"All of you fire, quick one after other," cried Dan, who had picked up a
loaded musket, and was kneeling in the embrasure of a gun; "fire so that
he may tell the shots; that will fetch him out again. Sing out first,
'There he is!' as if you saw him."
The men on the quarter-deck and poop did so, and the Frenchman, who was
watching through a hole, came forward for a safe shot while they were
loading. He pointed the long gun which had killed Nelson at the smart
young officer on the poop, but the muzzle flew up ere he pulled the
trigger, and leaning forward he fell dead, with his legs and arms
spread, like a jack for oiling axles. Dan had gone through some
small-arm drill in the fortnight he spent at Portsmouth, and his eyes
were too keen for the bull's-eye. With a rest for his muzzle he laid
it truly for the spot where the Frenchman would reappear; with extreme
punctuality he shot him in the throat; and the gallant man who deprived
the world of Nelson was thus despatched to a better one, three hours in
front of his victim.
CHAPTER LXVI
THE LAST BULLETIN
To Britannia this was but feeble comfort, even if she heard of it. She
had lost her pet hero, the simplest and dearest of all the thousands
she has borne and nursed, and for every penny she had grudged him in the
flesh, she would lay a thousand pounds upon his bones. To put it
more poetically, her smiles were turned to tears--which cost her
something--and the laurel drooped in the cypress shade.
Pages:
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708