Our Hero and his Friends see Service.  
The Waterwitch was commanded at this time by Captain Ward, a man possessed of great energy and judgment, united to heroic courage. He had received orders to join that portion of the British fleet which, under Nelson, was engaged in searching for the French in the Mediterranean, and had passed Cape St. Vincent on his way thither, when he fell in with the French vessel.
 
During the morning a thick fog had obscured the horizon, concealing the enemy from view. When the rising sun dispersed it he was suddenly revealed. Hence the abrupt order on board the Waterwitch to prepare for action. As the fog lifted still more, another French vessel was revealed, and it was soon found that the English frigate had two Frenchmen of forty-four guns each to cope with.
 
“Just as it should be!” remarked Captain Ward, when this was ascertained. “There would have been no glory in conquering one Frenchman equal to my own ship in size!”
 
The Waterwitch was immediately steered towards the ship that was nearest, in the expectation that she would show fight at once, but the French commander, probably wishing to delay the engagement until his other vessel could join him, made sail, and bore down on her. Captain Ward, on perceiving the intention, put on a press of canvas, and endeavoured to frustrate the enemy’s design. In this he was only partially successful.
 
“Surely,” said Bill Bowls to his friend Ben Bolter, with whom he was stationed at one of the starboard guns on the main deck, “surely we are near enough now to give ’em 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 bit o’ skin, whereas I’ve lost the small finger o’ my right hand.”
 
“Not much to boast of, that,” said Ben Bolter contemptuously; “why, just think of poor Ned Summers havin’ lost an arm and Edwards a leg—not to mention the poor fellows that have lost their lives.”
 
“A finger is bad enough,” growled Tom.
 
“Well, so it is,” said Bowls. “By the way, I would advise you to try a little of that wonderful salve invented by a Yankee for such cases.”
 
“Wot salve wos that?” asked Tom gruffly, for the pain of his wound was evidently pretty severe.
 
“Why, the growin’ salve, to be sure,” replied Bill. “Everybody must have heard of it.”
 
“I never did,” said Tom. “Did you, Ben?”
 
“No, never; wot is it?”
 
“It’s a salve for growin’ on lost limbs,” said Bill. “The Yankee tried it on a dog that had got its tail cut off. He rubbed a little of the salve on the end of the dog, and a noo tail grow’d on next mornin’!”
 
“Gammon!” ejaculated Tom Riggles.
 
“True, I assure ye, as was proved by the fact that he afterwards rubbed a little of the salve on the end of the tail, and a noo dog growed on it in less than a week!”
 
“H’m! I wonder,” said Tom, “if he was to rub some of it inside o’ your skull, whether he could grow you a noo set o’ brains.”
 
“I say, Bill,” interposed Ben Bolter, “did you hear the first lieutenant say where he intended to steer to?”
 
“I heard somethin’ about Gibraltar, but don’t know that he said we was goin’ there. It’s clear, hows’ever, that we must go somewhere to refit before we can be of any use.”
 
“Ay; how poor Captain Ward would have chafed under this delay!” said Bill Bowls sadly. “He would have been like a caged tiger. That’s the worst of war; it cuts off good and bad men alike. There’s not a captain in the fleet like the one we have lost, Nelson alone excepted.”
 
“Well, I don’t know as to that,” said Ben Bolter; “but there’s no doubt that Admiral Nelson is the man to lick the French, and I only hope that he may find their fleet, and that I may be there to lend a hand.”
 
“Ditto,” said Bill Bowls.
 
“Do,” added Tom Riggles.
 
Having thus expressed their sentiments, the three friends separated. Not long afterwards the Waterwitch sailed with her prizes into Gibraltar.
 
Here was found a portion of the fleet which had been forwarded by Earl St. Vincent to reinforce Nelson. It was about to set sail, and as there was every probability that the Waterwitch would require a considerable time to refit, some of her men were drafted into other ships. Among others, our friends Bill Bowls, Ben Bolter, and Tom Riggles, were sent on board the Majestic, a seventy-four gun ship of the line, commanded by Captain Westcott, one of England’s most noted captains.
 
This vessel, with ten line-of-battle ships, set sail to join Nelson, and assist him in the difficult duty of watching the French fleet.