The Grateful Indian, and Other Stories

by William Henry Giles Kingston

The Boatswain’s Son: A Tale of the Sea, by William H.G. Kingston.

It was the memorable 1st of June. A sea fight ever to be renowned in history was raging between the fleets of England and France. The great guns were thundering and roaring, musketry was rattling, round-shot, and chain-shot, and grape, and langridge, and missiles of every description, invented for carrying on the bloody game of war, were hissing through the air, crashing against the sides of the ships, rending them asunder, shattering the tall masts and spars, sending their death-dealing fragments flying around, and hurling to the deck, mangled and bleeding, the gallant seamen as they stood at their quarters in all the pride of manhood, fighting for the

honour and glory of heir respective countries. A dark canopy hung over the scene, every moment increasing in density as the guns belched forth their flashes of flame and clouds of smoke, filling the pure air of heaven with sulphureous vapours, and almost concealing the fierce combatants from each other’s gaze.

“Who is that brave youngster?” asked the captain of the renowned ‘Marlborough,’ a seventy-four, which lay hotly engaged surrounded by foes in the thick of the fight; “I never saw a cooler thing or better timed.”

“The son of Mr Ripley the boatswain, sir,” was the answer.

“I must have my eye on him, there is stuff in that lad,” observed the captain. The deed which had called forth this eulogium was certainly well worthy of praise. The “Marlborough” had for some time been furiously engaged, almost broadside to broadside, with the “Impétueux,” a French seventy-four, which ship had just fallen aboard her, the Frenchman’s bowsprit becoming entangled in her mizen rigging. To keep her antagonist in that position was of the greatest consequence to the “Marlborough,” as she might thus rake her fore and aft, receiving but little damage in return. An officer and two or three men sprang into the “Marlborough’s” mizen rigging to secure the bowsprit to it. The French small-arm men rushed forward to prevent this being done, by keeping up a fire of musketry. The two seamen fell. The lieutenant still hung in the rigging, but the rope with which he was lashing the bowsprit to it was shot from his hand; no other was within reach. Having just delivered the powder he had brought from below, young Ripley was watching the proceeding. Seizing a rope he sprang into the ringing unhurt amid a shower of bullets, and handed it to the brave officer. Together they made the required turns for lashing it fast, and descended to the deck in safety. The young powder-boy then resuming his tub was speedily again seen at his station, composedly sitting on the top of it as if he had performed no unusual deed. The “Marlborough” had soon another antagonist, the “Mucius,” seventy-four, which fell aboard her on the bow, the three ships thus forming a triangle, of which the British ship was the base. With these two opponents, each more powerful than she was, the “Marlborough” continued the seemingly unequal fight, but the stout arms and hearts of her crew made amends for their inferiority in numbers. Her mizen-mast fell soon after the “Mucius” engaged her, her fore and main masts followed, and the Frenchmen began to hope that victory was to be theirs, but they had not discovered at that time the stuff of which British tars are made. Though dismasted herself, she had her foes fast so that they could not escape. So well did her crew work their guns, that they quickly shot away the bowsprit and all the lower masts of the “Impétueux,” those of the “Mucius” soon sharing the same fate. At this juncture another French ship, the “Montague,” passing under the “Marlborough’s” stern, fired a broadside into her of round-shot and langridge, killing many of her brave crew, and wounding among others her captain, though receiving but a few shots in return. The first battle in that long, protracted, and bloody war was over, and won by England’s veteran admiral, Lord Howe; six of the enemy’s finest line of battle ships forming the prize of victory, and among them the “Impétueux.”

The “Marlborough’s” captain had not forgot the promise he had made to himself in favour of Young Ripley. As he lay wounded in his cabin he sent for the boatswain. The proud father had heard of his son’s gallantry, and the captain’s words had been repeated to him. It would have been difficult to find a finer specimen of the superior class of British seaman, the pith and sinew of the navy, than the boatswain of the “Marlborough” presented, as, still in the prime of manhood, he stood, hat in hand, before his captain. By his manner and appearance he looked indeed well fitted for the higher ranks of his profession, but it was his lot to be a boatswain, and he did not complain. With unfeigned satisfaction he heard the account of his son’s gallantry and coolness rehearsed by the captain’s lips.

“You have always proved yourself to be a brave man and a good officer, and although I have it not in my power to reward you as you deserve, I can your son,” said the captain. “Would it be satisfactory to you to see him placed on the quarterdeck?”

The father’s heart beat quick; the blush of gratified pride rose to his cheeks as he answered, “It is the thing of all others I should prize. I trust that he will not be found unfitted for the rank to which he may attain if you thus put his foot on the lower ratlins.”