BOOK I THE LITTLE TREMENDOUS

I THE DEATH OF BLACK DIAMOND

Chap. I. THE MAN ON THE GREY

II. THE GALLOPING GENT

III. THE GUNNER OF THE SLOOP

IV. OLD DING-DONG

V. REUBEN BONIFACE'S STORY

VI. THE LUGGER KITE

VII. THE MAN IN THE LUGGER

VIII. THE SCENT-BOTTLE

II MAGNIFICENT ARRY

IX. THE TWO PRIVATEERS

X. THE MAIN-DECK

XI. COMMODORE MOUCHE

XII. BOARDERS

XIII. AFTER THE FIGHT

III UNDER THE CLIFF

XIV. SUNDAY EVENING

XV. THE VOICE FROM THE POWDER-MAGAZINE

XVI. MAGNIFICENT ARRY GOES ALOFT

XVII. THE GRAVE OF THE LITTLE TREMENDOUS

XVIII. OLD DING-DONG'S REVENGE

XIX. OLD DING-DONG HOMEWARD-BOUND

BOOK II

BEACHY HEAD

I THE GAP GANG

XX. THE LAST OF A BRITISH SEAMAN.

XXI. KIT STARTS ON HIS MISSION

XXII. FAT GEORGE & CO

XXIII. THE CLIMB

XXIV. THE CLIMB

II THE MAN ON THE CLIFF

XXV. THE GENTLEMAN BOWS

XXVI. THE DEAD WOMAN

XXVII. THE HOLLOW IN THE COOMBE

XXVIII. ON THE TOP OF THE WORLD

III ABERCROMBY'S BLACK COCK

XXIX. THE FLAG OF HIS COUNTRY

XXX. AN OLD SONG

XXXI. THE MAN WITH THE SWORD

XXXII. THE BROKEN SQUARE

XXXIII. FIGHTING FITZ

XXXIV. THE FACE ON THE WALL

IV THE GARRISON

XXXV. THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER

XXXVI. THE FIGHTING MAN

XXXVII. THE SAINT

XXXVIII. THE SIMPLETON

XXXIX. THE FLAP OF A FLAG.

V THE BOARDING OF THE PRIVATEER

XL. THE SWIM IN THE DARK

XLI. PIGGY, THE PRIVATEERSMAN

XLII. THE MAN IN THE BOAT

XLIII. A BLACK BORDERER TO THE RESCUE

BOOK III FORT FLINT

I BESIEGED

XLIV. THE ENGLISHMAN

XLV. THE PARSON AT HOME

XLVI. THE PARSON'S STORY

XLVII. THE DESPATCH-BAG

XLVIII. THE DOXIE'S DAUGHTER

II THE SALLY

XLIX. MAKING READY

L. IN THE DRAIN

LI. VOICES OF THE LOST

LII. HARE AND HOUND

LIII. OLD TOADIE

LIV. THE PARSON'S AGONY

LV. PRETTY POLLY-KISS-ME-QUICK

LVI. THE RACE FOR THE COTTAGE

III THE SHADOW OF THE WOMAN

LVII. THE PARLEY

LVIII. THE PLANK CAPONIER

LIX. MISS BLOSSOM

LX. THE TWO PRAYERS

LXI. KNAPP'S RETURN

LXII. THE PARSON MUSES

IV THE GENTLEMAN'S LAST CARD

LXIII. NELSON'S TOPSAILS

LXIV. RUMBLINGS OF THUNDER

LXV. THE DOINGS IN THE CREEK

LXVI. BUGLES

LXVII. THE ACE OF TRUMPS

V THE FORLORN HOPE

LXVIII. THE BLESSING

LXIX. THE PARSON'S SORTIE

LXX. THE LAST OF OLD FAITHFUL

LXXI. ON THE SHINGLE-BANK

LXXII. THE RACE FOR THE LUGGER

LXXIII. NOBLESSE OBLIGE

BOOK IV NELSON

I H.M.S. MEDUSA

LXXIV. NATURE, THE COMFORTER

LXXV. ON THE DECK OF THE MEDUSA

LXXVI. IN THE CABIN OF THE MEDUSA

LXXVII. THE MEDUSA GOES ABOUT

LXXVIII. NELSON'S HEART

LXXIX. IN THE CABIN AGAIN

LXXX. THE MEDUSA DIPS HER ENSIGN

II KNAPP'S STORY

LXXXI. THE RETURN

LXXXII. BACK TO THE DOOR

LXXXIII. PIPER PRAYS

LXXXIV. IN THE COTTAGE

III THE WISH AT EVENING

LXXXV. THE SANCTUARY

LXXXVI. TWILIGHT

LXXXVII. HIS CAUSE

LXXXVIII. THE ADVENTURER

LXXXIX. THE LAST POST

SEPTEMBER 1805

The introductory poem appeared originally in the Pall Mall Magazine, and is re-published by permission of the Editor.

OUR SEA

The Sea! the Sea! Our own home-land, the Sea! 'Tis, as it always was, and still, please God, will be, When we are gone, Our own, Possessing it for Thee, Ours, ours, and ours alone, The Anglo-Saxon Sea.

The stripped, moon-shining, naked-bosomed Sea.

No jerry-building here; No scenes that once were dear Beneath man's tawdry touch to disappear; Always the same, the Sea, Th' unstable-steadfast Sea. 'Tis, as it always was, and still, please God, will be, When we are gone, Our own, Vice-regents under Thee, Ours, ours, and ours alone, The Anglo-Saxon Sea.

The mighty-furrowed, moody-minded Sea.

New suns and moons arise; Perish old dynasties; For ever rise and die the centuries; Only remains the Sea, Our right of way, the Sea. 'Tis, as it always was, and still, phase God, will be, When we are gone, Our own, Our heritage from Thee, Ours, ours, and ours alone, The Anglo-Saxon Sea.

Our good, grey, faithful, Saxon-loving Sea._

JULY 1805

"Succeed, and you command the Irish Expedition," said the squat fellow.

"My Emperor!" replied the tall cavalry-man, saluted, and clanked away in the gloom.

* * * * *

A sweet evening, very fresh, the tide crashing at the foot of the cliff.

In the twilight, above Boulogne, a man was standing, hands behind him.

The moon lay on the water, making a broad white road that led from his feet across the flowing darkness West.

The dusk was falling. About him the earth grew dark; above him all was purity and pale stars.

Only the tumble of the tide, white-lipped on the beach beneath, stirred the silence; while one little dodging ship, black in the wake of the moon, told of some dare-devil British sloop, bluffing the batteries upon the cliff.

The rustle of the water beneath, its crashing rhythm and hiss as of breath intaken swiftly, soothed him. He fell into a waking dream.

It seemed to his wide eyes that the sea rose, heavenward as a wall; its foot set in foam, its summit on a level with his face. Against it a silver ladder leaned. He had but to mount that ladder to pluck the island-jewel, the desire of his heart these many years.

He reached a hand into the night as though to realise his wish; and even as he did so, the sloop barked.

A mortar hard by boomed; the sea splashed; the sloop scudded seaward, laughing; and the dreamer awoke.

Behind him, hutted on the cliffs, lay the Army of England: [Footnote: The Army of England was Napoleon's name for the Army of Invasion.] such a sword, now two years a-tempering, as even he, the Great Swordsman, had never wielded.

Beneath him in the dimming basin huddled 3000 gun-vessels, waiting their call.

Before him, across the moon-white waste, under the North star, lay that stubborn little land of Bibles and evening bells, of smoky cities, and hedge-rows fragrant with dog-rose and honeysuckle, of apple-cheeked children, greedy fighting-men, and still-eyed women who became the mothers of indomitable seamen—that storm-beaten land which for so long now, turn he where he would, had risen before him, Angel of the Flaming Sword, and waved him back.

Between him and it ran a narrow lane of sea, the moon-road white across it: so narrow he could almost leap it; so broad that now after years of trying he was baffled still.

Could his Admirals only stop the Westward end of that narrow lane for six hours, that he and his two-hundred-thousand might take the moon-road unmolested, he was Master of the World.

But—they could not.

In his hand, fiercely crumpled, lay the despatch that told him Villeneuve was back in Vigo, shepherded home again.

And by whom?

That little one-eyed one-armed seaman, who for ten years now had stood between him and his destiny.

One man, the man of Aboukir Bay. [Footnote: On August 1, 1798, Nelson destroyed the French fleet in Aboukir Bay at the Battle of the Nile.]

BOOK I

THE LITTLE TREMENDOUS

I

THE DEATH OF BLACK DIAMOND

CHAPTER I

THE MAN ON THE GREY

The man on the grey was in a hurry.

The stab of his backward heels; the shake and swirl of his bridle-hand; the flog of his arm in time with the horse's stride, told their own tale.

A huge fellow, his face was red and round as a November sun. Hat and wig were gone; and his once white neck-cloth was soaked with blood.

He came over the crest of the Downs at a lurching gallop; down the ragged rut-worn lane, the dusty convolvuluses glimmering up at him in the dusk; past the squat-spired Church in the high Churchyard among the sycamores; down the rough and twisted Highstreet of Newhaven in the chill of that August evening, as no man had ever come before.

A bevy of smoke-dimmed men in the bar of the Bridge, discussing in awed whispers last night's affair of the Revenue cutter off Darby's Hole, hushed suddenly at the clatter and rushed out as he stormed past. He paid no heed. Those staring eyes saw nothing but the brown street sliding under him, a pair of sweating ears, a flapping mane, and before him a tumble of old roofs; while beyond in the harbour, the spars of a sloop of war pricked the evening.

Clear of the little town huddling on the hillside, he drove along the bank of the slow green river, flogging still.

One thing was clear: the grey was dead-beat.

He was roaring like a furnace, and straight as a rail from tail to muzzle. Black and white with sweat, he jerked along at a terrible toppling stagger. Only those vice-like legs and hands plucking, plucking, kept body and soul together.

Where the river widened, and the sea gleamed misty across the harbour-mouth, as though he knew his mission was fulfilled, up went his head, and he fell in thundering ruin.

Where he fell he lay, lank-necked.

The tail twitched once; the body trembled; the great heart broke.

CHAPTER II

THE GALLOPING GENT

I

A boat had just put off from the bank, a tall lad steering. The great red horseman, strangely active for so huge a man, flung himself clear of his horse, snatched a pistol from a holster, and came floundering down the cobbled river-bank, his coat-tails floating.

"Put back, sir!" he bellowed in husky fury. "Put back, my God! or I'll fire."

He was standing, the water to his tops, with heaving shoulders.

"Don't shout; don't shoot; and don't swear," replied a voice, pure as a lady's. "And perhaps I'll oblige."

The boy edged the boat into the bank. The huge fellow, in too great a hurry to wait, floundered out, clutched her by the stern, and scrambled in.

"My God, sir!" he panted, thrusting a dripping face into the boy's. "D'you know who you're a-talking to?—I'm a ridin-officer on Government business."

"And d'you know who you're a-talkin to?" replied the boy, cold as the other was hot. "I'm a King's officer on King's business. Remove your face, please. Sit down. And don't shake so, or you'll spill us.—I'm a midshipman going aboard my ship."

"Then you're just in time for warm work, Mr. Milkshipman," panted the other.

He bumped down on the thwart opposite the waterman, and thrust at the oars.

"Row, man, row!" he urged. "The Gallopin Gent's got through."

II

The colour of apple-blossom, coming and going in the lad's cheek, died away, and left him pale.

He was a splendid stripling, sun in his hair, sun in his eyes; with something of the lank grace of the fawn about him.

The face was fine almost to haggardness; with long chin, delicate nose, and eager eyes, very shy.

The boy had broken through the chrysalis of childhood, and not yet emerged into the fighting male. There was no down on his chin; the radiance of his cheek was yet undimmed. The soul, rosy behind its clouds, still tinged them with dawn-lights.

He was a Boy, sparkling Boy; Boy at the age when he is Woman, and Woman at her best, the playfellow, the tease, the inspiration; free of limb, as yet untrammelled of mind; with passionate hatreds and heroic adorations.

He was steering now, his eyes on the battered topsails in the mists before him; and in those eyes a glitter of swords. Had his mother or Gwen been there, they could have told from that frosty calm, those jealous-drooping lids, that Master Boy meant mischief.

And so it was.

This fat fellow with the heaving shoulders on the thwart before him, this chap with the crease across his bald neck, and the black sweat trickling from his hair, had insulted him.

As woman, he was bent upon revenge; as man, he would go warily, striking only to strike home.

"That was a fine horse you flogged to death," he began tranquilly, trailing his fingers in the dead green waters.

"Yes, sir," panted the other, thrusting at the oars. "I don't spare spur when I'm ridin agin the French. I'm a man, and an Englishman—not a pink-faced, girl-eyed booby togged out in a cocked hat and a tin dagger, calling meself a King's officer."

"I guessed that you were not one of us," replied the boy delicately. "Your manners are too distinguished. But tell me a little more about your ride. You seemed in rather a hurry. I take it you were riding for a drink."

The great man swung round. His whole life seemed to have stopped short, and now hung behind his eyes—an appalling shadow.

For one swift moment the boy thought he would be struck.

Then the big man spoke; and his voice was measured and very still.

"If you think I burst the gamest eart that ever beat in an orse's ide for a drink, why then, sir," with crushing simplicity, "you think wrong."

He resumed his rowing, and continued with the same surprising dignity.

"I bred that orse; I broke that orse; I loved that orse."

The tide of the boy's being set back with a shock.

"O!" he cried. "O … I didn't mean … I really…."

"That's all right, sir," came the other's smothered voice. "I know you didn't."

He swallowed, and his face grew rigid. Then a light broke all about it.

"But there!" with husky pride. "He won't bear me no grudge—will you, old man?" with a hoarse burst of tenderness, flinging his arm towards the bank, where the dead horse's girths glimmered still in the dusk. "He know'd I wouldn't have asked it of him, only I had to. That's my old orse! that's my Robin!—Never asked no questions. Just took and died and did his duty without the talkin. Maybe some of us might learn a bit from him."

Taking a great bandana from his pocket, he blew his nose like the report of a pistol.

"A'ter all," he said, with touching solemnity, "he died for his country, did my Robin—same as Abercromby at Alexandrya."

III

Behind them on the hill a clock struck eight.

The riding-officer held up his hand.

"Ark!" he cried. "It was going seven in Ditchling as I pelted down the Beacon. Gallop! gallop! gallop! There's ne'er another orse in England could ha done it, with big Jerry Ram bumpin on his back all the way; danged if there be!"

He thumped his knee.

"King George ought to know on it! He died for him. Fair lay down to it, belly all along the ground. Might ha know'd he was on the King's business, and the Gentleman with two minutes' start streakin away for Birling Gap like a bullet from the bow."

"Aw, he'll be out again than?" drawled the waterman, sleepy and Sussex.

"Out again!" shouted Big Jerry, and clapping the handkerchief to his ear, thrust it beneath the other's eye of mildew. "What's that?—blood, ain't it?—whose?—mine.—How?—The Gentleman."

"You'll ha met him than, I expagt?" cooed the waterman in his cautious way.

"He met me more like," replied Big Jerry with the grim humour of the whole-hearted man, who gives hard knocks and takes them all in good part.

"Not but what we was expectin him, you'll understand."

"You knaw'd he was comin than surely?" came the waterman's slow musical voice.

"Know'd it!" roared the other. "O course we know'd it. Why's the Kite been layin in Cuckmere Haven since night afore last?—why was the Gap Gang strung out all the way from Furrel Beacon to Beachy Head all day yesterday?—Why was Black Diamond mouchin round in Lewes this morning?—Why?—why?—why?"

"Why?" asked the boy, breathless.

"Because the Gallopin Gent was comin down with despatches for Boney, and they were keepin the road for him. That's why," screamed the big man, bumping up and down in his excitement.

"Only question was which way. Ye see it's most in general all ways at once with him. Up and down, day and night, all over Sussex, these weeks past. No stoppin him; no coppin him; no nothin him. Always the same chap—gentleman, mighty gay, bit o red riband in his button-hole, and blood chestnut with a white blaze between his knees. Always the same tale—gave em the go-by somehow. No sayin where or when—only just when you're least expectin him, then you can make sure of him. And when you are ready for him, seems he's readier for you."

He mopped his forehead, the laughing puckers gathering about his eyes.

"Look at us this evenin. There we was ridin easy up the Beacon, me and the orse-patrol—lookin for him. Just as we tops the brow who pops over the wall like a swallow but the Gentleman himself on his chestnut?"

He threw back his head and chuckled.

"There!—I can't ardly elp laughin. The cheek o the chap!"

"Did he run?" asked the boy, all eyes.

"Run!" snorted the riding-officer. "No run about im…. Rode at us like a rigiment of cavalry, swinging his sword, and laughin fit to bust himself…. Half the boys bolted—and I don't know as I blame them: they swear he's old Nick. Dick Halkett, old Job, and me, we stood it…. Bang he rides at old Job and bowls him over a buster; runs young Dick through the body; slops me over the pate a good un; and steals away down the hill, waving his hand and crying—'Adoo! adoo! adoo! remember me!'—as if we was likely to forget him!"

The big man mopped his bloody ear with a quizzical grin.

"I know'd it was no good follerin. Nothing foaled o mortal mare can collar that chestnut, once she's away. So I bangs my hat down, catches the old orse by the ead, and rams him down the hill for Newhaven."

He began to push at the oars again.

"For there's two roads to Birling Gap, my lad: one by land, and one by sea. We've missed him by land. Now we'll see what the Jack-tars can do."

IV

The boy said nothing. His eyes were on his ship, dim above him in the mist.

She was in rags and tatters: so much he could see, and little else. Yet to him she seemed to glow in the dusk. He saw her through blurred eyes in a cloud of glory, and his heart thrilled to her.

She was his ship; that ship of which he had dreamed ever since he could dream, this boy born to the sea.

And was he not proud of her?

Shivering like a lover, he brought up alongside; and as he did so he thrust out a hand to feel the wooden ribs which covered that heart of valour.

For was she not the little Tremendous, of whom the heroic tales were told!