The Battle and the Breeze by Robert Michael Ballantyne (best summer reads TXT) 📖

a shot."

"No, we ain't," said Tom Riggles, who was also stationed at the same gun; "an' depend on it Cap'n Ward is not the man to throw away his shot for nothin'."

Ben Bolter and some of the other men at the gun agreed with this opinion, so our hero, whose fighting propensities were beginning to rouse up, had to content himself with gazing through the port-hole at the flying enemy, and restrained his impatience as he best could.

At last the order was given to fire, and for an hour after that a running fight was maintained, but without much effect. When, however, the two ships of the enemy succeeded in drawing sufficiently near to each other, they hove to, and awaited the advance of the _Waterwitch_, plying her vigorously with shot as she came on.

Captain Ward only replied with his bow chasers at first. He walked the deck with his hands behind his back without speaking, and, as far as his countenance expressed his feelings, he might have been waiting for a summons to dinner, instead of hastening to engage in an unequal contest.

"Cap'n Ward niver growls much before he bites," said Patrick Flinn, an Irishman, who belonged to Bowls's mess. "He minds me of a spalpeen of a dog I wance had, as was uncommon fond o' fightin' but niver even showed his teeth till he was within half a yard of his inemy, but, och! he gripped him then an' no mistake. You'll see, messmates, that we won't give 'em a broadside till we're within half pistol-shot."

"Don't take on ye the dooties of a prophet, Paddy," said Ben Bolter, "for the last time ye tried it ye was wrong."

"When was that?" demanded Flinn.

"Why, no longer ago than supper-time last night, when ye said ye had eaten such a lot that ye wouldn't be able to taste another bite for a month to come, an' didn't I see ye pitchin' into the wittles this mornin' as if ye had bin starvin' for a week past?"

"Git along wid ye," retorted Flinn; "yer jokes is as heavy as yerself, an' worth about as much."

"An' how much may that be?" asked Ben, with a grin.

"Faix, it's not aisy to tell. I would need to work it out in a algibrabical calkilation, but if ye divide the half o' what ye know by the double o' what ye don't know, an' add the quarter o' what ye might have know'd--redoocin' the whole to nothin', by means of a compound o' the rule o' three and sharp practice, p'r'aps you'll--"

Flinn's calculation was cut short at that moment by the entrance of a round shot, which pierced the ship's side just above his head, and sent splinters flying in all directions, one of which killed a man at the next gun, and another struck Bill Bowls on the left arm, wounding him slightly.

The exclamations and comments of the men at the gun were stopped abruptly by the orders to let the ship fall off and fire a broadside.

The _Waterwitch_ trembled under the discharge, and then a loud cheer arose, for the immediate result was that the vessel of the enemy which had hit them was partially disabled--her foretopmast and flying jibboom having been shot away.

The _Waterwitch_ instantly resumed her course and while Bill Bowls was busily employed in assisting to reload his gun, he could see that the two Frenchmen were close on their lee bow.

Passing to windward of the two frigates, which were named respectively _La Gloire_ and the _St. Denis_, Captain Ward received a broadside from the latter, without replying to it, until he had crossed her bow within musket range, when he delivered a broadside which raked her from stem to stern. He then wore ship, and, passing between the two, fired his starboard broadside into the _Gloire_, and, almost immediately after, his port broadside into the _St. Denis_.

The effect on the two ships was tremendous.

Their sails and rigging were terribly cut up, and several of the yards came rattling down on their decks. The _Gloire_, in particular, had her rudder damaged. Seeing this, and knowing that in her crippled state she could do him no further damage, Captain Ward passed on, sailed round the stern of the _St. Denis_, and, when within six yards of her, sent a broadside right in at her cabin windows. Then he ranged alongside and kept up a tremendous fire.

The Frenchmen stuck to their guns admirably, but the British fired quicker. At such close quarters every shot told on both sides. The din and crash of such heavy artillery was terrific; and it soon became almost impossible to see what was going on for smoke.

Up to this point, although many of the men in the _Waterwitch_ had been killed or wounded, only one of those who manned the gun at which Bill Bowls served had been hit.

"It's too hot to last long," observed Flinn, as he thrust home a ball and drew out the ramrod; "run her out, boys."

The men obeyed, and were in the act of pulling at the tackle, when a shot from the enemy struck the gun on the muzzle, tore it from its fastenings, and hurled it to the other side of the deck.

Strange to say, only one of the men who worked it was hurt by the gun; but in its passage across the deck it knocked down and killed three men, and jammed one of the guns on the other side in such a way that it became for a time unserviceable. Ben Bolter and his comrades were making desperate efforts to clear the wreck, when they heard a shout on deck for the boarders. The bowsprit of the _Waterwitch_ had by that time been shot away; her rigging was dreadfully cut up, and her wheel smashed; and Captain Ward felt that, if the _St. Denis_ were to get away, he could not pursue her. He therefore resolved to board.

"Come along, lads," cried Tom Riggles, on hearing the order; "let's jine 'em."

He seized his cutlass as he spoke, and dashed towards the ladder, followed by Bowls, Bolter, Flinn, and others; but it was so crowded with men carrying the wounded down to the cockpit that they had to pause at the foot.

At that moment a handsome young midshipman was carried past, apparently badly wounded.

"Och!" exclaimed Flinn, in a tone of deep anxiety, "it's not Mister Cleveland, is it? Ah! don't say he's kilt!"

"Not quite," answered the midshipman, rousing himself, and looking round with flashing eyes as he endeavoured to wave his hand in the air. "I'll live to fight the French yet."

The poor boy almost fainted from loss of blood as he spoke; and the Irishman, uttering a wild shout, ran towards the stern, intending to gain the deck by the companion-hatch, and wreak his vengeance on the French. Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter followed him. As they passed the cabin door Bowls said hastily to Bolter, "I say, Ben, here, follow me; I'll show ye a dodge."

He ran into the cabin as he spoke and leaped out upon the quarter gallery, which by that time was so close to the quarter of the _St. Denis_ that it was possible to jump from one to the other.

Without a moment's hesitation he sprang across, dashed in one of the windows, and went head foremost into the enemy's cabin, followed by Bolter. Finding no one to oppose them there, they rushed upon deck and into the midst of a body of marines who were near the after-hatchway.

"Down with the frog-eaters!" cried Ben Bolter, discharging his pistol in the face of a marine with one hand, and cleaving down another with his cutlass.

The "frog-eaters," however, were by no means despicable men; for one of them clubbed his musket and therewith hit Ben such a blow on the head that he fell flat on the deck. Seeing this, Bill Bowls bestrode his prostrate comrade, and defended him for a few seconds with the utmost fury.

Captain Ward, who had leaped into the mizzen chains of the enemy, leading the boarders, beheld with amazement two of his own men on the quarter-deck of the _St. Denis_ attacking the enemy in rear. Almost at the same moment he observed the fall of one of them. His men also saw this, and giving an enthusiastic cheer they sprang upon the foe and beat them back. Bill Bowls was borne down in the rush by his friends, but he quickly regained his legs. Ben Bolter also recovered and jumped up. In five minutes more they were masters of the ship--hauled down the colours, and hoisted the Union Jack at the Frenchman's peak.

During the whole course of this action the _Gloire_, which had drifted within range, kept up a galling fire of musketry from her tops on the deck of the _Waterwitch_. Just as the _St. Denis_ was captured, a ball struck Captain Ward on the forehead, and he fell dead without a groan.

The first lieutenant, who was standing by his side at the moment, after hastily calling several men to convey their commander below, ordered the starboard guns of the prize to be fired into the _Gloire_. This was done with such effect that it was not found necessary to repeat the dose. The Frenchman immediately hauled down his colours, and the fight was at an end.

It need scarcely be said that the satisfaction with which this victory was hailed was greatly modified by the loss of brave Captain Ward, who was a favourite with his men, and one who would in all probability have risen to the highest position in the service, had he lived. He fell while his sun was in the zenith, and was buried in the ocean, that wide and insatiable grave, which has received too many of our brave seamen in the prime of life.

The first lieutenant, on whom the command temporarily devolved, immediately set about repairing damages, and, putting a prize crew into each of the French ships, sailed with them to the nearest friendly port.

The night after the action Bill Bowls, Ben Bolter, and Tom Riggles sat down on the heel of the bowsprit to have a chat.

"Not badly hit?" asked Ben of Bill, who was examining the bandage on his left arm.

"Nothin' to speak of," said Bill; "only a scratch. I'm lucky to have got off with so little; but I say, Ben, how does your head feel? That Mounseer had a handy way o' usin' the handspike. I do believe he would have cracked any man's skull but your own, which must be as thick as the head of an elephant. I see'd it comin', but couldn't help ye. Hows'ever, I saved ye from a second dose."

"It wos pritty hardish," said Ben, with a smile, an' made the stars sparkle in my brain for all the world like the rory borailis, as I've see'd so often in the northern skies; but it's all in the way o' trade, so I don't grumble; the only thing as bothers me is that I can't git my hat rightly on by reason of the bump.

"You've no cause to complain--neither of ye," said Tom Riggles, whose left hand was tied up and in a sling, "for you've lost nothin' but a little blood an' a