by Oliver Optic
CHAPTER XXI.
WILLIE DIED A HERO'S DEATH.
"Then, traveller, one kind drop bestow, 'Twere graceful pity, nobly brave; Nought ever taught the heart to glow Like the tear that bedews a soldier's grave." DIBDIN.
I cannot help thinking that if glory is to be measured by pluck andskill combined, the battle of the Nile was even a more glorious fightthan that of Trafalgar. The former battle required more physicalexertion from the men individually, and therefore was a greater strainupon their courage. How? you may ask. I will tell you; and although myview of the matter may savour of the reasoning of the medico, still Ithink you will admit I have common-sense on my side. Besides, I am asailor-surgeon; I have seen our brave blue-jackets working, and fightingtoo, under various conditions, so it cannot be said I speak altogetherwithout experience. Well, the battle of Aboukir Bay or the Nile began inthe evening, when the men were more or less jaded or tired. They had,moreover, just come off a weary voyage or cruise, and a night's goodquiet sleep would have made a wonderful difference to them both inphysique and _morale_. Trafalgar was fought by day, beginning in theforenoon. Aboukir was contested in the hottest season of the year;Trafalgar in the cool--namely, toward the end of October. Therefore, Isay, all the more honour and glory to our brave fellows; and may wefight as well and as fortunately during the next great naval war, whichcannot now be far away.
I never can read or even think about that long hide-and-seek cruise ofNelson's in the Mediterranean, in search of the French expedition,without a feeling of disappointment. Why, oh why was it ordained that heshould not catch Napoleon with his fleet and his army at sea? Could hehave but sent the firebrand to the bottom of the salt ocean, whatconflagrations Europe would have been spared, what shedding of blood,what hopeless sorrow and bitter tears!
But there! I am keeping the fleets waiting. For his part, Brueys, theFrench admiral, would have preferred to wait. "He means to attack," hesaid to one of his captains, referring to Nelson, "but he cannot be madenough to attack to-night."
But Nelson _was_ mad enough. He was burning to give it to the French,and give it to them hot, for all the trouble and anxiety they had costhim. He was as eager as a wild cat to spring at the throat of his foe.Another night of waiting might have killed him. No, no, he cannot, willnot wait. "Make the signal for general action, and trust to Heaven andthe justice of our cause!"
Along the bay lay the great French fleet, with shoal water behind them,supported by gunboats and bomb-vessels, the ships moored one hundred andsixty yards from each other, and with stream cables so that they couldspring their broadsides on their enemy.
And their line extended for a mile and a half.
Had Brueys thought that Nelson would attack that night, he would havegot under way, and thus been free either to manoeuvre or show hisheels. He did not know our Nelson. Nor could he have believed that thegreat British admiral would have done so doughty and daring a deed as toget round behind him, so to speak, betwixt the shore and his fleet,despite the sands and shoals. But Nelson did with a portion of hisfleet, and each war-ship took up position with all the precision ofcouples in a contra-dance. Oh, it was beautiful! but when the battlefairly began, and tongues of fire and clouds of rolling smoke leaped andcurled from the great guns, lighting up the dusk and gloom of gatheringnight, while echoes reverberated from shore to shore, oh, then thisthunderstorm of war was very grand and terrible!
To describe the battle in detail, and all the heroic actions that tookplace that night, would take a volume in itself. But it is all history,and probably the reader knows every bit of it as well as, if not betterthan, I myself do. We must honour the French, though, for this fight.They fought well and bravely, and you know the gallant Brueys died onhis own quarter-deck, refusing to be carried below. He was a hero. So wemight say was the captain of the _Serieuse_ frigate, who had the cheekto fire into the great _Orion_ (Sir James Saumerez) as she was sweepingpast. It was like a collie dog attacking a mastiff. Saumerez couldn'tstand it. He stayed long enough literally to blow the frigate out of thewater or on to a shoal, where she was wrecked. The _Orion_ then wentquietly on and engaged a foeman worthy of her steel. It was plucky ofthe _Bellerophon_--the old Billy Ruffian, as sailors called her--ofseventy-four guns, to attack the great _Orient_ of one hundred andtwenty, and of the _Majestic_ to range alongside the mighty _Tonnant_and coolly say, "It's you and I, isn't it?" Then one can't help feelingsorry for poor Trowbridge in the _Culloden_, because he ran ashore, andhad to remain a mere spectator while burning to have a finger in thefearful pie.
But the two events of this memorable battle which I daresay dwelllongest in the minds of the young reader are the wounding of Nelson, whowas carried below, his brow gashed so terribly that the skin in a flaphung over his eyes, despite which, you will remember, he bravely refusedto have his wound dressed until his turn came; and the blowing up of thegreat ship _Orient_ with her bold Captain Casabianca and his poor boy,who refused to be taken off or give up his duty without his father'sorders.
There are those who would rob us of this romantic story. I have nopatience with such gray-souled sinners. There are people in this worldwho cannot endure romance and beauty; people who would paint the sky adingy brown if they could, and smudge the glory of the summer sunsets. Ido not love such people, and I hope you don't, reader. I verily believetheir blood is green and sour, and that they do not see this lovelyworld of ours as you and I do, through rose-tinted glasses, but that tothem it must appear an ugly olive green, as it would to us if we gazedupon it through a piece of bottle glass. No; we shall keep the brave boyof the _Orient_, and still read Mrs. Hemans' delightful and spiritedverses:--
"The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The flame, that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him--o'er the dead.
"The flames rolled on--he would not go Without his father's word;-- That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.
"There 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 faithful heart!"
* * * * *
The battle is past and gone, a whole month has elapsed since then, andthe swift _Tonneraire_ is homeward bound with despatches. Many werekilled and wounded, among others good old Simmons, the master, who fellat Jack's side on the deck of a French man-o'-war. He would nevergrumble again; his deep bass, honest voice would be heard no more. Therewas hardly a dry eye in the ship when the kindly old man's hammock wasdropped overboard in Aboukir Bay.
Yes, the _Tonneraire_ was homeward bound at last, after an absence oftwo busy and eventful years. But the saddest, probably, of all heradventures had yet to come. M'Hearty, Tom Fairlie, and young Murray werein the captain's cabin one evening towards sunset. Murray wasparticularly bright and pleasant to-night, and his laughing face andmerry, saucy blue eyes did every one good to behold.
Suddenly there is a cry on deck, "Sail ahead!" and next minute the drumis beating to quarters. The _Tonneraire_ has been working against a headwind, and now down upon her, like some monster sea-bird with wingsoutspread, sweeps a huge French ship of war. The battle will be veryone-sided, but Jack will dare it. Already it is getting dusk; he musttry to cripple the monster. He manages to rake her, and a broadside ofiron hail is poured through her stern. He rakes her a second time, andthis time down thunders a mast. Well would it have been for Jack andthe _Tonneraire_ if he had now put his ship before the wind. But no, hestill fights on and on, and suffers terribly; and just as the shades ofnight deepen into blackness, he manages to hoist enough sail to staggeraway, and the Frenchman is too sorely stricken to follow.
Very early next morning, before the stars had quite faded in the west,or the sun had
shot high his rays to gild the herald clouds, M'Hearty,looking careworn, unkempt, and weary--for he had never been tobed--entered Jack's state-room and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
Jack was awake in a moment.
"Anything wrong, doctor?" he asked quickly.
"Alas, sir!" replied M'Hearty, and there was a strange huskiness in hisvoice as he spoke--"alas, sir! poor young Murray is dying fast."
"Murray dying!"
"Too true, sir. His wounds are far more grievous than I was aware of. Hecannot last many minutes. He wants to see you."
The boy--for he was but little more--lay in a cot in the sick-bay. Hewas dressed in his scarlet coat, and his sword lay beside him, for hehad refused to be divested of his uniform. He was in a half-sittingposition, propped up with pillows, and smiled faintly as Jack knelt byhis side and took his thin white hand in his.
It was a sad scene but a simple one. There was the gray light of earlymorning struggling in through the open port, and falling on the dyingboy's face; falling, too, on M'Hearty's rough but kindly countenance,and on the figures of the sick-bay servants standing by the cot-foottearful and frightened. That was all. But an open Bible lay upon thecoverlet, and in his left hand the young soldier clasped aminiature--his little sweetheart's.
"Bury it with me," he whispered feebly. "See her, sir--and tellher--Willie died a hero's death.--Kiss me, Jack--I would sleep now."
The eyelids closed.
Ah! they had closed for aye.
Not a sound now save Jack's gentle sobbing, then the slow and solemntones of M'Hearty's voice as he took up the little Bible and read fromthe Twenty-third Psalm: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of theshadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod andthy staff they comfort me." Amen!