CHAPTER XXIII
QUIBERON
The storm was at its height, the darkness was intense, and from the black heavens the rain poured down in torrents. Yet, by now, all those who for thirty-one weeks had been on board their ships had become inured to toil and travail, to wet and cold and misery, relieved only by an occasional putting in to Torbay or Plymouth before going out again.
They had once more been at sea for some days, and, though driven to the westward by rough south-easterly winds, were, with pressed sails, directing their course towards Brest-towards Quiberon. For it was the night of November 19th which was passing away amidst darkness, cold and storm; it was the dawn of the 20th which was coming. And, although none in the great English fleet knew it for certain-though many suspected such to be the case! – that dawn was to herald one of those great English triumphs which are to be for ever blazoned on her scroll of fame-a victory which, if not as great as that of La Hogue in the past, nor of Trafalgar yet to come, was to take a worthy place beside them in our annals.
Ere that horrible night which was to usher in the great day had fallen, the fleet had been joined by frigates left behind to bring the last words from England-the Maidstone and Coventry being amongst them-and, if there was aught that could add to the happiness of all on board, it was the news of how, with official despatches, letters had come for some few amongst the number-bringing news from home. Letters from loving wives and mothers, all breathing prayers for safety and a happy future; letters full of sadness, yet which, though bitter, were sweet, too, to those who received them.
Amongst the recipients of such correspondence was Sir Geoffrey Barry, who, when he could snatch a moment from his duties, retired to his cabin to peruse that which had come to him-from his beloved and darling Ariadne! Need one write down for those to read who have themselves wandered across the seas, or taken part in storm or stress of battle, with what joy such a letter would be eagerly perused, or how, from the pen of the woman who wrote it would fall the words of gentle regret at the adored one's absence, as well as the hopes of bright and happy days to come and to be passed for ever side by side with those they loved? No need to tell these words, yet all were there-as we who have been parted from the one we value most in the world know well. We who have been parted, if even for a week or less!
But there were other matters besides-matters strange and full of significance, to one at least in that ship.
"Lord Glastonbury is dead," Ariadne wrote; "he was found dead and cold in his bed. And, oh! Geoffrey, she is free. Is it wicked of me to write like this, and as though I rejoiced in it? I hope not, yet I think ever of poor Sophy's broken happiness, of Mr. Granger's sad lot. Now they can be-but I will say no more. It is too soon."
The first impulse that rose to Geoffrey Barry's mind was to at once send for Granger and inform him of the tidings that had come. But, then, after a moment's reflection, he decided that it would be best not to do so. To-night, to-morrow, at any moment, they might be in conflict with the enemy, whom all knew now to be in their neighbourhood. After the victory which none doubted they would achieve, it would be time to tell him. Therefore he would not disturb Granger at his duty, nor agitate him with thoughts best not indulged in while there was work to do. So, for the present, he held his peace.
That there was work to do was soon apparent, when, at last, the dawn broke. Some English transports had been fallen in with a day or so before, and from them Hawke learnt that the French squadron of twenty-four sail had been seen several leagues west of Belleisle, and that there could be no doubt that this was the Brest fleet under Conflans. Now, at daybreak, all knew that this information was correct, for, as the full light came, the whole French squadron was observed chasing some English frigates and bomb-ketches in the hopes of destroying them. Then, when the enemy saw the English fleet so near, they desisted from the chase, and, although they formed a line to receive Hawke's attack, a moment later they ran before the wind to seek safety.
In an instant there flew the signal from the Royal George for every ship to make her way towards the enemy, no regard being paid to the line of battle; the first to engage the French being the Warspite and the Dorsetshire, while from almost every vessel might be seen the strange sight of men tossing their caps overboard in defiance of that enemy. And from each ship was heard ringing cheers as the fleets drew near to one another. The battle had begun.
Amidst the tempest and fury, amidst the strife of the elements themselves, that battle commenced, while, so thick was the reek and smoke of the powder, that soon neither the white flag spangled with lilies nor the Union Jack could be distinguished as they flew from their respective masts and staffs. Yet each knew where his enemy was, and towards that enemy each pushed upon the rolling, tossing waves.
Amongst those distinguishing themselves upon this fateful day was that great ship of honoured and long-transmitted name, the Swiftsure. Never did any noble vessel that had served to make England's fame widespread perform greater feats of valour than did she upon this occasion. Forcing her way towards the enemy, she encountered Conflans' flagship, the Soleil Royal-a name of evil omen to France, as some recalled who brought to their recollection another Soleil Royal, crushed and destroyed at La Hogue-attended by two great French seventy-fours; and in an instant the Swiftsure had flown at them as flies the gallant hound at treble the number of wolves. Broadside upon broadside she poured from her seventy guns-above their roaring being heard the ringing cheers from those on board her as well as the howls of contempt and hideous oaths of the British bull-dogs; and so she fought and fought till her guns were almost too hot to touch. Yet still she fought, not with the courage of despair, nor with the doomed energy of one o'ermastered, but with the spirit of some wild and savage tigress, recking neither of death nor wounds nor destruction to herself, so that, amidst them, she tore and mangled and destroyed, while still thirsting for more death and destruction. Tossed on the rolling seas, hurled backwards and forwards as were those other three with whom she strove, she poured forth her deadly venom, until at last, outnumbered, with her main topmast shot through, her main top-gallant mast gone, and her tiller-ropes cut away, she broached-to in the tempest, the three enemies rushing forward to encounter next the English Admiral in his flagship.
That all the rest were fighting with grim determination, be very sure. The Resolution was pouring a terrible cannonade into the Formidable (flagship of the French Rear-Admiral); the Royal George had been laid alongside the Soleil Royal by now; the Torbay was sinking the Thesée-with an awful cry from all on board, the latter went down amidst the turbulent waves! the Magnanime was destroying for ever the Héros. Meanwhile the Royal George was driving the Soleil Royal from out the fray, she being followed by the Tonnant and three others. The Superbe had drawn the Royal George's fire next, receiving the whole of the latter's broadsides, and was sinking close by her victress. And because of how she, this gallant French ship, had fought; because she was a foe worthy of England's best shot and steel; because she bore bravely the hell of fire rained into her by the great English vessel as she went down with her colours flying, there arose from her enemy's decks a long and ringing cheer of applause. She was a conquered foe, but still a noble one, and the hardy British throats could not refuse to her the tribute she had so nobly won.
And then there came the greatest incident of this terrible fight. Upon the Royal George there sprang seven great French ships, and they surrounded her while pouring their broadsides out from all their guns, so that those in her consorts, because of the vessels which hedged her round, could do nought to help her-could, indeed, do nought but bewail her sad fate and gnash their teeth with rage. Yet, too, Providence watched over her: the guns that should have sunk her were not well served, the enemy were in a terrible state of discomposure, and the turbulence of the sea was now such as to make their broadsides uncertain. It almost seems a miracle to relate, but of all the balls hurled against her, not more than fifty struck the mark, and not one was below the water-line. But there were others of her own side crowding to her assistance now-amongst them was the Mignonne, with her captain shot through the arm, yet giving his orders as calmly from the quarterdeck as though he were upon some tranquil cruise, as well as the Hero, the Mars, and the Union; while, to leave England the conqueror in this great fray, there was something else coming.
That something was the night. And the French, taking advantage of it, sheered off-they had had enough! The Soleil Royal soon ran ashore with the Héros, when both were burnt. The Juste was on the rocks and overturned; beneath the water were several others, and a dozen more were aground. Well might the ten thousand French spectators ashore who had witnessed the great fight turn white and weep as night closed in on all around.
Of our losses the principal were the Resolution and the Essex; the remainder were not important.
And so the great fleet which was to have invaded England was utterly destroyed, Conflans' threats were idle and empty now, France had received another death-blow to her ambitions, and Hawke's peerage was assured.
It was enough.
* * * * * * *
In the darkness of the November night they called the roll on board all the English vessels and wrote down the names of the dead and dying, as well as of the missing.
In the Mignonne they were doing it now, as slowly, with her topmast shot away, she followed in her turn. Two of her lieutenants did not answer to their names-never again would they reply to them! – and her master also was silent.
"Mr. Granger," next called out the quartermaster, himself uninjured.
But neither to his name was any answer given.
"Is he dead or wounded?" asked Sir Geoffrey Barry, pale from his wound.
"Who's seen him?" roared the quartermaster. "Has any one seen the master-gunner?"
"I saw him," cried a man, himself wounded and bleeding, "not half an hour ago. He was at his post then-where he've been all day."
"Call his name again," said Sir Geoffrey.
But still no answer was returned, as indeed no answer was returned to over forty names similarly called.
Then, later, they set forth to go the rounds of the ship and find those who had not replied, the captain going first, accompanied by a midshipman with a lanthorn. And many were found dead at their posts before, at last, they came to Lewis Granger.
He was lying upon his side by the middle-deck port-sills with his face turned downwards, while all around and beneath where his head lay was a great pool of blood-his own and others-that slowly drained towards the scuppers and so ran out to mingle with the heaving waves beneath.
"Is he dead?" asked Sir Geoffrey, gazing down at him while the midshipman held the lanthorn so that they could see his face. "Is he dead?" And as he spoke there were tears in his voice.
Was this to be the end of all, he thought; the end of the man's hopes for a better life, the end of his unchanging, unchangable love for the woman who, even now, was free?
"He is not dead, sir," the boatswain answered, kneeling by Granger's side and supporting his head above his own knee, "but he is dying; must surely die. Observe the great wound in his throat."
"Granger," said Geoffrey, kneeling by his side, "Granger-do you know me?"
Then the dying man opened his eyes and looked up at the other, who by that glance understood that he did know him.
"Shall I tell him?" thought Geoffrey. "Shall I tell him now, at the last moment? Will it make him happier? What is best to do?"
"He is going, sir," the boatswain whispered, "he is going. His heart is getting more feeble, growing fainter."
"Granger," then whispered Barry, "can you hear me-understand me? Listen, ah! listen, and so part happily. She whom you love is free-free now to come to you. Does that in truth make you happier?"
"It-is-too-late," the dying man muttered hoarsely, for the last time!
His head lay even heavier now than before upon the rough sailor's knee; while the man, with a glance at his captain, put up his hand and removed the cap he wore-he being followed in the action by all present.
Yet, still, Granger was not quite dead; still some life was left in the strong, suffering heart. Once again he spoke.
"Tell her," he whispered, as Geoffrey bent his ear, "that-I-died-blessing-loving her-to-the-last. Tell her-I never loved but one; and that-my first-love was my last. Also-in your mercy-leave her picture upon my-breast-where it has always lain since-I lost-her."