The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hearts of Oak, by Gordon Stables

AUTHOR OF "FROM SQUIRE TO SQUATTER;"
"IN THE DASHING DAYS OF OLD;" "EXILES OF FORTUNE;"
"ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY;"
ETC. ETC.

"'Hearts of oak!' our captain cried; when each gun
    From its adamantine lips
    Spread a death-shade round the ships
    Like the hurricane eclipse
        Of the sun." CAMPBELL.

I have no need, I trust, to apologise for the introduction of the name and chief exploits of so great a naval hero as Horatio Nelson into this story of sea life. It is due to my readers as well as myself, however, to state that it is a tale of the sea, and not intended as a life of Nelson. Nevertheless I have endeavoured throughout to paint his character to the life by a series of tableaux vivants, which I humbly hope will not be found altogether ineffective.

With the exception of the calm and peaceful days that Nelson spent at the old parsonage of Burnham-Thorpe, I have dealt solely with his doings and deeds afloat, and from the time he joined the grand old service until the day of his death on board the Victory the sword is seldom out of his hand. My Nelson is Nelson on the quarter-deck. With Nelson at Court, whether at home or abroad, I have nothing whatever to say. The young fellows for whom I write, I know well, infinitely prefer the sailor's cutlass to a lady's fan.

And Nelson is notably a boy's hero; so good, so gentle, and yet withal so brave! And never during all his career was his mind so overwhelmed with his own cares on shipboard, as to preclude him from interesting himself in what pertained to his junior officers, with a tenderness too that was almost fatherly. Another trait in his character that must cause every true boy to look upon Nelson as a hero, was his love of duty and justice.

Says Alison, "He was gifted too by nature with undaunted courage, with indomitable resolution, and undecaying energy. He possessed also the eagle glance, the quick determination, and coolness in danger, that constitute the rarest qualities in a consummate commander."

I pray heaven that in our next naval war—and it cannot be very long ere this rages over the seas—our country may be in possession of a few admirals who shall emulate the dash and elan of our great and mighty Nelson.

Descending to my lesser heroes, young Lord Raventree, and Tom Bure, they are neither greater nor less than any true-hearted British boy may be, who has the honour to draw dirk or sword in the dashing days of warfare which most assuredly are before us.

Descending to still humbler heroes, it will do the reader no harm to know that poor Uncle Bob, and his honest and gentle old brother Dan, have had their counterparts in real life.

So, too, has the faithful collie dog Meg, with all her gentle, winning ways, who so cheered the last sad days of her helpless invalid master.

May we not love even a dog for the possession of virtues higher far than many mortals can lay claim to?

Book I.

CHAPTER I.

POOR UNCLE BOB!

"Happy Britain! matchless isle,
Whose natives, like the sturdy oak,
Secure in inborn force, may smile
And mock the tempest's heaviest stroke.

"If roused in war, shall dreadful move
Britannia's vengeance on her foes; to prove,
Where'er again her banners are unfurled,
The dread and envy of the wond'ring world."—DIBDIN.

"I wonder what makes Tom so late?" said Uncle Bob to himself, as he opened his eyes and looked around him. "Why," he added, "it is precious nearly three bells in the second dog-watch, as sure as I'm a living sailor. Living! Well, there isn't a deal of life about me, for the matter of that; but I'm right about the time. The shadow of yonder poplar tree just touches my toes at four bells, and it doesn't want a yard of doing so now. I must have been dozing a bit, too. It is a drowsy kind of an evening anyhow. But it was that blackbird in the cherry-tree that set me off, and maybe the hum o' the bees round their hives yonder, and the whispering of the wind in the old cedar must have helped a bit. Heigho!"

"Made sure I heard Tom singing just then," continued the invalid half aloud, "but I dare say it was the sea-gulls. They're coming inland to-night, and I'm no seaman if it doesn't blow big guns before morning."

Uncle Bob talked to himself for the best of reasons: there was no one else to talk to. For little Ruth, his niece, was helping her mother in the house, and Daniel, his brother, had gone to the Hall with a boat. No chance of Dan being home early to-night, for the boat required the heaviest cart for its conveyance, and the mare had gone a bit lame lately.

To have looked at Uncle Bob's face as he lay there in his cot, which had been wheeled out under the shade of the trees on the daisied grass, no one would have taken him for an invalid. His rather handsome face, with its short brown beard and well-chiselled features was placid and contented, nay, even happy and hopeful-looking.

O, yes, Uncle Bob had not ceased to hope. For seven long years and over, day after day, whenever the sun shone, or it was dry weather, that cot upon wheels had been hauled out of doors, where it is now in this sweet May evening, by the sturdy and kindly hands of Brother Dan. Yet if the boat-shed close by had taken fire, poor Uncle Bob could not have lifted hand or foot to save himself from destruction. The paralysis from which this seaman suffered had been accidental. It was this, probably, that gave him hopefulness and made his sad life in a measure bearable. And in certain states of the weather, strange to say, Uncle Bob could move his fingers.

Dr. Downs used to call as he passed by to talk with him for a few minutes, and never failed to tell Uncle Bob that as he wasn't an old man by any means, time might work wonders.

Mr. Curtiss, the curate, a kindly-hearted young fellow from Yorkshire, often dropped round, and would sit and talk to the invalid for a whole hour at a time. Nor did he ever leave without some words of consolation that, to say the least, were well-meant. Bob had very much to be thankful for, the curate would say; he wasn't in pain of any sort; he had his appetite and the use of his eyes and ears, and everybody loved him and was good to him.

Uncle Bob being a sailor, the curate thought it was his duty to always introduce an allegorical ship of some kind in his conversation with the stricken mariner. Besides, wasn't Mr. Curtiss himself somewhat of an authority on nautical matters? Hadn't he been down to the sea in ships—well no, not quite that, but he had made one long and dangerous voyage from Great Yarmouth to London in a herring yawl, which enabled him to talk with some degree of confidence about "green seas," "contrary winds," "luff tackle, main sheets and shrouds," and all the rest of it. Mr. Curtiss meant well therefore, and he never left the invalid without leaving him something nice to think about, without, in fact, leaving him better in mind, if not in body, than he had found him. But after all said and done it isn't everyone who could have lain in a cot all these years so peacefully as Uncle Bob had done.

Brother Dan, you must know, reader, was a boat-builder—not of pair-oared gigs or outriggers, or any of the beautiful dashing boats you see on the Thames and other rivers—Dan's speciality was cobbles, or good, honest, strongly-built, broad-beamed boats, on which you could float on the lovely waters of the Norfolk lakes, and at times step a mast and hoist a bit of sail, without much danger of turning turtle, so long as you sat to windward. Ay, and you might venture a long way out to sea too in one of Dan's boats, and if you kept your weather eye lifting now and then, and your hand on the main sheet, you could crack on very prettily indeed through a lumpy sea-way.

And Brother Dan's house was just over the way yonder, across a little rustic private bridge that brought you here to this half lawn, half paddock, but wholly pleasant and tree-shaded spot, where Bob's cot was safely moored under the shade of the cedar. After you passed the bridge you had to turn sharp round to the right, and on through the garden by a well-kept gravel path, before you came to the porch of Dan's old-fashioned, but comfortable, Norfolk cottage.

Lying out here all by himself, one might have said that Bob looked a little lonesome this evening. And perhaps he was, for with the exception of the blackbird that seemed to be singing to the invalid, and to him alone, he had no companion. Now and then the bleating of sheep in the distance, the low contented moan of cows, or the barking of a dog fell on his ear, and in a small lake almost close by his cot, and over which the shadows of some giant poplars were thrown, half-wild ducks played at hide and seek among the tall reeds, while occasionally a fish leapt up and made rippling rings on the surface of the water, but that was about all of life that was at present indicated.

In fine weather it was cheerful enough for Uncle Bob here, because Dan worked close beside him in the boat-shed, into which he could wheel the cot if a shower threatened. And Brother Dan with his rosy face and his square paper cap, hammering at a boat, or making the white curly shavings fly from his plane was a very cheerful figure indeed.

Over and above all this, Dan's property—he always called it his own property—was situated on high ground, or what is called high ground in this part of the world, for Norfolk is not Switzerland; so that from between the trees Bob could catch glimpses of the far-off country side, at which he never tired looking. For it takes very little indeed to create interest in the mind of the confirmed invalid. The trees in front of him were mostly tall and weirdly Scottish pines, whose brown pillar-like stems hardly obstructed the view. So Bob could feast his eyes on green fields, where sheep and cattle sheltered themselves from the sun's rays under the spreading elms; on an ancient gray-stone hall that rose boldly above a cloudland of foliage; on an archery lawn near it; on the shimmer of a silvery lake or broad, and on the flashing waters of a winding reed-bordered stream. Among the woods to the right and left of the centre of this picture was here and there a touch of red among the greenery of the trees, representing the tiled roofs of farm-houses or cottages. All combined did not make much of a picture perhaps, but it was nevertheless a very peaceful and very pleasant one.

Gazing dreamily at it, Uncle Bob had almost gone to sleep again, when the voice of a young girl raised in song, awoke him thoroughly, and looking up he saw Ruth herself, right on the centre of the rustic bridge, waving a handful of wild flowers towards him. In front of her bounded a beautiful black and tan collie dog.

"Dear old Meg!" said Uncle Bob, as the animal put her fore paws almost on his pillow and licked his ear. "Been away for hours I'll wager, haven't you now, Meg, ranging over the hills and fields and chasing the squire's rabbits?"

The collie leant her cheek against her master's breast, in that inexpressibly pretty way that such dogs have of showing pity and affection combined.

"Hullo! Ruth, my little sweetheart, you look as fresh and lovely as the figure head of the old Queen Bess in a new coat of paint. Come and kiss your old uncle, you rogue. Now I've been picturing you to myself with your sleeves rolled up, washing plates and things in the kitchen; 'stead o' that you've been gathering wild flowers."

"Hullo! Ruth, you look as fresh and lovely as the figurehead of the old Queen Bess."

"All for you, Uncle Bob. Look at the buttercups and the ox-lips, and oh, uncle, just smell those red ragged Robins. See I've tied the posie with grass, and I'll lay them on your breast so you can scent them."

She patted her uncle's brow, and added, "I've wetted both my feet trying to get a yellow iris, so I shall run and change my stockings, and get supper ready 'gainst father and Tom comes home. Ta, ta, uncle. Meg will stop here, so you won't feel lonely."

Ruth was a fresh-complexion, pretty girl of sweet thirteen, with shy dark eyes, blithesome face and a lithesome figure. Mr. Curtiss, the curate, had said more than once, than only to see Ruth going singing about at her work of a morning made him feel good all day.

Uncle Bob was naturally very fond of his little niece, but between our two selves, reader, he was fonder far of Tom; for when the boy was not away at school, or scouring the woods and hills with Meg, he was the invalid's constant companion.

"Tom won't be long now, Meg, will he?" said Uncle Bob when Ruth had disappeared. "Ha! you're cocking your ears, old lady. D'ye hear young master?" Meg emitted just one half-hysterical bark of joy and jumped down.

Her sharp ears had caught the sound of the boy's footsteps on the road not far off, so away she bounded.

A few minutes after, young Tom himself, red and dusty with running, his eyes sparkling with joyous health and excitement, appeared upon the scene.

Instead, however, of coming quietly up behind Uncle Bob, and kissing his brow—for the lad was almost girlish in the affection he displayed for the helpless invalid—Tom stood at the foot of the cot, a Times newspaper over his head, and shouting—

"Why The Times, Uncle Bob. I walked all the way to the Hall, round by the broad, to borrow it, after my tutor told me the news. 'Cause why, uncle, 'cause I knew you'd like to read the news with your own old-fashioned eyes. Oh! glorious news, I can tell you. That is what Mr. Curtiss called it. The French are going to fight again, at least he thinks so. Won't it be glorious? won't it be fun? After supper Uncle Bob, after supper—oh, not now. It is too good to be scamped and hurried over; besides, I'm so hungry. And, poor uncle, so must you be. But there! I haven't told you all the news. The most glorious part of it is to come. I went to the Hall, you know. Well, I saw Lady Colemore, and she sent the footman into the garden with me to see I should eat as many strawberries as I could hold, and to-morrow, little Bertha Colemore and her maid are going to bring you a great big, big basketful all to yourself, and I'm to feed you with them, and not eat one."

Then Tom laughed so merrily, that he was forced to lie down on the grass and roll, and Meg was by no means slow to follow his example.

Uncle Bob laughed too, though there wasn't anything very special to laugh about, but the sight of happiness in others always pleased Bob.

"Away aloft, young sir, and have a look round the horizon. Take the glass, sir."

And next moment he was swarming up the rigging with all the agility of a practised sailor.

Up and up and up, hand over hand, till his head touches the bottom of the crow's-nest, then he enters it from below and settles himself to have a good look round through the glass.

Now in case this last sentence should seem enigmatical to the reader I must explain. The crow's nest was a hugely large and strong barrel, that had been hoisted up into one of the poplar trees, and firmly secured at a distance of forty feet above board, that is above the level of the lawn. The tree, which was a very beautiful one, with one strong trunk which reached a height of five-and-twenty-feet, then bifurcated into two that tapered skywards for fully fifty feet more, grew almost in the water of the little lake, and strong ratlines or rigging, similar to that on a ship, led upwards to the nest. Above this nest was a kind of Jacob's ladder, up which Tom could swarm for twenty feet higher and seat himself on what he and Bob called the top-gallant cross-trees.

From near the bottom of the nest hung a stout rope, and up this Tom could climb when he chose, or come down by the run.

This out-look or crow's nest was one of the pleasures of poor Uncle Bob's lonesome life. It was a pleasure even to look at it when Tom wasn't there, but when the lad did come home—and his arrival was one of the chief events of the day with Bob—hardly had he exchanged greetings with uncle ere the order was, "Away aloft, lad!" Then standing in the cosy nest, or seated high up on the cross-trees, Tom would keep the invalid informed, for half-an-hour at a time, or even a whole hour sometimes, of all that was going on at sea.

CHAPTER II.

THE WRECK ON THE GORTON SANDS.

"How hard the lot for sailors cast,
That they should roam
For years, to perish thus at last
In sight of home."—DIBDIN.

"Her skipper's mad," cried Bob; "as mad as a March hare. Why it's coming on to blow big guns from the south-east, or soon will be, and if he doesn't trip it and be off, there won't be a stick of him left together by moon-set. Don't look at him, Tom, he's no sailor."

"Five yawls, sir, tacking through Hewett's Channel. Foremost has got into the blue, filled, and is running north away."

"There's a three-masted ship, sir, coming straight in from the east, under all sail. But there isn't above a capful of wind."

"Yes, sir; I'll look again. Now she's gone about, and I can see she's a barque."

"Bravo, Tom! But mind you this, lad, I've seen a man had down from aloft and receive four dozen at the grating, for just such a trifling mistake as that."

"Now," continued Tom, "I can just raise the topga'nt sails of a ship far away north. It is a ship right enough, sir. Appears to be on the la'board tack, and standing over for the French coast."

"Why, sir," cried Tom presently, "four of the fishermen are crowding all sail to the nor'ard, but the fifth——"

"Never saw a yawl so deep in the water before. She can't be going fishing, uncle. I see something else, sir, now."

"Oh, you needn't, sir! That—that—strange craft is bringing it up with her. But I can't quite make her out. She is long and low, not big; and carries a press of fore-and-aft sail on two thin masts."

"That isn't a very lucid nor very seaman-like description, Tom," cried Bob, laughing. "Has she any top-masts?"

"But I can hardly see them. She seems in a hurry, but doesn't carry topsails. She puzzles me."

"That's what shore folks call these craft, Tom. Now the brig must see the strange sail. What are they doing?"

At this moment the trees caught the wind. The cedar rattled its great limbs as if in proud defiance of any blast that could blow. The pine trees waved their dark heads like the plumes on a Highlander's bonnet. The elm trees rustled, then roared, and the tapering poplars bent like fishing-rods before the force of the breeze.

"Hold firm there, lad," he shouted. His long illness had not weakened his voice. "Don't get emptied out. I knew that I could bring the wind by whistling."

"That's all; but there's another to follow, and one or two more to follow that. Then it'll settle down for a dirty night and blow a sneezer. Look at the blackhead gulls going shrieking round your head, Tom."

"Well, Tom, say so, else I'll have you down, sir, and introduce you to the gunner's daughter. Liken the waves to white-maned horses if you please, but not to quarts o' beer with good heads on them."

Tom was very busy up in the nest for the next few minutes. There was some little difficulty in holding the telescope steady, owing to the breeze, and Bob noticed that first he would direct it east and by south, then south-east, then east by north.

"Oh, Uncle Bob," cried Tom at last, talking excitedly, "I do wish you could come up here for a few minutes."

"The brig was mad before, else she wouldn't have got so close to the Gorton bank. What is she doing now?"

"And the yawl, the deep one, uncle, has put right about, and is driving north after the fishermen. Wind's gone two points more to the south'ard now."

"I notice that, lad. It's only the play o' the squall. What about the d——l in disguise, Tom?"

"She's mad too. Instead of taking in sail she has hoisted her topsails, and she's heeling over till she looks like a paper kite, or a kite's wake."

"Why, she has——yes, Uncle Bob, she has missed stays, and is driving on to the Corton sands. Oh, it's awful, awful!"

"Now she has struck. Down go the masts, and the seas are leaping over her like wild hyenas."

"Heaven help the poor ship," said Uncle Bob. "What a lubber of a skipper. I told him, Tom—I told him—at least, I told you. I don't know exactly what I'm saying, Tom. But what's the yawl doing?"

"Carrying on, sir, heading right away north. But it's getting so dark, what with the rising clouds and the dusk, that——."

"I said 'consort,' Tom," cried Bob. "You don't understand the drama that's being enacted before your eyes. Tom, it's a tragedy now. That brig is or was a smuggler. They're not so likely to suspect lubberly brigs of playing that game. The yawl was coming down with a cargo to her. See, Tom. And the d——l in disguise is a government sloop."

"I understand now. But, sir, I can just see that a boat has been lowered from her, and is making straight for the wreck with a bit of sail set."

"Bravo! bravo! I hope they'll save the men. The skipper deserves to be choked in the Gorton sands. Now, lad, come below. Here is Ruth, just heaving in sight at the other side of the bridge. Ah! Ruth, lass, there is terrible news. The brig we talked about in the morning has gone on shore on the tail of the Gorton bank. Heaven help them, little sweetheart; but I fear by this time it is a sad case."

Ruth put the end of her apron up to her eyes as if to shut out the terrible vision of breaking spars and timbers, rolling surf, and waves more than houses high.

"Come, Ruth," said Tom, touching the girl on the shoulder, "let us wheel Uncle Bob home over the bridge. There is no time to lose."

"Wait, uncle, till you're in the house, and I'll tell you. Come, Ruth, you pull and I'll shove. Heave-o-ee. There she goes. A little more to sta'board, Ruth. That's it. Now then, steady as you go; a long pull and a strong pull. Ruth, you're a beauty. What a capital sailor's wife you'll make!"

Talking thus, with Bob smiling in spite of himself, in spite of the tragedy he knew was at that moment being enacted on the Gorton sands, Tom and Ruth speedily wheeled the invalid's cot towards and right into his own wing of the cottage.

If ever a helpless man had a kind and thoughtful brother that man was Uncle Bob. The whole aim and object of Daniel Brundell's life, indeed, seemed to be to make the lad—as he often called Bob—happy and snug; and in this good work he had a most faithful helpmeet in his wife. As regards inventing invalids' comforts, I do believe that such a man as Dan would in our days make his fortune. Let us follow the cot on wheels for instance. Not into the house by the main doorway was it taken, for it could not have been turned, but into what was called 'Uncle's wing,' the door of which, although surrounded by a rustic jasmine-covered porch, opened straight into the room. Once inside, the cot was wheeled broadside on to a small bed of the same height, a block and tackle were attached to the upper or hammock portion of Bob's cot, both at the head and at the feet, Ruth hoisted one end and Mrs. Brundell the other, and lo! in ten seconds uncle was raised and swung easily and carefully on to his bed.

Then the cot was wheeled out to a dry shed till it should again be required; the invalid's head and shoulders were raised, and he was snug and happy for the evening. As a rule Tom fed the poor fellow, but to-night the lad had something else on his mind.

"I'm going to drink a pint of milk," he said, "and put some bread and cheese in my pocket to eat by the way, then run all the road to Lunton Cave, and get Ashley's yawl under way to go round Gorton. They'll meet the navy boat, won't they, uncle?"

"Why, boy," said Bob, "as soon as the navy boat saves whom she can off the brig she'll stand off for the sloop, and be picked up."

"Just before I came down I had another look, and could see that the Government craft had filled sail, and was standing right away north in pursuit of the yawl. So, of course, her boat will run in shore and try to land at Gorton, or head away for the north pier at Gorleston. Am I right, uncle?"

"Why, lad, I'm proud o' you! My own bringing up too. Right? Yes; an admiral of the fleet couldn't be righter. Well, God speed you, Tom. Strikes me, though, that the disguised sloop has all her work cut out if she means to overhaul that yawl. They'll slip their cargo over the bows without being seen, and the lighter she is the faster she'll fly. Besides in the dark and storm——"

"Not so dark, though, uncle. There's a big round moon peeping up already. But, good-bye, uncle, mother, and Ruth—I'm off."

And away he went, and certainly very little grass grew under his feet ere he reached the fisherman's cave.

Ashley was there himself, and his two sons also, and Davies, a Welsh fisherman, who lived at the cave. The yawl too was all ready in a little artificial harbour the men had dug close to the cave in which they lived.

Tom soon told his story, and the men were in no way loth to try their luck at piloting, as they phrased it.

"But," said Ashley, "it'll be a dirty night, and we'll have to work every inch o' the way to windward. Never mind, boys, it's to save precious life!"

"Yes, yes," said Davies, "and doubtless we will have the king's money too, into the bargain, Mr. Ashley."

"Take care," he said, "you don't have to take the king's money in a way you'd little relish, now you've married a nice young wife."

Ashley's sons laughed, and the Welshman was silent. The owner of the yawl went up the steps to the door of the cave, which by-the-way had once been a smuggler's den, but was now a comfortably-furnished house, high above the sea-level, except during very high tides.

"You're surely not going fishing to-night!" cried Mrs. Ashley, a tall, lanky woman, as brown as a gipsy.

"What if I were, good wife?" answered the old man gruffly. "Haven't I been out on many a dirtier? See to it that you have plenty of hot water, and some supper. We're expecting company."

"Maggie," he added, addressing a young and pretty woman, "you help mother. There's been a wreck on the Gorton, and we're going to bear a hand in saving life."

"Yes, daddy," she answered, surprise and alarm depicted on her face. "But——are they friends?"

In a few minutes more the sail—all that could be carried—was hoisted, and the yawl rushing out into the mist and darkness of a squall, the spray dashing inward over the bows, while the cutwater, rising and falling, struck angrily at each advancing wave.

The Fairy yawl was a handy little craft, and, sub rosâ, had been found handy in many ways as well as in fishing. The Ashleys used to boast openly in Yarmouth harbour, that in the Fairy they could go anywhere and do anything, high water or low, blow or fine. And everybody admitted that the Fairy's crew were just as daring as they looked.

It really wasn't all for the sake of gain, however, that the Fairy was now braving the dangers of this ugly night, nor had Ashley anything at all to do with the brig that had gone on shore. The old man really had a good heart of his own, and he could not have borne the thoughts of men drowning or clinging to the hull of a wreck without his doing his best to save them.

"I don't think you should have come, boy," he said kindly to Tom. "Here, get inside this spare oilskin, or bury yourself in the cuddy."

"Thank you, Mr. Ashley," said Tom, putting on the oilskin and an old sou'wester, "but I like to look about me."

The sky soon cleared, and the moon was now well above the horizon, and as they bore away on the sta'board tack everything around seemed as bright as day. Indeed to Tom the cliffs on the shore they were soon approaching looked most dangerously near.

But to old Ashley at the helm all was plain sailing. He could read the sea around here, and the wild sand banks, and rock or cliff and cloud, as one reads a book.

CHAPTER III.

"I SEE IT ALL," HE SAID. "I SEE IT ALL."

"Be good, be honest, serve a friend,
    Are maxims well enough;
Who swabs his brows at other's woe
    That tar's for me your sort;
His vessel right ahead shall go
    To find a joyful port."—DIBDIN.

No yacht ever sailed more closely to the wind than did the Fairy. She needed all her powers to-night however to beat to windward, and indeed there must have been times, while the squalls were at their worst, when she was hardly holding her own.

Old Ashley, with his bronzed and wrinkled face, was the very image of an ancient mariner. His wet oilskin and sou'-wester glittered yellow in the moonlight, his wet face glimmered red, his eyes positively shone at times, despite the fact that they were almost hidden by his bunchy eyebrows. Many and many a gale of wind the old man had stared into, his eyes seemed formed indeed to face the tempest and the spray from dashing waves.

As he lay there snugly curled up in his oilskins, the boy, young though he was—but little over ten—could not help admiring the old man's coolness and courage, nor the way he steered.

His sons, and Davies too, sat grimly staring ahead and watching the sea, but ready to spring to sheet or tackle at the first word of command.

They had been out nearly an hour and a half, and in that time had hardly made two miles of southing. Hardly anyone had spoken all this time, certainly there had been no attempt at conversation, but now just as the moon escaped from behind a great grey snowy-edged cloud, Davies half rose, and pointing ahead and to windward shouted:

Luckily the wind had gone down between the squalls, when they drove near the boat, a voice from which came loudly calling for assistance. It was answered by Ashley himself.

The sloop's boat had her mast carried away; she was swamped, and, loaded as she was, would soon have gone down.

Ashley passed her with a cheering word or two, put his yawl prettily round, lowered his mainsail, and driving down under his jibs ashiver, and little after sail, laid the boat aboard in the neatest way imaginable.

With some further skilful management everybody was got on board, with the exception of two left to bale, and the boat was taken in tow.

It was a lieutenant of the Royal Navy who came on board with his men and prisoners—five only had been saved off the brig—about a third of her crew. The officer was in undress uniform, but armed with sword and pistols, and he was proceeding to thank old Ashley, when that ancient mariner gruffly told him to "flop down out o' the way, else how could he steer."

The lieutenant said no more. But presently the yawl drew in near the shore, for she had been positively flying before the wind.

So quickly did the Fairy come round, that the proud lieutenant found himself down to leeward with his sword between his feet, and his cap in the sea. Next minute the yawl was in harbour.

"'Scuse me," said Ashley, "if I talked a bit rough. We aren't much used to king's officers here away. What, lost your cap? Here, take mine."

The ancient mariner pulled his own sou'-wester off as he spoke and clapped it unceremoniously on the lieutenant's head, almost extinguishing him. But the officer laughed right merrily, again thanked Ashley, and then gave orders to his men to form a guard round the prisoners, who had already begun to cast sheep's eyes towards the cliffs, as if they'd like to be off.

"Come, sir," said old Ashley, "follow me up the steps, and all your merry men. What's your name, captain?"

They had just entered the lower and outer cave, a large room with a rough deal table and wooden benches, but well lighted with whale-oil lamps. Old Ashley turned to his guest, and laughingly edged the brim of the sou'-wester off his brow, exposing the whole features of a sun-bronzed but pleasant face, slightly disfigured, or, let us say, rendered all the more interesting, by a white scar there over brow and cheek.

"Did you say Merryweather? Well, 'scuse me, but durn me if ye look the least little bit like a merry-weather sailor. Got that cut across your figure-head by fallin' on a foot-stool in church, eh?"

"Sit down there, lads," said Ashley; "you'll all have bite and sup before long. Captain Merryweather, this way, sir, please."

Up another staircase, through a short passage and into another cave, far better furnished and more brilliantly lighted than the last. Here, May though the month was, a fire of peats and wood burned on a low hearth, and Ashley pointed to a chair near it and bade his guest sit down.

A table stood near, and presently Mrs. Davies bustled in and laid the supper, the captain rising and bowing to her most gallantly. A huge dish of potatoes boiled in their skins, and a great joint of beef, the steam from which went curling to the cave's roof.

Ashley went to the door, and shouted down to the under cave. "Below there, sons! see that those poor fellows have plenty o' bread and fish and beer. Tom Brundell, what are you doin' down there? Come up here, quick."

"There, captain," cried Ashley, "that's the chap you have to thank for savin' your life."

Tom turned as red as a beet at first, but in five minutes he was perfectly at ease, and thought this officer was by far and away the most pleasant gentleman he had ever met in his life.

But it really was love at first sight with both of them, and Merryweather was soon laughing right heartily at Tom's description of the poplar tree rigged like a ship's mast, and the crow's-nest and cross-trees and all the rest of it.

"Poor Uncle Bob's, sir. At least, he isn't my uncle, sir, but he brought me home with father from Jamaica, where I was born. Father was drowned, you know, sir—at least not quite drowned, because he lived some time after—and Uncle Bob's brother Dan, my daddy, you know, reared me. He and old mother, who isn't mother exactly——"

"Stop, stop, boy! Why I am getting mixed, or you are getting mixed, or—— Oh, I know how it is! Mr. Ashley, that rum of yours, that you say has never paid duty, has gone to my noddle. Now, Tom, my brave lad, will you begin again?"

"Why," he said, "that little birkie has a story to tell, or there's a story to tell about him. It's too long though; besides, here is Mrs. Davies and my old woman waiting."

"I beg a thousand pardons," said Merryweather, jumping up and drawing a chair towards the table. "What a pleasant home you have, Mrs. Ashley!"

"Mother means," said old Ashley, "that it is a good habitation in fine weather; but when the sea takes charge o' the downstairs, and sobs and sighs against the door here, why it ain't quite so cheery. Now heave round with the beef. The 'taties grew over your head on the cliff-top, and, as I said afore, the rum never paid duty. Fine thing to tell a king's officer. Ha! ha!"

But though this story dates back to the old drinking days, Merryweather was a very abstemious officer. He was very much pleased, however, with his strange surroundings, and after supper sat long in the easy chair, smoking and listening to stories of the time when this had really been a smuggler's cave.

"But now," said Merryweather at last, "I must go to my boat and try to snatch a few hours' sleep. The little Porcupine may be back to-morrow, and then——"

"Back to-morrow, eh?" said old Ashley, laughing. "No, sir, not if she means crackin' on after the Dorothy yawl."

"Oh, sir!" said Tom, blushing at his own boldness, "do come home with me. Father and mother have a nice little spare room, and——"

"Why, Tom, you said your father was drowned? But come, my lad, I'll go with you, if it isn't too far."

"Only about a mile, sir, and I'll be up and down to the crow's nest all the morning, and will see the Porcupine ten miles away."

In another minute the ancient mariner had conducted his guest by a private staircase to the breezy cliff-top. Merryweather shook hands, and off went Tom and he together.

When they reached home, Meg came joyfully barking to meet them, and there was the wagon in the yard, and Tom could hear the mare stumping her lame foot in the stable; so he knew that daddy had come.

There was a light in Uncle Bob's window, and it occurred to the boy that he might as well take Lieutenant Merryweather in here first. So he began to sing, which was the invariable signal to Uncle Bob that announced his arrival.

Tom opened the door a little way and peeped in. "May I come in, Uncle Bob, and bring—a friend?"

"Come in, you young rascal. Wager two-pence you've got one o' the crew o' the d——l in disguise with you."

But certainly the boy was not prepared for what followed. Uncle Bob had turned his eyes towards the door, but they positively seemed to grow as large and round as saucers when they alighted on the sun-browned features of Lieutenant Merryweather. Nor did the latter appear one whit less surprised than Uncle Bob. But he recovered himself sooner.

"What!" he cried, "can it be possible? My old shipmate, Bob Brundell, that sailed with me for years in the old Turtle, and was in my own watch? Wonders will never cease. Why I heard you were drowned ever so long ago. Wonders never do cease; but tip us your nipper, for auld lang syne."

Then Uncle Bob's face fell, and tears sprung to his eyes, aye, and trickled over his face.

"Ah! sir," he said mournfully, "poor Bob is on his beam ends, and couldn't move a toe if the ship was on fire."

"Oh, this is inexpressibly sad," said Merryweather. patting his old shipmate's cheek. "But there is hope, isn't there? Ah! here comes your elder brother. I knew him at once from you, Bob. How d' ye do, sir? Glad to make the acquaintance of my old friend's brother. How glad I am to see you both!"

"Tom," cried Uncle Bob, "bring my pipe and light it for me. Sit you down, mate. Well, you were mate you know in the dear old days, though now you're lieutenant. Sit down, brother Dan. Thank you, Tom. I do believe the young rascal'll soon learn to smoke just with lighting my pipe. What's the time, youngster?"

"Just gone one bell in the middle watch," said Tom seriously, after consulting an old silver turnip that he pulled with an air of manliness out of his fob.

"Going to be a sailor, my boy?" said the lieutenant, putting his hand on Tom's head.

"Why, old shipmate," he said, "he's almost a sailor already. And he was born in the service."

"Oh, by the way," cried Merryweather, "I must hear the lad's story. It's mixed up with yours I know, Bob. One bell in the middle watch is no time at all, so heave round with your yarn."

"I'll heave round," said Bob; "but brother Dan's mixed up in it too, so he'll have to put a hand to the wheel as well. Light your pipe, Dan. Ah! if you only knew what a dear old brother Dan is to me, Mr. Merryweather——."

But Merryweather stretched out his white, soft hand, and squeezed the rough, red fist that Dan put in it. "I can see it all," he said. "I can see it all. Now, Bob, it is you to begin the story."

CHAPTER IV.

UNCLE BOB TELLS TOM'S STORY.

"If to engage they give the word,
To quarters all repair;
While splintered masts go by the board,
And shots sing through the air."—DIBDIN.

"Mr. Merryweather," Uncle Bob began, "it's many years since the old Turtle was re-commissioned out at Bermuda, and you and I parted."

"And you stopped in the tub, as we used to call her, and I went out to join the Billy Ruffian at Jamaica. Now, mate—for mate I will call you, though you're a bold lieutenant now—take a hold o' young Tom there, and turn him round to the light. Focus the little chap right, and see if he doesn't put you in mind o' someone you know."

"Why not Miss Raymond, surely? Yet indeed he does. The dark eyes, the small mouth and nose, and all complete. Come, Bob, I shall listen with more marked attention to this yarn of yours, now."

"Well, first and foremost, it must be pipe down hammocks as far as young Tom is concerned," Bob began.

"Did you say ten years, mate, since you and I parted? Why it's going on for a round dozen. Let me see, I'm two-and-thirty, and you can't want a deal of thirty."

"Worse luck, Bob, and only lieutenant yet. Should have been promoted long ago. Don't think me on the swagger, Bob, if I say that my services have been meritorious enough since I saw the last of you. But I've seen youngster after youngster promoted over my head. More interest, Bob; more interest!"

"Well, Mr. Merryweather, you were a jolly young waterman anyhow when I left you in Bermuda. And it was about this very Miss Raymond you fought the duel on the very morning after the ball—aye, and winged your soldier too."

"So it was, Bob, and I remember how sleepy I was. But I resolved not to take life; so instead of firing at the major, I took aim at a bunch of bananas that hung on a tree some yards to his right."

"Yes," said Bob, laughing, "and that was why you hit the major. If you'd aimed at the major you'd have hit the bananas. Plucky little fellow, though, he was, for even when the surgeon was probing his arm with his pipe-cleaner he apologised to you most handsomely. Think I see him yet, reclining in his second's arms on the grass, and you standing forenenst him, stem on, and taking all the honour and glory of that shot. 'Sir! It was a pretty shot,' cried the major, 'and I owe you my life. A man who could rip open his opponent's pistol arm so neatly as that could have put his bullet through the bridge of his nose and spoiled his beauty for life. Excuse my left hand, sir, but I want to grasp the fist of a brave and generous gentleman.'

"'I don't believe in taking life, major,' you drawled out, 'when it can be avoided, and so——'

"'And so you wing your men. Bravo! I shall remember that, and sir, you must dine with me as soon's I'm out of the doctor's hands.'"

"I did, Bob, and he proved a brick; but then the bone of contention, pretty Miss Raymond, had disappeared. I' faith, Bob, I did fall in love with that girl, head over heels, and if she'd asked me to cut the buttons off my coat, and pitch them at the admiral's head, I'd have done it. But heave round, Bob."

"Well, mate, Miss Raymond came to Jamaica with her father the colonel. There were some disturbances in the bush, and Commander Bure was sent on shore with a party of bluejackets to support the soldiers. Why these Joeys were behaving about as silly as silly could be, marching through the country with drums and pipes, to attack an enemy that killed them right and left from behind the scrub and the bush, but never showed a head. We altered all that, we took the enemy in the rear, we never piped, and we never drummed, but we killed 'em by the score, and the prisoners we hung like herrings on the trees. It was wild work, but it had to be done."

"Well, mate, Bure, our good commander, was a very active gentleman, he would push on, and he would show himself at times when he didn't ought to; so he got downed, ay, and would have been scuppered too, if I and my mates hadn't rushed in and drove the butchers off."

"Made flies' meat o' them, sir. But the commander swore I'd saved his life, and he would make me his servant, and have me always about him on shore or afloat; and when he got engaged to Miss Raymond, why, mate, it was me that carried all the billy-doos back and fore, you know. Sometimes I'd be ashore and off again twice in every watch. Well, Mr. Merryweather, what with all the billing and cooing and billy-doo-ing the commander and she got spliced at last. Ah! that was a spree, I can tell you. And a sweet bonnie bride the charming lady looked!"

"Well, mate, the commander was nearly always on shore after this, and our old captain—O'Hare was his name—told Bure one day straight to his face that marriage made muffs of men, and spoiled 'em for the service."

"It was pretty nearly ten months after my good commander's marriage that we hove up anchor and went off east to look out for some flighty Frenchees, that were playin' fast and loose with our merchant ships that scorned to go in convoys. I never saw anything in my life, mate, so affecting-like as the parting atween the commander and his young wife—she in tears and clinging to him, and he——, well, it doesn't do to say that a sailor pipes his eyes, but la! sir, I was glad when it was all over and our boat was speedin' away towards the ship.

"For six mortal months we kept our weather eyes open looking for the Frenchee's cruisers, and then we came up with two. And—why they must between the pair of them have carried twice our number of guns.

"We crowded all sail, mate, put her dead afore the wind, and the race began. We were running away though, and however the Frenchees didn't see through the caper is more than I can tell. In less than half an hour there was three-quarters of a mile betwixt the foremost Frenchee and her consort. So we got ready for action without making any extra fuss about it. Then we wore ship, and the captain of that foremost frigate must have begun to scratch his head. Seems to me, Mr. Merryweather, he knew just as much about navy tactics as a cow does about chess. Presently she put about though, with signals flying to her consort—signals of distress we called them. When near enough we sent a round shot or two roaring through her rigging, but if the Frenchee thought our game was to be a stand-off fight he was miserably mistaken. Under one pretence or another, and always firing another shot or two, we got far enough to windward to bear down on her with a beam wind. Why we were near enough to shave her stern almost when we raked her. I think her wheel and steersman must have been blown up to the moon. Down went her mast, and before the confusion was over we had tacked and filled, and come up on her port quarter. Our master laid the Ruffian aboard as prettily as you please, and next minute we were on the Frenchman's decks.

"It was hammer and tongs for a good five minutes, then, on a blood-stained battle-deck, a smiling and bowing French officer gave up his sword to our bold Commander Bure.

"O'Hare complimented him when he returned on board. 'Marriage,' he said, 'may make muffs of some men, but it hasn't taken the heart of oak out of you, Bure.'

"I must make a long story short, Mr. Merryweather, for it's two bells if it's a tick. Almost the first man to board us when we got back to Kingston harbour was Colonel Raymond himself. I knew the moment I saw him that poor Mary, as my commander called her, was dead. But I'll never forget the state of utter collapse—the doctor called it that—I found Bure in when I entered his cabin.

"He was weeping like a school-girl, the self-same hero that had received the French commander's blood-stained sword.

"For months Bure never laughed or smiled. His chief pleasure and delight was to go on shore and play with or talk to his baby boy.

"Well, mate, we stuck together all the commission, and did a bit o' fighting too whenever we had the chance. To tell you the truth, after poor Mrs. Bure had been dead about two years, there were only just two situations in which you might have said the commander was happy—one was when little Tom was brought on board by his nurse, and the other when Bure had a sword in his hand, and was boarding a frog-eating Frenchee.

"But it was in a boat action that my dear commander received a shot that, for the time being, seemed to have clean knocked the life out of him, and—I do think even now—was the beginning of the end. He lay in hospital on shore for a long time, three months I think, and it wasn't till the end of that time that the doctors found the bullet. The beggarly thing had entered his shoulder in front, and instead o' lodging there as a respectable bullet ought, it must go on a cruise on its own hook, and was finally fished out of the poor fellow's side.

"'Bob,' he said to me one day, sometime after this, 'they are going to send me home with a batch of invalids in convoy. I'm not sorry for my little lad's sake, but, mind you, I don't think I'm going to weather this illness.'

"'Belay that, Bob!' he said, or words to that effect, 'and listen. I like you, Bob, because you're a good, faithful fellow.'

"I felt ashamed like when he told me that, and maybe he noticed it, for he spoke up.

"'Oh, yes, you have been faithful to me, Bob, and you love my little chap Tom. Well, Bob, I'm not saying that I can't weather this, the doctor says I may; but just for the present, imagine that you're listening to the words of a dying man. You're like myself, Bob, a Norfolk man, and, singularly enough, you come from the very coast where relations of mine have estates that might—mind you, Bob, I only say might—eventually belong to my little fellow. But—are you listening, Bob?'

"'Well, Bob, my cousin, who owned these estates, is dead, only a month ago. He leaves behind him a son some years older than Tom, and a baby daughter. Now this baby daughter doesn't count, the son is the owner, and the mother, who loves me, Bob, about as a much as a Frenchman loves red-hot shot, holds the estates in his behalf. I hear the lad is sickly, and if anything happened to him I'd come in, if alive, and if dead, my little Tom. If there was no little Tom, Bob, the estates would pass to her ladyship's male relations, second cousins of mine and hers, for there has been marrying and inter-marrying, Bob.'

"'Look to that, Bob, if I should die. Take it with you to your brother's house when you go there. If your brother is half as good as you, Bob——'

"'You and he will take it to my Yarmouth bankers, and they will keep it safe for Tom.'

"He held out his hand—a thin white one it was—and I gave him mine with a heave O! and a hearty O! and the compact was made.

"'About little Tom, here,' he said after a pause. 'I don't want him to be a sailor you know, but if he wants to be—why he must be.'

"'Friends, he has none,' he replied, 'except his father, you Bob, and perhaps your brother.'

"'Hush! Bob, hush!' he said, 'It is our duty in this world to be always prepared for the unseen.'

"Well, Mr. Merryweather, I thought my poor commander was much better after this. So indeed he told me. 'I've relieved my mind, Bob,' he said, 'and the doctors have relieved my body.'"

"After this he would chat with me for an hour at a time, about the quiet and happy life he meant to lead on shore with his little son. How they would shoot and fish on the broads throughout all the long summer days, and how they'd live in a pretty little cottage in the land o' poppies, all surrounded by gardens and shrubberies, and how he himself would attend to the boy's education, and try to make a man of him, fit to take his place in the battle of life, whether that battle was to be fought on shore or on the deep blue sea.

"Our voyage home in convoy was a long but not very eventful one. It was long because the fleet o' merchantmen guarded by the convoys was a very big one, and some kept dropping behind, or getting lost, and as there was always, or nearly always, a Frenchman or two hovering like hawks about us, we had to be cautious I can tell you.

"But long before we reached the Downs little Tom had received his baptism o' the briny, there wasn't a doubt about it. He was the pet of the ship, he was dressed like a little tar, and looked it all over. I only wonder he never tumbled overboard, for I've seen the young nipper half-way up to the maintop, and nobody near him.

"One day he told his father on the quarter-deck that he was going to be 'a sailor man, and nuffin else, and fight the Flenchman for his king and country O!'

"I daresay some of the blue-jackets had piped this into him, but his father looked about to where I was standing laughing—I couldn't help it—and said, 'Ah, Bob, I'm afraid it's born in him.'

"'I'm afraid so too,' I said, and his father kind o' sighed, but didn't say any more.

"We got into the Downs at last safe and sound, and lay there wind-bound for a fortnight. But at last we got just the breeze we were waiting for, and slipped away past the North Foreland, and in a day or so more our ship was safe in dock.

"I wrote to brother Dan here, and told him my master and myself would start for Yarmouth within a week in the saucy Polly Ann.

"But there, now, Dan will tell you the rest, but just stick my pipe in my mouth first, Dan.'"

Dan cleared his throat, lit Bob's pipe, and sat down near his bed to hold it for the poor helpless fellow, while he himself continued the yarn.

CHAPTER V.

A MOUNTAIN WAVE COMES SWELLING OVER THE SANDS.

"His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
But now he's gone aloft."—DIBDIN.

"When I heard," said Dan Brundell, "that there was a brig ashore on the tail of the Gorton Sands, I had no more notion that it was Bob's Polly Ann than I have o' what the weather will be this day month. I'd been down with some oars Gorton ways, and I met old Ashley while returning.

"Would I volunteer, he said, to go in the Fairy; one of his sons was from home, and we might, he said, pick up a bit o' salvage, as well as flotsom.

"So I thought too, when I embarked, for it was blowing 56-pounders, and a heavy sea tearing in from the east. It was the heavy, tearing sea that did it. 'Fore we had got well abreast o' the Gorton Tail, we could see in the bright moonlight the dark hull o' the brig, both masts snapped short off, lifting and falling in the jaws of the foaming seas like a creature in agony.

"'She can't stand it for half-an-hour," said Ashley; 'and what's more, Dan, we can't get anyw'eres near her. There'll be widows a-weeping to-morrow mornin', mate, at old Yarmouth docks.'

"But what we saw next astonished Ashley himself, though, man and boy, he'd been on the water all his life. It was a mountain sea coming swelling over the sands and swallowing everything up before it, and lo! sir, in a minute more, there was the dark hull of that brig being borne bodily toward us.'

"What happened after this I can't well describe, bein' as how I'm slow o' speech like, but in half-an-hour all the beach for a mile and more, was strewn wi' wreck, and many a body was washed in on the surf and left dead, or for dead, on the sands. But lawk! sir, you could have knocked me down with a sledge-hammer when, on turning over one of these bodies, I found it was poor Bob yonder, and no one else."

"He had a small deed-box alongside him, with a piece o' manilla round it. He had come ashore with this. I didn't doubt that, even then.

"'Haul me high and dry,' he said, 'high and dry, dear brother, for I can't move. It isn't drowned I am at all. It's a stroke, Dan; a stroke."

"This was a sad sort of a meeting 'twixt two brothers that had always loved each other same as Bob and me has, and for the life of me I couldn't have spoken then, no, never a word. I tried to swallow back my grief and tears, as it were, and lifted the lad right up in my arms, and carried him away beyond the reach o' the raging surf, and there I laid him down. I knelt beside him there in the pale moonlight. I cared for nothing nor nobody just then, but only Bob. I noticed though, that his eyes and head were turned wistful-like towards the boiling sea.

"'Dan,' he said, 'bring the box and put it close by me. Thanks, dear Dan; you were always good. Now go at once, Dan, and look for Captain Bure and his little boy.' It wasn't long either 'fore I found 'em. The poor little tot of a chap with long, silken hair, and bonnie black eyes, was weeping and wailing over his father.

"'No, no, my little man,' I answered. 'Your father isn't dead.' So I hurried away and got the gentlemen into the cave. Gentle and simple, dead and maimed and living, they all lay there, with the cold moonbeams glinting in through the doorway, and struggling like wi' the yellow rays of the whale oil lamp.

"In two hours' time the doctor had come, and we—the living ones—began to gain hope and courage.

"The good man did all he could for everybody, and next day Captain Bure, with his little boy Tom—yes, Tom that has just gone to turn in—and poor Bob, were fetched in the boat waggon to our cottage here. The captain was soon able to get about, but Bob lay quiet enough, and never yet has he lifted hand or foot.

"But it wasn't a stroke, the doctor said, not of the 'pplexy, anyhow. 'More likely,' he said, 'it's been a stroke with a floating spar, and the neck is injured right smart.'

"Well, sir, it would have done your heart good to have seen how kind and attentive the captain was to Bob. 'He's been my nurse many's the time,' he said, 'and now, Mr. Dan, it's my turn.'

"But all the time I could see as plain's I see the moon shining on the curtains yonder, that the poor captain himself would soon be under the daisies and grass."

"One morning, says the gentleman to me smiling-like, 'I'm going to charter your boat-waggon to-day, Dan, if you'll come with me to Yarmouth, and young Tom'll stop with Bob till we return.'

"It was a lovely day, sir, with the birds all singing as if their hearts were swelling with the joy that was in them, and their feelings had to find vent somewhere in song, or in lofty flight. So we drove round by the big hill on the broad.

"When I came near the hall and the pretty grounds and the swaying trees and rookeries and things, he told me to drive slower still, that he might enjoy every thing, and all the beauties of nature around him. But la! sir, I was surprised to see him so white and pale like. At last he said, 'Drive on now, Dan as fast ye like.' He was still white and ghastly-like, though, so I jumped down at a pub and got a tot of rum. I took a sip myself, more for fashion sake like, and made him swallow the rest.

"He was better all day after that; but I remember he laughed once or twice as he told me his feet were so cold. 'Seems funny,' he said, 'on so fine a day.'

"We had that deed-box with us, and we went into the bank. We left the box there, and had a long talk with the banker. Leastways, Captain Bure had.

"'My good Dan,' he said, 'if the cold of my feet gets higher up and goes round the heart——'

"'There are times,' he said, 'when men must talk straight. Now, I've known your brother so long, Dan, and heard so much about you, that I want you to be a father to little Tom—if——'

"'I know, sir!' I cried. 'Don't repeat it. My wife and I have neither chick nor child savin' little Ruth. We'll see to Tom.'

"'Mr. Mackay,' he said, 'has full instructions, and enough money of mine to give Tom bite and sup, and a good education. Come, Dan, and we'll buy some comforts for poor Bob.'

"Not quite," said Mr. Merryweather. "There is the death of Captain Bure, you know."

"Ah, sir, we won't speak of that. It happened soon; and he lies in a quiet corner of the great churchyard at Yarmouth. Little Tom and I go there one Sunday every month to put flowers upon the grave."

"Dear droll little Tom," he added a moment after, "he does say such queer things. Maybe other folks wouldn't notice 'em, but I do. 'It's only pa's body that lies here, you know, daddy,' he said to me two Sundays ago, 'his soul has gone up to the clouds to live, hasn't it?'

"The little chap sat down beside the grave and arranged the flowers, then smoothed all the long grass out straight as if it had been hair. He took my hand after that, and we walked quietly and silently away.

"'Pa,' he said afterwards, 'is only afraid I'll be drowned if I go to sea. But I think he'll be pleased when I am a sailor all the same.'

"Mr. Curtiss is our curate, and he is Tom's tutor, though Bob there teaches him a lot, and has pretty nearly made a sailor of him already. And I'm sure I cannot blame poor Bob——for——"

Dan paused now, and held up his forefinger warningly, while his eyes rested on his brother's face. He took the pipe away and shifted the light, for the invalid was fast asleep. Then he went silently away on tip-toe, and Mr. Merryweather followed him, with just one good-night glance at the sleeping form of his old shipmate, Bob.

CHAPTER VI.

SUMMER MORNING ON A NORFOLK BROAD.

"The coot was swimming in the reedy pond,
Beside the water-hen so soon affrighted;
And in the weedy moat the heron, fond
Of solitude, alighted.

"The moping heron, motionless and stiff,
That on a stone as silently and stilly
Stood, an apparent sentinel, as if
To guard the water lily."—TOM HOOD.

Our little hero, Tom, was early astir next morning. In fact he was up with the lark. High up, too; for his first act, after sluicing his sleepy face in a bucket of water, and drying off with a rough brown towel, was to swarm up into the crow's nest and have a look around.

The morning was bright and clear, and the beach was swarming with country people; but there was no sign of the government vessel or of the yawl she had gone in pursuit of. Not content with scanning the horizon from the crow's nest, Tom must needs climb up as high as the cross-trees, and take observations from that coign of vantage.

The wind had gone down to the gentlest breeze, but a heavy sea still rolled over the sands, and broke in white surging waves upon the beach. From where he stood, or rather hung, Tom could easily hear the boom or roar of each mountain breaker, keeping up a kind of deep bass to the screaming of the sea birds that floated near him.

The sun had only just risen, and was flooding the ocean with a strange yellow light, while bars of silvery and crimson clouds lay parallel with the horizon, even far away to the west.

It was indeed a lovely morning, one to make a person feel as light and happy as the birds that sang in every bush or thicket. But nevertheless a wave of sadness passed over the boy's heart as he thought of the drowned men who lay so quiet and still upon the sands out yonder, and of their friends and relations who were left to mourn.

It somehow seemed to Tom unnatural that so much of sorrow should mingle with the gladsomeness of this sunny summer's day. He had yet to learn that all the world and all our lives are made up of light and shade, and that even in the midst of life we are in death.

But as he walked homeward now over the rustic bridge, he checked the song that rose to his lips. He would not sing, with dead men lying unburied on the sands of Yare.

It seemed to Tom that this morning would take a long, long time to pass by. He got his books, and went with Meg to the little summer-house by the lake, and tried hard to settle down to the tasks Mr. Curtiss, his kindly tutor, had set him to perform. But all in vain; so he left the books on the garden seat, putting a stone over them lest a spiteful puff of wind might blow the leaves about. Then "Come on, Meg," he cried, "we'll go for a row."

For a boy of his years Tom was wonderfully well developed, and when he stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, the white forearm he showed seemed as hard and round as the backstay of a gun-brig.

Meg sat forward in the bows of the little boat, with her forelegs leaning over the gunwale that she might bark at the fish and the birds, and make brave pretence that she meant to jump over and catch them.

By-and-by Tom came to a winding worm of a stream or lead that he had some difficulty in navigating his craft through, but he managed at last, and soon found himself afloat in one of the most beautiful of all the Norfolk broads.

The lake was a deep one, and not only plentifully encircled with tall, reedy bulrushes, but in many places lined with "wild woods thickening green," and banks whereon grew the most lovely of wild flowers. Tom paused often that he might inhale the early-morning perfume of these wildlings of nature, and watch the movements of the numerous birds that had their homes on this peaceful broad.

And not a bird is there among them all that seems very much afraid of the boy in his little boat or of Meg either. Perhaps the birds know Tom, for wild creatures are very observant, and know too that neither he nor that gentle-faced collie will do them any harm. Indeed Meg has dropped her bonnie head upon her paws, and appears to have gone fast asleep.

The sky above is very blue, albeit a fleece-white cloud is floating here and there, and the waters of this still lake are very dark, yet clear. How richly, softly green is the foliage on yon cloudland of trees, how tender the tints of verdure on the rustling, whispering reeds. Look at the pink on that flowering rush, to which a reed-warbler is clinging as it sings its low, sweet lilt. Only for a few moments does it cling there, however. It is far too busy to spend all the morning in song, for the pretty thing has a grass hammock of a nest swung between some reeds close to the bank. No boy in the neighbourhood knows where that nest is save Tom, and he won't touch it, but he marvels while he admires the freak of nature that has almost surrounded the birdie's hammock with the bells of the pink convolvulus.

Hark! there is a nightingale trilling its heaven-taught song in a thicket not many yards away. How sharp and clear is every note, and yet how pathetic and mournful are the lower ones! But presently the bird ceases to sing, for he too has a mate sitting close at the foot of a bush in a nest so artfully disguised as hardly to be discerned, and this little mate needs her breakfast of succulent slugs and beetles.

"Cheeky—cheeky—chee—chee—chee," sings the sedge bird, who has far too much to say, and instead of listening reverently to the song of the nightingale, the thrush, or the blackbird, must needs put his oar in and throw harmony quite out of joint. But there are many other birds that do the same, for each and all sing for their own mates only.

Very quietly now glides Tom's little boat; very still the boy sits too, fascinated as it would seem by the beauty of his surroundings, and as if afraid to disturb the privacy of the lovely feathered creatures whose home he has invaded.

He almost holds his breath as a pair of dark-plumaged coots with white brows go quietly sailing past ahead of him, gazing at him with their expressive beads of eyes, but ready to start off at the slightest movement on his part. A little way farther on are a family of charming water-hens, that go paddling and nodding on across the deep dark water, so intent on their own business that hardly do they notice the slowly-gliding boat.

But Meg lifts her head to look about her and take her bearings, and off scurry the coots; the water-hens too take alarm, and in a moment more all have sought the shelter of the whispering reeds.

More birds take the alarm here and there among the sedges; and in the water there is plashing and whirring and diving, while, uttering a sound that is partly a croak and partly a cry, a great heron, that had previously been standing as still as a statue on the edge of a bank, goes sailing away high in air.

Tom lies on his oars now, and in a few minutes peace and repose is once more restored to the reed-bound brood.

"Meg," says Tom quietly, "you just go to sleep there please, or at least pretend to."

Meg shuts one eye and gives one little wag of her tail, and the boat forges slowly ahead. Tom pulls more in towards the edge now, where the flat round leaves of the water lilies are floating, with flowers snow-white or brilliant yellow just appearing, where the flowering ash blooms prettily, and the orange iris shows against the fresh green of young reeds.

Though it is very early in the morning, the sun is gaining power, and busy among the gnats and midges that dance over the water and over the whispering reeds, filling the air with their dreamy humming, flit and fly the swallows and martins. They even touch the surface at times, long enough to drink or have a little bath, then off and away again, like chips of lightning with the sunlight on their wings.

Tom lands at last among soft green moss, among many a budding alder, many a silvery drooping, dwarf birch-tree, and many a feathery fern. He warns Meg that she is not to follow, but only lie and watch, while he goes wading over the marsh. Oh, what beauty and loveliness on every side! Oh, what a wealth of wild flowers! Yonder is a bush of yellow furze, and a rose-linnet's nest is there. The cosy wee mother sits still on the eggs even when Tom peeps in under her scented golden roof-tree, but the cock-bird that erst sang so sweetly on that bush of sallow changes his notes to a peevish cry of alarm.

Not a nest of any kind of bird that Tom does not know where to seek and find; the titlark's and skylark's near tussocks; the yellow bunting's in the low, close thorn or bank; the sedge-bird's, with its warm wee eggs and even nests of snipe, and coot, and teal—all are known to him, but all are sacred.

The boy spends fully an hour roaming around here; but, getting very hungry, he begins to retrace his steps at last, yet not before he has culled a bouquet of the choicest wild flowers, the flowers that uncle Bob loves best.

In his way back to the boat Tom goes round by a patch of woodland, a closely-planted thicket of pines, the tasselled larch, the dark-nodding fir, and the sombre spruce, each branch of the latter bedecked with points of tenderest green. He has to pass a reedy pond, when, as he stoops to gather some pink silenes, he startles a wild duck that with outstretched wings goes whirring over the water; there is a wagtail nodding to him on the opposite bank. High in the air the skylark sings, from bushes near come the babbling notes of sedgelings, and soaring over the marsh he can just distinguish a mire-snipe, its intermittent cries sounding like bleating of a goat. He crosses a green bog that moves and heaves under his footsteps, as if ocean waves were all beneath. And now he enters the thicket, and a different kind of bird-song falls on his listening ear—the mellow notes of the blackbird, the sweet wild lilt of the chaffinch, the mocking voice of the mavis, and the low mournful love-croodle of the cushat.

Tom walks through this woodland as solemnly as if he were in church. He is almost awed by all the beauty and loveliness he sees around him, and actually sighs as he stands once more in the open, with the waters of the reedy broad spread out before him like a mirror, and only the blue unfathomable sky above. He reaches the boat at last.

The boat is there right enough, the painter tied to the alder bush just as he left it, but Meg has gone. While he is wondering what could have induced her to leave her post, he hears her glad bark in the distance, and next minute she comes bounding over the marsh towards him.

But not alone, for behind her, laden with a huge and sadly-disorganised bunch or wisp of wild flowers, comes a little blue-eyed lassie. So large are her eyes, so small her rosebud of a mouth, that, with her hair all afloat behind her as she runs, she might easily be mistaken for the good fairy of this flowery marsh.

One of Bertha's legs is clothed in a pure white woollen stocking, the foot encased in a buckled shoe; the other leg, which, laughing roguishly, she extends for Tom's inspection, is clad in black, slimy mud up to the knee, and the shoe is gone.

"Such fun," she says, panting a little. "You know, Tom, I'se been nearly dwownded. And I screamed, and Meg come running; but I'se lost my shoe, and perhaps ma will punish me—perhaps not, 'cause she loves Bertha—sometimes."

"Well, Bertha," said Tom, looking very old and serious, "I love you always, you know. And when I grow a big rich man, with a cocked-hat and a sword, I'll perhaps marry you—if you are good, that is."

With the thoughts of the shipwreck on her mind, somehow the child's singing jarred on the boy's feelings.

"Bertha," he said, "there was an awful thing happened last night! A brig was knocked to pieces on the Gorton Sands, and the dead sailors are all lying on the beach."

But the boy and this little light-minded maiden were very old friends indeed. For Tom was a favourite with Lady Colmore, and was frequently invited to the Hall, when her ladyship was there, which she usually was during the summer and autumn, spending most of the winter and spring in the south of England, where her son was at college.

Tom was a gentlemanly boy, and Mr. Curtiss had informed Lady Colmore that there was some strange mystery about his birth, which, however, even he was not altogether acquainted with, though it was in some way connected with a Jamaica marriage. But this was quite enough. A boy of manly bearing, and big dark eyes, evidently of gentle birth, heir, when of age—as she had heard—to a large fortune, and with a mystery, was a very interesting character indeed, despite the additional surmise that his mother might have been a Creole or half-caste.

"Good-bye, Tom," she cried. "After breakfast me and Brown'll bring the strawberries to your Uncle Bob, and then we can all go and see the rows upon rows of dead men. Such fun! Good-bye."

Next minute Bertha, with her yellow hair and shoeless foot, had disappeared, and Tom, after a moment or two of thoughtfulness, made all haste back home.

In half-an-hour, or a little over, he had once more moored his boat. Then he hurried away aloft again to scan the horizon.

Yes, yonder was the sloop—the something naughty in disguise—she was tacking slowly up to windward, still about seven or eight miles off, and there was no yawl near her, so she had not won the race.

He found that bluff, good-natured sailor walking about on the gravel path smoking, early though it still was.

"Oh," said Tom, saluting him military fashion, "I'm so sorry to bring you bad news, sir."

"Well, your sloop, sir—if she be a sloop, sir—is in sight, and she hasn't caught the yawl!"

Ruth now came blushing and smiling to call the captain to breakfast, and he gallantly took her hand and led her back to the cottage.

They breakfasted in Uncle Bob's wing, so that he might join in the conversation.

And breakfast was not long over when Bertha and her maid Brown came in with that basket of beautiful strawberries for Uncle Bob.

"What a charming little lady!" said Merryweather, who had been looking at Bertha. Like most sailors, he was fond of children. "Come hither, dear, and talk to me."

Bertha seemed used to obey, for she came at once, and stood demurely by his side. This pensiveness of hers, however, did not last long. She and the captain were soon the best of friends, and he on his part hardly knew which to admire most, her beauty or her candour.

"Oh, yes!" she answered, her head a little on one side, "I know well enough, but mamma says people are not to tell me so."

Then she noticed the scar on Merryweather's brow, and touched it tenderly with her little forefinger.

Seeing her gazing admiringly at the big bunch of seals that dangled from his fob, he pulled out his gold watch and placed the whole in her lap.

"And your mamma doesn't take them away, and say, 'By-and-by, dear, when you're grown up'?"

"They shall be all yours," said the captain, "all your own own yours, if you marry me."

"You see," she said thoughtfully, "I'se goin' to marry Tom; and you is not so pretty as Tom."

"No, he certainly has the advantage of me in good looks; but then I have so many nice things that Tom hasn't, you know."

"Oh, no! that wouldn't be allowed in this country; you must decide to have me or Tom."

"Hurrah!" cried Merryweather. "What a perfect little woman it is! Tom, you're jilted. Now, Bertha, get on my back, and we'll go off out into the sunshine and spend our honeymoon."

And away they went galloping and rollicking round the garden paths, and it was evident, from the shouts of merry laughter, that Bertha thought very little of her discarded lover.

"Now," she cried at last, "let us all go and see the lovely dead men, all in rows and rows. Hoor-ay!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE LAUNCH OF THE "QUEEN OF THE BROADS."

The men saved from the wreck of the brig on the Gorton sands were dealt with in a very summary way indeed. They were Englishmen all, and were told by Merryweather that if they chose to "volunteer" into the service of the King and serve in the Royal Navy, they should receive a free pardon; but if not, they must stand the consequences.

Four of the smuggler-sailors volunteered at once and cheerfully. The fifth was the redoubtable skipper of the brig, a dark-haired, eagle-eyed little fellow, little as to stature, but of powerful build, and a Welshman by birth.

"I refuse," he cried, "to serve your King of England. He is not a man, but a baboon!"

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Merryweather struck him straight from the shoulder, and down he rolled on the sand.

"Merryweather struck him straight from the shoulder, and down he rolled on the sand."

He got up, scowling at the lieutenant, and wiping the blood and sand from his face.

"Coward!" he hissed, "to treat a prisoner so. But faugh! it was always the way with the lily-livered Saxon. See!" he added, "you daren't do it, but for the gold swab on your shoulder, the sword by your side, and your hired assassins around you."

Off went Merryweather's coat and his sword. He flung them to Dan Brundell, who was standing scratching his head and looking very puzzled.

"These good fellows," he said, "will see fair play between us. I am no longer lieutenant in the King's service, but plain Jack Merryweather. Stand forth, David Jones, and see how soundly a Saxon can thrash a Welshman."

"Like mountain cat that guards its young,
Full at the Saxon's throat he sprung."

That Welshman had arms like a gorilla, and Merryweather was all but strangled before he got clear away.

"Keep out of grips," shouted his own men. "Fight fair, skipper, and good luck to you."

He didn't mean to fight fair, however, if he could help it; but Merryweather got in one with his left and, figuratively speaking, knocked his man clean over the ropes. The Welshman never had another chance. He was no sooner up than down again. Embracing the soft sands didn't hurt him, it is true; but Merryweather's fists were rapidly making a mummy of him.

"I do, sir," said Jones. "I've never met a harder-fisted Saxon in my life. Shake hands, Englishman. I volunteer on one condition."

"No more, thanks," said Jones, smiling grimly. "I want to serve in your ship when you go to fight the French. I want to be with a brave man. That is the condition."

"Granted," said Merryweather, coolly putting on his coat, "and I won't forget it."

And just at that moment a bright idea occurred to young Tom. Why shouldn't he also sail with Merryweather? He determined to broach it to the kindly officer as soon as he had an opportunity, and it was not many weeks before this opportunity came.

All haste was now made to ship the prisoners. Prisoners now no longer, but brave "volunteers." The sloop had quietly dropped anchor at the very time the fight was going on between her commander and the skipper of the wrecked brig.

Before embarking Merryweather shook hands with Dan and Ashley, thanking them most heartily for their hospitality. Then he shook hands with Tom.

"Good-bye, youngster," he said; "but just take my advice. Don't be a sailor. Stay at home and plough the fields; be an honest fisherman, be a gardener, a hedger, or ditcher; but don't come to sea."

Young Tom was astonished at his own boldness as he made reply: "I shan't be a ditcher, nor a hedger, nor a gardener, nor a fisherman, and I shan't plough the fields; but I shall plough the sea."

Merryweather laughed as he leapt into his boat. He waved his hand again, then away he went, leaving the people to bury the dead, and pick up the spoils of the wreck as their reward.

Tom went off to school that day as usual, though he was very late. But Mr. Curtiss forgave him. Yet somehow he could not fix his attention upon either his books or his sums; and probably, therefore, the curate was just as glad when lessons were over as the boy was. He went home more slowly than usual, and less joyfully. He kept kicking the pebbles as he marched along the road, a sure sign he was deep in thought, and the first words he said to Uncle Bob on his return were these, "I wonder if ever Captain Merryweather will come again?"

"He is sure to, my lad. He said he would call and see us. Besides, he has an old shipmate not a great way off."

"Why, bless your dear heart, boy, I was only a man before the mast when in the same craft with Mate Merryweather, but since that time he's been in many a ship; kicked about like a wet swab. No, Tom, his friend is an officer and gentleman."

"He lives, my lad, at Wells, or rather near it, at his old father's parsonage at Burnham Thorpe."

"What droll questions you ask, Tom. But I have never seen Mr. Merryweather's friend. But I am told that he is but a little man, and very delicate in health."

"Oh! then he isn't a hero like brave Captain Merryweather. Oh, uncle, you should have seen how he fought the skipper of the brig; and Mr. Jones didn't know where to hit, and his nose and mouth were all blood and sand. I'd like to be a hero like the captain. What is the little man's name?"

But from that moment this strange boy seemed to regain his wonted spirits. He had something to live for. His hero, Captain Merryweather, who thrashed the Welshman, was coming back. Hooray! and he should count the weeks and days till he returned. So he went about his studies more energetically now, only one day he told Mr. Curtiss that he must teach him all he knew about navigation, because a sailor he meant to be and nothing else.

All that Mr. Curtiss didn't know about navigation would have filled a big book, only he was a right good fellow, and determined that he should at least teach his little pupil the history of the British navy, and the geography of the world. And I may as well say here, that these subjects proved of great present interest to Tom, and of future utility also.

It was about this period of young Tom's career that Daddy Dan completed a project he had long had in view, to give his poor brother Bob a little more interest and pleasure in life. Dan, it should be remembered, was a very hard-working man, and seldom either idle or laid up, so that the building of a private barge for Bob was work that he could not keep steady at. Rome, however, was not built in one day. Indeed, I question if that ancient city was completed in two. But "every little helps the mickle" you know, reader, and it is surprising what a deal one can do by degrees, and day by day. So in the merry month of June, much to Bob's joy and Tom's delight, the barge, Queen of the Broads, was all finished and ready for launching.

Little saucy Bertha, who had made it all up again with Tom, came with her maid Brown to the cottage to christen the barge with a bottle of gooseberry wine and she—the ship I mean—left the slips in grand style and took the water like a duck, amidst the wild huzzas and hoorays of the children and the neighbours, who had gathered from all quarters to behold the ceremony.

The Queen of the Broads was nothing much to look at, she was square in bows and square in stern, with no freeboard to speak of; in fact she was a kind of punt, but so constructed that Uncle Bob's low-wheeled cot could be run on board and on shore with the greatest ease, and without the slightest danger. She had a bit of a mast forward, and a little yawl mast aft, where there was room enough for quite a party. Moreover the barge was provided with oars and punting poles, so it must be confessed she was pretty complete upon the whole.

Well, after the barge herself was launched, Bob's cot was launched on board of her, and everything passed off so beautifully and "lovelily," as Bertha put it, that once more wild huzzas rose from the assembled multitude, and Meg, barking and frantic with joy, jumped on board, and took her place in the bows, just like a Christian.

Old Daddy Dan was so gratified that he couldn't speak for some time after the cot was successfully run on board. He just stood smiling and scratching his head.

Then everybody gathered round him and shook hands, and wished him so many good wishes that the tears rose to his eyes, and he had to swallow a big lump in his throat before he could make any adequate reply.

But the day was fine, with a gentle breeze rippling the broad, and whispering softly among the reeds, and so with Dan at the helm sail was hoisted, and the barge glided silently away into the open water.

This was but a trial trip, but it was a very successful one; everybody, including Bertha and Meg, returned happy and hungry, and Mrs. Brundell and Ruth, met them on the quay.

Somebody else as well. You see it never rains but it pours, and 'there, sure enough, with one arm round Ruth's waist, as gallantly as you please, and waving his cocked-hat in the air with the other, stood the bold Captain Merryweather himself.

You may be sure Tom was glad to see him, and took no pains to hide his joy either, for his eyes sparkled like farthing candles, and he turned as red as a ripe tomato with perfect joy.

Merryweather's "ship" was in the bay, and she had a consort this time, no other than the smuggling yawl, which it had taken him a whole fortnight to chase and secure. So the gallant officer had secured not only prize money, but several new "volunteers" for the Royal Navy. No wonder therefore that he was merry, or that the dinner which was partaken of on the lawn was—as the lieutenant himself phrased it—one of the pleasantest meals he had ever partaken of, either on board ship or on shore.

After dinner Tom volunteered to row Bertha and her maid home across the broads. But the child stipulated that Captain Merryweather should come also, and although this was a heavy cargo for the little boat, Tom was very glad indeed to have his hero on board.

Bertha had arranged her flirtations on a basis that was eminently satisfactory from her own point of view. When Mr. Merryweather was away at sea Tom was to have her company, and as much of her affection as could be spared from her pets and playthings; but whenever the captain should arrive, then Tom was to be, for the time being, thrown overboard.

Well, Mr. Merryweather, much to the boy's sorrow, went off that very night, but promised that he would return in about a fortnight, and then—if Mr. Curtiss would spare him—would take Tom with him for a trip to Wells to see

CHAPTER VIII.

"STAY AT HOME, MY LAD, AND PLANT CABBAGES."

"The Yarmouth Roads are right ahead,
    The crew with ardour burning;
Jack sings out, as he heaves the lead,
    On tack and half-tack turning,
                                'By the d'p eleven!'"—DIBDIN.

It is just one hundred years to-day—June 25th, 1892—since Tom started off with his friend Merryweather in the saucy sloop he commanded, on a visit to the home of the man who in future was destined to be Britain's greatest naval hero. The weather was fine, and the short voyage quite uneventful.

After they landed they had some distance to walk; but it was early morning, and Tom Bure felt quite equal to a journey of fifty miles—he told his friend—so on they marched right cheerily, till they came to the little village of Burnham Thorpe, and enquired for the parsonage. It wasn't very far from the old-fashioned, square-towered church, with its rather dilapidated looking graveyard. Not a beautiful house by any means, nor a large one either; little more, in fact, than an old-fashioned, high-roofed Norfolk cottage, with an additional wing to it, which latter, seeing the large family that the clergyman, Horatio's father, had, was very much needed indeed.

There were plenty of trees of a sort about the place, however, with flowers and bushes, and a rough attempt at a lawn, and on the whole the house looked homely, if not neat. The first to welcome Mr. Merryweather, in the small and curiously-furnished parlour into which he was shown, was the old parson himself. That they had met before was evident even to Tom.

"But, dear me, I'd hardly have known you," said Mr. Nelson. "Time works such wonders, and, you see, it has turned me pretty grey. Ah! well, we've got to work in this world; we'll rest in the next. You'll stay to dinner, of course. Horatio? Yes; and you'll find him in the garden doing a bit of work. No, poor lad, he is far from well, and he frets and fumes and worries so, I wonder he is alive or so healthy as he is. You'll find him if you go round. And this bold little man?"

"A boy whom Horatio will be glad to see for the sake of old times. He is determined to go to sea."

"Go to sea, eh! Well, I pity him. Better a millstone were placed about his neck, and he were cast into it. But there, I shan't say a word to discourage the youth."

Merryweather laughed, and went away to look for Horatio. They had not to walk far to find him. In an old coat he was; old shoes, old everything, and looking very serious over his work of digging and raking some ground from which potatoes had been dug in order to stick a few cabbages in.

"Shall I run down and ask that old gardener fellow," said Tom, "where the lad is?"

"Why, that's our hero. That's the boy himself. What ho, there, Horatio! What cheer, my hearty?"

Nelson turned towards them, pitched away his spade, and ran up to shake hands with Merryweather.

A bright smile lighted up his whole face as he did so. Not a smile from the lips alone, for it went curling up round his large and expressive eyes, and seemed to change the contour of his whole countenance.

"Come and sit down, Jack, and sniff the roses. I heard you had been cruising round here, and doing all sorts of nasty things to our bold boys of Norfolk, who can neither get a drop of good rum nor a pinch of snuff for you. There you are; bring yourself to anchor. I'll sit on the tub."

"Half-expected you. You always were such an erratic customer, you know, Jack, that I couldn't be sure of you. Seen my wife? No. Father's failing, isn't he? Ah! it hurts me to see it. His companionship, even more than that of my dear wife, is what partially reconciles me to this life of inactivity. Mind, I say more than my wife's society only for one reason—the young you may meet again, you know; but the old, ah! never."

Nelson kept rattling on, as Merryweather afterwards called it, without giving him much chance of putting an oar in. He would ask questions, and then answer them himself supposititiously, and go from one subject to another as quickly as he sometimes put his ship about in action.

"Egad, Merryweather!" he continued. "After all, you must consider yourself a very lucky fellow. While you are bounding o'er the ocean blue, chasing herring-boats, I'm doomed to—to plant kale. It is hard—hard—hard, after all I've done."

"I think, Nelson," said Merryweather, getting in a sentence edgeways, "your greatest enemy is influence, or the want of it."

"Yes, yes, that's it, I do believe. I'm but a humble parson's son. I possess few if any great friends. Merit alone isn't worth a cabbage-stump. Your lordling, your duke or duckling, your moneyed scoundrel, your toady, your pimp, can walk into good positions, while honest men like myself are left to shiver in the cold. Come, we must change the subject, or I'll get angry and kick over the tub. I even wrote to the Admiralty to appoint me to the command of a cockle-boat, but—no.

"Ay, my friends. Not men like your honest self, Jack, but those old-wife fellows, who, by a few careless words, after dinner, for instance, can do more harm to a man under the guise of friendship than volumes of abuse could do. Ah, Jack Merryweather, I've known a tiny spark light a bigger conflagration than a red-hot shot. Why, it was only a day after my marriage that a friend fired off the following remark: 'Poor Horatio Nelson! Married and done for. And this marriage loses to the navy one of the brightest and most promising ornaments. It is a national loss, for otherwise he might have become the greatest man in the service.'

"But, Jack, did my marriage prevent my activity? Did it not rather increase it, just as it did my happiness? Did I not save to my government and my country over a million sterling by exposing in the West Indies the devilments of contractors and prize-agents who were robbing right and left?

It was his wife who stood smiling behind him. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and his whole demeanour altered in a moment.

"There!" he cried, "I'm glad you've come. Entertain my friend Jack Merryweather—Jack, my wife—till I dig away my wrath. These cabbages ought to go in."

Not only was Jack himself, but even little Tom, amused at the way Nelson now threw the earth about. He seemed burying old sores and paying off old scores. Finally he planted the cabbages, handling them meanwhile as tenderly as if they had been living, sentient human beings. Then he came back his smiling old self to his tub, beside Jack Merryweather.

"What a peevish old hulk you must think me, Jack!" he said; "but then, you see, I'm not over well; for really my activity of mind preys upon this poor, puny bit of a body of mine, because it is the only fuel within its reach. But who is this modest but wondering young lad?"

"And I hope not too," said Mrs. Nelson. "He is far too handsome a boy to be wasted on the service."

"Fanny! Fanny! look at me. Behold the Herculean proportions of this husband of yours, thrown like pearls before the pigs."

"Horatio," said his wife, "I won't have you kick over the tub again, so beware, sir."

Tom went over and stood beside Britain's future hero, and Nelson kindly took his hand and held it as he looked him in the face. Tom never winced.

"Yes. Old Tom Bure wrote me about her, and said he was going to marry the most beautiful woman in all creation."

"And so he did," said Jack. "I was all aflame in that quarter too; but Tom wed her. Poor Tom is dead. Died on this very coast."

Merryweather laughed heartily, though Tom felt ready to cry. But his friend came to his rescue.

"He won't thank you for that advice, and between you and me, Horace, there are signs in the air that tell me your days of cabbage planting are nearly numbered."

"No, not planted that way, but planted on the quarter-deck of a jolly ship of war."

"Wouldn't I make it hot for the enemy if I were. But it's too good to come true."

"Aha! Horace, perhaps Jack will be there himself, then you'll have two to look after."

"Well, Jack, I'll show you both some fun, if the Frenchmen will but give us a chance."

"Never fear about the chance, my friend. It is coming; there is something in the air."

"So glad you've come, Jack. Come along, Tom. Merryweather, just give Fanny a convoy. Tom and I want to have a talk. Go right away in and tell father to commence carving. I'm going to show Tom a flower."

Ten minutes after the boy came in with a beaming face, and behind him, looking contented and happy, walked Horatio Nelson.

Tom forgot to tell his friend Jack Merryweather what Nelson had said to him, but all the way back to the shore that evening he could speak of no one else except the coming hero.

"He is such a dear, nice, good man," he said more than once, "and I don't care a bit for Bertha now. That sailor gentleman is so brave and good! But, Captain Merryweather, you must tell me his story. I know he has a story, because he has been fighting, and been at the North Pole too. He said he ran away from a great bear; but I don't believe that. He was laughing when he said it."

"Well, Tom, when next we go on the barge with Uncle Robert, I promise you I'll tell you Nelson's story; all, at least, that there is of it as yet."

CHAPTER IX.

HORATIO NELSON'S EARLIER DAYS.

The broad or lake on the banks of which Dan Brundell's property stood in days of old has diminished considerably in size since then; but even at that time it was not very big, while the worm of a stream, that led therefrom into the larger and more beautiful lake, presented here and there difficulties that militated against the easy navigation of the barge. But Dan was not a man to do anything by halves, so he hired hands to widen the stream wherever necessary, and they did so in less than a week. Tom, with Ruth's assistance, was then able to guide the barge right away into the large Decoy, and a new life seemed to open out before Uncle Bob from the day of his first visit thereto. He even began to move his fingers more, and there were great hopes that in time his cure would be complete. Mr. Curtiss's duties were very light, and he used often to take Ruth's place in the barge. Then the party would embark, and on the broad itself and in the barge Tom's lessons would be conducted; Bob listening intently, and appearing to be quite as much edified as the boy himself.

And so the summer wore away, and autumn came with its tints of yellows and browns, and its darker and more sombre foliage for the trees. But the fine weather continued, although there were, of course, dark, rainy days now and then, which are to be expected even in sunny Norfolk.

And one fine morning, when Tom was away aloft in the crow's nest, telling Bob, who lay below, everything that was going on at sea, he suddenly gave vent to a wild whoop, that would have made a Sioux Indian bite his lips with envy.

Bob was quite as much pleased as Tom, for nothing delighted him more than a talk about old times with his quondam shipmate.

"Yes, Uncle Bob. On the larboard tack, with the wind on the quarter, standing in shore-ways."

"Well, Tom, I don't think you can do better than run and meet him. Take Meg with you; she wants a run too."

Within an hour Merryweather was standing by his old shipmate's side, and the very sight of his happy face seemed to make Uncle Bob the happiest invalid that ever existed.

Dan came out of the shed in his paper cap to welcome Merryweather; Meg ran off to the house to say that somebody had come; and Ruth herself was very quickly on the spot; so everybody was as jolly as jolly could be.

After an early dinner, Bob's cot was wheeled on to the barge, and the young folks, including Meg and Ruth, went off to spend the afternoon on the beautiful broad.

The sun was shining very brightly to-day, and an awning was stretched across the middle part of the barge. She was anchored in a cosy corner, close to the tall whispering reeds. Merryweather lit his pipe. Tom sat down beside Uncle Bob and lit his for him, while Meg and Ruth curled up in the bows. Then there was silence for the interminably long space of fifteen seconds.

"What are you all waiting for?" asked Merryweather, "and all looking at me for?"

"Why," answered Tom, "you said you would tell us all you know about Nelson, you know, who is going to thrash the French, with—with my assistance."

"Well," said Merryweather, "no one in the service has been more talked about than my friend Horatio. Nobody who knows him can help liking him, and yet, I believe, it is his friends who have caused him to be overlooked so far. All I know about him has not been gleaned from any one source, but from dozens, but being interested in my friend, I have tried to winnow the chaff of untruth from the solid grains of fact, and it is these I'm going to serve out to you."

"Well done!" cried Uncle Bob. "You were always a regular reefer at spinning a yarn, mate. So heave round. Cheerily does it, Mr. Merryweather!"

"Well," said Merryweather, "be that as it may, I first knew Horatio Nelson when my grandmother took me to that same old-fashioned village of Wells, Tom, where you and I went the other day, though there weren't quite so many houses there then. We went from Cromer in a fishing-boat, and a rough sail I mind we had. But this was nothing to me. I was a regular sailor even then, and I wasn't five years of age. I'm not sure that the rector of Burnham Thorpe wasn't a distant relation of grandma's; anyhow, I know the family were very good to us, and I know something else, namely, that Horatio's father turned out of his own room that we might have it. There was but little ceremony in the Rectory; but plenty to eat, without a superfluity of dainties. That didn't trouble me in those days; why, I could have eaten a seagull.

"Horatio would be about ten at the time of my visit, for he is a good five years older than I am. But he wasn't much of a chap, and I couldn't help thinking, young as I was, that his grandmother—for he had a grandma as well as myself—spoiled him. My grandmother didn't spoil me; but she often spanked me.

"Well, poor lad, he had only recently lost his mother—about a year before, or thereabout—and this loss, I think, was the hardest blow to the rector ever he had. His family was a big one; eleven, if I remember rightly, and the majority sons. Rough and right boys they were, and though Horatio was delicate, there wasn't a bit of the girl about him. He was as fond of a joke as any lad in creation; but always tender towards the inferior animals. How he would have adored a dog like Meg there, for instance!

"I went to school at North Walsham two years after this, and found young Nelson there. He hadn't grown much; but he was tough—tough as regards enduring pain. He had many a thrashing; but he would purse up his mouth, lower his brow, and never cry a bit. Our flogger was called Jones, and I need hardly say he was a Welshman. The only revenge we could take upon Jones—or rather the bigger boys, for being but a nipper I shouldn't include myself—was pretending he couldn't hurt us. That used to make the Welshman wild.

"Geography, maps, and stories from history, were young Horace's chief delight in those days. In the house I mean; out of doors or away on the marsh and moor, hunting for birds' nests, it was quite another thing. He seemed born to live in the fresh air, and I'm sure that it was doing him an injustice and stunting his growth to keep him poring over old musty books so constantly.

"I used to visit at the Rectory pretty often after this, and Horatio's grandmother had always something to tell about him, that redounded to his credit. But she never told the same story twice the same.

"'Horace is such a brave lad,' she would say, 'I don't believe he knows what fear is!'"

"And she would go on to exemplify this in a dozen different ways. 'And he is a God-fearing boy too,' she would add.

"This last I could well believe. His father is one of the most simple-minded Christians I ever met. His faith is like that of a little child.

"But about his not knowing what fear was I always had my doubts. However, there was one boy whom Horace had invited to the Rectory for a few days, and who used to spin wonderful yarns to the old lady about her grandson's pluck and courage. But he rather overdid the thing, and he didn't always blend piety with the bravery he imputed to Horace. For instance, he told his grandma that at Downham Market, where he and Horace were at school, there was a nasty snarly old woman who used to paddle through the muddy streets on high pattens, knitting stockings and mumbling to herself. The boys used to imitate her, when off would come one of the pattens, which she threw like a boomerang, and always hit some of them. But one day Horace, who happened to be in the crowd, coolly picked up the patten, and marching home with it put it in the fire. The old creature had to limp to her house in one patten, and she never threw another. A very limp yarn, I thought, and one that was so little appreciated that Horace was told not to bring that lying boy back again to the Rectory.

"Of course, all brave, good boys rob an orchard, because the others are afraid; and, of course, they never eat any of the apples themselves. Oh, no! Whenever, Tom, you hear a story of this kind, you are safe enough to put it down as a grandmother's yarn.

"Independent, however, of my friend Horatio's love of freedom and stories of the sea, he was a thinking lad, and he couldn't but notice that his father had more than enough to do in supporting so large a family in a semi-genteel way. He thought of this, and made up his mind to go to sea. If he couldn't go as a young officer he would go as a cabin boy, in the old-fashioned style. But he had an uncle in the navy—a rough and right true blue sailor, Captain Suckling—and Horace induced his father to write to him in his behalf.

"The reply came pat enough, and I have seen it. 'What on earth has poor little Horatio done,' the letter ran, 'so weak a boy that he, above all the rest, should be sent to rough it out at sea? Well, let him come, and the very first time we go into action a cannon-ball may knock his head off, and so at once provide for him.'"

"There was a rough kind of jocularity in this; but for all that Captain Suckling was a kindly-hearted man.

"And now, young Nelson was destined for the sea. He had only to wait. He returned to the Walsham school, and in the spring of 1771, one miserable, drizzly morning—such a morning as gives one the shivers to think of getting up—a man came from the Rectory to take poor Horace away.

"Were those tears, I wonder, in his eyes, as he said 'good-bye' to us all? I think they were, and I know that as he got together his small belongings he did not speak much, and was so nervous that some of us helped him; but I'm sure we didn't envy him.

"His ship was the Raisonnable, 64 guns, his captain Maurice Suckling, and Horace was rated as middie. To add to his small outfit, and see him on the way, his father went with him as far as London, then the poor boy had to bundle and go all by himself to Chatham, off which his ship was lying.

"Horace has told me that the misery of arriving in that strange, busy port, all friendless and alone, was about the most acute ever he suffered in his life. There were scores, ay hundreds, of ships there, hundreds, ay thousands, of bluejackets and marines in the slushy streets, revelling, drinking, brawling, and fighting. He was hustled by dockyard-men, he was mocked and laughed at by women of the bare-headed class; cold, damp, and hungry, yet no one knew or cared where the Raisonnable lay. When he asked some sailors if they knew Captain Suckling, they suggested his standing a flowing can and they'd soon find out.

"Young Horace was hesitating what to do, when a stern voice shouted, 'Gangway, lads.' The men saluted and made room at once, and here, with his sword under his arm, stood a tall naval officer.

"He led poor hungry Horace, not to his ship, but to his own quarters in the dockyard, and gave him a good dinner, asking him many questions about his life in the country, his father and brothers and sisters. He finished off by saying—

"'Well, whatever brings some boys to sea I can't tell, though I was a boy myself once upon a time. Never mind, lad, I'll see you off, else the rascally boatmen will cheat you.'

"The Raisonnable lay well off in the middle of the tideway, and braced up by the good dinner he had eaten, he began to think a sailor's life was just the thing for him after all. Besides, with her frowning red-muzzled guns, her tall and tapering spars, and spider-web of rigging, the frigate was a noble sight. Then there were the neatly-arranged hammocks over the bulwarks, a flash of crimson here and there, and here and there the glitter of a bayonet.

"Horace got in over the port or larboard side, up a rope ladder, and his box was hauled up after him.

"Then he stood there, alone in a crowd, for many an interminably long minute. No one took any more notice of him than if he'd been a bag of biscuit. Nor did Horace know what to do, or what to say, or whom to address.

"He spoke to a man in a dark blue jacket at last, and called him 'sir.' It was only the doctor's servant, but he answered him kindly, and in due time he found his way to the cock-pit, and was afterwards bundled into his own mess—the gunroom.

"Captain Suckling did not join for days after this, so Horace had to fight his first battles single-handed. Bloodless battles no doubt they were, for Horace was but a weakly lad at this time, and but ill able to play that game of fisticuffs which, Tom, I think you will admit I played with some skill that day when the Welsh giant, David Jones, challenged me to mortal combat on the sands of Yare.

"No, poor Horace at this time, you must remember, was only newly cut loose from his grandma's apron-strings. But, Bob, your pipe is out. Tom, my hearty, light Uncle Bob's pipe before I put another spoke in the wheel."

CHAPTER X.

"I WILL BE A HERO, AND TRUSTING TO PROVIDENCE
BRAVE EVERY DANGER."

"Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft
To be taken, for trifles, aback;
For they say there's a providence sits up aloft,
To look after the life of poor Jack."—DIBDIN.

"There is one trait in my friend Horatio's character," continued Mr. Merryweather, "that I think is prominent enough, and that is decision. Mind you, Tom, lad, I like it in a certain way, but it may lead one wrong at times. But nevertheless, it is better to leap than flounder in a bog, and if you've got to do a thing there's no time like the present. If ever Horace did rob an orchard—and I rather think he did more than once—I feel certain he didn't hang about long before commencing operations, that he didn't wait to see whether the farmer's wife was having a walk in the garden, or whether Bouncer, the dog, was tied up or not. No, Horace is a bad hand at waiting. He wasn't long in the navy, however, before he found out it was pretty nearly all waiting, that the youngsters or griffins had to wait on their elders, and the elders to wait on those older still. Even the captain himself has to wait, and very often in vain, for promotion. Horace, poor fellow, expected to find as much courtesy, sympathy, and kindness in the behaviour towards each other of the junior officers of ships in the navy as was displayed among his brothers in his happy and well-regulated home. Alas! he was sadly disappointed. He found roughness and brutality displayed on deck, between decks, fore and aft, and a good deal in the wardroom as well as in the gunroom. If he expected to meet with young gentlemen full of zeal for the service, burning with a desire to serve their king and country, or even to die, if need be, for their fatherland on the blood-stained battle-deck, he was terribly disappointed. If he expected even to find naval affairs discussed at all in his mess, again he was disappointed. If ambition dwelt in the hearts of the young fellows he found around him, they kept it to themselves. It was every man or lad for himself, and 'hang the service'; 'hang superior officers'; 'hang etiquette'; 'hang fine language'; 'hang—hang everything'; only let the beef and the biscuit have a fair wind, and if anybody smaller wanted the beef first, let him wait or have a dig in the eye. Meum and tuum? There were no such words, except in the Latin dictionary. If you had anything to eat, I must have a bit, if 't were only an oyster, that is, if I were bigger than you, or harder in the shell and in the fist.

"So Horace, who was really a tender-hearted boy, although ambitious, saw nothing but roughness around him, and not a little sin. That he soon was sick of all this goes without saying—that he was not polluted by the filth among which he had fallen is a marvel, but he never did forget his father's teaching, nor the prayers he had learned at his mother's knee.

"When my friend, then, joined the Raisonnable, there were reasonable expectations that he would soon see a little fighting, from the fact that the Spaniards were cutting up rough about a certain harbour in the Falkland Islands. Britain wanted that harbour; Britain was a bigger boy than Spain, and a bigger bully—always has been, and ever will be—so Britain threatened to punch Spain's head if Spain didn't hand over the harbour, quietly as well as quickly. Spain did so, and after five months of waiting in the 64-gun frigate, she was put out of commission; the boy's uncle, Captain Maurice Suckling, was appointed to the Triumph for harbour service in the Medway, and as this did not suit Horace, who was burning to be on blue water, his captain sent him on a voyage to the West Indies, in a small ship commanded by John Rathbone, who had served in the Dreadnought as master's mate, until he had either got sick of the service, or the service had got sick of him.

"Nevertheless, it seems that Horatio got better on with 'old Rathbone,' as he somewhat irreverently styled him, than with his uncle Maurice, or rather with the idle dandies on board the guardship Triumph. Rathbone succeeded in making a man of him, for, mind you, Tom, even a boy can be a man—at heart.

"Perhaps Horace roughed it considerably in Rathbone's ship. He doesn't say much, but I'll warrant you it was 'away aloft to reef topsails' on many a dark and stormy night.

"When my friend Horace returned, he was a sailor every inch, 'every hair a rope-yarn, every finger a fish-hook.'

"Indeed Horatio himself says, in speaking about this cruise in the merchant service, 'If I didn't improve much in my education during the voyage, I came back a practical seaman, with a horror of the Royal Navy, and with a saying then very common among sailors, "Aft the most honour, for'ard the best man." It was many weeks before I got in the least reconciled to a man-o'-war, so deep was the prejudice rooted, and the pains taken to instil this erroneous idea in my young mind.'

"Well, anyhow, when Horace returned from his delightful cruise in the West Indiaman, he came once more under the lee of his uncle Maurice, of H.M.S. Triumph. This gentleman, with most disinterested kindness, did all he could—though for a time with only partial success, to reconcile young Horace to man-o'-war routine. As a reward for services done, and attention to his duties, he was allowed to go piloting in the decked long-boat or cutter to the commanding officer's quarters at Chatham, and from Chatham, sometimes round to the North Foreland, or up stream to the Tower of London itself.

"But Horace stuck manfully to his duties, and gradually came to love the Royal Navy.

"It was in the year 1773, if my memory serves me well, that an expedition was set on foot to visit the North Pole, or, in other words, to find out how far north the sea was navigable in a northern direction.

"Two ships were commissioned for this purpose, namely, the Racehorse, Captain C. J. Phipps, and the Carcass, Captain Lutwidge.

"It was the Carcass to which, much to his joy, Horatio was appointed. In the old Triumph he had first been rated as captain's servant, then promoted to midshipman, and it was as captain's coxswain he joined the Carcass.

"His seamanship—learned, be it remembered, in the West Indiaman—came well to the front now. He was permitted to take his trick at the wheel, and steered the ship safely through very heavy ice. The ship, however, had the misfortune to get frozen in, and the wonder is ever she got back to tell her tale.

"Horatio is very reticent as to his adventures in Polar seas, but he told me that he was severely reprimanded for disobeying orders. He followed a bear into a position of imminent danger, for Horace not for the bear. He says his gun missed fire, and that he thought he might as well try to brain the beast with the butt end. The bear seemed not at all reluctant to be brained, for he came boldly on to meet the boy who was to perform the operation. No doubt, this particular bear had the utmost confidence in the thickness of his own skull, and if a well-directed bullet had not caused him to change his mind and sheer away on another tack, Horace would never again have planted cabbages in his father's garden at Burnham Thorpe. (That bear's skin, by the way, Horatio had meant to give to his father as a Christmas present).

"Well, on the paying-off of the Carcass, which, with her consort, got safely back to England, Horace, who, although only fifteen, was an out-and-out able seaman, was recommended for service to Captain Farmer of the Seahorse, a smart and saucy craft of twenty guns. He was a watch-and-watch seaman of the foretop now, but Farmer soon recognised his ability, and so he was promoted to the quarter-deck and made one of the midshipmen.

"Not only that, but he was allowed to carry on the duty, and crack on too when he pleased—in fact he was, to all intents and purposes, a naval officer. His cruising ground was now the Indian Ocean and all round about there. But in eighteen months his health began to break down, owing, not so much to the badness of the climate, he told me, as to the beastliness of the beef and evil disposition of the water.

"So he was transferred to the Dolphin, and in this ship returned for a spell to his native land."

"Not interrupting you, Mr. Merryweather," said Bob, "mightn't you tell Tom about the gallant end poor Captain Farmer had?"

"Ah! that was sad enough, though it was gallant, Bob," said Mr. Merryweather. "I hadn't meant to mention it, but here goes—

"It was on the fatal sixth of October, 1779, that bold Captain Farmer, in the fine old frigate Quebec, of thirty-two guns, sighted La Surveillant, off Ushant.

"This ship carried forty guns, and was more heavily manned, as well as more heavily metalled, than the Quebec. That didn't signify to Farmer. The drum beat merrily to quarters, and at it the two ships went pell-mell.

"It was a long and terrible struggle, lasting for over three hours and a half. Both vessels were utterly dismantled. Unfortunately in the struggle the sails of the Quebec, shot down by the enemy, caught fire by falling over the guns, and very soon the whole ship was wrapped in flames.

"The brave Captain Farmer however, although grievously wounded, refused to surrender, and was blown up with his ship, the colours flying defiantly till the last. So that was the glorious but terrible end of poor Farmer."

Merryweather paused here for a minute or two, busying himself in refilling his pipe.

No one spoke, however; for even Meg seemed to know that his story was not finished.

The midges danced above the quivering reeds, the twittering martins went skimming to and fro, there was a hum of insect life in the air, and all nature seemed rapt in blissful content.

"On so lovely a day," said Merryweather at last, "I am loth to sadden my yarn by any allusion to death or to gloom, but the truth must be told, else you, Tom, and you, Bob, will not understand my friend Horace's inner character, and it is the mind, you must remember, that prompts our every action.

"It was on board the Dolphin, then, on her homeward voyage, that Horatio Nelson first learned to think. The passage was not a pleasant one, for the ship was badly found. There were many men ill on board as well as Nelson, and it was the thoughts of getting back to merry England that kept those poor fellows hopeful and alive.

"When one is sick and ill, especially if tossed about on the ocean wave, one cannot help feeling both despondent and weary. Hear what Horatio himself says about this:

"'I felt impressed,' he writes, 'with the idea that I should never rise in my profession. My mind was staggered with a view of the difficulties I had to encounter and the little interest I possessed. I could discover no means of reaching the object of my ambition. After a long and gloomy reverie, in which I almost wished myself overboard, a sudden flow of patriotism was kindled within me, and presented my king and my country as my patrons. "Well then," I exclaimed, "I will be a hero, and, trusting to Providence will brave every danger."'

"That then, Tom, was the resolve my good friend made when still a boy. The thought of being a hero was the star that guided him on, and that will, I trust, guide him still to victory; for that he is the coming man I have not a doubt.

"But, lads, I can, I think, read Horatio's mind even better than he can do himself. You see, it was in the hour of sickness and gloom he made this firm resolution. He could not help remembering that he was but of puny frame, though with a mind fitted for a far stronger body. He might be cut down by disease at any time. What bolder or better resolve therefore could he make than to give his life to his king or country, be it long, be it short. If short it were doomed to be, the more deeds of heroism he could crowd into it the better. 'Let us work while it is called to-day, for the night cometh when no man can work.' These were the words on which his father once preached a sermon, and lying in his weary hammock Horatio remembered them. They gave him hope, they helped to raise his spirits, and with this new-born hope came strength and happiness. And so far as he has had it in his power Horatio has kept his resolve, but now that he is lying on his beam ends at Burnham Thorpe, is it any wonder that he chafes and fumes? He told me he felt as if standing high and dry on a rock beholding a ship on the sea-ridden sands, and powerless to help; for, he added, 'Am I not witnessing the shipwreck of all my hopes and ambition?'"

"Pardon me, mate," said Bob, "but you've kind o' drifted away from your story. Your friend Nelson didn't come straight away from the Dolphin to his father's parsonage. He hasn't been planting cabbages there since '76, I'll lay a wager."

"No, Bob, no. Thank you for bringing me up with a round turn and holding me with a clove hitch. Just let me, however, make one digression, Bob, and I'll go ahead again right cheerily with my yarn. You've just spoken, Bob, about laying a wager. When you get well, Bob, as I trust you will, let me tell you that the less you have to do with wagering or betting the better. Horatio tells me that when still in his teens he one night sat up playing cards till very late. He thinks now that the devil must have sat by his side, tempting him and leading him on to good luck, for during the whole evening his winnings, and the 'devil's picture-books' that he held in his hand, were all he thought about. Duty, resolution, ambition itself, were in abeyance, were far away from his thoughts. And he rose up from the table at last, flushed and excited, the winner of £300! 'You'll play to-morrow night, too,' the devil appeared to whisper to him, and he appeared to promise.

"But with the morrow came reflection. 'Oh!' he thought, 'what, if instead of winning, I had lost. I, without money to pay? Horrible! I should have been broken, ruined, disgraced, and my father—I will never touch a card again.'

"You see the devil doesn't always have his own way in this world, no matter how alluring the bait may be that he dangles before the eyes of his would-be victims.

"Well, then, young Nelson's next vessel was the 46-gun ship the Worcester. And with kindly Mark Robinson as his captain, he sailed for Gibraltar across the stormy Bay of Biscay.

"Stormy then at all events, for the wind rose and the billows were houses high. It was indeed a fearful night, what with guns broken loose from their moorings, with racing shot and shifting ballast, with boats and bulwarks broken, with rent and riven canvas, there were few on board who hoped to see the morning light.

"It had been the old, old story—a ship hurried away to sea before things were properly stowed and everything made ship-shape, with a half-drunken crew, and officers wild with rage because the duty could not be carried on as they desired it. Ah! many and many a good ship has the stormy bay swallowed up at darkest midnight from causes such as these.

"But the Worcester weathered the storm, and Captain Robertson was not slow in telling his officers they had done their duty in this trying time, like Hearts of Oak or British sailors.

"'I shall have quite as much confidence in you in future,' he told him, 'as in any one of my older officers, and, indeed, I shall feel quite easy in my mind when you are on deck. You are a man in actions if not in years.'

"No wonder Nelson's face glowed with pleasure and shyness combined to hear these words of praise.

"We next find Nelson passing his examination as lieutenant, which he did with flying colours. His uncle, Captain Suckling, was the chief officer on the examining board, nor did he spare his nephew.

"At the conclusion of the examination he put the usual question to the other officers.

"Then Horatio was called in, and informed gravely that he had sustained the examination.

"'And now,' added the kindly-hearted Captain Suckling, 'let me introduce you to my nephew. My nephew, Horatio Nelson, gentlemen.'

"'Well,' replied the bluff old uncle, 'I was afraid that, had I done so, you might have favoured him. I felt convinced he would pass a good examination, and you see, gentlemen, I have not been disappointed.'

"Right heartily then every officer on that board shook young Nelson by the hand, and hoped he would be an honour to the glorious old flag under which they all served their king and country.

"The very next day Nelson was made second-lieutenant of the Lowestoft, which after a time sailed for the West Indies.

"Nelson during the voyage became a great favourite with the captain, owing to the prompt way he obeyed all his instructions and carried on the duty.

"One day an American privateer hove in sight, and the first-lieutenant was ordered to board and capture her. However, the sea was so high and stormy that he lost heart, and returned to the frigate. The captain was wild with rage. 'Is there,' he cried, 'an officer in this ship who can make a prize of that letter of marque?'

"Both Nelson and the master stepped up at the same time. But Nelson had the honour, and honour it proved. He not only reached the privateer, but boarded and carried her, although the waves really were so high that the boat was washed over the Yankee.

CHAPTER XI.

"THERE'S A STORM BREWING, AND YOU'LL BE IN IT, TOM."

"D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch
    All as one as a piece of the ship,
And with her brave the world without offering to flinch,
    From the moment the anchor's atrip.
Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft
    As with grief to be taken aback,
For the same little cherub that sits up aloft,
    Will look out a good berth for poor Jack."—DIBDIN.

"The Lowestoft," continued Merryweather, "arrived at Jamaica, and a proof was given now that Captain Locker was a true friend to Nelson. For knowing that he was running over with zeal for the service, he had him appointed to a separate command. Though, had the captain consulted his own wishes, he would much have preferred having the bold young lieutenant with himself.

"In the saucy wee schooner, Little Lucy, Nelson could lord it on his own quarter-deck, monarch of all he surveyed, and, in his own words, he made himself a complete pilot of all the passages through the islands situated to the north of Hispaniola.

"My friend's next preferment—through the interest of Locker—was to the third lieutenancy of the flagship Bristol, under Admiral Parker. But he was after a time promoted to the rank of first lieutenant. During his cruise in the Bristol, though Nelson himself says but little about it, he was not idle, and undoubtedly did his share of the duty of capturing no less than seventeen sail belonging to the enemy.

"Then Horace was appointed to the command of an old-fashioned, sturdy brig called the Badger, and was sent off to the coast of Mosquito and Bay of Honduras, to make it hot for the swarms of Yankee privateers that were cruising around there on the outlook for British shipping.

"I fear, Bob, that if I told you how excellently well young Nelson performed the duties required of him, you would imagine I was trying to make my friend too much of a hero; but if he joins our service, Tom will soon know that the Admiralty considers the performance of duty no act of heroism, however well it is done. But Nelson protected the settlers on this coast so faithfully and well, that he was not only admired, but in reality adored by them.

"It was while still in the Badger, and lying in Montago Bay, that the Glasgow, a 20-gun vessel, arrived. In about two hours' time she was wrapped in vast sheets of flame, and it was only through the extraordinary exertions of Nelson, aided by Captain Lloyd himself, that the crew were saved. Nelson, in speaking of the disaster, gives Captain Lloyd his due meed of praise. But he deserved it. There was one man on board the poor Glasgow who richly deserved flogging first and hanging afterwards; this was the steward."

"I don't know, lad. I expect he was flogged at the very least. The scoundrel had gone to steal rum for himself and mates from the after hold. He succeeded in capsizing a cask of rum, and setting fire to it with the purser's dip he carried.

"Now the Glasgow was laden with gunpowder, and Captain Lloyd knew that if she blew up, not only would every one on board perish, but the magazines and warehouses on shore would also be destroyed. He immediately called all hands therefore, declaring that until every cask of powder was had up and thrown into the sea, not a man should leave the ship.

"The crew, who dearly loved their honest Welsh commander, obeyed his instructions, and saved themselves and him from a fearful death.

"Then Nelson came to the rescue, and the crew were got off before the charred timbers sank hissing in the waves.

"On the 28th of April, '79, my friend Horace, in his bold brig Badger, carried and captured La Prudente.

"Well, Tom, I haven't time to tell you all Nelson's brave deeds in the West Indies, and indeed I do not remember half of them, but about this time both France and Spain, you know or ought to know, were at war with Britain, and what with having now no men from America, we were not only rather short-handed, but somewhat short of ships, and by way of encouraging good men and officers to join the service, Prince William Henry became a midshipman, and many more of the scions and offshoots of nobility followed his example.

"Nelson received his post-captaincy, and Collingwood* became commander of the Badger. Horace was appointed to the Hinchinbrook, and during the cruise with the Major and Penelope took many prizes.

"But now, at the age of twenty-one, Horace had still higher promotion, for, as it was expected that the French admiral, Count d'Estainy, would attack Jamaica in force, he was appointed to the command of the batteries of Fort Charles, at Port Royal.

"Nelson's next service was one of great importance. General Sir John Balling had formed a plan for an expedition against Fort St. Juan, in the Gulf of Mexico, and the sea operations were entrusted to Horace.

"It was the object of this expedition, by taking the fort and obtaining command of the Rio San Juan, running between the lake Nicaragua and the Atlantic, to obtain possession of the cities of Granada and Leon, and thus cut the communication of the Spaniards betwixt their northern and southern possessions in America.

"My friend's duty was the conveyance of the transports and the landing of the troops.

"But Nelson was not to be satisfied with so simple a share of the honour and glory of this expedition, and both Sir John and Captain Polson, of the 60th, testified in words of burning admiration to the great skill and indomitable energy of poor Horace. 'He was the first,' says Polson, 'on every service, whether undertaken by day or by night, and hardly a gun was pointed that was not laid by himself or by Lieutenant Despard.'*

* Twenty years after this, Despard was tried and executed for high treason with six of his fellow conspirators. He was, nevertheless, a brave and daring, though misguided man.

"It was a sad expedition this from beginning to end. The game, indeed, was hardly worth the candle; but Nelson was its real head. He not only landed with the men, and led them on to death or glory, but piloted them up the river, and took port after port from the astonished Spaniards, and all this in a climate so unhealthy, so rotten and malodorous, that pestilence was a greater foe to success than the resistance offered by the enemy. For on the march men fell dead in the ranks, others were poisoned by water, they were short of provisions, being forced to kill and eat monkeys, while several were killed by serpents. Not since the days of old Spanish buccaneering had any troops suffered as did those with bold Nelson. He says himself he carried troops a hundred miles up the river, he boarded the enemies' outposts situated on an island in the river, and made batteries and afterwards fought them, and was a principal cause of the success that attended our operations.

"Was it any wonder that in a place so pestilential fever broke out? It was fearful, Tom. I should not talk about such things to-day, but in Nelson's ship of 200 men, 87 were seized and confined to their beds in one night, and 145 were buried there, only ten men surviving the terrible expedition.

"Nelson himself was nearly dead, and but for the kindness of Sir Peter Parker, who appointed him to the 44-gun frigate Janus, at Jamaica, he would doubtless have succumbed. But even the tender nursing of Lady Parker and her little girl on shore was unable to restore my friend to health, and on the first of September, '80, he sailed for England with Captain Cornwallis.

"He lay ill for a year at Bath, and was then sent on a winter's cruise to Elsinore to protect the homeward trade. This cruise was but little relished by Horace, who rightly thought that his service in the West Indies, where he fought so well and so nearly lost his life in the service of king and country, deserved higher recognition.

"In '82 Horace sailed with a convoy of traders for Newfoundland, in his ship Albemarle.

"One clever action out there can be laid to Nelson's credit. It should be remembered that he was a perfect sailor and pilot. When chased, therefore, by three of the French ships of the line and the Iris frigate whilst cruising off Boston, and finding they were coming up with him hand-over-hand, he boldly sought the shoals. The frigate alone could follow, and Nelson made all preparation to fight her, but the Iris refused to accept the challenge, and sheered off.

"Horace next took a convoy to New York, and there he joined the fleet under Lord Hood. Here he was introduced to the Duke of Clarence—Prince William—and each found in the other a true-blue seaman and British sailor.

"On the return of the fleet, Lord Hood took Nelson to St. James' Palace, where he had the high honour of an introduction to the King. And, to use the words of Scripture, Tom, he found 'favour in the King's sight,' though there wasn't much to boast of in that.

"Peace was concluded with France in '83, and in July of that year Nelson was placed on half-pay.

"He next went to France—not to learn to dance Tom, but to improve his knowledge of the language. He, however, managed to fall over head and ears in love with a clergyman's daughter—a Miss Andrews. Many a ship and many a fort had my friend captured, and now, lo and behold, he himself had to haul down his flag to a girl.

"Oh, he would have died for her I doubt not, but she would not marry him. She showed bad taste in my opinion, Bob, but n'importe, there was happiness in store for Horace independently of this fair girl. Having sailed the ocean so long, no doubt he had found out the truth of the proverb, 'There's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.'

"In France, Nelson met two naval officers, to whom he seemed to take a dislike from the very first, for the simple reason that they tried to keep up the dignity of the service to which they belonged, by dressing in a somewhat dandified fashion, and wearing epaulettes. One of these was Captain Ball.

"Nelson, my friend and hero, is a man of deeds, and his hatred of vain-glory and show has ever been very marked. We did not find him digging in his garden, Tom, and planting cabbages, with his cocked-hat on his head and a sword by his side."

"No, sir," said Tom, laughing. "He would have looked funny like that; but he wore very old clothes indeed. He was droll."

"Yes, my lad, and when the Duke of Clarence first saw him, he seems to have been droller-looking still.

"'I was,' said his Royal Highness, 'then a midshipman on board the Barfleur, lying in the narrows off State Island, and had the watch on deck, when Captain Nelson came alongside in his barge. He appeared to be the merest boy of a captain I had ever beheld, and his dress made me smile. He had on a full-laced uniform, his lank, unpowdered hair was tied in a stiff Hessian tail of an extraordinary length, and the old-fashioned flaps of his waistcoat, added to the general quaintness of his figure, produced an appearance which quite riveted my attention. I had never seen anything like this before, and could not imagine who he was or what he had come about. My doubts were however removed, when Lord Hood introduced him to me. There was something irresistibly pleasing in his address and conversation, and an enthusiasm when talking on naval matters, that showed he was no ordinary being.

"'I found him,' continued the Duke, 'warmly attached to my father and singularly humane; indeed he had the honour of the King's service, and independence of the British Navy, particularly at heart. As for prize money, such a thing never entered his thoughts.'

"Now, Bob, I want you to note this, my friend Nelson, God bless his honest heart, hated dress and foppery, and he hated Captain Ball because he was a fop; but, as I said once to Horace, Miss Andrews would have thought a deal more of him, had he too donned the epaulettes and been a little less old-fashioned, for, Bob, the ladies are attracted by gay colours. It is nature you know. Look even at the birds of the air, they don't care a slug how they knock about all winter; but as soon as spring time comes, and they go a-wooing, behold how gay and brave they are. They know precisely when to put on their fancy waistcoats, and when to leave them off. But Nelson didn't.

"Well by-and-by Horace was appointed to the Boreas, twenty-eight guns, and sailed for Barbadoes.

"Sir Richard Hughes was then commander-in-chief of these colonies, but he was an easy-going commander and did not trouble his head very much about British interests.

"But Nelson meant to do his duty maugre fear maugre favour, although the big soldier men out there did not thank him for his interference. So he seized many vessels that he knew had no business at all to trade in British colonies, and got persecuted in consequence, as Horace himself says, 'from one island to another.'

"Tom, the story stops here. You know pretty well all the rest, how the Boreas came back in 1787 and was paid off on the 4th of July, and how my dear friend went on half-pay, and has been left high and dry to fret and fume and 'rot,' as he calls it, ever since, waiting in vain for the appointment that, it seems to him, will never, never come.

"Tom, look eastward, lad, there is a storm brewing, and we better take the advantage of the cat's paws before it breaks and get homewards."

Tom did as he was desired, poled round the barge, set sail and got home before the rain and high wind ruffled the lake.

Just as they had landed, however, and Bob's cot was being wheeled towards his own wing of the cottage, Mr. Merryweather touched young Tom on the shoulder.

"Yes, lad, but I mean it now in a figurative sense. There is a storm brewing in the east, and you'll be in it, I'll be in it, and brave Horatio Nelson too."

CHAPTER XII.

"DAN WILL NE'ER BE DAN AGAIN," THEY SAID.

"See yon bark, sae proudly bounding,
Soon shall bear me o'er the sea.
Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding,
Calls me far frae love and thee."—A. HUME.

It was a sad day for my hero, young Tom Bure, when Mr. Merryweather resigned command of the sloop, and went on half-pay. When he came to bid good-bye to Dan and his old shipmate, Uncle Bob, to say nothing of little Ruth and her mother, everyone was as sad as sad can be. It was one of those dull, depressing days in December; great waves tumbling in from the east and breaking in thunder upon the sands of Yare; hosts of seagulls flying in-land; snow in the air; general gloom everywhere.

"Good-bye, Bob, my good fellow, I hope to see you again, and see you well. I'm coming back from the wars with my post-captaincy, Bob; then you and your good brother Dan here will be the first to bid be welcome, I know."

There was a huskiness in poor Bob's voice when he made answer that was not difficult to account for, and there was moisture in his eyes.

"Ah, mate," he said, "you must forgive an invalid for showing the white feather at the last. I didn't think, you know, I'd be so sorry to part with you, but your presence, coming back and fore to the cottage here, brought back old memories, and I've had a right happy time. Good-bye, mate. Heaven preserve you. I'll pray for you, an honest tar's prayer. But something whispers to me—we'll meet again no more."

"I'll meet many a maiden ere I return again, Ruth," he said, "but none more modest and fair than you, my winsome lassie."

Besides, he had promised to use his influence at the Admiralty to get Tom appointed as a middie in the same ship as he himself joined.

"There! there! lad. Never be ashamed of honest tears. Just let them fall. The bravest men that ever drew sword or wielded cutlass on the blood-slippery battle-deck have wept when saying that little word 'good-bye.'"

He patted the boy most kindly on the shoulder. "Tom," he said, smiling, "do you know what I'm going to do?"

"Well, as soon as I get up anchor and wear round I'll fire a gun for you. And do you know what that gun will say?"

"It'll say 'Good-bye, Tom,' as plainly as ever a gun can speak. Now sit there and look and listen."

And off ran this honest sailor, while Tom sat down on the cliff-top to wait for developments.

He saw the boat hauled up. He heard the rattle of the windlass as the men got up the anchor. He saw the loosened sails fill as the little craft wore round, then there was a quick wicked-looking puff of white smoke, with a tongue of fire in the centre of it, and next moment the cliffs reverberated with the sound of the farewell gun.

Tom took off his jacket and waved it in the air; his cap would not have been sufficient for the requirements of so auspicious an occasion.

There is one method of getting over sorrow that every boy has in his power, namely, sticking to his books and his studies.

Many a time and oft, dear reader, has sorrow in this world been the parent of fame, and Tom Bure found that after a somewhat gloomy fortnight the time did not hang so wearily on his hands.

Hadn't Mr. Merryweather assured him that war was coming, and that he would exercise all the influence he possessed to obtain him an appointment as midshipman.

How glorious that would be! How he wished for the storm to break, for the war to begin. He did not think of the fine uniform he might wear, or of the dirk that should hang by his side. He resolved to emulate Horatio Nelson, and despise dandyism; but whenever a chance offered to do all kinds of daring, plucky things, he was sure he should rise rapidly in the service, and have his name written on the scroll of fame.

Tom had heard of the scroll of fame, but possessed very hazy notions indeed as to what it was or wasn't. But in an old copy-book Mr. Curtiss, his tutor, one day discovered the following ready-made scroll of fame—

"Tom Bure, midshipman.
Lieutenant Tom Bure, R.N.
Commander Thomas Bure, R.N.
Captain the Hon. Thom. Bure, R.N.
Admiral of the Red the Hon. Thom. Bure.
Admiral of the Fleet Lord——."

The scroll of fame was left unfinished just there; it was evident that young Tom was uncertain what title as a lord he should confer on himself.

But he happened to enter the room just as Mr. Curtiss was examining this scroll of fame and laughing heartily over it. Forgetting for the moment all the respect that was due to his tutor, Tom rushed forward, seized the paper and tore it in pieces, his eyes flashing with anger, his face burning like a coal.

"Oh! forgive me, Mr. Curtiss," he said immediately after, "I didn't mean to be rude, but I really felt so ashamed."

"Say no more, my boy, no more," said Mr. Curtiss, "we all of us manufacture for ourselves a scroll of fame, though we don't all transcribe it in an old copy-book. Never be ashamed of ambition, my boy, so long as it is honest ambition."

Christmas of 1792 came round at last, and Tom Bure had the distinguished honour of being included among the invited guests to a ball given by his little inamorata, Miss Colmore, at the Hall. This party was not held on Christmas-day, however, else Tom, much as he loved the fascinating fair one, would have declined the invitation. Christmas-day was Uncle Bob's day par excellence, for he happened to have been born on this day of all days; so it was the one festival of the year at Dan's cottage. The dinner was spread in Bob's own wing, the room was specially decorated for the purpose with evergreens and holly-berries and mistletoe nearly a week beforehand, Bob himself superintending, Ruth and Tom doing the work.

The table, with its snow-white cloth and sparkling glasses, and Mrs. Dan's very best delf, was placed so that, as Bob lay in his cot and Dan sat at the foot of the table, the two brothers were close together, and Dan could attend to Bob's every want.

There were always a few neighbours invited, and mirth and jollity and songs and yarns were the rule of the evening.

And this Christmas formed no exception. Poor Bob was never merrier, and declared that he had been able to move his fingers in the morning better than ever he had done, so that a new hope was awakened within him. No wonder he was happy.

And Bob being happy, his brother Dan's face was all the evening brimming over with joy. Even Meg, the collie, knew that something extra was on the tapis, and when everybody drank to Bob, wishing him many happy returns of the day, and Dan his brother patted his cheek, the dog jumped up and licked his ear, then seemed to go to sleep with her head sideways on his chest in her old loving fashion.

Two days after the party at the Hall took place, and though perhaps Tom was not the greatest dandy there, he nevertheless looked as well as anyone. And, singular to say, Bertha was kinder to Tom than ever she had been. She gave him more dances than she gave to the Honourable Fred Langridge, although the latter wore silver buckles in his shoes besides silk stockings and a satin waistcoat, and sported a bunch of seals at his fob as large even as Mr. Merryweather's.

Tom was accordingly very happy indeed, and the evening wore away with magical quickness. Bertha had never looked so like a fairy before, but nevertheless this fairy maiden even condescended to let Tom——; but stay, I shall not tell tales out of school, and the least said about the mistletoe the better.

Our young hero was now in his twelfth year, and began to think he really and truly was a man.

It being winter Uncle Bob spent nearly all his time indoors, but Tom went often to the crow's-nest, and came back and reported to Bob all about the weather and how the wind was, how the sea looked and what was in sight, and this used to make Bob so happy.

Tom often went out in the Fairy yawl with the Ashleys. They were a rather rough lot, but really capital seamen, and taught the boy quite a deal that was useful to him in after life.

And with all due respect for classical education, the knowledge of how to reef and steer and splice and knot, and of how to look a gale of wind and dashing seas in the teeth, is not thrown away even on a midshipman of the present day.

The cold dreary winter wore away at last, and spring began to clothe the marshes in tender green, and scatter wild flowers everywhere. The catkins were showered groundwards from the tall poplar trees, and yellow-green leaves covered them like the shimmer of evening sunshine, the tassels hung on the larches, the gold covered the furze, gentler winds went whispering through the young shoots of the bulrushes, and the song of birds was heard in all the land.

Uncle Bob began to look forward now to his first glad day on the broad in his barge. Dan his brother was to come with him, Ruth and Meg and all were to go, and Tom intended to invite little Bertha herself.

One evening the stars shone with unusual brilliancy, and yet Dan told Bob there wasn't an air of frost in it either. Dan sat longer up with his brother that night than usual. They were talking of dear old times when father and mother were alive, and they were boys together. Such joyous days those used to be, and how free from care and thought.

When at last the old clock in the corner groaned out the hour of twelve, Dan bade his brother a kindly good-night, and prepared to go.

The last thing Bob asked him to do was to draw back the curtains, that he might see the beautiful stars.

"Take the candle, brother, take the candle," Bob said. "Good-night, dear Dan. Now I shall see the stars. Oh, what glory!"

These were the last words ever Dan heard his brother utter. Mayhap they were the last he ever spoke on earth.

When Tom went in next morning he found Uncle Bob apparently asleep. But his face was white.

Tom felt for a moment as if turned to stone, then, uttering one long and bitter cry, he sank down on his knees beside the bed and burst into tears.

When brother Dan went in he found two mourners there; one was little Tom, the other Bob's collie, Meg. Her paws were on the bed, her cheek leant lovingly against the hard, dead chest of her master.

A very humble funeral. Only a plain deal coffin, and only a few friendly neighbours to follow it to its last resting-place.

But when these neighbours looked in the face of poor Dan, who erst was ever so cheerful, they shook their heads.

Book II.

CHAPTER I.

TOM'S BAPTISM OF BLOOD.

"Set every inch of canvas
To woo the favouring breeze.
Oh, gaily goes the ship
When the wind blows free!"—OLD SONG.

"Luff, lad, luff," said the skipper to Tom Bure, who was at the wheel. "We'll give them a race for it anyhow. They'll think none the less of us for that."

"See," he added, a minute after, but talking now to his mate. Tom was too busy to look about. "Yonder was a shot, it fell plump into our wake a quarter knot astern. Blaze away, Frenchie, but we're not overhauled yet, and not a herring o' mine crosses your throat for the next two hours anyhow.

"Ah! mate, they don't know the life that's in the Yarmouth Belle when she gets a wind on the quarter. And the more it blows the faster she goes. Another shot! Ah! Frenchie, you haven't run us aboard yet even. Keep her as she goes, Tom, lad, keep her as she goes."

The skipper and his mate might have been taken for brothers, so much alike were they in face and build. Short, squat almost; men about forty years of age, with faces as rough as a crab shell, and not unlike to a crab in colour when that dainty has been boiled; noses that seemed to have sunk considerably by the pressure of gales of wind innumerable; eyes that were mere slits from the same cause; dressed in sea-boots and blue sweaters, with black sou'-westers. They carried their hands deep in their trousers' pockets when not handling anything; kept them stowed away, as it were, till wanted; and they chewed tobacco, as a rule, walking down to leeward when they wanted to expectorate, which they did apparently for the benefit of the sharks.

The men belonging to this schooner were five in number, and hardy-looking fellows every one of them, though not so tough as mate and master. They wore blue night-caps, and were naked as to feet, in other respects they were dressed like their superiors.

There was little or no lording it over the men displayed by the senior officers of the Yarmouth Belle, Equality and fraternity was displayed fore and aft. Even the skipper himself would be seen forward at times, talking and laughing and yarning with the forecastle hands, and any one of these would take a pull at sheet or brace without an order from the officer on duty, if he thought the sails needed trimming.

But both master and mate looked pleasant enough, and good-natured too, for men like these, who have been, literally speaking, reared upon the waves, are not easily put out. At the present moment, for instance, they were running away from a French cruiser, and it did seem too that they were likely to win the race.

The stage of action was the Mediterranean sea, or blue Levant, as novelists often call it. It was blue as blue could be to-day, as blue as the sky above it, albeit there was a white horse visible here and there on its surface, for a stiff but steady breeze was blowing, and if it only held, Mr. Hughes, the skipper, felt sure he could show that Frenchman a clean pair of heels.

"For'ard there!" he shouted. "Have the jollyboat all ready. Now, Tim, let her rip. Sandie, run aft here and haul up the British Jack. The red rag that makes the Frenchman as mad's a bull. See, I knew it would, and yonder comes another shot. Short this time though. Short, you dirty old frog-eating Moosoors. Mate, I'll have a tot o' rum. Don't see why we shouldn't splice the main brace, eh?"

The steward, in shirt and trousers, and a pair of slippers down at the heels, soon appeared, with a cup in one hand and a black iron measure with rum in it in the other. These were days of can-tossing.

"Keep her full then, Tom. Keep your eyes aloft, lad. Steward, take a pull yourself, then trot for'ard with black-jack."

In order to understand how Tom Bure happens to be down here in the blue Levant, taking his trick at the wheel on board the saucy Yarmouth Belle, it will be necessary to hark back a month or two in our story, but I promise you that we shall soon make up our leeway.

After poor Uncle Bob was laid in his quiet grave, then, Tom received several letters from Mr. Merryweather, the last of which was very brief. He (Mr. Merryweather) was appointed to a ship at Chatham which was fitting out for sea, the letter explained, and as soon as possible he meant to have an interview with no less a personage than Lord Hood himself, with whom he had served out in America. Tom might rest assured that it was on his account wholly he was going to see the admiral, and he, Tom, might really hold himself in readiness to join a ship at any time.

Things had not gone over well with Horatio Nelson in '92. Hope itself seemed dead within him. His applications for service were utterly ignored by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.

It was not very long, however, before Nelson had proof that the darkest hour of night is next the dawn, and that "post nubila Phœbus," after clouds come sunshine. He had still two good friends in high quarters, namely, Lord Hood and the Duke of Clarence. Both knew how good and enthusiastic an officer he was. Both knew that the cloud in the east would soon break. The French were, to use a slang but expressive adjective, "cockie." The French were insolent. They were already proved to be—so they themselves thought—the best soldiers in the world, and they thought also there would not be the slightest difficulty in proving their superiority to the British at sea.

They had already fired on British ships, and, with every desire to maintain the peace of the world, our Government saw there was nothing for it but fight.

Very much to his surprise, therefore, as well as intense delight, Nelson found himself appointed to the Agamemnon, a 64-gun ship of great excellence.

And so he sailed from England on the 27th of June, making one of the squadron of Lord Hood, whose ships were bound south, with a large convoy of merchantmen under their lee.

It was upon the 25th day of this very June that our bold young Tom Bure set out on a cruise of his own seeking. The Fairy, Ashley's yawl, was running round Hunstanton way, and Tom begged for a passage, or rather he asked for one. There was very little begging needed in it, for gruff old Ashley was as proud and fond of Tom as he was of any of his sons. So in a day or two—the Fairy being delayed by wicked wee winds—Tom found himself on shore at Wells. His object was to see Captain Nelson, and beg him to take him with him even as a cabin-boy.

Alas! Nelson was gone. His father was there, however, and as Tom sat in a high-backed chair opposite the kind old parson, he was for fifteen minutes under a fire of good advice, the text of which was, "Stay at home, boy, and become a useful member of society. Don't go to the sea to become a target for French gunners, and to feed the fishes eventually." Of course the worthy parson fixed his sermon up in a more appropriate guise than this. And there sat Tom as quiet as a mute; but, in the interests of truth, I am bound to say that, like round shot which go clean through a wooden ship at close quarters without doing much harm, the rector's advice went in at one of Tom's ears and out at the other, making no impression whatever.

"Now, my dear boy," said old Mr. Nelson at last, "you have listened most attentively to what I have said, and I pray heaven you may benefit by it."

"Down you sit, lad, right here at this desk, and scribble away. I'll forward your epistle in one of mine."

"DEAR CAPTAIN NELSON,—This comes hoping you are well and fighting the french, O, sir, I want to fite the french too. My father was a galant offiser and fought the french and the americans and Spanish and all. So did you, sir. You, sir, wanted the admiralty to give you a cockle-boat if you could not go as captain, if I cannot go as a midshipman sir, I want to go as a cabin boy.

It must be confessed that this letter was not free from some errors, but then action and common-sense were more admired in these brave old times than grammar and orthography.

Old Mr. Nelson promised faithfully to send the letter, and having given the lad a good dinner and a little more good advice, Tom marched boldly and hopefully away to Hunstanton and met the Ashleys.

On the passage back the Fairy ran into Yarmouth harbour, and Tom went with old Ashley on board a schooner to see a friend of his.

"As plucky a fellow as ever hauled a net," he explained to Tom before they crossed the plank. "Netted a bit o' money too. For five years now he's been running down the Levant wi' dried herrings, and comin' back wi' fruit. But what I tells him is this, 'You may do a thing in peace times ye can't in war.' Only George is as headstrong as a mule. And there he is. Ha, George, me and this younker was just talkin' about you. Here is a young sailor for you, if you like!"

"Ay, a gent; but I brought him up, and, look see, he's going to be something yet. Tom Bure'll be a credit to me. He won't miss stays, you wager. But, George, I was just telling him what an old idget ye was."

"Oh, thank you!" said George, laughing. "I'm sure I'm obliged. Come below and have a tot of rum and bit o' baccy. Don't the Yarmouth Belle look nice?"

"Ah! yes, slick and trim. I'd have no fear o' her and you, George, if 't weren't war time."

While these two men were talking, Tom Bure had a happy thought. Why shouldn't he sail with George—as Ashley called the skipper. Nelson went in a merchant ship. "Sir," he said, "will you take me for a cruise? I'll obey orders, and do all I can to help you sail the schooner."

George laughed in a rough but kindly way, and the three went below together, and it all ended by young Tom Bure becoming one of the crew, or say rather an apprentice, on board the saucy Yarmouth Belle.

Honest old Dan was much distressed when he heard that Tom had engaged himself, and poor Ruth, whom Tom always called sister, was inconsolable.

"However, it may be all for the best," said Dan. "He's been well brought up, though I say it, wife, and Providence can protect him."

"Besides," said Mr. Curtiss, "he must begin to see life some time, and the sooner the better, Dan, now-a-days."

Tom's things were gotten ready with all speed. Rough wearing every-day articles they were, warm and useful. Mrs. Brundell saw to their abundance and utility.

His outfit for the navy had already been bought and packed, and as Tom's chest was a good-sized one, Ruth proposed that he should take his uniform clothes in the bottom. "It may bring Tom luck, mother," she said. So this was agreed to.

On the evening before his departure, the Colmores being then at the hall, Tom launched his boat, and with Meg at the prow started off up the Broad to bid farewell to his Bertha.

Poor Bertha cried bitterly for a little while; but she brightened up considerably when Tom told her it was all to win honour and glory for her he was going to brave the dangers of the treacherous ocean. She put it to him very straight though.

And there wasn't a thing in the world that Tom did not promise to bring home and lay at his love's feet, so it is no wonder she dried her eyes and laughed at last. Bertha indeed seemed at this early stage of her existence quite cut out for a sailor's bride.

"That girl, who fain would choose a mate
    Should ne'er in fondness fail her,
May thank her lucky stars if fate
    Decree her to a sailor.
He braves the storm, the battle's heat,
    The yellow boys to nail her,
Diamonds—if diamonds she could eat,
    Would seek her honest sailor."

And the voyage had all along been a most pleasant one. In a few days' time the skipper of the Yarmouth Belle had reckoned upon reaching the port of destination, selling off his cargo, and investing in another. But it seemed at present that it was not going to be all plain sailing with him.

Whizz! Another shot. Much nearer this time too. "That privateersman," said the skipper, "is a wonderful craft to fly. Well, it'll be a feather in her cap if she runs the Yarmouth Belle aboard."

When the next shot went ripping through the fore topsail, George turned his quid in his mouth, and nodded to his mate.

"I must admit, matie," he said, "it's getting a bit warmish. We've done all we could as Englishmen to maintain the honour and glory of the flag, now we'll haul her down."

The Yarmouth Belle was now brought to, and ere long was boarded by an officer from the cruiser.

When he came on the quarter-deck he was in a terrible passion, and swore roundly in French.

But as no one except Tom Bure understood a word he said, it did not matter a deal.

Tom did all he could to pacify the French officer, by explaining that being Englishmen, they were obliged either to fight or retire. Being unable to fight they naturally ran away to save their cargo, just as they hoisted the British flag to save their honour.

"Where is that flag?" hissed the officer, striking his sword-scabbard on the deck. "Give me the rag."

Now Tom had the old Bure blood in him, and his face glowed with anger to hear his country's flag called a rag. He determined it should not be surrendered.

As he did so he deftly managed to tie within it two marline spikes, old-fashioned, heavy articles.

"There, sir; a gentleman knows how to respect even the flag of an enemy. You are not one, and shall never finger flag of ours."

This, it must be confessed, was a bold as well as pretty speech for a lad of Tom's age. Those, however, were the days of bold speeches, and doughty deeds as well.

The Frenchman drew his sword, and struck poor Tom Bure a terrible blow with the hilt.

"Fair play, you cowardly frog-eater," the skipper had shouted, bringing his fist to bear full between the officer's eyes.

As he spoke he tore the sword from the grasp of the fallen man, and the pistol from his belt.

The mate seized a capstan bar. The crew followed his example. A few pistol shots were fired, and cutlasses were drawn by the Frenchmen; but the attack had been all too quick and unexpected to be met. In less than a minute the crew of the boat were overpowered and disarmed, then pitched pell-mell overboard.

The foreyard was hauled forward, and away once more went the Yarmouth Belle, skimming over the water like a living thing.

By the time the cruiser had picked up her boat the schooner had secured such an offing that, as night was coming on, the baffled privateer was fain to give up pursuit and go off on another tack.

He certainly lost some, and there was an ugly gash on his brow; but he was soon sufficiently recovered to sit up and look about him.

The skipper had bound up his brow, and the steward was kneeling beside him, trying hard to get him to swallow a little three-water-grog.

There was the Yarmouth Belle once more under full sail, and there was the French officer sitting disconsolately under the lee rails, side by side with one of his own men, both with their legs in irons.

And now Tom showed his generosity by begging that both men should be placed en parole.

The skipper consented, and with his own hands Tom unlocked the irons and set them free.

"The English are von brave nationg," said the officer, and, much to Tom's astonishment, he was caught and kissed on both cheeks.

The Frenchmen, however, settled down very happily in their new quarters, and were as merry as merry could be.

CHAPTER II.

HOW TOM BURE JOINED THE SERVICE.

"Let cannons roar loud, burst their sides let the bombs,
Let the winds a dread hurricane rattle;
The rough and the pleasant, Jack takes as it comes,
And laughs at the storm and the battle."—DIBDIN.

The Yarmouth Belle had baffling winds for a few days after this, which considerably delayed her progress to Naples, the port of her destination. But the weather was beautiful on the whole, and the skipper and the mate were both philosophers of the happy-go-lucky school.

"I'm not going to fret my little self," said Mr. Hughes one morning at breakfast, when Tom reported that the Belle's head was not directed to that point of the compass he should wish.

"We're not going to fret our little selves," said the mate. "Pass the ham, skipper. We've plenty to eat, we've plenty to drink, and we have 'baccy, and there's no hurry home."

"Ah, dat is not vot I mean. Dis voyage, saar. Here, I veel pay you tres bien if you take me to Tunis."

"That cock won't fight, sir," he said. "I'm a poor man, but I trust I'm an honourable one; least I hope so."

He stretched his hand over the table, seized Hughes' rough fist, and shook it heartily.

"Three frigates in sight, Mr. Hughes, sir," he said. "I've been to the mast-head with the glass, and they look like Frenchmen."

"Ah!" he cried, "now it may be 'Good-bye' after all in de Eenglish way. Ha! ha!"

"Don't you whistle till you're out of the wood, Moosoo," said Hughes, nodding to him good-humouredly. "You don't know yet what the Belle can do on a wind."

Stout though he was, the skipper found his way into the top, while the mate stood below looking up.

"Right the boy is!" he shouted down presently. "They are French as sure's I'm Yarmouth. Ready about, mate! We may as well keep out o' the way. But, bless you, mate," he added, when he got down again, "they seem far too busy to bother us."

Away aloft went Tom. No cat could have gone aloft half so neatly. Honest pride was swelling his young heart as he brought the telescope to bear on the Frenchmen.

Hughes laughed and turned to Moosoo, as he called his prisoner. Hughes was fond of a joke.

"We can't do it, Moosoo," he said. "Had there been only three frigates now, we might have boarded and carried them one after another. But four and a brig to boot—that's just two more 'n we can eat. Ha! ha! ha! See the point?"

If Moosoo didn't see the point he felt it; for in order to emphasise his joke Hughes dug him in the ribs with his red fat forefinger.

"One of the frigates has dropped astern, sir," was the next hail from the cross-trees. "A bigger one than any is coming up on her, hand over hand."

"Hoorah!" cried Hughes. "Mr. Moosoo," he added, "here's news. My second mate aloft there tells me there's seventeen French sail o' the line running away from a Britisher. Hoorah!"

"Ready about!" cried the skipper. "Mate, we'll see the last of this. Nothing to pay, you know."

In less than an hour the saucy Belle was so near to the belligerents—no pun meant, reader, the occasion is too serious for punning—to witness from the deck the running fight between the frigates.

It was hotly contested on both sides for more than two hours, after which the foe was silenced.

The British ship veered round with her head to the west, and men could be seen in the rigging immediately after making good repairs.

"She means to fight again, I'll wager a barrel of herrings. They're only putting things right a bit to go ahead."

"Now, mate," continued this valiant skipper, "I move we keep her up and join the Britisher. Let us see if we can't be of any assistance to her. Eh?"

"Bravo, sir!" said the mate, "I'm on. The idea's first rate, and we may share the prize money and the glory, you know."

"The beaten frigate, sir, has hoisted signals, and the others are bearing down towards her."

"Now the fun'll begin," cried the warlike skipper. "That British ship is good enough for the five of them, I know."

But it was soon evident that the French frigates had no desire to renew the combat. Perhaps they had important engagements in some other part of the Levant. At all events, after a time they sheered off.

Then the Yarmouth Belle stood towards the British man-o'-war, and was duly hailed, and finally ran alongside. The man-o'-war, which proved to be the Agamemnon—Nelson's own ship—had her mainsail hauled aback, a boat was lowered to board the Belle, and in a few minutes returned, bringing the Norfolk skipper and Tom himself.

Tom Bure certainly did not look a very picturesque figure just then, for his brow was still bound up with the blood-stained handkerchief, and he wore a sou'-wester and blue jumper.

The glad blood mounted to his face, however, when he saw it was Horatio Nelson himself who advanced towards him.

There were several officers besides on the quarterdeck, but Tom had eyes only for the hero.

"Why, my lad," said Nelson kindly, "you are Tom Bure, aren't you? But why this masquerade?"

"I received your letter, boy"—Nelson smiled—"and I have it still," he said, "and wrote soon after to the Admiralty requesting your appointment to this very ship. But you must have left England before that appointment came."

"Captain of the saucy Yarmouth Belle," put in that worthy. "Finest herrings, sir."

"One minute, Mr.——a——Captain Hughes. Well, Tom Bure, give an account of yourself and that cut on your head."

Tom briefly related all that had occurred, Hughes helping him now and then—putting a spoke in his wheel, as he phrased it.

"You're an honour to England, Mr. Hughes," he said, "and I shall not fail to mention your gallantry in the right quarter. Now I'll relieve you of your prisoners, and if you can spare me this young gentleman I'll have his services here in my ship."

"See my steward about that," he said, "and you can stay here for twenty minutes and do business forward. Whither are you bound?"

"No lord as yet, Captain Hughes; but I'll show my trust in a Norfolk man by giving you a letter to deliver at Naples."

Seeing Captain Nelson engaged talking to the worthy skipper, one of the officers now advanced and laid his hand on Tom's shoulder.

Mr. Merryweather marched him off to the lee side of the poop after telling a middy to see "this young gentleman's" chest on board the Agamemnon.

The middy, who was some years older than Tom, saluted as he said "Ay, ay, sir"; but he surveyed Tom with haughty superciliousness as he descended from the poop.

"Oh, I had forgotten!" said Tom in a low voice. "Ruth put that in the bottom of my sea chest."

"Bravo! poor dear, winsome, wee Ruth. Shouldn't wonder if I married her, Tom; but now, lad, bid your skipper good-bye, and come below to my cabin. There you can dress you know. Wait one moment though." He advanced to Captain Nelson.

"Certainly, Mr. Merryweather; and he better see the surgeon and have his face washed."

One of the junior surgeons, who looked more like a butcher's assistant than anything else, was coming up from the cockpit. He took Tom in tow, and speedily dressed his wound for him.

In ten minutes he was washed and arrayed in his midshipman's uniform. And now he reported himself formally to Captain Nelson, who seemed much pleased. "I hope you will make a good and efficient officer," he said. "There are three things you are to bear specially in mind, Mr. Bure. Firstly, you must always obey orders most implicitly, without attempting to form any opinion of your own as to their propriety; secondly, you must consider every man your enemy who speaks ill of your king or your country; and thirdly, you must hate a Frenchman as you do the——."

The Agamemnon and Yarmouth Belle now parted company, the crew of the latter with a cheer that was heartily responded to.

"Mate," he said, "I've done first-rate. Captain Nelson's a brick. A brick, mate, and a Briton."

"And being a brick and a Briton, let us say a Heart of Oak ——," said the mate.

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.

"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.

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.

"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?"

"Now, sir," he continued, turning once more to Tom, "I believe I owe you an apology, and I make it."

"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."

"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."

"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.

"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."

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."

"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.

"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 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.

"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.

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."

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.

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."

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!"

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.

"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!"

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.

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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

"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."

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.

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.

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."

"The captain says he is going to renew the fight to-morrow morning; so sorry I won't be in it," sighed Raventree.

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.

"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:

"'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."

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."

"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.

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.

CHAPTER VI.

A DUEL TO THE DEATH.

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.

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."

"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."

"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.

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.

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.

"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.

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."

CHAPTER VII.

THE BATTLE OF ST. VINCENT.

In my last chapter I stated that Nelson, with his broad pennant flying on board the Minerve, met with and fought the Santa Sabina. I also mentioned that the Blanche was companion ship to the Minerve. Where was she then during the fight? it may be asked. Did Nelson have her assistance in fighting the gallant Stuart? Was it two to one after all?

No, certainly not, for during the engagement the Blanche was far away to windward in chase of the Ceres, whom she sadly wanted to fight, but who escaped.

Porto Ferrajo was a strong fortress on the Isle of Elba, to which, you remember, Napoleon Bonaparte was banished, but from which he subsequently escaped.

After the evacuation of Corsica, the viceroy of that island, whom the French would have captured had it not been for Nelson's guns, was escorted by the hero to Ferrajo; but Sir Gilbert Elliot—for that was his name—went afterwards in the Minerve with Nelson to hold a consultation with the British Admiral of the fleet (then Sir John Jervis, afterwards Earl St. Vincent), who was at that time cruising off Cape St. Vincent.

On the 9th of February, '97, Nelson arrived at Gibraltar, and here he received on board by exchange the two lieutenants, Culverhouse and the immortal Hardy, who had been taken prisoners with the recapture of the Sabina.

And now comes an adventure worth relating. Hardly had the Minerve got fairly under weigh again than two Spanish ships of the line got up sail and gave chase.

It seemed indeed that the Minerve would assuredly be captured now, for no sooner had she entered the Straits, than the foremost line of battleship outsailed her consort, and was coming up hand over hand after Nelson's frigate.

Sir Gilbert Elliot made so sure that the Minerve would be taken, that he had his state papers all ready to throw overboard, so that they might not fall into the hands of the enemy.

It would have been madness for him to have attempted to try conclusions with two lordly liners, but as the fight was now being forced upon him, he determined to sell his ship dearly.

Pointing to his flag, he said to an officer near him, "Before the Spaniards have that bit of bunting I'll have a tussle with them, and sooner than the ship should fall into their hands I'll run her on shore."

They were just going below to dinner, when suddenly there was a cry, "Man overboard."

In a moment all was bustle and stir. Lieutenant Hardy and a few sailors sprang into the jolly-boat, which was at once lowered away to pick up the man.

It was soon evident, however, that the boat could make no headway on her return against the strong current. She was rapidly drifting onwards to the advancing Spanish ship.

"I will not lose poor Hardy for all the Dons on earth," he shouted. "Back the mizentop-sail!"

That "cockie" Don was full of warlike ardour as long as the Minerve kept cracking on, but as soon as Nelson stopped ship, the rapidity with which the Don began to shorten sail was amusing.

So our boat was picked up, stun'sails were clapped on the Minerve, and with the wind on her quarter, away she went like a thing of life, and the Dons were left behind.

The following night a still more strange adventure took place, for in the thickness and darkness Nelson found himself sailing through what appeared to be a great fleet of tall spectre ships.

This made him very anxious indeed to join Sir John Jervis, which, to his great joy, he did two days after.

Such was the respect and even affection that Nelson never failed to inspire in the breasts not only of his officers, but even the men under his command, that those who had once served under him thought themselves lucky indeed if they could again fight beneath his flag. Nor was Nelson himself averse to being surrounded by "ken't" faces; he was like a father to his people, and they to him felt as children.

It is confidence like this that begets bravery and deeds of derring-do, whether in the field or on the battle-deck, and I have no hesitation in saying, that a 40-gun frigate with bold Nelson in command, was as good as, if not better than, most ships of the line.

I think, however, that Nelson to some extent abhorred a cut-and-dry style of fighting. Like all brave men, he was nervously excitable; he became in a measure intoxicated with the sound of battle, like the war horse who scents the combat from afar, but he never lost his head. He was quick to see any offered advantage or mistake of the enemy, and to profit by it at once. His object too was often, at the commencement of a fight, to confuse, bewilder, and paralyse the enemy, and sometimes they never regained self-control until the battle was over.

You have heard, reader, of that style of argument, or rather counter argument, which is called the reductio ad absurdum, and also of the "descent from the sublime to the ridiculous." Pardon me if I use one of these, the better to illustrate my great hero Nelson's character.

When, then, I was a boy of thirteen or fourteen, a wiry, big, strong Scotch "nickum," I was at what is called a fighting school. I do not believe that a day ever passed without a fight between two boys. They were pitched battles; generally arranged during school hours and fought to the bitter end the same evening. I myself, although a poor hand at first, eventually fought my way from the lowest to the highest factions. I somehow, however, usually preferred fighting a boy who was bigger and stronger than myself; art came in to my aid, and if I did happen to be beaten I had no dishonour. Hut there was one lad who, though of my own age, was considerably smaller. He was a red-faced, towsy-headed, nervous tyke of a boy, and—he was more than a match for me. I had several battles with him, in which he invariably came on like a wild cat. With hard-clenched fists he seemed positively to claw at my face, and for one swinging blow from the shoulder I got in, he landed half a dozen at least. It was puzzling, confusing, and paralysing, and I had to lower my flag each time, with perhaps two pretty black eyes, a swollen nose, and a few loose teeth.

Now, that boy—his name was John Aberdeen, and he may possibly read these lines—was a perfect little Nelson in character. You will see, therefore, why I have made my descent from the sublime to the ridiculous.

The morning of the 14th of February was dull and hazy, the British ships steering southwards with a bit of westering in it.

Although by no means rough, there was a swell on, and it must have been a grand sight to see those two lines of British men-of-war, as straight in column almost as soldiers on parade, rising and falling on the ocean billows.

But when, at about one bell in the forenoon watch, the drum beat to quarters, a still more lordly sight was visible some distance up to windward, for the mist had lifted before the morning sun, and there floated one of the largest and most terrible fleets ever formed in battle array. Truly they were leviathans afloat. Their tall dark sides bristling with guns, their lofty riggings and commanding sails imparting to them a dignity that was awe-inspiring, a dignity from which the huge flags of orange and red certainly did not detract.

Not all at once, however, was the picture presented to the astonished gaze of our British tars, for the huge fog-curtain was lifted but gradually.

Sir John Jervis was walking the quarter-deck of the Victory as coolly as if the men had only been piped to scrub decks, and as the Spanish fleet was gradually evolved its numbers were reported to him. Did the officer who made the report, I wonder, imagine for a single moment that the admiral was going to be deterred by numbers?

"There are seven-and-twenty sail of the line, Sir John. Considering the disparity of numbers, do you think we are justified in engaging the Dons?"

"Hold, sir!" cried the bold admiral. "Enough of this. The die is cast, and if there are fifty sail of the line, I should go through them just the same."

"Hurrah!" cried Hallowell, who was standing near him; so delighted was he that he clapped the admiral on the shoulder. "You're right, Sir John, you're right. We'll fight them, and we'll give the Dons a hiding too."

It is said that confusion seemed to spread among the Spaniards from the very first. Parsons says: "They made the most awkward attempts to form their line-of-battle, and looked a complete forest massed and huddled together."

Now, before going further, I wish the reader to cast his eye down the following columns, which I give by way of showing the disparity in numbers and guns between our fleet and that of Spain.*

Two thousand and two hundred and ninety-two Spanish guns, against one thousand two hundred and thirty-two British—nearly two to one.

This glorious fight, on this most memorable Valentine's-day, began about seven bells in the forenoon watch, when Admiral Sir John Jervis, with all sail set, came dashing at the Dons, and passed right through their lines. Now the Spanish admiral had nine of his ships down to leeward, and he at once determined to pass astern of the British fleet, and thus effect a junction with his divided ships.

And it is at this point where the genius of Nelson becomes so conspicuous. Remember that the signal had been made for the whole fleet to engage, and had he strictly obeyed orders he would have gone on with the rest of the Britishers, and tacked with them. But his quick eye—poor fellow, he had now but one—noticed the Don's intention, and he resolved to frustrate it at all hazards. He put his helm up, therefore, and steered straight for the Spaniards.

Not a soul on the upper deck of the Captain who did not marvel. Merryweather confessed afterwards to Tom Bure that he thought Commodore Nelson had suddenly gone mad.

Even Tom and Raventree, little though they knew of naval tactics, could not refrain from talking momentarily over the affair. But the roar of the guns that had been stilled for a minute or two recommenced now with triple force, and Tom had his duty to perform. Yonder was the mighty Santissima Trinidada towering high above them, and Nelson in his Captain was close alongside her.

The position of Nelson's ship at that moment was not one to be envied, with the monarch of the Spanish fleet beside him beam to beam, and three-deckers pouring in their fire fore and aft.

But down to his assistance came the Culloden of 74 guns, bold Troubridge her commander, and the Blenheim of 90 guns.

The fire of the British ships at this time was terrible in the extreme. Our brave fellows fought half naked at their guns, and though messmates fell killed or wounded on all sides, they were speedily carried or hauled on one side and the fight went on. There was no more thought of leaving their batteries among those Hearts of Oak, than if the battle had been but a mere parade.

The dangerous position of the Captain may be imagined when we remember that at one time she was actually exposed to the fire of no less than nine ships!

Nelson was the hero of this glorious fight. Am I not right in calling him so, seeing that around his sadly-mutilated ship the battle raged the fiercest?

But the Captain, with her rigging in tatters, her fore-top mast gone, and her wheel shot away, was now almost unmanageable. She was at this time engaged with two of the enemy's liners—the San Nicholas and San Josef—and Nelson purposely fouled the former.

The credit of this is due to Miller, his second captain, who, disabled as the ship was, managed to lay her aboard the starboard quarter of the Spanish lee, so that her sprit-sail yard passed over the enemy's poop, and hooked in her mizen shrouds.

It was a scream, it was a yell from a British throat, and it thrilled every Heart of Oak on board, and was answered by a cheer.

With the butt of his musket a soldier of the 69th (a number of this regiment being on board) dashed in the window of the Spaniard's upper quarter-gallery and leapt in. Nelson and many more were with him, Tom Bure and Raventree among the rest. But they found the cabin doors secured against them. These were speedily dashed to pieces. One man in a fight like this has the strength of three. A volley was fired by our brave fellows, the Spanish commodore fell, and hurrying onwards, sword in hand, Nelson found that the poop had already been taken by Lieut. Berry, and our friend Merryweather, and that the enemy's ensign was coming down by the run. Nelson ran forward and received the submission and the swords of several officers.

But although the San Nicholas was thus taken, a pattering musketry fire was kept up from the San Josef, which was close alongside.

She too must be captured. Nelson felt in form now to capture a dozen. The order was therefore speedily given to place sentinels on the ladders to guard the prisoners of the Nicholas, and more men were ordered into her from the Captain——to make sure, for Nelson forgot nothing. Then once more the shout, "Away—ay—ay, boarders!"

Our brave and great hero was at the head of his men this time, and the San Josef fell as her consort had fallen.

The captain of the ship on his knees sued for mercy, saying the admiral was dying of his wounds below.

Nelson says, "I thereupon gave him my hand, and ordered him to call to his officers and ship's company that the ship had surrendered, which he did."

Glorious day for Nelson! There on the quarter-deck of this huge Don, 112 guns, he received the swords of the vanquished Spaniards.

There comes in here an element of the comic, for by the hero's side stood the bold bargeman, Bill Fearney, to whom the swords were given as they were received. Bill hitched up his trousers, turned his quid in his mouth, and stuck the swords under his left arm with less ceremony than if they had been as many fiddlesticks.

The very essence of this gallant fight lies in the fact that Nelson, having fought almost to the death, his ship of 74 guns being all but a wreck, puts this disabled craft of his to such marvellous account, that he captures two of the enemy's largest ships by the glorious old British system of boarding.

There they lay, the victor and the vanquished—the three of them all in a huddle. And was it any wonder that the Victory and every other British ship cheered our Nelson as they passed?

I do not feel inclined to say any more about this glorious battle. To mention the bare unvarnished facts is enough, and the boy along whose spine there does not pass a cold thrill of pride and excitement while reading these is no true Briton.

CHAPTER VIII.

LIFE IN NELSON'S SHIP.

"The flag of Britannia, the flag of the brave,
Triumphant it floateth o'er land and o'er wave,
All proudly it braveth the battle and blast,
And when tattered with shot it is nailed to the mast."

It goes without saying that Nelson returned thanks, humble but fervent, to heaven, for his merciful preservation on the day of battle.

For his services on this Valentine's-day he was knighted, and also received the Order of the Bath. He was moreover made rear-admiral of the blue.

Probably after all it was the private congratulations that flowed in upon him which affected him the most, and chief of these, perhaps, were the love and respect of his ship's crew. Well they knew that Nelson was not only a true sailor, but in heart and soul almost a man before the mast. No one ever heard the hero abuse a man verbally in bullying language with oaths and fulsome gesture, as many and many a captain did in those days. Moreover they knew he hated the lash, and that he even saw the justice of the complaints of the mutineers of the Nore.

It was when on board the Theseus—the Captain was almost a wreck—that the men's regard for their commodore—now admiral—was shown in a manner essentially sailor-like, and therefore in a measure innocently childish, for a round-robin was picked up on the quarter-deck which read as follows:

"Success attend Admiral Nelson! God bless Captain Miller. We thank them for the officers they have placed over us. We are happy and comfortable, and willing to shed every drop of blood in our veins to support them, and the name of the Theseus shall be immortalised as high as that of the Captain.—Signed, THE SHIP'S COMPANY."

This poor little but heart-felt speech upon paper must have cost much care and thought to concoct. Meetings on the sly would have been held down below, as secret and confidential as those of conspirators or mutineers, and I can almost see the shy and somewhat ungainly actions of the seaman, who was finally told off to drop the precious document on the quarter-deck after it had been read a dozen times and finally approved.

These and a score of other warnings were doubtless given to Jack before he departed on his mission, and I'll warrant that, when he performed it successfully, he was welcome to all the grog in the mess that day if he chose to have it.

Nelson and Miller too appreciated that simple note for all it was worth, you may be perfectly sure.

But possibly the letters from home affected him quite as much as anything. His wife's was quite a woman's letter. Nelson must have smiled to be told that she was very much against the dangerous practice of boarding, and that he must really promise not to venture on any such thing again.

But his father's, the dear, kindly, and now proud old man—proud of his son—affected him most. "I thank my God," he says, "with all the power of a grateful soul, for the mercies he has most graciously bestowed on me in preserving you.

"Not only my few acquaintances here, but the people in general met me at every corner with such handsome words, that I was obliged to retire from the public eye. The height of glory to which your professional judgement, united with a proper degree of bravery, and guarded by Providence, has raised you, few sons, my dear child, attain to and fewer fathers live to see. Tears of joy have involuntarily trickled down my furrowed cheeks. Who could stand the force of such general congratulations? The name and services of Nelson have sounded throughout this city of Bath—from the common ballad singer to the public theatre."

So much for honour and glory, reader. Do you like it? Honour and glory are but empty baubles, and yet somehow they commend themselves most heartily to the empty soul.

Honour and glory, however, are, in my opinion, not such empty baubles as those who never receive them would have you believe. On the contrary, they are the most satisfactory proofs a hero could receive, that he has nobly done his duty. They are the payments made to him by a grateful public and people for services done for which no amount of money or jewels could ever form adequate reward. Whenever, therefore, you hear a person railing against honour and glory, you may be perfectly sure he has never had any such "baubles" offered him, and never done anything to deserve them. Think of the fable of the fox and the grapes.

Well, no star can shine by itself without imparting its lustre to other and lesser stars around it. This is another way of saying that even Nelson's junior officers shared in his honour and glory. Ah! well, they deserved to, for right nobly that day had every man done his duty fore and aft.

But in a great many cases that honour and glory look the form of a sailor's grave. And alas! poor Jack, many a man before the mast was buried in the deep sea who had fought as well as ever man fought a veritable lion with heart of oak, but whose name would not even be mentioned in his country's story.

As for the doctors? Well, the day had not yet come when doctors were to have even the least little morsel of honour and glory, and, to tell the truth, in our own day very little glory falls to a surgeon's share. Down in the gloomiest depths of a ship he must work—nay, slave, even on the day of battle. If engines burst he is among the first scalded; if the vessel is blown up or is sunk, he has not even the shadow of a chance of saving his life, as have the honour and glory men on deck whose bravery may after all be but the outcome of excitement or terror itself. The surgeon, on the other hand, has to do his duty with a cool head, and even long after the rage and roar of battle have ceased his duties keep him to his post.

But Nelson was a man who really loved his doctors, both senior and junior, quite as much as he loved the parson, and had every respect for their feelings. Even when coming quietly round to see the sick or wounded, he invariably took a surgeon with him, to ask him questions about the poor fellows who lay uncomplainingly in their hammocks.

Young Raventree's letters from home rejoiced him very much indeed, and he showed several of them to his friend Tom Bure.

Poor Tom had letters also; three—yes, only three, but how he valued them only those who have been long away on the ocean wave could say.

One was from Dan—Daddy Dan. This he showed to Raventree. "It is from my dear old foster-father," he explained.

Raventree read it by the light of the moon, as the two lads stood together under the lee bulwarks.

"It is so good of you, Bure," he said, "to show me this. Bad spelling, worse writing, stilted and somewhat hackneyed expressions, but, Tom, a spirit of such kindliness and love, and so noble a nature breathing through every page of it! Tom Bure, you are lucky in having a foster-father like this man. Dan Brundell is a hero in humble life!"

"I'm so glad you like him," said Tom, and the tears came rushing to his eyes as he spoke.

"Some day I should like to go and see Dan's cottage," continued Raventree. "My home is away in the midlands. It is one of the ancestral halls of England, and my people are proud and wealthy; but, Tom, they would make you right welcome. I think," he added, "I have some reason to be proud of my family, because, like the Stuarts, of whom we saw so noble a specimen in that brave Don Jacobo, we gained all our honours by the sword."

Tom had a letter from Ruth—such a dear, sisterly, old-fashioned epistle. This he gave to Merryweather to read, knowing it would not interest Raventree much.

Jack Merryweather, who was in excellent spirits after the recent battle, because he, for a wonder, had not been wounded, read Ruth's letter with delight—not once, but twice.

It came from Bertha. It was enclosed in Daddy Dan's. Quite a charming specimen of love letter it was, but so innocent and childish. She sent it through Dan, she said, because she did not wish it supervised by her mother and her maid.

I hope the reader will not jump to the conclusion all at once that this conduct on the part of Bertha was naughty or clandestine. Her mother, she said, wanted her to write to Tom Bure "all in fine english and all well speld," and also to address him as "der Mr. Bure," instead of "der old Tom" all through the letter. So she had ran off to Daddy Dan's, where sweet freedom awaited her, a huge sheet of age-stained paper, and an enormous sputtering old quill pen.

However, Bertha's letter, although not "well speld," was very delightful, and for some reason or another, best known to himself only, Tom Bure put it under his pillow on the night of the day he received it.

History is mute as to what his dreams were. O'Grady's letters were so pleasing to him that he handed them all round the gunroom mess—at least he handed round the one he had received from his mother, who lived "in a swate little cottage in the kingdom of Connemara, and owned the foinest pigs in the county, faith."

O'Grady's mother was "a lady in a small way and in her own roight," he explained to his messmates, though what on earth he meant by that nobody could tell, and as it was getting on for three bells, with a drop of rosy rum on the table, no one thought of asking him for an explanation. But Mrs. O'Grady could write a good old-fashioned letter, there was no mistake about that. No long sentences; all short and crisp. No tall English; but every line containing an item of news. There wasn't a person in the parish from the priest downwards who missed mention in the lady's letter, together with everyone who had been put in the mould and every baby born, and it finished up with what honest O'Grady called a red-hot shot, thus: "And may the Lord's arms be ever around you, son, and sure your old sweetheart Peggy O'Houghleehan was married yesterday to Rory McKoy, and may heaven have mercy on his sowl, for the jade was never good enough for my dear boy, at all, at all. No more from your affectionate old mother Molly O'Grady. Postage paid, free."

The red-hot shot, however, didn't affect this good old middy much; for, it being Saturday night, the dead all buried more than a fortnight ago, and the wounded getting rapidly well, the boys were enjoying themselves in an innocent, good-tempered way. So presently O'Grady volunteered a song.

Away forward in the men's messes, Dibdin's verses very well depict the scene, bar the lashing of the helm a-lee. Nelson was hardly the man to have his helm lashed a-lee. With all due respect for the clever Dibdin, he did occasionally give his imagination a very free run.

"'Twas Saturday night: the twinkling stars
Shone on the rippling sea,
No duty called the jovial tars,
The helm was lashed a-lee."

But even Saturday night at sea has an end at last, and the bo's'n's pipe has a disagreeable knack of bringing it to a close at times, far more suddenly than honest sailors like.

CHAPTER IX.

BOMBARDING CADIZ—A MADCAP EXPEDITION.

"I am here," he wrote to a friend, "looking for the Viceroy of Mexico, with three sail of the line, and hope to meet him. Two first-rates and a 74 are with him; but the bigger the ships the better the mark."

Nelson, however, thought the Spanish ships were the finest in the world; but he added:

The Spanish ships were undoubtedly splendid and vast, but they were badly fitted, badly found, badly handled, and badly manned.

Nor was it always an easy matter to manœuvre such vast machines of war in a sea way. If battles upon the ocean wave had been fought simply by the antagonists drawing themselves up in two lines and peppering away at each other till one gave in, was blown up, or sunk, the Dons would have had it all their own way—perhaps. But during an engagement of any size the British fleet kept pretty much on the move, delivering terrible broadsides on the foe when least expected.

On the 11th of April we find our hero blockading Cadiz, but next day he started for Porto Ferrajo to bring the troops from there. The blockade of Cadiz was therefore entrusted to Sir James Saumarez. This officer had already proved himself to be

His story previous to the blockading of Cadiz is briefly as follows: He was born in '57, and joined the service when thirteen years old, and was first employed in the Mediterranean. He soon became a lieutenant, and sailed in the Bristol, off America, under Commodore Sir Peter Parker. He took and destroyed many privateersmen here. Under Lord Howe, he commanded at Rhode Island a galley, which he burned to prevent it falling into the hands of the enemy. Returning home in the Leviathan, he, after some service in the Channel fleet, sailed in the Fortitude, and went with Sir Hyde Parker to the North Sea. Next we find him sailing with a detachment of the Channel fleet, and being the first to sight the squadron of Count de Guicheni, and so well did he behave on this occasion that he was soon after appointed captain of the Russel, 74 guns, though then only twenty-four years of age.

In 1793 we find Saumarez boldly fighting the French frigate Reunion, off Cherbourg, for which he received the honour of knighthood.

And in the battle off St. Vincent it was this brave fellow, who with his 74, the Orion, captured the 112-gun ship Salvador del Mundo, without the loss of a man, having only nine wounded.

I ought here to mention the losses on the British side at the battle off St. Vincent. They were not large for so spirited a fight, being but 73 killed and 297 wounded; but in proof that this engagement was more Nelson's victory than anyone else's, it should be remembered that his ship alone suffered a loss of 24 killed and 56 wounded: the next in point of numbers being the Blenheim, 12 killed and 49 wounded; Collingwood's Excellent, 11 killed and 12 wounded; and Troubridge's Culloden, 10 killed and 47 wounded.

Nelson returned from his cruise sooner than he expected to do, and was appointed in the Cadiz blockade to in-shore duties.

"The fatigue, anxiety, and personal danger incurred in this service," says Pettigrew, "were very great. To confine the enemy as closely as possible to their port, it was the custom every night to send from each of the ships forming the blockade one or more boats, well manned, armed, and supplied with a good store of ammunition, into the very mouth of the harbour.

"These boats were supported by gunboats, which had been expressly fitted out for this occasion, and these could only be protected by the inner line of ships which Admiral Nelson had posted to render the blockade complete, and the escape of any of the Spanish ships nearly impossible."

After the battle off St. Vincent the whole navy of the Dons, it will be remembered, had taken refuge in Cadiz to refit.

"When the boats were all arranged Nelson was in the habit of rowing through them for inspection. The duty was therefore most active, and as far as possible all danger of surprise from the enemy effectually guarded against.

"But the Dons were also well up in this mode of precaution and warfare. They equipped numerous gunboats and launches to check the too near approach of our boats, and many a skirmish thus took place between the Spaniards and our brave fellows."

"I wish to make it a warm night at Cadiz," wrote Nelson. "The town and their fleet are prepared, and their gunboats are well advanced. So much the better. If they venture out beyond their walls I shall give Johnnie his full scope for fighting."

Well, Nelson, in an attack by the Spanish gunboats, had probably the narrowest escape of his life he ever had. While in his barge with Captain Freemantle, his coxswain, Sykes, and an ordinary crew of ten men, he was laid aboard by a huge barge from a gunboat rowed by six-and-twenty oars beside officers, all under the command of a brave fellow—Captain Miguel Tyrason. A tougher boat action was never fought by Britons against such fearful odds.

Our men, in fact, fought like lions. It was a hand-to-hand battle with sword, cutlass, and knife. Never before was the personal skill and prowess of this little man Nelson seen to such advantage. Again and again his sword drank blood, and foe after foe fell before him.

Twice too, during the engagement, his life was saved by bold Sykes, who even interposed his own person 'twixt his admiral and the descending sword. The fury of the combat may be best understood from a statement of the results, for not only was the Don's barge beaten, but eighteen were killed, and all the others were wounded and taken prisoners.

If there was a Heart of Oak in humble life on board a ship it was John Sykes, the admiral's coxswain. He was rewarded—after a fashion—by being made a gunner, and consequently a warrant officer, and appointed to the Andromache; but the poor fellow was killed on his own deck by the bursting of a gun.

Not only were houses and public buildings laid low, and even churches demolished, but the beautiful city was set on fire in three different places, and, to add to the horror of the situation, the roughs of the populace had it all their own way, and murdered, robbed, or plundered wherever they pleased.

I have told you, reader, very little about Josiah Nisbet, the step-son of Nelson, for several reasons. Though a very good fellow, he is not my beau ideal of a hero; secondly, he was separated from Tom Bure and Raventree, being made lieutenant of the Theseus. But now he comes forward once more—or presently will—in a new light, which shows that he not only had a heart of oak, but had it stowed in the right place.

Nelson, then—though never fond of prize money himself—had for some time been keeping himself awake at night concocting a scheme for the financial ruin of Spain and the aggrandisement of his own beloved country.

I am not at all sure, boys—now I come to think of it—that Nelson was not in some way or other distantly related to the Camerons of Lochiel. One of these days I shall "speel" his genealogical tree and have a look round, and if I can see a kilt hung out to dry thereon, or a Highland bonnet and plumes, I shall forthwith claim him as Scotch; then the English bodies may look for a naval hero somewhere else, or whistle their dogs to dance. But if he wasn't a Cameron, he at all events acted on the motto of the Camerons—"Whate'er a man dares he can do."

Mind you, reader, that this is a very excellent motto, for "nothing venture nothing win," and the higher one's aim the higher the mark he hits—if he hits anything.

However, the Cameronian Highlanders' motto does sometimes lead one into difficulty.

It was very shortly, then, after the bombardment of Cadiz that Nelson wrote to Sir John Jervis—or let us now call him the Earl of St. Vincent—proposing his little scheme for the capture of Santa Cruz.

Santa Cruz was a place of not the slightest importance, but it was rumoured that a Spanish ship—El Principe de Asturias—more richly stored with gold and precious stones than a fairy mine, had arrived at that port from Manilla, and Nelson's idea was to cut her out—in other words, to capture her. This would not only put millions of money into British coffers to carry on the war withal, but tend considerably to the downfall of Spain by helping to impoverish her.

In fact, and in plain English, Nelson intended for a time to masquerade and swagger as a pirate bold or a buccanier. So on the 12th of April we find him writing as follows to his admiral of the fleet:

"My Dear Sir,—Troubridge and I were talking last night about the Viceroy (of Mexico) at Teneriffe. Since I first believed he might have gone there I have endeavoured to make myself master of the situation, and the means of approach by sea and land. I shall speak first of the sea.

"The Spanish ships then generally moor with two cables to the sea, and four cables from their stern to the shore; therefore, though we might not get to be masters of them, should the wind not come off the shore, it does not appear certain we should succeed so completely as we might wish. As to any opposition, except from natural impediments, I should not think it would avail.

"The approach by sea to the anchoring-place is under very high land, therefore the wind is either in from the sea, or squally with calms from the mountains. Sometimes at night a ship may get in with the land wind and moderate weather. So much for the sea attack, which, if you approve, I am ready and willing to risk, or to carry into execution.

"But now comes my plan, which would not fail of success, would immortalize the undertakers,* ruin Spain, and has every prospect of raising our country to a higher pitch of wealth than she has ever yet attained; but here soldiers must be consulted, and I know from experience that, excepting General O'Hara, they have not the same boldness in undertaking a political measure that we (sailors) have. We look to the benefit of our country, and risk our fame every day to serve her. A soldier obeys orders and nothing more.

* By "undertakers" Nelson doesn't refer to the manufacturers of cheap coffins, but those who undertake to carry out his plan of operations.

"By saying soldiers should be consulted, you will guess I mean the army of 3,200 men from Elba, with cannon, mortars, and every implement now embarked. They could do the business in three days, probably much less. I will undertake with a very small squadron to do the naval part.

"The shore, though not very easy of access, is yet so steep that the transports may run in and land the army in one day. The water is conveyed to the town in wooden troughs. This supply cut off would induce a very speedy surrender. Good terms for the town, private property secured to the islanders, and only the delivery of public stores and foreign merchandise demanded, with threats of utter destruction if one gun is fired.

"If," the letter goes on to say, "the six or seven millions sterling thus secured were thrown into circulation in England, what might not be done? It would ensure an honourable peace, with many other blessings."

Now had the hero been better supported by soldiers than he was the result might have been a triumph.

The attack, however, was to be a purely naval one. Nelson sailed for Teneriffe on the fifteenth of July, and the passage not being a very long one, got over in under a week. At all events, the fleet which he commanded was discovered on the 21st of July.

Probably Nelson had but little idea of the kind of place he had made up his mind to take by storm, for it is fortified by nature. Writing about this unhappy expedition Brenton makes the following remarks:

"Of all the places that ever came under our inspection, none we conceive is more invulnerable to attack or more easily defended than Teneriffe. The island, like most of its neighbours, is a volcanic production, consisting of mountains, ravines, rocks, and precipices. The bay of Santa Cruz affords no shelter for shipping; the shore is nearly a straight line, and the bank so steep that no anchorage can be found beyond the distance of half a mile, and that in forty-five fathoms of water; the beach from north to south is one continued series of broken masses of loose rock and round, smooth stones, smooth either from friction or from the seaweed. On this a perpetual surf breaks, rendering the landing at all times difficult, except at the mole or pier of Santa Cruz. To these obstacles there is another which Nelson experienced in its fullest force. Teneriffe, like all other mountainous countries, is liable to calms, sudden squalls, and violent gusts of wind, which, rushing down the ravines, frequently take a ship's topmasts over the side without a moment's warning.

There were many Hearts of Oak among the commanders of these ships as well as daring Nelson, notably Troubridge, Hood, Freemantle, &c. Indeed, to one and all the honour of their country was as dear as life itself.

CHAPTER X.

A DARK NIGHT'S WORK.

It was not until the 24th of July that the finale to this madcap expedition was attempted; viz., the landing and the facing of those fearful odds.

If Nelson had had but men to contend against, it would have been very different, but in their undertaking it was the forces of Nature he had to struggle against. There is no doubt about his daring, however. Nor did he underrate the difficulties he had to encounter.

It was with a feeling of sadness even that he sat down to write his letter to St. Vincent—the last he was ever to pen with his right hand.

"This night," he says, "humble as I am, I command the whole. I am destined to land under the batteries of the town, and to-morrow my head will probably be crowned with either laurel or cypress."

The first plan of attack on Santa Cruz, which, as I have already stated, was spoiled by the discovery of the squadron, was this: The boats were to land at night, between the town and the fort on its north-east side, capture that fort, and afterwards demand from the governor that the town be given up.

But about midnight the three frigates, with the landing party on board, had got within three miles of the shore, when it came on to blow so hard that the forces were still a mile from the shore when day dawned, and they were seen. A consultation or council of war had then been held, and it was determined to land at all hazards, with the object of securing the heights. While the landing forces were so engaged, Nelson was to batter the fort for the purpose of distracting the attention of the garrison.

However, as bad luck would have it, a calm had followed the storm, and owing to this and the contrary current the admiral was unable to get near enough to rain his iron shower upon the fort. Meanwhile the heights were occupied and held by a force so great that it was deemed impossible to take them, and now we come to

Well knowing how desperate the attack on Santa Cruz would in all probability prove, and how valuable were the services of our hero to his country, the admiral of the fleet, St. Vincent, had given orders that Nelson was not to land unless "his presence was absolutely necessary."

Nelson, with his usual headstrong tendencies, interpreted this to mean that he should do just as he chose.

The last thing that Nelson did was to send for his stepson, Josiah, into his cabin.

"Why, lad, you are armed," said Nelson. "I sent for you to help me to burn your dear mother's letters."

"Is the affair then likely to be of so dangerous a nature, father?" said Josiah.

"It is, my boy. I have written to St. Vincent, and in that letter I recommended you to him and to our country. The Duke of Clarence, should I fall, will, I am convinced, take a lively interest in my stepson on his name being mentioned."

"I beg then. Think, Josiah, if we both fall, what would become of your poor mother? Besides, the care of the Theseus falls to you; stay, therefore, and take charge of the ship."

"Sir," said the young man respectfully, but with determination, "the ship may look after herself. I will go with you to-night if I never go again."

On board the Seahorse frigate the captains all met that night to dine with the admiral. Captain Fremantle, the commander of the vessel, had been lately married in the Mediterranean, and, his wife being on board, presided at the table. There was no lack of conversation at this little dinner party, no lack of liveliness even, though an acute observer might have noticed that now and then, on Nelson's part, it was almost forced. Hardly anyone touched the wine in the way it was usually touched, tasted, and handled in those old bacchanalian days, and at eleven o'clock the boats were called away, and all ready.

The night was very dark indeed, hardly a star shining, and closer in shore, where the rugged mountains frowned over the ocean, it was darker still.

There were, however, the glimmering lights of the town to guide them, and the black shapes of the great hills themselves.

All the boats that could be spared from the ships of war took part in this invasion, carrying altogether nearly one thousand bluejackets and marines.

It is almost half-past one now, and the invaders are rapidly nearing the shore. They can hear the thunder of the breakers that dash and foam on the stones and boulders, each receding wave adding to the dreary sound by sucking back with it the smaller stones. They are not far from the mole.

"I can see it, sir, I can see it!" exclaims Tom Bure, who is in Nelson's own boat, but forward in the bows.

The lad was right. Keen eyes can now descry the mole or pier, and a true British cheer rises from a thousand throats, and onwards dash the boats. But scarcely is the cheer echoed back from rock and hill ere bells are rung on shore, and a wild huzza tells the invaders that the Spaniards are prepared to give them a warm welcome.

And now the misfortunes begin; for most of the boats have missed the mole, and are stove among the boulders. However, Nelson, Fremantle, Bower, with five other boats, have found it; but how can they storm it against twice two hundred armed men?

Another shout, another huzza; the fight has commenced, and the Spaniards, beaten off the mole, take refuge in flight. But such a fire of guns as now lights up the darkness of this terrible night few have ever faced and lived. Musketry and grape from the citadel and from every window near.

Our brave fellows attempt it over and over again, but fall dead or wounded on the pier.

And Nelson himself, just as he is about to step on shore, sword in hand, is struck by a grape shot in the right elbow, and falls bleeding into the boat.

Nisbet, his step-son—surely it was Providence who sent him hither to-night—is by his side in a moment. His first thought is that Nelson is killed.

The hero, however, gathers himself up, and shows that he has not lost presence of mind, for he clutches his sword with his left hand. That precious sword had been given him by Captain Suckling, and he will not part with it while life doth last.

Assisted by Tom Bure, whom even in his agony Nelson recognises, Nisbet lays the wounded hero in the bottom of the boat, and a hurried examination is made of the wound. With Tom's and Josiah's silk handkerchiefs a bandage is formed, the knot placed over the artery higher up the arm, and by means of this ready-made tourniquet the bleeding is stopped. A sailor of the name of Lovel tears his own shirt from his back, and forms a sling to support the wounded arm of his beloved admiral. Josiah seizes an oar.

"Shove off, lads," he cries; "let us get closer under the battery, and thus out of its fire."

With the help of Tom, and at his own request, Nelson is raised up in the boat. But nothing can he perceive except the surf lit up every moment by the awful flash of the guns, the heaving sea, and the distant cutter Fox.

Suddenly, high above the din of the contending foes, rises a wild shriek of dying agony from the crew of that very cutter, and before his eyes, by the fitful light of the blazing cannon, Nelson can perceive that she is struck—that she staggers, fills, and goes bodily down.

"Give way, my lads; now for the cutter," cries Nelson, the moment the shriek is heard. "Give way with a will!"

And on towards the drowning seamen rushes the boat. There is no thought of self with the hero at this moment. All his kindliness of heart, all his indomitable British courage, rise to the surface—pain and danger are forgotten quite. Who is there in all the wide world, friend or foe, who cannot admire and love a man like this?

Of all the 180 men the cutter had been bearing toward the shore only 83 are saved, and many of these were hauled into Nelson's own boat. Some are even caught by Nelson's unwounded arm.

Tom Bure does all he can, and helps many aboard; and seeing how energetically the lad worked—for he is now astern, and had been helping to support the admiral—Nelson finds opportunity to whisper these encouraging words: "Well done, my Norfolk lad; I will not forget you!"

All being done that can be done, no more heads above the water to clutch at or save, the boat is speedily rowed seawards beyond the reach of danger.

"What is she? What is she?" cries Nelson feebly, and even impatiently, for the loss of blood is telling on his nervous system.

"She is farther away!" entreats his step-son. "Think, sir; your very life may be lost by our going on."

"Shove off, men, for the Theseus!" cries the hero himself. "Think you," he adds, as the men obey, "that I would present myself before Mrs. Fremantle in this pickle, and bringing her no news of her husband? I'd sooner suffer death."

Nelson will not allow himself to be carried on board. "I have still my left arm remaining," he exclaims, "and my legs as well."

"And now," he cries, when he reaches the deck, "tell the surgeon to get his instruments out. I know I must lose my right arm, and the sooner it is off the better."

Like Admiral Nelson himself, Captain Fremantle was badly wounded in the right arm, but escaped to his ship, very much to the relief of his agonised wife, who was not long in finding out that all was lost.

Captain Bowen was among the slain, and this was a very great grief to Nelson, who loved him well. Another officer killed was Lieutenant Weatherhead, a man whom the hero also had much respect for and who, like our Merryweather, preferred being with Nelson even to taking a higher grade in another ship.

But Troubridge, the captain of the Culloden, and Weller, who commanded the Emerald, were among those who managed to secure a footing on shore with the crews of several other boats.

The boats themselves were instantly swamped, and dashed to pieces among the heavy boulders.

Their scaling-ladders were lost, but, although few in number, the cry was "Forward!"

The gallant little party dashed onwards to the great square of the town, expecting here to join Nelson, and those who had stormed the mole. Alas! they were, as we know, all scattered, dead, or lying wounded and exposed, on the blood-slippery pier.

Had Troubridge succeeded in saving the ladders, he would undoubtedly have scaled the citadel walls and silenced the guns.

Meanwhile, Captains Hood and Miller had secured a landing on the other side of the pier, and the two forlorn parties met, or, in other words, effected a junction. Previously to this a sergeant, with two of the towns' people, were sent to the citadel to summon it to surrender. He never came back.

These brave captains at daybreak reviewed their forces, and a bold little array they made, consisting of about 160 marines and pikemen, with 180 well-armed bluejackets.

They increased the amount of ammunition they were possessed of, by requisitioning that of a number of prisoners they had taken.

Wet and miserable, but with hope still aflame in those hearts of oak of theirs, they commenced to march on now towards the citadel. There was just a possibility, they thought, that it might be taken without scaling-ladders.

But lo! thousands of armed Spaniards were already seen advancing towards them, with hundreds of their allies the French, while every street was defended by one or more guns.

Troubridge, however, proved himself the hero of the hour. He instantly formed his plans, and bold they were in the extreme. One cannot help even smiling at the audacity—call it "cheek" if you please, reader—of this handful of British tars.

Troubridge then despatched Captain Samuel Hood with a flag of truce, towards the advancing enemy. His message was to the governor of the town, and was to the following effect:

"If," said Hood, "the Spaniards come but an inch nearer to the British, their commander, Troubridge, will immediately set fire to the town, which he is fully prepared to do. If he has to do so, it will be with the deepest regret, because he has not the slightest wish to injure any of the inhabitants.

"He is therefore prepared to treat on the following terms: Provided the British forces be allowed to re-embark, taking with them all their arms of every kind, and in their own boats, if saved; if not, in boats lent us by the town—Troubridge, in the name of Admiral Nelson, agrees not to molest the town, nor shall the squadron bombard it. The prisoners to be delivered up on both sides."

"We think that instead of laying down the law to as, you should lay down your arms and consider yourselves prisoners of war."

"Then the destruction of the town and the utter annihilation of all your troops lies on your head. I give you five minutes to consider. If in that time your answer is not favourable, Troubridge will instantly proceed to fire the town and attack your soldiers at the point of the bayonet, and Nelson will bombard you from the sea."

"I do not think," said the governor, smiling once again, "that you would find yourselves very successful; but your Commander Troubridge is a gallant sailor, I shall therefore accede to your request."

This officer's name will be handed down to posterity as that of a brave and generous gentleman—a gentle maa—Don Juan Antonio Gutiarraz.

Ah! boys, those were the days of chivalry and romance, for the treaty being ratified, nothing could exceed the kindness of the governor and his men to our wet, shivering, and hungry troops. One hundred men were removed to hospital and carefully tended by the Spanish surgeons, a young man, Don Bernardo Collagen, even tearing his own shirt in pieces to make temporary bandages for wounded men who lay on the mole. The governor, in sending back our fellows to their ships, sent word at the same time, that while our squadron lay outside any of our people might land and purchase whatever they cared to eat or to drink.

Nelson, ill as he was, dictated a letter of thanks to this brave and kindly fellow, and sent them with presents. He also offered to carry the governor's letters and despatches to the Spanish government. This offer was accepted.

There is no doubt about one thing, however. Troubridge was in earnest when he threatened to fire the town and charge with the bayonet.

But how sadly it had ended; for in killed and wounded our loss was somewhat over 250 men.

Nelson's letters to the admiral of the fleet after his defeat were sorrowful in the extreme. But their tenour was no doubt influenced by the miserableness of his bodily condition and his sufferings, for owing to the bungling way the operation had been performed both the chief artery and the chief nerve were included together in the ligature, and the pain was in consequence of a most agonising character.

"I am now become a burden to my friends, and useless to my country; but by my last letter to you, you will perceive my anxiety for the promotion of my step-son Josiah Nisbet. When I leave your command I myself become dead to the world. I go hence and am no more seen. If from poor Bowen's loss you think it proper to oblige me I rest confident you will do it. The boy is under obligations to me, but he has repaid me by bringing me from the mole at Santa Cruz. I hope you will be able to give me a frigate to convey the remains of my carcass to England."

"The sooner," he says in another despatch, "I get away to a humble cottage the better. I shall thus make room for a sounder man to serve the state, for a left-handed admiral can scarcely be considered useful."

Great though the admiral's sufferings were, he did not even forget our Tom Bure, who since the attack on Santa Cruz had been prostrated with illness. Probably his being promoted to a lieutenancy by Nelson himself went a far way towards restoring his health. Tom returned home in the same ship with Nelson.

Merryweather was wounded in a boat action soon after, and by his side fell Raventree, who was taken on board his ship and stretched for dead.

O'Grady, however, hadn't a deal of faith in a doctor's opinion, so he went soon after to the lee side of the gun, where the poor young officer lay covered up by the flag under which he had served so gallantly.

"Come here, you omadhaun," he shouted, "follow me, ye spalpeen av the world, to go and stretch a poor bhoy for dead that was never dead at all. Yes, sare, it's Raventree I mane."

"Och, no! The bhoy tells me so himself. He is a gentleman that wouldn't tell a lie for the loife av him. Come to him at onct, or I'll carry you."

All the way home to England poor Nelson suffered agonies with his arm. He was afterwards most carefully nursed, however, by his wife, and the pain departed in a single night with the coming away of the ligature, which the bungling hands of that wretched surgeon had placed around the nerve.

Nelson was happy now. He seems at this time to have had little wish to serve again.

There was true religious feeling ever dwelling around the heart of Nelson, and he did not forget to return thanks publicly, through the officiating clergyman, at St. George's Church, Hanover Square. There was the usual modesty about this, however, that marked all Nelson's actions, for from the pulpit his name was not even mentioned.

The following are the words of this thanksgiving, precisely as they were dictated by the hero, and precisely as they were delivered by the clergyman:

"An officer desires to return thanks to Almighty God for his perfect recovery from a severe wound, and also for the many mercies bestowed upon him."

CHAPTER XI.

A HAPPY HOME-COMING.

Four long years! yes, they did seem very long to Tom Bure, as he shipped on board a trading schooner that was to bear him over the sunlight sea, in bright September weather, to his home in Norfolk.

Four years! Why to look back appeared an eternity, so filled were they with wild adventures, with battles and sieges, and storms by sea and on land. We can only judge of distance on the ocean when ships, rocks, or islands are visible, and so can only judge of distance on the ocean of time by the events that stand out here and there, and seem to stud its surface.

"Four years!" he said to himself as he gazed over the taffrail at the rippling water, that went gurgling past the vessel's side as she headed north and away from the mouth of the Thames. "Four years! Why I was but a boy when I went to sea. Now I am a man, seventeen in a few months, and no mite at that. And a lieutenant! I wonder what Bertha will say. I do believe I used to make love to the child. Well, she is but a child yet, not more than twelve. But—— I wonder what she looks like. She'll hardly remember me. I do believe I've got her letter still."

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" said the skipper, who had now got his ship into a safe position. "Lovely weather I calls it for the season of the year. Just returned from the wars, haven't you?"

"And haven't lost ne'er an arm nor a leg. Sad thing about poor Nelson, sir; but, lor' bless ye, he's a hero every inch! There isn't a man in Yarmouth that wouldn't die for him. Mind you, sir, Yarmouth's precious proud of him."

"Why, I may say I belong there. My father died a poor man. His sword and his honour were about all he could call his own, but he belonged to a good family, I believe—the Bures."

"Bless my soul and old hull of a body!" cried the skipper. "You don't mean to say you're Tom Brundell, or Bure, that lived as a nipper wi' old Dan, and that we now hears so much talk about?"

"Who would have thought it? Such a strapping, handsome fellow too. Why, tip us your nipper, my boy. Taking home Tom Bure am I? Why this is the happiest day in my life."

There wasn't a man or woman apparently all over the north and east of Norfolk that Mr. Auld did not know the history of; and every question Tom asked was answered in a moment, and right heartily too.

He was unfeignedly glad to hear that Daddy Dan was well, and Ruth and his foster-mother. That the Ashleys were still afloat in the Fairy, and that "there wasn't a bit of difference in Yarmouth or in anybody or any place anywhere." These were Skipper Auld's own words.

"Ah! you're growing, young sir; but I daresay if one could see into your heart it isn't a deal of difference he'd see in that after all."

"Not a bit!" cried Tom. "That is in the right place, and I'll never forget dear Norfolk as long as my head is left above water."

And at this point of the conversation Mr. Auld was constrained to spit in his palm and shake hands with Tom Bure once again.

Yarmouth at last! Not a bit of difference in the long, muddy river, nor in the quay alongside, nor in the shipping alongside.

Tom felt once more that the change was all in himself, but he was glad enough to get on shore nevertheless, for he meant to hire a trap, it being early morning, and drive straight away down to Daddy Dan's property, and give all hands a pleasant surprise.

About half way up towards the spot where the town hall now stands he came abreast of a clean, taut, and trim-looking schooner. He started and stopped.

"I should know her," he thought. "Why, yes, I declare it's my first ship—the saucy Yarmouth Belle.

"Ship ahoy!" he shouted, in a voice so stentorian that a score of sailors and fishermen on the quay turned quickly round to look.

"Hullo!" cried a voice from on board; and up from the companion hatch popped the rough and warty old figure-head of Skipper Hughes himself.

Tom Bure went rushing over the gangway, stuck out his fist, seized the skipper's, and literally gaffed him on deck as if he'd been a forty-pound salmon.

Hughes didn't know Tom at first, but when he did he could hardly utter a word with excitement.

The mate—same old phizog—came up as quickly as if the ship had caught fire, and when about a hundred questions had been asked and answered to the satisfaction of all, "Mate," said Skipper Hughes, "on this auspicious occasion let us——"

"Let us," continued the skipper most impressively—"let us——splice the main-brace."

Meg, Uncle Bob's collie, knew that. She had known it for a very long time. Indeed, the rat made little or no secret of the matter himself, for there was the door to his sub-arboreal residence close beneath the exposed portion of a root that Meg had often clawed and clawed at in vain. This was only the rascal's front door, however; he had several back doors, and he had an underground tunnel also, that led all the way to the old mare's stable.

That rat was a married rat too, and to Meg's certain knowledge had brought up a large family in there this last summer.

Meg was standing with her head turned a little on one side on this bright autumnal forenoon, and fancying she could almost see the rat grinning at her from the depths of his long, dark passage. She couldn't be sure though, for her eyes had grown more dim of late for some reason or another, which she didn't understand.

"Meg!" For example, if she didn't know that Tom Bure had disappeared from off the earth ages and ages ago, just as her poor dear master had, she would fancy she heard his voice even now calling to her.

Fancy? No, no, it was not fancy. Here was Tom himself, grown up from his puppyhood, as she had known all along he would, but Tom all the same—the eyes of Tom, the scent of Tom, the voice of Tom. She went for him straight with a rush and a run, and jumped upon his breast with a cry of joy that was half hysterical, and for all the world as if tears were choking her.

Then she must have a caper round and round the grassy lawn, where poor Bob used to lie so patiently in his cot.

Oh, if she had not capered and danced just then the excitement of her feelings might have given her a fit!

One more hysterical joy-bark. Then off over the bridge she flies, and in two minutes more comes back with Ruth.

Ruth had been making a cake, but those bare, plump, mealy arms of hers are thrown round her foster-brother's neck all the same, and she hugs him to her heart.

Neither Daddy Dan nor his wife were a bit changed. The garden was the same, the porch around the door and the roses and flowers, and even the jasmine that clung about Uncle Bob's wing.

"And on fine days in summer," said Mrs. Brundell that evening as they all sat round the blazing hearth, with Meg, the collie, leaning her chin on Tom's knee, "on fine days in summer your Daddy will wheel out poor Bob's cot to its old place near to the shed where he works, though I tell him it is foolish."

Daddy Dan took his pipe from his lips and gazed upwards at the curling smoke with a strange moisture in his eye.

Book III

CHAPTER I.

A GIPSY'S WARNING.

Tom Bure had found something at last that had changed during the time he had been at the wars.

She was not at the Hall when Tom first came to Daddy Dan's cottage, but in two week's time both she and her mother arrived. Tom had permitted one long day and night to elapse before he paid a visit. He did not like to appear too precipitate. Then, with Meg in the bows of the boat, just as in the dear days of yore, he went paddling away along the beautiful broads, and finally stood on the green mossy bank not far from the Hall.

So was lovely Bertha. Yes; she was a very lovely, though very young, girl; pretty enough to be a queen, Tom thought.

She approached him, not with a glad rush, as of old; she gave him no kiss, but only a little gloved hand. She had just come in from a walk, and she said:

"How are you, Lieutenant Bure? Mamma and I have been so pleased to hear about you always, and from you also, and we are delighted to see you."

After that meal, as they were passing along through the hall, Lady Colmore stopped Tom near to a picture. It was the portrait of a soldier of a bygone time.

"Strange," she said, "but, my dear Mr. Bure, you get more like that picture every day; and, now I come to think of it, he was a Bure, or some such name. He is my son's great-grandfather by the father's side." She laughed as she added, "It is just possible, you know, that you are some distant relation of ours."

"Look here, Bertha," he said. "I'm not going to stand any more lieutenanting. So there! If I can't be Tom to you, as I used to be, I'll join the first ship I can get, and go off to the wars and get shot."

And thereupon, in good old sailor fashion, he took his little sweetheart in his arms, and gave her a kiss.

The ice was broken, and the "lieutenanting" all done with from that day and date.

One morning, about three months after this, the old postman brought a letter or two for Tom. He had been walking in the garden with his foster sister, but he sat down in the arbour to open them.

"Why, Ruth," he cried all at once, "who do you think is coming here? You would never guess."

"Oh! but I do guess," she replied, blushing like the autumn roses that were clustering overhead. "It is Mr. Merryweather. I dreamt about him last night."

"No, no, Ruth, he isn't ill; but he'll never serve his country more. He has lost a leg. Just fancy honest Jack Merryweather making a dot and carrying one. Ah, well, I may lose my own next. It is all the fortune of war, Ruth."

In a week's time Jack arrived. The same old Jack as ever in mind and manners; the want of both legs couldn't have changed Merryweather a single little bit.

With him came Raventree, looking somewhat sickly, but very happy to meet his old friend again.

What a vast cargo of news each one of these three sailors had got stowed away under hatches. Dan and his wife were exceedingly pleased to see Merryweather again, though with the real live lord, Raventree, they didn't know well what to do, nor at dinner did Ruth or her mother know how to address him. "My lord," and "your lordship" were words that they thought it was but the proper etiquette with which to lard every sentence. It amused Merryweather and Tom Bure also.

But Raventree settled the difficulty in fine sailor-like fashion before the dinner was half finished.

"Now, mother," he said, laughing, "and you, my pretty sister Ruth, there isn't going to be any more 'lording' at this table; just call me Raventree, as Tom and Jack do, or Mr. Raventree if you like. If you don't I shall call you the Lady Brundell, and my sissy here the Princess Ruth, which title, seeing how modest and beautiful she is, would suit her to perfection. Now let us be all equal, all fair, square, and above board. The charm of spending a night or two in a delightful old-fashioned cottage like this lies in imagining I live here always, that there are no wild wars, no battles, no bo's'n's pipe to call me at the dark hour of a stormy midnight, and only cock robin's song to greet me of a morning. Don't dispel my dream, mother. I was young and foolish once, now I'm older and wiser. Once I thought it was a fine thing to be a lord. I'd as lief be a miller now, I think, if I could always live in a place like this. Do you quite understand, mother?"

"Ah! that's better. Now I have a mamma and a mother both. Mamma lives at Raventree Court, mother lives in a sweet little cottage on the edge of a broad."

"Raventree," said Merryweather, "you're what old O'Grady would call 'a broth of a boy.'"

"His heart's in the right place," said Dan. "It would be better for this country if we had more lords like this one."

"Mamma wants me to," said Raventree. "But it isn't good enough. No, I shall fight my way to the poop cabin of a 90-gun ship, hoist my pennant, chase the French from the seas, and then——."

But the ice was broken now, and a right merry evening was spent. Although, it must be confessed, the younger folks did most of the talking, Dan was content to sit and listen and smoke.

"No, no, no," cried Dan emphatically, "you don't leave here to-night. The missus will stow you both in one room. I shan't even apologise for it. You've been in a smaller before."

So the matter was ended in that way, and Raventree and Jack stayed at Dan's cottage, not one day, but several days. It was getting near Christmas time, however, and Raventree determined to take his two friends with him to Raventree Court, and to hire a carriage with postillions for the purpose.

First, though, they all paid a visit to the Ashleys. The old man was delighted to see his pupil again, and Merryweather too.

"My eyes! though," he said, "you do stump along lovely with that timber toe o' yours. Nobody 'ud know you hadn't been born with it."

Raventree was greatly delighted with the curious home of the Ashleys, with room above room, or rather cave above cave.

"Goin' round, I am," said Ashley, "day after to-morrow, to Yarmouth. Can't you young 'uns man the Fairy, and we'll leave the sons at home to fish?"

The next visit of the trio was to the Hall. Lady Colmore was her own proud self now, and, much to Raventree's annoyance, paid all her court to him—to the lord—leaving his friends, figuratively speaking, out in the dark and the cold.

But Raventree hoisted his topsails after a time, and stood right away on the other tack. He overhauled the saucy craft Bertha, and made violent love to her, greatly to her mother's delight.

"One never knows what may happen, dear," she told Bertha that evening. "Why, his lordship might come back some future day and marry you!"

"Tom was dragged up in a cottage, Bertha. You should study dignity, my love. There, go to bed, child; you are too young yet. Just let your mother think for you."

Our three friends had a delightful trip Yarmouth and back. Of course, they boarded the Belle, and it goes without saying that the skipper made his usual speech, beginning: "On this auspicious occasion," and ending with a strong recommendation to his mate to "splice the main-brace."

There were no railway trams in those days, be it remembered, but there were good coaches and horses; and just a week before Christmas, Raventree, with Tom and Jack, left Dan's cottage in an open carriage with four horses and a pair of postillions.

There was just one matter in which young Raventree delighted to assert his dignity, and that was the matter of equipage. It was certainly not for pride, however, albeit, he used to say, "What's the use of being a lord at all if you can't keep it up on shore?"

Raventree, being a sailor, loved horses, that was all, and he would have them too. Expense? That didn't signify, for once in a way. His mamma would pay. She loved her sailor boy. So right merrily they drove off from the cottage, Dan and Ruth standing on the rustic wee bridge, and waving their handkerchiefs to them as long as they were in sight, and Meg barking her hardest.

"Dan and Ruth stood on the rustic bridge, and waved to them as long as they were in sight."

Those three sailors were all as happy as sailors could be. Two were young, and if Merryweather was not precisely a spring duck, his heart was as fresh as a boy's.

The last thing Dan and Ruth saw, before the bend of the road and the trees hid the carriage from view, was Jack waving aloft his wooden leg, with a handkerchief bent on to the top of it. He had unshipped it for the purpose.

Ninety miles they had to go, but the weather was fine and the roads were hard. The horses too were as good as gold, and the postillions smart, and small enough to be coxswains for an Oxford or Cambridge boat race.

They made the first five-and-twenty miles of their journey that day in fine style, and slept that night at a cosy little old-fashioned inn, in front of a market square, where they astonished the landlord by the sumptuousness of the dinner they ordered.

The landlord was a bit put about too, for he was quite unused to such an order at this season of the year.

But his wife came to his assistance. G——, Esq., of M—— Hall, was from home, but his cook wasn't. So a polite request brought her down to the inn, with the result that the dinner was a repast fit to place before a Russian Emperor.

Just about sunset, and before they sat down to table, Raventree and Tom were crossing the village green—a huge great park of a place, with a pump in the centre—when a couple of swarthy-looking, but by no means ill-favoured, gipsy men came up to them. One was carrying a dark-eyed little child.

"Good gentlemen," this man said, "it is near Christmas time, and we haven't much in the caravan yonder except five small children. We can't eat those."

Something yellow crossed his palm, and with blessings sounding in their ears our sailors marched on, and soon forgot all about it, for the time being.

"By-the-by," said Tom that evening to Merryweather, "did you ever hear anything more of that fellow Jones whom you thrashed so prettily on the sands?"

"Well," was the reply, "he volunteered, as we call it, and I took him in the ship with me as I had promised."

"Yes; he nearly brained me with a capstan bar at Gibraltar, then jumped into the sea, and the men said he was sucked down in an eddy. I don't want any more gratitude like that."

In due time the carriage arrived safely at Raventree Court, which of course was all en gala. Tom thought that Lady Raventree was the most perfect lady he had ever seen, and his friend's sisters after the first few hours seemed positively his own. Never in all his life had he felt more completely at ease than at Raventree Court, and time appeared to fly on golden wings, so that three whole weeks went by like one long delightful dream.

No wonder that when good-byes were said at last, both Tom and Jack Merryweather had willingly promised that they would on no account make strangers of themselves.

The postillions were sorry to go. They had had a real good time of it, as the Yankees express it, and departed with tears in their eyes.

Crack went the whips, and away rolled the carriage, heading east once more—east with a little bit of south in it.

Thirty miles made their first day's journey, for the horses were as fresh as salmon, and although snow had fallen to some extent the roads were clear and hard, so the whole expedition, as Raventree called it, was as merry and happy as the traditional sand-boy.

Next day's run, however, would only be twenty miles, so an early start was not thought necessary. The sky looked thick and hazy, with the horizon closer aboard than Merryweather liked it.

"There is snow in the air," the landlord said; "but you can do it easily, gentlemen, if you push on. Good luck to you, and the safest of journeys."

A little way past the hostelry where they had stayed all night was a steep hill, that led upwards through a clump of trees. Raventree permitted the horses to slacken speed here, for the ground was somewhat slippery, and an accident would have been awkward.

As it was the animals had almost to claw their way uphill, stumbling often, but keeping on their feet.

By the time they reached the top they were well pumped, and Raventree called a halt. The steam rose from the animals' hides in the frosty air in clouds, while their sides heaved like billows.

"I think we can go on now, my lord," said the leading postillion at last. "'T won't do, your lordship, to let 'em get too cold."

At that moment a man sprang from behind the trees, and placing a piece of rather dirty-looking paper in Raventree's hand, disappeared again as suddenly as he had come.

"Why, what is the meaning of this?" said Raventree, laughing, as he handed the note to Merryweather.

"Well," said the latter, "it's a warning from a friend, there is no doubt about that."

"That's plain enough," said Raventree. "Why, how jolly! We're going to have a real adventure with footpads."

When they pulled up at the top of the next hill to breathe the horses once again—for the snow was now whirling round their heads in gusts that were almost suffocating—

Crack went the whips again, and it was evident the boys were not afraid of anything.

CHAPTER II.

THE FIGHT ON BLACKMUIR MARSH.

The sun was setting by the time the carriage reached Blackmuir; going down in a sky of great rolling snow-laden clouds, with here and there a rift of blue between; going down with a yellow, angry glare, that boded no good for the travellers. A more dreary waste than this wind-swept moor, on such a wintry afternoon, it would be difficult to conceive. Lonesome and lovely it would be in summer time, when the linnets sang among the patches of golden furze, when the partridges called to each other among the grass, and water birds made love in the reedy ponds, while the blackbird's mellow music, and the wild lilts of the mavis, made the echoes ring in copse and woodland. But the pools were now frozen, the bushes were but ghostly shapes, the spruce trees and pines pointed their snow-laden branches groundwards and looked like sheeted spectres; and when the carriage pulled up for a short time, before plunging down into a wooded ravine, there was no sound to be heard save the moan of the wintry wind.

The forest they soon entered was fully two miles in extent—tall beech trees, oaks, elms, and pines, but with here and there an ocean of undergrowth that would afford excellent ambush for a footpad.

Slowly the carriage descended the hill. There was a bridge at the bottom that crossed a rushing stream, then the hill began to ascend again. But here the trees almost overhung the road.

No one spoke. The postillions kept their heads constantly on the move. Tom was kneeling on the front seat of the carriage, which was an open one, and peeping into the semi-darkness of the wood. Raventree and Merryweather sat behind, each grasping a pistol, while several more lay handy.

"If we are attacked," said Merryweather quietly, "take good aim, lads, each at the man nearest to him. Keep steady, and we'll beat the rascals off if there be fifty——."

Crack, crack, crack. Smoke and flame came from a thicket near. The leading off horse stumbled and fell, and the postillion came tumbling to the ground with him.

There was a shout from the wood, and six armed and masked men suddenly sprang into view.

At that moment the other postillion fell, and horses and men were now so mixed up that to fire at the ruffians was impossible, with any degree of safety to the postillions or horses.

Four huge pistols were levelled at the carriage, and its occupants seemed marked.

But the fellow's voice, instead of cowing the sailors, appeared to act like the match that fires a mine.

He kicked the door of the carriage open as he spoke, and sprang like a deer into the road. The wooden-leg seemed an advantage rather than a drawback.

Pistols cracked again, swords clashed, and horses plunged. There were shouts, oaths, and screams. Then high above the din of battle a wild huzza from the woods, and two new combatants, armed with cudgels, rushed upon the stage of battle.

Were they footpads? No; but gipsies, and right sturdily they laid around them. In two minutes more the battle was decided, every robber hors de combat or pleading for mercy, and Tom and Raventree shaking hands with the two swarthy Romany Ryes they had been kind to three weeks before.

Merryweather had torn the mask from the face of one of the robbers with no very gentle hand, and there stood revealed the villainous face of David Jones, the Welsh smuggler.

Merryweather was angry, virtuously, but very angry. He clenched his fist, and for a moment it seemed he was about to dash it at the scoundrel's head; but he restrained himself.

"This is the second time you've attempted my life, Jones," he said, "you cowardly rascal."

The prisoners were now secured—death indeed had secured two—and the postillions once more mounted, much afraid still, but all intact. One horse had been killed, and this was the only fatality on the side of the sailors, although the carriage was riddled with bullets.

The gipsy caravan was not far away, and this was requisitioned next day, and a start made from the nearest inn, for Yarmouth; the prisoners being shut up in the van, and safely guarded by the sturdy gipsies.

At Yarmouth three prisoners were handed over to the authorities. No, not four. Jones was found dying in the caravan the evening before they reached town. He had loosened one hand, found a small knife, and therewith done the deed that soon hurried him into the presence of Him who made him.

Every man Jack in those dashing days, who could wave sword or cutlass or trail a pike, was needed by the service, so it was unlikely that Raventree or Tom would be allowed to rest at home.

Nelson himself, minus an arm, minus an eye, had once more joined the service, and was on duty at this time in the Mediterranean.

So Raventree and Tom Bure, who had both passed their examinations with flying colours, and were therefore full-blown lieutenants, were appointed to a ship then fitting out for sea at Portsmouth.

Nor was Merryweather entirely overlooked. He was overhauled, however, by a body of bold ship's doctors. They agreed that, although a wooden leg would be awkward on board a ship, it would not incapacitate its wearer from certain kinds of duty on shore. So Merryweather found himself in command of as brave and reckless a lot of blue-jackets as ever reefed a topsail. They were nominally called coast-guardsmen, but no one knew better than the townspeople of Portsmouth, that their principal mission was connected with the pressgang.

By no means a very elevating employment was this, nor was it one that Merryweather cared for, only it had to be done by some one. The king needed men for his navy, and Merryweather would have carried a musket for his majesty had he been asked to do so.

In this service—coast-guard—O'Grady, formerly of the ships in which our heroes had fought, was Merryweather's best man, and between the two of them they managed to obtain quite a large number of "volunteers."

They did not confine their operations to any one town or place, however. They would be in Portsmouth one week, probably, and in London or Dover the next, Mr. Merryweather thinking it best not to be too well known in any particular port.

Now the Highflyer, in which Tom and Raventree were to take passage to the Levant, in order to join the fleet under the Earl of St. Vincent—Sir John Jervis—was short of men, and what more natural than that Merryweather and O'Grady should undertake to supply them? Both officers knew every corner and alley of old Portsmouth, and what was better still, they knew every crimp therein.

A crimp was a mean kind of a reptile that lived in clover upon the earnings of poor Jack in those days, and that still exists in various forms about the London docks. But the genus is nowadays threatened with extinction, for sailors have grown wiser, and instead of going to low lodging-houses they very frequently are to be found at those very excellent institutions called Sailors' Homes.

When Raventree and Tom, delighted to be together. joined the Highflyer, they found everything in the direst confusion. The ship had only just been got out of dock, and the "woodpeckers," as the carpenters were called, were still on board fitting up, the tapping of their hammers resounding fore and aft all day long.

The Highflyer was an old-fashioned gun brig, with strong masts and lofty; capable of good speed under a heavy press of canvas, but at the same time a craft that needed a sailor's eye and a sailor's head to watch and manœuvre, in dirty weather at all events. Just the sort of vessel that, if taken aback suddenly in a squall, was as likely as not to go down stern foremost in five minutes time or far less.

The captain of the Highflyer was a much older man than either of our young heroes. His rank, however, was not post, although he gave himself all the airs of an admiral of the fleet.

Tom and his friend came off in the gig which had been sent for them, and McTough, the captain, condescended to meet them as they came over the side. He smiled as he returned their salute, or rather he made a grimace that was meant for a smile.

A little short dark man he was, with a Highland accent, and a manner that was intended to denote that on his own quarter-deck there was no one in all the wide world to compare with McTough, and that it would only be waste of time to attempt to get to windward of him.

"We're all in blessed confusion at present," he said, "and sure we'll be so too for days and days. Not half my men either; but Merryweather will soon find them. Ah! he's the right sort. I was a middy with him. Come below, gentlemen, to my cabin. It's the only place in the ship that isn't thoroughly thro'-other."

The captain half-filled a tumbler and tossed it off, and seemed a little astonished that Tom and Raventree did not tackle the stuff in the same off-hand way. The captain's first glass was drunk "neat," that is, without water; the second was diluted, and this one was evidently meant only to trifle with as he kept talking, for before they rose to go on deck he helped himself to another, saying, "Pooh! no, it spoils the flavour," as Raventree passed the water across to him.

That evening Merryweather and O'Grady came off, and all four dined in the captain's cabin. There was plenty here to eat and drink, and the wines were of the best vintage; but nothing would Captain McTough touch except the wine of his native land.

"I'll have fifteen as handsome volunteers for you," said Merryweather in the course of the evening, "as ever kept a watch."

"It's me myself that is pleased to hear it," said McTough, ignoring the rules of grammar in his excitement. "And they'll come of their own free will, of course?"

"Better have your surgeon on board," he said, "for I expect there'll be a broken head or two to see to among the lot."

"And let me just tell you this, Merryweather, I like the men best that come on board with broken heads. It shows they're no hinkumsneevies."*

"Well," said Tom, "I'd just like to know how it is done. But it seems rather hard on the poor sailors."

And soon after he went to sleep in his arm-chair, which was always McTough's way of intimating to his guests that they might leave when they liked.

"Dine with me to-morrow evening at the 'Fountain,' then," said Merryweather, as he shook hands with his friends and went over the side.

"A different kind of craft this from the old Agamemnon," said Tom when the boat had shoved off.

CHAPTER III.

"VOLUNTEERS" FOR THE NAVY.—THE BURNING OF THE
"HIGHFLYER."

"I'm a freeman—a nabob—a king on his throne,
For I've chattels and goods and strong beer of my own."

The "gentleman" who wished to see Commander Merryweather, just as he and his two friends had finished dinner at the "Fountain" next evening, was not a person one would have taken to very readily.

A tall, fair-haired, bland, inscrutable kind of man, with a shifty eye. He bowed most obsequiously to Merryweather, then looked doubtingly at Tom and Raventree, who were both in mufti.

"Officers, I presume," said Bloggs, for that was his sweetly-savoured name, and he smiled and bowed again.

"Enough of that, Bloggs," said Merryweather. "Help yourself to some wine, and let's get to business. Are your men all ready to volunteer?"

"See here, Capting—I means mister. I knows my biz, you knows yours. Supposing I'd been too liberal wi' the grog, they'd have suspected. There's some among 'em suspects now. I knows what I'm about."

"Keep them dancing and gay, Bloggs, till after midnight. We'll be there. Yes, empty the bottle if you like."

"Awful villain!" said Merryweather. "Those poor fellows we're going to have, if we can, have most of them been there a week, and hardly ever seen daylight."

"You don't understand," said Merryweather, laughing. "He keeps them drunk that he may cheat them, and they hardly know whether it is night or day. If we didn't have them, Bloggs would bundle them, still drunk, on board some merchantman, five, six, or even ten at a time, receive their advance, and go smiling on shore again, to allure more to his dismal den. The ships that take them lie in the harbour for a day or two, and as soon as the poor seamen are sober it is up jib and off."

The back hall of No. 9 was considered the safest crimp's crib in all Portsmouth. It lay fifty yards off the street. You entered by a narrow alley, then found yourself in a kind of garden, at the bottom of which stood the hall, or dancing howff. Here poor Jack drank, danced, ate, and slept, awaking only to eat, dance, and drink again.

Let us look in here to-night. It will be some time before our eyes are quite used to the clouds of tobacco smoke; then we can dimly see Jack and Sally, or Poll, seated at tables round the room, smoking, singing, and yarning. There is a screechy old fiddle at quite the other end of the big room, and half-a-dozen couples on the floor footing it lightly on the fantastic toe, or the heavy heel.

The hubbub and din is fearful, for more than one song is going on at the same time, though if you listen you can just make out the words of the singer at the nearest table. His eyes sparkle with mirth as he trolls out the following ditty:

"Wounds! here's such a coil! I'm none of your poor
Petty varlets, who flatter and cringe, and all that;
I'm a freeman, a nabob, a king on his throne,
For I've chattels and goods, and strong beer of my own.
Besides, 't is a rule, that good fellows ne'er fail,
To let everything wait but the generous ale.

"Long live the King," shouted Merryweather, entering by the only door, and apparently all alone.

"Now, good fellows, it's all up; so who's going to fight the French for St. George and merrie England?"

There was just one moment of stillness after this bold, brief speech, then pandemonium seemed suddenly let loose. A shower of bottles, jugs, and cans came floating towards Merryweather, but he ducked and retired; women screamed, tables were overthrown, and amidst oaths and maledictions a rush was made for the door.

A few were knocked down and handcuffed as they came, but the rush was too great, even for the force of bluejackets.

The fight in the garden was a fearful one. The moon shone as brightly as day, and in less than a minute showed at least a dozen couples struggling on the ground.

The second rush was through the alley, but here they encountered Merryweather's rear-guard. So well, indeed, had he disposed of his men, that out of the thirty odd merchant seafarers only about seven escaped.

There was no happier man next morning than Captain McTough, as he reviewed his volunteers—twenty-two in all, and scarcely one among them who had not a cut face or blood-matted hair.

And now a strange thing occurred. The very man who last evening had been singing about being

"It doesn't matter a deal," he said, "now we're here, whether we volunteer or not. But, sir, I wish you were going with us, timber toe and all; for, faith! you fought finely, and I love a brave man."

Merryweather shook the man by the hand, and the volunteers cheered him as he went over the side. But I may as well state here as anywhere else that Bill Williams—and a bold Welshman he was—turned out one of the best men in the ship. And if a man could be good under such a tyrant as Commander McTough he could be good anywhere.

The brig had not got half-way over the Bay of Biscay before this officer showed the cloven hoof. He had no less than two men down from aloft in the same forenoon, stripped and flogged—four round dozen each, sans ceremonie.

McTough was a sample of the naval officers who are despots on their own quarterdecks, and who, even in those days, I am happy to say were comparatively rare.

Tom Bure was sick of the fellow in four or five days' time, and could hardly be civil to him.

Raventree ventured to take a man's part, and received such a torrent of invective that he told McTough, there where he stood, that he was a scoundrel and a villain.

"Mutiny! Rank mutiny!" roared McTough, growing almost black in the face. "Down—below—under arrest, sir. I have half a mind to hang you to-morrow morning at the yard-arm. I have."

Raventree smiled, gave up his sword—it was at divisions—and went quietly below to his cabin.

"I have orders to let no one in to see the gentleman," said the sentry, when Tom went below that evening.

"Tom," he said, "you mustn't stay a minute. I'll be cashiered as sure as a gun. But you needn't be."

"Keep up your heart," said Tom. "You're not tried yet, and there's many a thing may happen before we join the fleet."

It was some nights after Raventree had been put under arrest, and towards the end of the middle watch—kept to-night by Tom, for it was watch and watch now that his friend was off duty—when Bill Williams, who had been sent below on some message, returned hastily on deck.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but there is a a terrible smell of burning between decks. Will you run down?"

Tom had not far to run. Not "smell" alone, but smoke was issuing from underneath the door of the captain's cabin. The alarm was given at once, and the fire bell had not clanged for a minute before every man was on deck. No disorder, however, no confusion. They were British seamen—Hearts of Oak.

The door of the cabin was found locked inside, but was speedily burst in, and as speedily flames rushed out. Even had he been alive, there could have been no hopes of saving the unhappy captain; but ten to one he himself or the wine of his native land had been the cause of the terrible calamity.

Tom Bure now assumed command, and he and Raventree, whom fate had relieved from arrest, at once divided the crew into two parties. Both worked like heroes, one party to get up the ammunition, of which there was quite a large store on board, the other in drawing water, to quell, if possible, the raging demon, Fire. The ship was put head to the wind, but in less than half an hour she had fallen off, for the whole afterpart was on fire, and steering was impossible.

Very speedily now the flames took possession of the rigging, and the scene that ensued baffles description. In less than five minutes after the vessel broached to, she was on fire from stem to stern.

Everything that could be lifted and launched overboard was thrown out, but there was no time to lower a boat. The men simply leapt into the sea by the dozen and score, for there had been nearly 200 men all told when the brig swung out past the Needles.

Tom Bure and Raventree, with many others, including Bill Williams, had sought refuge on the jibboom and bowsprit. It was but a choice of deaths apparently, when suddenly Bill shouted:

The night was intensely dark, and with the glare of the fire it seemed impossible that anyone could have caught sight of a light.

In a few minutes' time boats were alongside picking up the drowning men, who clung to the floating wreckage.

Our brave fellows on the jibboom cheered them, Frenchmen though they could see they were. Their great black frigate lay out yonder against the star-studded horizon, gently rising and falling on the swell of the mighty Atlantic.

"Never mind, Williams," said another sailor, "any port in a storm; but I say, Jack, I——"

Crash! The bowsprit was severed, and down went the jibboom into the sea. In another minute the brig had filled aft, heeled backwards, and gone down stern first, leaving but a few black, seething, smoking spars among the bubbling waves. Half at least of the poor fellows who had thought themselves safe on the jibboom were sucked down with the sinking ship.

Of all the crew of the sturdy brig Highflyer, only fifty-three mustered at daylight on board the French frigate.

"My dear Tom," said Raventree, "I have never felt more thankful for anything than to see your face among the saved."

Nothing could exceed the kindness of the Frenchmen to the men they had rescued in so strange a manner.

Raventree and Tom were invited into the captain's cabin, and there they breakfasted.

"It ees all well," said the captain; "and it ees de fortune of de war. Perhaps it may be my turn next."

A day or two after this, and early in the morning, the strange spectacle was witnessed of a large French frigate coming straight in from the north-west, under all sail, towards the fleet of Sir John Jervis, who was still blockading Cadiz.

Mad or not mad, she made directly for the admiral's ship, with a white flag flying at her fore, and the French stripes at her peak.

She wanted to speak, that was evident enough. So a boat was speedily hastening towards her. When the officer stepped on board he was quickly told the terrible story of the burning of the Highflyer, and the saving of a portion of her crew, whom the French captain now desired to give up to the admiral of the British fleet.

St. Vincent was much affected by this display of genuine kindness and chivalry. He insisted upon the French captain coming to dine with him, and when the frigate at last got under weigh a signal was made to man yards, and a cheer went over the water after the receding ship that must have rung in the ears of the crew for many a long day after.

CHAPTER IV

THE SEARCH FOR THE FRENCH FLEET—AT LAST.

In an early chapter of this story I mentioned that the great man had once gone to Paris, and had there met an officer who was somewhat of a dandy, and whose name was Ball.

Nelson had found it impossible to associate bravery and pluck with fine clothes. This dislike to fine clothing he had doubtless picked up in the merchant ship in which he served for a time, and it had clung to him. However, he lived to find out that though first impressions are usually very strong, it does not follow that they are always just and correct.

After joining St. Vincent, about the end of April, the admiral of the fleet got word that the French were getting ready a great expedition at Toulon and Genoa.* It was not known for what this armament was intended, and various conjectures were hazarded. Perhaps the enemy meant to attack Naples or Sicily, or to invade Ireland. However, this armament of theirs must be sought for and destroyed if possible.

Now there were many officers senior to Nelson on the station, and on one or other of these—so they thought—ought to have devolved the command of the anti-French squadron.

The Earl of St. Vincent, however, thought different. He knew Nelson; knew what he could dare and what he could do; knew how wise and clever he was, how energetic, bold, and determined; knew that if he undertook a mission of any kind he would, figuratively speaking, "give neither sleep to his eyes nor slumber to his eyelids" until he had fulfilled it.

But when the admiral of the fleet appointed him to the search-squadron there was a howl of rage from all quarters, at home as well as abroad. Sir John Orde, a senior in the service to Nelson, let his wrath get such mastery over him that he challenged St. Vincent to fight a duel. St. Vincent was no fool, and I suppose quietly lit a pipe with the challenge. Anyhow, it never came off.

But even a lord of the admiralty condemned the conduct of the admiral of the fleet, who, however, could stand red tape abuse quite as well as he could the fire of the French in battle.

Still so high did popular feeling run in some quarters, that one trembles to think what the fate of our great hero would have been, had he been beaten by the foe when he at last found his fleet. He would certainly have been brought home, tried, and probably executed.

Can you imagine anything more horrible than that would have been, reader—executing Nelson? But the mere possibility of such a thing only proves that the public, which heroes serve so faithfully and well, is after all like a caged lion or tiger, tame to a fault with its keeper, the hero, but a savage creature and a fool in its wrath when crossed or put out of temper. The public will pamper and idolize a man one day, and trample his bleeding body under foot the next.

He had orders to requisition stores, food, water, &c., in any port of the Mediterranean he chose. If such stores were not forthcoming, that port was to be treated as an enemy's. One exception only was made; viz., in the case of Sardinia.

Well, this expedition of Nelson's had but a bad beginning; for while crossing the Gulf of Lyons he encountered a terrible storm of wind, which scattered his ships in all directions, and nearly wrecked the Vanguard, on which his flag was flying. There is almost as much humour as pathos in the letter he writes to his wife on this occasion.

"Imagine if you can," he says, "a vain-glorious man—your husband—walking his quarter-deck on Sunday evening, with his squadron all around him, who* looked up to their chief to lead them to glory, and in whom this chief placed the firmest reliance that the proudest ships, in equal numbers, belonging to France would have lowered their flags, and with a very rich prize lying by him. Figure to yourself this proud, conceited man when the sun rose on Monday morning, his ship dismasted, his fleet dispersed, and himself in such distress that the meanest frigate out of France would have been a very unwelcome guest."

* The young reader will note that Nelson's grammatical construction of sentences was not always on an even keel.

But, lo! the very man whom Nelson had so despised in France, and dubbed a dandy and a fop, came now to his assistance in the Alexander, and at the imminent danger to both ships of foundering, took him in tow to St. Pierre. No wonder that Nelson loved the man from that day forth.

In a few days' time, however, Nelson had undergone repairs, and was able once more to start on his voyage. But, alas! he had lost sight of his frigates.

Britain and France at this time, reader, you must remember were playing at cross purposes to some extent, and great wars usually have been carried on in this way. Britain and France, not content with hitting each other in the face straight from the shoulder whenever they had a chance, did all they could to kick the stools from under each other. For instance, we bolstered up the kingdom of Naples, which has well been stigmatised as one of the most abominable, disreputable, and licentious of European governments. The king was inferior to an English squire. He would have been good in a rat hunt with fox terriers, or in a rabbit coursing match; but he was utterly unfitted either to fight or rule a people. His wife, the queen, was—well, the least said the better. And we, Britain, were to protect the two of them against the revolutionary schemes of France, not, mind you, because we loved them, but because we hated France. This kingdom then was the stool we intended to kick from under France. But kicking is a game both can play at, and France turned her attention to India. They would attack us there, just as the Russians will before fifty years are over. May they be as unsuccessful as old Napoleon was.

But before India could be used as a basis of operations against Britain, Egypt must be conquered and occupied.

It must be confessed too, that the French carried out their plans for the invasion of Egypt with consummate skill and boldness, for as your school history tells you, reader, Napoleon, with an army of 30,000 old and well-disciplined troops, managed to hoodwink the British and put to sea en route for Alexandria.

The conquest of Egypt followed in rapid course. With such troops, under such a splendid commander, this conquest was all one glorious picnic. So the battle of the Pyramids was fought, and crushed was the pomp and panoply of the great Marmelukes. Cairo fell, and on marched the victorious troops.

So sure of getting his army to India was Napoleon, that as soon as he landed he dispatched secret envoys to Tippoo Saib, son of Hyder Ali, who had built up a great new state in the south of India. These envoys were to inform Tippoo to hold himself in readiness for a coup de grace, because the French were on their way to his assistance.

BUT—and please note this is a very important but—Napoleon's dreams of further glory in India depended entirely upon his being able to keep up his communications with France, and, says Davenport Adams, "while France held Italy and the Ionian Islands these could not be interrupted, so long as the British armament in the Mediterranean was kept occupied in watching the movements of the French fleet."

Owing to the shilly-shalling and inactivity of the king of Naples, who would neither move hand nor foot to save himself or help to free Italy, Nelson was very much delayed. Meanwhile St. Vincent was reinforced by ships sent from England. His lordship had previously received word that such reinforcement was about to be dispatched, and therefore he had lost not a moment in getting ready another squadron to send to Nelson's assistance, and this consisted of the most powerful ships under his command, under the best of his captains.

No sooner, therefore, were the outcoming fleet visible off Cadiz Bay, than Troubridge's squadron sailed. It was upon the 9th of June that the hero was joined by this squadron.

Then commenced the great game of hide and seek. Nelson had to solve a puzzle somewhat similar to the pictorial advertisement, in which you are presented with an illustration called "The babes of the wood and cock robin." There lie the babes under the trees quietly enough, with a few leaves over them, but where is cock robin? That is what you have to find out. And here was Nelson with his squadron in the Mediterranean—the Mediterranean was all about him, blue and evident enough, but where was the French fleet? That was what the hero had to find out.

The story of Nelson's search for the enemy would make a very pretty and romantic story all by itself.

Nelson, however, was not a man to be very easily disheartened, so he started in pursuit, if such a blindman's buff could be termed pursuit. He learned that the enemy had been seen off Trapani, in Sicily, in the first week in June, and that they were then steering eastwards away.

Troubridge next found out that they had gone to Malta, and Nelson bore up for that city of tumbledown forts and steps and stairs.

Nelson arrived at Malta just too late. So on the 18th of June he steered for Egypt. Had Nelson only had the frigates with him, which he had lost sight of in that unlucky gale in the Gulf of Lyons, it would not have been difficult now to find the French. On his way to Alexandria, however, he overhauled several merchantmen, but could get no tidings of the enemy.

"Have you seen anything of the French fleet?" was the question that seemed to be always put. "Or you? Or you?"

"Well, they may be at Alexandria," thought Nelson. He arrived off this city on the 28th of June.

"No," was again the answer to his enquiries; the French had not been seen or heard of.

But the governor had received intelligence that the armament prepared by the French was really intended for Egypt.

"It would have been," says Southey, "Nelson's delight to have tried Bonaparte on a wind. It would have been the delight of Europe too, and the blessing of the world, if that fleet had been overtaken with its general on board. But of the myriads and millions of human beings, who would have been preserved by that day's victory, there is not one to whom such essential benefit would have resulted as to Bonaparte himself. It would have spared him his defeat at Acre—his only disgrace; for to have been defeated by Nelson upon the seas would not have been disgraceful, and it would have spared him all his after enormities.

"Hitherto his—Bonaparte's—career had been glorious, the baneful principles of his heart had never yet passed his lips. History would have represented him as a soldier of fortune, who had faithfully served the cause in which he had engaged, and whose career had been distinguished by a series of successes, unexampled in modern times. A romantic obscurity would have hung over the expedition to Egypt, and he would have escaped the perpetration of those crimes that have incarnadined his soul with a deeper dye than that of the purple for which he committed them—those acts of perfidy, midnight murder, usurpation, and remorseless tyranny, which have consigned his name to universal execration now and for ever."

Not finding the French at Alexandria, Nelson steered north for Caramania, and thence along the shores of Candia, "carrying a press of sail both night and day against a contrary wind."

He next returned towards Sicily, only to find that the Government of Naples were too much afraid of the French to give him any assistance in the shape of water and provisions, without which he could not have continued his pursuit of the enemy.

But Nelson had a friend at Court, and after some little vexatious delay he was permitted to re-victual at Syracuse.

Nelson was glad at heart now, and wrote to Sir William Hamilton, the British Ambassador at Naples, and to Lady Hamilton, as follows: "Thanks to your exertions, we have victualled and watered, and surely, watering at the fountain of Arethusa, we must have victory. We shall sail with the first breeze, and be assured I will return either crowned with laurel or covered with cypress."

He wrote also to St. Vincent, telling him that if the enemy was still above water he should find them; and to the First Lord of the Admiralty, saying, among other things, "but should they be bound to the Antipodes, your lordship may rely upon it that I will not lose a moment in bringing them to action."

On the 25th of July Nelson got away from Syracuse, and made the Gulf of Coron on the 28th.

One cannot help pitying poor Nelson at this time, lying awake in his bed at night after a few hours of sleep, thinking and worrying till almost ill, asking the officer of the watch again and again what time it was, and peevishly crying, "Will morning never come?"

There was hardly an hour of the day now that he did not lament and bemoan the loss of his frigates, that were no doubt looking for him somewhere, as eager to meet him as he was to catch sight of them.

In this game of hide-and-seek, or blind man's buff, strange as it may seem, the French and British fleets must positively have crossed each other's tracks on the night of June 22nd.

Troubridge now entered the port of Coron, and came back with the news that a whole month before this the French fleet had been observed steering to the south-east from Candia.

Nelson determined, therefore, to once more bear up for Alexandria, convinced in his own mind that the fleet of the enemy would be found there.

For on the morning of August the 1st Captain Hood, of the Zealous, hoisted the signal to say he had discovered them.

He had hardly slept or eaten for a week before this, but to-day he dined with his captains, while preparations for battle were being made. As they rose from the table Nelson exclaimed,

"Before this time to-morrow I shall have gained a peerage or Westminster Abbey!"

CHAPTER V.

THE BATTLE OF THE NILE—HORRORS OF THE
COCKPIT—NELSON WOUNDED.

Tom Bure and Raventree, after the burning of their ship, and their wonderful deliverance from what seemed the certainty of death, would, upon their arrival on board the flagship of the Earl of St. Vincent, have dearly liked to have been appointed together to the same ship, but this was not to be. Tom Bure had to join Troubridge, of the Culloden, and Raventree was sent on board the Zealous, under Captain Samuel Hood.

On the very morning that the French fleet was discovered, not altogether satisfied with the outlook, Raventree had himself run aloft, and had not been there three minutes before he was able to raise the topgallant masts of the Frenchmen. He immediately hailed the deck, and the glad signal was at once hoisted.

It may be to the advantage of the reader to scan the following lists of the ships, guns, and men of the two fleets that were engaged in

* The figures and letters prefixed to each vessel marks on the plan its position in the battle.

It is difficult at this date to determine with any degree of exactness what were the orders given to the commander-in-chief of the French fleet by Napoleon Bonaparte. It seems strange that a great soldier and conqueror like him should not have sent away his ships after he had effected his landing, and he accused Brueys, after that unfortunate admiral was killed in the battle of the Nile, of having lingered in Egypt without his orders. The French fleet was sorely enough needed in other directions. It might even have succeeded in raising the blockade of Cadiz.

Be this as it may, here were Brueys and his fleet safely—as the Frenchmen thought—moored in Aboukir Bay; in a line of battle of such strength that one would have thought no three navies in the world could have broken it up.

Brueys would gladly have entered the port of Alexandria, but his ships were too heavy, so he did the next best thing.

A glance at the plan will show how the Frenchmen were positioned in this great fight. But besides the advantage of location, it will be noticed that the enemy had also more ships, more guns, and more men than the British. Brueys might well have felt certain that victory would be his.

Perhaps it was the apparent impregnability of his situation that caused him to wait here for Nelson. He must have known that our hero was headstrong enough to attack him wherever he found him, and that in Aboukir Bay he had a reasonable chance of victory, while in the open sea he would have had none.

I have not the slightest doubt in my own mind that Nelson took into calculation, even before he fell in with the French here, the possibility of their being moored in battle array, just as he found them. Nor do I doubt that an attack, even by Nelson, from the front or in the ordinary way would have been unsuccessful. But Nelson was no ordinary man, and never did attack in any ordinary way. So when he found out how the enemy was moored, it instantly flashed upon him that if the water of the bay between their fleet and the shore was deep enough for such great ships as L'Orient and Le Tonnant to swing, there was room enough for one line of our ships to sail up behind them, as a landsman would call it, and thus attack them on their least prepared side, while another attacked on the outside. These were tactics that Brueys was entirely unprepared for, and never could have even dreamt of. But as it was getting towards evening when our ships hove in sight, Brueys must have also flattered himself that Nelson would not be headstrong enough to attack that night. No, he would assuredly let go anchor, and commence the battle at the earliest dawn of day.

Our hero was never a man to wait, however. "Go at the enemy pell-mell whenever you meet them," was one of his few mottoes, and now he meant to act upon it.

He ordered his ships to form in line-of-battle ahead and astern of the flagship, then signalled to Hood, of the Zealous, to know if there was depth enough of water between the French line of battle and the sandbank. "I do not know," was the reply, "but I shall stand in and see."

The Zealous started at once on her dangerous mission, taking soundings as she went leisurely on.

Nelson's signal was, "that the headmost ship should bear down, and engage as she reached the enemy's van, the next ship to pass by and engage the second, the third to pass by and engage the third, and so on."

And one by one our ships took up their positions. The battle began in earnest at half-past six, and in half an hour's time it was pitchy dark.

As long as daylight lasted the streaming flags on our ships could be seen above the white and curling smoke. As soon as night fell each British ship hoisted four horizontal lights at her peak. "The third ship," says Southey, "that doubled the enemy's van was the Orion, Sir F. Saumarez. She passed to windward of the Zealous, and opened her larboard guns as long as they bore on the Guerrier; then, passing inside the Goliath (i.e., 'twixt that ship and the land), sank a frigate that annoyed her, hauled round towards the French line, and anchoring inside, between the fifth and sixth ships from the Guerrier, took her station on the larboard side of Le Franklin (Blanquet's 80-gun ship) and the quarter of the Le Peuple Souverain, receiving and returning the fire of both."

The Audacious, Captain Gould, pouring a heavy fire into the Guerrier and Conquérant, fixed herself on the larboard side of the latter, and when she struck passed on to Le Peuple Souverain. The Theseus followed, brought down the Guerrier's remaining masts, the main and mizen, then anchored inside the Spartiate, the third in the French line.

"While," continues Southey, "these advanced ships doubled the French line, the Vanguard was the first that anchored on the outer side of the enemy within half a pistol shot of the Spartiate. He veered half a cable, and instantly opened a tremendous fire, under cover of which the other four ships of his division, the Minotaur, Bellerophon, Defence, and Majestic, sailed on ahead of the admiral."

Captain Louis, in the Minotaur, anchored next ahead, and took off the fire of the Aquilon, the fourth in the enemy's line. So terrible had the fire of this ship been that fifty of the Vanguard's men were killed or wounded in a few minutes. But bold Louis quickly quieted her.

The Bellerophon, Captain Darby, passed ahead and dropped her stern anchor on the starboard bow of the Orient, seventh in the line.

Captain Peyton, in the Defence, took his station ahead of the Minotaur, and engaged the Franklin, the sixth in the line; by which judicious arrangement the British line remained unbroken.

The Majestic, Captain Westcott, got entangled in the main rigging of one of the enemy's ships astern of the Orient, and suffered dreadfully from that three-decker's fire; but she swung clear, and closely engaging the Heureux, the ninth ship on the starboard bow, received also the fire of the Tonnant, which was the eighth in the line.

The other four ships of the squadron, having been detached previous to the discovery of the French, were at a considerable distance when the action began.

Troubridge, in the Culloden, was nearest, however, though some five miles away. He was very unfortunate, and ran fast aground. The Leander and Mutine came to his assistance, but were unable to get him off. The Alexander and Swiftsure, however, kept off the reef, entered the bay, and commenced the battle in a most masterly and seaman-like fashion.

Of all our ships perhaps the Bellerophon suffered the worst. The Swiftsure met her staggering out of the line, and at first took her for a strange sail, for she carried not the four horizontal lights. In fact these had been shot away, with all her masts and cables, while nearly 200 of her brave crew were either killed or wounded.

The Swiftsure took her place against the Orient, which had done the mischief.

The last to come into action was the Leander, which she did as soon as she found she could be of no service to poor Troubridge. She took up a position boldly, so that she could rake both the Orient and the Franklin.

So speedy, determined, and terrible upon the whole was the attack of the British upon the French line of battle, and so completely were Nelson's instructions carried out on both the inner and outside of the lint that victory was a matter of certainty in a very short time.

In less than fifteen minutes the two ships first in the French line were dismasted, and at half-past eight the third, fourth, and fifth were taken.

When we remember that in a very few minutes after the Vanguard, Nelson's ship, took up her position every man at the six guns in the fore part of the vessel was either killed or wounded, and that these guns were several times cleared we can easily believe that down in the ghastly cockpit the surgeons were busy enough at their terrible work.

Do not forget, reader, that there was no chloroform in those days, no way of producing insensibility or of conquering pain, and the brave men who fell on deck were dragged or carried below bleeding and sick, often to endure such agonies of pain as only medical men who have seen gunshot wounds can realise.

At best the cockpit of an old-fashioned man-of-war ship is but a stuffy place, and during a battle it would be stifling as well as stuffy. As soon as the orders were given to clear for action, or go to quarters, all was bustle and stir with the surgeons as with others. They had their attendants, and "the idlers"—so called—of the ship were all requisitioned to assist them—spare clerks, &c.

Although the space between decks was so low that an ordinary sized man had to stoop as he walked along, to save his head from being knocked against the beams or bolts, there was usually plenty of length and breadth of beam also, in the cockpit or orlop deck.

Lanterns too were hung here and there in abundance, and there were carrying lanterns as well, sometimes even naked lights.

The operating table was placed pretty near to the foot of the main hatch ladder well aft, and close to it the tool table. On this last was laid out in order every instrument that was likely to be of service, with plenty of bandages, splints, lint, and tow, with ointment for dressings, &c. On the deck near to this table were placed buckets of water and bottles of wine, brandy, or rum, so positioned that they would neither be in the way nor liable to fall over with any sudden motion of the ship.

When all was ready the doctors had only to wait as coolly as they could. The waiting for the first shot was the worst of it. When the battle was once begun it was not long before the shuffling of feet overhead, and the unsteady steps of bearers at the top of the stairs told of a coming case. As often as not blood came pattering down first, but blood is nothing to a surgeon in working dress. So the wound, ghastly though it might be, was soon seen to, and temporarily dressed, and the moaning patient laid down near the bulkheads. Then cases begin to come down thick and fast. Smoke too, and the suffocating after-damp of the battle fill the cockpit, the lanterns burn dimly, the heat is overpowering almost. The doctors are busy enough now. They throw off their garments, they roll up their sleeves, their hands and arms are encarnadined, their faces and hair bespattered with blood, but quietly and firmly they work, and all as gently as may be. Many a soothing word of kindness helps to rally a fainting heart, and they give hope even in cases they know are dangerous.

But, oh, the heat and the smoke and the stifling odour! The decks all around are slippery with blood, which the sprinkled sawdust is not sufficient to absorb. There are moans and cries and pitying appeals for help and water—water—water—coming from every direction. The very water itself is oftentimes red with blood.

Fainting patients need wine, or even brandy; and but for that wine and brandy very often the surgeons themselves would faint with very fatigue and want of air.

A surgeon's operating tent in the rear of a field of battle may be a sad and fearful sight; but in horrors it could not be compared to the cockpit of an old seventy-four while a fight like that of the Nile was raging overhead.

It was into the midst of just such a scene as I have but too feebly depicted that Nelson, wounded and bleeding, was carried during the night of this glorious but fearful battle.

The loss of blood has a paralysing effect upon the nerves and spirits of a wounded man. It is doubly so if he can feel the blood all about him—feel soaked in it, swamped in it, without being able to see.

That was Nelson's plight. The piece of shot had struck him on the forehead, and the flap of skin and flesh hung over his one remaining eye, entirely blinding him.

But not even the darkness of what seemed approaching death could daunt the heart of the hero.

The chief surgeon would have left his other patients unattended for a time to see to Nelson's wound, but he would not hear of it for a moment.

And at last that turn came; and even the wounded and the dying raised a cheer when they heard the wound, despite the amount of blood lost, was only superficial.

CHAPTER VI.

THE BURNING OF THE "ORIENT"—A HEART OF OAK.

                                            "All is wail
As they strike the shattered sail,
    Or in conflagration pale
                Light the gloom."

From seven till eight o'clock the scene of conflict must have been appalling in the extreme. No wonder that Arabs gathered on the beach, and stood in groups looking on, awestruck and silent. What sounds those spectators must have heard—the continued thunder of the great guns, the roar and rattle of langridge and grape, the crashing of broken timbers, the shouting of orders, and often the shrieks of the wounded rising high above the din of battle! And what sights must have been presented to their view—the quick, angry flash of cannon, lighting up the darkness of the night; lighting up the bleak, bristling sides of the huge ships; luridly lighting up the clouds of white smoke that at times quite hid the upper decks; and lighting up the sea with a crimson glare, so that even floating spars were visible; aye, and drowning men, with all the debris of great ships in action.

To an onlooker upon the beach all would appear fearful confusion and chaos. It would indeed seem almost impossible that anyone should come unscathed from such an awful scene of battle.

Yet every Heart of Oak in those British ships knew his duty, and was bravely doing it, and continued to do it, unless shot down.

And no one acted more bravely or coolly that night than young Lord Raventree of the Zealous. Men and officers too fell bleeding at his side. That such sights affected him there cannot be a doubt, but they failed to daunt his extraordinary courage. He was here, there, and everywhere in his battery, issuing his orders as unfalteringly as if the battle were a mere parade, his very presence seeming to give additional courage to the half-naked and smoke-begrimed men who so bravely obeyed his orders.

But more than once during the battle Raventree found time to think for a moment of his friend Tom Bure. Little did he know—he was too busy to know anything save what was going on around him—that poor Tom's ship had gone on shore, and that he and all on board could be but spectators in the battle that was raging so near them.

Incidents of this memorable fight, and individual instances of courage, could be related by the score, but space forbids.

Just a word about Nelson, however. His restless spirit could ill brook being below. Superficial though his wound was, important arteries were cut through, and unless he could be induced to lie down and keep still, there was great danger. Even before the surgeon's verdict was given he sent for Mr. Capel, his first lieutenant, and ordered him off in the jollyboat to fetch Captain Louis, of the Minotaur, that he might thank him for his gallant and meritorious service. At this time Nelson believed himself to be dying. "It is the hundredth and twenty-fourth time," he said, "that I have been engaged, but I believe it is now nearly over with me."

The meeting with Louis was of a most affecting character, the brave captain of the Minotaur hanging over his blind and bleeding friend in grief that precluded any attempt at words. "Farewell, dear Louis," said Nelson, "I shall never, should I live, forget the obligation I am under to you for your brave and generous conduct, and now, whatever may become of me, my mind is at peace."

Everything points to the conclusion that the great hero's mind at this time must have been a perfect whirl of emotions. It is said that even after his wound had been dressed, and he had sent for his chaplain and his secretary, the one to attend to his orders, the other to administer some spiritual comfort, he desired to be led on deck once more, that he might behold that awful conflagration—the burning of the Orient.

This ship was in the midst of the fight till her destruction, and bravely indeed had she been handled. It is said that a little before nine o'clock the men of the Swiftsure detected "signs of fire in her mizenchains, and pointed their guns towards the spot with terrible effect; and the flames glided swiftly along the deck and ran up the masts, and wreathed the yards and flickered upon the shrouds, throwing an awful glare on the dense clouds of battle, and distinctly defining, as in the pageantry of a festal illumination, the spars and rigging of the contending warships."

Says Clark Russell, in the poetic imaginings of which he is a past-master: "Fore and aft the flames were waving in forks and living sheets, and leaping on high as though from the heart of some mighty volcano. She had ceased to fire, her sprit-sail yard and bowsprit were crowded with men, who continued to crawl out, blackening those spars like flies, as the raging fire grew. By the wild mast-high flames the whole scene of battle was as visible as by the light of the noontide sun. The colours of the flags of the ships could be easily distinguished. Every rope, every spar, the forms of the half-naked crews, smoke-blackened and in active motion, the land beyond, with all details of the island-fortress and of the distant, rearmost ships, were startlingly visible by the glow of the burning ship, the brilliancy of which was that of the conflagration of a city.

"Shortly after ten the great ship blew up. The explosion was like that of an earthquake. The concussion swept through every seam, joint, and timber of the nearest ships with the sensation as though the solid fabrics were crumbling into staves under the feet of the seamen. The sight was blackened as if by a lightning stroke, and the instant the prodigious glare of the explosion had passed, the darkness of the night seemed to roll down in folds of ink upon the vision of the seamen."

Says another eloquent writer, and what writer is not eloquent on such a subject as this?—"The whole sky was blotched with the corpses of men, like the stones of a crater cast upward, and the sheet of fire behind them showed their arms, their bodies, and streaming hair. Then, with a hiss like electric hail, from a mile's height all came down again, corpses first and timber next, and then the great spars that had streaked the sky like rockets."

The dread silence that followed lasted for nearly a quarter of an hour. Meanwhile boats from various ships were generously lowered to pick up the survivors, and thus nearly eighty were saved.

But where was Admiral Brueys? Poor, brave fellow, he had been dead before the fire broke out. Twice had he been wounded; but he stuck to his place, till a shot almost cut him in two.

When they would have carried him below, "No," he cried; "let me die on my quarter-deck, as becomes the admiral of a French fleet."

Among those who perished was Commodore Casabianca and his faithful little son, a lad of barely eleven years of age, who died, if not on the quarterdeck, at least by his father's side, who it is said by some authorities was wounded and below at the time of the explosion.

That rough iconoclast, the dissecting critic, endeavours to dispel all romance from the beautiful story, immortalised by Mrs. Heman's verses.

I prefer to believe with the poetess, rather than to sneer with the saucy critic.

"The boy stood on the burning deck,
    Whence all but him had fled;
The flames that lit the battle's wreck
    Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
    As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
    A proud though childlike form.

"The flames rolled on—he would not go
    Without his father's word;
That father faint on deck below,
    His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud, 'Say, father, say,
    If yet my task is done!'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
    Unconscious of his son.

"'Speak, father,' once again he cried,
    'If I may yet be gone';
But now the booming shots replied,
    And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
    And on his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
    In still but brave despair;

"And shouted but once more aloud,
    'My father, must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
    The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
    They caught the flag on high,
They streamed above the gallant child
    Like meteors in the sky.

"Then came a burst of thunder-sound.
    The boy—oh, where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
    With fragments strewed the sea,
With mast and helm and pennon fair
    That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing that perished there
    Was that young and faithful heart."

The firing was re-commenced, it is said, by the French ship Franklin; and the battle raged until about five o'clock in the morning, with brief spells of intermission, as when the men of the Alexander, by leave of their captain, threw themselves down beside their guns and slept for twenty minutes. The Alexander was at that time lying close to a French eighty-four that she had been engaging in deadly conflict. The men of the latter were also exhausted, and sunk to sleep; so that side by side, it may be said, rested French and British.

When dawn of day began to glimmer faintly in the east there were but two ships of the French line that had their colours flying—the Guillaume Tell and Généreux. They were the two rear ships, and had not been engaged. They soon cut their cables, however, and stood out to sea. With them went two frigates.

Raventree was the first to report their intentions to the captain of the Zealous, and he at once hoisted sail, and stood after them in pursuit. But there being no other of our ships in a condition for fast sailing, the signal was hoisted for his recall.

Thus ended the great battle of the Nile, "the most complete and glorious in the annals of naval warfare."

Of the French 3,105, including the wounded, were sent on shore by cartel (an agreement with an enemy having reference to exchange of prisoners), and 5,225 perished.

As Nelson himself said, "Victory is not a name strong enough for such a scene, it is a conquest."

Westcott was born among the green lanes of romantic Devon, and in very humble life too. His father was a baker, and not burdened with too much of this world's wealth, and his son assisted him in his business while still a little lad. He used to be sent frequently on messages to a mill in the neighbourhood. The miller, as millers often are, was a good-natured jovial fellow, but one day when young Ben went to execute some commission for his father he found not only the miller, but the miller's-man, pulling very long faces indeed.

"We can't send the flour to-day," the boy was told. "Perhaps not to-morrow either. We've had a rope broken, and the working of the mill is quite thrown out of gear."

The miller caught him by the shoulder, and pointed upwards to where the broken ends of the rope were dangling.

"You'd have to be hoisted up there, my boy," he said, "among the pulleys and wheels and things, and ten to one you'd come down by the run, and break your neck."

The boy, with deft fingers and the aid of a marlin-spike, worked away for an hour or two, and lo! the rope was as good as ever.

"I tell you what it is, Ben," he added, "a lad like you is too good for the shore. You're a sailor born, and ought to be fighting the French."

Westcott entered his Majesty's service afloat as a humble cabin boy. But so clever did he soon prove himself to be, and so unflagging in his zeal and attachment to duty, that he soon found himself a midshipman. For, mind you, boys, in those dashing days of war, talent was never allowed to wear itself away before the mast, if it could be found of service on the quarterdeck.

Young Westcott's advancement went on with rapid strides after this, and at the battle of the Nile he commanded the Majestic, and fell fighting like a true hero. His ship alone had 50 killed and 143 wounded.

This baker boy with heart of oak has a monument erected to him, at the public expense, in St. Paul's, which any other boy of the present day who desires to emulate his deeds may see if he has a mind.

Thanksgiving to Almighty God, who had so blessed his Majesty's arms, was returned by the whole fleet at the same time. And solemn and impressive such a service must have been on decks still slippery with the blood of the fallen, and sad evidence of the battle on every hand.

I have always considered that trophy of the great battle which was afterwards presented to Nelson as a very ghastly one. The Swiftsure had picked up a portion of the Orient's main-mast, and from it Captain Hallowell ordered his carpenter to fashion a beautiful coffin, and this was sent to Nelson.

"Sir," ran the letter that accompanied the memento mori, "I have taken the liberty of presenting you with a coffin, made from the main-mast of L'Orient, that, when you have finished your military career in this world, you may be buried in one of your trophies, but that that period may be far distant is the earnest wish of your sincere friend, BENJ. HALLOWELL."

It shows how little fear of death Nelson had, and how far from being superstitious he was, that he ordered the coffin to be placed behind his chair upright in his cabin.

There are a few words in the above letter of Captain Hallowell's that strike one as strange, if not indeed amusing; viz., these, "When you have finished your military career in this world." Did honest, bluff Ben. Hallowell think that—with all reverence be it said—Nelson would recommence to fight the French in the next?

Immediately after the battle or conquest Nelson had once again to lament the loss of his frigates. Had he been possessed of these I doubt not he would have entered the port, and burned all the French stores and storeships.

"Were I to die at this moment," he is reported to have said, "the loss of frigates would be found engraven on my heart."

CHAPTER VII.

FACE TO FACE WITH THE DANISH SHIPS.

"Your glorious standard launch again
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."

The British nation that possibly—very probably indeed—would have shot our hero, Nelson, had he lost the Battle of the Nile, now presented him with the title of Baron.

"It was this battle," says Graviére, "which for two years delivered up the Mediterranean to the power of Britain; summoned thither the Russian squadrons, left the French army isolated amidst a hostile population; decided Turkey in declaring against it; saved India from French enterprise; and brought France within a hair's-breadth of her ruin, by reviving the smouldering flames of war with Austria, and bringing Suwarrow and the Austro-Russians to the French frontiers.

Honours from all directions fell thick and fast upon our naval hero; yet amid all this glory, what Nelson longed for more than anything else perhaps was rest.

He was now on his way back to Naples, but his long exertions began to tell upon his never very strong system. He was, while yet at sea, seized with a fever, and for eighteen hours his noble life was despaired of. Even after he got over the crisis, he writes thus despondingly to St. Vincent:

"I never expect, my dear lord, to see your face again. It may please God that this will be the finish to that fever of anxiety which I have endured from the middle of June. But be that as it pleases His goodness."

However, Nelson was destined to live to accomplish still further triumphs, as we soon shall see.

As to his doings in the Mediterranean after the Battle of the Nile; of his return to Naples; of the rejoicing, pomp, and panoply with which he was received there; of his private opinion of this corruptest of Courts; of all his sieges and all his successes until his return to England, history must inform you, reader; but the whole story reads like one long delightful romance, all the more delightful of course in that it is true.

The curtain falls for a time on this life-drama, and our heroes leave the stage for refreshment. As far as fêtes and feasts were concerned, Nelson was very much refreshed indeed; and so in those times was every officer, ay, and every tar, who had been at the Battle of the Nile.

But soon the curtain rises again, and we behold a great fleet departing from Yarmouth Roads, under the command of Admiral Sir Hyde Parker in the London, 98 guns, with Nelson as his second in command in the St. George, also of 98 guns.

They are bound for the North this time, our gallant ships; but whither and why? A question that a sentence can answer. In fact, it can be answered in the refrain of the good old song:

Three Northern nations had formed a league to make us slaves, at least to wrench from the grasp of Britannia the sceptre of her rule over the waves.

Just think for a moment, reader, of the terrible combination that was now formed against us. Russia, with 82 ships of the line and 40 frigates; Denmark, French at heart, with 23 ships and 31 frigates; and Sweden, with 18 ships and 14 frigates.

Our Government had boldly determined to resist this combination, and crush it. A braver man than Hyde Parker they could not have had, but Nelson ought to have been chief, for he was a born commander.

Their country had forgotten neither Tom Bure nor Raventree. They were both now commanders, although Tom was only in his twenty-first year.

There was no change in Dan, but poor old Meg, the faithful collie, would never meet Tom again. She was buried with all honours in a grave dug for her on the green grassy lawn where she used to lie in the summer days near her dear old master, Uncle Bob.

All was the same at the Hall, as well as at the cottage, except that Bertha seemed to have grown quite up, and was a child no more.

Not only she, but her mother and Dan drove to Yarmouth to see the great fleet sail away towards the cold, inhospitable North, and there were tears in Bertha's beautiful eyes as she bade her old friend Tom farewell. Merryweather—the same old Merryweather—was there also, and no less a personage than Captain Hughes, of the Yarmouth Belle, who made the departure of our hero Tom a "most auspicious occasion" for splicing the main-brace, not once, but three separate times.

Sir Hyde Parker was just a little nervous at starting; he was candid enough to tell Nelson so. Only he added: "It is no time for nervous systems, and icebergs or no icebergs, we shall, I trust, give our Northern enemies that hailstorm of bullets which gives our dear country the dominion of the sea. We have it, and all the devils in the North cannot take it from us if our ships have but fair play."

You have heard, reader, of the "gallant good Riou." He was captain of the Amazon, and when some Danes who were aboard went to him, saying that they had no desire to quit the British service, but were unwilling to fight against their country, Riou, instead of snubbing them as some captains would have done, acceded to their request, and transferred them. Indeed, so affected was he by their speech that the tears stood in his eyes. For the brave are ever generous and kind.

It seemed indeed as if Heaven fought on our side in this great expedition, for the weather was milder than had been remembered for many a year, so that fields of ice and bergs floated only in the dreams of Sir Hyde Parker.

The reader, however, must not jump to the conclusion that it was all plain sailing with Sir Hyde and Nelson. Very far from it indeed. Nor was it wind and weather only, but the dangers of straits, and banks, and shoals that they had to contend against. Yet Nelson would have made light of all these, and of the enemy's ships as well, had it not been for the attempts at negotiation that had to go on with the Danes the while precious time was being lost, and the armaments of the foe were getting stronger and stronger every day.

The first thing to annoy and fret poor brave Nelson was the circumstance that the fleet was to anchor out of sight of the Danes, till the negotiations were at an end. Red tape again!

"I hate your pen-and-ink men," he cried impatiently. "A fleet of British ships makes the best negotiators in the world. They always speak to be understood, and their arguments carry conviction to the very hearts of our foes."

When our fleet was off Elsinore—Nelson had by this time changed his flag to a handier and better ship, the Elephant—the admiral forced the passage of the Sound. The forts fired on them, it is true, but it is said that never a shot touched a ship.

The fleet then anchored near Huën, an island about fifteen miles from Copenhagen; and Nelson, with Colonel Stewart, Admiral Graves, and others, went in a lugger called the Lark to reconnoitre.

They found that the defences were of all sorts, and fearful to behold. To begin with, there was the exceeding difficulty of approach, for the buoys on all the shoals had been taken up or shifted by the Danes. Then there was the great Danish fleet to encounter, drawn up in a line that extended for a mile and a half in front of the entrance to the harbour. The ships were flanked by strong batteries, while batteries bristled all along the shore.

The Danish forces then consisted of the fleet, which was moored close to the city, six line-of-battle ships, eleven strong floating batteries, gun brigs, a bomb vessel, supported by batteries on the Crown Islands, and four sail of the line drawn up across the harbour mouth, which was also protected by a great chain. The whole of the Danish protective armament, including hulks, batteries, and ships, from end to end, was about four miles in length.

But in order to get near this terrible array of defences, the attacking force would have to be navigated through a most intricate passage among the shoals.

Nelson's greatest trouble was to get safely through this natural deep-water canal.

On the 31st a great council of war was held, to take into consideration the best mode of attacking the place, as the negotiations had fallen through.

Nervous active men, in contradistinction to the slower and plethoric class, have been termed the "salt of the earth." Nelson then might well have been called the "salt of the sea." At this council, which was not "fast" enough for him by a deal, he kept pacing up and down the cabin deck, shaking his "flipper," as the sailors called it, meaning the stump of his arm. It must have been a grand sight to behold, and to note his glances of withering scorn at anyone who for a moment doubted the success of his plans.

And the refrain of Nelson's song at this council was, "Let me have but ten line of battle ships, and the smaller craft, and the battle is ours."

Twelve ships he gave him, instead of ten, and also gave him carte blanche to carry out this detached service as he thought best.

Denmark's fleet he looked upon as already in his power. The Russians and Swedes would be smashed next. He hadn't forgotten them.

But there was much to be done before this battle even began. Misplaced buoys must be re-adjusted along the channel, and during all that night of the 31st—and a bitterly cold one it was—he rowed about with Captain Brisbane, of the Cruiser, in his open boat surveying the channel.

Personal experience of this work in sunny seas has proved to me how tedious and wearisome it is; but how much more so must it have been to our hero by night, in that almost Arctic climate.

Next day the whole fleet moved close up to the great shoal, with its middle channel, to which the Danes trusted as really their first line of defence.

Narrow though the channel was, and light though the breeze, the division under Nelson, headed by brave Riou, in the Amazon, went safely in, and at dusk anchored near Point Draco.

"Here," says Clark Russell, "the narrowness of the waters as an anchoring ground brought the ships into a huddle, and infinite mischief might have been done to the British had the Danes taken advantage of the crowded state of the fleet, by sending shells amongst the ships, from mortar boats and the batteries of Amak Island."

Captain Hardy, we are told, who was amongst those who up to a late hour that night were taking soundings, rowed under the very shadow of the Danes' leading ship, and felt the bottom of the water with a pole.

To Nelson's great joy, Hardy and the rest returned with the tidings that there was depth enough of water for our ships to range themselves in battle array, between the great shoal they had passed through and the defences of the enemy.

As usual, Nelson's chief officers, including Hardy, Foley, Graves, Fremantle, Riou, &c., dined with him on the eve of the battle, and the hero was in the highest of spirits.

Riou and Foley remained with Nelson to plan details after the others had gone, and the great fight was commenced next morning, the ships filing into line, and taking up their positions with steadiness and precision, despite the extreme difficulty of navigating great vessels in a place like this.

"Yet never," says Clark Russell, "had British seamanship found finer illustrations of its capacity of daring and skill than in the manner in which the vessels of the division calculated their stations, in a channel bewildering with its complicated and perilous navigation."

CHAPTER VIII.

A "GLORIOUS DAY'S RENOWN."

The fight began about ten o'clock, the thunder of war increasing till twelve, at which time it probably roared its loudest. By one o'clock four of the Danish vessels—block ships they were—had been silenced. And now occurred one of those little inter-acts which serve so well to show our national hero in his true colours.

Sir Hyde Parker, the reader will remember, was outside the great sand bank, through which Nelson's division was so successfully steered, so at this distance no very clear notion of the battle that was raging could be obtained; but noticing that four of the enemy's vessels had ceased firing, probably he imagined that the battle was won, and that further havoc was unnecessary. At all events he hoisted the signal to cease firing. A man with one eye can see as much as a man with two if he is looking. On this occasion Nelson did not see that signal—when his head was turned the other way. This is strange, but true!

Tom Bure, who, though commander, was acting as lieutenant, was standing near to Nelson, and called his attention to Sir Hyde Parker's signal.

Nelson walked up and down his quarterdeck jerking his "flipper," which showed he was terribly angry and excited. And that was the reason why he verbally consigned the good Sir Hyde's signal to a warmer place than the hottest part of this great battle.

"Besides, Foley," he added, turning to his captain, "I have only one eye, so have a right to be blind sometimes."

"Hang such signals," Nelson cried. "Make mine for closer action, and nail the colours to the mast."

Fainter and fainter rolled the thunder of the Danes, till, just before two o'clock, it had ceased all along their line of battle.

The Danes, however, had fought most bravely, even those prames on which the flag had been struck had kept on firing till the last, being constantly reinforced by fresh batches of men from the shore.

From his previous great exertions, want of sleep and rest, Nelson was irritable, and this irregular action on the part of the Danes angered him beyond measure. He sat down therefore, with, however, no appearance of hurry, and wrote that famous letter of his to the Crown Prince of Denmark. It is worth repeating even in a story, and ran thus:

"Vice-Admiral Lord Nelson has been commanded to spare Denmark when she no longer resists. The line of defence which covers her shores has struck to the British flag; but if the firing is continued on the part of Denmark he must set on fire all the prizes he has taken, without having the power of saving the brave men who have so nobly defended them."

A wafer was suggested to seal this letter withal, but Nelson must have wax. Want of formality might have suggested impatience or nervousness to the Crown Prince.

The half-hour that intervened ere an answer came was probably felt to be one of the longest ever Nelson experienced. For his ships, albeit victorious, were in a terrible plight, and it would take all the seamanship that even British sailors could boast of to get them out.

Nelson went on shore next day, and was hailed with cheers by the multitude who came to receive him by the waterside. The prisoners and wounded were sent on shore, and the prizes nearly all burned. No less than thirteen of the Danes' vessels altogether were destroyed—our losses, though severe, amounting to no less than 300 killed, and 850 wounded. But the Danes had at the lowest estimate over 1,700 killed, and nearly 4,000 taken prisoners.

Tom Campbell, our Scottish poet, author of so many well-known spirited lays, such as "Ye Mariners of England," gives us the following poem on this great naval action:

    "Of Nelson and the North,
        Sing the glorious day's renown,
    When to battle fierce went forth
        All the might of Denmark's Crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
    By each gun a lighted brand,
    In a bold, determined hand,
    And the Prince of all the land
                            Led them on.

    "Like leviathans afloat
        Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
    While the sign of battle flew
        On the lofty British line.
It was ten of April morn, by the chime;
    As they drifted on their path,
    There was silence deep as death,
    And the boldest held his breath
                            For a time.

    "But the might of England flushed
        To anticipate the scene;
    And her van the fleeter rushed
        O'er the deadly space between.
'Hearts of oak!' our captain cried; when each gun
        From its adamantine lips
        Spread a death-shade round the ships,
        Like the hurricane eclipse
                            Of the sun.

    "Again! Again! Again!
        And the havoc did not slack,
    Till a feeble cheer the Dane
        To our cheering sent us back.
Their shots along the deep slowly boom,
        Then ceased, and all is wail
        As they strike the shattered sail,
        Or in conflagration pale
                            Light the gloom.

    "Out spoke the Victor then
        As he hailed them o'er the wave,
    'Ye are brothers, ye are men,
        And we conquer but to save:
So peace instead of death let us bring.
        But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
        With the crews at England's feet,
        And make submission meet
                            To our King.'

    "Then Denmark blessed our Chief
        That he gave her wounds repose,
    And the sounds of joy and grief
        From her people wildly rose
As death withdrew his shadow from the day.
        While the sun looked smiling bright
        O'er a wide and woful sight,
        Where the fires of funeral light
                            Died away.

    "Now joy Old England raise!
        For the tidings of thy might,
    By the festal cities' blaze,
        While the wine-cup shines in light.
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
        Let us think of them that sleep,
        Full many a fathom deep.
        By thy wild and stormy steep
                            Elsinore!

    "Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
        Once so faithful and so true,
    On the deck of fame that died,
        With the gallant good Riou.
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave,
        While the billow mournful rolls,
        And the mermaid's song condoles,
        Singing glory to the souls
                            Of the brave!"

The death of the "gallant good Riou," whom Britain so deeply mourned, was both affecting and romantic. He was captain of the Amazon, and with the rest of the frigates, that were doing but little apparent good, hauled off or retreated from the actual ground of battle on seeing Sir Hyde Parker's "silly signal." These frigates, however, were being terribly mauled, yet Riou thought only of the disgrace, as he termed it, of having to retire.

The fire under which the Amazon then lay was very heavy. The captain himself was wounded in the head, and leant bleeding against a gun.

Soon after a shot killed his clerk, who stood near; and another smashed a batch of marines, who were hauling in the main-brace.

These were the last words e'er he spoke. He fell dead next moment. "That shot," says Colonel Stewart, "lost to Britain one of its greatest honours, and to society a character of singular worth, resembling in no small measure the heroes of old romance."

That was a wonderful voyage made by our fleet through the intricate passage between the islands of Amoy and Saltholm, and full of danger. It astonished the Northern Powers, who no longer felt themselves safe from Nelson anywhere.

A mere show of force sufficed to bring the King of Sweden to his knees. Before, however, this show was made before Carlscrona, Nelson had an adventure which is well worthy of being related here, bringing out, as it does, the hero's character for pluck and derring-do in the most vivid of colouring.

The ship in which he made the difficult passage between the two islands just named was the St. George. For her greater lightness and safety her guns had been removed into an American vessel, requisitioned or chartered unceremoniously for the purpose. She got safely through, but was detained by contrary winds from joining the rest of the fleet, now far ahead. When, therefore, intelligence was received that Sir Hyde Parker had sighted the Swedish fleet, Nelson's anxiety knew neither bounds nor limits.

Says Mr. Brierly, "The moment he received the account he ordered a boat to be manned, and without even waiting for a boat cloak, cold though it was, jumped into her and ordered me to go with him..... All I had ever seen or heard of him could not half so clearly prove to me the singular and unbounded zeal of this truly great man. His anxiety in the boat for nearly six hours, lest the fleet should have sailed before he got on board one of them, and lest we should not catch the Swedish squadron, is beyond all conception.

"It was extremely cold, and I wished him to put on a great coat of mine that was in the boat.

"'No,' he cried, 'I am not cold; my anxiety for my country will keep me warm. Do you think the fleet has sailed?'

"At midnight Nelson, much to his relief, reached his flagship, the Elephant, and his sailors were overjoyed to see him; for Nelson was worth a fleet in himself."

And so the great Northern Confederacy was smashed up, and never formed again, and our brave tars could still sing

"Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves,
Britons never, never, NEVER shall be slaves."

The fleet, having now boldly accomplished its mission, and proved the truth of Nelson's words, that "guns are the best negotiators, and always speak to the point," &c., returned once more to England.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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,

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"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."

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.

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.

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?"

"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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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."

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

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