And now the great tulzie commenced in awful earnest, for Duncan ranged himself up against the _Vreyheid_ to the lee, while to windward of her was the _Ardent_. But three mighty Dutchmen came down hand-over-hand to the defence of their brave admiral's ship. So fearful was the fire of these latter that Duncan's ship would speedily have been placed _hors de combat_, had not others come to his rescue and restored the balance. But nothing could withstand the fury of Duncan's onslaught; and at last, with every officer dead or wounded, the brave Dutch admiral hauled down his flag. Twice during the terrible combat had Admiral Duncan's flag been shot away. It was then that bold Jack Crawford, whose name indicates his Scottish origin, wrapped the colours round his waist, and providing himself with nails and a hammer, climbed nearly to the main-truck and nailed the ensign to the mast.

Duncan received De Winter's sword, and soon after the battle was over and the victory ours. A glorious day and a glorious victory, but, ah!

how dearly bought. It gives us some faint notion of the pluck and go of our navy in those fighting days of old, to learn that the _Ardent_ had her captain and forty officers and men slain outright, and no less than one hundred and seven wounded.

The scene in the c.o.c.kpit during a fight like this is one that genius alone could graphically depict. The centre-ground of the picture is the big table, around which the surgeons are at work, stripped to their shirts, their faces stained, their hands and garments dripping gore. The whole place is filled with stifling smoke, through which the glimmering lights are but faintly seen; but all around are ranged the wounded, the gashed, the bleeding, awaiting their turn on the terrible table. You can hear them if you cannot see them--hear them groaning, sometimes even shrieking, in their agony; and the mournful call for "Water! water!" is heard in every lull of the fight or momentary cessation of cannon's roar. And bending low as they move among them are the stewards and idlers of the ship, serving out the coveted draught. But down the blood-slippery companion-ladder come the bearers incessantly, carrying as gently as a Jack can their sorely-stricken messmates. Verily a sad scene! On deck war is witnessed in all its pomp and its panoply, on deck is honour and glory; the dark side is seen in the c.o.c.kpit--the sorrow, the despair, the hopelessness, the agony, the death.

CHAPTER XX.

NELSON AND THE NILE.

"With one of his precious limbs shot away, Bold Nelson knowed well how to trick 'em; So, as for the French, 'tis as much as to say, We can tie up one hand, and then lick 'em."

DIBDIN.

Things in England began to look up. Those who preached revolution were forced to hide their heads with shame after the great battle of Camperdown. For this fight had completely restored confidence in our country's powers, and for the time being the fears of invasion had fled far away.

In many a lordly hall over all the land the feast was laid, on many a lofty hill the bonfires blazed; it was indeed a season of great rejoicing.

In one of the window recesses of Mr. Keane's somewhat lonesome and dreary suburban mansion, as the shadows of evening fell on the almost leafless elms around the house, sat Gerty. She was looking out into the gathering night, looking out at the slowly-falling leaves; for though a book lay in her lap, it was almost too dark to read. By her side sat a beautiful deer-hound, with his muzzle leaning on her knee, and gazing up into her face with his brown earnest eyes, as if he knew there was sorrow at her heart.

He--Jack--had given her that dog as a puppy, and no power on earth could make her part with him. As she turned her eyes from the window, she noted his speaking look, and as she bent to caress him, a tear fell on his rough gray neck.

Presently there was a knock at the door, and in rushed Mary the maid.

Mary seemed about half daft. She was waving aloft a copy of the _Times_, and scarce could speak for excitement. But she managed to point to a certain column.

"What is it, Mary? I cannot see."

"Which it's our boy Jack as is mentioned for conspeakyewous bravery.

Aren't you glad and proud?"

"Glad and proud? O Mary! silly child. And I am to be the bride of another. Nay, father insists that I shall give Sir Digby his answer to-night at the ball."

"An' I should do it, missus; that I should. I'd put it in fine polite English, but I'd put it straight, all the same. When he knelt before me,--'Jump up, old Granger,' I should say. 'Right about face. Shoulder hip. Quick march. I loves another, and I cannot marry thee.'"

"O Mary," said Gerty, smiling in spite of herself, "how you talk! Hush, child; not another word. I'm bound to make my father happy, and--I will."

The ball to which Gerty and her father were going that evening was Sir Digby's. This gentleman possessed both a town and a country house; but if the truth must be told, he was at present absolutely living on his future prospects.

"Well," he told one of his chief cronies that evening before the arrival of the guests, "when my brother dies--and he is a terribly old buffer--I shall drop into a nice thing. But it is just like my confounded luck that he should linger so long. And to tell you the truth, D'Orsay, I'm a bit pinched, and some of the Jews are pressing."

"Why don't you marry?"

"Well, I'm going to. Ah! she's a sweet young thing, Miss Keane; and though the father is a skinflint, he's wealthy, and I'll make him settle a bit before I give my ancient name away. Wager on that."

"Hold hard, Digby; I wouldn't be your friend if I didn't tell you."

"Didn't tell me what?"

"Why, man, haven't you heard? The firm of Griffin, Keane, and Co. is ruined. 'Pon honour. South Sea biz, or something. Had it from a friend, who had it from one of the firm. It's a secret, mind. But it is true."

"Good heavens, D'Orsay, you do not tell me so? Then I too am ruined!"

"What! you haven't proposed--you're not tied?"

"Nay, nay; all but. That is nothing, D'Orsay--nothing; but on the strength of this marriage I have borrowed thousands. Fleet prison is my fate if what you say is true."

"Look here, Digby," said D'Orsay, after a pause, "you are a man of the world, like myself. Now if I were you, I should transfer my affections.

See?"

"In which quarter?"

"Why, there is Miss Gordon; a trifle old, to be sure, but positively rolling in wealth, and rolling her eyes whenever she sees you."

Sir Digby muttered something about a bag of broken bottles, but D'Orsay went on,--

"I'd marry _her_; 'pon honour I should."

"Think of life with that old hag."

"Think of life in the Fleet, my friend."

Sir Digby winced, and for a time made no reply.

"D'Orsay," he said at last, "I am a man, and, I trust, a gentleman. I'd prefer to marry Gerty even--even--"

"If she were a beggar. Bravo, Digby!" And D'Orsay laughed in the way men of the world do laugh.

"I didn't say that. I--I--'pon my soul, D'Orsay, I do not know what to do."

Miss Gordon was the belle of that ball, as far at least as dress and jewellery were concerned. She came of a n.o.ble family, too, and gave herself all the airs common in those days to ladies of t.i.tle--hauteur, dignity, and condescension by turns. But towards Sir Digby she was as soft and sweet as a three-month-old kitten.

If Sir Digby Auld had meant to propose to sweet Gerty Keane that night, he never had a chance, for neither she nor her father appeared. It was reported that he had had a fit. But this was not so. After he was dressed, however, and the carriage waiting, he received a letter. He no sooner read it than it dropped from his hands on the floor, and he leaned back in his chair with his face to his hands.

Gerty was by his side in a moment.

"O father, are you ill?" she cried. "Shall I summon a.s.sistance?"

He recovered himself at once. "Nay, nay," he said; "only grief for the death of an old friend." He smoothed her hair as he replied. "Gerty, we will not go out to-night."

But the letter he picked off the floor and carefully put away in his pocket-book.