Rodney Stone by Arthur Conan Doyle (i love reading books txt) 📖

yards and bowsprit, and a bit of silver plate at the truck of the masts.  My Jacks could have fired into her, and would, too, if they had not been held back.  It made them mad to think of all they had done in the south, and then to see this saucy frigate flashing her money before their eyes.”

“I cannot see their grievance, Captain Ball,” said Cochrane.

“When you are promoted to a two-decker, my lord, it will possibly become clearer to you.”

“You speak as if a cruiser had nothing to do but take prizes.  If that is your view, you will permit me to say that you know very little of the matter.  I have handled a sloop, a corvette, and a frigate, and I have found a great variety of duties in each of them.  I have had to avoid the enemy’s battleships and to fight his cruisers.  I have had to chase and capture his privateers, and to cut them out when they run under his batteries.  I have had to engage his forts, to take my men ashore, and to destroy his guns and his signal stations.  All this, with convoying, reconnoitring, and risking one’s own ship in order to gain a knowledge of the enemy’s movements, comes under the duties of the commander of a cruiser.  I make bold to say that the man who can carry these objects out with success has deserved better of the country than the officer of a battleship, tacking from Ushant to the Black Rocks and back again until she builds up a reef with her beef-bones.”

“Sir,” said the angry old sailor, “such an officer is at least in no danger of being mistaken for a privateersman.”

“I am surprised, Captain Bulkeley,” Cochran retorted hotly, “that you should venture to couple the names of privateersman and King’s officer.”

There was mischief brewing among these hot-headed, short-spoken salts, but Captain Foley changed the subject to discuss the new ships which were being built in the French ports.  It was of interest to me to hear these men, who were spending their lives in fighting against our neighbours, discussing their character and ways.  You cannot conceive—you who live in times of peace and charity—how fierce the hatred was in England at that time against the French, and above all against their great leader.  It was more than a mere prejudice or dislike.  It was a deep, aggressive loathing of which you may even now form some conception if you examine the papers or caricatures of the day.  The word “Frenchman” was hardly spoken without “rascal” or “scoundrel” slipping in before it.  In all ranks of life and in every part of the country the feeling was the same.  Even the Jacks aboard our ships fought with a viciousness against a French vessel which they would never show to Dane, Dutchman, or Spaniard.

If you ask me now, after fifty years, why it was that there should have been this virulent feeling against them, so foreign to the easy-going and tolerant British nature, I would confess that I think the real reason was fear.  Not fear of them individually, of course—our foulest detractors have never called us faint-hearted—but fear of their star, fear of their future, fear of the subtle brain whose plans always seemed to go aright, and of the heavy hand which had struck nation after nation to the ground.  We were but a small country, with a population which, when the war began, was not much more than half that of France.  And then, France had increased by leaps and bounds, reaching out to the north into Belgium and Holland, and to the south into Italy, whilst we were weakened by deep-lying disaffection among both Catholics and Presbyterians in Ireland.  The danger was imminent and plain to the least thoughtful.  One could not walk the Kent coast without seeing the beacons heaped up to tell the country of the enemy’s landing, and if the sun were shining on the uplands near Boulogne, one might catch the flash of its gleam upon the bayonets of manoeuvring veterans.  No wonder that a fear of the French power lay deeply in the hearts of the most gallant men, and that fear should, as it always does, beget a bitter and rancorous hatred.

The seamen did not speak kindly then of their recent enemies.  Their hearts loathed them, and in the fashion of our country their lips said what the heart felt.  Of the French officers they could not have spoken with more chivalry, as of worthy foemen, but the nation was an abomination to them.  The older men had fought against them in the American War, they had fought again for the last ten years, and the dearest wish of their hearts seemed to be that they might be called upon to do the same for the remainder of their days.  Yet if I was surprised by the virulence of their animosity against the French, I was even more so to hear how highly they rated them as antagonists.  The long succession of British victories which had finally made the French take to their ports and resign the struggle in despair had given all of us the idea that for some reason a Briton on the water must, in the nature of things, always have the best of it against a Frenchman.  But these men who had done the fighting did not think so.  They were loud in their praise of their foemen’s gallantry, and precise in their reasons for his defeat.  They showed how the officers of the old French Navy had nearly all been aristocrats.  How the Revolution had swept them out of their ships, and the force been left with insubordinate seamen and no competent leaders.  This ill-directed fleet had been hustled into port by the pressure of the well-manned and well-commanded British, who had pinned them there ever since, so that they had never had an opportunity of learning seamanship.  Their harbour drill and their harbour gunnery had been of no service when sails had to be trimmed and broadsides fired on the heave of an Atlantic swell.  Let one of their frigates get to sea and have a couple of years’ free run in which the crew might learn their duties, and then it would be a feather in the cap of a British officer if with a ship of equal force he could bring down her colours.

Such were the views of these experienced officers, fortified by many reminiscences and examples of French gallantry, such as the way in which the crew of the L’Orient had fought her quarter-deck guns when the main-deck was in a blaze beneath them, and when they must have known that they were standing over an exploding magazine.  The general hope was that the West Indian expedition since the peace might have given many of their fleet an ocean training, and that they might be tempted out into mid-Channel if the war were to break out afresh.  But would it break out afresh?  We had spent gigantic sums and made enormous exertions to curb the power of Napoleon and to prevent him from becoming the universal despot of Europe.  Would the Government try it again?  Or were they appalled by the gigantic load of debt which must bend the backs of many generations unborn?  Pitt was there, and surely he was not a man to leave his work half done.

And then suddenly there was a bustle at the door.  Amid the grey swirl of the tobacco-smoke I could catch a glimpse of a blue coat and gold epaulettes, with a crowd gathering thickly round them, while a hoarse murmur rose from the group which thickened into a deep-chested cheer.  Every one was on his feet, peering and asking each other what it might mean.  And still the crowd seethed and the cheering swelled.

“What is it?  What has happened?” cried a score of voices.

“Put him up!  Hoist him up!” shouted somebody, and an instant later I saw Captain Troubridge appear above the shoulders of the crowd.  His face was flushed, as if he were in wine, and he was waving what seemed to be a letter in the air.  The cheering died away, and there was such a hush that I could hear the crackle of the paper in his hand.

“Great news, gentlemen!” he roared.  “Glorious news!  Rear-Admiral Collingwood has directed me to communicate it to you.  The French Ambassador has received his papers to-night.  Every ship on the list is to go into commission.  Admiral Cornwallis is ordered out of Cawsand Bay to cruise off Ushant.  A squadron is starting for the North Sea and another for the Irish Channel.”

He may have had more to say, but his audience could wait no longer.  How they shouted and stamped and raved in their delight!  Harsh old flag-officers, grave post-captains, young lieutenants, all were roaring like schoolboys breaking up for the holidays.  There was no thought now of those manifold and weary grievances to which I had listened.  The foul weather was passed, and the landlocked sea-birds would be out on the foam once more.  The rhythm of “God Save the King” swelled through the babel, and I heard the old lines sung in a way that made you forget their bad rhymes and their bald sentiments.  I trust that you will never hear them so sung, with tears upon rugged cheeks, and catchings of the breath from strong men.  Dark days will have come again before you hear such a song or see such a sight as that.  Let those talk of the phlegm of our countrymen who have never seen them when the lava crust of restraint is broken, and when for an instant the strong, enduring fires of the North glow upon the surface.  I saw them then, and if I do not see them now, I am not so old or so foolish as to doubt that they are there.

p. 221CHAPTER XIII.
LORD NELSON.

My father’s appointment with Lord Nelson was an early one, and he was the more anxious to be punctual as he knew how much the Admiral’s movements must be affected by the news which we had heard the night before.  I had hardly breakfasted then, and my uncle had not rung for his chocolate, when he called for me at Jermyn Street.  A walk of a few hundred yards brought us to the high building of discoloured brick in Piccadilly, which served the Hamiltons as a town house, and which Nelson used as his head-quarters when business or pleasure called him from Merton.  A footman answered our knock, and we were ushered into a large drawing-room with sombre furniture and melancholy curtains.  My father sent in his name, and there we sat, looking at the white Italian statuettes in the corners, and the picture of Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples which hung over the harpsichord.  I can remember that a black clock was ticking loudly upon the mantelpiece, and that every now and then, amid the rumble of the hackney coaches, we could hear boisterous laughter from some inner chamber.

When at last the door opened, both my father and I sprang to our feet, expecting to find ourselves face to face with the greatest living Englishman.  It was a very different person, however, who swept into the room.

She was a lady, tall, and, as it seemed to me, exceedingly beautiful, though, perhaps, one who was more experienced and more critical might have thought that her charm lay in the past rather than the present.  Her queenly figure was moulded upon large and noble lines, while her face, though already tending to become somewhat heavy and coarse, was still remarkable for the brilliancy of the complexion, the beauty of the large, light blue eyes, and the tinge of the dark hair which curled over the low white forehead.  She carried herself in the most stately fashion, so that as I looked at her majestic entrance, and at the pose which she struck as she glanced at my father, I was reminded of the Queen of the Peruvians as, in the person of Miss Polly Hinton, she incited Boy Jim and myself to insurrection.

“Lieutenant Anson Stone?” she asked.

“Yes, your ladyship,” answered my father.

“Ah,” she cried, with an affected and exaggerated start, “you know me, then?”

“I have seen your ladyship at Naples.”

“Then you have doubtless seen my poor Sir William also—my poor, poor Sir William!”  She touched her dress with her white, ring-covered fingers, as if to draw our attention to the fact that she was in the deepest mourning.

“I heard of your ladyship’s sad loss,” said my father.

“We died together,” she cried.  “What can my life be now save a long-drawn living death?”

She spoke in a beautiful, rich voice, with the most heart-broken thrill in it, but I could not conceal from myself that she appeared to be one of the most robust persons that I had ever seen, and I was surprised to notice that she shot arch little questioning glances at me, as if the admiration even of so insignificant a person