CHAPTER IX.

NELSON'S LAST DAYS AND HOURS.

            "I saw before thy hearse pass on
The comrades of thy peril and renown.
The frequent tear upon their dauntless breasts
Fell.

            "I beheld the pomp thick gathered round
Through armed ranks—a nation gazing on.
Bright glowed the sun, and not a cloud distained
Heaven's arch of gold; but all was gloom beneath.

            "Awe and mute anguish fell
On all. Yet high the public bosom throbbed
With triumph."

There is one individual who, although mention has been made of him, has never yet appeared on the stage of our story, namely, Max Colmore, the son of Lady Colmore, and therefore Bertha's brother. Tom Bure had seen him only once or twice. The first time was when Tom—a very little boy then—was one day floating on the broad in his boat. Max, who was far older than he, had come to the bank with his gun on his shoulder, and ordered Tom to haul off on pain of being shot. Tom had obeyed, and forgiven his foe too for the sake of Bertha, but never had he forgotten the insult.

The second meeting was at the Hall after Tom's return from the Baltic. Our hero was by this time old enough to study the man and sum up his character, which he might have done, not only in a few words, but with three letters—F O P.

Tom wondered to himself how such a surly, haughty fellow as this, such a blood-proud fool, had been permitted to assume his Majesty's uniform; for he was then a captain in the army, and had even seen service in the wars.

Well, Tom Bure had quite as much aversion to a fop as his great chief, Nelson had, so he avoided Max as much as possible. Indeed, they would soon have quarrelled; for over his wine, of which he took a grown-up person's share, the captain talked almost disrespectfully of Nelson and "sailor fellows" in general.

Shockingly bad taste, you say? True, and the man was really no gentleman at heart.

Tom avoided him, therefore, for Bertha's sake, and although this was to be his last visit to the Hall for many and many a long day, he even cut this visit short.

After he had bidden good-bye to Lady Colmore and other guests, he simply bowed stiffly to Max, who was gaping at him through an eye-glass, and took his departure.

Slowly, through the shrubbery he was walking towards his boat when he heard a light step behind him.

He turned quickly.

"Dearest Bertha," he said gently, "I knew you'd come."

The girl was crying.

"Oh, Tom!" she exclaimed, "it seems all so sad and terrible, your going away like this. And something seems to say to me I shall never, never see you more."

"You mustn't talk so, my more than sister," said Tom. "True I am going away, but I shall return, safe and sound. I'm not going to be killed, Bertha, and I'm not going to lose a leg, like poor Merryweather. So you see I shall be able to dance on your wedding-day."

"Mamma says I am too young to think of the future, but she means to give me to some lord or another, and Max doesn't mind. I'm going to be sold, Tom."

"Bertha!" cried Tom, "sooner than you should be given away to a man you didn't care for, were he the proudest noble in Britain, I'd——"

There was the sound of voices heard coming towards them through the shrubbery, and so Tom's sentence was never finished.

* * * * *

Nearly four years had passed away. Busy and eventful years indeed they had been to both Tom Bure and to Raventree.

Not once in all that time had either of them seen home or friends. They had been kept constantly active, and pretty constantly in action. Tom had been much with Nelson, not in the same ships, but on the same service. He had been here and there in many lands too, for many of his duties had been to form a convoy to trading ships.

It was his fate, nevertheless, to be present at the great naval engagement of Trafalgar—a name that is never heard even to this day by a true Briton without a feeling of pride and patriotism.

Nelson had been on half-pay for a time. Perhaps he never expected to serve again. Nevertheless he came, like the hero he was, to his country's aid at his country's call.

I need not remind my reader of Napoleon's pet ambition, the invasion of England—he never could have reached Scotland—nor of that grand review he held on his birthday, August 15th, 1804, at Boulogne, surrounded by his dignitaries of State, his marshals, his ministers, his sailors and soldiers, or how liberally he distributed the ribbon of the Legion of Honour.

"Let us be masters of the Channel," he pompously exclaimed, "for six hours, and we are masters of the world!"

There was somewhat of honour to us in this sentence of the Emperor, for in smashing Britain he should certainly smash the world.

But the death of his chief admiral threw his scheme in abeyance for a time. Yet having the disposal of the Spanish fleet, he believed in 1805 that he had only to crush our squadrons in order to open the British door, and walk quietly in.

There is sometimes a good deal in that little word only, however. If you, reader, want to open a door and walk into a room, even if you are six feet high, and strong in proportion, as doubtless you are, you will find that you have attempted a task beyond your strength if behind that door there is stationed even a very, tiny man with his foot against it.

Now Britain had just such a little man to stand behind her door.

The little man was Nelson.

And the little man made a vow that he would put his foot against the door, and keep Napoleon Bonaparte on the other side of it.

And the little man did.

* * * * *

My readers have all heard tell and read of the marvellous chase by Nelson of the combined fleets of France and Spain. I may possibly be hauled up on the quarter-deck for calling it a chase, but really it was as much so as it was a search. He followed them all the way to the West Indies; he heard they were bound for Trinidad. He would have followed and drubbed them there, but the information was false, and only meant to mislead him. He would have followed them round the world, and drubbed them, just as he followed them back to Europe, and drubbed them there at last. And such a drubbing he administered to them!

History has no other such great naval fight as that of Trafalgar on record. No parallel to it.

I have, however, no intention of describing the Battle of Trafalgar. To do so would be to insult the British schoolmaster, and question the knowledge of the most ordinary British school-board boy—whoever that may be—who has mastered even an epitome of our nation's story.

NELSON'S LAST DAYS AND HOURS.

I think that a man who is universally loved must be good and true at heart. Nelson's was a heart of oak in one sense of the term, but it was a tender and feeling heart nevertheless, and he wore it, figuratively speaking, on his sleeve. His kind and gentle nature could be read in his eyes, as well as in his every action, private as well as public. His men loved him, his officers, more especially his midshipmen, loved him, and the people loved him. Ah! there is no deceiving or dissembling before the people. In the matter of affection and good-heartedness, it is as impossible to deceive the people as it is to deceive a dog, and that is saying a deal.

As I sit here writing in my country home, I have but to place my hand before my eyes, and scene after scene rises up before my mental vision of Nelson's last days and hours.

SCENE I. It is the night of September 13th, 1805, and half-past ten of that night, and the hero is leaving Merton—a home of his in the country. But see, ere he leaves the house, he goes on tiptoe, fearful lest he should wake her, to the bedroom where his little girl Horatia lies sleeping. He gazes long and fondly at her, he softly kisses her, then kneels beside her bed with tear-filled eyes upturned to heaven to crave a blessing on her. I see him kneeling thus and there at this moment.

SCENE II. It is very early on the morning of the 14th. Hardly has the autumn day began to dawn, yet all around the George Inn, Portsmouth, dense crowds have gathered to catch but a glimpse of the naval hero before his embarkation. He had their huzzas many a time before, but now he has their hearts. They follow him even to the water's edge, they press forward to catch a sight of his face; many are in tears, and many kneel down and bless him as he passes. They love him as true and fervidly as he loves England. But, alas! they will never, never see him more.

SCENE III. Nelson has joined his fleet off Cadiz. Though at his express desire no guns are fired, no colours shown, that the enemy may be kept in ignorance of the arrival of a reinforcement, the loving-kindness and joy shown at his arrival cause him "the sweetest sensation of his life." The officers who come on board to welcome his return forget even his rank as commander-in-chief, in the enthusiasm with which they greet him. He cannot for a time speak for emotion. But he regains his voice at last, and then while they crowd around the table he proceeds to explain to them his previously arranged plans for attacking the enemy. That, he says, is the "Nelson touch." They see it all in a moment. It is a touch of true genius. So new, so singular, so simple. Some of them are even affected to tears, so much are their minds relieved by the prospect, nay, the very certainty of victory now before them.

SCENE IV. It is the very eve of battle, and among his warlike and busy thoughts those of home come crowding uppermost, and down he must sit all alone in his cabin to write to his little Horatia. Only a little letter, but how full of love and affectionate thoughtfulness.

"MY DEAREST ANGEL,—I was made happy by the pleasure of receiving your letter, and I rejoice to hear you are so very good a girl. The combined fleets of the enemy are now reported to be coming out of Cadiz; and therefore I answer your letter, my dearest Horatia, to mark to you that you are ever uppermost in my thoughts. I shall be sure of your prayers for my safety, conquest, and speedy return to dear Merton. Be a good girl, mind what Miss Connor says to you. Receive, my dearest Horatia, the affectionate parental blessing of your father,

"NELSON AND BRONTE."

SCENE V. Ah! this scene is one which is almost too gloriously dreadful to contemplate. But I can see our noble fleet advancing in two columns to crash through the enemy's battle line. And now the flashing guns, and the white wreathing smoke—the tapering masts, with flags unfurled, towering and swaying high above the battle clouds. But this scene fades momentarily from my view, or rather it resolves itself into another and a sadder.

SCENE VI. Nelson and Hardy on the battle-deck, in the very thick of the dreadful engagement. And, see, Nelson sinks rather than falls, and his faithful Hardy springs to his side. On that very spot his secretary, Scott, was killed some time before, and the blood, still fresh, stains our hero's clothes. I see him being borne tenderly below to the cockpit. I see him—kindly-hearted even in the hour of death—place his handkerchief over his face that his brave fellows may not know 'tis he, their own loved admiral, who is being carried below.

SCENE VII. The cockpit. The dimly-burning lights, the smoke, the heat, and against the bulkheads the wounded, the dying, and the dead. The surgeons half naked, with blood-sprinked faces, arms, and garments; the "idlers"—all too busy here. Moan and groan and mournful cry. What a terrible scene! What a fearful place to die in!

But as the hero is borne down here, even wounded men forget their own pains and misery as they draw the chief surgeon's attention to the bearers.

"Doctor, doctor," they cry, "it is the admiral! It is Lord Nelson himself!"

The dying Hero is borne tenderly into the midshipmen's berth, and laid upon a bed. Even the surgeon, who hastens to help him, sees how unavailing all his efforts must be. The poor admiral can read his doom written in the surgeon's pitying face. Yet it only confirms what he himself had thought before. His days are numbered, his hour is come. He is in pain, in agony, so much so that he wishes death would come to relieve him—wishes it were all, all over; and yet not for a little. Hardy he must see, and it seems such an interminable time before he can come to him. "Will no one bring him?" he moans piteously. "Perhaps he is slain. He is surely dead."

But overhead the battle rages on and on, and he can hear the wild "hurrahs!" of the men as ship after ship strikes her flag.

Hardy comes at last and bends mournfully over him, utterly unable to suppress his emotion. But Hardy must tell him how the battle goes. Then this faithful officer, with a heart bursting with emotion, shakes hands, and rushes once again to his post on deck.

But see! Hardy has returned; and Nelson can talk now only of the dear ones at home.

"God bless you, Hardy," he says feebly, and shortly after, "Thank God, I have done my duty!"

And these are the last words the Hero speaks. His breast heaves, there is one long-drawn, but half-stifled sigh, and—Nelson is no more.

CHAPTER X.

"JACK, I FEEL THERE IS SOMETHING WANTING IN MY LIFE."

"Then all is well. In this full tide of love
Wave heralds wave: thy match shall follow mine.
. . . . . . . Meanwhile farewell
Old friends. Old patriarch oaks farewell."—TENNYSON.

The character of Captain Max Colmore is not one of those which commands any very great amount of respect, and I should willingly have left it out of my story. But then if we have no shading in a picture we cannot so well appreciate the high lights. Besides, he was Bertha's brother, and independently of that fact, his death had a bearing on our "ower true" tale, even if his life had none.

They say that a certain dark gentleman, whose nama it is best not to mention in polite society, is not so black as he is painted. Happily the task of acting as his biographer does not devolve upon me, but the old saying reminds me that even in the character of a man like Max there may be something of good to record. I am willing to let him have the benefit of this. He was no coward then. There were very few cowards in the army in those old days, though I fear it is different now that men of muscle have in competitive examinations often enough to lower their flags to those with long memories, puny bodies, and hearts no bigger than a bantam chick's.

Max Colmore——

                                    "ne'er refused
When foeman bade him draw his blade."

In fact, he rather liked drawing his blade than otherwise, whether the man who suggested his doing so were a foeman or a quondam friend, for Max was a somewhat famous duellist, and quite as clever with the pistol as the sword. Faith in his own ability, however, rendered him somewhat of a blusterer, while abuse in the matter of potable table luxuries made him hot-headed, and apt to take offence where no offence had been meant. Even until this day, although duelling has gone out of fashion, and is punishable as a crime, we could understand, and even give some meed of praise to a man who drew his weapon to defend the honour of his country, the name of majesty, or injured innocence. But we view matters from a different light when we read of a quarrel at mess from one hasty word or look, leading up to a fight to the death.

Such was the case one night at a dinner given in honour of Colonel Stuart's birthday, and to which nearly a score of as happy young fellows as ever used knife and fork sat down. The dinner passed by pleasantly and cheerfully enough too, until even dessert was finished and the colonel had retired. Some of the younger bloods reseated themselves at table, among them Max, among them too a youthful merchant, at whose house many of the officers had been most hospitably received and treated. Mr. Drake, the name of this young merchant, had a young sister who resided with him, and whom Max Colmore, rosy now about the gills, and with a strange sparkle in his eye, proposed as "a toast" in a not over-complimentary manner.

It was surely only natural that Drake should lose his temper.

"It is only a coward and a fool," he said, "who would dare to behave so."

"This to me, Mr. Snip, and from such a fellow as you, a miserable purveyor of silks and sarcenet. Have that," cried Max.

The word "that" was accompanied by the contents of a glass of claret, thrown full in the face of poor young Mr. Drake.

All rose to their feet, and the insulted gentleman made a motion as if to throw a decanter at the blustering Max.

But Lieutenant Moore restrained him.

"Stay, Drake, stay your hand," he exclaimed. "This is my quarrel. You are my guest. Captain Colmore, you account to me for this gross insult to a friend of mine."

"To the pair of you," said Colmore, "if you prefer it."

"Mr. Snip," he added, "I'll have you first, if you please."

"So be it," said Drake, very calmly and quietly.

Early next morning, soon after the birds had begun to sing, and before the dew had left the grass, or the cicada had given voice, the combatants met with all due formality in a beautiful green grove, not far from the chief fort.

Did no thoughts of his far-off home, near the quiet and peaceful Norfolk broad, or of his mother and gentle sister, steal across the young man's mind as he stood, pistol in hand, waiting the word to fire? Probably none, for he looked half dazed from the dissipation of the previous evening, and his body was far from steady.

"At the word 'three' you will fire. One—two—three."

The pistols rang out almost simultaneously on the still air of morning, and for a second or two it seemed as if neither belligerent had been hit. Then Max Colmore's weapon dropped suddenly from his hand, and he sank in a heap on the ground beside it.

He neither opened his eyes again, nor spoke.

Captain Colmore was dead.

And to all intents and purposes he had died a death that was fraught with dishonour, for he had owed an apology, and had refused to pay it.

* * * *

At the time that Captain Max Colmore met with his death the great battle of Trafalgar was quite a thing of the past; indeed, two years had passed away since that splendid victory, which had cost Britain her cherished hero, but gained for her the supremacy of the seas. These years had not been uneventful for either Tom Bure or Lord Raventree. Both had gained additional glory and renown at sea, and poor Tom had gained something else—which in the dashing days of old frequently accompanied honour and glory—a severe wound in the left forearm, which would prevent his serving again for a year at least, if not for ever.

He was brought home an invalid in the end of 1807, from that marvellous expedition against the Danes, by which they lost the whole of their large navy, and had their capital city, Copenhagen, laid in red-hot ashes.

Tom was not sorry to find himself once more an inmate of his foster-father's little cottage, near the peaceful broad, with Ruth and his foster-mother to wait upon him.

He found but little change in either of the latter; but Dan was getting old, yet hale and hearty in his declining years, and it was the greatest delight of his life when the sweet springtime brought bud and burgeon to the trees, and the wild flowers to the marshes, to row the invalid Captain Tom, as he with some pardonable pride called our hero, out and away over the broad.

Nor were his friends at the great hall, as Colmore Manor was invariably called, otherwise than delighted to see him on their return from the south.

But partly through his being an invalid, and partly, perhaps, through being a sailor—sailors being, you know, always shy—Tom was half afraid to address the tall and willowy girl who now stood before him as Bertha.

Bertha had grown up very beautiful, and was likewise very accomplished, as far as accomplishments went in those days. She could talk more than one language at all events, and play well on the harp and spinet. But there were times when the graceful and accomplished girl had moods of innocent playfulness, in which she appeared to Tom precisely like the wilful wee tottie of six or eight she was in the early days of his acquaintance with her. Strangely enough, Tom Bure liked her best in these moods, and longed to catch her in his arms, or rather in his one utility arm, and give her a kiss; but then his invalid or sailor shyness, whichever it was, overflowed his breast, and he didn't or couldn't.

* * * * *

Those days of war and bloodshed were eventful enough both by land and sea, and it need surprise no one to be told that the ship which ought to have brought the news of Max Colmore's sad death, as trim a brig as ever sailed the seas when she left Jamaica, was never heard of any more. Whether she had caught fire and been burned at sea, foundered during some terrible gale, or been taken aback and gone down in a white squall nobody ever knew. But her non-arrival prevented the account of her son's end from reaching Lady Colmore for many months after she ought to have known of it.

When the news did arrive at last, then the crash came, and her ladyship knew she was no longer mistress of Colmore Manor, and that its real owner was some distant relative of her late husband, for the estate was an entailed one.

Very soon after Lady Colmore did a thing which proves that her pride—and she had a good deal of it—was really genuine and heartfelt, that it was indeed part and parcel of her nature. As soon as the heir, or the gentleman who was described as such by his solicitors, put in an appearance she left the county, and went no soul knew whither. To all seeming she and Bertha had vanished from off the face of the earth.

Tom, before the crash came, had found himself so much better, that he determined to travel for a month or two for the benefit of his health, and wounded arm, which still remained a most unserviceable limb to him.

Previous to his going away, his old friend, Jack Merryweather, became the husband of poor little innocent Ruth. Jack was indeed a happy soul, and I believe I am justified in adding he was not the only happy soul at the quiet wedding in Dan's cottage.

One thing Jack had done before leading his bride to the altar, was to polish up that wooden leg of his till it shone like Whitby jet.

It so happened that Captain Lord Raventree was in the country at that time. There was no word of his marrying. His sword was his bride, and would be till the peace came. But he came to Jack Merryweather's wedding all the same, and it is currently reported that he had even kissed the bride. If he did it was quite in accordance with his character.

Then away went Tom and he together in Ashley's boat, which they chartered for the occasion, for a coasting cruise up north.

They enjoyed themselves as only sailors and old messmates can. Tom going so far as to affirm it was the happiest time ever he had had in all his life.

Of course these two friends were like brothers, and had no secrets the one from the other. So Tom had confessed that he was exceedingly fond of Bertha, and that he wasn't at all sure Bertha wasn't just as fond of him.

"Then why don't you go in and win, man?" cried Raventree. "What would our mutual friend, Nelson, have thought of any officer hanging fire when there was something before him that was a duty?"

"A duty, Raventree?"

"Yes, your duty to posterity, Tom."

"Not that posterity ever did anything for me as yet," said Tom Bure thoughtfully; "but now that you've mentioned dear old Nelson, I—I—will go in and win."

But lo! when Tom returned to the cottage, and his friend went off to Raventree Court, the first thing he heard was about the Colmore crash, the second the disappearance of Lady Colmore and her daughter, and the third and most wonderful of all, that he, Captain Tom Bure, R.N., was the nearest heir to the estates of Colmore, and not the other fellow.

All this news coming of a heap, as old Dan phrased it, quite took our hero's breath away, and it was some time before he fully realised his position.

"It was all owing to that black box," said Dan, "that your poor Uncle Bob took so much pains to save, and that I took up to the banker at Yarmouth. That proved it all, and there's none livin' that can disprove it."

Whether Tom's uppermost thoughts at this moment were those of joy or sorrow, it is probably hard to tell.

"Poor Bertha!" he muttered half aloud, "shall I never, never see her more?"

* * * *

Long months after Tom Bure was settled in his new home, he continued by every means he could think of, his endeavours to find out the whereabouts of Lady Colmore and Bertha. But all in vain. It was rumoured that her ladyship had died of a broken heart, or of a combination of pride and poverty, leaving her daughter to stem a sea of adversity as best she might.

Tom, in something akin to hopeless sorrow, settled down to look after his estates in good earnest now.

He fain would have built a new house for his foster-father Dan on the grounds, so that he might have the old couple close to him. But Dan would not hear of leaving his bit o' property, where he and his old wife had lived so long and happy, and where poor Uncle Bob had died.

Tom soon found out that recreation was good for him, or diversion, as Jack Merryweather phrased it, so he often went to town, and with his friend was frequently at concerts, fêtes, and plays.

One evening, after a quiet dinner together, Jack addressed his friend as follows:

"Tom, you appear in doleful dumps to-night. You have sat opposite me for ten minutes, and never said a word."

"I'm not over merry at heart, Jack," said Tom. "The fact is, amidst all this fun and gaiety I feel there is something wanting in my life."

"And isn't it a fool you are," cried Jack, "to go on mourning for the partial loss of one hand? Look at me—one leg only and a timber toe. Do I mourn and lament?"

Jack held up that wooden extremity of his, which shone to-night like an ebony ruler.

"Bah! Tom, what's the use of it?"

And Merryweather burst into the old song—

"Life let us cherish
While the wasting taper glows."

"Come along with me, Tom. There's something good going on to-night at the old Drury."

Tom Bure yawned through three acts of a somewhat dreary play.

As shifting of scenery necessitated a longer interval than usual between the third and fourth acts, a beautiful girl came on to sing a charming Irish song. It was, the play-bill said, her first appearance on any stage.

At the first sound of her voice Tom pricked up his ears.

At the first glance he started as if he had been shot again.

Then he disappeared—went tearing out of the box, as Jack afterwards described it. He tore down below, and almost fought his way behind the scenes.

He was just in time to meet the young lady walking off the stage with a whole lap-full of bouquets.

"Bertha!"

It was Tom's voice.

And as he went awkwardly rushing forwards, somehow or other she dropped everyone of those bouquets on the deck of the stage—I think they call it the deck. If they don't they ought to.

Never mind, I have this to add: Bertha's first appearance on any stage was likewise her last.

And just as Bertha dropped those bouquets am I now going to drop anchor, and almost quite as suddenly. I do not wish that a good boy's story should degenerate into an ordinary love yarn, else I should devote a dozen pages to telling you how it came about that two months after this our hero, Tom Bure, was married to the orphan girl, Bertha Colmore, in presence of Jack Merryweather, Lord Raventree, and honest Dan himself.

And just as the happy couple were standing on the deck of the saucy Yarmouth Belle—same old skipper, same old mate—that was to bear them from London to the North, "I say, Tom," said the same old Merryweather, "I misunderstood you that evening after dinner."

"Never mind," said Tom, "I have at last found the something that was wanting in my life. Good-bye."

"Mate!" roared the skipper.

"Yes," cried the mate.

"On this auspicious occasion, mate——"

"Let us——" said the mate.

"That's it. Let us splice the main-brace."

"Hurrah!"

FINIS.

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

[Transcriber's Note: Near the start of Chapter IV is the footnote "Vide Map". There was no map in the source book.]