“Faix, but it’s not the last!” cried Flinders, as another stray shot hit the ship, wounding one of the men, and sending a splinter so close past the Irishman that it grazed his cheek. “Hooroo, boys! come on, the more the merrier! Sure it’s death or victory we’ll be havin’ in half-an-hour.”
At this moment of intense excitement and expectation, when every man’s nerves tingled to be called into vigorous action, Ben Bolter saw fit to give Flinders a lecture.
“Ye shouldn’t ought to speak misrespectful of death, boy,” said he gravely. “He’s a rough customer when he gits hold of ’e, an’ is sartin sure to have the upper hand. It’s my opinion that he’ll pay this ship a pretty stiff visit to-night, so you’d better treat him with respect, an’ belay yer jokin’—of which yer countrymen are over fond.”
To this Flinders listened with a humorous expression about the corners of his eyes, while he stroked his chin, and awaited a pause in order to make a suitable reply, but an exclamation from Bill Bowls changed the subject abruptly.
“Ho! boys,” he cried, “there goes the Admiral.”
A tremendous crash followed his words, and the Vanguard was seen to pour a broadside into the Spartiate—as before related.
The men of the Majestic gazed eagerly at the Admiral’s ship, which was almost enveloped in thick smoke as they passed ahead, but an order from Captain Westcott to be ready for action called the attention of every man on his duty. Whatever might have been, at that moment, the thoughts of the hundreds of men on board the Majestic, the whole soul and body of every man appeared to be concentrated on his own gun, as he awaited in stern silence the order to act.
It came at last, but somewhat differently from what had been expected. A sudden and peculiar motion was felt in the ship, and it was found that she had got entangled with the main rigging of one of the French vessels astern of the L’Orient. Instantly men were sent aloft to cut clear, but before this could be accomplished a perfect storm of shot and shell was sent into them from the towering sides of the three-decker. Men fell on all sides before they had an opportunity of firing a shot; again and again the crushing shower of metal came; spars and masts fell; the rigging was cut up terribly, and in a short time the Majestic would certainly have been sunk had she not fortunately managed to swing clear. A moment afterwards Captain Westcott, finding himself close alongside the Heureux—the ninth ship of the enemy’s line—gave the word to open fire, and Bill Bowls had at last the satisfaction of being allowed to apply a light to the touch-hole of his gun. Seventy-four men had for some time past felt their fingers itching with an almost irresistible desire to do this, and now upwards of thirty of them were allowed to gratify their wish. Instantly the good ship received a shock that caused her to quiver from the trucks to the keel, as her broadside went crashing into the Heureux.
No longer was there impatient inaction on board the Majestic, for not only did the Heureux reply vigorously, but the Tonnant—the eighth of the enemy’s line—opened fire on their other side. The Majestic therefore fought on both sides. Throughout the whole ship the stalwart, half-naked men heaved at the huge guns. Everywhere, from stem to stern, was exhibited in full swing the active processes of sponging out, passing along powder and ball, ramming home the charges, running out, working the handspikes, stepping aside to avoid the recoil—and the whole operation of working the guns, as only British seamen know how to work them! All this was done in the midst of smoke, flame, crashing shot, and flying splinters, while the decks were slippery with human blood, and strewn with dead men, from amongst whom the wounded were raised as tenderly as the desperate circumstances in which they were placed would admit of, and carried below. Many of those who were thus raised never reached the cockpit, but again fell, along with those who bore them.
One of the men at the gun where Bill Bowls was at work was in the act of handing a round shot to Bill, when a ball entered the port-hole and hit him on the head, scattering his brains over the gun. Bill sprang forward to catch him in his arms, but slipped on the bloody deck and fell. That fall saved his life, for at the same moment a musket ball entered the port and passed close over his head, shattering the arm of a poor boy—one of those brave little fellows called powder-monkeys—who was in the act of carrying a cartridge to Ben Bolter. Ben could not delay the loading of the piece to assist the little fellow, who used his remaining strength to stagger forward and deliver the cartridge before he fell, but he shouted hastily to a passing shipmate—