“Have you heard the news?” cried one of the men.
“No.”
“Lord Nelson has beat the French and Spanish fleet.”
“Glad to hear it—huzza!”
“Lord Nelson’s killed.”
“Lord Nelson’s killed!!” The intelligence was repeated from mouth to mouth, and then every voice was hushed; the other boat hauled her wind without further communication, nor did we at the time think of asking for any more. The shock which was given to the whole country was equally felt by those who were seeking their bread in a small boat, and for some little while we steered our course in silence.
“What d’ye say, my lads,” said Bramble, who first broke silence; “shall we haul up for Cawsand, and get a paper? I shan’t be content till I know the whole history.”
This was consented to unanimously; no one thought of piloting vessels for the moment, and earning food for their families. When the country awarded a public funeral to our naval hero, it did not pay him a more sincere tribute than was done in this instance by five pilots in a galley. At Cawsand we obtained the newspaper, and after a few pots of beer, we again made sail for the mouth of the Channel. It hardly need be observed, that the account of this winding-up, as it proved, of our naval triumphs, with the death of Nelson, was the subject of conversation for more than one day. On the third, we were all separated, having fallen in with many wind-bound vessels who required our services. The one I took charge of was a West Indiaman, deeply laden with rum and sugar, one of a convoy which were beating about in the Chops of the Channel. As we were standing out from the English coast, the captain and one of the passengers were at the taffrail close to me.
“What do you think of the weather, pilot?” said the captain.
“I think we shall have a change of wind, and dirty weather before twelve hours are over our heads,” replied I.