Let me explain. In the
field, or grappling in mortal combat, on the blood--slippery quarterdeck
of an enemy's vessel, British soldier or sailor is the bravest of the
brave. No soldier or sailor of any other country, saving and excepting
those damned Yankees, can stand against them--they would be utterly
overpowered--their hearts would fail them--they would either be cut down
thrust through, or they would turn and flee. Yet those same men who
have turned and fled, will meet death, but it must be as I said,
inevitable, unavoidable death, not only more firmly than their
conquerors would do in their circumstances, but with an intrepidity oh,
do not call it indifference!--altogether astonishing. Be it their
religion, or their physical conformation, or what it may, all I have to
do with, is the fact, which I record as undeniable. Out of five--and
twenty individuals, in the present instance, not a sigh was heard, nor a
moan, nor a querulous word. They stepped lightly into the boats, and
seated themselves in silence. When told by the seamen to make room, or
to shift so as not to be in the way of the oars, they did so with
alacrity, and almost with an air of civility, although they knew that
within half an hour their earthly career must close for ever.
The young Spaniard who had stood forward so conspicuously on the trial,
was in my boat; in stepping in he accidentally trod on my foot in
passing forward; he turned and apologized, with much natural politeness
"he hoped he had not hurt me?"
I answered kindly, I presume--who could have done so harshly? This
emboldened him apparently, for he stopped, and asked leave to sit by me.
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