“If you mean that the hands are pretty busy, you are right; but there is very seldom any confusion on board a king’s ship on the sight of an enemy.”
“And what is done by sailors when they see an enemy’s ship?”
“They give chase, and when they come up with her, prepare for the battle. In the orders given by the admiral there is often some pithy expression, to animate the men, such as that given by Nelson: ‘England expects every man to do his duty!’ or, ‘No captain can do wrong who places his ship alongside of an enemy.’”
“Ay! Those are likely to make men fight, if anything will.”
“After taking up stations, finding the sails, and clearing for action, the pause sometimes is an awful one, but the roar of the first broadside puts a different face on the matter. The thundering peals rapidly follow one another, and there is no going to sleep till the battle is ended.”
“It must be terrible work; and there can be no running away.”
“No; that is quite out of the question: British sailors are not of the running sort. Just before the battle begins, you may see men stripping themselves to their duck-frocks for more liberty of limb, some girdling their loins and binding their heads with a neckcloth of black silk, and here and there one with a bandage round his left knee; and you hear the captain sing out to those descending the shrouds, ‘Quick, my hearties, to your guns!’ or, ‘Now, my lads! down to the main deck and fire away!’ The men give a cheer, off go the guns; the deafening sound and stunning recoil of the ship thrill through your heart. The cannonade goes on—crash! crash! crash! and clouds of smoke rise up, hiding from view the ships of the enemy.”
“We can fancy ourselves in the battle; and it is very dreadful!”
“If you have time to snatch a glance at the men, you will see that some are flushed, some pale, and some press their lips hard together, and have a frown on their brows; but whether flushed, or pale, or frowning, all are doing their duty—not a man flinches—not a hand idle. As the battle goes on, and the men fall, the dead are dragged amid-ships, the wounded cry out for water, the powder-boys flit from one gun to another with their supplies; the broadsides of the enemy strike the ship like the smashing of a dozen doors with crow-bars, and the captain shouts, at the top of his voice, down the waist from the quarter-deck, ‘Go it, my lads! for the honour of old England!’”
“We never heard of such a description as this before. Why do the wounded cry out for water? Do their wounds make them thirsty?”