Story 9—Chapter 2.
There was not a finer lad in the country round than Sir Baldwin’s third son, his blue-eyed, light-haired, merry, laughing boy Harry. When he came home from school for the summer holidays, Harry declared his fixed intention of going to sea. Sir Baldwin, after several conversations with his son, felt convinced that it was his settled wish to enter the navy, and forthwith set about obtaining a berth for him as a midshipman on board a man-of-war. There was but little difficulty in doing this; for, after a short peace, England was again at war with France and Spain and other countries, and ships were being fitted out as fast as they could be got ready. Harry was in high glee. The dream of his life was to be realised. He had not talked about the matter. People often, when they are very earnest in wishing for a thing, do not talk about it. Sir Baldwin took him to Plymouth; his outfit was soon procured, and he was entered on board the Phoenix, a dashing 36-gun frigate, destined for the West India station; a part of the world where there was every chance of her having plenty of fighting. Captain Butler, her brave commander, lost no time in getting his crew into an efficient state by exercising them constantly at their guns, and in shortening and making sail. Harry Treherne thus rapidly acquired a knowledge of the profession he had chosen. He had determined to be a good sailor; he gave his mind to the work, and considered no details beneath his notice; consequently, everybody was ready to give him instruction; he gained the confidence of the officers and the respect of the men.
“A sail on the lee bow!” shouted the look-out man at the mast-head.
The cry made the captain and officers on deck turn their glasses in the direction indicated. The helm was put up, and at length, through the haze of a warm summer morning, the stranger was discovered, with her mizen topsail aback and her main topsail shivering, evidently awaiting the arrival of the Phoenix. She was clearly an enemy’s frigate, heavily armed. The Phoenix had been disguised to look as much as possible like a corvette, a much smaller class of vessel, and it was more than possible that the Frenchmen might find that they had caught a Tartar.
“We shall have some glorious fighting,” cried little Tommy Butts, the smallest midshipman on board. “We shall thrash ’em in quarter less no time. I hope that we shall have to board; that’s the way I should like to take the enemy.”
“Why, your cutlass would run away with you, Tommy,” said a big mate, who delighted to sneer at Tommy. “It is a shame to send such children as you to sea.”
“His spirit may run away with him,” observed Harry. “Never mind what old Hulks says; Nelson was a little chap, and he did a few things to be proud of.”
Many a joke and laugh were indulged in as the men, stripped to the waist, stood at their guns, while the frigate approached her powerful antagonist. At length, as she got within range, the Frenchman opened his fire, the shot flying through the sails and wounding severely the masts, yards, and rigging. Not a gun, however, was discharged on board the Phoenix in return till it could take deadly effect. The Didon, the French frigate, however, from fast sailing and clever manoeuvring, always managed to keep in such a position that the guns of the Phoenix could not bear on her. At length the English losing patience, ran right down on the Didon to windward, and thus the two antagonists were brought broadside to broadside.
This was the longed-for moment, and the British crew made up for the previous delay by working their guns with a rapidity which soon strewed the decks of the enemy with the dead and wounded, damaged her hull, and cut up her rigging.
Again the French ship got clear; but, as she had lost several of her sails, the Phoenix was more of a match for her. Once more the antagonists closed, this time in a deadly embrace, the bow of the Didon running into the quarter of the Phoenix.