The Battle and the Breeze

The victory was most complete. The French fleet was annihilated. As might be supposed, the hero of the Nile was, after this, almost worshipped as a demigod. It is worthy of remark here that Nelson, as soon as the conquest was completed, sent orders through the fleet that thanksgiving should be returned, in every ship, to Almighty God, for the victory with which He had blessed His Majesty’s arms.

Chapter Eight.

Our Hero and his Messmate get into Trouble

On the night after the battle, Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter were sent on board a French transport ship.

As they sat beside each other, in irons, and securely lodged under hatches, these stout men of war lamented their hard fate thus—

“I say, Bill, this is wot I calls a fix!”

“That’s so, Ben—a bad fix.”

There was silence for a few minutes, then Ben resumed—

“Now, d’ye see, this here war may go on for ever so long—years it may be—an’ here we are on our way to a French prison, where we’ll have the pleasure, mayhap, of spendin’ our youth in twirlin’ our thumbs or bangin’ our heads agin the bars of our cage.”

“There ain’t a prison in France as’ll hold me,” said Bill Bowls resolutely.

“No? how d’ye ’xpect to git out—seein’ that the walls and doors ain’t made o’ butter, nor yet o’ turnips?” inquired Ben.

“I’ll go up the chimbley,” said Bill savagely, for his mind had reverted to Nelly Blyth, and he could not bear to think of prolonged imprisonment.

“But wot if they’ve got no chimbleys?”

“I’ll try the winders.”

“But if the winders is tight barred, wot then?”

“Why, then, I’ll bust ’em, or I’ll bust myself, that’s all.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Ben.

Again there was a prolonged silence, during which the friends moodily meditated on the dark prospects before them.

“If we could only have bin killed in action,” said Bill, “that would have been some comfort.”

“Not so sure o’ that, messmate,” said Ben. “There’s no sayin’ wot may turn up. P’r’aps the war will end soon, an’ that’s not onlikely, for we’ve whipped the Mounseers on sea, an’ it won’t be difficult for our lobsters to lick ’em on land. P’r’aps there’ll be an exchange of prisoners, an’ we may have a chance of another brush with them one o’ these days. If the wust comes to the wust, we can try to break out o’ jail and run a muck for our lives. Never say die is my motto.”

Bill Bowls did not assent to these sentiments in words, but he clenched his fettered hands, set his teeth together, and gave his comrade a look which assured him that whatever might be attempted he would act a vigorous part.

A few days later the transport entered a harbour, and a guard came on board to take charge of the prisoners, of whom there were about twenty. As they were being led to the jail of the town, Bill whispered to his comrade—

“Look out sharp as ye go along, Ben, an’ keep as close to me as ye can.”

“All right, my lad,” muttered Ben, as he followed the soldiers who specially guarded himself.

Ben did not suppose that Bill intended then and there to make a sudden struggle for freedom, because he knew that, with fettered wrists, in a strange port, the very name of which they did not know, and surrounded by armed enemies, such an attempt would be utterly hopeless; he therefore concluded, correctly, that his companion wished him to take the bearings (as he expressed it) of the port, and of the streets through which they should pass. Accordingly he kept his “weather-eye open.”

The French soldiers who conducted the seamen to prison, although stout athletic fellows, and, doubtless, capable of fighting like heroes, were short of stature, so that the British tars looked down on them with a patronising expression of countenance, and one or two even ventured on a few facetious remarks. Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter, who both measured above six feet in their stockings, towered above the crowd like two giants.

“It’s a purty place intirely,” said an Irish sailor, with a smiling countenance, looking round upon the houses, and nodding to a group of pretty girls who were regarding the prisoners with looks of pity. “What may be the name of it, av I may make bowld to inquire?”

The question was addressed to the soldier on his right, but the man paid no attention. So the Irishman repeated it, but without drawing forth a reply.

“Sure, yer a paltry thing that can’t give a civil answer to a civil question.”

“He don’t understand Irish, Pat, try him with English,” said Ben Bolter.

“Ah, then,” said Pat, “ye’d better try that yersilf, only yer so high up there he won’t be able to hear ye.”

Before Ben had an opportunity of trying the experiment, however, they had arrived at the jail. After they had passed in, the heavy door was shut with a clang, and bolted and barred behind them.

It is probable that not one of the poor fellows who heard the sound, escaped a sensation of sinking at the heart, but certain it is that not one condescended to show his feelings in his looks.

They were all put into a large empty room, the window of which looked into a stone passage, which was itself lighted from the roof; the door was shut, locked, bolted, and barred, and they were left to their meditations.

They had not remained long there, however, when the bolts and bars were heard moving again.

“What say ’e to a rush, lads?” whispered one of the men eagerly.

“Agreed,” said Bill Bowls, starting forward; “I’ll lead you, boys.”

“No man can fight with his hands tied,” growled one of the others. “You’ll only be spoilin’ a better chance, mayhap.”

At that moment the last bolt was withdrawn, and the door swung open, revealing several files of soldiers with muskets, and bayonets fixed, in the passage. This sight decided the question of a rush!

Four of the soldiers entered with the turnkey. The latter, going up to Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter, said to them in broken English:—

“You follows de soldat.”

Much surprised, but in silence, they obeyed the command.

As they were going out, one of their comrades said, “Good-bye, mates: it’s plain they’ve taken ye for admirals on account o’ yer size!”

“Niver a taste,” said the Irishman before mentioned, “’tis bein’ led, they are, to exekooshion—”

The remainder of this consolatory suggestion was cut off by the shutting of the door.

After traversing several passages, the turnkey stopped before a small door studded with iron nails, and, selecting one of his huge keys, opened it, while the soldiers ranged up on either side.

The turnkey, who was a tall, powerful man, stepped back, and, looking at Bill, pointed to the cell with his finger, as much as to say, “Go in.”

Bill looked at him and at the soldiers for a moment, clenched his fists, and drew his breath short, but as one of the guard quietly brought his musket to the charge, he heaved a sigh, bent his head, and, passing under the low doorway, entered the cell.

“Are we to stop long here, Mister Turnkey?” asked Ben, as he was about to follow.

The man vouchsafed no reply, but again pointed to the cell.