, thank you!" said George, laughing.  "I'm sure I'm obliged.  Come
below and have a tot of rum and bit o' baccy.  Don't the _Yarmouth
Belle_ look nice?"

"Ah! yes, slick and trim.  I'd have no fear o' her and you, George,
if 't weren't war time."

While these two men were talking, Tom Bure had a happy thought.  Why
shouldn't he sail with George--as Ashley called the skipper.  Nelson
went in a merchant ship.  "Sir," he said, "will you take me for a
cruise?  I'll obey orders, and do all I can to help you sail the
schooner."

George laughed in a rough but kindly way, and the three went below
together, and it all ended by young Tom Bure becoming one of the
crew, or say rather an apprentice, on board the saucy _Yarmouth
Belle_.

Honest old Dan was much distressed when he heard that Tom had engaged
himself, and poor Ruth, whom Tom always called sister, was
inconsolable.

"However, it may be all for the best," said Dan.  "He's been well
brought up, though I say it, wife, and Providence can protect him."

"Besides," said Mr. Curtiss, "he must begin to see life some time,
and the sooner the better, Dan, now-a-days."

Tom's things were gotten ready with all speed.  Rough wearing
every-day articles they were, warm and useful.  Mrs. Brundell saw to
their abundance and utility.

His outfit for the navy had already been bought and packed, and as
Tom's chest was a good-sized one, Ruth proposed that he should take
his uniform clothes in the bottom.  "It may bring Tom luck, mother,"
she said.  So this was agreed to.

On the evening before his departure, the Colmores being then at the
hall, Tom launched his boat, and with Meg at the prow started off up
the Broad to bid farewell to his Bertha.

Poor Bertha cried bitterly for a little while; but she brightened up
considerably when Tom told her it was all to win honour and glory for
her he was going to brave the dangers of the treacherous ocean.  She
put it to him very straight though.

"What will you bring me, Tom?" she said.

And there wasn't a thing in the world that Tom did not promise to
bring home and lay at his love's feet, so it is no wonder she dried
her eyes and laughed at last.  Bertha indeed seemed at this early
stage of her existence quite cut out for a sailor's bride.

  "That girl, who fain would choose a mate
    Should ne'er in fondness fail her,
  May thank her lucky stars if fate
    Decree her to a sailor.
  He braves the storm, the battle's heat,
    The yellow boys to nail her,
  Diamonds--if diamonds she could eat,
    Would seek her honest sailor."

* * * * *

So away went Tom.

And the voyage had all along been a most pleasant one.  In a few
days' time the skipper of the _Yarmouth Belle_ had reckoned upon
reaching the port of destination, selling off his cargo, and
investing in another.  But it seemed at present that it was not going
to be all plain sailing with him.

Whizz!  Another shot.  Much nearer this time too.  "That
privateersman," said the skipper, "is a wonderful craft to fly.
Well, it'll be a feather in her cap if she runs the _Yarmouth Belle_
aboard."

Whizz!

"I say, George, ain't it getting a trifle too hot?" said the mate.

When the next shot went ripping through the fore topsail, George
turned his quid in his mouth, and nodded to his mate.

"I must admit, matie," he said, "it's getting a bit warmish.  We've
done all we could as Englishmen to maintain the honour and glory of
the flag, now we'll haul her down."

The _Yarmouth Belle_ was now brought to, and ere long was boarded by
an officer from the cruiser.

When he came on the quarter-deck he was in a terrible passion, and
swore roundly in French.

But as no one except Tom Bure understood a word he said, it did not
matter a deal.

Tom did all he could to pacify the French officer, by explaining that
being Englishmen, they were obliged either to fight or retire.  Being
unable to fight they naturally ran away to save their cargo, just as
they hoisted the British flag to save their honour.

"Where is that flag?" hissed the officer, striking his sword-scabbard
on the deck.  "Give me the rag."

Now Tom had the old Bure blood in him, and his face glowed with anger
to hear his country's flag called a rag.  He determined it should not
be surrendered.

"Here is the flag, sir," he said.  "Let me roll it up for you."

As he did so he deftly managed to tie within it two marline spikes,
old-fashioned, heavy articles.

Then he coolly pitched the crimson bundle overboard.

"There, sir; a gentleman knows how to respect even the flag of an
enemy.  You are not one, and shall never finger flag of ours."

This, it must be confessed, was a bold as well as pretty speech for a
lad of Tom's age.  Those, however, were the days of bold speeches,
and doughty deeds as well.

But dire were the results that followed.

The Frenchman drew his sword, and struck poor Tom Bure a terrible
blow with the hilt.

Tom fell senseless to the deck.

Next moment the Frenchman lay beside him.

"Fair play, you cowardly frog-eater," the skipper had shouted,
bringing his fist to bear full between the officer's eyes.

It was too late now to draw back.

"Overboard with the lot," shouted skipper Hughes.

As he spoke he tore the sword from the grasp of the fallen man, and
the pistol from his belt.

The mate seized a capstan bar.  The crew followed his example.  A few
pistol shots were fired, and cutlasses were drawn by the Frenchmen;
but the attack had been all too quick and unexpected to be met.  In
less than a minute the crew of the boat were overpowered and
disarmed, then pitched pell-mell overboard.

Those Norfolk sailors had fought like demons.

The foreyard was hauled forward, and away once more went the
_Yarmouth Belle_, skimming over the water like a living thing.

By the time the cruiser had picked up her boat the schooner had
secured such an offing that, as night was coming on, the baffled
privateer was fain to give up pursuit and go off on another tack.

And this was Tom Bure's baptism of blood.

He certainly lost some, and there was an ugly gash on his brow; but
he was soon sufficiently recovered to sit up and look about him.

The skipper had bound up his brow, and the steward was kneeling
beside him, trying hard to get him to swallow a little
three-water-grog.

Tom couldn't believe his eyes when he looked about him.

There was the _Yarmouth Belle_ once more under full sail, and there
was the French officer sitting disconsolately under the lee rails,
side by side with one of his own men, both with their legs in irons.

And now Tom showed his generosity by begging that both men should be
placed _en parole_.

The skipper consented, and with his own hands Tom unlocked the irons
and set them free.

"The English are von brave nationg," said the officer, and, much to
Tom's astonishment, he was caught and kissed on both cheeks.

The Frenchmen, however, settled down very happily in their new
quarters, and were as merry as merry could be.

After all, it was only the fortune of war.




CHAPTER II.

HOW TOM BURE JOINED THE SERVICE.

  "Let cannons roar loud, burst their sides let the bombs,
    Let the winds a dread hurricane rattle;
  The rough and the pleasant, Jack takes as it comes,
    And laughs at the storm and the battle."--DIBDIN.


The _Yarmouth Belle_ had baffling winds for a few days after this,
which considerably delayed her progress to Naples, the port of her
destination.  But the weather was beautiful on the whole, and the
skipper and the mate were both philosophers of the happy-go-lucky
school.

"I'm not going to fret my little self," said Mr. Hughes one morning
at breakfast, when Tom reported that the _Belle's_ head was not
directed to that point of the compass he should wish.

"We're not going to fret our little selves," said the mate.  "Pass
the ham, skipper.  We've plenty to eat, we've plenty to drink, and we
have 'baccy, and there's no hurry home."

"You are rich men den?" said the French officer.

"Oh, no, sir.  Rich in content, that is all."

"You veel make one profitabeal voyage?"

"I hope to make fifty," said the skipper.

"Ah, dat is not vot I mean.  _Dis_ voyage, saar.  Here, I veel pay
you _tres bien_ if you take me to Tunis."

The Briton shook his head.

"That cock won't fight, sir," he said.  "I'm a poor man, but I trust
I'm an honourable one; least I hope so."

"Ah, good!  I make my respects to you.  I honour you, I love you.
Good-bye."

He stretched his hand over the table, seized Hughes' rough fist, and
shook it heartily.

"Are you off then?" said the mate, laughing

"Ah, saar!  I not mean that, my good-bye is not all de same as yours."

At this moment Tom entered once more.

He looked excited.

"Three frigates in sight, Mr. Hughes, sir," he said.  "I've been to
the mast-head with the glass, and they look like Frenchmen."

It was the officer's turn to laugh now.

"Ah!" he cried, "now it may be 'Good-bye' after all in de Eenglish
way.  Ha! ha!"

"Don't you whistle till you're out of the wood, Moosoo," said Hughes,
nodding to him good-humouredly.  "You don't know yet what the _Belle_
can do on a wind."

Stout though he was, the skipper found his way into the top, while
the mate stood below looking up.

"Right the boy is!" he shouted down presently.  "They are French as
sure's I'm Yarmouth.  Ready about, mate!  We may as well keep out o'
the way.  But, bless you, mate," he added, when he got down again,
"they seem far too busy to bother us."

"May I take the glass and go into the cross-trees, sir?" asked Tom.

"Go on to the truck if ye like, lad.  Why, you've got eyes like a
lynx."

Away aloft went Tom.  No cat could have gone aloft half so neatly.
Honest pride was swelling his young heart as he brought the telescope
to bear on the Frenchmen.

"On deck!" he shouted presently.

"Ay, ay, lad!" cried Hughes.

"There are three big frigates, a smaller" (? corvette), "and a brig."

Hughes laughed and turned to Moosoo, as he called his prisoner.
Hughes was fond of a joke.

"We can't do it, Moosoo," he said.  "Had there been only three
frigates now, we might have boarded and carried them one after
another.  But four and a brig to boot--that's just two more 'n we can
eat.  Ha! ha! ha!  See the point?"

If Moosoo didn't see the point he felt it; for in order to emphasise
his joke Hughes dug him in the ribs with his red fat forefinger.

"One of the frigates has dropped astern, sir," was the next hail from
the cross-trees.  "A bigger one than any is coming up on her, hand
over hand."

"Is _she_ French?"

"Can't make out.  Shall soon, I think."

In twenty minutes' time came another hail.

"British, Mr. Hughes, British! and now she's fired a shot."

"Hoorah!" cried Hughes.  "Mr. Moosoo," he added, "here's news.  My
second mate aloft there tells me there's seventeen French sail o' the
line running away from a Britisher.  Hoorah!"

"Below there!" shouted Tom.

"Ay, ay!"

"The fight's begun; but they've all borne away on the other tack."

"Ready about!" cried the skipper.  "Mate, we'll see the last of this.
Nothing to pay, you know."

In less than an hour the saucy Belle was so near to the
belligerents--no pun meant, reader, the occasion is too serious for
punning--to witness from the deck the running fight between the
frigates.

It was hotly contested on both sides for more than two hours, after
which the foe was silenced.

"They are going to board," cried Tom.

The boy was dancing with excitement on the cross-trees.

"Hurrah!" cried Hughes again.

But they were all disappointed.

The British ship veered round with her head to the west, and men
could be seen in the rigging immediately after making good repairs.

"She means to fight again, I'll wager a barrel of herrings.  They're
only putting things right a bit to go ahead."

"Now, mate," continued this valiant skipper, "I move we keep her up
and join the Britisher.  Let us see if we can't be of any assistance
to her.  Eh?"

"Bravo, sir!" said the mate, "I'm on.  The idea's first rate, and we
may share the prize money and the glory, you know."

"Oh, bother the glory!  We may sell our herrings."

There was another and final hail from the cross-trees.

"The beaten frigate, sir, has hoisted signals, and the others are
bearing down towards her."

"Now the fun'll begin," cried the warlike skipper.  "That British
ship is good enough for the five of them, I know."

But it was soon evident that the French frigates had no desire to
renew the combat.  Perhaps they had important engagements in some
other part of the Levant.  At all events, after a time they sheered
off.

Then the _Yarmouth Belle_ stood towards the British man-o'-war, and
was duly hailed, and finally ran alongside.  The man-o'-war, which
proved to be the _Agamemnon_--Nelson's own ship--had her mainsail
hauled aback, a boat was lowered to board the _Belle_, and in a few
minutes returned, bringing the Norfolk skipper and Tom himself.

Both were sent on the poop.

Tom Bure certainly did not look a very picturesque figure just then,
for his brow was still bound up with the blood-stained handkerchief,
and he wore a sou'-wester and blue jumper.

The glad blood mounted to his face, however, when he saw it was
Horatio Nelson himself who advanced towards him.

There were several officers besides on the quarterdeck, but Tom had
eyes only for the hero.

Tom saluted, and waited to be questioned.

"Why, my lad," said Nelson kindly, "you are Tom Bure, aren't you?
But why this masquerade?"

Tom looked puzzled.

"I received your letter, boy"--Nelson smiled--"and I have it still,"
he said, "and wrote soon after to the Admiralty requesting your
appointment to this very ship.  But you must have left England before
that appointment came."

"I hope I haven't done wrong, sir; but I had no hopes you would think
of me."

"Not think of you, boy?  Nonsense."

"So, sir, I sailed with Mr. Hughes here, sir."

"Captain of the saucy _Yarmouth Belle_," put in that worthy.  "Finest
herrings, sir."

"One minute, Mr.----a----_Captain_ Hughes.  Well, Tom Bure, give an
account of yourself and that cut on your head."

Tom briefly related all that had occurred, Hughes helping him now and
then--putting a spoke in his wheel, as he phrased it.

Nelson laughed heartily, and shook hands now with the skipper.

"You're an honour to England, Mr. Hughes," he said, "and I shall not
fail to mention your gallantry in the right quarter.  Now I'll
relieve you of your prisoners, and if you can spare me this young
gentleman I'll have his services here in my ship."

"Delighted, I'm sure," said the skipper.  "Any herrings, sir?"

Nelson smiled again.

"See my steward about that," he said, "and you can stay here for
twenty minutes and do business forward.  Whither are you bound?"

"To Naples, my lord."

"No lord as yet, Captain Hughes; but I'll show my trust in a Norfolk
man by giving you a letter to deliver at Naples."

"I'll give it, sir, if it should be to the king himself."

Seeing Captain Nelson engaged talking to the worthy skipper, one of
the officers now advanced and laid his hand on Tom's shoulder.

"Well, my hero!" he said.

It was Merryweather himself, and Tom's cup of bliss was full to
overflowing.

Mr. Merryweather marched him off to the lee side of the poop after
telling a middy to see "this young gentleman's" chest on board the
_Agamemnon_.

The middy, who was some years older than Tom, saluted as he said "Ay,
ay, sir"; but he surveyed Tom with haughty superciliousness as he
descended from the poop.

So Mr. Merryweather had all the last and freshest news from Norfolk.

"Pity," he said at last, "you have not your uniform."

"Oh, I had forgotten!" said Tom in a low voice.  "Ruth put that in
the bottom of my sea chest."

"Bravo! poor dear, winsome, wee Ruth.  Shouldn't wonder if I married
her, Tom; but now, lad, bid your skipper good-bye, and come below to
my cabin.  There you can dress you know.  Wait one moment though."
He advanced to Captain Nelson.

"May Mr. Bure go below now, sir?"

"Certainly, Mr. Merryweather; and he better see the surgeon and have
his face washed."

One of the junior surgeons, who looked more like a butcher's
assistant than anything else, was coming up from the cockpit.  He
took Tom in tow, and speedily dressed his wound for him.

In ten minutes he was washed and arrayed in his midshipman's uniform.
And now he reported himself formally to Captain Nelson, who seemed
much pleased.  "I hope you will make a good and efficient officer,"
he said.  "There are three things you are to bear specially in mind,
Mr. Bure.  Firstly, you must always obey orders most implicitly,
without attempting to form any opinion of your own as to their
propriety; secondly, you must consider every man your enemy who
speaks ill of your king or your country; and thirdly, you must hate a
Frenchman as you do the----."

A spar fell on deck, and Tom didn't hear the last word.

The Agamemnon and _Yarmouth Belle_ now parted company, the crew of
the latter with a cheer that was heartily responded to.

Then the skipper turned to his mate.

"Mate," he said, "I've done first-rate.  Captain Nelson's a brick.  A
brick, mate, and a Briton."

"And being a brick and a Briton, let us say a Heart of Oak ----,"
said the mate.

"That's it, mate, a Heart of Oak.  You have it."




CHAPTER III.

IN THE GUNROOM MESS--THE GREAT WAR GAME.

  "Though careless and headstrong if danger should press,
    And rank'd 'mongst the free list of rovers,
  Jack melts into tears at a tale of distress,
    And proves the most constant of lovers,

  "To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave,
    Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer;
  He's gentle as mercy, as fortitude brave,
    And this is a true British sailor."--DIBDIN.


The gunroom of the _Agamemnon_ was right aft and beneath the
wardroom, and a big empty barn of a room it was, with a large table
athwartships, which was made to be removed at a moment's notice.
There were ports in the place, and guns too; very little light, very
little air, and about twenty junior officers of all sorts and sizes,
from the youngest middy--quite a child--to the tall ungainly form of
the surgeon's mate.  There were seats and lockers and coils of rope
and a shockingly bad odour, which seemed to be a compound of tar,
bilge water, stinking fish, and Stilton cheese.

Tom was horrified at seeing huge cockroaches inches long running
about the lockers and bulkheads, and even over the biscuits in the
trencher that stood on the table.

Mr. Merryweather had shown Tom in here without much ceremony.

"Gentlemen," he said, "here is Mr. Bure, a new messmate, son of the
late Commander Bure, R.N.  Some of you will perhaps put him up to the
ropes"; and away went Merryweather.

Put him up to the ropes indeed!  Why, the first thing Tom did was to
tumble over a coil of that commodity.

"Look out, awkward!" cried one middy.

"Keep your head up and you'll never die," said another.

Tom stood still for about a minute till he became accustomed to the
dim light.  Then he was about to step forward and seat himself, when
the midshipman whom Mr. Merryweather had ordered to see his chest on
board stepped forward to meet him.

He lifted his cap.

"I'm Lord Raventree, Mr. Bure," he began.

"Belay your jawing tackle," shouted a mate, "I want to read.  What,
d' ye think Bure cares if you were twenty lords rolled into one?"

"You hold your peace, Selby.  I'm talking to a gentleman, and not to
you."

"Now, sir," he continued, turning once more to Tom, "I believe I owe
you an apology, and I make it."

"But for what, Lord Raventree?" said Tom, much puzzled.

"I insulted you with my eyes, on the poop."

"Sit down, Cockie.  Hit him with a bit o' biscuit, somebody."

"Now I apologise; but if you'd rather fight I'll meet you at Tunis
with pistols."

"I've always fought with fists," said Tom boldly, "and as I'm the
challenged I've got the choice.  I have heard it said this was the
rule."

"Sir, fists are not weapons.  I've always fought with pistols."

"Fiddlesticks!" cried someone derisively.

Tom turned quickly to the speaker, and won all hearts by saying right
merrily:

"Well, I don't mind fiddlesticks.  Will you be my second, sir?"

"With pleasure," cried young Fraser.  "Fiddlesticks are good enough
for Raventree anyhow.  The last time he fought a duel it was with his
feet against the usher, when he was being birched at school."

The laugh was against his lordship now.

"I won't fight with fiddlesticks.  This is an innovation.  A
_reductio ad absurdum_.  I am sorry to say that there is an absence
of moral tone about the mess that----"

What else he would have said may never be learnt, for the surgeon's
mate entered at that moment.

He looked from one to the other of the would-be belligerents, and
seemed at once to note how the land lay.

"Cookie at it again?"

"Cockie should be cobbed," suggested someone.

"No," said the medico, "we won't cob Cockie.  Desperate diseases need
desperate cures.  If, my Lord Raventree, you won't round in the slack
of your cockiness, we'll make you fast to a rope and tow you astern
for a minute and a half."

"Cockie on the end of a cable!  Ha! ha!"

"Cockie on the end of a lanyard!"

"Or a bit o' spunyarn!  That would be strong enough to hold Cockie."

The entrance of some of the servants with the evening meal of salt
meat and biscuits put an end to the squabble.  But Tom Bure had
learned a lesson even this early.  He had found out that the gun-room
mess was in reality a little republic.  That self-assertiveness or
cockieness would not be tolerated at any price, but that merit and
modesty would be fully appreciated if they went hand-in-hand, and,
moreover, that good-nature and a merry temper would go far to make
any member of the mess a favourite.

Lord Raventree, or Cockie, as he was often called for short,
sometimes put "side" on.  Consequently he was knocked down and jumped
upon.  Figuratively speaking, I mean.  Knocking a man down and then
jumping on him is a good (?) old English custom which still prevails
in England.  In Lancashire, and some portions of the Midland
counties, the trick is performed literally and physically by the
rougher and probably more honest classes.  In polite society it is
done just as often, only figuratively and not physically, and hurts
quite as bad.

There were several men in this mess, and they ruled their juniors in
various ways.  Sometimes by rule of thumb, sometimes by rule of
thump.  Two or three masters' mates, well grown specimens; two
doctors' mates, one Scotch, one Irish, who were constantly engaged in
verbal battle, banter, or learned discussion, but who stuck together
like amalgamated bricks in the cockpit, and liked each other very
well on the whole; several hairy midshipmen, whom the Lords
Commissioners had forgotten to promote because they lacked landed
interest to push them into prominence, and one middy--two-and-thirty
years of age--with silver hairs among the gold of his temples,
O'Grady to name.  He had crept in through the hawse-hole, but would
no doubt be a lieutenant before the war was over.  A mixty-maxty kind
of a mess you will observe, not burdened with any very embarrassing
amount of etiquette, but right as well as rough.  Hearts of Oak in
fact, for these were the days when true courage, manliness, muscle,
dash, and go were appreciated to their fullest extent.  There was
honesty in the mess also--and it is a rare thing to find much of this
in our day--honesty and fair play, so that even a lord or a prince
had as good a chance of becoming first favourite in the gun-room, if
he behaved like a man, as the humblest laird's or parson's son.

When Tom Bure joined the service it would have been difficult to say
who was favourite, or a favourite.  Perhaps honest O'Grady was as
much respected as anyone.

Hoste, afterwards Sir William, was a member of the mess, a thoughtful
and undoubtedly clever young officer.  Josiah Nisbet also, a
midshipman and stepson to Nelson.  This young fellow was really
brave, or "plucky," which is more of a midshipman's adjective than
"brave" is; but at this time, at all events, he was quiet and
unobtrusive.  He was a modest lad, and Bure quite took to him.
Perhaps Josiah felt that, being so nearly related to his captain, he
was right in keeping himself in the background to some extent.

Tom did not quite like Hoste.  The young gentleman did not say much,
it is true, but, like Paddy's parrot, it was evident that he was
thinking all the more on this account.

Well, this first night had not passed away before Tom found that he
had made several friends.  O'Grady took him very much in tow, for
example; the butcher's assistant--I beg his pardon, the Scotch
surgeon's mate--drew Tom out, called him greenhorn in a friendly way,
laughed at his innocence and at nearly all he said, and finished by
ordering him off to his hammock.  This he did also in a roughly,
friendly way.

"Here, Master Griff," he said, "we've had enough of you.  Bear up for
your hammock.  Daddy O'Grady'll put you up to the ropes."

"_Mister_ O'Grady, if ye plaze," said the quondam bo's'n, laughing.

"Let's call you Daddy," said the surgeon's mate.  "You're no so vera
mickle older than mysel', but it sounds so friendly like."

"Troth, then, it's little I care, my valiant Scot, what I'm called so
long's I'm not called down to the cockpit when you've got your big
apron on."

Josiah went with Daddy O'Grady, and the surgeon's mate bade Tom good
night in a very friendly way--for _him_.

"Good-night, laddie.  Say your prayers, and there's no fears o' ye.
Have ye a Bible in your kist?  Weel, read a bittock ilka nicht o'
your life.  Then kneel down aside your kistie (sea chest) and commend
yoursel' to Him that hauds (holds) us a' in His ban's.  Man, you'll
sleep like a tap aifter that.  I like't your bearing the nicht in the
mess.  Keep it up, lad.  Be friendly wi' all, be ower free wi' nane.
And never be cockie.  A cockie younker soon gets the starch ta'en oot
of his frills in oor gunroom.  Aff wi' you."

* * * * *

Nelson's ship, in which we now find our little hero, was bound for
Tunis to join Commodore Linzee, and a very pleasant trip or outing it
proved to be.  Neither the word trip nor outing is a very warlike
one, I grant you, reader; but it suits this voyage to Tunis
admirably.  They had fine weather all the way, and never a single
adventure worthy of the name, so had there been ladies on board it
would have been a very pretty picnic.  Nelson had been sent to the
court of the barbarous Dey of Tunis, to endeavour, by means of his
sweet persuasive tongue to get his Highness, or Celestiality, or
whatever he called himself, to kick the French out of Tunis.

"A most cruel and blood-thirsty nation," said Nelson.

"Do you know," said the Dey, "I like them all the better for that?"

"Why," continued Nelson, "they have killed their lawful king!"

"Ahem!" said the Dey.  "Pray tell me, Captain Nelson, if it be true
that the English never killed their king."

This settled it, and Nelson rejoined his fleet, and was shortly sent
to the coast of Corsica with a small squadron, to co-operate with
General Paoli, who was the leader of the insurgents in that island.

Now, dear reader, I know that cut-and-dry history is quite as
unpalatable to the young taste as physiology or any other
ology--_i.e._ to the average taste.  Still, a little of either is at
times necessary to make sense of a story, and now-a-days especially,
everybody wants to know the reason why of everything.  Verily our
private soldiers and common sailors, as they are irreverently
called--just as if any sailor could be common--fight all the better
when they know what they are fighting for.

Why, then, it may be asked, did the British want to banish the poor
nincompoops of Frenchies from Corsica?  For this reason: _We_--the
British nation--found it necessary to have the command of the
Mediterranean.  It gave us the command of Egypt, and Egypt is the key
to other countries that our enemies even then were throwing
sheep's-eyes upon.  Toulon would have suited us nicely.

Pray cast your eagle eye, reader, on a map of the Levant and see
where Toulon lies; also Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, Alexandria, and
that nasty little--but handy--hole of a Tunis.

A great war game was just commencing; the French had mighty armies
and a great navy, as well as mighty commanders and admirals on their
side of the board, and we had----well,

  "Our ships were British oak,
    And hearts of oak our men."


Our first move, however, did not turn out trumps.  Our first move had
been to send Lord Hood out to blockade Toulon with his squadron,
which, by the way, was none too big for anything.  And just before
Tom Bure was taken on board the _Agamemnon_ from the saucy _Yarmouth
Belle_, a very wonderful thing had taken place.  Briefly it was this,
France being divided against itself, the southern half wished to
become a separate republic under English protection, and so Hood had
not been long in front of Toulon with his lads in blue before, in the
name of the French king, Louis XVIII., Toulon was delivered up to
him, ships and all.

"What an event," writes Nelson to his wife, "this has been for Lord
Hood!  Such an one as history cannot produce its equal, that the
strongest place in Europe, with twenty-two sail-of-the-line, should
be given up without firing a shot!  It is scarcely to be credited."

Hood, who was at this time along with the Spanish fleet, landed
fifteen hundred men to man the forts; and Naples and Britain being
then for political reasons hand and glove, the king offered to send
six thousand men to Toulon to assist in holding it.  Hood, however,
had demanded ten thousand.  And these would have been few enough to
defend the royalists in Toulon against the number and fury of the
republicans who marched against it.

The British, however, were before very long obliged to evacuate
Toulon, and I think there is no more awful page in history than that
which describes this evacuation--the blowing up of the arsenals, the
burning of the ships of war.

Sir Sidney Smith acted on that awful night with a bravery that amidst
the fearful surroundings was like that of a demon.

"It was a rehearsal," I make one of my heroes in another book* say,
"of all the glories and all the horrors of war combined in one long
act.


* _For England, Home, and Beauty_.  Same publishers.


"I must be brief," he adds, "the recollection is not one of
unmitigated pleasure.

"The thousands of galley slaves, then, got free at last.  Sidney had
not the heart to think of them perishing in the flames.

"They got free, soon after the night became almost as bright as day
with the glare of fires that rose up simultaneously in all
directions, such fires as I never witnessed before, and have little
desire ever to see again.  Many of the stores were of a most
combustible nature, and every now and then the explosion of a
magazine seemed to rend the heavens and the earth, increasing the
fierceness of the fires tenfold, by scattering blazing brands and
rafters in all directions, and blowing down the walls of the
buildings already in flames, thus admitting the air.

"In the midst of all this there were the constant cannonade of the
fire-ships, the guns of which being heated went off, the wild screams
of the murdering galley-slaves, and the songs and shouts of the
soldiers.

"But more of fearful and awful took place before the work was
finished, and even bold Sir Sidney was staggered at the terrific
forces he had let loose, when first one powder-ship and then another
blew up.

"The fire storm was everywhere--on earth, in air, and sea.  Beams of
fiery wood and showers of sparkling, crackling timbers dropped
hissing into the water on every side.

"The sight displayed the magnificence of warfare on a scale perhaps
never before witnessed.  But, alas! its horrors were there also; for
the slave-fiends had possession of the town, and were committing the
most frightful atrocities.  I must not describe what I saw and heard,
but the shrieks of men and women will ring in my ears till my dying
day."

* * * * *

The next card then played by the British in this war game was
Corsica, and this proved a good one.




CHAPTER IV.

"WERE THERE REALLY TEARS IN NELSON'S EYES?"

  "Hame, dearie, hame,
    And it's hame that I would be;
  Hame, dearie, hame,
    To ma ain countrie."--OLD SONG.


We now find Nelson and Tom Bure, our big hero and our little one, on
the coast of Corsica.

Paoli, the insurgent leader, a very brave soldier by the way, desired
the assistance of the British, and it suited the British to grant his
request, for now that Toulon was taken from us, it was a matter of
great importance to have Corsica.

So Paoli ceded the island to us.

In 1824 Nelson was cruising around here, and having "great fun."
That was what O'Grady of the gun-room mess called it.  His
object--Nelson's I mean, ably assisted no doubt by both O'Grady and
Tom--was to make it as hot as possible for the French.

The _Agamemnon_ was very busy indeed in that month of February, ever
on the alert, always in chase.

Tom soon settled down to the routine of the service, and being lithe
and active, was plentifully employed indeed, and often on the
outlook.  Nothing delighted the lad more than to discover a sail in
sight, and be perhaps the first to report it.

Tom was one of a party who landed near San Fiorenzo, and helped to
set fire to a mill.  It was the only one in the district.  So the
French would have no more flour there.

Nelson destroyed a dozen sail of ships, laden with wine for the
enemy--thousands of tons of it.

"Sorra another dhrop o' dhrink will they have either," said O'Grady.
"Sure, that is worse than all."

Nelson captured a courier boat.

"Stopped the news," quoth O'Grady.

But Nelson did worse; he bombarded Bastia, "bringing the houses and
the staiples and things down about the poor craytures' ears."  Thus
the old Irish middy.

Yes; and Nelson was taking notes all the while, and afterwards
furnished Lord Hood with an excellent report upon Bastia and its
defences.

He was detailed therefore to cruise with his little squadron off
Bastia, and in fact to blockade it.  On February 20th he drove the
French from a work they were erecting to the south of the place.

Dundas was commander of the forces at St. Fiorenzo, between him and
Nelson a difference of opinion occurred with regard to Bastia.

Nelson, be it remembered, was a most courageous man, and his enemies
therefore said he was too rash.

One of his mottoes was reported to be, "Hang manœuvres, go at 'em."

He did "go at 'em" to some purpose, as Nile and Trafalgar afterwards
proved.

But he could not induce Dundas to go at Bastia in the way he (Nelson)
would have done.

As Sir David Dundas was a Scotsman, and Scotsmen in those days were
born with swords instead of silver spoons in their mouths--using the
swords afterwards to "mak' the siller speens," he could not have been
otherwise than a brave man, but he was also a cautious one.

"If," says Nelson in a letter to his wife, just after a brush with
the enemy, "I had carried with me five hundred troops, I should to a
certainty have stormed the town, and I believe it might have been
carried.  Armies go so slow, that seamen think they never mean to go
forward, but I dare say they act upon a surer principle, though _we_
seldom fail."

"Our fine fellows," he adds, "don't mind shot any more than if they
were peas."

But the day of battle came at last, Hood having arrived with
reinforcements.  And on the 4th of April our men were landed, and the
siege was commenced.  Not a large army, but little over 1,200 men,
consisting of seamen, marines, and soldiers.

The island of Corsica, reader, is a very beautiful one, and it never
looked more lovely perhaps than some days before the batteries of the
British opened fire.  Yonder were the ships at anchor in the blue and
tranquil sea, the white houses of the town seeming to sleep and dream
under the low but fortified hills; and the wild and lovely mountains
in the rear, greenwooded half way up, with many a glade and glen
between.

Now this siege of Bastia, be it remembered, spoke volumes for the
invincibility of the seamen and marines under Hood, and indeed it
redounds to the honour and glory of all who fought there, for the new
general, D'Aubunt, who had succeeded Dundas, was of the same opinion
as his predecessor, namely, that the siege of Bastia was "a visionary
and rash attempt"; he therefore washed his hands so completely of the
affair, that he sent neither men nor guns to aid Hood's brave
fellows, under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Villettes and our
hero Nelson.

Guns were dragged up almost inaccessible heights, and everything
being ready by the 11th of April, an officer was sent with a flag of
truce to demand the surrender of the place.  The answer was as
insolent as it was bombastic.

"Tell your admiral I have hot shot for your ships and bayonets for
your troops.  Probably when about two-thirds of our brave men are
killed, we shall then trust to the generosity of the British."

The firing commenced at once therefore, and on the 22nd the place
capitulated, the tricolours of France were hauled down, and British
flags hoisted in their place.  This is what bold Nelson called "the
most glorious sight a Briton could experience, four thousand five
hundred men laying down their arms to one thousand British soldiers
who were serving as marines!"

At this siege Nelson was wounded in the back.  Not severely, however.

The Scotch surgeon's-mate characterised the wound as "a scratch," and
the hero himself made but light of it.  For, frail and ill though his
body might have appeared, he was well inured to fatigue, to mental
suffering, and to pain also.

Probably no captain was ever more loved by his officers and men than
Horatio Nelson was on board the _Agamemnon_, of which ship he was so
justly proud.  The man had indeed a most bewitching manner about him,
despite the fact that he was a most strict service officer.

To the junior midshipmen he ever behaved as a father, drawing them
out when shy, encouraging them in every way in the performance of
their duties, and inculcating in them reverence for God on high,
obedience to command, and love for their king and country.

He used to have the gunroom officers to dine with him by turns, not
in large batches, but in well-chosen groups at all events.  One or
two wardroom officers would also be at these dinner parties, and this
truly great man never failed to put every one on the very best of
terms, not only with himself, but with everybody else.  On such
nights there was no preaching either to or at the youngsters, and
this was probably the reason why dining with the captain was
considered such a treat.  There was, of course, the more carnal
reason also--"a good blow out."  Well, young fellows are, young
fellows, and "a good blow out" is a treat to growing youth.

I am pleased to say that Lord Raventree and Tom Bure soon became very
good friends.  Both had been at the siege, and neither had shown the
white feather, even when shot tore up the ground near them,
scattering stones and splinters all around, and wounding seamen or
soldiers.  They did not show the white feather, but more than once
during those eleven days they felt its touch.  It was one evening,
when the firing was at its very hottest, that Tom, being stationed
not far from young Raventree, looked about and smiled in a friendly,
companionable kind of way.

"Are you afraid, Raventree?" said Tom.

"_Entre nous_, Yes," said his lordship.  "How do you feel?"

"Much as you do," answered Tom.  "It is a funny sort of fear though.
I'm afraid I'm a coward at heart, and that everybody will soon find
me out; then I'll be shot, I suppose, and serve me right too."

Both Merryweather and O'Grady were at the siege, and perhaps, though
they certainly felt no fear, they were not altogether easy in mind.

"Och! bother, Mr. Merryweather," Tom heard O'Grady say, "this is no
fighting at all.  I'm itching all over to have my cutlass in my two
hands, and a Frenchman or two forenenst me."

"I'm not itching," said Merryweather, laughing, "only Irishmen and
Scotchmen itch, but I'm burning to get to close quarters."

"Ah!  Mr. Merryweather, you will have your joke; but, you see, this
battery business is a foine thing for sodjers--look out, there's a
shot coming--for sodjers or sailors?"

Another shot filled O'Grady's mouth with grit.  He spat gravel and
blood for half an hour, and didn't say much more.  But none knew
better than this old midshipman how to train a gun, and he did his
best to repay the French for nearly knocking his front teeth out.

Both Raventree and Tom had a chance of fighting side by side some
months afterwards, at the siege of Calvi; and perhaps, during the
whole course of this sad and eventful war, no operations were more
trying to the health and strength of our brave sailors, and the
troops who fought shoulder to shoulder with them in the batteries,
than those at Calvi.

During this long and trying siege, Nelson had as his colleague the
gallant Sir Charles Stuart, a man quite after his own heart; a man
who was never more happy than when in action, and the hotter the
better; a man too who, like Horatio, never spared himself, and who
slept in the advanced battery every night.

The guns too--five-and-twenty pieces of heavy ordnance--had to be
dragged to the different batteries, mounted and all, but fought by
seaman, with the exception of an artilleryman to point the guns.

Was it any wonder that the men fell ill under such hardships, exposed
to the burning sun, and in a climate which, during the autumn months,
was far from healthy?  Of two thousand men, more than half were sick,
we are told, and the rest looked like so many phantoms or scarecrows.

Yet Nelson describes himself as like a reed among oak trees bending
before the storm, while his men--his Hearts of Oak--were laid low by
it.  "All the prevailing disorders have attacked me," he wrote, "but
I have not strength enough for them to fasten upon."

Nelson, it seems, had lived to find out a fact well known to medical
men, that thin, nervous people will often recover from illnesses that
prostrate and kill strong, full-blooded men in a few days.

This puts me in mind of a remark once made to Horatio Nelson by his
Scotch surgeon's mate.  The captain was attacked by acute pain in the
side during the night, and the honest medico thought it as well to
administer a good dose of a medicine which in another form is used in
the Highlands as a panacea for every ill--namely, spirits.

"I'd drink the rum," said Nelson, "but I fear I am attacked by
inflammation, and the rum may increase it."

"Tak' up your dram," said the Scot.  "Inflammation?  Man, _there's no
enough blood in a' your body to mak' a decent inflammation!_"

Nelson drank his rum, sighed, and slept.

At this siege, although so many died of illness, the loss caused by
shot and shell was comparatively slight.

But a very sad loss indeed befel Nelson.  A shell bursting near the
battery bespattered him with sand and gravel.  An officer and several
men with Nelson had thrown themselves on their faces when the shell
was approaching; the latter arose bleeding freely from the mouth and
nostrils.  He only complained, however, of pain in his right eye.
And so determined was he to continue his duty, that he could not be
prevailed upon to lie in bed more than one day.

The sight, however, was destroyed, though not at once.

Now, it will hardly be easily credited, that notwithstanding Nelson's
valour and energy at both the sieges of which I have given a brief
description, his services were scarcely mentioned in the reports sent
to the Admiralty at home.

No wonder that a man of his proud and sensitive nature felt himself
sadly aggrieved to be thus neglected.  "For one hundred and ten
days," he wrote, "have I been actually engaged at sea and on shore
against the enemy; three actions have I fought against ships; two
against Bastia in my ship; four boat actions; two villages taken; and
twelve sail of vessels burnt.  I do not know that anyone has done
more.  I have had the comfort to be always applauded by my
commander-in-chief, but never to be rewarded.  And what is still more
mortifying, for services in which I have been wounded others have
been praised, who at the time of these actions were far away, and
snug in bed.  They have not done me justice."

"But never mind," he adds, "one of these times I shall have a whole
Gazette to myself."

It must have been thoughts like these, combined with weakness of
body, not to say positive illness, that caused the hero at this time
of his career to dream of home.  Ay, not to dream of it only, but to
long for the refreshing solace of a humble cottage in the country.
In Norfolk, no doubt.

Nelson, I have already said, was not in the habit of preaching to his
junior middies, or at them either, when he invited them to dinner
(although in my own time I have known captains do this, and quite
take the wind out of the poor lads' sails).  But, nevertheless, many
a time and oft, by night especially, he would get hold of some one or
other of his boys on the quarterdeck, and walking along by his side,
perhaps holding him by the arm just above the elbow, would give him
many a bit of sound advice, and many a kindly word of encouragement.

One night, shortly after the siege of Calvi, although still suffering
with his eye, he put his hand kindly on Tom's shoulder, and began to
talk to him and to draw him out.

It was a bright, beautiful moonlight night, the great clouds of
canvas bellying out before the breeze, and the waves to the south'ard
all a-sparkle, as if the fairies were raining showers of flashing
diamonds on them.

He had often given Tom good advice, but all he said to-night was that
he was pleased with his conduct, and would do all he could to advance
him.

"You're a Norfolk lad, aren't you?" he said.

"No, sir; that is--yes.  My father was, you know, sir."

"Your father was a brave sailor, Tom Bure; but I am glad you too have
come to our service.  Soldiers are not fit to hold the candle to
sailors."

"No, sir."

"They're too slow.  Too much manœuvring.  Not enough dash and go.
Well, lad, I still have your letter.  That was what got you into the
service.  Our Merryweather mentioned you to Admiral Hood though, but
he--excellent fellow--is troubled with a bad memory at times."

Then he laughed as he added, "You're a capital diplomatist though.
What an excellent idea, to go to my dear father's house to write your
letter."

"Oh, sir!" cried Tom, looking up in the captain's face, "I assure you
I did not go there for the purpose of writing that letter.  I wanted
so much to see you, and I didn't know you had gone."

"I believe you, boy; I believe you.  The letter was a forlorn hope
then?"

"Yes, sir; all the world seemed so forgetful and cold to me then----"

"Just as I feel it now, Tom; so cold! so forgetful!"

"And," continued Tom, "you had spoken to me so kindly once in the
garden, that day when you were planting cabbages, you know."

"Yes, lad, the day I was planting cabbages.  Egad, Tom, I wish I were
planting cabbages now."

"They wouldn't grow on board ship very well, sir, and you can't go on
shore."

"Why?"

"Because your country has such need of you, sir."

Nelson looked at him for a moment in silence, then sighed.

"Well, sir, I wrote the letter because I felt I would rather be a
cabin boy in your ship than an officer in any other."

"Silly lad!  But tell me, Tom, all about Dan, Daddy Dan you called
him, Merryweather says.  Daddy Dan's cottage and your adopted sister
Ruth.  Pretty cottage, isn't it?"

Then Tom felt in his element, and launched at once into an ocean of
praise of his cottage home, and Dan and Ruth and poor dead-and-gone
Bob.  Nelson seemed to listen hungrily to the lad's story of home, of
the house itself, of the garden, with its wealth of old-fashioned
flowers; of the porch around the cottage door, with its sweet and
fragrant jessamine; of the rustic bridge across the stream; of
loving, gentle, Meg, the collie, who used to rest her cheek so fondly
against poor Bob's chest; of the tall, tall poplar trees, so tall
that when not a breath of wind would be stirring the grass on the
earth, their tops were always gently moving, and seemed always
whispering something to the passing clouds; and about the calm dark
waters of the placid broads, with green reeds softly rustling round
them; of the wild birds that made their home among the reeds; and
about wild flowers, rich and rare, that were scattered over marsh and
morass.

Tom stopped at last, half afraid he had said too much.

"Oh, boy," said Nelson, "how you have pleased and delighted me!  How
I should like to have just such a happy home.  'Tis now the dream of
my life."

Tom looked timidly up into his face.

Could he be mistaken? he wondered.  Was it some trick the moonbeams
were playing? or were there really tears in Nelson's eyes?




CHAPTER V.

THE GLORIOUS OLD "AGAMEMNON."

  "Our barque is on the waters deep, our bright blades in our hand,
  Our birthright is the ocean vast, we scorn the girdled land;
  And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none can bolder be
  Then the hoarse-tongued tempest, roaring o'er a proud and swelling sea.

  "The warrior of the land may mount the wild horse in his pride,
  But a fiercer steed we dauntless breast--the untamed ocean tide;
  And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it stems the saucy wave,
  While the herald storm peals o'er the deep the glories of the brave."
                                                  --MOTHERWELL.


It must not be thought that Tom Bure's life was a very easy one, even
when on board ship, and far away from battle and siege.  A sailor's
life in those good old days was not confined to roasting peanuts, or
eating winkles with a pin.  It was "hard tack and salt horse" with
Tom in the gunroom, and hard work on deck.  Nelson believed in
bringing up his midshipmen as men, thorough men, who could do duty
before the mast below or aloft.

There wasn't a midshipman in the _Agamemnon_ that would be ashamed to
dip his hand in a bucket of tar or slush, if there was any occasion
to, or do any other duty whatsoever either on poop or fo'c's'le.
Work kept the youngsters healthy, and when healthy they were as happy
as the day was long.  Nor was their education neglected.  In a year
at the most from the siege of Calvi, Tom Bure, Josiah Nisbet, and
even Lord Raventree were going to pass their examination for
lieutenancies, or at all events they were going to make a brave
attempt to do so.

The examinations in those times were far more practicable and less
theoretical, and of course less scientific, than they are in our day.
The _Agamemnon_ was not lighted by electricity; the power of steam
was unknown; there was no such thing as moving guns by machinery, nor
any patent reefing tackle.  But a lieutenant at his examination was
placed with his ship in all sorts of hypothetical positions of danger
and difficulty, and expected to be able to extricate her therefrom.

On that green cloth in front of the President of the Board and the
examining officers, all kinds of storms and hurricanes raged, and all
sorts of battles were fought.  The ship was taken aback, she was
thrown on her beam ends, boats were washed away, bulwarks were rent
and torn, and sails riven into roaring, rattling ribbons, and the
officer who aspired to be captain must know, and be able to tell
quickly and decidedly, how best to encounter every difficulty.
Enemies' ships appeared too on the horizon of the green cloth, and
the candidate's frigate had to meet them, two to one sometimes.  He
had to fight them or chase them, batter them, burn them, or scupper
them; his own ship too might take fire, or his own rudder be blown
away with shot or shell, or he might have to lay alongside the foe to
board her with cutlass and pike.  Oh, I can assure you, reader, the
examination was a right tough and right practicable one, and it
needed a Heart of Oak to face it; but having passed with flying
colours, you felt indeed you were a man, and could face the
traditional number of Frenchmen in the field of battle, according to
your nationality--three if you were English, five if Scotch.

Besides, to one who really loved his profession there was probably
less difficulty in a practical examination of this sort than in the
technical ordeal one has to pass now-a-days.  And now-a-days you can
cram, and having passed, forget one half the useless and senseless
subjects you have been crammed with.

There was no cramming in Nelson's time.  The examinations were
terribly real, just as the Spanish and French fleets were real; every
question the Board put went straight to the mark, like a British
cannon ball.

* * * * * *

Ever hear of Hotham?  Admiral Hotham?  Well, he certainly does not
live in our hearts as do Hood and Howe and Hardy, Collingwood and
Nelson.  But, nevertheless, Hotham was a bit of a power in those
days.  He had command of the fleet about this time, but he was rather
easy going, though brave enough after a fashion.  He lacked "go" and
enthusiasm.  Sir W. Hamilton, who was the British plenipotentiary at
the Court of Naples--his wife, the famous Lady Hamilton, Nelson's
guiding star--summed up the character of Hotham prettily, and in a
very brief sentence.  "_Entre nous_," he writes to Nelson, "our old
friend Hotham is not quite awake enough for such a command as that of
the British fleet in the Mediterranean, although he is the best
creature imaginable."

Best creature indeed!  Who wanted best creatures in stirring times
like these?  Men who were good-natured and fat perhaps, who loved a
pipe and old port, who could tell a good story after dinner, and go
to sleep in an arm chair.  Verily, there were men in the service in
those days--pitchforked into power because they happened to be titled
or had interest--who could not have made their mark behind a draper's
counter.

Comparisons are odious perhaps, but we cannot help making them
sometimes.  Just think of these two men then for a moment, Nelson and
Hotham, the latter all but minus ambition, certainly minus that
burning ambition which is part and portion of the soul of every true
hero--taking things as they came.

  "Contented wi' little, canty wi' mair,"

but hardly going out of his way to fight for fame and glory; the
former full of ardour and zeal, and a noble desire to do the best for
his king and country.  When Hotham got word, on March 10th, '95, that
the French were actually on the sea in force, near the Isle of
Marguerite, Nelson felt sure that a grand general action was close at
hand, and writes to his wife thus:

"My character and good name are in my own keeping.  Life with
disgrace is dreadful.  A glorious death is to be envied; and if
anything happens to me, recollect that death is a debt we have all to
pay, and whether now or a few years hence can signify but very
little."

True philosophy that; but if poor Nelson expected that our old friend
Hotham, "the best creature imaginable," was about to lead him on
either to death or very much victory, he was disagreeably
disappointed.  The French fleet, however, were sighted at last, and
the British were in battle array, but the light winds that had been
cavorting all round the compass died away into a dead calm, or nearly.

I must give the French the honour that is here due to them by saying
that during the calm they made a very gallant show indeed, but as
soon as it came on to blow they--ran away.

Hotham chased them.

Bravo!  Hotham.

The French cracked on most furiously and famously!

Determined to win the race, if not the battle!

So hot was the race that the great line of battleship, _Ca Ira_, 84
guns, carried away her fore and main topmasts, and fell behind a bit.
The French had had a fair start of about six miles.

A frigate of ours, the _Inconstant_, closed in, but the awful iron
hail from the _Ca Ira_ was too much for her, and she had to withdraw.

Though two other great Frenchmen are close at hand--the _Sans
Culotte_, 120 guns, and the _Jean Barras_--Nelson, in his
_Agamemnon_, boldly heads for the _Ca Ira_, that had been taken in
tow by _Le Censeur_.

This fight between Nelson's ship on the one hand, and the two
Frenchmen on the other, was one of the prettiest and pluckiest bits
of fighting it is possible to imagine.  Again and again Nelson raked,
the _Ca Ira_ and he so maneuvered his frigate that, though the French
fought like fiends and did their best, they were unable to broadside
our hero.

Books tell us that the reason why the Frenchmen fought so pluckily
was that they believed they should receive no quarter if taken, so
they used red-hot shot, and threw Greek fire.

Now, with all due respect for the historians, I refuse to believe
that the French had so bad an opinion of us.  No, let us rather give
them the credit of being honourable and courageous.  Why not be
charitable, even to our enemies?  for, like mercy, charity

        "----is twice blessed,
  It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
  'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
  The throned monarch better than his crown."


Night fell at last, and our fight-worn men on board the _Agamemnon_
sank wearily down to obtain sleep and rest, even like the soldiers
Campbell speaks about in his beautiful poem, "The Soldier's Dream"--

  "Our bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had lowered,
    And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
  And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
    The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die."


There were, alas! many casualties on board the _Agamemnon_, and many
wounded men in the cockpit fell asleep ere morning light, never to
wake more in this world.

Both the surgeon and his mates were as kind and gentle to those under
their charge as kind could be.

Poor little Raventree was struck down by a splinter of wood close by
Tom Bure's side, and was carried below from the blood-slippery deck
in the arms of a sturdy sailor.

It was not until after dark that Tom found time to go to see his
friend.  He was very weak from loss of blood, and looked ghastly
white in the lantern's dim light, as he lay there in his hammock, but
he smiled feebly when Tom pressed his hand.

"I've done my duty," he said; "and what do you think, Tom?  The
admiral has been down to see me, and he talked so kindly, Tom, I
could have cried."

"Well," said Tom Bure, "keep up your heart, you lost such a lot of
blood.  I tried to carry you below, but you were far too heavy."

"But you bound up my arm with your own neckerchief, Paddy"--Paddy was
the Irish surgeon--"it was so good of you."

"Never a bit of it, Raventree.  It may be my turn next, who knows?"

"The captain says he is going to renew the fight to-morrow morning;
so sorry I won't be in it," sighed Raventree.

"Well, good-night.  Sleep if the pain will let you."

At earliest dawn the battle was renewed as far as Nelson's portion of
it was concerned, and very soon the _Ca Ira_ and _Le Censeur_ struck
to the _Agamemnon_.

Nelson had now a proposal to make to Admiral Hotham, and he made all
haste to lay it before him.

Tom Bure was Nelson's coxswain, so he had an opportunity of getting
on board the admiral's ship, and even heard the conversation between
his chief and Hotham.

The _Illustrious_ and _Courageux_ were both disabled--British
ships--and Nelson's suggestion was to leave these two and the two
prizes with four frigates, and to chase and destroy the French fleet
with the others.

Hotham laughed blandly, kindly even.

"You're too impulsive, Nelson," he said.  "I don't think we had
better give chase.  We must be contented.  We have done very well."

Nelson returned to the ship silent and crestfallen.  He made but one
remark to Tom:

"You heard what our bold admiral said, Mr. Bure?"

"I was close beside you, sir."

"'Done very well,' he said.  Bah!  Had we taken ten sail-of-the-line,
and allowed the eleventh to escape, when it was possible to take her,
I should not have called it enough.  Had we got at them we should
have taken or destroyed the whole fleet."

It was not until the 14th of July that Hotham again caught sight of
the French.

Raventree was by this time well and on duty again, and Nelson had
promoted him to mate, or acting lieutenant.  And undoubtedly the
young fellow deserved his promotion, which was afterwards confirmed
by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.

There was no great battle this time either, between the French and
British, although one ship, the _L'Alcide_, 74 guns, struck to the
_Cumberland_.

A terrible thing now occurred, however.  This unfortunate _L'Alcide_,
on board which were no less than six hundred men, caught fire in the
fore-top, and in a very short time was sheeted in flames fore and aft.

Boats were despatched from every British ship that was anywhere near,
and they did all in their power to save the crew.  But, alas! in the
dreadful scene that followed no less than three hundred were burned
alive, or perished in the waves.

Such is war at sea, dear reader.  It was very awful in those days, it
will be ten times more terrible when Britain's naval might next rides
over the waves--

      "----to match another foe;
  And sweep through the deep,
    While the stormy winds do blow;
  While the battle rages loud and long,
    And the stormy winds do blow."


But what need Britain fear, boys, so long as she is true to her own
glorious story?

  "The meteor flag of Britain
    Shall yet terrific burn,
  Till danger's troubled night depart,
    And the star of peace return."


But--

  "The spirits of our fathers
    Shall start from every wave,
  For the deck it was their field of fame,
    And ocean was their grave.
  Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
    Our manly hearts shall glow,
  As we sweep through the deep,
    While the stormy winds do blow;
  While the battle rages loud and long,
    And the stormy winds do blow."


To tell of all the gallant deeds that Nelson performed in the
invincible _Agamemnon_, with the bold Hearts of Oak that so
thoroughly trusted him and loved him, would take all the rest of this
book.

In this year, and towards its close, Hotham was relieved--after all
his arduous conflicts perhaps he needed a rest--and a mightier than
he, namely, Sir John Jervis,* became admiral of the Mediterranean
fleet, and Nelson took his ship to Leghorn to undergo repairs.


* Afterwards made Earl of St. Vincent.


She certainly required refitting.  She was an honour to her captain
in one sense, for her terribly battered condition showed how bravely
and well he had fought.  We are told that every yard, mast, and sail
was riddled, torn, or splintered with shot, and that even her hull
was only kept together by cables!

In that glorious old _Agamemnon_ Nelson had captured, burned, or
destroyed, in one way and another, no less than fifty sail of vessels
in about two years' time.

But he had to leave his battered old ship in June--with sorrow, no
doubt, for he loved the _Agamemnon_ as if she had been a living
thing.  He hoisted his flag now on board the 74-gun ship _Captain_,
with the rank of commodore.

And the _Agamemnon_ went home to England with a convoy.




CHAPTER VI.

A DUEL TO THE DEATH.

  "The stern joy that warriors feel
  In foemen worthy of their steel."--SCOTT.


This story of mine, lads, is not altogether fiction.  Indeed there is
very little fiction about it, and none at all in those portions that
speak of the brave deeds of our Hearts of Oak in those dashing days
of old.

But I should not be true historian were I to lead any of my readers
to infer that we invariably had it all our own way on the wave.  War
would be the merest picnic, destitute of the slightest honour or
glory, if there were no terrible obstacles to encounter and to crush.
The navy certainly was never beaten on the whole or in fleets; but in
single ship actions we sometimes had the worst of it.

Nelson knew how to fight, and he knew also that it was discreet to
sheer off rather than be captured by vastly superior numbers.  In the
_Agamemnon_, for instance, he had once been chased for twenty-four
hours by a fleet of three-and-twenty French ships.  The odds here
were a trifle too great for even Nelson's powers, and had I been in
command of the _Agamemnon_ I'm not sure I wouldn't have ran away just
as she did.  Fact!

The French greatly respected Nelson.  They wanted to catch him all
the same.  His opinion, however, of the French was not a very exalted
one.  During that chase he told Merryweather on the poop that the
enemy were neither seamen nor officers, else they could have caught
him easy.  He appeared grieved about it.

"Really, sir," said Mr. Merryweather, smiling, "you seem to be vexed
that they haven't caught us."

"Well, not quite that," said the commodore; "but I can't bear to see
even Frenchmen making fools of themselves."

"It's an inshore wind you see, Merryweather," he added, "else we 'ed
soon have our own fleet out to assist us, and, small in comparison
though it is, you'd soon see those Frenchmen working to windward
then."

* * * * *

I have already told the reader about the capture of Corsica.  It did
not prove of much service to us in the long run, however; for now a
new page of history is turned over, and we find France in league with
Spain against us, so it is deemed expedient to evacuate Corsica.

The Spanish were probably our friends at heart, but that signified
very little.  They were now going to assist in destroying our ships.

Spain had at this time a splendid navy, as far as ships were
concerned; but their officers were certainly not much to boast about.
Indeed, they needed no one to boast about them, they could do this
themselves; but their courage after all was of the Bombastes Furioso
type.

  "Whoever dares these boots displace
  Must meet Bombastes face to face."


The Corsicans somehow were not ill-pleased to be rid of the British,
and the French were overjoyed at the coming evacuation.  Nelson
superintended it with all his skill as a sailor, and all his
adroitness as an undoubtedly clever man.

Of course the French tried to throw as many obstacles in his way as
they could think of.  The property of the British was confiscated,
and there was even a conspiracy on foot to seize the viceroy.

Nelson showed his usual energy on this occasion.  He despatched
Commander Merryweather with a message into Bastia, to the effect that
if there was the slightest opposition made to the embarkation of
persons and property, he (Nelson) would batter down the town about
the committee's ears.

The committee were Frenchmen who had formed a government, and thought
they could do just what they pleased, and do it in their own way.
They had not only sequestrated British property, but stationed armed
Corsicans everywhere to guard it, while a privateer was moored near
the mole to prevent the exit of our merchant craft.  When
Merryweather drew near, he found not only the guns of the privateer
pointed at his boats, but muskets levelled at him from the mole head.

Merryweather, however, had looked down the muzzles of French guns
once or twice too often to be easily frightened, so he delivered his
message, instead of sheering off as the committee had fully expected
he would.

"And now," said Merryweather, pulling out his watch, "I have
delivered my message, and I give you precisely a quarter of an hour
to deliberate.  If I do not have your answer by that time, Nelson's
guns shall open fire."

The answer came in five minutes, and a very practical one it was.
The very sentinels had fled at the threat of Nelson's fire, and the
vessels were permitted at once to leave the mole.

The embarkation occupied the greater part of a week, and, independent
of private property, the public stores thus snatched from the harpy
claws of the French were worth to our country about a quarter of a
million of money.

* * * * *

"Well, boys," said Nelson one evening to Raventree and Tom Bure, who
were standing by the bulwarks in the ship's waist, "you have a better
chance of prize-money now than ever."

"Indeed, sir," said Lord Raventree.

"Yes; we have Spain to fight, as well as France."

"Well, sir," said Raventree, "I suppose there is also a better chance
of honour and glory; for I don't care so much for the gold."

"And you, Mr. Bure?"

"Oh," said Tom, laughing, "I should like a share of both."

"Candidly spoken, lads, and I can assure you that it won't be my
fault if you don't have both.  I'm going to make the sea uncommonly
hot for somebody."

It was on the frigate _Minerve_ that this conversation took place,
and on which Nelson's broad pennant was now hoisted.

He was proceeding, in company with the _Blanche_, to Porto Ferrajo,
his object being to assume the command of the fleet there, after
which "the fun was to begin."

But adventures commenced before this, one at least; for on the 29th
of December our hero Tom, who happened to be on the outlook, hailed
the quarterdeck, or rather poop.

Merryweather, who had joined Nelson's ship, and was then on deck,
knew that Tom had good news to impart from the very tone of his voice.

"A sail in sight, Mr. Bure?" he said.

"Yes, sir; a large Spanish frigate.  I can easily make out her
colours."

This was just off Carthagena, and at once the ship was cleared for
action.  In less than three minutes every man was at his quarters.

A more bravely contested fight than this we have no account of in all
the war.

I have said already, that though the Spanish ships were good, they
were badly officered.  In the case of the _Santa Sabina_, however, it
was quite the reverse.

You must remember, reader, that after the union of Scotland and
England, in which our king, James VI., fell heir to the English
throne, there was no such outlet as before for the untameable courage
of our great Highland families.  The scions of these houses despised
trade--they were warlike to a degree--therefore they took service
freely with their ancient allies the French, and indeed drew sword
for any good nation, when in a good cause they could win honour and
glory.

And this _Santa Sabina_, that scorned to fly, but boldly faced and
haughtily addressed the hero Nelson himself, was commanded by Don
Jacobo Stuart, or, in plain English, Captain Jamie Stuart.  He was a
direct descendant of the Duke of Berwick, son of James II.  Probably
there were several other Scottish officers in that ship as well, for
our clans keep well together.  History, however, does not say.

Now let Nelson himself, in his terse seaman language, speak of what
followed.

"When I hailed the Don," he says, "I told him, this is an English
frigate, and demanded his surrender.  His answer was noble, and such
as became the illustrious family from which he descended--'And this
is a _Spanish_ frigate, and you may begin as soon as you please.'"

"I have no idea," continues Nelson, "of a closer or sharper battle.
The force to a gun the same, and nearly the same number of men, we
having 250.  During the action I asked him several times to
surrender; but his answer was, 'No, sir, not while I have the means
of fighting left.'

"When only himself, of all the officers, was left alive he hailed,
and said he would fight no more, and begged I would stop firing."

The brave Stuart was then taken prisoner on board the _Minerve_, and
a prize crew, under the command of two lieutenants, one of whom was
Lieutenant Hardy an officer of whom Nelson was very fond, and who
comes into our story again later on.  The Irish doctor was also sent
to the assistance of the Spanish.  Great indeed was the havoc he
found there, the vessel was badly hurt, and dead and wounded lay
around in dozens, the decks resembling a shambles.

Nor had the _Minerve_ escaped severe damage; so badly crippled was
she, and so many dead and wounded lay on her decks, or hampered the
cockpit, that when next day four other Spanish ships of war hove in
sight, Nelson was unable to give the veriest show of fight, and it
was only through his energy and skill as a seaman that he escaped.

These vessels were two frigates and two line of battle ships, so
that, even had he been in the best of form, discretion would have
dictated to the hero that flight was advisable.

Nelson speaks of Stuart in the highest terms of praise that one good
and brave sailor can use towards another.

The _Sabina_, however, had to be abandoned.  In other words, she was
re-taken.

And Nelson returned Don Jacobo Stuart his sword, and sent him under a
flag of truce to Spain.

"I felt it," he says, "consonant to the dignity of my country to do
so, and I always act as I feel right without regard to custom.
Stuart," he adds, "was reputed to be the best officer in Spain, and
his men were well worthy to possess such a commander.  He was the
only surviving officer of the ship he fought so nobly."

So ended this awful duel to the death.




CHAPTER VII.

THE BATTLE OF ST. VINCENT.

  "The thunder of the battle-deck,
    The lightning flash of war."


In my last chapter I stated that Nelson, with his broad pennant
flying on board the _Minerve_, met with and fought the _Santa
Sabina_.  I also mentioned that the _Blanche_ was companion ship to
the _Minerve_.  Where was she then during the fight? it may be asked.
Did Nelson have her assistance in fighting the gallant Stuart?  Was
it two to one after all?

No, certainly not, for during the engagement the _Blanche_ was far
away to windward in chase of the _Ceres_, whom she sadly wanted to
fight, but who escaped.

Porto Ferrajo was a strong fortress on the Isle of Elba, to which,
you remember, Napoleon Bonaparte was banished, but from which he
subsequently escaped.

After the evacuation of Corsica, the viceroy of that island, whom the
French would have captured had it not been for Nelson's guns, was
escorted by the hero to Ferrajo; but Sir Gilbert Elliot--for that was
his name--went afterwards in the _Minerve_ with Nelson to hold a
consultation with the British Admiral of the fleet (then Sir John
Jervis, afterwards Earl St. Vincent), who was at that time cruising
off Cape St. Vincent.

On the 9th of February, '97, Nelson arrived at Gibraltar, and here he
received on board by exchange the two lieutenants, Culverhouse and
the immortal Hardy, who had been taken prisoners with the recapture
of the _Sabina_.

And now comes an adventure worth relating.  Hardly had the _Minerve_
got fairly under weigh again than two Spanish ships of the line got
up sail and gave chase.

It seemed indeed that the _Minerve_ would assuredly be captured now,
for no sooner had she entered the Straits, than the foremost line of
battleship outsailed her consort, and was coming up hand over hand
after Nelson's frigate.

Sir Gilbert Elliot made so sure that the _Minerve_ would be taken,
that he had his state papers all ready to throw overboard, so that
they might not fall into the hands of the enemy.

Nelson, however, cleared for action.

It would have been madness for him to have attempted to try
conclusions with two lordly liners, but as the fight was now being
forced upon him, he determined to sell his ship dearly.

Indeed, he never meant to let the Dons get her at all.

Pointing to his flag, he said to an officer near him, "Before the
Spaniards have that bit of bunting I'll have a tussle with them, and
sooner than the ship should fall into their hands I'll run her on
shore."

They were just going below to dinner, when suddenly there was a cry,
"Man overboard."

In a moment all was bustle and stir.  Lieutenant Hardy and a few
sailors sprang into the jolly-boat, which was at once lowered away to
pick up the man.

It was soon evident, however, that the boat could make no headway on
her return against the strong current.  She was rapidly drifting
onwards to the advancing Spanish ship.

Nelson grew excited.

"I will not lose poor Hardy for all the Dons on earth," he shouted.
"Back the mizentop-sail!"

Now it is here where the smile comes in.

That "cockie" Don was full of warlike ardour as long as the _Minerve_
kept cracking on, but as soon as Nelson stopped ship, the rapidity
with which the Don began to shorten sail was amusing.

He positively refused what he considered Nelson's challenge.

So our boat was picked up, stun'sails were clapped on the _Minerve_,
and with the wind on her quarter, away she went like a thing of life,
and the Dons were left behind.

* * * * * *

The following night a still more strange adventure took place, for in
the thickness and darkness Nelson found himself sailing through what
appeared to be a great fleet of tall spectre ships.

He had actually sailed in, amongst, and through the Spanish fleet.

This made him very anxious indeed to join Sir John Jervis, which, to
his great joy, he did two days after.

He now left the _Minerve_, and rejoined his own good ship the
_Captain_.


THE BATTLE OF ST. VINCENT.

Such was the respect and even affection that Nelson never failed to
inspire in the breasts not only of his officers, but even the men
under his command, that those who had once served under him thought
themselves lucky indeed if they could again fight beneath his flag.
Nor was Nelson himself averse to being surrounded by "ken't" faces;
he was like a father to his people, and they to him felt as children.

It is confidence like this that begets bravery and deeds of
derring-do, whether in the field or on the battle-deck, and I have no
hesitation in saying, that a 40-gun frigate with bold Nelson in
command, was as good as, if not better than, most ships of the line.

I think, however, that Nelson to some extent abhorred a cut-and-dry
style of fighting.  Like all brave men, he was nervously excitable;
he became in a measure intoxicated with the sound of battle, like the
war horse who scents the combat from afar, but he never lost his
head.  He was quick to see any offered advantage or mistake of the
enemy, and to profit by it at once.  His object too was often, at the
commencement of a fight, to confuse, bewilder, and paralyse the
enemy, and sometimes they never regained self-control until the
battle was over.

You have heard, reader, of that style of argument, or rather counter
argument, which is called the _reductio ad absurdum_, and also of the
"descent from the sublime to the ridiculous."  Pardon me if I use one
of these, the better to illustrate my great hero Nelson's character.

When, then, I was a boy of thirteen or fourteen, a wiry, big, strong
Scotch "nickum," I was at what is called a fighting school.  I do not
believe that a day ever passed without a fight between two boys.
They were pitched battles; generally arranged during school hours and
fought to the bitter end the same evening.  I myself, although a poor
hand at first, eventually fought my way from the lowest to the
highest factions.  I somehow, however, usually preferred fighting a
boy who was bigger and stronger than myself; art came in to my aid,
and if I did happen to be beaten I had no dishonour.  Hut there was
one lad who, though of my own age, was considerably smaller.  He was
a red-faced, towsy-headed, nervous tyke of a boy, and--he was more
than a match for me.  I had several battles with him, in which he
invariably came on like a wild cat.  With hard-clenched fists he
seemed positively to claw at my face, and for one swinging blow from
the shoulder I got in, he landed half a dozen at least.  It was
puzzling, confusing, and paralysing, and I had to lower my flag each
time, with perhaps two pretty black eyes, a swollen nose, and a few
loose teeth.

Now, that boy--his name was John Aberdeen, and he may possibly read
these lines--was a perfect little Nelson in character.  You will see,
therefore, why I have made my descent from the sublime to the
ridiculous.

The morning of the 14th of February was dull and hazy, the British
ships steering southwards with a bit of westering in it.

Although by no means rough, there was a swell on, and it must have
been a grand sight to see those two lines of British men-of-war, as
straight in column almost as soldiers on parade, rising and falling
on the ocean billows.

But when, at about one bell in the forenoon watch, the drum beat to
quarters, a still more lordly sight was visible some distance up to
windward, for the mist had lifted before the morning sun, and there
floated one of the largest and most terrible fleets ever formed in
battle array.  Truly they were leviathans afloat.  Their tall dark
sides bristling with guns, their lofty riggings and commanding sails
imparting to them a dignity that was awe-inspiring, a dignity from
which the huge flags of orange and red certainly did not detract.

Not all at once, however, was the picture presented to the astonished
gaze of our British tars, for the huge fog-curtain was lifted but
gradually.

Sir John Jervis was walking the quarter-deck of the _Victory_ as
coolly as if the men had only been piped to scrub decks, and as the
Spanish fleet was gradually evolved its numbers were reported to him.
Did the officer who made the report, I wonder, imagine for a single
moment that the admiral was going to be deterred by numbers?

"There are eight sail of the line, Sir John."

"Thank you, Mr. T----."

"There are twenty sail of the line, Sir John."

"Very good, sir."

"There are seven-and-twenty sail of the line, Sir John.  Considering
the disparity of numbers, do you think we are justified in engaging
the Dons?"

"Hold, sir!" cried the bold admiral.  "Enough of this.  The die is
cast, and if there are fifty sail of the line, I should go through
them just the same."

"Hurrah!" cried Hallowell, who was standing near him; so delighted
was he that he clapped the admiral on the shoulder.  "You're right,
Sir John, you're right.  We'll fight them, and we'll give the Dons a
hiding too."

It is said that confusion seemed to spread among the Spaniards from
the very first.  Parsons says: "They made the most awkward attempts
to form their line-of-battle, and looked a complete forest massed and
huddled together."

Now, before going further, I wish the reader to cast his eye down the
following columns, which I give by way of showing the disparity in
numbers and guns between our fleet and that of Spain.*


* I have placed Nelson's ship in Italics, also those that were taken.

  BRITISH FLEET.              SPANISH FLEET.

  SHIPS.            GUNS.     SHIPS.                    GUNS.

   1 Victory         100       1 Santissima Trinidada   130
   2 Britannia       100       2 Mexicana               112
   3 Barfleur         98       3 Principe de Asturias   112
   4 Prince George    98       4 Conception             112
   5 Blenheim         90       5 Conde de Regla         112
   6 Namur            90       6 _Salvador del Mundo_   112
   7 _Captain_        74       7 _San Josef_            112
   8 Goliath          74       8 _San Nicolas_           84
   9 Excellent        74       9 Oriente                 74
  10 Orion            74      10 Glorioso                74
  11 Colossus         74      11 Atlante                 74
  12 Egmont           74      12 Conquestador            74
  13 Culloden         74      13 Soberano                74
  14 Irresistible     74      14 Firme                   74
  15 Diadem           64      15 Pelago                  74
                              16 San Genaro              74
                              17 San Francisco           74
                              18 _San Ysidro_            74
                              19 San Juan                74
                              20 San Antonio             74
                              21 San Pablo               74
                              22 San Firmin              74
                              23 Neptuna                 74
                              24 Bahama                  74
                              25 St. Domingo             74
                              26 Terrible                74
                              27 Il Defenso              74


Seven-and-twenty huge Spanish ships of war opposed to fifteen British!

Two thousand and two hundred and ninety-two Spanish guns, against one
thousand two hundred and thirty-two British--nearly two to one.

This glorious fight, on this most memorable Valentine's-day, began
about seven bells in the forenoon watch, when Admiral Sir John
Jervis, with all sail set, came dashing at the Dons, and passed right
through their lines.  Now the Spanish admiral had nine of his ships
down to leeward, and he at once determined to pass astern of the
British fleet, and thus effect a junction with his divided ships.

And it is at this point where the genius of Nelson becomes so
conspicuous.  Remember that the signal had been made for the whole
fleet to engage, and had he strictly obeyed orders he would have gone
on with the rest of the Britishers, and tacked with them.  But his
quick eye--poor fellow, he had now but one--noticed the Don's
intention, and he resolved to frustrate it at all hazards.  He put
his helm up, therefore, and steered straight for the Spaniards.

No more daring, dashing deed was ever done!

Nothing more confusing could have occurred for the Spanish admiral.

Not a soul on the upper deck of the Captain who did not marvel.
Merryweather confessed afterwards to Tom Bure that he thought
Commodore Nelson had suddenly gone mad.

Even Tom and Raventree, little though they knew of naval tactics,
could not refrain from talking momentarily over the affair.  But the
roar of the guns that had been stilled for a minute or two
recommenced now with triple force, and Tom had his duty to perform.
Yonder was the mighty _Santissima Trinidada_ towering high above
them, and Nelson in his Captain was close alongside her.

The position of Nelson's ship at that moment was not one to be
envied, with the monarch of the Spanish fleet beside him beam to
beam, and three-deckers pouring in their fire fore and aft.

But down to his assistance came the _Culloden_ of 74 guns, bold
Troubridge her commander, and the _Blenheim_ of 90 guns.

The fire of the British ships at this time was terrible in the
extreme.  Our brave fellows fought half naked at their guns, and
though messmates fell killed or wounded on all sides, they were
speedily carried or hauled on one side and the fight went on.  There
was no more thought of leaving their batteries among those Hearts of
Oak, than if the battle had been but a mere parade.

The dangerous position of the _Captain_ may be imagined when we
remember that at one time she was actually exposed to the fire of no
less than nine ships!

Nelson was the hero of this glorious fight.  Am I not right in
calling him so, seeing that around his sadly-mutilated ship the
battle raged the fiercest?

But the _Captain_, with her rigging in tatters, her fore-top mast
gone, and her wheel shot away, was now almost unmanageable.  She was
at this time engaged with two of the enemy's liners--the _San
Nicholas_ and _San Josef_--and Nelson purposely fouled the former.

The credit of this is due to Miller, his second captain, who,
disabled as the ship was, managed to lay her aboard the starboard
quarter of the Spanish lee, so that her sprit-sail yard passed over
the enemy's poop, and hooked in her mizen shrouds.

"Away--ay--ay, boarders."

It was a scream, it was a yell from a British throat, and it thrilled
every Heart of Oak on board, and was answered by a cheer.

With the butt of his musket a soldier of the 69th (a number of this
regiment being on board) dashed in the window of the Spaniard's upper
quarter-gallery and leapt in.  Nelson and many more were with him,
Tom Bure and Raventree among the rest.  But they found the cabin
doors secured against them.  These were speedily dashed to pieces.
One man in a fight like this has the strength of three.  A volley was
fired by our brave fellows, the Spanish commodore fell, and hurrying
onwards, sword in hand, Nelson found that the poop had already been
taken by Lieut. Berry, and our friend Merryweather, and that the
enemy's ensign was coming down by the run.  Nelson ran forward and
received the submission and the swords of several officers.

But although the _San Nicholas_ was thus taken, a pattering musketry
fire was kept up from the _San Josef_, which was close alongside.

She too must be captured.  Nelson felt in form now to capture a
dozen.  The order was therefore speedily given to place sentinels on
the ladders to guard the prisoners of the _Nicholas_, and more men
were ordered into her from the _Captain_----to make sure, for Nelson
forgot nothing.  Then once more the shout, "Away--ay--ay, boarders!"

[Illustration: "'Away--ay--ay, boarders,' cried Nelson."]

Our brave and great hero was at the head of his men this time, and
the _San Josef_ fell as her consort had fallen.

The captain of the ship on his knees sued for mercy, saying the
admiral was dying of his wounds below.

Nelson says, "I thereupon gave him my hand, and ordered him to call
to his officers and ship's company that the ship had surrendered,
which he did."

Glorious day for Nelson!  There on the quarter-deck of this huge Don,
112 guns, he received the swords of the vanquished Spaniards.

There comes in here an element of the comic, for by the hero's side
stood the bold bargeman, Bill Fearney, to whom the swords were given
as they were received.  Bill hitched up his trousers, turned his quid
in his mouth, and stuck the swords under his left arm with less
ceremony than if they had been as many fiddlesticks.

The very essence of this gallant fight lies in the fact that Nelson,
having fought almost to the death, his ship of 74 guns being all but
a wreck, puts this disabled craft of his to such marvellous account,
that he captures two of the enemy's largest ships by the glorious old
British system of boarding.

There they lay, the victor and the vanquished--the three of them all
in a huddle.  And was it any wonder that the _Victory_ and every
other British ship cheered our Nelson as they passed?

I do not feel inclined to say any more about this glorious battle.
To mention the bare unvarnished facts is enough, and the boy along
whose spine there does not pass a cold thrill of pride and excitement
while reading these is no true Briton.




CHAPTER VIII.

LIFE IN NELSON'S SHIP.

  "The flag of Britannia, the flag of the brave,
  Triumphant it floateth o'er land and o'er wave,
  All proudly it braveth the battle and blast,
  And when tattered with shot it is nailed to the mast."


It goes without saying that Nelson returned thanks, humble but
fervent, to heaven, for his merciful preservation on the day of
battle.

For his services on this Valentine's-day he was knighted, and also
received the Order of the Bath.  He was moreover made rear-admiral of
the blue.

Probably after all it was the private congratulations that flowed in
upon him which affected him the most, and chief of these, perhaps,
were the love and respect of his ship's crew.  Well they knew that
Nelson was not only a true sailor, but in heart and soul almost a man
before the mast.  No one ever heard the hero abuse a man verbally in
bullying language with oaths and fulsome gesture, as many and many a
captain did in those days.  Moreover they knew he hated the lash, and
that he even saw the justice of the complaints of the mutineers of
the Nore.

It was when on board the _Theseus_--the _Captain_ was almost a
wreck--that the men's regard for their commodore--now admiral--was
shown in a manner essentially sailor-like, and therefore in a measure
innocently childish, for a round-robin was picked up on the
quarter-deck which read as follows:

"Success attend Admiral Nelson!  God bless Captain Miller.  We thank
them for the officers they have placed over us.  We are happy and
comfortable, and willing to shed every drop of blood in our veins to
support them, and the name of the _Theseus_ shall be immortalised as
high as that of the _Captain_.--Signed, THE SHIP'S COMPANY."

This poor little but heart-felt speech upon paper must have cost much
care and thought to concoct.  Meetings on the sly would have been
held down below, as secret and confidential as those of conspirators
or mutineers, and I can almost see the shy and somewhat ungainly
actions of the seaman, who was finally told off to drop the precious
document on the quarter-deck after it had been read a dozen times and
finally approved.

"See you does it properly now, Jack."

"Don't let the officers see you, you know, Jack."

"Don't make a bullocks of it, Jack."

"Keep your weather eye lifting, Jack."

These and a score of other warnings were doubtless given to Jack
before he departed on his mission, and I'll warrant that, when he
performed it successfully, he was welcome to all the grog in the mess
that day if he chose to have it.

Nelson and Miller too appreciated that simple note for all it was
worth, you may be perfectly sure.

But possibly the letters from home affected him quite as much as
anything.  His wife's was quite a woman's letter.  Nelson must have
smiled to be told that she was very much against the dangerous
practice of boarding, and that he must really promise not to venture
on any such thing again.

But his father's, the dear, kindly, and now proud old man--proud of
his son--affected him most.  "I thank my God," he says, "with all the
power of a grateful soul, for the mercies he has most graciously
bestowed on me in preserving you.

"Not only my few acquaintances here, but the people in general met me
at every corner with such handsome words, that I was obliged to
retire from the public eye.  The height of glory to which your
professional judgement, united with a proper degree of bravery, and
guarded by Providence, has raised you, few sons, my dear child,
attain to and fewer fathers live to see.  Tears of joy have
involuntarily trickled down my furrowed cheeks.  Who could stand the
force of such general congratulations?  The name and services of
Nelson have sounded throughout this city of Bath--from the common
ballad singer to the public theatre."

* * * * * *

So much for honour and glory, reader.  Do you like it?  Honour and
glory are but empty baubles, and yet somehow they commend themselves
most heartily to the empty soul.

Honour and glory, however, are, in my opinion, not such empty baubles
as those who never receive them would have you believe.  On the
contrary, they are the most satisfactory proofs a hero could receive,
that he has nobly done his duty.  They are the payments made to him
by a grateful public and people for services done for which no amount
of money or jewels could ever form adequate reward.  Whenever,
therefore, you hear a person railing against honour and glory, you
may be perfectly sure he has never had any such "baubles" offered
him, and never done anything to deserve them.  Think of the fable of
the fox and the grapes.

Well, no star can shine by itself without imparting its lustre to
other and lesser stars around it.  This is another way of saying that
even Nelson's junior officers shared in his honour and glory.  Ah!
well, they deserved to, for right nobly that day had every man done
his duty fore and aft.

But in a great many cases that honour and glory look the form of a
sailor's grave.  And alas! poor Jack, many a man before the mast was
buried in the deep sea who had fought as well as ever man fought a
veritable lion with heart of oak, but whose name would not even be
mentioned in his country's story.

As for the doctors?  Well, the day had not yet come when doctors were
to have even the least little morsel of honour and glory, and, to
tell the truth, in our own day very little glory falls to a surgeon's
share.  Down in the gloomiest depths of a ship he must work--nay,
slave, even on the day of battle.  If engines burst he is among the
first scalded; if the vessel is blown up or is sunk, he has not even
the shadow of a chance of saving his life, as have the honour and
glory men on deck whose bravery may after all be but the outcome of
excitement or terror itself.  The surgeon, on the other hand, has to
do his duty with a cool head, and even long after the rage and roar
of battle have ceased his duties keep him to his post.

But Nelson was a man who really loved his doctors, both senior and
junior, quite as much as he loved the parson, and had every respect
for their feelings.  Even when coming quietly round to see the sick
or wounded, he invariably took a surgeon with him, to ask him
questions about the poor fellows who lay uncomplainingly in their
hammocks.

Young Raventree's letters from home rejoiced him very much indeed,
and he showed several of them to his friend Tom Bure.

Poor Tom had letters also; three--yes, only three, but how he valued
them only those who have been long away on the ocean wave could say.

One was from Dan--Daddy Dan.  This he showed to Raventree.  "It is
from my dear old foster-father," he explained.

Raventree read it by the light of the moon, as the two lads stood
together under the lee bulwarks.

"It is so good of you, Bure," he said, "to show me this.  Bad
spelling, worse writing, stilted and somewhat hackneyed expressions,
but, Tom, a spirit of such kindliness and love, and so noble a nature
breathing through every page of it!  Tom Bure, you are lucky in
having a foster-father like this man.  Dan Brundell is a hero in
humble life!"

"I'm so glad you like him," said Tom, and the tears came rushing to
his eyes as he spoke.

"Some day I should like to go and see Dan's cottage," continued
Raventree.  "My home is away in the midlands.  It is one of the
ancestral halls of England, and my people are proud and wealthy; but,
Tom, they would make you right welcome.  I think," he added, "I have
some reason to be proud of my family, because, like the Stuarts, of
whom we saw so noble a specimen in that brave Don Jacobo, we gained
all our honours by the sword."

Tom had a letter from Ruth--such a dear, sisterly, old-fashioned
epistle.  This he gave to Merryweather to read, knowing it would not
interest Raventree much.

Jack Merryweather, who was in excellent spirits after the recent
battle, because he, for a wonder, had not been wounded, read Ruth's
letter with delight--not once, but twice.

"What a sweet, good girl," he said, as he handed it back to Tom.

But there was one other letter that Tom, singularly enough, showed to
nobody.

It came from Bertha.  It was enclosed in Daddy Dan's.  Quite a
charming specimen of love letter it was, but so innocent and
childish.  She sent it through Dan, she said, because she did not
wish it supervised by her mother and her maid.

I hope the reader will not jump to the conclusion all at once that
this conduct on the part of Bertha was naughty or clandestine.  Her
mother, she said, wanted her to write to Tom Bure "all in fine
english and all well speld," and also to address him as "der Mr.
Bure," instead of "der old Tom" all through the letter.  So she had
ran off to Daddy Dan's, where sweet freedom awaited her, a huge sheet
of age-stained paper, and an enormous sputtering old quill pen.

However, Bertha's letter, although not "well speld," was very
delightful, and for some reason or another, best known to himself
only, Tom Bure put it under his pillow on the night of the day he
received it.

History is mute as to what his dreams were.  O'Grady's letters were
so pleasing to him that he handed them all round the gunroom mess--at
least he handed round the one he had received from his mother, who
lived "in a swate little cottage in the kingdom of Connemara, and
owned the foinest pigs in the county, faith."

O'Grady's mother was "a lady in a small way and in her own roight,"
he explained to his messmates, though what on earth he meant by that
nobody could tell, and as it was getting on for three bells, with a
drop of rosy rum on the table, no one thought of asking him for an
explanation.  But Mrs. O'Grady could write a good old-fashioned
letter, there was no mistake about that.  No long sentences; all
short and crisp.  No tall English; but every line containing an item
of news.  There wasn't a person in the parish from the priest
downwards who missed mention in the lady's letter, together with
everyone who had been put in the mould and every baby born, and it
finished up with what honest O'Grady called a red-hot shot, thus:
"And may the Lord's arms be ever around you, son, and sure your old
sweetheart Peggy O'Houghleehan was married yesterday to Rory McKoy,
and may heaven have mercy on his sowl, for the jade was never good
enough for my dear boy, at all, at all.  No more from your
affectionate old mother Molly O'Grady.  Postage paid, free."

The red-hot shot, however, didn't affect this good old middy much;
for, it being Saturday night, the dead all buried more than a
fortnight ago, and the wounded getting rapidly well, the boys were
enjoying themselves in an innocent, good-tempered way.  So presently
O'Grady volunteered a song.

Then somebody else sang, so that really, as Burns puts it--

  "The nicht drave on wi' songs and clatter,*

* Clatter=talk.


Away forward in the men's messes, Dibdin's verses very well depict
the scene, bar the lashing of the helm a-lee.  Nelson was hardly the
man to have his helm lashed a-lee.  With all due respect for the
clever Dibdin, he did occasionally give his imagination a very free
run.

  "'Twas Saturday night: the twinkling stars
    Shone on the rippling sea,
  No duty called the jovial tars,
    The helm was lashed a-lee."


But even Saturday night at sea has an end at last, and the bo's'n's
pipe has a disagreeable knack of bringing it to a close at times, far
more suddenly than honest sailors like.




CHAPTER IX.

BOMBARDING CADIZ--A MADCAP EXPEDITION.

Nelson was off Lagos Bay in the middle of March of this year, '97.

"I am here," he wrote to a friend, "looking for the Viceroy of
Mexico, with three sail of the line, and hope to meet him.  Two
first-rates and a 74 are with him; but the bigger the ships the
better the mark."

Nelson, however, thought the Spanish ships were the finest in the
world; but he added:

"Though they can build ships, thank Heaven the Spaniards cannot build
men."

The Spanish ships were undoubtedly splendid and vast, but they were
badly fitted, badly found, badly handled, and badly manned.

Nor was it always an easy matter to manœuvre such vast machines of
war in a sea way.  If battles upon the ocean wave had been fought
simply by the antagonists drawing themselves up in two lines and
peppering away at each other till one gave in, was blown up, or sunk,
the Dons would have had it all their own way--perhaps.  But during an
engagement of any size the British fleet kept pretty much on the
move, delivering terrible broadsides on the foe when least expected.

The Dons didn't like it.

On the 11th of April we find our hero blockading Cadiz, but next day
he started for Porto Ferrajo to bring the troops from there.  The
blockade of Cadiz was therefore entrusted to Sir James Saumarez.
This officer had already proved himself to be


A HEART OF OAK.

His story previous to the blockading of Cadiz is briefly as follows:
He was born in '57, and joined the service when thirteen years old,
and was first employed in the Mediterranean.  He soon became a
lieutenant, and sailed in the _Bristol_, off America, under Commodore
Sir Peter Parker.  He took and destroyed many privateersmen here.
Under Lord Howe, he commanded at Rhode Island a galley, which he
burned to prevent it falling into the hands of the enemy.  Returning
home in the _Leviathan_, he, after some service in the Channel fleet,
sailed in the _Fortitude_, and went with Sir Hyde Parker to the North
Sea.  Next we find him sailing with a detachment of the Channel
fleet, and being the first to sight the squadron of Count de
Guicheni, and so well did he behave on this occasion that he was soon
after appointed captain of the _Russel_, 74 guns, though then only
twenty-four years of age.

In 1793 we find Saumarez boldly fighting the French frigate
_Reunion_, off Cherbourg, for which he received the honour of
knighthood.

He was next made captain of the _Orion_, and cruised with the Channel
fleet.

And in the battle off St. Vincent it was this brave fellow, who with
his 74, the _Orion_, captured the 112-gun ship _Salvador del Mundo_,
without the loss of a man, having only nine wounded.

I ought here to mention the losses on the British side at the battle
off St. Vincent.  They were not large for so spirited a fight, being
but 73 killed and 297 wounded; but in proof that this engagement was
more Nelson's victory than anyone else's, it should be remembered
that his ship alone suffered a loss of 24 killed and 56 wounded: the
next in point of numbers being the _Blenheim_, 12 killed and 49
wounded; Collingwood's _Excellent_, 11 killed and 12 wounded; and
Troubridge's _Culloden_, 10 killed and 47 wounded.

* * * * * *

Nelson returned from his cruise sooner than he expected to do, and
was appointed in the Cadiz blockade to in-shore duties.

"The fatigue, anxiety, and personal danger incurred in this service,"
says Pettigrew, "were very great.  To confine the enemy as closely as
possible to their port, it was the custom every night to send from
each of the ships forming the blockade one or more boats, well
manned, armed, and supplied with a good store of ammunition, into the
very mouth of the harbour.

"These boats were supported by gunboats, which had been expressly
fitted out for this occasion, and these could only be protected by
the inner line of ships which Admiral Nelson had posted to render the
blockade complete, and the escape of any of the Spanish ships nearly
impossible."

After the battle off St. Vincent the whole navy of the Dons, it will
be remembered, had taken refuge in Cadiz to refit.

"When the boats were all arranged Nelson was in the habit of rowing
through them for inspection.  The duty was therefore most active, and
as far as possible all danger of surprise from the enemy effectually
guarded against.

"But the Dons were also well up in this mode of precaution and
warfare.  They equipped numerous gunboats and launches to check the
too near approach of our boats, and many a skirmish thus took place
between the Spaniards and our brave fellows."

* * * * * *

On the night of July 3rd began the awful bombardment of Cadiz.

"I wish to make it a warm night at Cadiz," wrote Nelson.  "The town
and their fleet are prepared, and their gunboats are well advanced.
So much the better.  If they venture out beyond their walls I shall
give Johnnie his full scope for fighting."

Well, Nelson, in an attack by the Spanish gunboats, had probably the
narrowest escape of his life he ever had.  While in his barge with
Captain Freemantle, his coxswain, Sykes, and an ordinary crew of ten
men, he was laid aboard by a huge barge from a gunboat rowed by
six-and-twenty oars beside officers, all under the command of a brave
fellow--Captain Miguel Tyrason.  A tougher boat action was never
fought by Britons against such fearful odds.

Our men, in fact, fought like lions.  It was a hand-to-hand battle
with sword, cutlass, and knife.  Never before was the personal skill
and prowess of this little man Nelson seen to such advantage.  Again
and again his sword drank blood, and foe after foe fell before him.

Twice too, during the engagement, his life was saved by bold Sykes,
who even interposed his own person 'twixt his admiral and the
descending sword.  The fury of the combat may be best understood from
a statement of the results, for not only was the Don's barge beaten,
but eighteen were killed, and all the others were wounded and taken
prisoners.

If there was a _Heart of Oak_ in humble life on board a ship it was
John Sykes, the admiral's coxswain.  He was rewarded--after a
fashion--by being made a gunner, and consequently a warrant officer,
and appointed to the _Andromache_; but the poor fellow was killed on
his own deck by the bursting of a gun.

  _Sic transit gloria mundi._


The bombardment of Cadiz was a grim and awful affair.

Not only were houses and public buildings laid low, and even churches
demolished, but the beautiful city was set on fire in three different
places, and, to add to the horror of the situation, the roughs of the
populace had it all their own way, and murdered, robbed, or plundered
wherever they pleased.

* * * * * *

I have told you, reader, very little about Josiah Nisbet, the
step-son of Nelson, for several reasons.  Though a very good fellow,
he is not my _beau ideal_ of a hero; secondly, he was separated from
Tom Bure and Raventree, being made lieutenant of the _Theseus_.  But
now he comes forward once more--or presently will--in a new light,
which shows that he not only had a heart of oak, but had it stowed in
the right place.

Nelson, then--though never fond of prize money himself--had for some
time been keeping himself awake at night concocting a scheme for the
financial ruin of Spain and the aggrandisement of his own beloved
country.


HEARTS OF OAK AT SANTA CRUZ.

I am not at all sure, boys--now I come to think of it--that Nelson
was not in some way or other distantly related to the Camerons of
Lochiel.  One of these days I shall "speel" his genealogical tree and
have a look round, and if I can see a kilt hung out to dry thereon,
or a Highland bonnet and plumes, I shall forthwith claim him as
Scotch; then the English bodies may look for a naval hero somewhere
else, or whistle their dogs to dance.  But if he wasn't a Cameron, he
at all events acted on the motto of the Camerons--"Whate'er a man
dares he can do."

Mind you, reader, that this is a very excellent motto, for "nothing
venture nothing win," and the higher one's aim the higher the mark he
hits--if he hits anything.

However, the Cameronian Highlanders' motto does sometimes lead one
into difficulty.

It was very shortly, then, after the bombardment of Cadiz that Nelson
wrote to Sir John Jervis--or let us now call him the Earl of St.
Vincent--proposing his little scheme for the capture of Santa Cruz.

Santa Cruz was a place of not the slightest importance, but it was
rumoured that a Spanish ship--_El Principe de Asturias_--more richly
stored with gold and precious stones than a fairy mine, had arrived
at that port from Manilla, and Nelson's idea was to cut her out--in
other words, to capture her.  This would not only put millions of
money into British coffers to carry on the war withal, but tend
considerably to the downfall of Spain by helping to impoverish her.

In fact, and in plain English, Nelson intended for a time to
masquerade and swagger as a pirate bold or a buccanier.  So on the
12th of April we find him writing as follows to his admiral of the
fleet:

"My Dear Sir,--Troubridge and I were talking last night about the
Viceroy (of Mexico) at Teneriffe.  Since I first believed he might
have gone there I have endeavoured to make myself master of the
situation, and the means of approach by sea and land.  I shall speak
first of the sea.

"The Spanish ships then generally moor with two cables to the sea,
and four cables from their stern to the shore; therefore, though we
might not get to be masters of them, should the wind not come off the
shore, it does not appear certain we should succeed so completely as
we might wish.  As to any opposition, except from natural
impediments, I should not think it would avail.

"The approach by sea to the anchoring-place is under very high land,
therefore the wind is either in from the sea, or squally with calms
from the mountains.  Sometimes at night a ship may get in with the
land wind and moderate weather.  So much for the sea attack, which,
if you approve, I am ready and willing to risk, or to carry into
execution.

"But now comes my plan, which would not fail of success, would
immortalize the undertakers,* ruin Spain, and has every prospect of
raising our country to a higher pitch of wealth than she has ever yet
attained; but here soldiers must be consulted, and I know from
experience that, excepting General O'Hara, they have not the same
boldness in undertaking a political measure that we (sailors) have.
We look to the benefit of our country, and risk our fame every day to
serve her.  A soldier obeys orders and nothing more.


* By "undertakers" Nelson doesn't refer to the manufacturers of cheap
coffins, but those who undertake to carry out his plan of operations.


"By saying soldiers should be consulted, you will guess I mean the
army of 3,200 men from Elba, with cannon, mortars, and every
implement now embarked.  They could do the business in three days,
probably much less.  I will undertake with a very small squadron to
do the naval part.

"The shore, though not very easy of access, is yet so steep that the
transports may run in and land the army in one day.  The water is
conveyed to the town in wooden troughs.  This supply cut off would
induce a very speedy surrender.  Good terms for the town, private
property secured to the islanders, and only the delivery of public
stores and foreign merchandise demanded, with threats of utter
destruction if one gun is fired.

"In fact, sir, the business could not miscarry.

"If," the letter goes on to say, "the six or seven millions sterling
thus secured were thrown into circulation in England, what might not
be done?  It would ensure an honourable peace, with many other
blessings."

Such was Admiral Nelson's letter to St. Vincent, or the gist of it at
least.

Now had the hero been better supported by soldiers than he was the
result might have been a triumph.

The attack, however, was to be a purely naval one.  Nelson sailed for
Teneriffe on the fifteenth of July, and the passage not being a very
long one, got over in under a week.  At all events, the fleet which
he commanded was discovered on the 21st of July.

This was a bad beginning, and augured nothing but evil fortune to
follow.

Probably Nelson had but little idea of the kind of place he had made
up his mind to take by storm, for it is fortified by nature.  Writing
about this unhappy expedition Brenton makes the following remarks:

"Of all the places that ever came under our inspection, none we
conceive is more invulnerable to attack or more easily defended than
Teneriffe.  The island, like most of its neighbours, is a volcanic
production, consisting of mountains, ravines, rocks, and precipices.
The bay of Santa Cruz affords no shelter for shipping; the shore is
nearly a straight line, and the bank so steep that no anchorage can
be found beyond the distance of half a mile, and that in forty-five
fathoms of water; the beach from north to south is one continued
series of broken masses of loose rock and round, smooth stones,
smooth either from friction or from the seaweed.  On this a perpetual
surf breaks, rendering the landing at all times difficult, except at
the mole or pier of Santa Cruz.  To these obstacles there is another
which Nelson experienced in its fullest force.  Teneriffe, like all
other mountainous countries, is liable to calms, sudden squalls, and
violent gusts of wind, which, rushing down the ravines, frequently
take a ship's topmasts over the side without a moment's warning.

The fleet, or rather squadron, appointed for the expedition was as
follows:

  SHIPS.              GUNS.

  1 Theseus  . . . . . 74
  2 Culloden . . . . . 74
  3 Zealous  . . . . . 74
  4 Leander  . . . . . 50
  5 Seahorse . . . . . 38
  6 Emerald  . . . . . 36
  7 Terpsichore  . . . 32
  8 Fox (cutter) . . . 12


There were many Hearts of Oak among the commanders of these ships as
well as daring Nelson, notably Troubridge, Hood, Freemantle, &c.
Indeed, to one and all the honour of their country was as dear as
life itself.

In the next chapter I have to tell of


A DARK NIGHT'S WORK.




CHAPTER X.

A DARK NIGHT'S WORK.

It was not until the 24th of July that the _finale_ to this madcap
expedition was attempted; viz., the landing and the facing of those
fearful odds.

If Nelson had had but men to contend against, it would have been very
different, but in their undertaking it was the forces of Nature he
had to struggle against.  There is no doubt about his daring,
however.  Nor did he underrate the difficulties he had to encounter.

It was with a feeling of sadness even that he sat down to write his
letter to St. Vincent--the last he was ever to pen with his right
hand.

"This night," he says, "humble as I am, I command the whole.  I am
destined to land under the batteries of the town, and to-morrow my
head will probably be crowned with either laurel or cypress."

* * * *

The first plan of attack on Santa Cruz, which, as I have already
stated, was spoiled by the discovery of the squadron, was this: The
boats were to land at night, between the town and the fort on its
north-east side, capture that fort, and afterwards demand from the
governor that the town be given up.

But about midnight the three frigates, with the landing party on
board, had got within three miles of the shore, when it came on to
blow so hard that the forces were still a mile from the shore when
day dawned, and they were seen.  A consultation or council of war had
then been held, and it was determined to land at all hazards, with
the object of securing the heights.  While the landing forces were so
engaged, Nelson was to batter the fort for the purpose of distracting
the attention of the garrison.

However, as bad luck would have it, a calm had followed the storm,
and owing to this and the contrary current the admiral was unable to
get near enough to rain his iron shower upon the fort.  Meanwhile the
heights were occupied and held by a force so great that it was deemed
impossible to take them, and now we come to


THE DARK NIGHT'S WORK.

Well knowing how desperate the attack on Santa Cruz would in all
probability prove, and how valuable were the services of our hero to
his country, the admiral of the fleet, St. Vincent, had given orders
that Nelson was not to land unless "his presence was absolutely
necessary."

Nelson, with his usual headstrong tendencies, interpreted this to
mean that he should do just as he chose.

So to-night he determined in his own person to lead the storming
party.

The last thing that Nelson did was to send for his stepson, Josiah,
into his cabin.

Josiah--Lieutenant Nisbet--was soon there.

"Why, lad, you are armed," said Nelson.  "I sent for you to help me
to burn your dear mother's letters."

"Is the affair then likely to be of so dangerous a nature, father?"
said Josiah.

"It is, my boy.  I have written to St. Vincent, and in that letter I
recommended you to him and to our country.  The Duke of Clarence,
should I fall, will, I am convinced, take a lively interest in my
stepson on his name being mentioned."

"But _I_ am going too, father," said Nisbet, smiling but calm.

"Let me entreat of you, Josiah, to stay behind."

"No, no, dear sir."

"But, Josiah, I comm----"

"Hold, father, hold!  Pray do not command me."

"I _beg_ then.  Think, Josiah, if we both fall, what would become of
your poor mother?  Besides, the care of the _Theseus_ falls to you;
stay, therefore, and take charge of the ship."

"Sir," said the young man respectfully, but with determination, "the
ship may look after herself.  I will go with you to-night if I never
go again."

On board the _Seahorse_ frigate the captains all met that night to
dine with the admiral.  Captain Fremantle, the commander of the
vessel, had been lately married in the Mediterranean, and, his wife
being on board, presided at the table.  There was no lack of
conversation at this little dinner party, no lack of liveliness even,
though an acute observer might have noticed that now and then, on
Nelson's part, it was almost forced.  Hardly anyone touched the wine
in the way it was usually touched, tasted, and handled in those old
bacchanalian days, and at eleven o'clock the boats were called away,
and all ready.

The night was very dark indeed, hardly a star shining, and closer in
shore, where the rugged mountains frowned over the ocean, it was
darker still.

There were, however, the glimmering lights of the town to guide them,
and the black shapes of the great hills themselves.

All the boats that could be spared from the ships of war took part in
this invasion, carrying altogether nearly one thousand bluejackets
and marines.

It is almost half-past one now, and the invaders are rapidly nearing
the shore.  They can hear the thunder of the breakers that dash and
foam on the stones and boulders, each receding wave adding to the
dreary sound by sucking back with it the smaller stones.  They are
not far from the mole.

"I can see it, sir, I can see it!" exclaims Tom Bure, who is in
Nelson's own boat, but forward in the bows.

The lad was right.  Keen eyes can now descry the mole or pier, and a
true British cheer rises from a thousand throats, and onwards dash
the boats.  But scarcely is the cheer echoed back from rock and hill
ere bells are rung on shore, and a wild huzza tells the invaders that
the Spaniards are prepared to give them a warm welcome.

And now the misfortunes begin; for most of the boats have missed the
mole, and are stove among the boulders.  However, Nelson, Fremantle,
Bower, with five other boats, have found it; but how can they storm
it against twice two hundred armed men?

_Whate'er a man dares he can do!_

Another shout, another huzza; the fight has commenced, and the
Spaniards, beaten off the mole, take refuge in flight.  But such a
fire of guns as now lights up the darkness of this terrible night few
have ever faced and lived.  Musketry and grape from the citadel and
from every window near.

Against this iron hail advance is impossible.

Our brave fellows attempt it over and over again, but fall dead or
wounded on the pier.

And Nelson himself, just as he is about to step on shore, sword in
hand, is struck by a grape shot in the right elbow, and falls
bleeding into the boat.

Nisbet, his step-son--surely it was Providence who sent him hither
to-night--is by his side in a moment.  His first thought is that
Nelson is killed.

The hero, however, gathers himself up, and shows that he has not lost
presence of mind, for he clutches his sword with his left hand.  That
precious sword had been given him by Captain Suckling, and he will
not part with it while life doth last.

Assisted by Tom Bure, whom even in his agony Nelson recognises,
Nisbet lays the wounded hero in the bottom of the boat, and a hurried
examination is made of the wound.  With Tom's and Josiah's silk
handkerchiefs a bandage is formed, the knot placed over the artery
higher up the arm, and by means of this ready-made tourniquet the
bleeding is stopped.  A sailor of the name of Lovel tears his own
shirt from his back, and forms a sling to support the wounded arm of
his beloved admiral.  Josiah seizes an oar.

"Shove off, lads," he cries; "let us get closer under the battery,
and thus out of its fire."

With the help of Tom, and at his own request, Nelson is raised up in
the boat.  But nothing can he perceive except the surf lit up every
moment by the awful flash of the guns, the heaving sea, and the
distant cutter _Fox_.

Suddenly, high above the din of the contending foes, rises a wild
shriek of dying agony from the crew of that very cutter, and before
his eyes, by the fitful light of the blazing cannon, Nelson can
perceive that she is struck--that she staggers, fills, and goes
bodily down.

"Give way, my lads; now for the cutter," cries Nelson, the moment the
shriek is heard.  "Give way with a will!"

And on towards the drowning seamen rushes the boat.  There is no
thought of self with the hero at this moment.  All his kindliness of
heart, all his indomitable British courage, rise to the surface--pain
and danger are forgotten quite.  Who is there in all the wide world,
friend or foe, who cannot admire and love a man like this?

Of all the 180 men the cutter had been bearing toward the shore only
83 are saved, and many of these were hauled into Nelson's own boat.
Some are even caught by Nelson's unwounded arm.

Tom Bure does all he can, and helps many aboard; and seeing how
energetically the lad worked--for he is now astern, and had been
helping to support the admiral--Nelson finds opportunity to whisper
these encouraging words: "Well done, my Norfolk lad; I will not
forget you!"

All being done that can be done, no more heads above the water to
clutch at or save, the boat is speedily rowed seawards beyond the
reach of danger.

A ship now looms above them.

"What is she?  What is she?" cries Nelson feebly, and even
impatiently, for the loss of blood is telling on his nervous system.

"The _Seahorse_, sir," cried Tom Bure.

"Go on.  Go on, Josiah, to the _Theseus_."

"She is farther away!" entreats his step-son.  "Think, sir; your very
life may be lost by our going on."

"Shove off, men, for the _Theseus_!" cries the hero himself.  "Think
you," he adds, as the men obey, "that I would present myself before
Mrs. Fremantle in this pickle, and bringing her no news of her
husband?  I'd sooner suffer death."

The _Theseus_ is made at last.

Nelson will not allow himself to be carried on board.  "I have still
my left arm remaining," he exclaims, "and my legs as well."

"And now," he cries, when he reaches the deck, "tell the surgeon to
get his instruments out.  I know I must lose my right arm, and the
sooner it is off the better."

* * * * *

We must get back on shore now to see how it fared with the other poor
fellows.

Like Admiral Nelson himself, Captain Fremantle was badly wounded in
the right arm, but escaped to his ship, very much to the relief of
his agonised wife, who was not long in finding out that all was lost.

Captain Bowen was among the slain, and this was a very great grief to
Nelson, who loved him well.  Another officer killed was Lieutenant
Weatherhead, a man whom the hero also had much respect for and who,
like our Merryweather, preferred being with Nelson even to taking a
higher grade in another ship.

But Troubridge, the captain of the _Culloden_, and Weller, who
commanded the _Emerald_, were among those who managed to secure a
footing on shore with the crews of several other boats.

The boats themselves were instantly swamped, and dashed to pieces
among the heavy boulders.

Their scaling-ladders were lost, but, although few in number, the cry
was "Forward!"

The gallant little party dashed onwards to the great square of the
town, expecting here to join Nelson, and those who had stormed the
mole.  Alas! they were, as we know, all scattered, dead, or lying
wounded and exposed, on the blood-slippery pier.

Had Troubridge succeeded in saving the ladders, he would undoubtedly
have scaled the citadel walls and silenced the guns.

Meanwhile, Captains Hood and Miller had secured a landing on the
other side of the pier, and the two forlorn parties met, or, in other
words, effected a junction.  Previously to this a sergeant, with two
of the towns' people, were sent to the citadel to summon it to
surrender.  He never came back.

These brave captains at daybreak reviewed their forces, and a bold
little array they made, consisting of about 160 marines and pikemen,
with 180 well-armed bluejackets.

They increased the amount of ammunition they were possessed of, by
requisitioning that of a number of prisoners they had taken.

Wet and miserable, but with hope still aflame in those hearts of oak
of theirs, they commenced to march on now towards the citadel.  There
was just a possibility, they thought, that it might be taken without
scaling-ladders.

But lo! thousands of armed Spaniards were already seen advancing
towards them, with hundreds of their allies the French, while every
street was defended by one or more guns.

Troubridge, however, proved himself the hero of the hour.  He
instantly formed his plans, and bold they were in the extreme.  One
cannot help even smiling at the audacity--call it "cheek" if you
please, reader--of this handful of British tars.

Troubridge then despatched Captain Samuel Hood with a flag of truce,
towards the advancing enemy.  His message was to the governor of the
town, and was to the following effect:

"If," said Hood, "the Spaniards come but an inch nearer to the
British, their commander, Troubridge, will immediately set fire to
the town, which he is fully prepared to do.  If he has to do so, it
will be with the deepest regret, because he has not the slightest
wish to injure any of the inhabitants.

"He is therefore prepared to treat on the following terms: Provided
the British forces be allowed to re-embark, taking with them all
their arms of every kind, and in their own boats, if saved; if not,
in boats lent us by the town--Troubridge, in the name of Admiral
Nelson, agrees not to molest the town, nor shall the squadron bombard
it.  The prisoners to be delivered up on both sides."

The commander smiled as he made reply.

"We think that instead of laying down the law to as, you should lay
down your arms and consider yourselves prisoners of war."

"That," said Hood, "we never shall do."

"And suppose I refuse to treat, sir?"

"Then the destruction of the town and the utter annihilation of all
your troops lies on your head.  I give you five minutes to consider.
If in that time your answer is not favourable, Troubridge will
instantly proceed to fire the town and attack your soldiers at the
point of the bayonet, and Nelson will bombard you from the sea."

"I do not think," said the governor, smiling once again, "that you
would find yourselves very successful; but your Commander Troubridge
is a gallant sailor, I shall therefore accede to your request."

This officer's name will be handed down to posterity as that of a
brave and generous gentleman--a gentle maa--Don Juan Antonio
Gutiarraz.

Ah! boys, those were the days of chivalry and romance, for the treaty
being ratified, nothing could exceed the kindness of the governor and
his men to our wet, shivering, and hungry troops.  One hundred men
were removed to hospital and carefully tended by the Spanish
surgeons, a young man, Don Bernardo Collagen, even tearing his own
shirt in pieces to make temporary bandages for wounded men who lay on
the mole.  The governor, in sending back our fellows to their ships,
sent word at the same time, that while our squadron lay outside any
of our people might land and purchase whatever they cared to eat or
to drink.

Nelson, ill as he was, dictated a letter of thanks to this brave and
kindly fellow, and sent them with presents.  He also offered to carry
the governor's letters and despatches to the Spanish government.
This offer was accepted.

There is no doubt about one thing, however.  Troubridge was in
earnest when he threatened to fire the town and charge with the
bayonet.

So the madcap expedition was at an end.

But how sadly it had ended; for in killed and wounded our loss was
somewhat over 250 men.

Nelson's letters to the admiral of the fleet after his defeat were
sorrowful in the extreme.  But their tenour was no doubt influenced
by the miserableness of his bodily condition and his sufferings, for
owing to the bungling way the operation had been performed both the
chief artery and the chief nerve were included together in the
ligature, and the pain was in consequence of a most agonising
character.

Here are one or two extracts from his letters to St. Vincent:

"I am now become a burden to my friends, and useless to my country;
but by my last letter to you, you will perceive my anxiety for the
promotion of my step-son Josiah Nisbet.  When I leave your command I
myself become dead to the world.  I go hence and am no more seen.  If
from poor Bowen's loss you think it proper to oblige me I rest
confident you will do it.  The boy is under obligations to me, but he
has repaid me by bringing me from the mole at Santa Cruz.  I hope you
will be able to give me a frigate to convey the remains of my carcass
to England."

"The sooner," he says in another despatch, "I get away to a humble
cottage the better.  I shall thus make room for a sounder man to
serve the state, for a left-handed admiral can scarcely be considered
useful."

His step-son was promoted immediately, as he deserved to be.

Great though the admiral's sufferings were, he did not even forget
our Tom Bure, who since the attack on Santa Cruz had been prostrated
with illness.  Probably his being promoted to a lieutenancy by Nelson
himself went a far way towards restoring his health.  Tom returned
home in the same ship with Nelson.

Merryweather was wounded in a boat action soon after, and by his side
fell Raventree, who was taken on board his ship and stretched for
dead.

O'Grady, however, hadn't a deal of faith in a doctor's opinion, so he
went soon after to the lee side of the gun, where the poor young
officer lay covered up by the flag under which he had served so
gallantly.

His wounds were bleeding afresh.  His eyes were open, and he could
talk.

O'Grady rushed pell-mell to the Irish surgeon's mate.

"Come here, you omadhaun," he shouted, "follow me, ye spalpeen av the
world, to go and stretch a poor bhoy for dead that was never dead at
all.  Yes, sare, it's Raventree I mane."

"Not dead?"

"Och, no!  The bhoy tells me so himself.  He is a gentleman that
wouldn't tell a lie for the loife av him.  Come to him at onct, or
I'll carry you."

* * * *

All the way home to England poor Nelson suffered agonies with his
arm.  He was afterwards most carefully nursed, however, by his wife,
and the pain departed in a single night with the coming away of the
ligature, which the bungling hands of that wretched surgeon had
placed around the nerve.

Honours were heaped upon him.

Britain seldom forgets a true hero.

Nelson was happy now.  He seems at this time to have had little wish
to serve again.

There was true religious feeling ever dwelling around the heart of
Nelson, and he did not forget to return thanks publicly, through the
officiating clergyman, at St. George's Church, Hanover Square.  There
was the usual modesty about this, however, that marked all Nelson's
actions, for from the pulpit his name was not even mentioned.

The following are the words of this thanksgiving, precisely as they
were dictated by the hero, and precisely as they were delivered by
the clergyman:

"An officer desires to return thanks to Almighty God for his perfect
recovery from a severe wound, and also for the many mercies bestowed
upon him."




CHAPTER XI.

A HAPPY HOME-COMING.

Four long years! yes, they did seem very long to Tom Bure, as he
shipped on board a trading schooner that was to bear him over the
sunlight sea, in bright September weather, to his home in Norfolk.

Four years!  Why to look back appeared an eternity, so filled were
they with wild adventures, with battles and sieges, and storms by sea
and on land.  We can only judge of distance on the ocean when ships,
rocks, or islands are visible, and so can only judge of distance on
the ocean of time by the events that stand out here and there, and
seem to stud its surface.

"Four years!" he said to himself as he gazed over the taffrail at the
rippling water, that went gurgling past the vessel's side as she
headed north and away from the mouth of the Thames.  "Four years!
Why I was but a boy when I went to sea.  Now I am a man, seventeen in
a few months, and no mite at that.  And a lieutenant!  I wonder what
Bertha will say.  I do believe I used to make love to the child.
Well, she is but a child yet, not more than twelve.  But----  I
wonder what she looks like.  She'll hardly remember me.  I do believe
I've got her letter still."

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" said the skipper, who had now got his ship
into a safe position.  "Lovely weather I calls it for the season of
the year.  Just returned from the wars, haven't you?"

"Yes," said Tom, smiling.

"And haven't lost ne'er an arm nor a leg.  Sad thing about poor
Nelson, sir; but, lor' bless ye, he's a hero every inch!  There isn't
a man in Yarmouth that wouldn't die for him.  Mind you, sir,
Yarmouth's precious proud of him."

"As Yarmouth well may be, Mr. Auld."

"You've been to Norfolk afore, sir?"

"Why, I may say I belong there.  My father died a poor man.  His
sword and his honour were about all he could call his own, but he
belonged to a good family, I believe--the Bures."

"Bless my soul and old hull of a body!" cried the skipper.  "You
don't mean to say you're Tom Brundell, or Bure, that lived as a
nipper wi' old Dan, and that we now hears so much talk about?"

"I'm all that stands for that youth," said Tom.

"Who would have thought it?  Such a strapping, handsome fellow too.
Why, tip us your nipper, my boy.  Taking home Tom Bure am I?  Why
this is the happiest day in my life."

Tom shook hands right merrily, and the conversation continued.

There wasn't a man or woman apparently all over the north and east of
Norfolk that Mr. Auld did not know the history of; and every question
Tom asked was answered in a moment, and right heartily too.

He was unfeignedly glad to hear that Daddy Dan was well, and Ruth and
his foster-mother.  That the Ashleys were still afloat in the
_Fairy_, and that "there wasn't a bit of difference in Yarmouth or in
anybody or any place anywhere."  These were Skipper Auld's own words.

"It seems to me," said Tom, "that all the change is in me alone."

"Ah! you're growing, young sir; but I daresay if one could see into
your heart it isn't a deal of difference he'd see in that after all."

"Not a bit!" cried Tom.  "That is in the right place, and I'll never
forget dear Norfolk as long as my head is left above water."

"Bravo!  Spoken like one o' Nelson's own!"

And at this point of the conversation Mr. Auld was constrained to
spit in his palm and shake hands with Tom Bure once again.

* * * * *

Yarmouth at last!  Not a bit of difference in the long, muddy river,
nor in the quay alongside, nor in the shipping alongside.

Tom felt once more that the change was all in himself, but he was
glad enough to get on shore nevertheless, for he meant to hire a
trap, it being early morning, and drive straight away down to Daddy
Dan's property, and give all hands a pleasant surprise.

He bade Mr. Auld good-bye, hoping they should meet again.

About half way up towards the spot where the town hall now stands he
came abreast of a clean, taut, and trim-looking schooner.  He started
and stopped.

"I should know her," he thought.  "Why, yes, I declare it's my first
ship--the saucy _Yarmouth Belle_.

"Ship ahoy!" he shouted, in a voice so stentorian that a score of
sailors and fishermen on the quay turned quickly round to look.

"Hullo!" cried a voice from on board; and up from the companion hatch
popped the rough and warty old figure-head of Skipper Hughes himself.

Tom Bure went rushing over the gangway, stuck out his fist, seized
the skipper's, and literally gaffed him on deck as if he'd been a
forty-pound salmon.

Hughes didn't know Tom at first, but when he did he could hardly
utter a word with excitement.

"Mate! mate!" he cried at last, "come up at once."

The mate--same old phizog--came up as quickly as if the ship had
caught fire, and when about a hundred questions had been asked and
answered to the satisfaction of all, "Mate," said Skipper Hughes, "on
this auspicious occasion let us----"

"Hurrah!" cried the mate.

"Let us," continued the skipper most impressively--"let us----splice
the main-brace."

* * * * *

There was a rat at the foot of that poplar tree without the slightest
doubt.

Meg, Uncle Bob's collie, knew that.  She had known it for a very long
time.  Indeed, the rat made little or no secret of the matter
himself, for there was the door to his sub-arboreal residence close
beneath the exposed portion of a root that Meg had often clawed and
clawed at in vain.  This was only the rascal's front door, however;
he had several back doors, and he had an underground tunnel also,
that led all the way to the old mare's stable.

That rat was a married rat too, and to Meg's certain knowledge had
brought up a large family in there this last summer.

Meg was standing with her head turned a little on one side on this
bright autumnal forenoon, and fancying she could almost see the rat
grinning at her from the depths of his long, dark passage.  She
couldn't be sure though, for her eyes had grown more dim of late for
some reason or another, which she didn't understand.

Her hearing was not so good as it used to be either.  That was very
curious!

"Meg, Meg, old girl!"

Her ears were in the habit of playing her strange tricks at times too.

"Meg!"  For example, if she didn't know that Tom Bure had disappeared
from off the earth ages and ages ago, just as her poor dear master
had, she would fancy she heard his voice even now calling to her.

"_Meg_, you silly old girl!"

She turned her head at last.

Fancy?  No, no, it was not fancy.  Here was Tom himself, grown up
from his puppyhood, as she had known all along he would, but Tom all
the same--the eyes of Tom, the scent of Tom, the voice of Tom.  She
went for him straight with a rush and a run, and jumped upon his
breast with a cry of joy that was half hysterical, and for all the
world as if tears were choking her.

Then she must have a caper round and round the grassy lawn, where
poor Bob used to lie so patiently in his cot.

Round and round.

Round and round.

Oh, if she had not capered and danced just then the excitement of her
feelings might have given her a fit!

One more daft caper.

One more hysterical joy-bark.  Then off over the bridge she flies,
and in two minutes more comes back with Ruth.

Ruth had been making a cake, but those bare, plump, mealy arms of
hers are thrown round her foster-brother's neck all the same, and she
hugs him to her heart.

And----why the poor lassie is crying!

* * * * *

Altogether, this was indeed a happy home coming.

Neither Daddy Dan nor his wife were a bit changed.  The garden was
the same, the porch around the door and the roses and flowers, and
even the jasmine that clung about Uncle Bob's wing.

Nothing altered.

Bob's bed yonder too, in Bob's own end of the house.

Aye, and the hooded crow's nest up in the poplar tree.

"And on fine days in summer," said Mrs. Brundell that evening as they
all sat round the blazing hearth, with Meg, the collie, leaning her
chin on Tom's knee, "on fine days in summer your Daddy will wheel out
poor Bob's cot to its old place near to the shed where he works,
though I tell him it is foolish."

Daddy Dan took his pipe from his lips and gazed upwards at the
curling smoke with a strange moisture in his eye.

"Poor Bob," he said, "I like even yet to think the dear lad's near
me."




Book III


CHAPTER I.

A GIPSY'S WARNING.

Wonders will never cease.

Tom Bure had found something at last that had changed during the time
he had been at the wars.

That something was the dainty little person of Bertha Colmore.

She was not at the Hall when Tom first came to Daddy Dan's cottage,
but in two week's time both she and her mother arrived.  Tom had
permitted one long day and night to elapse before he paid a visit.
He did not like to appear too precipitate.  Then, with Meg in the
bows of the boat, just as in the dear days of yore, he went paddling
away along the beautiful broads, and finally stood on the green mossy
bank not far from the Hall.

Lady Colmore was delighted to see him.

So was lovely Bertha.  Yes; she was a very lovely, though very young,
girl; pretty enough to be a queen, Tom thought.

Bertha said she was delighted to see Tom.  That is how Tom knew she
was.

He wouldn't have known else.

She approached him, not with a glad rush, as of old; she gave him no
kiss, but only a little gloved hand.  She had just come in from a
walk, and she said:

"How are you, Lieutenant Bure?  Mamma and I have been so pleased to
hear about you always, and from you also, and we are delighted to see
you."

Tom was asked to stay for dinner.  He needed little persuasion.

After that meal, as they were passing along through the hall, Lady
Colmore stopped Tom near to a picture.  It was the portrait of a
soldier of a bygone time.

"Strange," she said, "but, my dear Mr. Bure, you get more like that
picture every day; and, now I come to think of it, he was a Bure, or
some such name.  He is my son's great-grandfather by the father's
side."  She laughed as she added, "It is just possible, you know,
that you are some distant relation of ours."

Tom found himself in the conservatory with Bertha some time after
this.

"It is cooler here, Lieutenant Bure," she said.

Then Tom found his tongue, and to some purpose too.

"Look here, Bertha," he said.  "I'm not going to stand any more
lieutenanting.  So there!  If I can't be Tom to you, as I used to be,
I'll join the first ship I can get, and go off to the wars and get
shot."

"Oh, Tom!"

"There!  It's out at last.  I'm always going to be Tom to you and
nothing else."

And thereupon, in good old sailor fashion, he took his little
sweetheart in his arms, and gave her a kiss.

The ice was broken, and the "lieutenanting" all done with from that
day and date.

* * * * *

One morning, about three months after this, the old postman brought a
letter or two for Tom.  He had been walking in the garden with his
foster sister, but he sat down in the arbour to open them.

"Why, Ruth," he cried all at once, "who do you think is coming here?
You would never guess."

"Oh! but I do guess," she replied, blushing like the autumn roses
that were clustering overhead.  "It is Mr. Merryweather.  I dreamt
about him last night."

"Poor Jack Merryweather!" continued Tom, reading to himself.  "Poor
Jack!"

"Tom," said Ruth, laying a hand on his arm, "he isn't ill, is he?"

She was very pale now.

"No, no, Ruth, he isn't ill; but he'll never serve his country more.
He has lost a leg.  Just fancy honest Jack Merryweather making a dot
and carrying one.  Ah, well, I may lose my own next.  It is all the
fortune of war, Ruth."

In a week's time Jack arrived.  The same old Jack as ever in mind and
manners; the want of both legs couldn't have changed Merryweather a
single little bit.

With him came Raventree, looking somewhat sickly, but very happy to
meet his old friend again.

What a vast cargo of news each one of these three sailors had got
stowed away under hatches.  Dan and his wife were exceedingly pleased
to see Merryweather again, though with the real live lord, Raventree,
they didn't know well what to do, nor at dinner did Ruth or her
mother know how to address him.  "My lord," and "your lordship" were
words that they thought it was but the proper etiquette with which to
lard every sentence.  It amused Merryweather and Tom Bure also.

"Lord Raventree, may I help your lordship to another tatie?"

"My lord, your lordship hasn't got a drop o' gravy."

"Does your lordship like the bishop's nose?"

But Raventree settled the difficulty in fine sailor-like fashion
before the dinner was half finished.

"Now, mother," he said, laughing, "and you, my pretty sister Ruth,
there isn't going to be any more 'lording' at this table; just call
me Raventree, as Tom and Jack do, or Mr. Raventree if you like.  If
you don't I shall call you the Lady Brundell, and my sissy here the
Princess Ruth, which title, seeing how modest and beautiful she is,
would suit her to perfection.  Now let us be all equal, all fair,
square, and above board.  The charm of spending a night or two in a
delightful old-fashioned cottage like this lies in imagining I live
here always, that there are no wild wars, no battles, no bo's'n's
pipe to call me at the dark hour of a stormy midnight, and only cock
robin's song to greet me of a morning.  Don't dispel my dream,
mother.  I was young and foolish once, now I'm older and wiser.  Once
I thought it was a fine thing to be a lord.  I'd as lief be a miller
now, I think, if I could always live in a place like this.  Do you
quite understand, mother?"

"Yes, dear."

"Ah! that's better.  Now I have a mamma and a mother both.  Mamma
lives at Raventree Court, mother lives in a sweet little cottage on
the edge of a broad."

"Raventree," said Merryweather, "you're what old O'Grady would call
'a broth of a boy.'"

"His heart's in the right place," said Dan.  "It would be better for
this country if we had more lords like this one."

"Why don't you enter Parliament?" said Jack.

"Mamma wants me to," said Raventree.  "But it isn't good enough.  No,
I shall fight my way to the poop cabin of a 90-gun ship, hoist my
pennant, chase the French from the seas, and then----."

"Then what?" said Jack Merryweather.

"Why, come back and marry Ruth, of course, and live happy ever after."

"That I'm sure you won't."

"Why, Jack, why?"

"Why?  Because a man can't marry his sister."

"To be sure," cried Dan, laughing.  "It's agin' scripture."

But the ice was broken now, and a right merry evening was spent.
Although, it must be confessed, the younger folks did most of the
talking, Dan was content to sit and listen and smoke.

Merryweather rose to go at last.

"No, no, no," cried Dan emphatically, "you don't leave here to-night.
The missus will stow you both in one room.  I shan't even apologise
for it.  You've been in a smaller before."

So the matter was ended in that way, and Raventree and Jack stayed at
Dan's cottage, not one day, but several days.  It was getting near
Christmas time, however, and Raventree determined to take his two
friends with him to Raventree Court, and to hire a carriage with
postillions for the purpose.

First, though, they all paid a visit to the Ashleys.  The old man was
delighted to see his pupil again, and Merryweather too.

"My eyes! though," he said, "you do stump along lovely with that
timber toe o' yours.  Nobody 'ud know you hadn't been born with it."

Raventree was greatly delighted with the curious home of the Ashleys,
with room above room, or rather cave above cave.

And with the _Fairy_ too.

"Goin' round, I am," said Ashley, "day after to-morrow, to Yarmouth.
Can't you young 'uns man the _Fairy_, and we'll leave the sons at
home to fish?"

"Ah! we'll be delighted."

"Well, that's agreed.  Help yourselves to more rum."

"I say, Ashley," said Merryweather, "pay any duty on this?"

"Never a penny," cried Ashley, laughing; "and what's more, I don't
intend."

* * * * * * *

The next visit of the trio was to the Hall.  Lady Colmore was her own
proud self now, and, much to Raventree's annoyance, paid all her
court to him--to the lord--leaving his friends, figuratively
speaking, out in the dark and the cold.

But Raventree hoisted his topsails after a time, and stood right away
on the other tack.  He overhauled the saucy craft Bertha, and made
violent love to her, greatly to her mother's delight.

"One never knows what may happen, dear," she told Bertha that
evening.  "Why, his lordship might come back some future day and
marry you!"

"Please, mother," said Bertha, "I'd rather marry Tom."

"Tom was dragged up in a cottage, Bertha.  You should study dignity,
my love.  There, go to bed, child; you are too young yet.  Just let
your mother think for you."

Our three friends had a delightful trip Yarmouth and back.  Of
course, they boarded the _Belle_, and it goes without saying that the
skipper made his usual speech, beginning: "On this auspicious
occasion," and ending with a strong recommendation to his mate to
"splice the main-brace."

* * * * * * *

There were no railway trams in those days, be it remembered, but
there were good coaches and horses; and just a week before Christmas,
Raventree, with Tom and Jack, left Dan's cottage in an open carriage
with four horses and a pair of postillions.

There was just one matter in which young Raventree delighted to
assert his dignity, and that was the matter of equipage.  It was
certainly not for pride, however, albeit, he used to say, "What's the
use of being a lord at all if you can't keep it up on shore?"

Raventree, being a sailor, loved horses, that was all, and he would
have them too.  Expense?  That didn't signify, for once in a way.
His mamma would pay.  She loved her sailor boy.  So right merrily
they drove off from the cottage, Dan and Ruth standing on the rustic
wee bridge, and waving their handkerchiefs to them as long as they
were in sight, and Meg barking her hardest.

[Illustration: "Dan and Ruth stood on the rustic bridge, and waved to
them as long as they were in sight."]

Those three sailors were all as happy as sailors could be.  Two were
young, and if Merryweather was not precisely a spring duck, his heart
was as fresh as a boy's.

The last thing Dan and Ruth saw, before the bend of the road and the
trees hid the carriage from view, was Jack waving aloft his wooden
leg, with a handkerchief bent on to the top of it.  He had unshipped
it for the purpose.

Ninety miles they had to go, but the weather was fine and the roads
were hard.  The horses too were as good as gold, and the postillions
smart, and small enough to be coxswains for an Oxford or Cambridge
boat race.

They made the first five-and-twenty miles of their journey that day
in fine style, and slept that night at a cosy little old-fashioned
inn, in front of a market square, where they astonished the landlord
by the sumptuousness of the dinner they ordered.

The landlord was a bit put about too, for he was quite unused to such
an order at this season of the year.

But his wife came to his assistance.  G----, Esq., of M---- Hall, was
from home, but his cook wasn't.  So a polite request brought her down
to the inn, with the result that the dinner was a repast fit to place
before a Russian Emperor.

Just about sunset, and before they sat down to table, Raventree and
Tom were crossing the village green--a huge great park of a place,
with a pump in the centre--when a couple of swarthy-looking, but by
no means ill-favoured, gipsy men came up to them.  One was carrying a
dark-eyed little child.

"Good gentlemen," this man said, "it is near Christmas time, and we
haven't much in the caravan yonder except five small children.  We
can't eat those."

He smiled pleasantly as he held out his hand.

Something yellow crossed his palm, and with blessings sounding in
their ears our sailors marched on, and soon forgot all about it, for
the time being.

* * * * * * *

"By-the-by," said Tom that evening to Merryweather, "did you ever
hear anything more of that fellow Jones whom you thrashed so prettily
on the sands?"

"Well," was the reply, "he volunteered, as we call it, and I took him
in the ship with me as I had promised."

"And he showed his gratitude?"

"Yes; he nearly brained me with a capstan bar at Gibraltar, then
jumped into the sea, and the men said he was sucked down in an eddy.
I don't want any more gratitude like that."

In due time the carriage arrived safely at Raventree Court, which of
course was all _en gala_.  Tom thought that Lady Raventree was the
most perfect lady he had ever seen, and his friend's sisters after
the first few hours seemed positively his own.  Never in all his life
had he felt more completely at ease than at Raventree Court, and time
appeared to fly on golden wings, so that three whole weeks went by
like one long delightful dream.

No wonder that when good-byes were said at last, both Tom and Jack
Merryweather had willingly promised that they would on no account
make strangers of themselves.

The postillions were sorry to go.  They had had a real good time of
it, as the Yankees express it, and departed with tears in their eyes.

Crack went the whips, and away rolled the carriage, heading east once
more--east with a little bit of south in it.

Thirty miles made their first day's journey, for the horses were as
fresh as salmon, and although snow had fallen to some extent the
roads were clear and hard, so the whole expedition, as Raventree
called it, was as merry and happy as the traditional sand-boy.

Next day's run, however, would only be twenty miles, so an early
start was not thought necessary.  The sky looked thick and hazy, with
the horizon closer aboard than Merryweather liked it.

"There is snow in the air," the landlord said; "but you can do it
easily, gentlemen, if you push on.  Good luck to you, and the safest
of journeys."

A little way past the hostelry where they had stayed all night was a
steep hill, that led upwards through a clump of trees.  Raventree
permitted the horses to slacken speed here, for the ground was
somewhat slippery, and an accident would have been awkward.

As it was the animals had almost to claw their way uphill, stumbling
often, but keeping on their feet.

By the time they reached the top they were well pumped, and Raventree
called a halt.  The steam rose from the animals' hides in the frosty
air in clouds, while their sides heaved like billows.

"I think we can go on now, my lord," said the leading postillion at
last.  "'T won't do, your lordship, to let 'em get too cold."

"Right then," said Merryweather.

At that moment a man sprang from behind the trees, and placing a
piece of rather dirty-looking paper in Raventree's hand, disappeared
again as suddenly as he had come.

"Why, what is the meaning of this?" said Raventree, laughing, as he
handed the note to Merryweather.

"Well," said the latter, "it's a warning from a friend, there is no
doubt about that."

"_Look well to your priming as you pass through Blackmuir woods._"

"That's plain enough," said Raventree.  "Why, how jolly!  We're going
to have a real adventure with footpads."

When they pulled up at the top of the next hill to breathe the horses
once again--for the snow was now whirling round their heads in gusts
that were almost suffocating--

"Boys," said Merryweather to the postillions, "where is Blackmuir
wood?"

"Twelve mile far'er on, sir."

"Are your pistols loaded?"

"That they be, sir.  We knows Blackmuir well."

Crack went the whips again, and it was evident the boys were not
afraid of anything.




CHAPTER II.

THE FIGHT ON BLACKMUIR MARSH.

"It is the very captain of the thieves."--TENNYSON.


The sun was setting by the time the carriage reached Blackmuir; going
down in a sky of great rolling snow-laden clouds, with here and there
a rift of blue between; going down with a yellow, angry glare, that
boded no good for the travellers.  A more dreary waste than this
wind-swept moor, on such a wintry afternoon, it would be difficult to
conceive.  Lonesome and lovely it would be in summer time, when the
linnets sang among the patches of golden furze, when the partridges
called to each other among the grass, and water birds made love in
the reedy ponds, while the blackbird's mellow music, and the wild
lilts of the mavis, made the echoes ring in copse and woodland.  But
the pools were now frozen, the bushes were but ghostly shapes, the
spruce trees and pines pointed their snow-laden branches groundwards
and looked like sheeted spectres; and when the carriage pulled up for
a short time, before plunging down into a wooded ravine, there was no
sound to be heard save the moan of the wintry wind.

The forest they soon entered was fully two miles in extent--tall
beech trees, oaks, elms, and pines, but with here and there an ocean
of undergrowth that would afford excellent ambush for a footpad.

Slowly the carriage descended the hill.  There was a bridge at the
bottom that crossed a rushing stream, then the hill began to ascend
again.  But here the trees almost overhung the road.

No one spoke.  The postillions kept their heads constantly on the
move.  Tom was kneeling on the front seat of the carriage, which was
an open one, and peeping into the semi-darkness of the wood.
Raventree and Merryweather sat behind, each grasping a pistol, while
several more lay handy.

"If we are attacked," said Merryweather quietly, "take good aim,
lads, each at the man nearest to him.  Keep steady, and we'll beat
the rascals off if there be fifty----."

Crack, crack, crack.  Smoke and flame came from a thicket near.  The
leading off horse stumbled and fell, and the postillion came tumbling
to the ground with him.

"Hold your fire," cried Merryweather.

There was a shout from the wood, and six armed and masked men
suddenly sprang into view.

"Give them fits now," roared Merryweather.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, went a volley, and two men fell.  The others
rushed in.

"Hold and deliver!" cried one.  "If you fire again you are dead men."

At that moment the other postillion fell, and horses and men were now
so mixed up that to fire at the ruffians was impossible, with any
degree of safety to the postillions or horses.

Four huge pistols were levelled at the carriage, and its occupants
seemed marked.

"You haven't a show for it, Merryweather," cried one of the footpads.

But the fellow's voice, instead of cowing the sailors, appeared to
act like the match that fires a mine.

"By Jove!  I know you, Jones," cried Merryweather.

He kicked the door of the carriage open as he spoke, and sprang like
a deer into the road.  The wooden-leg seemed an advantage rather than
a drawback.

Pistols cracked again, swords clashed, and horses plunged.  There
were shouts, oaths, and screams.  Then high above the din of battle a
wild huzza from the woods, and two new combatants, armed with
cudgels, rushed upon the stage of battle.

Were they footpads?  No; but gipsies, and right sturdily they laid
around them.  In two minutes more the battle was decided, every
robber _hors de combat_ or pleading for mercy, and Tom and Raventree
shaking hands with the two swarthy Romany Ryes they had been kind to
three weeks before.

Merryweather had torn the mask from the face of one of the robbers
with no very gentle hand, and there stood revealed the villainous
face of David Jones, the Welsh smuggler.

Merryweather was angry, virtuously, but _very_ angry.  He clenched
his fist, and for a moment it seemed he was about to dash it at the
scoundrel's head; but he restrained himself.

"This is the second time you've attempted my life, Jones," he said,
"you cowardly rascal."

"The third'll come," was the cool reply, "if I have the chance."

"That you never shall.  You'll hang as high as Haman."

"We'll see," said the fellow.  "If I'm hanged my ghost shall haunt
you."

The prisoners were now secured--death indeed had secured two--and the
postillions once more mounted, much afraid still, but all intact.
One horse had been killed, and this was the only fatality on the side
of the sailors, although the carriage was riddled with bullets.

The gipsy caravan was not far away, and this was requisitioned next
day, and a start made from the nearest inn, for Yarmouth; the
prisoners being shut up in the van, and safely guarded by the sturdy
gipsies.

At Yarmouth three prisoners were handed over to the authorities.  No,
not four.  Jones was found dying in the caravan the evening before
they reached town.  He had loosened one hand, found a small knife,
and therewith done the deed that soon hurried him into the presence
of Him who made him.

* * * *

Every man Jack in those dashing days, who could wave sword or cutlass
or trail a pike, was needed by the service, so it was unlikely that
Raventree or Tom would be allowed to rest at home.

Nelson himself, minus an arm, minus an eye, had once more joined the
service, and was on duty at this time in the Mediterranean.

So Raventree and Tom Bure, who had both passed their examinations
with flying colours, and were therefore full-blown lieutenants, were
appointed to a ship then fitting out for sea at Portsmouth.

Nor was Merryweather entirely overlooked.  He was overhauled,
however, by a body of bold ship's doctors.  They agreed that,
although a wooden leg would be awkward on board a ship, it would not
incapacitate its wearer from certain kinds of duty on shore.  So
Merryweather found himself in command of as brave and reckless a lot
of blue-jackets as ever reefed a topsail.  They were nominally called
coast-guardsmen, but no one knew better than the townspeople of
Portsmouth, that their principal mission was connected with the
pressgang.

By no means a very elevating employment was this, nor was it one that
Merryweather cared for, only it had to be done by some one.  The king
needed men for his navy, and Merryweather would have carried a musket
for his majesty had he been asked to do so.

In this service--coast-guard--O'Grady, formerly of the ships in which
our heroes had fought, was Merryweather's best man, and between the
two of them they managed to obtain quite a large number of
"volunteers."

They did not confine their operations to any one town or place,
however.  They would be in Portsmouth one week, probably, and in
London or Dover the next, Mr. Merryweather thinking it best not to be
too well known in any particular port.

Now the _Highflyer_, in which Tom and Raventree were to take passage
to the Levant, in order to join the fleet under the Earl of St.
Vincent--Sir John Jervis--was short of men, and what more natural
than that Merryweather and O'Grady should undertake to supply them?
Both officers knew every corner and alley of old Portsmouth, and what
was better still, they knew every crimp therein.

A crimp was a mean kind of a reptile that lived in clover upon the
earnings of poor Jack in those days, and that still exists in various
forms about the London docks.  But the genus is nowadays threatened
with extinction, for sailors have grown wiser, and instead of going
to low lodging-houses they very frequently are to be found at those
very excellent institutions called Sailors' Homes.

When Raventree and Tom, delighted to be together.  joined the
_Highflyer_, they found everything in the direst confusion.  The ship
had only just been got out of dock, and the "woodpeckers," as the
carpenters were called, were still on board fitting up, the tapping
of their hammers resounding fore and aft all day long.

The _Highflyer_ was an old-fashioned gun brig, with strong masts and
lofty; capable of good speed under a heavy press of canvas, but at
the same time a craft that needed a sailor's eye and a sailor's head
to watch and manœuvre, in dirty weather at all events.  Just the
sort of vessel that, if taken aback suddenly in a squall, was as
likely as not to go down stern foremost in five minutes time or far
less.

The captain of the _Highflyer_ was a much older man than either of
our young heroes.  His rank, however, was not post, although he gave
himself all the airs of an admiral of the fleet.

Tom and his friend came off in the gig which had been sent for them,
and McTough, the captain, condescended to meet them as they came over
the side.  He smiled as he returned their salute, or rather he made a
grimace that was meant for a smile.

A little short dark man he was, with a Highland accent, and a manner
that was intended to denote that on his own quarter-deck there was no
one in all the wide world to compare with McTough, and that it would
only be waste of time to attempt to get to windward of him.

"We're all in blessed confusion at present," he said, "and sure we'll
be so too for days and days.  Not half my men either; but
Merryweather will soon find them.  Ah! he's the right sort.  I was a
middy with him.  Come below, gentlemen, to my cabin.  It's the only
place in the ship that isn't thoroughly thro'-other."

"Steward!" he cried, when they had seated themselves, "bring the
wine."

It was Scotch wine that the steward brought--in other words, Highland
whisky.

The captain half-filled a tumbler and tossed it off, and seemed a
little astonished that Tom and Raventree did not tackle the stuff in
the same off-hand way.  The captain's first glass was drunk "neat,"
that is, without water; the second was diluted, and this one was
evidently meant only to trifle with as he kept talking, for before
they rose to go on deck he helped himself to another, saying, "Pooh!
no, it spoils the flavour," as Raventree passed the water across to
him.

That evening Merryweather and O'Grady came off, and all four dined in
the captain's cabin.  There was plenty here to eat and drink, and the
wines were of the best vintage; but nothing would Captain McTough
touch except the wine of his native land.

"I'll have fifteen as handsome volunteers for you," said Merryweather
in the course of the evening, "as ever kept a watch."

"It's me myself that is pleased to hear it," said McTough, ignoring
the rules of grammar in his excitement.  "And they'll come of their
own free will, of course?"

Merryweather smiled.

"Better have your surgeon on board," he said, "for I expect there'll
be a broken head or two to see to among the lot."

"And let me just tell you this, Merryweather, I like the men best
that come on board with broken heads.  It shows they're no
hinkumsneevies."*


* Hinkumsneevie--a mean, worthless fellow, with no "go" in him.


"Ah! well, McTough, I like to lay them aboard as easily as possible."

"You always were soft-hearted, Merryweather."

"And, Tom, you'll come with us and see the fun.  I know Raventree
will."

"Well," said Tom, "I'd just like to know how it is done.  But it
seems rather hard on the poor sailors."

"For king and country," said Merryweather.

"If that's a toast," said McTough, "we'll drink it."

And he did.  McTough never missed an opportunity of drinking a toast.

And soon after he went to sleep in his arm-chair, which was always
McTough's way of intimating to his guests that they might leave when
they liked.

"Dine with me to-morrow evening at the 'Fountain,' then," said
Merryweather, as he shook hands with his friends and went over the
side.

"A different kind of craft this from the old _Agamemnon_," said Tom
when the boat had shoved off.

"I don't like her, Tom."

"And I don't like McTough."

"Well, suppose we get clear of her as soon as we can."

"Agreed."




CHAPTER III.

  "VOLUNTEERS" FOR THE NAVY.--THE BURNING OF THE
  "HIGHFLYER."

  "I'm a freeman--a nabob--a king on his throne,
  For I've chattels and goods and strong beer of my own."


The "gentleman" who wished to see Commander Merryweather, just as he
and his two friends had finished dinner at the "Fountain" next
evening, was not a person one would have taken to very readily.

A tall, fair-haired, bland, inscrutable kind of man, with a shifty
eye.  He bowed most obsequiously to Merryweather, then looked
doubtingly at Tom and Raventree, who were both in mufti.

"Friends," said Merryweather curtly.

"Officers, I presume," said Bloggs, for that was his sweetly-savoured
name, and he smiled and bowed again.

"Enough of that, Bloggs," said Merryweather.  "Help yourself to some
wine, and let's get to business.  Are your men all ready to
volunteer?"

"To a man, Capting Merryweather."

"There now; no names, please.  Where are they now, and what doing?"

"They're all on the carouse.  Tossing cans, and singing, at No. 9
back-room."

"How many in all?"

"Over twenty; nearer thirty.  I've refused them more liquor."

"Fool!"

"See here, Capting--I means mister.  I knows my biz, you knows yours.
Supposing I'd been too liberal wi' the grog, they'd have suspected.
There's some among 'em suspects now.  I knows what I'm about."

"All right.  And they're in the back hall?"

"Ay, and a fiddler's just gone in."

"Keep them dancing and gay, Bloggs, till after midnight.  We'll be
there.  Yes, empty the bottle if you like."

Bloggs had a double allowance of wine, bowed, smiled, and retired.

"Awful villain!" said Merryweather.  "Those poor fellows we're going
to have, if we can, have most of them been there a week, and hardly
ever seen daylight."

"Does he keep them in the dark?" asked Tom innocently.

"You don't understand," said Merryweather, laughing.  "He keeps them
drunk that he may cheat them, and they hardly know whether it is
night or day.  If we didn't have them, Bloggs would bundle them,
still drunk, on board some merchantman, five, six, or even ten at a
time, receive their advance, and go smiling on shore again, to allure
more to his dismal den.  The ships that take them lie in the harbour
for a day or two, and as soon as the poor seamen are sober it is up
jib and off."

The back hall of No. 9 was considered the safest crimp's crib in all
Portsmouth.  It lay fifty yards off the street.  You entered by a
narrow alley, then found yourself in a kind of garden, at the bottom
of which stood the hall, or dancing howff.  Here poor Jack drank,
danced, ate, and slept, awaking only to eat, dance, and drink again.

Let us look in here to-night.  It will be some time before our eyes
are quite used to the clouds of tobacco smoke; then we can dimly see
Jack and Sally, or Poll, seated at tables round the room, smoking,
singing, and yarning.  There is a screechy old fiddle at quite the
other end of the big room, and half-a-dozen couples on the floor
footing it lightly on the fantastic toe, or the heavy heel.

The hubbub and din is fearful, for more than one song is going on at
the same time, though if you listen you can just make out the words
of the singer at the nearest table.  His eyes sparkle with mirth as
he trolls out the following ditty:

  "Wounds! here's such a coil!  I'm none of your poor
  Petty varlets, who flatter and cringe, and all that;
  I'm a freeman, a nabob, a king on his throne,
  For I've chattels and goods, and strong beer of my own.
  Besides, 't is a rule, that good fellows ne'er fail,
  To let everything wait but the generous ale.

        _Chorus_--Besides----"


That chorus was never sung.

"Long live the King," shouted Merryweather, entering by the only
door, and apparently all alone.

"Now, good fellows, it's all up; so who's going to fight the French
for St. George and merrie England?"

There was just one moment of stillness after this bold, brief speech,
then pandemonium seemed suddenly let loose.  A shower of bottles,
jugs, and cans came floating towards Merryweather, but he ducked and
retired; women screamed, tables were overthrown, and amidst oaths and
maledictions a rush was made for the door.

A few were knocked down and handcuffed as they came, but the rush was
too great, even for the force of bluejackets.

The fight in the garden was a fearful one.  The moon shone as
brightly as day, and in less than a minute showed at least a dozen
couples struggling on the ground.

It was not the object of the seamen to stop to fight, however, but to
escape.

The second rush was through the alley, but here they encountered
Merryweather's rear-guard.  So well, indeed, had he disposed of his
men, that out of the thirty odd merchant seafarers only about seven
escaped.

There was no happier man next morning than Captain McTough, as he
reviewed his volunteers--twenty-two in all, and scarcely one among
them who had not a cut face or blood-matted hair.

And now a strange thing occurred.  The very man who last evening had
been singing about being

  "A freeman, a nabob, a king on his throne,"

stepped out of the ranks and saluted the captain.

"Men," he said, "I'm a volunteer."

"And we're all volunteers, Bill," they shouted.

Then he turned to Merryweather.

"It doesn't matter a deal," he said, "now we're here, whether we
volunteer or not.  But, sir, I wish you were going with us, timber
toe and all; for, faith! you fought finely, and I love a brave man."

Merryweather shook the man by the hand, and the volunteers cheered
him as he went over the side.  But I may as well state here as
anywhere else that Bill Williams--and a bold Welshman he was--turned
out one of the best men in the ship.  And if a man could be good
under such a tyrant as Commander McTough he could be good anywhere.

The brig had not got half-way over the Bay of Biscay before this
officer showed the cloven hoof.  He had no less than two men down
from aloft in the same forenoon, stripped and flogged--four round
dozen each, _sans ceremonie_.

His language was also, to say the very least, far from polite.

McTough was a sample of the naval officers who are despots on their
own quarterdecks, and who, even in those days, I am happy to say were
comparatively rare.

Tom Bure was sick of the fellow in four or five days' time, and could
hardly be civil to him.

Raventree ventured to take a man's part, and received such a torrent
of invective that he told McTough, there where he stood, that he was
a scoundrel and a villain.

"Mutiny!  Rank mutiny!" roared McTough, growing almost black in the
face.  "Down--below--under arrest, sir.  I have half a mind to hang
you to-morrow morning at the yard-arm.  I have."

Raventree smiled, gave up his sword--it was at divisions--and went
quietly below to his cabin.

"I have orders to let no one in to see the gentleman," said the
sentry, when Tom went below that evening.

But Tom got in for all that.

Raventree was lying on his cot, reading by the light of a jimble-lamp.

"Tom," he said, "you mustn't stay a minute.  I'll be cashiered as
sure as a gun.  But you needn't be."

"Keep up your heart," said Tom.  "You're not tried yet, and there's
many a thing may happen before we join the fleet."

Tom's prophecy came terribly true.

* * * * *

It was some nights after Raventree had been put under arrest, and
towards the end of the middle watch--kept to-night by Tom, for it was
watch and watch now that his friend was off duty--when Bill Williams,
who had been sent below on some message, returned hastily on deck.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but there is a a terrible smell
of burning between decks.  Will you run down?"

Tom had not far to run.  Not "smell" alone, but smoke was issuing
from underneath the door of the captain's cabin.  The alarm was given
at once, and the fire bell had not clanged for a minute before every
man was on deck.  No disorder, however, no confusion.  They were
British seamen--Hearts of Oak.

The door of the cabin was found locked inside, but was speedily burst
in, and as speedily flames rushed out.  Even had he been alive, there
could have been no hopes of saving the unhappy captain; but ten to
one he himself or the wine of his native land had been the cause of
the terrible calamity.

Tom Bure now assumed command, and he and Raventree, whom fate had
relieved from arrest, at once divided the crew into two parties.
Both worked like heroes, one party to get up the ammunition, of which
there was quite a large store on board, the other in drawing water,
to quell, if possible, the raging demon, Fire.  The ship was put head
to the wind, but in less than half an hour she had fallen off, for
the whole afterpart was on fire, and steering was impossible.

Very speedily now the flames took possession of the rigging, and the
scene that ensued baffles description.  In less than five minutes
after the vessel broached to, she was on fire from stem to stern.

Everything that could be lifted and launched overboard was thrown
out, but there was no time to lower a boat.  The men simply leapt
into the sea by the dozen and score, for there had been nearly 200
men all told when the brig swung out past the Needles.

Tom Bure and Raventree, with many others, including Bill Williams,
had sought refuge on the jibboom and bowsprit.  It was but a choice
of deaths apparently, when suddenly Bill shouted:

"Oh! look, Mr. Bure, yonder is a light, and it is bearing this way."

The night was intensely dark, and with the glare of the fire it
seemed impossible that anyone could have caught sight of a light.

Williams was right, however.

In a few minutes' time boats were alongside picking up the drowning
men, who clung to the floating wreckage.

Our brave fellows on the jibboom cheered them, Frenchmen though they
could see they were.  Their great black frigate lay out yonder
against the star-studded horizon, gently rising and falling on the
swell of the mighty Atlantic.

"We'll be all prisoners," said Bill.

"Never mind, Williams," said another sailor, "any port in a storm;
but I say, Jack, I----"

Crash!  The bowsprit was severed, and down went the jibboom into the
sea.  In another minute the brig had filled aft, heeled backwards,
and gone down stern first, leaving but a few black, seething, smoking
spars among the bubbling waves.  Half at least of the poor fellows
who had thought themselves safe on the jibboom were sucked down with
the sinking ship.

* * * * *

Of all the crew of the sturdy brig _Highflyer_, only fifty-three
mustered at daylight on board the French frigate.

"My dear Tom," said Raventree, "I have never felt more thankful for
anything than to see your face among the saved."

"And I to see you, Raventree."

"And I to see you both, gentlemen," said bold Bill Williams,
advancing.

Both Tom and Raventree reciprocated by shaking the honest fellow by
the hand.

Nothing could exceed the kindness of the Frenchmen to the men they
had rescued in so strange a manner.

Raventree and Tom were invited into the captain's cabin, and there
they breakfasted.

"It is very kind of you to treat prisoners thus," said Tom.

"It ees all well," said the captain; "and it ees de fortune of de
war.  Perhaps it may be my turn next."

A day or two after this, and early in the morning, the strange
spectacle was witnessed of a large French frigate coming straight in
from the north-west, under all sail, towards the fleet of Sir John
Jervis, who was still blockading Cadiz.

Here was a mystery that made every man on every ship stare in
amazement.

Was peace declared, or was that ship mad?

Mad or not mad, she made directly for the admiral's ship, with a
white flag flying at her fore, and the French stripes at her peak.

She wanted to speak, that was evident enough.  So a boat was speedily
hastening towards her.  When the officer stepped on board he was
quickly told the terrible story of the burning of the _Highflyer_,
and the saving of a portion of her crew, whom the French captain now
desired to give up to the admiral of the British fleet.

  "One touch of Nature makes the world kin."


St. Vincent was much affected by this display of genuine kindness and
chivalry.  He insisted upon the French captain coming to dine with
him, and when the frigate at last got under weigh a signal was made
to man yards, and a cheer went over the water after the receding ship
that must have rung in the ears of the crew for many a long day after.




CHAPTER IV

THE SEARCH FOR THE FRENCH FLEET--AT LAST.

  "Now's the day, and now's the hour,
  See the front of battle lower."--BURNS.


We must now return to our hero Nelson.

In an early chapter of this story I mentioned that the great man had
once gone to Paris, and had there met an officer who was somewhat of
a dandy, and whose name was Ball.

Nelson had found it impossible to associate bravery and pluck with
fine clothes.  This dislike to fine clothing he had doubtless picked
up in the merchant ship in which he served for a time, and it had
clung to him.  However, he lived to find out that though first
impressions are usually very strong, it does not follow that they are
always just and correct.

After joining St. Vincent, about the end of April, the admiral of the
fleet got word that the French were getting ready a great expedition
at Toulon and Genoa.*  It was not known for what this armament was
intended, and various conjectures were hazarded.  Perhaps the enemy
meant to attack Naples or Sicily, or to invade Ireland.  However,
this armament of theirs must be sought for and destroyed if possible.


* _Vide_ Map.


Now there were many officers senior to Nelson on the station, and on
one or other of these--so they thought--ought to have devolved the
command of the anti-French squadron.

The Earl of St. Vincent, however, thought different.  He _knew_
Nelson; knew what he could dare and what he could do; knew how wise
and clever he was, how energetic, bold, and determined; knew that if
he undertook a mission of any kind he would, figuratively speaking,
"give neither sleep to his eyes nor slumber to his eyelids" until he
had fulfilled it.

But when the admiral of the fleet appointed him to the
search-squadron there was a howl of rage from all quarters, at home
as well as abroad.  Sir John Orde, a senior in the service to Nelson,
let his wrath get such mastery over him that he challenged St.
Vincent to fight a duel.  St. Vincent was no fool, and I suppose
quietly lit a pipe with the challenge.  Anyhow, it never came off.

But even a lord of the admiralty condemned the conduct of the admiral
of the fleet, who, however, could stand red tape abuse quite as well
as he could the fire of the French in battle.

Still so high did popular feeling run in some quarters, that one
trembles to think what the fate of our great hero would have been,
had he been beaten by the foe when he at last found his fleet.  He
would certainly have been brought home, tried, and probably executed.

Can you imagine anything more horrible than that would have been,
reader--executing Nelson?  But the mere possibility of such a thing
only proves that the public, which heroes serve so faithfully and
well, is after all like a caged lion or tiger, tame to a fault with
its keeper, the hero, but a savage creature and a fool in its wrath
when crossed or put out of temper.  The public will pamper and
idolize a man one day, and trample his bleeding body under foot the
next.

So Nelson sailed with his ships.

He had orders to requisition stores, food, water, &c., in any port of
the Mediterranean he chose.  If such stores were not forthcoming,
that port was to be treated as an enemy's.  One exception only was
made; viz., in the case of Sardinia.

Well, this expedition of Nelson's had but a bad beginning; for while
crossing the Gulf of Lyons he encountered a terrible storm of wind,
which scattered his ships in all directions, and nearly wrecked the
_Vanguard_, on which his flag was flying.  There is almost as much
humour as pathos in the letter he writes to his wife on this occasion.

"Imagine if you can," he says, "a vain-glorious man--your
husband--walking his quarter-deck on Sunday evening, with his
squadron all around him, who* looked up to their chief to lead them
to glory, and in whom this chief placed the firmest reliance that the
proudest ships, in equal numbers, belonging to France would have
lowered their flags, and with a very rich prize lying by him.  Figure
to yourself this proud, conceited man when the sun rose on Monday
morning, his ship dismasted, his fleet dispersed, and himself in such
distress that the meanest frigate out of France would have been a
very unwelcome guest."


* The young reader will note that Nelson's grammatical construction
of sentences was not always on an even keel.


But, lo! the very man whom Nelson had so despised in France, and
dubbed a dandy and a fop, came now to his assistance in the
_Alexander_, and at the imminent danger to both ships of foundering,
took him in tow to St. Pierre.  No wonder that Nelson loved the man
from that day forth.

* * * * *

In a few days' time, however, Nelson had undergone repairs, and was
able once more to start on his voyage.  But, alas! he had lost sight
of his frigates.

Britain and France at this time, reader, you must remember were
playing at cross purposes to some extent, and great wars usually have
been carried on in this way.  Britain and France, not content with
hitting each other in the face straight from the shoulder whenever
they had a chance, did all they could to kick the stools from under
each other.  For instance, we bolstered up the kingdom of Naples,
which has well been stigmatised as one of the most abominable,
disreputable, and licentious of European governments.  The king was
inferior to an English squire.  He would have been good in a rat hunt
with fox terriers, or in a rabbit coursing match; but he was utterly
unfitted either to fight or rule a people.  His wife, the queen,
was--well, the least said the better.  And we, Britain, were to
protect the two of them against the revolutionary schemes of France,
not, mind you, because we loved them, but because we hated France.
This kingdom then was the stool we intended to kick from under
France.  But kicking is a game both can play at, and France turned
her attention to India.  They would attack us _there_, just as the
Russians will before fifty years are over.  May they be as
unsuccessful as old Napoleon was.

But before India could be used as a basis of operations against
Britain, Egypt must be conquered and occupied.

It must be confessed too, that the French carried out their plans for
the invasion of Egypt with consummate skill and boldness, for as your
school history tells you, reader, Napoleon, with an army of 30,000
old and well-disciplined troops, managed to hoodwink the British and
put to sea _en route_ for Alexandria.

Malta fell in the first off-go.

Napoleon landed in the end of June unopposed near to Alexandria.

The conquest of Egypt followed in rapid course.  With such troops,
under such a splendid commander, this conquest was all one glorious
picnic.  So the battle of the Pyramids was fought, and crushed was
the pomp and panoply of the great Marmelukes.  Cairo fell, and on
marched the victorious troops.

So sure of getting his army to India was Napoleon, that as soon as he
landed he dispatched secret envoys to Tippoo Saib, son of Hyder Ali,
who had built up a great new state in the south of India.  These
envoys were to inform Tippoo to hold himself in readiness for a _coup
de grace_, because the French were on their way to his assistance.

BUT--and please note this is a very important _but_--Napoleon's
dreams of further glory in India depended entirely upon his being
able to keep up his communications with France, and, says Davenport
Adams, "while France held Italy and the Ionian Islands these could
not be interrupted, so long as the British armament in the
Mediterranean was kept occupied in watching the movements of the
French fleet."

The _raison d'etre_ of Nelson's movements will now be easily seen.

Owing to the shilly-shalling and inactivity of the king of Naples,
who would neither move hand nor foot to save himself or help to free
Italy, Nelson was very much delayed.  Meanwhile St. Vincent was
reinforced by ships sent from England.  His lordship had previously
received word that such reinforcement was about to be dispatched, and
therefore he had lost not a moment in getting ready another squadron
to send to Nelson's assistance, and this consisted of the most
powerful ships under his command, under the best of his captains.

No sooner, therefore, were the outcoming fleet visible off Cadiz Bay,
than Troubridge's squadron sailed.  It was upon the 9th of June that
the hero was joined by this squadron.

Then commenced the great game of hide and seek.  Nelson had to solve
a puzzle somewhat similar to the pictorial advertisement, in which
you are presented with an illustration called "The babes of the wood
and cock robin."  There lie the babes under the trees quietly enough,
with a few leaves over them, but where is cock robin?  That is what
you have to find out.  And here was Nelson with his squadron in the
Mediterranean--the Mediterranean was all about him, blue and evident
enough, but where was the French fleet?  That was what the hero had
to find out.

The story of Nelson's search for the enemy would make a very pretty
and romantic story all by itself.

Nelson, however, was not a man to be very easily disheartened, so he
started in pursuit, if such a blindman's buff could be termed
pursuit.  He learned that the enemy had been seen off Trapani, in
Sicily, in the first week in June, and that they were then steering
eastwards away.

Troubridge next found out that they had gone to Malta, and Nelson
bore up for that city of tumbledown forts and steps and stairs.

Nelson arrived at Malta just too late.  So on the 18th of June he
steered for Egypt.  Had Nelson only had the frigates with him, which
he had lost sight of in that unlucky gale in the Gulf of Lyons, it
would not have been difficult now to find the French.  On his way to
Alexandria, however, he overhauled several merchantmen, but could get
no tidings of the enemy.

"Have you seen anything of the French fleet?" was the question that
seemed to be always put.  "Or you?  Or you?"

And the answers were always--

"No, no, no."

"Well, they may be at Alexandria," thought Nelson.  He arrived off
this city on the 28th of June.

"No," was again the answer to his enquiries; the French had not been
seen or heard of.

But the governor had received intelligence that the armament prepared
by the French was really intended for Egypt.

"It would have been," says Southey, "Nelson's delight to have tried
Bonaparte on a wind.  It would have been the delight of Europe too,
and the blessing of the world, if that fleet had been overtaken with
its general on board.  But of the myriads and millions of human
beings, who would have been preserved by that day's victory, there is
not one to whom such essential benefit would have resulted as to
Bonaparte himself.  It would have spared him his defeat at Acre--his
only disgrace; for to have been defeated by Nelson upon the seas
would not have been disgraceful, and it would have spared him all his
after enormities.

"Hitherto his--Bonaparte's--career had been glorious, the baneful
principles of his heart had never yet passed his lips.  History would
have represented him as a soldier of fortune, who had faithfully
served the cause in which he had engaged, and whose career had been
distinguished by a series of successes, unexampled in modern times.
A romantic obscurity would have hung over the expedition to Egypt,
and he would have escaped the perpetration of those crimes that have
incarnadined his soul with a deeper dye than that of the purple for
which he committed them--those acts of perfidy, midnight murder,
usurpation, and remorseless tyranny, which have consigned his name to
universal execration now and for ever."

Not finding the French at Alexandria, Nelson steered north for
Caramania, and thence along the shores of Candia, "carrying a press
of sail both night and day against a contrary wind."

He next returned towards Sicily, only to find that the Government of
Naples were too much afraid of the French to give him any assistance
in the shape of water and provisions, without which he could not have
continued his pursuit of the enemy.

But Nelson had a friend at Court, and after some little vexatious
delay he was permitted to re-victual at Syracuse.

Nelson was glad at heart now, and wrote to Sir William Hamilton, the
British Ambassador at Naples, and to Lady Hamilton, as follows:
"Thanks to your exertions, we have victualled and watered, and
surely, watering at the fountain of Arethusa, we must have victory.
We shall sail with the first breeze, and be assured I will return
either crowned with laurel or covered with cypress."

He wrote also to St. Vincent, telling him that if the enemy was still
above water he should find them; and to the First Lord of the
Admiralty, saying, among other things, "but should they be bound to
the Antipodes, your lordship may rely upon it that I will not lose a
moment in bringing them to action."

* * * * * *

On the 25th of July Nelson got away from Syracuse, and made the Gulf
of Coron on the 28th.

One cannot help pitying poor Nelson at this time, lying awake in his
bed at night after a few hours of sleep, thinking and worrying till
almost ill, asking the officer of the watch again and again what time
it was, and peevishly crying, "Will morning never come?"

There was hardly an hour of the day now that he did not lament and
bemoan the loss of his frigates, that were no doubt looking for him
somewhere, as eager to meet him as he was to catch sight of them.

In this game of hide-and-seek, or blind man's buff, strange as it may
seem, the French and British fleets must positively have crossed each
other's tracks on the night of June 22nd.

Troubridge now entered the port of Coron, and came back with the news
that a whole month before this the French fleet had been observed
steering to the south-east from Candia.

Nelson determined, therefore, to once more bear up for Alexandria,
convinced in his own mind that the fleet of the enemy would be found
there.

Nor was he mistaken.

For on the morning of August the 1st Captain Hood, of the _Zealous_,
hoisted the signal to say he had discovered them.

"Thank God!" said Nelson fervently.  "At last!"

He had hardly slept or eaten for a week before this, but to-day he
dined with his captains, while preparations for battle were being
made.  As they rose from the table Nelson exclaimed,

"Before this time to-morrow I shall have gained a peerage or
Westminster Abbey!"




CHAPTER V.

  THE BATTLE OF THE NILE--HORRORS OF THE
  COCKPIT--NELSON WOUNDED.

  "Commanding fires of death to light
  The darkness of the scenery."


Tom Bure and Raventree, after the burning of their ship, and their
wonderful deliverance from what seemed the certainty of death, would,
upon their arrival on board the flagship of the Earl of St. Vincent,
have dearly liked to have been appointed together to the same ship,
but this was not to be.  Tom Bure had to join Troubridge, of the
_Culloden_, and Raventree was sent on board the _Zealous_, under
Captain Samuel Hood.

On the very morning that the French fleet was discovered, not
altogether satisfied with the outlook, Raventree had himself run
aloft, and had not been there three minutes before he was able to
raise the topgallant masts of the Frenchmen.  He immediately hailed
the deck, and the glad signal was at once hoisted.

It may be to the advantage of the reader to scan the following lists
of the ships, guns, and men of the two fleets that were engaged in

  THE BATTLE OF THE NILE.

  I.  _British Line of Battle at the Nile_.*

  SHIPS.            CAPTAINS.    GUNS.    MEN.

  14 Culloden . . . Troubridge  . 74  ...  590
  4 Theseus . . . . Miller  . . . 74  ...  590
  7 Alexander . . . Ball  . . . . 74  ...  590
  8 Vanguard  . . . _Nelson_  . . 74  ...  525
  9 Minotaur  . . . Luis  . . . . 74  ...  640
  6 Leander . . . . Thompson  . . 50  ...  343
  11 Swiftsure  . . Hallowell . . 74  ...  590
  1 Audacious . . . Gould . . . . 74  ...  590
  10 Defence  . . . Peyton  . . . 74  ...  590
  2 Zealous . . . . Hood  . . . . 74  ...  590
  5 Orion . . . . . Saumarez  . . 74  ...  590
  3 Goliath . . . . Foley . . . . 74  ...  590
  13 Majestic . . . Westcott  . . 74  ...  590
  12 Bellerophon  . Darby . . . . 74  ...  590
  15 _La Mutine_  . Hardy


  II. _French Line of Battle_.*

  A Le Guerrier . . .......  . 74 ... 600  Taken
  B Le Conquérant . .......  . 74 ... 700  Taken
  C Le Spartiate  . .......  . 74 ... 700  Taken

* The figures and letters prefixed to each vessel marks on the plan
its position in the battle.

[Illustration: PLAN OF THE BATTLE OF THE NILE.]

  SHIPS.                  CAPTAINS.      GUNS.    MEN.

  D L'Aquilon             ........         74 ... 700 Taken

  E Le Peuple Souverain   ........         74 ... 700 Taken

  F Le Franklin       }  Blanquet, 1st  {  80 ... 700 Taken
                      }    Contra-Adm.  {

                      } Brueys, V.A.,   {
  G L'Orient          }      and        { 120 ... 1010 Burnt
                      } Com.-in-Chief   {

  H Le Tonnant            .......         180 ... 800 Taken

  I L'Heureux             .......          74 ... 700 Taken

  K Le Timoléon           .......          75 ... 700 Burnt

  M Le Mercure            .......          74 ... 700 Taken

  L Le Guillaume      } Villeneuve, {      80 ... 800 Escaped
      Tell            } 2nd Con-Ad. {

  N Le Genéreux           .......          74 ... 700 Escaped


  French Frigates.

  Q La Diane      .     .     .     .      48 ... 300 Escaped

  E La Justice    .     .     .     .      44 ... 300 Escaped

  P L'Artemise    .     .     .     .      36 ... 250 Burnt

  O La Sérieuse   .     .     .     .      36 ... 250 Sunk


It is difficult at this date to determine with any degree of
exactness what were the orders given to the commander-in-chief of the
French fleet by Napoleon Bonaparte.  It seems strange that a great
soldier and conqueror like him should not have sent away his ships
after he had effected his landing, and he accused Brueys, after that
unfortunate admiral was killed in the battle of the Nile, of having
lingered in Egypt without his orders.  The French fleet was sorely
enough needed in other directions.  It might even have succeeded in
raising the blockade of Cadiz.

Be this as it may, here were Brueys and his fleet safely--as the
Frenchmen thought--moored in Aboukir Bay; in a line of battle of such
strength that one would have thought no three navies in the world
could have broken it up.

Brueys would gladly have entered the port of Alexandria, but his
ships were too heavy, so he did the next best thing.

A glance at the plan will show how the Frenchmen were positioned in
this great fight.  But besides the advantage of location, it will be
noticed that the enemy had also more ships, more guns, and more men
than the British.  Brueys might well have felt certain that victory
would be his.

Perhaps it was the apparent impregnability of his situation that
caused him to wait here for Nelson.  He must have known that our hero
was headstrong enough to attack him wherever he found him, and that
in Aboukir Bay he had a reasonable chance of victory, while in the
open sea he would have had none.

I have not the slightest doubt in my own mind that Nelson took into
calculation, even before he fell in with the French here, the
possibility of their being moored in battle array, just as he found
them.  Nor do I doubt that an attack, even by Nelson, from the front
or in the ordinary way would have been unsuccessful.  But Nelson was
no ordinary man, and never did attack in any ordinary way.  So when
he found out how the enemy was moored, it instantly flashed upon him
that if the water of the bay between their fleet and the shore was
deep enough for such great ships as _L'Orient_ and _Le Tonnant_ to
swing, there was room enough for one line of our ships to sail up
behind them, as a landsman would call it, and thus attack them on
their least prepared side, while another attacked on the outside.
These were tactics that Brueys was entirely unprepared for, and never
could have even dreamt of.  But as it was getting towards evening
when our ships hove in sight, Brueys must have also flattered himself
that Nelson would not be headstrong enough to attack that night.  No,
he would assuredly let go anchor, and commence the battle at the
earliest dawn of day.

Our hero was never a man to wait, however.  "Go at the enemy
pell-mell whenever you meet them," was one of his few mottoes, and
now he meant to act upon it.

He ordered his ships to form in line-of-battle ahead and astern of
the flagship, then signalled to Hood, of the _Zealous_, to know if
there was depth enough of water between the French line of battle and
the sandbank.  "I do not know," was the reply, "but I shall stand in
and see."

The _Zealous_ started at once on her dangerous mission, taking
soundings as she went leisurely on.

She cleared the shoal.

With her went the _Goliath_.

Nelson's signal was, "that the headmost ship should bear down, and
engage as she reached the enemy's van, the next ship to pass by and
engage the second, the third to pass by and engage the third, and so
on."

And one by one our ships took up their positions.  The battle began
in earnest at half-past six, and in half an hour's time it was pitchy
dark.

As long as daylight lasted the streaming flags on our ships could be
seen above the white and curling smoke.  As soon as night fell each
British ship hoisted four horizontal lights at her peak.  "The third
ship," says Southey, "that doubled the enemy's van was the _Orion_,
Sir F. Saumarez.  She passed to windward of the _Zealous_, and opened
her larboard guns as long as they bore on the _Guerrier_; then,
passing inside the _Goliath_ (_i.e._, 'twixt that ship and the land),
sank a frigate that annoyed her, hauled round towards the French
line, and anchoring inside, between the fifth and sixth ships from
the _Guerrier_, took her station on the larboard side of _Le
Franklin_ (Blanquet's 80-gun ship) and the quarter of the _Le Peuple
Souverain_, receiving and returning the fire of both."

The sun had now nearly sunk.

The _Audacious_, Captain Gould, pouring a heavy fire into the
_Guerrier_ and _Conquérant_, fixed herself on the larboard side of
the latter, and when she struck passed on to _Le Peuple Souverain_.
The _Theseus_ followed, brought down the _Guerrier's_ remaining
masts, the main and mizen, then anchored inside the _Spartiate_, the
third in the French line.

So much for the inner or land side of the enemy's fleet.  What about
the outer?

"While," continues Southey, "these advanced ships doubled the French
line, the _Vanguard_ was the first that anchored on the outer side of
the enemy within half a pistol shot of the _Spartiate_.  He veered
half a cable, and instantly opened a tremendous fire, under cover of
which the other four ships of his division, the _Minotaur_,
_Bellerophon_, _Defence_, and _Majestic_, sailed on ahead of the
admiral."

Captain Louis, in the _Minotaur_, anchored next ahead, and took off
the fire of the _Aquilon_, the fourth in the enemy's line.  So
terrible had the fire of this ship been that fifty of the
_Vanguard's_ men were killed or wounded in a few minutes.  But bold
Louis quickly quieted her.

The _Bellerophon_, Captain Darby, passed ahead and dropped her stern
anchor on the starboard bow of the _Orient_, seventh in the line.

Captain Peyton, in the _Defence_, took his station ahead of the
_Minotaur_, and engaged the _Franklin_, the sixth in the line; by
which judicious arrangement the British line remained unbroken.

The _Majestic_, Captain Westcott, got entangled in the main rigging
of one of the enemy's ships astern of the _Orient_, and suffered
dreadfully from that three-decker's fire; but she swung clear, and
closely engaging the _Heureux_, the ninth ship on the starboard bow,
received also the fire of the _Tonnant_, which was the eighth in the
line.

The other four ships of the squadron, having been detached previous
to the discovery of the French, were at a considerable distance when
the action began.

Troubridge, in the _Culloden_, was nearest, however, though some five
miles away.  He was very unfortunate, and ran fast aground.  The
_Leander_ and _Mutine_ came to his assistance, but were unable to get
him off.  The _Alexander_ and _Swiftsure_, however, kept off the
reef, entered the bay, and commenced the battle in a most masterly
and seaman-like fashion.

Of all our ships perhaps the _Bellerophon_ suffered the worst.  The
_Swiftsure_ met her staggering out of the line, and at first took her
for a strange sail, for she carried not the four horizontal lights.
In fact these had been shot away, with all her masts and cables,
while nearly 200 of her brave crew were either killed or wounded.

The _Swiftsure_ took her place against the _Orient_, which had done
the mischief.

The last to come into action was the _Leander_, which she did as soon
as she found she could be of no service to poor Troubridge.  She took
up a position boldly, so that she could rake both the _Orient_ and
the _Franklin_.

So speedy, determined, and terrible upon the whole was the attack of
the British upon the French line of battle, and so completely were
Nelson's instructions carried out on both the inner and outside of
the lint that victory was a matter of certainty in a very short time.

In less than fifteen minutes the two ships first in the French line
were dismasted, and at half-past eight the third, fourth, and fifth
were taken.

When we remember that in a very few minutes after the _Vanguard_,
Nelson's ship, took up her position every man at the six guns in the
fore part of the vessel was either killed or wounded, and that these
guns were several times cleared we can easily believe that down in
the ghastly cockpit the surgeons were busy enough at their terrible
work.

Do not forget, reader, that there was no chloroform in those days, no
way of producing insensibility or of conquering pain, and the brave
men who fell on deck were dragged or carried below bleeding and sick,
often to endure such agonies of pain as only medical men who have
seen gunshot wounds can realise.

At best the cockpit of an old-fashioned man-of-war ship is but a
stuffy place, and during a battle it would be stifling as well as
stuffy.  As soon as the orders were given to clear for action, or go
to quarters, all was bustle and stir with the surgeons as with
others.  They had their attendants, and "the idlers"--so called--of
the ship were all requisitioned to assist them--spare clerks, &c.

Although the space between decks was so low that an ordinary sized
man had to stoop as he walked along, to save his head from being
knocked against the beams or bolts, there was usually plenty of
length and breadth of beam also, in the cockpit or orlop deck.

Lanterns too were hung here and there in abundance, and there were
carrying lanterns as well, sometimes even naked lights.

The operating table was placed pretty near to the foot of the main
hatch ladder well aft, and close to it the tool table.  On this last
was laid out in order every instrument that was likely to be of
service, with plenty of bandages, splints, lint, and tow, with
ointment for dressings, &c.  On the deck near to this table were
placed buckets of water and bottles of wine, brandy, or rum, so
positioned that they would neither be in the way nor liable to fall
over with any sudden motion of the ship.

When all was ready the doctors had only to wait as coolly as they
could.  The waiting for the first shot was the worst of it.  When the
battle was once begun it was not long before the shuffling of feet
overhead, and the unsteady steps of bearers at the top of the stairs
told of a coming case.  As often as not blood came pattering down
first, but blood is nothing to a surgeon in working dress.  So the
wound, ghastly though it might be, was soon seen to, and temporarily
dressed, and the moaning patient laid down near the bulkheads.  Then
cases begin to come down thick and fast.  Smoke too, and the
suffocating after-damp of the battle fill the cockpit, the lanterns
burn dimly, the heat is overpowering almost.  The doctors are busy
enough now.  They throw off their garments, they roll up their
sleeves, their hands and arms are encarnadined, their faces and hair
bespattered with blood, but quietly and firmly they work, and all as
gently as may be.  Many a soothing word of kindness helps to rally a
fainting heart, and they give hope even in cases they know are
dangerous.

But, oh, the heat and the smoke and the stifling odour!  The decks
all around are slippery with blood, which the sprinkled sawdust is
not sufficient to absorb.  There are moans and cries and pitying
appeals for help and water--water--water--coming from every
direction.  The very water itself is oftentimes red with blood.

Fainting patients need wine, or even brandy; and but for that wine
and brandy very often the surgeons themselves would faint with very
fatigue and want of air.

A surgeon's operating tent in the rear of a field of battle may be a
sad and fearful sight; but in horrors it could not be compared to the
cockpit of an old seventy-four while a fight like that of the Nile
was raging overhead.

It was into the midst of just such a scene as I have but too feebly
depicted that Nelson, wounded and bleeding, was carried during the
night of this glorious but fearful battle.

The loss of blood has a paralysing effect upon the nerves and spirits
of a wounded man.  It is doubly so if he can feel the blood all about
him--feel soaked in it, swamped in it, without being able to see.

That was Nelson's plight.  The piece of shot had struck him on the
forehead, and the flap of skin and flesh hung over his one remaining
eye, entirely blinding him.

Nelson believed himself dying.

But not even the darkness of what seemed approaching death could
daunt the heart of the hero.

The chief surgeon would have left his other patients unattended for a
time to see to Nelson's wound, but he would not hear of it for a
moment.

"No," he cried, "I will take my turn with my brave fellows."

And at last that turn came; and even the wounded and the dying raised
a cheer when they heard the wound, despite the amount of blood lost,
was only superficial.




CHAPTER VI.

THE BURNING OF THE "ORIENT"--A HEART OF OAK.

                        "All is wail
  As they strike the shattered sail,
    Or in conflagration pale
          Light the gloom."


From seven till eight o'clock the scene of conflict must have been
appalling in the extreme.  No wonder that Arabs gathered on the
beach, and stood in groups looking on, awestruck and silent.  What
sounds those spectators must have heard--the continued thunder of the
great guns, the roar and rattle of langridge and grape, the crashing
of broken timbers, the shouting of orders, and often the shrieks of
the wounded rising high above the din of battle!  And what sights
must have been presented to their view--the quick, angry flash of
cannon, lighting up the darkness of the night; lighting up the bleak,
bristling sides of the huge ships; luridly lighting up the clouds of
white smoke that at times quite hid the upper decks; and lighting up
the sea with a crimson glare, so that even floating spars were
visible; aye, and drowning men, with all the debris of great ships in
action.

To an onlooker upon the beach all would appear fearful confusion and
chaos.  It would indeed seem almost impossible that anyone should
come unscathed from such an awful scene of battle.

Yet every Heart of Oak in those British ships knew his duty, and was
bravely doing it, and continued to do it, unless shot down.

And no one acted more bravely or coolly that night than young Lord
Raventree of the _Zealous_.  Men and officers too fell bleeding at
his side.  That such sights affected him there cannot be a doubt, but
they failed to daunt his extraordinary courage.  He was here, there,
and everywhere in his battery, issuing his orders as unfalteringly as
if the battle were a mere parade, his very presence seeming to give
additional courage to the half-naked and smoke-begrimed men who so
bravely obeyed his orders.

But more than once during the battle Raventree found time to think
for a moment of his friend Tom Bure.  Little did he know--he was too
busy to know anything save what was going on around him--that poor
Tom's ship had gone on shore, and that he and all on board could be
but spectators in the battle that was raging so near them.

Incidents of this memorable fight, and individual instances of
courage, could be related by the score, but space forbids.

Just a word about Nelson, however.  His restless spirit could ill
brook being below.  Superficial though his wound was, important
arteries were cut through, and unless he could be induced to lie down
and keep still, there was great danger.  Even before the surgeon's
verdict was given he sent for Mr. Capel, his first lieutenant, and
ordered him off in the jollyboat to fetch Captain Louis, of the
_Minotaur_, that he might thank him for his gallant and meritorious
service.  At this time Nelson believed himself to be dying.  "It is
the hundredth and twenty-fourth time," he said, "that I have been
engaged, but I believe it is now nearly over with me."

The meeting with Louis was of a most affecting character, the brave
captain of the _Minotaur_ hanging over his blind and bleeding friend
in grief that precluded any attempt at words.  "Farewell, dear
Louis," said Nelson, "I shall never, should I live, forget the
obligation I am under to you for your brave and generous conduct, and
now, whatever may become of me, my mind is at peace."

Everything points to the conclusion that the great hero's mind at
this time must have been a perfect whirl of emotions.  It is said
that even after his wound had been dressed, and he had sent for his
chaplain and his secretary, the one to attend to his orders, the
other to administer some spiritual comfort, he desired to be led on
deck once more, that he might behold that awful conflagration--the
burning of the _Orient_.

This ship was in the midst of the fight till her destruction, and
bravely indeed had she been handled.  It is said that a little before
nine o'clock the men of the _Swiftsure_ detected "signs of fire in
her mizenchains, and pointed their guns towards the spot with
terrible effect; and the flames glided swiftly along the deck and ran
up the masts, and wreathed the yards and flickered upon the shrouds,
throwing an awful glare on the dense clouds of battle, and distinctly
defining, as in the pageantry of a festal illumination, the spars and
rigging of the contending warships."

Says Clark Russell, in the poetic imaginings of which he is a
past-master: "Fore and aft the flames were waving in forks and living
sheets, and leaping on high as though from the heart of some mighty
volcano.  She had ceased to fire, her sprit-sail yard and bowsprit
were crowded with men, who continued to crawl out, blackening those
spars like flies, as the raging fire grew.  By the wild mast-high
flames the whole scene of battle was as visible as by the light of
the noontide sun.  The colours of the flags of the ships could be
easily distinguished.  Every rope, every spar, the forms of the
half-naked crews, smoke-blackened and in active motion, the land
beyond, with all details of the island-fortress and of the distant,
rearmost ships, were startlingly visible by the glow of the burning
ship, the brilliancy of which was that of the conflagration of a city.

[Illustration: "The blowing up of the _Orient_ at the battle of the
Nile."]

"Shortly after ten the great ship blew up.  The explosion was like
that of an earthquake.  The concussion swept through every seam,
joint, and timber of the nearest ships with the sensation as though
the solid fabrics were crumbling into staves under the feet of the
seamen.  The sight was blackened as if by a lightning stroke, and the
instant the prodigious glare of the explosion had passed, the
darkness of the night seemed to roll down in folds of ink upon the
vision of the seamen."

Says another eloquent writer, and what writer is not eloquent on such
a subject as this?--"The whole sky was blotched with the corpses of
men, like the stones of a crater cast upward, and the sheet of fire
behind them showed their arms, their bodies, and streaming hair.
Then, with a hiss like electric hail, from a mile's height all came
down again, corpses first and timber next, and then the great spars
that had streaked the sky like rockets."

The dread silence that followed lasted for nearly a quarter of an
hour.  Meanwhile boats from various ships were generously lowered to
pick up the survivors, and thus nearly eighty were saved.

But where was Admiral Brueys?  Poor, brave fellow, he had been dead
before the fire broke out.  Twice had he been wounded; but he stuck
to his place, till a shot almost cut him in two.

When they would have carried him below, "No," he cried; "let me die
on my quarter-deck, as becomes the admiral of a French fleet."

Among those who perished was Commodore Casabianca and his faithful
little son, a lad of barely eleven years of age, who died, if not on
the quarterdeck, at least by his father's side, who it is said by
some authorities was wounded and below at the time of the explosion.

That rough iconoclast, the dissecting critic, endeavours to dispel
all romance from the beautiful story, immortalised by Mrs. Heman's
verses.

I prefer to believe with the poetess, rather than to sneer with the
saucy critic.


  "CASABIANCA.

  "The boy stood on the burning deck,
    Whence all but him had fled;
  The flames that lit the battle's wreck
    Shone round him o'er the dead.
  Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
    As born to rule the storm;
  A creature of heroic blood,
    A proud though childlike form.

  "The flames rolled on--he would not go
    Without his father's word;
  That father faint on deck below,
    His voice no longer heard.
  He called aloud, 'Say, father, say,
    If yet my task is done!'
  He knew not that the chieftain lay
    Unconscious of his son.

  "'Speak, father,' once again he cried,
    'If I may yet be gone';
  But now the booming shots replied,
    And fast the flames rolled on.
  Upon his brow he felt their breath,
    And on his waving hair,
  And looked from that lone post of death
    In still but brave despair;

  "And shouted but once more aloud,
    'My father, must I stay?'
  While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
    The wreathing fires made way.
  They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
    They caught the flag on high,
  They streamed above the gallant child
    Like meteors in the sky.

  "Then 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 and faithful heart."

* * * * * *

The firing was re-commenced, it is said, by the French ship
_Franklin_; and the battle raged until about five o'clock in the
morning, with brief spells of intermission, as when the men of the
_Alexander_, by leave of their captain, threw themselves down beside
their guns and slept for twenty minutes.  The _Alexander_ was at that
time lying close to a French eighty-four that she had been engaging
in deadly conflict.  The men of the latter were also exhausted, and
sunk to sleep; so that side by side, it may be said, rested French
and British.

When dawn of day began to glimmer faintly in the east there were but
two ships of the French line that had their colours flying--the
_Guillaume Tell_ and _Généreux_.  They were the two rear ships, and
had not been engaged.  They soon cut their cables, however, and stood
out to sea.  With them went two frigates.

Raventree was the first to report their intentions to the captain of
the _Zealous_, and he at once hoisted sail, and stood after them in
pursuit.  But there being no other of our ships in a condition for
fast sailing, the signal was hoisted for his recall.

Thus ended the great battle of the Nile, "the most complete and
glorious in the annals of naval warfare."

Our loss was indeed heavy, amounting, in killed and wounded, to 895.

Of the French 3,105, including the wounded, were sent on shore by
cartel (an agreement with an enemy having reference to exchange of
prisoners), and 5,225 perished.

As Nelson himself said, "Victory is not a name strong enough for such
a scene, it is a conquest."

The only British captain who fell was gallant Westcott.  He was indeed

A HEART OF OAK.


Westcott was born among the green lanes of romantic Devon, and in
very humble life too.  His father was a baker, and not burdened with
too much of this world's wealth, and his son assisted him in his
business while still a little lad.  He used to be sent frequently on
messages to a mill in the neighbourhood.  The miller, as millers
often are, was a good-natured jovial fellow, but one day when young
Ben went to execute some commission for his father he found not only
the miller, but the miller's-man, pulling very long faces indeed.

"We can't send the flour to-day," the boy was told.  "Perhaps not
to-morrow either.  We've had a rope broken, and the working of the
mill is quite thrown out of gear."

"But why not splice it?" said young Westcott.

The miller laughed.

"Who's to do a job like that?" he said.

"Why, I will," was the boy's bold reply.

The miller caught him by the shoulder, and pointed upwards to where
the broken ends of the rope were dangling.

"You'd have to be hoisted up there, my boy," he said, "among the
pulleys and wheels and things, and ten to one you'd come down by the
run, and break your neck."

"I can splice that rope," said Ben determinedly, "if you'll let me
try."

"Let the lad try," pleaded the miller's man, and the master then
consented.

The boy, with deft fingers and the aid of a marlin-spike, worked away
for an hour or two, and lo! the rope was as good as ever.

"And a jolly sight better," said the merry miller.

"I tell you what it is, Ben," he added, "a lad like you is too good
for the shore.  You're a sailor born, and ought to be fighting the
French."

"I'd fight them fast enough," said the boy, "but I don't see a
chance."

"I'll get you a chance, lad," said the miller.

And he soon did.

Westcott entered his Majesty's service afloat as a humble cabin boy.
But so clever did he soon prove himself to be, and so unflagging in
his zeal and attachment to duty, that he soon found himself a
midshipman.  For, mind you, boys, in those dashing days of war,
talent was never allowed to wear itself away before the mast, if it
could be found of service on the quarterdeck.

Young Westcott's advancement went on with rapid strides after this,
and at the battle of the Nile he commanded the _Majestic_, and fell
fighting like a true hero.  His ship alone had 50 killed and 143
wounded.

This baker boy with heart of oak has a monument erected to him, at
the public expense, in St. Paul's, which any other boy of the present
day who desires to emulate his deeds may see if he has a mind.

* * * * *

Thanksgiving to Almighty God, who had so blessed his Majesty's arms,
was returned by the whole fleet at the same time.  And solemn and
impressive such a service must have been on decks still slippery with
the blood of the fallen, and sad evidence of the battle on every hand.

* * * * *

I have always considered that trophy of the great battle which was
afterwards presented to Nelson as a very ghastly one.  The
_Swiftsure_ had picked up a portion of the _Orient's_ main-mast, and
from it Captain Hallowell ordered his carpenter to fashion a
beautiful coffin, and this was sent to Nelson.

"Sir," ran the letter that accompanied the _memento mori_, "I have
taken the liberty of presenting you with a coffin, made from the
main-mast of _L'Orient_, that, when you have finished your military
career in this world, you may be buried in one of your trophies, but
that that period may be far distant is the earnest wish of your
sincere friend, BENJ. HALLOWELL."

It shows how little fear of death Nelson had, and how far from being
superstitious he was, that he ordered the coffin to be placed behind
his chair upright in his cabin.

He was afterwards buried in it.

There are a few words in the above letter of Captain Hallowell's that
strike one as strange, if not indeed amusing; viz., these, "When you
have finished your military career _in this world_."  Did honest,
bluff Ben. Hallowell think that--with all reverence be it
said--Nelson would recommence to fight the French in the next?

* * * * *

Immediately after the battle or conquest Nelson had once again to
lament the loss of his frigates.  Had he been possessed of these I
doubt not he would have entered the port, and burned all the French
stores and storeships.

"Were I to die at this moment," he is reported to have said, "the
loss of frigates would be found engraven on my heart."




CHAPTER VII.

FACE TO FACE WITH THE DANISH SHIPS.

  "Your glorious standard launch again
  To match another foe,
  And sweep through the deep,
  While the stormy winds do blow,
  While the battle rages loud and long,
  And the stormy winds do blow."


The British nation that possibly--very probably indeed--would have
shot our hero, Nelson, had he lost the Battle of the Nile, now
presented him with the title of Baron.

He was once more the people's darling.

Could the British nation have done less?

"It was this battle," says Graviére, "which for two years delivered
up the Mediterranean to the power of Britain; summoned thither the
Russian squadrons, left the French army isolated amidst a hostile
population; decided Turkey in declaring against it; saved India from
French enterprise; and brought France within a hair's-breadth of her
ruin, by reviving the smouldering flames of war with Austria, and
bringing Suwarrow and the Austro-Russians to the French frontiers.

* * * * *

Honours from all directions fell thick and fast upon our naval hero;
yet amid all this glory, what Nelson longed for more than anything
else perhaps was rest.

He was now on his way back to Naples, but his long exertions began to
tell upon his never very strong system.  He was, while yet at sea,
seized with a fever, and for eighteen hours his noble life was
despaired of.  Even after he got over the crisis, he writes thus
despondingly to St. Vincent:

"I never expect, my dear lord, to see your face again.  It may please
God that this will be the finish to that fever of anxiety which I
have endured from the middle of June.  But be that as it pleases His
goodness."

However, Nelson was destined to live to accomplish still further
triumphs, as we soon shall see.

As to his doings in the Mediterranean after the Battle of the Nile;
of his return to Naples; of the rejoicing, pomp, and panoply with
which he was received there; of his private opinion of this
corruptest of Courts; of all his sieges and all his successes until
his return to England, history must inform you, reader; but the whole
story reads like one long delightful romance, all the more delightful
of course in that it is true.

* * * * *

The curtain falls for a time on this life-drama, and our heroes leave
the stage for refreshment.  As far as fêtes and feasts were
concerned, Nelson was very much refreshed indeed; and so in those
times was every officer, ay, and every tar, who had been at the
Battle of the Nile.

But soon the curtain rises again, and we behold a great fleet
departing from Yarmouth Roads, under the command of Admiral Sir Hyde
Parker in the _London_, 98 guns, with Nelson as his second in command
in the _St. George_, also of 98 guns.

They are bound for the North this time, our gallant ships; but
whither and why?  A question that a sentence can answer.  In fact, it
can be answered in the refrain of the good old song:

"Britons never shall be slaves."

Three Northern nations had formed a league to make us slaves, at
least to wrench from the grasp of Britannia the sceptre of her rule
over the waves.

Just think for a moment, reader, of the terrible combination that was
now formed against us.  Russia, with 82 ships of the line and 40
frigates; Denmark, French at heart, with 23 ships and 31 frigates;
and Sweden, with 18 ships and 14 frigates.

Our Government had boldly determined to resist this combination, and
crush it.  A braver man than Hyde Parker they could not have had, but
Nelson ought to have been chief, for he was a born commander.

And so on the 12th of March, 1801, the fleet sailed away.

Their country had forgotten neither Tom Bure nor Raventree.  They
were both now commanders, although Tom was only in his twenty-first
year.

They had spent some time at home, however, and a right happy time it
had been.

There was no change in Dan, but poor old Meg, the faithful collie,
would never meet Tom again.  She was buried with all honours in a
grave dug for her on the green grassy lawn where she used to lie in
the summer days near her dear old master, Uncle Bob.

All was the same at the Hall, as well as at the cottage, except that
Bertha seemed to have grown quite up, and was a child no more.

Not only she, but her mother and Dan drove to Yarmouth to see the
great fleet sail away towards the cold, inhospitable North, and there
were tears in Bertha's beautiful eyes as she bade her old friend Tom
farewell.  Merryweather--the same old Merryweather--was there also,
and no less a personage than Captain Hughes, of the _Yarmouth Belle_,
who made the departure of our hero Tom a "most auspicious occasion"
for splicing the main-brace, not once, but three separate times.

Sir Hyde Parker was just a little nervous at starting; he was candid
enough to tell Nelson so.  Only he added: "It is no time for nervous
systems, and icebergs or no icebergs, we shall, I trust, give our
Northern enemies that hailstorm of bullets which gives our dear
country the dominion of the sea.  We have it, and all the devils in
the North cannot take it from us if our ships have but fair play."

You have heard, reader, of the "gallant good Riou."  He was captain
of the _Amazon_, and when some Danes who were aboard went to him,
saying that they had no desire to quit the British service, but were
unwilling to fight against their country, Riou, instead of snubbing
them as some captains would have done, acceded to their request, and
transferred them.  Indeed, so affected was he by their speech that
the tears stood in his eyes.  For the brave are ever generous and
kind.

* * * * *

It seemed indeed as if Heaven fought on our side in this great
expedition, for the weather was milder than had been remembered for
many a year, so that fields of ice and bergs floated only in the
dreams of Sir Hyde Parker.

The reader, however, must not jump to the conclusion that it was all
plain sailing with Sir Hyde and Nelson.  Very far from it indeed.
Nor was it wind and weather only, but the dangers of straits, and
banks, and shoals that they had to contend against.  Yet Nelson would
have made light of all these, and of the enemy's ships as well, had
it not been for the attempts at negotiation that had to go on with
the Danes the while precious time was being lost, and the armaments
of the foe were getting stronger and stronger every day.

The first thing to annoy and fret poor brave Nelson was the
circumstance that the fleet was to anchor out of sight of the Danes,
till the negotiations were at an end.  Red tape again!

"I hate your pen-and-ink men," he cried impatiently.  "A fleet of
British ships makes the best negotiators in the world.  They always
speak to be understood, and their arguments carry conviction to the
very hearts of our foes."

When our fleet was off Elsinore--Nelson had by this time changed his
flag to a handier and better ship, the _Elephant_--the admiral forced
the passage of the Sound.  The forts fired on them, it is true, but
it is said that never a shot touched a ship.

The fleet then anchored near Huën, an island about fifteen miles from
Copenhagen; and Nelson, with Colonel Stewart, Admiral Graves, and
others, went in a lugger called the _Lark_ to reconnoitre.

They found that the defences were of all sorts, and fearful to
behold.  To begin with, there was the exceeding difficulty of
approach, for the buoys on all the shoals had been taken up or
shifted by the Danes.  Then there was the great Danish fleet to
encounter, drawn up in a line that extended for a mile and a half in
front of the entrance to the harbour.  The ships were flanked by
strong batteries, while batteries bristled all along the shore.

The Danish forces then consisted of the fleet, which was moored close
to the city, six line-of-battle ships, eleven strong floating
batteries, gun brigs, a bomb vessel, supported by batteries on the
Crown Islands, and four sail of the line drawn up across the harbour
mouth, which was also protected by a great chain.  The whole of the
Danish protective armament, including hulks, batteries, and ships,
from end to end, was about four miles in length.

But in order to get near this terrible array of defences, the
attacking force would have to be navigated through a most intricate
passage among the shoals.

Nelson's greatest trouble was to get safely through this natural
deep-water canal.

On the 31st a great council of war was held, to take into
consideration the best mode of attacking the place, as the
negotiations had fallen through.

Nervous active men, in contradistinction to the slower and plethoric
class, have been termed the "salt of the earth."  Nelson then might
well have been called the "salt of the sea."  At this council, which
was not "fast" enough for him by a deal, he kept pacing up and down
the cabin deck, shaking his "flipper," as the sailors called it,
meaning the stump of his arm.  It must have been a grand sight to
behold, and to note his glances of withering scorn at anyone who for
a moment doubted the success of his plans.

And the refrain of Nelson's song at this council was, "Let me have
but ten line of battle ships, and the smaller craft, and the battle
is ours."

Sir Hyde Parker took him at his word.

Twelve ships he gave him, instead of ten, and also gave him _carte
blanche_ to carry out this detached service as he thought best.

Nelson was as happy now as a nervous man can ever be.

Denmark's fleet he looked upon as already in his power.  The Russians
and Swedes would be smashed next.  He hadn't forgotten them.

But there was much to be done before this battle even began.
Misplaced buoys must be re-adjusted along the channel, and during all
that night of the 31st--and a bitterly cold one it was--he rowed
about with Captain Brisbane, of the _Cruiser_, in his open boat
surveying the channel.

Personal experience of this work in sunny seas has proved to me how
tedious and wearisome it is; but how much more so must it have been
to our hero by night, in that almost Arctic climate.

Despite this, however, the work was satisfactorily accomplished.

Next day the whole fleet moved close up to the great shoal, with its
middle channel, to which the Danes trusted as really their first line
of defence.

Narrow though the channel was, and light though the breeze, the
division under Nelson, headed by brave Riou, in the _Amazon_, went
safely in, and at dusk anchored near Point Draco.

"Here," says Clark Russell, "the narrowness of the waters as an
anchoring ground brought the ships into a huddle, and infinite
mischief might have been done to the British had the Danes taken
advantage of the crowded state of the fleet, by sending shells
amongst the ships, from mortar boats and the batteries of Amak
Island."

Captain Hardy, we are told, who was amongst those who up to a late
hour that night were taking soundings, rowed under the very shadow of
the Danes' leading ship, and felt the bottom of the water with a pole.

To Nelson's great joy, Hardy and the rest returned with the tidings
that there was depth enough of water for our ships to range
themselves in battle array, between the great shoal they had passed
through and the defences of the enemy.

* * * *

As usual, Nelson's chief officers, including Hardy, Foley, Graves,
Fremantle, Riou, &c., dined with him on the eve of the battle, and
the hero was in the highest of spirits.

Riou and Foley remained with Nelson to plan details after the others
had gone, and the great fight was commenced next morning, the ships
filing into line, and taking up their positions with steadiness and
precision, despite the extreme difficulty of navigating great vessels
in a place like this.

Both the _Bellona_ and the _Russell_ went aground.

"Yet never," says Clark Russell, "had British seamanship found finer
illustrations of its capacity of daring and skill than in the manner
in which the vessels of the division calculated their stations, in a
channel bewildering with its complicated and perilous navigation."

Face to face with the foe at last.

Beam to beam with the Danish ships, and the battle at once began.




CHAPTER VIII.

A "GLORIOUS DAY'S RENOWN."

The fight began about ten o'clock, the thunder of war increasing till
twelve, at which time it probably roared its loudest.  By one o'clock
four of the Danish vessels--block ships they were--had been silenced.
And now occurred one of those little inter-acts which serve so well
to show our national hero in his true colours.

Sir Hyde Parker, the reader will remember, was outside the great sand
bank, through which Nelson's division was so successfully steered, so
at this distance no very clear notion of the battle that was raging
could be obtained; but noticing that four of the enemy's vessels had
ceased firing, probably he imagined that the battle was won, and that
further havoc was unnecessary.  At all events he hoisted the signal
to cease firing.  A man with one eye can see as much as a man with
two if he is looking.  On this occasion Nelson did not see that
signal--when his head was turned the other way.  This is strange, but
true!

Tom Bure, who, though commander, was acting as lieutenant, was
standing near to Nelson, and called his attention to Sir Hyde
Parker's signal.

"It is the signal to leave off action, my lord," said Tom.

Nelson walked up and down his quarterdeck jerking his "flipper,"
which showed he was terribly angry and excited.  And that was the
reason why he verbally consigned the good Sir Hyde's signal to a
warmer place than the hottest part of this great battle.

"Besides, Foley," he added, turning to his captain, "I have only one
eye, so have a right to be blind sometimes."

Then he put his telescope to his eye, and turned it towards Parker's
ship.

"Never a signal do I see," he said.

Foley laughed, for the glass was at the admiral's blind eye.

"Hang such signals," Nelson cried.  "Make mine for closer action, and
nail the colours to the mast."

Fainter and fainter rolled the thunder of the Danes, till, just
before two o'clock, it had ceased all along their line of battle.

The Danes, however, had fought most bravely, even those prames on
which the flag had been struck had kept on firing till the last,
being constantly reinforced by fresh batches of men from the shore.

From his previous great exertions, want of sleep and rest, Nelson was
irritable, and this irregular action on the part of the Danes angered
him beyond measure.  He sat down therefore, with, however, no
appearance of hurry, and wrote that famous letter of his to the Crown
Prince of Denmark.  It is worth repeating even in a story, and ran
thus:

"Vice-Admiral Lord Nelson has been commanded to spare Denmark when
she no longer resists.  The line of defence which covers her shores
has struck to the British flag; but if the firing is continued on the
part of Denmark he must set on fire all the prizes he has taken,
without having the power of saving the brave men who have so nobly
defended them."

A wafer was suggested to seal this letter withal, but Nelson must
have wax.  Want of formality might have suggested impatience or
nervousness to the Crown Prince.

The half-hour that intervened ere an answer came was probably felt to
be one of the longest ever Nelson experienced.  For his ships, albeit
victorious, were in a terrible plight, and it would take all the
seamanship that even British sailors could boast of to get them out.

The answer came at last, however, and was all that could be desired.

Nelson went on shore next day, and was hailed with cheers by the
multitude who came to receive him by the waterside.  The prisoners
and wounded were sent on shore, and the prizes nearly all burned.  No
less than thirteen of the Danes' vessels altogether were
destroyed--our losses, though severe, amounting to no less than 300
killed, and 850 wounded.  But the Danes had at the lowest estimate
over 1,700 killed, and nearly 4,000 taken prisoners.

Tom Campbell, our Scottish poet, author of so many well-known
spirited lays, such as "Ye Mariners of England," gives us the
following poem on this great naval action:

  BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

  I.

    "Of Nelson and the North,
      Sing the glorious day's renown,
    When to battle fierce went forth
      All the might of Denmark's Crown,
  And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
    By each gun a lighted brand,
    In a bold, determined hand,
    And the Prince of all the land
                Led them on.

  II.

    "Like leviathans afloat
      Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
    While the sign of battle flew
      On the lofty British line.
  It was ten of April morn, by the chime;
    As they drifted on their path,
    There was silence deep as death,
    And the boldest held his breath
                For a time.

  III.

    "But the might of England flushed
      To anticipate the scene;
    And her van the fleeter rushed
      O'er the deadly space between.
  'Hearts of oak!' our captain cried; when each gun
      From its adamantine lips
      Spread a death-shade round the ships,
      Like the hurricane eclipse
                Of the sun.

  IV.

    "Again!  Again!  Again!
      And the havoc did not slack,
    Till a feeble cheer the Dane
      To our cheering sent us back.
  Their shots along the deep slowly boom,
      Then ceased, and all is wail
      As they strike the shattered sail,
      Or in conflagration pale
                Light the gloom.

  V.

    "Out spoke the Victor then
      As he hailed them o'er the wave,
    'Ye are brothers, ye are men,
      And we conquer but to save:
  So peace instead of death let us bring.
      But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
      With the crews at England's feet,
      And make submission meet
                To our King.'

  VI.

    "Then Denmark blessed our Chief
      That he gave her wounds repose,
    And the sounds of joy and grief
      From her people wildly rose
  As death withdrew his shadow from the day.
      While the sun looked smiling bright
      O'er a wide and woful sight,
      Where the fires of funeral light
                Died away.

  VII.

    "Now joy Old England raise!
      For the tidings of thy might,
    By the festal cities' blaze,
      While the wine-cup shines in light.
  And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
      Let us think of them that sleep,
      Full many a fathom deep.
      By thy wild and stormy steep
                Elsinore!

  VIII.

    "Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
      Once so faithful and so true,
    On the deck of fame that died,
      With the gallant good Riou.
  Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave,
      While the billow mournful rolls,
      And the mermaid's song condoles,
      Singing glory to the souls
                Of the brave!"


The death of the "gallant good Riou," whom Britain so deeply mourned,
was both affecting and romantic.  He was captain of the _Amazon_, and
with the rest of the frigates, that were doing but little apparent
good, hauled off or retreated from the actual ground of battle on
seeing Sir Hyde Parker's "silly signal."  These frigates, however,
were being terribly mauled, yet Riou thought only of the disgrace, as
he termed it, of having to retire.

"What will Nelson think of us?" he said again and again.

The fire under which the _Amazon_ then lay was very heavy.  The
captain himself was wounded in the head, and leant bleeding against a
gun.

Soon after a shot killed his clerk, who stood near; and another
smashed a batch of marines, who were hauling in the main-brace.

"Boys!" cried Riou, "we can now but die together."

These were the last words e'er he spoke.  He fell dead next moment.
"That shot," says Colonel Stewart, "lost to Britain one of its
greatest honours, and to society a character of singular worth,
resembling in no small measure the heroes of old romance."

Poor Riou!

* * * * *

That was a wonderful voyage made by our fleet through the intricate
passage between the islands of Amoy and Saltholm, and full of danger.
It astonished the Northern Powers, who no longer felt themselves safe
from Nelson anywhere.

A mere show of force sufficed to bring the King of Sweden to his
knees.  Before, however, this show was made before Carlscrona, Nelson
had an adventure which is well worthy of being related here, bringing
out, as it does, the hero's character for pluck and derring-do in the
most vivid of colouring.

The ship in which he made the difficult passage between the two
islands just named was the _St. George_.  For her greater lightness
and safety her guns had been removed into an American vessel,
requisitioned or chartered unceremoniously for the purpose.  She got
safely through, but was detained by contrary winds from joining the
rest of the fleet, now far ahead.  When, therefore, intelligence was
received that Sir Hyde Parker had sighted the Swedish fleet, Nelson's
anxiety knew neither bounds nor limits.

Says Mr. Brierly, "The moment he received the account he ordered a
boat to be manned, and without even waiting for a boat cloak, cold
though it was, jumped into her and ordered me to go with him.....
All I had ever seen or heard of him could not half so clearly prove
to me the singular and unbounded zeal of this truly great man.  His
anxiety in the boat for nearly six hours, lest the fleet should have
sailed before he got on board one of them, and lest we should not
catch the Swedish squadron, is beyond all conception.

"It was extremely cold, and I wished him to put on a great coat of
mine that was in the boat.

"'No,' he cried, 'I am not cold; my anxiety for my country will keep
me warm.  Do you think the fleet has sailed?'

"'I should suppose not, my lord.'

"'If they have, we shall follow them on to Carlscrona in the boat.'

"At midnight Nelson, much to his relief, reached his flagship, the
_Elephant_, and his sailors were overjoyed to see him; for Nelson was
worth a fleet in himself."

* * * *

The Swedes made peace therefore.

The Russians did not see their way to fight.

And so the great Northern Confederacy was smashed up, and never
formed again, and our brave tars could still sing

  "Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves,
  Britons never, never, NEVER shall be slaves."


The fleet, having now boldly accomplished its mission, and proved the
truth of Nelson's words, that "guns are the best negotiators, and
always speak to the point," &c., returned once more to England.




CHAPTER IX.

NELSON'S LAST DAYS AND HOURS.

        "I saw before thy hearse pass on
  The comrades of thy peril and renown.
  The frequent tear upon their dauntless breasts
  Fell.

        "I beheld the pomp thick gathered round
  Through armed ranks--a nation gazing on.
  Bright glowed the sun, and not a cloud distained
  Heaven's arch of gold; but all was gloom beneath.

        "Awe and mute anguish fell
  On all.  Yet high the public bosom throbbed
  With triumph."


There is one individual who, although mention has been made of him,
has never yet appeared on the stage of our story, namely, Max
Colmore, the son of Lady Colmore, and therefore Bertha's brother.
Tom Bure had seen him only once or twice.  The first time was when
Tom--a very little boy then--was one day floating on the broad in his
boat.  Max, who was far older than he, had come to the bank with his
gun on his shoulder, and ordered Tom to haul off on pain of being
shot.  Tom had obeyed, and forgiven his foe too for the sake of
Bertha, but never had he forgotten the insult.

The second meeting was at the Hall after Tom's return from the
Baltic.  Our hero was by this time old enough to study the man and
sum up his character, which he might have done, not only in a few
words, but with three letters--F O P.

Tom wondered to himself how such a surly, haughty fellow as this,
such a blood-proud fool, had been permitted to assume his Majesty's
uniform; for he was then a captain in the army, and had even seen
service in the wars.

Well, Tom Bure had quite as much aversion to a fop as his great
chief, Nelson had, so he avoided Max as much as possible.  Indeed,
they would soon have quarrelled; for over his wine, of which he took
a grown-up person's share, the captain talked almost disrespectfully
of Nelson and "sailor fellows" in general.

Shockingly bad taste, you say?  True, and the man was really no
gentleman at heart.

Tom avoided him, therefore, for Bertha's sake, and although this was
to be his last visit to the Hall for many and many a long day, he
even cut this visit short.

After he had bidden good-bye to Lady Colmore and other guests, he
simply bowed stiffly to Max, who was gaping at him through an
eye-glass, and took his departure.

Slowly, through the shrubbery he was walking towards his boat when he
heard a light step behind him.

He turned quickly.

"Dearest Bertha," he said gently, "I knew you'd come."

The girl was crying.

"Oh, Tom!" she exclaimed, "it seems all so sad and terrible, your
going away like this.  And something seems to say to me I shall
never, never see you more."

"You mustn't talk so, my more than sister," said Tom.  "True I am
going away, but I shall return, safe and sound.  I'm not going to be
killed, Bertha, and I'm not going to lose a leg, like poor
Merryweather.  So you see I shall be able to dance on your
wedding-day."

"Mamma says I am too young to think of the future, but she means to
give me to some lord or another, and Max doesn't mind.  I'm going to
be sold, Tom."

"Bertha!" cried Tom, "sooner than you should be given away to a man
you didn't care for, were he the proudest noble in Britain, I'd----"

There was the sound of voices heard coming towards them through the
shrubbery, and so Tom's sentence was never finished.

* * * * *

Nearly four years had passed away.  Busy and eventful years indeed
they had been to both Tom Bure and to Raventree.

Not once in all that time had either of them seen home or friends.
They had been kept constantly active, and pretty constantly in
action.  Tom had been much with Nelson, not in the same ships, but on
the same service.  He had been here and there in many lands too, for
many of his duties had been to form a convoy to trading ships.

It was his fate, nevertheless, to be present at the great naval
engagement of Trafalgar--a name that is never heard even to this day
by a true Briton without a feeling of pride and patriotism.

Nelson had been on half-pay for a time.  Perhaps he never expected to
serve again.  Nevertheless he came, like the hero he was, to his
country's aid at his country's call.

I need not remind my reader of Napoleon's pet ambition, the invasion
of England--he never could have reached Scotland--nor of that grand
review he held on his birthday, August 15th, 1804, at Boulogne,
surrounded by his dignitaries of State, his marshals, his ministers,
his sailors and soldiers, or how liberally he distributed the ribbon
of the Legion of Honour.

"Let us be masters of the Channel," he pompously exclaimed, "for six
hours, and we are masters of the world!"

There was somewhat of honour to us in this sentence of the Emperor,
for in smashing Britain he should certainly smash the world.

But the death of his chief admiral threw his scheme in abeyance for a
time.  Yet having the disposal of the Spanish fleet, he believed in
1805 that he had only to crush our squadrons in order to open the
British door, and walk quietly in.

There is sometimes a good deal in that little word only, however.  If
you, reader, want to open a door and walk into a room, even if you
are six feet high, and strong in proportion, as doubtless you are,
you will find that you have attempted a task beyond your strength if
behind that door there is stationed even a very, tiny man with his
foot against it.

Now Britain had just such a little man to stand behind her door.

The little man was Nelson.

And the little man made a vow that he would put his foot against the
door, and keep Napoleon Bonaparte on the other side of it.

And the little man did.

* * * * *

My readers have all heard tell and read of the marvellous chase by
Nelson of the combined fleets of France and Spain.  I may possibly be
hauled up on the quarter-deck for calling it a chase, but really it
was as much so as it was a search.  He followed them all the way to
the West Indies; he heard they were bound for Trinidad.  He would
have followed and drubbed them there, but the information was false,
and only meant to mislead him.  He would have followed them round the
world, and drubbed them, just as he followed them back to Europe, and
drubbed them there at last.  And such a drubbing he administered to
them!

History has no other such great naval fight as that of Trafalgar on
record.  No parallel to it.

I have, however, no intention of describing the Battle of Trafalgar.
To do so would be to insult the British schoolmaster, and question
the knowledge of the most ordinary British school-board boy--whoever
that may be--who has mastered even an epitome of our nation's story.


NELSON'S LAST DAYS AND HOURS.

I think that a man who is universally loved must be good and true at
heart.  Nelson's was a heart of oak in one sense of the term, but it
was a tender and feeling heart nevertheless, and he wore it,
figuratively speaking, on his sleeve.  His kind and gentle nature
could be read in his eyes, as well as in his every action, private as
well as public.  His men loved him, his officers, more especially his
midshipmen, loved him, and the people loved him.  Ah! there is no
deceiving or dissembling before the people.  In the matter of
affection and good-heartedness, it is as impossible to deceive the
people as it is to deceive a dog, and that is saying a deal.

As I sit here writing in my country home, I have but to place my hand
before my eyes, and scene after scene rises up before my mental
vision of Nelson's last days and hours.


SCENE I.  It is the night of September 13th, 1805, and half-past ten
of that night, and the hero is leaving Merton--a home of his in the
country.  But see, ere he leaves the house, he goes on tiptoe,
fearful lest he should wake her, to the bedroom where his little girl
Horatia lies sleeping.  He gazes long and fondly at her, he softly
kisses her, then kneels beside her bed with tear-filled eyes upturned
to heaven to crave a blessing on her.  I see him kneeling thus and
there at this moment.


SCENE II.  It is very early on the morning of the 14th.  Hardly has
the autumn day began to dawn, yet all around the George Inn,
Portsmouth, dense crowds have gathered to catch but a glimpse of the
naval hero before his embarkation.  He had their huzzas many a time
before, but now he has their hearts.  They follow him even to the
water's edge, they press forward to catch a sight of his face; many
are in tears, and many kneel down and bless him as he passes.  They
love him as true and fervidly as he loves England.  But, alas! they
will never, never see him more.


SCENE III.  Nelson has joined his fleet off Cadiz.  Though at his
express desire no guns are fired, no colours shown, that the enemy
may be kept in ignorance of the arrival of a reinforcement, the
loving-kindness and joy shown at his arrival cause him "the sweetest
sensation of his life."  The officers who come on board to welcome
his return forget even his rank as commander-in-chief, in the
enthusiasm with which they greet him.  He cannot for a time speak for
emotion.  But he regains his voice at last, and then while they crowd
around the table he proceeds to explain to them his previously
arranged plans for attacking the enemy.  That, he says, is the
"Nelson touch."  They see it all in a moment.  It is a touch of true
genius.  So new, so singular, so simple.  Some of them are even
affected to tears, so much are their minds relieved by the prospect,
nay, the very certainty of victory now before them.


SCENE IV.  It is the very eve of battle, and among his warlike and
busy thoughts those of home come crowding uppermost, and down he must
sit all alone in his cabin to write to his little Horatia.  Only a
little letter, but how full of love and affectionate thoughtfulness.


"MY DEAREST ANGEL,--I was made happy by the pleasure of receiving
your letter, and I rejoice to hear you are so very good a girl.  The
combined fleets of the enemy are now reported to be coming out of
Cadiz; and therefore I answer your letter, my dearest Horatia, to
mark to you that you are ever uppermost in my thoughts.  I shall be
sure of your prayers for my safety, conquest, and speedy return to
dear Merton.  Be a good girl, mind what Miss Connor says to you.
Receive, my dearest Horatia, the affectionate parental blessing of
your father,

"NELSON AND BRONTE."


SCENE V.  Ah! this scene is one which is almost too gloriously
dreadful to contemplate.  But I can see our noble fleet advancing in
two columns to crash through the enemy's battle line.  And now the
flashing guns, and the white wreathing smoke--the tapering masts,
with flags unfurled, towering and swaying high above the battle
clouds.  But this scene fades momentarily from my view, or rather it
resolves itself into another and a sadder.


SCENE VI.  Nelson and Hardy on the battle-deck, in the very thick of
the dreadful engagement.  And, see, Nelson sinks rather than falls,
and his faithful Hardy springs to his side.  On that very spot his
secretary, Scott, was killed some time before, and the blood, still
fresh, stains our hero's clothes.  I see him being borne tenderly
below to the cockpit.  I see him--kindly-hearted even in the hour of
death--place his handkerchief over his face that his brave fellows
may not know 'tis he, their own loved admiral, who is being carried
below.

[Illustration: "The death of Nelson."]

SCENE VII.  The cockpit.  The dimly-burning lights, the smoke, the
heat, and against the bulkheads the wounded, the dying, and the dead.
The surgeons half naked, with blood-sprinked faces, arms, and
garments; the "idlers"--all too busy here.  Moan and groan and
mournful cry.  What a terrible scene!  What a fearful place to die in!

But as the hero is borne down here, even wounded men forget their own
pains and misery as they draw the chief surgeon's attention to the
bearers.

"Doctor, doctor," they cry, "it is the admiral!  It is Lord Nelson
himself!"

The dying Hero is borne tenderly into the midshipmen's berth, and
laid upon a bed.  Even the surgeon, who hastens to help him, sees how
unavailing all his efforts must be.  The poor admiral can read his
doom written in the surgeon's pitying face.  Yet it only confirms
what he himself had thought before.  His days are numbered, his hour
is come.  He is in pain, in agony, so much so that he wishes death
would come to relieve him--wishes it were all, all over; and yet not
for a little.  Hardy he must see, and it seems such an interminable
time before he can come to him.  "Will no one bring him?" he moans
piteously.  "Perhaps he is slain.  He is surely dead."

But overhead the battle rages on and on, and he can hear the wild
"hurrahs!" of the men as ship after ship strikes her flag.

Hardy comes at last and bends mournfully over him, utterly unable to
suppress his emotion.  But Hardy must tell him how the battle goes.
Then this faithful officer, with a heart bursting with emotion,
shakes hands, and rushes once again to his post on deck.

But see!  Hardy has returned; and Nelson can talk now only of the
dear ones at home.

"God bless you, Hardy," he says feebly, and shortly after, "Thank
God, _I have done my duty!_"

And these are the last words the Hero speaks.  His breast heaves,
there is one long-drawn, but half-stifled sigh, and--_Nelson is no
more_.




CHAPTER X.

"JACK, I FEEL THERE IS SOMETHING WANTING IN MY LIFE."

  "Then all is well.  In this full tide of love
  Wave heralds wave: thy match shall follow mine.
  . . . . . . . Meanwhile farewell
  Old friends.  Old patriarch oaks farewell."--TENNYSON.


The character of Captain Max Colmore is not one of those which
commands any very great amount of respect, and I should willingly
have left it out of my story.  But then if we have no shading in a
picture we cannot so well appreciate the high lights.  Besides, he
was Bertha's brother, and independently of that fact, his death had a
bearing on our "ower true" tale, even if his life had none.

They say that a certain dark gentleman, whose nama it is best not to
mention in polite society, is not so black as he is painted.  Happily
the task of acting as his biographer does not devolve upon me, but
the old saying reminds me that even in the character of a man like
Max there may be something of good to record.  I am willing to let
him have the benefit of this.  He was no coward then.  There were
very few cowards in the army in those old days, though I fear it is
different now that men of muscle have in competitive examinations
often enough to lower their flags to those with long memories, puny
bodies, and hearts no bigger than a bantam chick's.

Max Colmore----

                    "ne'er refused
  When foeman bade him draw his blade."


In fact, he rather liked drawing his blade than otherwise, whether
the man who suggested his doing so were a foeman or a quondam friend,
for Max was a somewhat famous duellist, and quite as clever with the
pistol as the sword.  Faith in his own ability, however, rendered him
somewhat of a blusterer, while abuse in the matter of potable table
luxuries made him hot-headed, and apt to take offence where no
offence had been meant.  Even until this day, although duelling has
gone out of fashion, and is punishable as a crime, we could
understand, and even give some meed of praise to a man who drew his
weapon to defend the honour of his country, the name of majesty, or
injured innocence.  But we view matters from a different light when
we read of a quarrel at mess from one hasty word or look, leading up
to a fight to the death.

Such was the case one night at a dinner given in honour of Colonel
Stuart's birthday, and to which nearly a score of as happy young
fellows as ever used knife and fork sat down.  The dinner passed by
pleasantly and cheerfully enough too, until even dessert was finished
and the colonel had retired.  Some of the younger bloods reseated
themselves at table, among them Max, among them too a youthful
merchant, at whose house many of the officers had been most
hospitably received and treated.  Mr. Drake, the name of this young
merchant, had a young sister who resided with him, and whom Max
Colmore, rosy now about the gills, and with a strange sparkle in his
eye, proposed as "a toast" in a not over-complimentary manner.

It was surely only natural that Drake should lose his temper.

"It is only a coward and a fool," he said, "who would dare to behave
so."

"This to me, Mr. Snip, and from such a fellow as you, a miserable
purveyor of silks and sarcenet.  Have that," cried Max.

The word "that" was accompanied by the contents of a glass of claret,
thrown full in the face of poor young Mr. Drake.

All rose to their feet, and the insulted gentleman made a motion as
if to throw a decanter at the blustering Max.

But Lieutenant Moore restrained him.

"Stay, Drake, stay your hand," he exclaimed.  "This is my quarrel.
You are my guest.  Captain Colmore, you account to me for this gross
insult to a friend of mine."

"To the pair of you," said Colmore, "if you prefer it."

"Mr. Snip," he added, "I'll have you first, if you please."

"So be it," said Drake, very calmly and quietly.

Early next morning, soon after the birds had begun to sing, and
before the dew had left the grass, or the cicada had given voice, the
combatants met with all due formality in a beautiful green grove, not
far from the chief fort.

Did no thoughts of his far-off home, near the quiet and peaceful
Norfolk broad, or of his mother and gentle sister, steal across the
young man's mind as he stood, pistol in hand, waiting the word to
fire?  Probably none, for he looked half dazed from the dissipation
of the previous evening, and his body was far from steady.

"At the word 'three' you will fire.  One--two--three."

The pistols rang out almost simultaneously on the still air of
morning, and for a second or two it seemed as if neither belligerent
had been hit.  Then Max Colmore's weapon dropped suddenly from his
hand, and he sank in a heap on the ground beside it.

He neither opened his eyes again, nor spoke.

Captain Colmore was dead.

And to all intents and purposes he had died a death that was fraught
with dishonour, for he had owed an apology, and had refused to pay it.

* * * *

At the time that Captain Max Colmore met with his death the great
battle of Trafalgar was quite a thing of the past; indeed, two years
had passed away since that splendid victory, which had cost Britain
her cherished hero, but gained for her the supremacy of the seas.
These years had not been uneventful for either Tom Bure or Lord
Raventree.  Both had gained additional glory and renown at sea, and
poor Tom had gained something else--which in the dashing days of old
frequently accompanied honour and glory--a severe wound in the left
forearm, which would prevent his serving again for a year at least,
if not for ever.

He was brought home an invalid in the end of 1807, from that
marvellous expedition against the Danes, by which they lost the whole
of their large navy, and had their capital city, Copenhagen, laid in
red-hot ashes.

Tom was not sorry to find himself once more an inmate of his
foster-father's little cottage, near the peaceful broad, with Ruth
and his foster-mother to wait upon him.

He found but little change in either of the latter; but Dan was
getting old, yet hale and hearty in his declining years, and it was
the greatest delight of his life when the sweet springtime brought
bud and burgeon to the trees, and the wild flowers to the marshes, to
row the invalid Captain Tom, as he with some pardonable pride called
our hero, out and away over the broad.

Nor were his friends at the great hall, as Colmore Manor was
invariably called, otherwise than delighted to see him on their
return from the south.

But partly through his being an invalid, and partly, perhaps, through
being a sailor--sailors being, you know, always shy--Tom was half
afraid to address the tall and willowy girl who now stood before him
as Bertha.

Bertha had grown up very beautiful, and was likewise very
accomplished, as far as accomplishments went in those days.  She
could talk more than one language at all events, and play well on the
harp and spinet.  But there were times when the graceful and
accomplished girl had moods of innocent playfulness, in which she
appeared to Tom precisely like the wilful wee tottie of six or eight
she was in the early days of his acquaintance with her.  Strangely
enough, Tom Bure liked her best in these moods, and longed to catch
her in his arms, or rather in his one utility arm, and give her a
kiss; but then his invalid or sailor shyness, whichever it was,
overflowed his breast, and he didn't or couldn't.

* * * * *

Those days of war and bloodshed were eventful enough both by land and
sea, and it need surprise no one to be told that the ship which ought
to have brought the news of Max Colmore's sad death, as trim a brig
as ever sailed the seas when she left Jamaica, was never heard of any
more.  Whether she had caught fire and been burned at sea, foundered
during some terrible gale, or been taken aback and gone down in a
white squall nobody ever knew.  But her non-arrival prevented the
account of her son's end from reaching Lady Colmore for many months
after she ought to have known of it.

When the news did arrive at last, then the crash came, and her
ladyship knew she was no longer mistress of Colmore Manor, and that
its real owner was some distant relative of her late husband, for the
estate was an entailed one.

Very soon after Lady Colmore did a thing which proves that her
pride--and she had a good deal of it--was really genuine and
heartfelt, that it was indeed part and parcel of her nature.  As soon
as the heir, or the gentleman who was described as such by his
solicitors, put in an appearance she left the county, and went no
soul knew whither.  To all seeming she and Bertha had vanished from
off the face of the earth.

Tom, before the crash came, had found himself so much better, that he
determined to travel for a month or two for the benefit of his
health, and wounded arm, which still remained a most unserviceable
limb to him.

Previous to his going away, his old friend, Jack Merryweather, became
the husband of poor little innocent Ruth.  Jack was indeed a happy
soul, and I believe I am justified in adding he was not the only
happy soul at the quiet wedding in Dan's cottage.

One thing Jack had done before leading his bride to the altar, was to
polish up that wooden leg of his till it shone like Whitby jet.

It so happened that Captain Lord Raventree was in the country at that
time.  There was no word of his marrying.  His sword was his bride,
and would be till the peace came.  But he came to Jack Merryweather's
wedding all the same, and it is currently reported that he had even
kissed the bride.  If he did it was quite in accordance with his
character.

Then away went Tom and he together in Ashley's boat, which they
chartered for the occasion, for a coasting cruise up north.

They enjoyed themselves as only sailors and old messmates can.  Tom
going so far as to affirm it was the happiest time ever he had had in
all his life.

Of course these two friends were like brothers, and had no secrets
the one from the other.  So Tom had confessed that he was exceedingly
fond of Bertha, and that he wasn't at all sure Bertha wasn't just as
fond of him.

"Then why don't you go in and win, man?" cried Raventree.  "What
would our mutual friend, Nelson, have thought of any officer hanging
fire when there was something before him that was a duty?"

"A duty, Raventree?"

"Yes, your duty to posterity, Tom."

"Not that posterity ever did anything for me as yet," said Tom Bure
thoughtfully; "but now that you've mentioned dear old Nelson,
I--I--will go in and win."

But lo! when Tom returned to the cottage, and his friend went off to
Raventree Court, the first thing he heard was about the Colmore
crash, the second the disappearance of Lady Colmore and her daughter,
and the third and most wonderful of all, that he, Captain Tom Bure,
R.N., was the nearest heir to the estates of Colmore, and not the
other fellow.

All this news coming of a heap, as old Dan phrased it, quite took our
hero's breath away, and it was some time before he fully realised his
position.

"It was all owing to that black box," said Dan, "that your poor Uncle
Bob took so much pains to save, and that I took up to the banker at
Yarmouth.  That proved it all, and there's none livin' that can
disprove it."

Whether Tom's uppermost thoughts at this moment were those of joy or
sorrow, it is probably hard to tell.

"Poor Bertha!" he muttered half aloud, "shall I never, never see her
more?"

* * * *

Long months after Tom Bure was settled in his new home, he continued
by every means he could think of, his endeavours to find out the
whereabouts of Lady Colmore and Bertha.  But all in vain.  It was
rumoured that her ladyship had died of a broken heart, or of a
combination of pride and poverty, leaving her daughter to stem a sea
of adversity as best she might.

Tom, in something akin to hopeless sorrow, settled down to look after
his estates in good earnest now.

He fain would have built a new house for his foster-father Dan on the
grounds, so that he might have the old couple close to him.  But Dan
would not hear of leaving his bit o' property, where he and his old
wife had lived so long and happy, and where poor Uncle Bob had died.

Tom soon found out that recreation was good for him, or diversion, as
Jack Merryweather phrased it, so he often went to town, and with his
friend was frequently at concerts, fêtes, and plays.

One evening, after a quiet dinner together, Jack addressed his friend
as follows:

"Tom, you appear in doleful dumps to-night.  You have sat opposite me
for ten minutes, and never said a word."

"I'm not over merry at heart, Jack," said Tom.  "The fact is, amidst
all this fun and gaiety I feel there is something wanting in my life."

"And isn't it a fool you are," cried Jack, "to go on mourning for the
partial loss of one hand?  Look at me--one leg only and a timber toe.
Do I mourn and lament?"

Jack held up that wooden extremity of his, which shone to-night like
an ebony ruler.

"Bah!  Tom, what's the use of it?"

And Merryweather burst into the old song--

  "Life let us cherish
  While the wasting taper glows."


"Come along with me, Tom.  There's something good going on to-night
at the old Drury."

Tom Bure yawned through three acts of a somewhat dreary play.

As shifting of scenery necessitated a longer interval than usual
between the third and fourth acts, a beautiful girl came on to sing a
charming Irish song.  It was, the play-bill said, her first
appearance on any stage.

At the first sound of her voice Tom pricked up his ears.

At the first glance he started as if he had been shot again.

Then he disappeared--went tearing out of the box, as Jack afterwards
described it.  He tore down below, and almost fought his way behind
the scenes.

He was just in time to meet the young lady walking off the stage with
a whole lap-full of bouquets.

"Bertha!"

It was Tom's voice.

And as he went awkwardly rushing forwards, somehow or other she
dropped everyone of those bouquets on the deck of the stage--I think
they call it the deck.  If they don't they ought to.

Never mind, I have this to add: Bertha's first appearance on any
stage was likewise her last.

And just as Bertha dropped those bouquets am I now going to drop
anchor, and almost quite as suddenly.  I do not wish that a good
boy's story should degenerate into an ordinary love yarn, else I
should devote a dozen pages to telling you how it came about that two
months after this our hero, Tom Bure, was married to the orphan girl,
Bertha Colmore, in presence of Jack Merryweather, Lord Raventree, and
honest Dan himself.

And just as the happy couple were standing on the deck of the saucy
_Yarmouth Belle_--same old skipper, same old mate--that was to bear
them from London to the North, "I say, Tom," said the same old
Merryweather, "I misunderstood you that evening after dinner."

"Never mind," said Tom, "I have at last found the something that was
wanting in my life.  Good-bye."

"Mate!" roared the skipper.

"Yes," cried the mate.

"On this auspicious occasion, mate----"

"Let us----" said the mate.

"That's it.  _Let us splice the main-brace_."

"Hurrah!"



FINIS.



  LONDON:
  JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.









*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75979 ***