III

WON AT THE CANNON'S MOUTH

HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP UNDAUNTED

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life,
Is worth an age without a name.

Scott.

There is no incident quite like it in all the annals of the Royal Navy. There is hardly a finer tale, all said and done, hardly a more stirring story, than that which tells how we came by our first Undaunted—why there is an Undaunted to-day on the roll of the British fleet. Better name for British fighting ship there could be none; none, assuredly, of happier omen. In a sense, indeed, it is, so to speak, a self-made name. No Admiralty Lord of high degree in the comfortable surroundings of a sanctum at Whitehall first made choice of or appointed it. No lady fair with customary libation of foaming wine on dockyard gala day wished 'God speed' to our first Undaunted. In quite another way, indeed, was the name first given. Amid the clash and ring of hostile steel, in the heat of a hard-fought fight, with shells bursting round, and grape-shot hurtling through the powder smoke, with bullets flying thick, while men closed hand to hand with cutlass and bayonet and boarding pike, came the first idea of the name Undaunted, and the scene of its first appointment, of its first bestowal on a British man-of-war, was the quarter-deck of a British flagship, as the last echoes of battle were dying down.

The West Indies, Nelson's 'station for honour,' was the scene of the event, off the island of Martinique, and Thursday the 20th of March 1794 was the day. There had been turbulent doings in Martinique for the past six weeks. Ever since the second week of February, day after day, almost incessantly, the quiet valleys and hillsides of the fair island had re-echoed with the crackle of musketry and the booming of cannon. It was the old story, of course, red-coats fighting blue; the old story—with the old result. We were in the second year of the war with the French Revolution, and a British army had been sent over to drive the French from their West Indian possessions. Martinique was the first to be attacked, and three columns of British troops had landed there at different points to fight their way inland until they met, driving the French field force and garrisons before them. Outmatched in the open, the French troops and local militiamen had in the end fallen back on Fort Royal, whither General Rochambeau, the French Commander-in-Chief in the West Indies, had called in all his forces and massed his battalions to make a final stand at bay. The fate of Martinique depended on their power of holding out until help from outside should reach them.

A large and powerful British fleet under Vice-Admiral Sir John Jervis, the future Earl St. Vincent, had escorted the troops across the Atlantic. After assisting the soldiers in the earlier stages of the campaign it had closed in and fastened its grip on the seaward approaches to Fort Royal.

Fort Royal was the headquarters station of the French in the West Indies. It was situated at the head of a deep bay, Cul de Sac Royal as it was called. The place was strongly fortified, and was the great arsenal and dockyard of France across the Atlantic. For a hundred years past and more French fleets and squadrons had fitted there for war, and had put in to repair after battle. Thence Du Casse had sailed to fight Benbow. From there, as we have seen, De Grasse put out to meet his fate off the 'Saints' at the hands of Rodney. Two fortified positions of considerable strength and with heavy cannon, besides outlying redoubts and batteries, defended the town of Fort Royal; one position fronting inland, the other facing towards the sea.

Against the former, Fort Bourbon, an entrenched work set on high ground at the back of the town of Fort Royal, the main force of our soldiers was to operate, attacking with a siege train of heavy guns and mortars and opening zigzags and parallels in the orthodox way. Fort Louis on the sea front, blocking the entrance to the carénage, or man-of-war harbour, and the dockyard, was to be attacked by the Naval Brigade, assisted by a number of grenadier and light infantry companies, with siege batteries made up of ships' 24-pounders. At the entrance to Fort Royal Bay, to 'keep the ring,' as it were, rode the big two-deckers and frigates of the fleet.

The bombardment began on the 7th of March and lasted ten days, during which time the enemy resisted stoutly. Their sorties were, however, beaten back, and by the 16th of the month the advanced batteries of the second parallel had been pushed forward to within 500 yards of Fort Bourbon. The sappers and miners had in the same time got nearer still to Fort Louis. As yet though no date had been fixed for the assault.

On the 17th of March an accidental circumstance suddenly brought on the crisis. Lieutenant Bowen of the flagship Boyne, who commanded the guard boats of the fleet, heard that there were some British seamen prisoners on board a French frigate that lay in the carénage moored close under the walls of Fort Louis. He was a young fellow of exceptional daring, and a fine piece of work suggested itself to his mind. It was to dash in on his own account and try and cut out the French ship and rescue the prisoners. Young Bowen said nothing about it to any one. He took his boats in and made the attempt. He boarded the frigate in the face of a sharp fire, only, however, to find that the prisoners had been removed. Then he tried to bring the prize off. It proved, however, impossible. The frigate had been moored with chains and had no sails bent to her yards. Lieutenant Bowen had to retire, but his daring attempt gave an idea to the British admiral. It took shape on paper, and the co-operation of the military on shore was arranged for. Sir John Jervis's plan was to send in all the boats of the fleet en masse, carrying landing parties of sailors and marines, and attempt Fort Louis itself by a coup de main. At the same time, it was arranged, a brigade of troops, detached from before Fort Bourbon, should move down and threaten the town of Fort Royal and the landward bastions of Fort Louis.

The plan was put in hand at once, and Thursday the 20th of March was fixed on for the attempt. It was to be made in broad daylight, going straight at the enemy. This, briefly, was to be the order of the attack. The Asia, a 64-gun ship, Captain John Brown, with the Zebra, a 16-gun sloop of war, Commander Robert Faulknor, were to push on ahead of the boats. Having got as close in to the ramparts as the tide would allow, the Asia was to batter away at the fort and breach the sea-wall. The Zebra at the same time was to sweep the ramparts with grape and canister and cover the approach of the boats with the storming parties, which were to come up a little astern of her. All the boats in the fleet—flat-bottomed boats, barges, and pinnaces, carrying 1200 seamen and marines—were to be employed, each provided with a number of bamboo scaling-ladders of from 20 to 36 feet long. Everything was ready by the appointed time, seven on Wednesday night, and at five o'clock on the morning of the 20th the signal was given to set off.

Promptly the Zebra led in. There was a brisk north-easterly breeze blowing, and standing right before it she headed directly for the French batteries. The enemy on their side opened fire on her at once, a long-range cannonade, but without effect. She was a small object to hit. Without checking her course the Zebra held on steadily. The Asia followed, and all went well until just as she was getting within grape-shot range. Then suddenly an amazing thing happened. To the blank astonishment of the whole squadron, the 64 suddenly wore round and stood out of the bay. She turned round deliberately and drew off from the enemy. What was the matter? Something very serious indeed must have happened on board. Sir John Jervis himself, the admiral, thought it could only be that Captain Brown had been killed, and sent off his flag-captain to take charge. It was not that, however. Not a man had been touched by a shot. Captain Grey[60] was only a few moments on board, and then went down the side into his boat to return to the flagship, after which the Asia stood in again. It was a great relief to all—when suddenly, just as she got to the same spot as before, within grape-shot range, round went the Asia's bows once more, and she for the second time put back. What on earth had happened now?

This is the story. It is not a very nice one.

A French naval officer who had deserted to the British was on board the Asia in charge of the pilotage arrangements for the day's attack. He was a M. de Tourelles, a Royalist, formerly harbour-master at Fort Royal. He had volunteered for the post and had been accepted for his pilot knowledge. The failure of the Asia was due to Lieutenant de Tourelles' nerves. All of a sudden, as the enemy's opening shots began to fly overhead through the Asia's rigging, M. de Tourelles got alarmed and lost his head. Whether it was sheer cowardice, or a qualm of conscience at the part he was taking against his own countrymen, or a fear for his own skin if anything went wrong and the French got hold of him—from one cause or another M. de Tourelles broke down abjectly. Before any one on board knew what was happening, he had put the Asia's helm hard over and rounded the ship out of action. That was the first failure, and the Frenchman's explanation was that he had somehow got out of his reckoning. After Captain Grey of the Boyne came on board M. de Tourelles said he would try again. He did so; and the same thing happened again. There was, though, another failure on board besides that of the pilot. Once more, to the surprise of all on deck in the Asia, Captain Brown did nothing. He was an officer who had seen service—of the same seniority as Nelson on the post list, and not far off flag rank in the ordinary course—yet he let the Frenchman for the second time carry the ship out of battle. Lookers-on expected him to pistol De Tourelles on the spot, or cut him down; at the least to send him below under arrest and take charge himself. The tide was flowing, it was nearly three-quarters high water, and he might well have risked touching on a shoal and borne up directly for the batteries. Captain Brown, however, did nothing of the kind. The Asia for the second time headed tamely out of action, this time to remain out.[61]

It was a disheartening spectacle and a bad start. The whole attack indeed was jeopardised. The Asia dropped back nearly outside the bay. The boats lay on their oars just within the bay. The Zebra, all by herself, entirely unsupported, was some distance ahead; all the time under fire from the enemy, stormed at by round-shot and shell and grape from every gun that the French could bring to bear on her.

Fortunately Commander Faulknor was not of the stamp of Captain Brown. He might well have anticipated a signal of recall and turned his little sloop away to retire out of range and wait for further orders. But he was not that sort of man. When he saw the Asia go about and retreat for the first time, although he had already got so far in as to be within musket-shot of the nearest French battery, he lay-to and waited. The French were already firing at him, but not the smallest notice would he allow to be taken of the enemy's shots. The Asia, as he saw, headed in and came on again; after which, for the second time she turned away and stood back. Commander Faulknor knew what that meant. He saw that he had been left in the lurch. He saw now that he must expect no assistance from the Asia, the big ship that was to have been the mainstay of the attack. The odds against him might well have daunted the bravest man. They did not, however, daunt Robert Faulknor. He then and there determined to undertake the whole duty of tackling the French batteries and covering the boat attack single-handed, with his own little ship and her crew of one hundred men all told.

It was a daring resolution, for Fort Louis was a very formidable work, mounting heavy guns and strongly held. It crowned a rocky eminence that jutted out menacingly into Fort Royal Bay. The sea face rose abruptly from the water's edge, with a wall and parapet, 15 feet high, scored with embrasures for big guns all along that side. In rear of the parapet three lofty tiers of platforms, rising one above another, with the muzzles of guns showing at all points, frowned fiercely down on all who should venture to approach in hostile guise. Fort Louis guarded the fairway into the carénage, or man-of-war harbour, round a bend immediately in rear of the fort, and it also covered the town and warehouses of Fort Royal proper, the civil settlement, which fringed the harbour on the farther side.

The perilous nature of the task he was taking in hand did not, however, count with the gallant officer who had charge of the Zebra. He was used to taking risks. Commander Faulknor had already in this campaign shown the stuff he was made of, and that not once nor twice. He was not the man to blench here.

The commander of the Zebra was indeed a man in a thousand. Hardly a finer fellow in every respect than Robert Faulknor ever trod the quarter-deck of a British man-of-war in any age. He could not, perhaps, well help being so. If ever a British naval officer had the sea 'in his blood,' as the old saying went, Faulknor had it. Not many families ever did more for the Sea Service than the Faulknors of Hampshire in the eighteenth century. A round dozen of its sons, as captains and admirals, walked the quarter-deck in the times between Queen Anne and William the Fourth. As a fact, he owed his very origin to a naval romance. His father was 'Bob Faulknor of the Bellona,' perhaps the most popular man in the service in his day, who in the first year of George the Third's reign took a big French 74, the Courageux, off the coast of Spain, in a ship-to-ship duel fought out to the bitter end, and won a fortune and a beautiful bride, our hero's mother, at one and the same time. The newspapers were full of the dashing fight, a story full of incidents of heroism on the part of the Bellona's captain, and the young lady reading the story there, gave her heart to the gallant captain she had never seen. Meeting 'Captain Bob' on his return to England at a ball, quite by chance, he for his part, in turn, fell violently in love with her, and they married and lived afterwards the happiest of wedded lives. Commander Faulknor's grandfather was old Admiral Balchen's flag-captain, who was lost with his veteran chief and upwards of a thousand officers and men, in the wreck of the Victory of George the Second's fleet, the predecessor of Nelson's Victory, off the Caskets near Alderney, one stormy October night of the year 1744. Commander Faulknor's great-grandfather got his lieutenant's commission three years after the battle of La Hogue, fought all through 'Queen Anne's War,' and died in George the First's reign, Lieutenant-Governor of Greenwich Hospital. Such was the stock that Commander Faulknor came of.

Faulknor gave orders to let fall the foresail and hoist every stitch of canvas that the ship's masts would stand. Then he again headed the Zebra up the bay, pointing in directly for the ramparts of Fort Louis. All round her, as the little sloop dashed forward, the water leaped and splashed, torn into spray under the tornado of grape and canister and round shot—any single one of which hitting the Zebra fairly must have torn the little vessel open and sent her to the bottom like a stone—with which the French batteries met her as she came on. But it made no difference. A special Providence—in the form of a drizzling squall that suddenly came on, blowing in from the sea right in the faces of the French gunners—seemed to be protecting the ship and her men, and she passed through practically unscathed. One shot cut the main-topmast away, but that was all. The balls whizzed through the rigging and within a few inches of the men's heads but not a single man was harmed.

At the instant that the Zebra was seen to make sail and move ahead, the boats of the squadron set off rowing after her at their best speed, while the Naval Brigade batteries on shore, facing the flanking bastions of Fort Louis on either side, redoubled their fire on the enemy's works to distract the attention of the French as far as possible. At the same time, to hold Fort Bourbon on the hill behind Fort Louis in check and prevent reinforcements being sent down to assist the lower fort, the British siege batteries up above burst out into a tremendous fire of round-shot and shell that swept the French ramparts in the upper fort from end to end.

On board the Zebra it was an anxious time for every one; and with it all, simultaneously, Commander Faulknor had yet another trial sprung upon him. The risk from the enemy's shot was not the severest ordeal that the captain of the Zebra had to go through. By an extraordinary coincidence, exactly the same thing happened on board the Zebra as had already happened with such unfortunate results on board the Asia.[62] The pilot's nerve failed. The pilot of the Zebra was an old man-of-war's man, who had been employed for many years in the West Indies on account of his pilot knowledge of the islands. He now broke down at the critical moment. But, as has been said, Commander Faulknor was not a Captain Brown.

As he gave the pilot the order 'to place the sloop close under the walls of Fort Royal,' he instinctively noticed that something was wrong. The man, he thought, seemed to hesitate. He turned aside to one of his officers.

'I think Mr. —— seems confused, as if he doesn't know what he is about. Has he been in action before?'

'Many times, Sir,' was the reply; 'he has been twenty-four years in the service.'

But Faulknor was not satisfied. He eyed the pilot closely and then stepped up to him and asked him a trifling question to test him. His suspicions were fully confirmed. The pilot's 'agitation was such as to render him incapable of giving any answer.' Recovering himself to some extent a moment later the wretched man, keeping his eyes on the deck, in a low voice addressed Faulknor, who was bending over him, with this startling admission:

'I see your Honour knows me. I am unfit to guide her. I don't know what is come over me. I dreamt last night I should be killed, and I am so afraid I don't know what I am about. I never in all my life felt afraid before.'

One cannot help feeling pity for the unhappy fellow; but it was no time for pity. Commander Faulknor could do only one thing, and he did it. Without for an instant losing his presence of mind, he replied to the man in a still lower tone:

'The fate of this expedition depends on the helm in your hand. Give it to me, and go and hide your head in whatever you fancy the safest part of the ship. But mind—fears are catching. If I hear you tell yours to one of your messmates, your life shall answer for it to-morrow!'

Would the pilot have escaped had he pulled himself together and stuck to the helm? This is what Commander Faulknor wrote home to his mother after the fight.[63] 'I had a ship's cartouch box, which is made of thick wood, buckled round my body with pistol cartridges in it, for the pistol I carried by my side. As the Zebra came close to the fort, a grape-shot struck, or rather grazed my right-hand knuckle, and shattered the cartouch in the centre of my body: had it not miraculously been there I must have been killed on the spot.'

Faulknor ran the Zebra in and laid her as close under the French guns as the depth of water at that state of the tide would allow, within fifteen feet of the walls of Fort Louis. The next instant 'the scaling-ladders flew from the rigging, the boats in tow astern became the bridge, and Captain Faulknor headed his boarders over the parapet into the fort.'

The boats of the squadron, led by Captains Nugent and Riou—'the gallant, good Riou,' killed before Copenhagen seven years later, as all the world knows—were coming up astern, flying through the water after the Zebra, as fast as the men, bending their hardest to their oars, could send them forward; but they were still some way off.

Faulknor and his men clambered up the parapet, through the embrasures, and sprang over into the fort. Right in front of them, drawn up in rear of the ramparts, stood with muskets at the present, a whole French regiment, the 33rd of the Line, a veteran battalion of the old Royal Army of France, and one not yet disorganised by Republican methods, the Régiment de Touraine. It met the first appearance of the sailors, as they set foot on the ramparts, with a crashing volley. Only three of the Zebra's men were hit, and they had only flesh wounds. With a cheer up went the cutlasses and the sailors made a rush in on the French bayonets, to settle the matter hand to hand. But no! A sudden panic seized the Frenchmen. Down, clattering to the ground, went their muskets all along the line, and up went their hands, as the Régiment de Touraine, panic-stricken, screamed and yelled for quarter. It was given. Faulknor turned round short, flung himself before his leading men, and by main force stopped them as they were in the act of closing. 'I take some credit to myself,' he related to his mother, 'that after the Zebra had stood a heavy fire, and when we had the power to retaliate, for we were mounted upon the walls, I would not allow a man to be hurt, on their being panic-struck and calling for mercy.'

The iron gates leading to the citadel of Fort Louis then barred the way, but these were burst in and the little band of sailors rushed through, the heroic Faulknor leading. They fought their way steadily and swiftly, until within seven minutes of forcing their entry they had got up to the very topmost platform of Fort Louis. That was instantly seized and the place was theirs. The commandant of the fort and his staff yielded themselves up as prisoners of war, and the French flag was hauled down, an English Jack going up in its place, 'amidst the shouts of triumph from the armed boats, from the squadron, and from the army, which thus announced its arrival outside.' Five stands of military colours were taken with the garrison. 'The sword and colours of Fort Royal,' wrote Faulknor home, 'were delivered to me by the Governor of the fort.'

This is the modest way in which Faulknor recorded the events of the day in the Zebra's log:—

March 20.—At 5 A.M. we weighed and came to sail. At 8 A.M. the enemy began to fire on us from Fort Royal, which they con^d till noon, when we ran in under their fire to the fort. I, together with the officers and seamen, stormed the fort, with the loss of one man killed and five wounded. The rigging, masts, and sails much cut, and kedge anchor, which hung under the bowspritt, cut away the spritsail yard and carried away the jib-boom. A heavy and well-directed fire was kept up from our battery's and gun-boats whilst we were running in, and the flat boats under the command of Commodore Thompson followed us with 500 seamen.[64]

A touch that helps to show us something of the chivalrous character of Commander Faulknor must be noted in passing. 'The British ensign being displayed over the fort, Captain Faulknor sent his second lieutenant to the casements (sic), where the French officers' families, (and) the sick and wounded were, to assure them of protection.'

'After that,' we are told, 'Mr. Hill (the second lieutenant) had the proud duty of letting down the drawbridge to the Commander-in-Chief of the Army.'

The securing of the capture, the holding of the fort was, of course, for other people to do. The 100 officers and men of the Zebra were too few to do it. But the boats of the squadron were now alongside the walls and landing their men, and the soldiers were at the gates. There was no object in remaining ashore longer. Captain Faulknor handed over his capture to the senior officer present, and quietly drawing the Zebra's company off, marched them down and returned on board. Then he sent his boats and had the French frigate lying in the carénage taken possession of—the Bien Venu was her name—which was done without resistance, after which, in the most ordinary and matter-of-fact way, just as it were going out of a morning from Portsmouth Harbour to Spithead, he made sail and stood out to rejoin the squadron.

The unprecedented scene that followed, is indeed the climax of the whole story. 'Such compliments, that it is impossible for me to relate them—compliments ... without example in the navy,'—were Commander Faulknor's own comments on the extraordinary reception that was accorded him.

As the little Zebra was seen approaching, the Boyne, Sir John Jervis's flagship, manned yards and rigging. Then, a moment later, when the Zebra had neared the Boyne and was shaping her course to pass under the flagship's stern on her way to reach her station among the other ships, the 'flagship's band, drawn up on the poop, struck up "See the Conquering Hero comes!"' and a tremendous burst of enthusiastic cheering, repeated again and again, rang echoing out to welcome the daring little ship. It was a splendid scene, stirring and magnificent, and worthy of the occasion, but it was not all. There was more to come. The admiral had a part of his own to play.

'Old Jarvie' did it in a way peculiar to himself. The man of iron had his other side. They did not know the real Jervis who spoke of him as a tyrant, unsympathetic and saturnine, pitiless and a grim martinet, who hanged men on Sunday for the sake of discipline. This was an occasion after Jervis's own heart. None knew better than he how to reward merit: none ever did it better. A signal was made to the Zebra for Commander Faulknor to come on board the flagship. While the order was being obeyed, as the Zebra was lowering her boat Sir John had all hands on board the Boyne called aft and the guard of marines paraded under arms on the quarter-deck. All the officers were sent for to attend the admiral. The Zebra's boat sheered alongside, and Commander Faulknor came up the gangway. As he set foot on the flagship's quarter-deck the admiral, before the assembled officers, stepped forward to meet him. He greeted the young commander with unusual warmth and publicly embraced him. Then he ceremoniously handed Faulknor a commission promoting him post-captain on the spot.

'Captain Faulknor,' said Sir John Jervis, 'by your daring courage this day a French frigate has fallen into our hands. I have ordered her to be taken into our service, and here is your commission to command her, in which I have named her, Sir, after yourself,—the Undaunted.'

The ship in question was of course the frigate Bien Venu, which had been moored in the carénage under the walls of Fort Louis, and had been taken possession of by Faulknor's men after the fort had fallen.

In such exceptionally heroic circumstances was the name 'Undaunted' first introduced on the roll of the British fleet. It has remained there ever since to this day. A more happily chosen name in such a case there surely could be none—better name for British fighting ship there surely could be none.

'No language of mine,' wrote Sir John Jervis, in his despatch to the Admiralty that very afternoon, 'can express the merit of Captain Faulknor upon this occasion, but, as every officer and man in the army and squadron bears testimony, this incomparable action cannot fail of being recorded in the page of history.'

'The idol of the squadron,' 'the admiration of the whole army,' were other expressions that Jervis used in regard to Captain Faulknor.

Captain Faulknor, though, did more than storm and take Fort Louis. By the same act, with the same stroke, he brought about the fall of Fort Bourbon and the capture of the town of Fort Royal, 'rushed' by a column of the besieging troops simultaneously with the storming of Fort Louis. In addition, beyond that, it brought about the formal surrender to England of the entire island of Martinique. All collapsed like a house of cards. General Rochambeau, startled at seeing Fort Louis, his bulwark towards the sea, which covered the only way by which he might hope for relief, snatched abruptly from him, while his own garrison was thrown into a state of hopeless demoralisation by the rabble of fugitive soldiers, bolting before Faulknor's men, and flying in wild disorder for refuge to Fort Bourbon, despaired of making a further stand. He beat the chamade, and sent in a flag of truce. At half-past two that afternoon one of Rochambeau's aides-de-camp from Fort Bourbon appeared before the British outposts with a letter from the French Governor, offering to treat and asking for terms. Commissioners on each side were named, and two days were spent in discussing details, but the French position, with Fort Louis gone, was doomed. Within 48 hours of Captain Faulknor's hoisting the British flag on Fort Louis the terms of surrender were agreed on and ready for signature.

It was a great capture. Sixty-eight guns and 55 mortars and howitzers were taken in Fort Louis alone; and more than twice as many more came into our possession with the fall of Fort Bourbon, besides immense supplies of ammunition and stores, shot and shell, and a large number of prisoners. These last included four regiments of infantry, among them one of the most famous corps of the French army of the old régime, the 37th of the line, the Régiment de Maréchal Turenne. On their behalf, indeed, a special effort was made by the French commissioners in drawing up the terms of surrender, to save the credit of so famous a regiment. They demanded that it should keep its colours and arms on being shipped back to France with the rest of the army, on condition of taking no further part in the war, but the attempt failed, and the Régiment de Maréchal Turenne had to share the lot of the other regiments, except that its officers were allowed to keep their swords.[65] It went back to France to meet its end as a regiment under Napoleon in Russia, drowned almost to a man in the terrible catastrophe which sealed the doom of the Grande Armée at the passage of the Bridge of the Beresina.

On the afternoon of the 23rd the gates of the fort were delivered over to the charge of the British, the French being confined to quarters inside, and guards were mounted under the command of Prince Edward, afterwards the Duke of Kent, the father of Queen Victoria and grandfather of King Edward, who was in command of a brigade of the attacking troops, and had been present throughout the siege.

The colours taken at Martinique were sent home, and, by command of King George, were placed in St. Paul's Cathedral. They were carried through London in triumph, from St. James's Palace to St. Paul's, the Tower guns firing a salute, escorted by Life Guards, Grenadiers, and Foot Guards, with the band of the First Guards playing the procession along the streets, which were filled with cheering crowds. At St. Paul's they were received at the great west door of the cathedral by the Dean and Chapter, with a full choir. Where are those colours now? Not a rag, not a staff, remains. As was the fate of the captured flags won at Camperdown, at St. Vincent, and at Trafalgar, they were left to rot uncared for, and then at the time of the reaction in the years after Waterloo, the rags that were left were pulled down and bundled out of sight. What remained of the flags was thrown on a dust-heap and the poles were handed out among the vergers as broom and scrubbing-brush handles and for poking down rats' nests.

On the morning of the 24th the French garrison marched out of Fort Bourbon. They were granted the honours of war, to make their exit with flags flying, bayonets fixed, drums beating, 30 rounds a man, and 2 field-pieces each with 12 rounds, and march down—between a double line of British seamen and soldiers—to the place of embarkation. They laid down their arms on the parade of Fort Royal, and filed on board the transports that had brought the British troops out, to set sail for France next day. The Island of Martinique was signed away from France with the capitulation of Fort Bourbon.

One last word must be said here of Captain Faulknor. He did not live to enjoy the benefits of his promotion long. Within ten months he was dead, killed in action, struck down in the performance of a deed of valour equal to anything that has in our own time won the Victoria Cross. In January 1795, when in command of the Blanche, a fine 32-gun frigate, to which he had been transferred, and while still in the West Indies, he fell in with a big French 36-gun frigate, the Pique, brought her to close action, and fought her for five hours, from midnight until five A.M., when the French ship surrendered. Captain Faulknor was shot dead, with a bullet through the heart, in the third hour of the fight, while in the act of lashing the Pique's bowsprit to the capstan of his own ship. He died, mourned by the whole country as a national loss, as the monument to him erected by order of Parliament in St. Paul's Cathedral testifies to this day.

Not once or twice in our rough island story
The path of duty was the way to glory.

Since Faulknor's Undaunted, five British men-of-war have borne the name, and in every instance with distinction. Three of them may be referred to here. One Undaunted—the Undaunted of the Napoleonic war—crowned a career of exceptional brilliancy—a career that is one continuous record of daring exploits, which indeed won for her captain the sobriquet, taken from the name of his ship, of 'Undaunted Ussher'—by carrying Napoleon a prisoner of war to Elba. This same ship was later the last man-of-war to fly the flag of a Lord High Admiral of England at sea.[66] Another, in more recent times, as flagship on the East Indies station, had the honour of escorting his present Majesty King Edward, then Prince of Wales, through the Indian Ocean on his historic visit to India. Yet another Undaunted, our present cruiser of the name, was Lord Charles Beresford's first ship as a captain of the Royal Navy—with the Mediterranean fleet under Sir George Tryon,—and proved herself during a memorable commission nulli secundus for smartness and efficiency, in the spirit of her well-remembered duty call:—

'Undaunteds,' be ready!
'Undaunteds,' be steady!
'Undaunteds,' stand by for a job!