The sentiment was received with the loudest applause by the crew. On the Captain inquiring what had occurred, “It’s little Billy True Blue, sir, standing up and a-swearin’ as how he’ll drub the Frenchmen,” was the answer.
Even Captain Penrose at such a moment, which must be awful to all thinking men when about to engage in deadly combat with an enemy, could not help smiling at the account, however much he might be inclined to doubt the correctness of the assertion.
“Let him get a little bigger before we try his metal,” he replied. “Take him below at once. We are nearing the enemy’s line, and shall soon have their shot come rattling aboard us.”
The day had drawn on before the two hostile fleets could approach each other; but the rear ships, from want of wind, were far astern when the Princessa, Shrewsbury, Intrepid, and Montague, leading, followed closely by the Terrible and Ajax, got into action and bore the whole fire of the van and centre of the French fleet. Right gallantly did the English tars stand to their guns; and seldom have they had more need of their boasted courage. Round-shot and chain-shot and langridge came showering thickly down upon them. The English line was to windward, and might easily have got out of the fight; but this the Captains disdained to do, though anxiously looking for the assistance of their friends. The wind more than once shifted, and each time that it did so, it enabled the French to bring more of their ships down on the English centre, especially on the Terrible. She looked like some noble monster brought to bay. Although with one opponent abeam, and two others on her bows, and another on her quarter, pouring their shot in upon her, not a man flinched from his gun. Numbers fell, killed or wounded, but their places were instantly supplied by their shipmates. Several guns were dismounted, but others were got over from the opposite side, and fought with the most determined spirit. The brave old Captain walked the quarterdeck as coolly as if no enemy was in sight, casting an eye aloft every now and then, to assure himself that the flag, which he had resolved should fly to the last, was still untouched.
Paul Pringle was one of the quartermasters at the helm. Several shipmates and friends had fallen around him. He saw the enemy’s shot striking the ship’s sides between wind and water, and he could not help feeling the very perilous position in which the old ship was placed. In spite, however, of the tumult, the death and havoc which raged around him, his thoughts turned anxiously towards his little charge down in the distant hold. “Well, if the Captain goes, and I go, and we all go who have charge of him, there is One above who will look after him and tend him better than we can,” he said more than once to himself. “Still I wish he were safe out of this. For myself, I’d as lief go down with my colours flying as strike them; but that would be hard for him, and yet the old ship seems very uneasy. Heaven watch over him and protect him!”
As Paul said this to himself, a shot came flying from the ship on the Terrible’s quarter. Suddenly Paul was torn from his hold of the wheel, and, with two other men, was seen struggling on the other side of the deck. Captain Penrose had at that moment faced aft and seen what had occurred.
“Paul Pringle gone!” he said sadly to himself. “A better seaman never died fighting for his country.”
Scarcely had the well-merited eulogium passed his lips, than, from among the mangled forms of his shipmates, and covered from head to foot with their still warm blood, up sprang Paul himself, and with a bound returned to the wheel, the spokes of which he grasped firmly, singing out with stentorian voice and a prolonged cadence, “Steady!” as he passed them rapidly round.
The man who had been ordered to take his place stopped when he saw him, with a look of amazement, uncertain whether it was his ghost or not.
“It’s myself, Jack,” said he; “but it was a near touch and go, and for some moments never did I expect to be on my legs again, let me tell you, lad.”