Then all was thunder and smoke. The Venerable shook and staggered under the crushing fire which struck her hull. But for every broadside she got she poured two into the masts and rigging of her opponent. More than once, as the two ships swung together, with yards almost locked, we had to duck for our lives to escape the falling spars of the Dutchman. I can remember once and again, as the Vryheid lurched towards us, seeing her deck covered with dead and wounded men; and every broadside she put into us left its tale of destruction among our fellows.
Presently, with a crash that sounded even above the cannon, down came her mainmast by the board, and the British cheers which greeted the fall were even louder still.
But if we reckoned on having done with her, we were sorely mistaken; for three other Dutchmen just then hove up to their admiral’s help, and for a quarter of an hour the Venerable had as hot a time of it as ship ever lived through. There was not much for us at the helm to do but stand and be shot at; which we did so well that when at last (just as the mizzen-mast of the Vryheid followed the example of her mainmast) the order came to haul off and wear round on the other tack, I found myself the only one of four to answer, “Ay, ay,” and ram down the helm. The quartermaster, poor fellow, lay at my feet, shot nearly in two; while of our other two mates, one was wounded, with an arm shot away, another stunned by a falling timber.
It was a job to get the ship round; and when we did, there was the Vryheid, with her one mast left, waiting for us as saucy as ever. After that, all passed for me in even a greater maze than before; for a bullet from the enemy’s rigging found me out with a dull thud in the shoulder, and sent me reeling on to the deck. I was able after the first shock to stumble up and get my hands upon the helm; but I stood there sick and silly, and of less use than the poor quartermaster at my feet.
I was dimly conscious of a din and smoke, like the opening of the gate of hell. Then, through a drift in the smoke, I could see the tall form of the Dutch admiral standing almost alone on his quarter-deck, as cool as if he were on the street at Amsterdam, passing a word of command through his trumpet. Beyond him I caught a glimpse of the low Dutch sand-hills, not two leagues to leeward. Then, away to our right, came the faint noise of British cheers above the firing. Then some one near me exclaimed, “Struck, by Saint George!” and almost directly after the firing seemed to cease, and our fellows, springing on to the yards and bulwarks, set up such a cheer that the Venerable shook with it. I tried to get up my head to see what it was all about, but as I did so I tumbled all in a heap on the deck—and the battle of Camperdown was finished for me.
It was nearly dark when I came to between decks, with a burning pain in my shoulder and my mouth as dry as a brick. The place was full of groaning men, some worse hit than myself, and one or two past the help of the surgeon, who slowly went his round of the berths. By the time he reached me I did not much care if he were to order me overboard, so long as he put me out of my misery.
But, after all, mine was a simple case. There was a bullet in me somewhere, and a few bone-splinters were wandering about my system. Apparently I could wait till my neighbour, whose thigh bone was crushed, was seen to. So while he, poor fellow, was having his leg cut off, and beginning to bleed to death (for he didn’t outlive the operation an hour), I lay, with my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, groaning.
“Ah, Mr Gallagher,” said the first lieutenant, as he came the round, “they picked you out, did they? Nothing much, I hope? It’s cost us a pretty penny in dead and wounded already.”
“And we beat them?” groaned I.
“Beat? We made mincemeat of them! Haven’t we the Dutch admiral a prisoner on board this moment, playing cards with Admiral Duncan in his cabin as comfortably as if he was in his own club at the Hague?”