Chapter Forty One.
Ralph maketh acquaintance with bloody instruments, and boweth to the iron messengers of death; and is taught to stand fire, by being nearly knocked down.
We now pressed the ship with every stitch of canvas that we could set. We had already learned the name of our friend in the distance; it was the Jean Bart. Indeed, at this time, almost every fourth French vessel in those seas, if its occupation was the cutting of throats, was a “Jean Bart.” However, Jean Bart, long before we had done with the Prince William had spread a cloud of canvas—a dark one, it is true—and had considerably increased his distance from us. It was a chase dead before the wind. By nine o’clock the breeze had freshened. I don’t know how it could be otherwise, considering the abundance of wishing and votive whistling. At ten we got a good sight of Johnny Crapaud’s hull from the maintop, and found out that she was no frigate. I was not at all nervous before, but I must confess, at this certainty my courage rose considerably. I narrowly inspected the condition of the four after-quarter guns, my charge, and was very impressive on the powder-boys as to the necessity of activity, coolness, and presence of mind.
Dr Thompson now came on deck, very much lamenting the disordered rites of his breakfast. The jocular fellow invited me down into the cock-pit, to see his preparations, in order, as he said, to keep up my spirits, by showing me what excellent arrangements he had made for trepanning my skull, or lopping my leg, should any accident happen to me. I attended him. What with the fearnought (an amazingly thick cloth of a woollen texture) screens, and other precautions against fire, it was certainly the hottest place in which I had yet ever been. The dim, yellow, yet sufficient light from the lanterns, gave a lurid horror to the various ghastly and blood-greedy instruments that were ostentatiously displayed upon the platform. Crooked knives, that the eye alone assured you were sharp, seemed to be twisting with a living anxiety to embrace and separate your flesh; and saws appeared to grin at me, which to look upon, knowing their horrid office, actually turned my teeth on edge. There were the three assistant-surgeons, stripped to their shirts, with their sleeves tucked up ready, looking anxious, keen, and something terrified. As to the burly doctor, with his huge, round, red face, and his coarse jokes, he abstracted something from the romantic terrors of the place; but added considerably to the disgust it excited, as he strongly reminded me of a carcass butcher in full practice.
No doubt, his amiable purpose in bringing me to his den was to frighten me, and enjoy my fright. Be that as it may, I took the matter as coolly as the heat of the place would permit me. The first lesson in bravery is to assume the appearance of it; the second, to sustain the appearance; and third will find you with all that courage “that doth become a man.”
By noon we had a staggering breeze. We could now perceive that we were chasing a large corvette, though from the end-on view we had of her, we could not count her ports. The Eos seemed to fly through the water.
At one o’clock the spars began to complain—preventer braces were rove, but no one thought of shortening sail.
At two o’clock we had risen the Jean Bart, so as to clear her broadside from the water’s edge as seen from our decks. The appetites of the doctor and purser had risen in proportion. They made a joint and disconsolate visit to the galley. All the fires were put out. The hens were cackling and the pigs grunting in dark security among the water casks. Miserable men! there was no prospect of a dinner. They were obliged to do detestable penance upon cold fowl and ham, liquified with nothing better than claret, burgundy, and the small solace derivable from the best brandy, mixed with filtrated water in most praiseworthy moderation.
At three o’clock we had the Jean Bart perfectly in sight, and we could, from the foreyard, observe well the motions of those on deck. The master was broiling his very red nose over his sextant in the forestay sail netting, when it was reported that the Frenchman was getting aft his two long brass bow chasers; and in half an hour after, we had the report from the said brass bellowers themselves, followed by the whistling of the shot, one wide of the ship, but the other smack through our foresail, and which must have passed very near the nose of our respectable master.
Most of the officers, myself with the rest, were standing on the forecastle. Though not the first shot that I had seen fired in anger, it certainly was the first that had ever hissed by me. This first salute is always a memorable epoch in the life of a soldier or sailor. By the rent the shot made in the foresail, it could not have passed more than two yards directly over my head. I was taken by surprise. Everybody knows that the rushing that the shot makes is excessively loud. As the illustrious stranger came on board with so much pomp and ceremony, I, from the impulse of pure courtesy, could not do otherwise than bow to it; for which act of politeness the first-lieutenant gave me a very considerably tingling box of the ear.
My angry looks, my clenched fists, and my threatening attitude, told him plainly that it was no want of spirit that made me duck to the shot. Just as I was passionately exclaiming, “Sir—I—I—I—” Captain Reud put his hand gently on my shoulder, and said, “Mr Rattlin, what are you about? Mr Farmer, that blow was not deserved. I, sir,” said he, drawing himself up proudly, “ducked to the first shot. Many a fine fellow that has bobbed to the first has stood out gallantly to the last. What could you expect, Mr Farmer, from such a mere boy? And to strike him! Fie upon it! That blow, if the lad had weak nerves, though his spirit were as brave as Nelson’s, and as noble as your namesake’s, that foul blow might have cowed him for ever.”
“They are getting ready to fire again,” was now reported from the foreyard.
“Here, Rattlin,” continued the captain, “take my glass, seat yourself upon the hammock-cloths, and tell me if you can make out what they are about.”
Two flashes, smoke, and then the rushing of the shot, followed by the loud and ringing report of the brass guns, and of the reverberation of metal, was heard immediately beneath me. One of the shot had struck the fluke of the anchor in the fore-chains.
“There, Mr Farmer,” said the captain exultingly, “did you mark that? I knew it—I knew it, sir. He neither moved nor flinched—even the long tube that he held to his eye never quivered for an instant. Oh! Mr Farmer, if you have the generous heart I give you credit for, never, never again strike a younker for bobbing at the first, or even the fifth shot.”
“I was wrong, sir,” was the humble reply; “I am sorry that I should have given you occasion to make this public reprimand.”
“No, Farmer,” said the little Creole very kindly; “I did not mean to reprimand, only to remonstrate. The severest reprimand was given you by Mr Rattlin himself.”
I could at that moment have hugged the little yellow-skinned captain, wicked as I knew him to be, and stood unmoved the fire of the grape of a twenty-gun battery.
But was I not really frightened at the whistling of the shot?
Yes; a little.