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.