The Battle and the Breeze by R. M. Ballantyne (best ereader for manga .TXT) 📕

stood ready, and the matches were lighted, but as yet no order had been given to fire. The men on the larboard side of the ship stood gazing anxiously through the portholes at the furious strife in which they were about to engage.

“Ah, then! but it’s hot work is goin’ on,” said Flinders, turning to Ben Bolter just after a crash of artillery somewhat louder than usual.

“It’s hotter work ye’ll see soon, when the Admiral gits into action,” said Ben.

“True for ye,” answered Flinders; “he’s a broth of a boy for fightin’. It’s an Irishman he should have been born. Hooroo, my hearties! look out!”

This latter exclamation was drawn forth by the crashing of a stray shot, which entered the ship close to the spot where they stood, and passed out on the starboard side, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions, without hurting any one.

“There goes the first!” said Bill Bowls, looking up at the ragged hole that was left.

“Faix, but it’s not the last!” cried Flinders, as another stray shot hit the ship, wounding one of the men, and sending a splinter so close past the Irishman that it grazed his cheek. “Hooroo, boys! come on, the more the merrier! Sure it’s death or victory we’ll be havin’ in half-an-hour.”

At this moment of intense excitement and expectation, when every man’s nerves tingled to be called into vigorous action, Ben Bolter saw fit to give Flinders a lecture.

“Ye shouldn’t ought to speak misrespectful of death, boy,” said he gravely. “He’s a rough customer when he gits hold of ’e, an’ is sartin sure to have the upper hand. It’s my opinion that he’ll pay this ship a pretty stiff visit to-night, so you’d better treat him with respect, an’ belay yer jokin’—of which yer countrymen are over fond.”

To this Flinders listened with a humorous expression about the corners of his eyes, while he stroked his chin, and awaited a pause in order to make a suitable reply, but an exclamation from Bill Bowls changed the subject abruptly.

“Ho! boys,” he cried, “there goes the Admiral.”

A tremendous crash followed his words, and the Vanguard was seen to pour a broadside into the Spartiate—as before related.

The men of the Majestic gazed eagerly at the Admiral’s ship, which was almost enveloped in thick smoke as they passed ahead, but an order from Captain Westcott to be ready for action called the attention of every man on his duty. Whatever might have been, at that moment, the thoughts of the hundreds of men on board the Majestic, the whole soul and body of every man appeared to be concentrated on his own gun, as he awaited in stern silence the order to act.

It came at last, but somewhat differently from what had been expected. A sudden and peculiar motion was felt in the ship, and it was found that she had got entangled with the main rigging of one of the French vessels astern of the L’Orient. Instantly men were sent aloft to cut clear, but before this could be accomplished a perfect storm of shot and shell was sent into them from the towering sides of the three-decker. Men fell on all sides before they had an opportunity of firing a shot; again and again the crushing shower of metal came; spars and masts fell; the rigging was cut up terribly, and in a short time the Majestic would certainly have been sunk had she not fortunately managed to swing clear. A moment afterwards Captain Westcott, finding himself close alongside the Heureux—the ninth ship of the enemy’s line—gave the word to open fire, and Bill Bowls had at last the satisfaction of being allowed to apply a light to the touch-hole of his gun. Seventy-four men had for some time past felt their fingers itching with an almost irresistible desire to do this, and now upwards of thirty of them were allowed to gratify their wish. Instantly the good ship received a shock that caused her to quiver from the trucks to the keel, as her broadside went crashing into the Heureux.

No longer was there impatient inaction on board the Majestic, for not only did the Heureux reply vigorously, but the Tonnant—the eighth of the enemy’s line—opened fire on their other side. The Majestic therefore fought on both sides. Throughout the whole ship the stalwart, half-naked men heaved at the huge guns. Everywhere, from stem to stern, was exhibited in full swing the active processes of sponging out, passing along powder and ball, ramming home the charges, running out, working the handspikes, stepping aside to avoid the recoil—and the whole operation of working the guns, as only British seamen know how to work them! All this was done in the midst of smoke, flame, crashing shot, and flying splinters, while the decks were slippery with human blood, and strewn with dead men, from amongst whom the wounded were raised as tenderly as the desperate circumstances in which they were placed would admit of, and carried below. Many of those who were thus raised never reached the cockpit, but again fell, along with those who bore them.

One of the men at the gun where Bill Bowls was at work was in the act of handing a round shot to Bill, when a ball entered the port-hole and hit him on the head, scattering his brains over the gun. Bill sprang forward to catch him in his arms, but slipped on the bloody deck and fell. That fall saved his life, for at the same moment a musket ball entered the port and passed close over his head, shattering the arm of a poor boy—one of those brave little fellows called powder-monkeys—who was in the act of carrying a cartridge to Ben Bolter. Ben could not delay the loading of the piece to assist the little fellow, who used his remaining strength to stagger forward and deliver the cartridge before he fell, but he shouted hastily to a passing shipmate—

“Here, Davis, carry this poor little chap to the cockpit.”

Davis turned and took the boy in his arms. He had almost reached the main hatchway when a shell entered the ship and burst close to him. One fragment killed the boy, and another almost cut Davis in two. They fell and died together.

For a long time this terrible firing at short range went on, and many men fell on both sides. Among others, Captain Westcott was killed. He was the only captain who fell in that battle, and was one who, had his life been spared, would certainly have risen to the highest rank in the service. He had “risen from the ranks,” having been the son of a baker in Devonshire, and gained the honourable station in which he lost his life solely through his conspicuous abilities and courage.

Up to this point none of those who are principally concerned in this tale had received any hurt, beyond a few insignificant scratches, but soon after the death of the little boy, Tom Riggles received a severe wound in the leg from a splinter. He was carried below by Bill and Ben.

“It’s all over with me,” he said in a desponding tone as they went slowly down the ladders; “I knows it’ll be a case o’ ampitation.”

“Don’t you go for to git down-hearted, Tom,” said Ben earnestly. “You’re too tough to be killed easy.”

“Well, I is tough, but wot’ll toughness do for a feller agin iron shot. I feels just now as if a red-hot skewer wos rumblin’ about among the marrow of my back-bone, an’ I’ve got no feelin’ in my leg at all. Depend upon it, messmates, it’s a bad case.”

His comrades did not reply, because they had reached the gloomy place where the surgeons were engaged at their dreadful work. They laid Tom down on a locker.

“Good-bye, lads,” said Tom, as they were about to turn away, “p’r’aps I’ll not see ye again, so give us a shake o’ yer flippers.”

Bill and Ben silently squeezed their comrade’s hand, being unable to speak, and then hastened back to their stations.

It was about this time that the L’Orient caught fire, and when Bill and his friend reached the deck, sheets of flame were already leaping out at the port-holes of the gigantic ship. The sides of the L’Orient had been recently painted, and the paint-buckets and oil-jars which stood on the poop soon caught, and added brilliancy to the great conflagration which speedily followed the first outbreak of fire. It was about nine o’clock when the fire was first observed. Before this the gallant French Admiral had perished. Although three times wounded, Brueys refused to quit his post. At length a shot almost cut him in two, but still he refused to go below, and desired to be left to die on his quarter-deck. He was spared the pain of witnessing the destruction of his vessel.

Soon the flames got the mastery, and blazing upward like a mighty torch, threw a strong and appropriate light over the scene of battle. The greater part of the crew of the L’Orient displayed a degree of courage which could not be surpassed, for they stuck to their guns to the very last; continuing to fire from the lower deck while the fire was raging above them, although they knew full well the dire and instantaneous destruction that must ensue when the fire reached the magazine.

The position and flags of the two fleets were now clearly seen, for it was almost as light as day, and the fight went on with unabated fury until about ten o’clock, when, with a terrific explosion, the L’Orient blew up. So tremendous was the shock that it seemed to paralyse the combatants for a little, for both fleets ceased to fire, and there ensued a profound silence, which continued for some time. The first sound that broke the solemn stillness was the splash of the falling spars of the giant ship as they descended from the immense height to which they had been shot!

Of the hundreds of human beings who manned that ship, scarcely a tithe were saved. About seventy were rescued by English boats. The scattered and burning fragments fell around like rain, and there was much fear lest these should set some of the neighbouring vessels on fire. Two large pieces of burning wreck fell into the Swiftsure, and a port fire into the Alexander, but these were quickly extinguished.

On board the Majestic also, some portions of burning material fell. While these were being extinguished, one of the boats was ordered out to do all that was possible to save the drowning Frenchmen. Among the first to jump into this boat were Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter. Bill took the bow oar, Ben the second, and in a few moments they were pulling cautiously amid the débris of the wreck, helping to haul on board such poor fellows as they could get hold of. The work was difficult, because comparative darkness followed the explosion, and as the fight was soon resumed, the thunder of heavy guns, together with the plunging of ball, exploding of shell, and whizzing of chain-shot overhead, rendered the service one of danger as well as difficulty.

It was observed by the men of the Majestic’s boat that several French boats were moving about on the same errand of mercy with themselves, and it was a strange as well as interesting sight to see those who, a few minutes before, had been bent on taking each other’s lives, now as earnestly engaged in the work of saving life!

“Back your starboard oars,” shouted Ben, just as they passed one of the French boats; “there’s a man swimming on the port bow—that’s it; steady; lend a hand, Bill; now then, in with him.”

A man was hoisted over the gunwale as he spoke, and the boat passed onward. Just then a round shot from one of the more distant ships of the fleet—whether English or French they could not tell—struck the water a