“Why, as for the matter of the prospective, sir,” replied the veteran, “that’s just what his present Majesty, God bless him! obsarved when he came to look at it; and for the colour, says the king, says he, ‘why the painter must have thought he’d been cooking, for he’s shoved the Victory into the hottest of the fire and done her brown;’ it was too bad, your honour, to singe her in that ’ere fashion, like a goose. Mayhap, your honour arn’t seen them there paintings of the battle at a place they call Exeter Hall, in the Strand. Now they are some-ut ship-shape, and the heat of the engagement warms a fellow’s heart to look at. An ould tar of the name of Huggins painted ’em, and I’m sure it’s right enough, for he’s made the Victory hugging the enemy just as a bear would a baby. I could stand and look at them pictures for hours, till I fancied myself once more in the midst of it, measuring out fathoms of smoke and giving ’em full weight of metal. The Victory has just fell aboard the French Redhotable and the Golision, as they calls it, gives each of ’em a lust different ways that looked so natural-like, that I felt myself getting a heel to port in the ould Victory as I looked at her. Then there’s the gale o’wind arter the battle; why, blow my ould wig, but you may feel the breeze and shake yourself from the spray. God bless his Majesty!—for they are the king’s, your honour;—long may he live to view ’em, and long may Huggins hug to windward under royal favour! I went to see him,—not the king, your honour, but Muster Huggins, and when he found I was ‘the Old Sailor,’ what gave some account of the life of a man-of-war’s man in ‘Greenwich Hospital,’ he whips out his old quid, flings it into the fire, and we sported a fresh bit o’bacca on the strength of it.—That was a welcome worthy a great man, and he could’nt ha’ done more for the king, though I arn’t quite sure that his Majesty does chaw his pig-tail.”
There certainly was ample scope for the remarks of my old friend, and I could not but consider the picture a complete failure. “And so you were at Trafalgar,” said I.
“Ay, and a glorious day it was, too, for Old England,” replied the tar. “Never shall I forget the enthusiasm which animated every breast, as we bore down to engage; it was indeed a noble sight, and so your honour would have said, if you had but have seen the winged giants of the deep as they marched majestically before the breeze, all ready to hurl their thunders at the foe. But the best scenes were at the quarters, where the bold captains of each gun stood cool and undaunted, waiting for the word: but for the matter o’ that, every soul, fore and aft, seemed to be actuated by one and the same spirit. ‘Look there, Ben,’ said Sam Windsail, pointing out of the port-hole at the Royal Sovereign, just entering into action, ‘look there, my Briton; see how she moves along, like a Phœnix in the midst of fire,—there’s a sight would do any body’s heart good. I’d bet my grog, (and that’s the lick-sir of life) I say I’d bet my grog agen a marine’s button, that old Colly’s having a desperate bowse at his breeches; he’s clapping on a taut hand, I’ll be bound for him.’ Just then the Sovereign hauled up a little, and opened her fire. ‘Didn’t I say so,’ continued Sam; ‘look at that! my eyes but he makes ’em sheer agen! Well behaved my sons of thunder! The old gemman knows the French are fond of dancing, so he’s giving them a few balls and routs! Ay, ay, we shall be at it presently, never fear; our old chap arn’t the boy to be long idle, but then, d’ye mind, he never does things by halves; so he loves close quarters, and as he is rather near with his cartridges, why he doesn’t like to throw a shot away. Howsomever, he’ll go it directly, like a doctor’s written orders,—this powder and these pills to be taken immediately,—eh, Ben? Next comes funny-section, or flay-bottomy, as the surgeons call it:—my eyes, there goes old Colly’s breeches agen, he’ll make a breach in the enemy’s line directly; ay, he’s a right arnest sallymander.’ By this time, your honour, we’d got within gun-shot, and the enemy opened a tremendous fire upon the leading ships of our division, which played up old Scratch upon the fokstle, poop, and main-deck; for as we bore down nearly stem on, and there was but a light breeze, they raked us fore and aft.
“But I should have told you, sir, that just before going into action, the admiral walked round the quarters attended by the captain and, I thinks, Mr. Quillem, the first leftenant, but I won’t be sure. The gunner, Mr. Rivers, was along with ’em, I know, and a worthy old gemman he was; his son, a midshipman, was stationed on the same deck with us,—a fine spirited youth, with his light hair flowing about his ears and his little laughing eyes,—up to all manner of mischief. Well, round they came, and the hero seemed proud of his men; he stopped occasionally to speak to one and to another, and his keen eye saw in a moment if any thing wasn’t ship-shape. His countenance was rather stern, but there was a look of confidence that told us at once the day was our own;—nay, for the matter o’ that, Sam Windsail began to reckon what he should buy for Poll with his prize-money.
“When they reached the quarters where young Rivers was stationed, Nelson looked at the son and then at the father, as much as to say, ‘he’s a fine youth, you ought to be proud of him,’ as no doubt the old gemman was, for he knew his gallant boy would do his duty. But still the tender solicitude of a parent’s heart is not to be repressed, however it may be concealed; and as he followed the admiral, his head was frequently turned back to take another look at his child, and perhaps he thought ‘mayhap it may be the last.’ Well, as I was saying before, the enemy’s balls began to rattle into us like hail-stones through a gooseberry bush, and many a poor fellow was laid low. ‘Arrah, bad manners to ’em, what do they mane by that?’ cried Tim Doyle, as a whole shoal of shot travelled in one another’s wake, and swept the entire range of the deck. ‘Come, don’t be skulking down there, Jack Noggin,’ continued Tim, ‘but lay hoult of the tackle-fall.’ Jack never moved. ‘Och bother, don’t you mane to get up?’ But poor Jack’s glass was run, his cable was parted; so we launched his hull out at the port, stock and fluke.
“Mayhap you never saw a battle, sir. It is no child’s play, take my word for it. But the worst time is just before engaging, when silence reigns fore and aft, and a poor fellow douses his jacket without knowing whether he shall ever clap his rigging on agen. Then it is that home with all its sweet remembrances clings round the heart. Parents, or wife, or children, become doubly dear, and the fond ties of kindred are linked by stronger bonds. Howsomever, as soon as the first shot is fired, and we get within a sort of shake-hands distance of the enemy, every other thought gives way to a steady discharge of duty.
“Well, d’ye see, close upon our quarter came the Trimmer-rare, 98, and as we hauled up a little, we brought our larboard broadside to bear upon the great Spanish four-decker;—there, that’s she in the picture showing her galleries, just by the Victory’s starn:—so we brought our broadside to bear, and oh, if you had but have seen the eager looks of the men as they pointed their guns, determined to make every shot tell,—and a famous mark she was, too, looming out of the water like Beachy-head in a fog. ‘Stand by,’ says Sam Windsail, looking along the sight with the match in his hand; ‘stand by, my boy; so, so,—elevate her breech a bit,—that will do. Now, then, for the Santizzy-mama-Trinny-daddy, and I lay my life I knock day-light through his ribs. Fire!’ and the barking irons gave mouth with all their thunder. A few minutes afterward, and slap we poured another raking broadside into the Spaniard, and then fell aboard a French seventy-four.
“Well, there, d’ye see, we lay, rubbing together with the muzzles of the lower deckers touching one another. When our guns were run in for loading, the ports were instantly occupied by the small-arm men, and several attempts were made to board the enemy. At this time one of the Frenchmen kept thrusting at us with a boarding-pike, and pricked Tim Doyle in the face. ‘Och, the divil’s cure to you,’ bawled Tim; ‘what do you mane by poking at me in that way. A joke’s a joke, but poking a stick in a fellow’s eye is no joke, any how; be aisey then, darlint, and mind your civility.’ As soon as we had fired, in came the pike agen, and Tim got another taste of it. ‘Och bother,’ said Tim, ‘if that’s your tratement of a neighbour, the divil wouldn’t live next door to yes! But faith, I’ll make you come out o’ that, and may be you’ll be after just paying me a visit.’ So he catches hold of a boat-hook that was triced up in a-midships, and watching his opportunity, he hooked Johnny Crapeau by the collar and lugged him out of one port-hole in at the other, without allowing him time to bid his shipmates good-by. ‘Is it me you’d be poking at, ye blackguard?’ said Tim, giving him a thump with his fist. ‘Is it Tim ye wanted to spit like a cock-sparrow or a tom-tit? Arrah, swate bad luck to yes,—sit down and make yer life aisey; by the powers there’ll be a pair o’ ye presently.’ But Tim was disappointed, for they let down the lower deck ports for fear we should board them through the port-holes.
“Soon after, both ships dropped aboard the Trimmer-rare; and then we ploughed up the Frenchman’s decks with our shot, whilst she lay grinding and groaning in betwixt us. It was just now that young Rivers was struck, and his leg knocked away; but his spirit remained unsubdued, and as they took him down to the cock-pit, he cheered with all his might, and shortly after the hero himself was conveyed below. At first, the news of his being wounded seemed to stagnate all hands, and each stood looking at the other in fearful anxiety; but in a few minutes, resolution again returned, the shots were rammed home with redoubled strength, though at times the men would struggle with their feelings, and give vent to their grief and indignation. At every opportunity inquiries were made, and when the news of his death reached our quarters,—‘He’s gone!’ said Sam, ‘his anchor’s a-weigh, and the blessed spirits are towing him to immortality.’
“But who is there, your honour, that remembers Nelson now? Even the car that carried his body to its last moorings has been broken up as useless lumber, though I did hear that a gemman offered two thousand guineas for it. Some parts are down in the store-rooms, and some has been burnt for fire-wood. There’s his picture and his statue to be sure, but I think they should have spared the car. Nelson was strict to his duty, and made all hands perform theirs; and when he punished one man, it was that he might not have to punish twenty, and every soul fore and aft knew what they had to do. The brave, the generous, the humane Collingwood too,—there’s his picture, your honour, he is almost forgotten. Collingwood detested flogging; and when any captain came to him with a complaint of being short-handed through desertion, he would stand and hitch up his breeches, saying, ‘Use your men better, sir; use your men better, and then they wouldn’t leave you. My men, sir, never run; because they know they cannot get better treatment elsewhere.’ He was also an avowed enemy to impressment, being well convinced that the British navy might be manned with volunteers, if Jack’s peculiarities were only managed with kindness. But they are gone, sir, they are gone, and their authority is over; yet there are a few rough knots who can remember them,—ay, and cherish the remembrance in their hearts.