Chapter Thirty Three.
The famous fight of October the Eleventh.
My readers do not, I hope, expect from me a full, true, and particular account of the glorious sea-fight of October 11, 1797, off Camperdown; for if they do, they will be sadly disappointed. Indeed, it seems to me, the worst person to describe a battle is one who has fought in it. For if he does his duty, he has no eyes for any business but his own; and as to seeing what is happening along the entire line at any time, it would take an eagle poised in mid-air, with eyes that could penetrate a cloud of smoke, to do it honestly. I am no eagle, and my eyes can carry no further than those of any other plain mortal. I can tell only what I saw. For the rest, the eagles have written their story in books, where any one can read all about the famous victory—and more than all.
There was little time to observe anything in the bustle of our putting out from Yarmouth. The ship was not yet clear of the confusion of her hurried refitting and revictualling. Stores lay about which needed stowing; there were new sails to bend and old ropes to splice; there were decks to swab and guns to polish, hammocks to sling, and ammunition to give out. Yet all worked with so hearty a will, and looked forward so joyously, after eighteen weeks’ idleness, to a brush with the enemy, that before sundown all was nearly taut and ship-shape. If anything could help, it was the kindly nod and cheery word of our admiral himself as he paced to and fro among us. A beautiful man he was—a giant to look at, and as gentle as he was tall; yet with a flash in his eye, as he turned his face seaward, that told us that there was not a man in the ship who looked forward with more boyish eagerness to the brush ahead than he. Though it was but for a week, I hold it to this day something to be able to say that I have served under Duncan.
Had I been in the mood to stand on my dignity, I might have felt affronted to find myself set to do ordinary seaman’s work on board the Venerable. For in the hurry of our setting out from Yarmouth there was time neither to report myself nor to choose my work. I was no sooner on board than I was hurried forward to set the fore-courses; and no sooner was that done than a mop was put into my hands to swab the main-deck; and no sooner was that done than I was told off to carry stores below. At any rate, it was better than a Dutch prison, and, thought I, a common sailor under Duncan is better than a lieutenant under Mr Adrian. Time enough when prizes were towed into port to stand out for dignities.
The next day, the tenth, despite the strong north-wester, our fleet, which numbered fourteen sail of the line, held well together for the Texel, picking up one or two fresh consorts during the day, and beating about now and again in expectation of news of the longed-for enemy. We saw nothing but a few merchantmen; and the admiral was beginning to fear that, after all, the Dutchmen had given us the slip, and made off to join forces with the French fleet at Brest, when an armed lugger, flying a signal, hove in sight, and reported that the Dutch admiral was only a few leagues away to the south.
The joy on board was indescribable; and as night closed in, and we stood out on the starboard tack, the certainty that daybreak would discover the enemy was almost as great a cause for jubilation as if we had already won our victory.
Eager as we were, however, the admiral ordered all of us who were not on the watch below, charging us to get sleep while we could, and lay provender on board, for we had hungry work before us.