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.

[Illustration: "The blowing up of the _Orient_ at the battle of the Nile."]

"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.

"CASABIANCA.

"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."

Our loss was indeed heavy, amounting, in killed and wounded, to 895.

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."

The only British captain who fell was gallant Westcott. He was indeed

A HEART OF OAK.

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."

"But why not splice it?" said young Westcott.

The miller laughed.

"Who's to do a job like that?" he said.

"Why, I will," was the boy's bold reply.

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."

"I can splice that rope," said Ben determinedly, "if you'll let me try."

"Let the lad try," pleaded the miller's man, and the master then consented.

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.

"And a jolly sight better," said the merry miller.

"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."

"I'd fight them fast enough," said the boy, "but I don't see a chance."

"I'll get you a chance, lad," said the miller.

And he soon did.

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.

He was afterwards buried in it.

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."