Complete works of r m ba.., p.613
Complete Works of R M Ballantyne, page 613
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 few yards from them, sending a column of spray high into the air. Instead of sinking, the shot ricochetted from the water and carried away the bow of the boat in passing, whirling it round and almost overturning it. At the same moment the sea rushed in and swamped it, leaving the crew in the water.
Our hero made an involuntary grasp at the thing that happened to be nearest him. This was the head of his friend Ben Bolter, who had been seated on the thwart in front of him. Ben returned the grasp promptly, and having somehow in the confusion of the plunge, taken it into his head that he was in the grasp of a Frenchman, he endeavoured to throttle Bill. Bill, not being easily throttled, forthwith proceeded to choke Ben, and a struggle ensued which might have ended fatally for both, had not a piece of wreck fortunately touched Ben on the shoulder. He seized hold of it, Bill did the same, and then they set about the fight with more precision.
“Come on, ye puddock-eater!” cried Ben, again seizing Bill by the throat.
“Hallo, Ben!”
“Why, wot — is’t you, Bill? Well, now, if I didn’t take ‘e for a Mounseer!”
Before more could be said a boat was observed rowing close past them. Ben hailed it.
“Ho!” cried a voice, as the men rested on their oars and listened.
“Lend a hand, shipmates,” cried Ben, “on yer port bow.”
The oars were dipped at once, the boat ranged up, and the two men were assisted into it.
“It’s all well as ends well, as I’ve heerd the play-actors say,” observed Ben Bolter, as he shook the water from his garments. “I say, lads, what ship do you belong to?”
“Ve has de honair to b’long to Le Guillaume Tell,” replied one of the men.
“Hallo, Bill!” whispered Ben, “it’s a French boat, an’ we’re nabbed. Prisoners o’ war, as sure as my name’s BB! Wot’s to be done?”
“I’ll make a bolt, sink or swim,” whispered our hero.
“You vill sit still,” said the man who had already spoken to them, laying a hand on Bill’s shoulder.
Bill jumped up and made a desperate attempt to leap overboard, but two men seized him. Ben sprang to the rescue instantly, but he also was overpowered by numbers, and the hands of both were tied behind their backs. A few minutes later and they were handed up the side of the French ship.
When day broke on the morning of the 2nd of August, the firing still continued, but it was comparatively feeble, for nearly every ship of the French fleet had been taken. Only the Guillaume Tell and the Genereux — the two rear ships of the enemy — had their colours flying.
These, with two frigates, cut their cables and stood out to sea. The Zealous pursued, but as there was no other British ship in a fit state to support her, she was recalled; the four vessels, therefore, escaped at that time, but they were captured not long afterwards. Thus ended the famous battle of the Nile, in regard to which Nelson said that it was a “conquest” rather than a victory.
Of thirteen sail of the line, nine were taken and two burnt; and two of their four frigates were burnt. The British loss in killed and wounded amounted to 896; that of the French was estimated at 2000.
The victory was most complete. The French fleet was annihilated. As might be supposed, the hero of the Nile was, after this, almost worshipped as a demigod. It is worthy of remark here that Nelson, as soon as the conquest was completed, sent orders through the fleet that thanksgiving should be returned, in every ship, to Almighty God, for the victory with which He had blessed His Majesty’s arms.
Chapter Eight.
Our Hero and his Messmate get into Trouble.
On the night after the battle, Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter were sent on board a French transport ship.
As they sat beside each other, in irons, and securely lodged under hatches, these stout men of war lamented their hard fate thus —
“I say, Bill, this is wot I calls a fix!”
“That’s so, Ben — a bad fix.”
There was silence for a few minutes, then Ben resumed —
“Now, d’ye see, this here war may go on for ever so long — years it may be — an’ here we are on our way to a French prison, where we’ll have the pleasure, mayhap, of spendin’ our youth in twirlin’ our thumbs or bangin’ our heads agin the bars of our cage.”
“There ain’t a prison in France as’ll hold me,” said Bill Bowls resolutely.
“No? how d’ye ‘xpect to git out — seein’ that the walls and doors ain’t made o’ butter, nor yet o’ turnips?” inquired Ben.
“I’ll go up the chimbley,” said Bill savagely, for his mind had reverted to Nelly Blyth, and he could not bear to think of prolonged imprisonment.
“But wot if they’ve got no chimbleys?”
“I’ll try the winders.”
“But if the winders is tight barred, wot then?”
“Why, then, I’ll bust ‘em, or I’ll bust myself, that’s all.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Ben.
Again there was a prolonged silence, during which the friends moodily meditated on the dark prospects before them.
“If we could only have bin killed in action,” said Bill, “that would have been some comfort.”
“Not so sure o’ that, messmate,” said Ben. “There’s no sayin’ wot may turn up. P’r’aps the war will end soon, an’ that’s not onlikely, for we’ve whipped the Mounseers on sea, an’ it won’t be difficult for our lobsters to lick ’em on land. P’r’aps there’ll be an exchange of prisoners, an’ we may have a chance of another brush with them one o’ these days. If the wust comes to the wust, we can try to break out o’ jail and run a muck for our lives. Never say die is my motto.”
Bill Bowls did not assent to these sentiments in words, but he clenched his fettered hands, set his teeth together, and gave his comrade a look which assured him that whatever might be attempted he would act a vigorous part.
A few days later the transport entered a harbour, and a guard came on board to take charge of the prisoners, of whom there were about twenty. As they were being led to the jail of the town, Bill whispered to his comrade —
“Look out sharp as ye go along, Ben, an’ keep as close to me as ye can.”
“All right, my lad,” muttered Ben, as he followed the soldiers who specially guarded himself.
Ben did not suppose that Bill intended then and there to make a sudden struggle for freedom, because he knew that, with fettered wrists, in a strange port, the very name of which they did not know, and surrounded by armed enemies, such an attempt would be utterly hopeless; he therefore concluded, correctly, that his companion wished him to take the bearings (as he expressed it) of the port, and of the streets through which they should pass. Accordingly he kept his “weather-eye open.”
The French soldiers who conducted the seamen to prison, although stout athletic fellows, and, doubtless, capable of fighting like heroes, were short of stature, so that the British tars looked down on them with a patronising expression of countenance, and one or two even ventured on a few facetious remarks. Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter, who both measured above six feet in their stockings, towered above the crowd like two giants.
“It’s a purty place intirely,” said an Irish sailor, with a smiling countenance, looking round upon the houses, and nodding to a group of pretty girls who were regarding the prisoners with looks of pity. “What may be the name of it, av I may make bowld to inquire?”
The question was addressed to the soldier on his right, but the man paid no attention. So the Irishman repeated it, but without drawing forth a reply.
“Sure, yer a paltry thing that can’t give a civil answer to a civil question.”
“He don’t understand Irish, Pat, try him with English,” said Ben Bolter.
“Ah, then,” said Pat, “ye’d better try that yersilf, only yer so high up there he won’t be able to hear ye.”
Before Ben had an opportunity of trying the experiment, however, they had arrived at the jail. After they had passed in, the heavy door was shut with a clang, and bolted and barred behind them.
It is probable that not one of the poor fellows who heard the sound, escaped a sensation of sinking at the heart, but certain it is that not one condescended to show his feelings in his looks.
They were all put into a large empty room, the window of which looked into a stone passage, which was itself lighted from the roof; the door was shut, locked, bolted, and barred, and they were left to their meditations.
They had not remained long there, however, when the bolts and bars were heard moving again.
“What say ‘e to a rush, lads?” whispered one of the men eagerly.
“Agreed,” said Bill Bowls, starting forward; “I’ll lead you, boys.”
“No man can fight with his hands tied,” growled one of the others. “You’ll only be spoilin’ a better chance, mayhap.”
At that moment the last bolt was withdrawn, and the door swung open, revealing several files of soldiers with muskets, and bayonets fixed, in the passage. This sight decided the question of a rush!
Four of the soldiers entered with the turnkey. The latter, going up to Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter, said to them in broken English: —
“You follows de soldat.”
Much surprised, but in silence, they obeyed the command.
As they were going out, one of their comrades said, “Good-bye, mates: it’s plain they’ve taken ye for admirals on account o’ yer size!”
“Niver a taste,” said the Irishman before mentioned, “’tis bein’ led, they are, to exekooshion—”
The remainder of this consolatory suggestion was cut off by the shutting of the door.
After traversing several passages, the turnkey stopped before a small door studded with iron nails, and, selecting one of his huge keys, opened it, while the soldiers ranged up on either side.
The turnkey, who was a tall, powerful man, stepped back, and, looking at Bill, pointed to the cell with his finger, as much as to say, “Go in.”
Bill looked at him and at the soldiers for a moment, clenched his fists, and drew his breath short, but as one of the guard quietly brought his musket to the charge, he heaved a sigh, bent his head, and, passing under the low doorway, entered the cell.
“Are we to stop long here, Mister Turnkey?” asked Ben, as he was about to follow.
The man vouchsafed no reply, but again pointed to the cell.
“I’ve always heered ye wos a purlite nation,” said Ben, as he followed his messmate; “but there’s room for improvement.”
The door was shut, and the two friends stood for a few minutes in the centre of their cell, gazing in silence around the blank walls.
The appearance of their prison was undoubtedly depressing, for there was nothing whatever in it to arrest the eye, except a wooden bench in one corner, and the small grated window which was situated near the top of one of the walls.
“What d’ye think o’ this?” asked Ben, after some time, sitting down on the bench.
“I think I won’t be able to stand it,” said Bill, flinging himself recklessly down beside his friend, and thrusting his hands deep into his trouser pockets.
“Don’t take on so bad, messmate,” said Ben, in a reproving tone. “Gittin’ sulky with fate ain’t no manner o’ use. As our messmate Flinders used to say, ‘Be aisy, an’ if ye can’t be aisy, be as aisy as ye can.’ There’s wot I calls sound wisdom in that.”
“Very true, Ben; nevertheless the sound wisdom in that won’t avail to get us out o’ this.”
“No doubt, but it’ll help us to bear this with equablenimity while we’re here, an’ set our minds free to think about the best way o’ makin’ our escape.”
At this Bill made an effort to throw off the desperate humour which had taken possession of him, and he so far succeeded that he was enabled to converse earnestly with his friend.
“Wot are we to do?” asked Bill gloomily.
“To see, first of all, what lies outside o’ that there port-hole,” answered Ben. “Git on my shoulders, Bill, an’ see if ye can reach it.”
Ben stood against the wall, and his friend climbed on his shoulders, but so high was the window, that he could not reach to within a foot of it. They overcame this difficulty, however, by dragging the bench to the wall, and standing upon it.
“I see nothin’,” said Bill, “but the sky an’ the sea, an’ the prison-yard, which appears to me to be fifty or sixty feet below us.”
“That’s not comfortin’,” observed Ben, as he replaced the bench in its corner.
“What’s your advice now?” asked Bill.
“That we remain on our good behaviour a bit,” replied Ben, “an’ see wot they means to do with us, an’ whether a chance o’ some sort won’t turn up.”
“Well, that’s a good plan — anyhow, it’s an easy one to begin with — so we’ll try it for a day or two.”
In accordance with this resolve, the two sailors called into play all the patience, prudence, and philosophy of which they were possessed, and during the three days that followed their incarceration, presented such a meek, gentle, resigned aspect; that the stoniest heart of the most iron-moulded turnkey ought to have been melted; but the particular turnkey of that prison was made of something more or less than mortal mould, for he declined to answer questions, — declined even to open his lips, or look as if he heard the voices of his prisoners, and took no notice of them farther than to fetch their food at regular intervals and take away the empty plates. He, however, removed their manacles; but whether of his own good-will or by order they did not know.
