The next morning, the 29th of August, 1782, broke clear, bright, and beautiful. A magnificent fleet lay out in the roads, and, towering among them, Archy recognized the Royal George, with her three great decks, her huge, broad-beamed hull, and her lofty masts. No one who ever sailed on this ship but liked her. She had a record of good fortune which made her a favorite with both officers and men. Her quarters were comfortable, and she was commonly thought to be a weatherly ship, although the terrible fate which was impending over her on that August morning made it a miracle that she had survived so long, for at that time she was the oldest ship of the line in the British service.

Afloat and ashore, all was the orderly bustle and despatch of getting a fleet of more than thirty ships ready for sea in short order. Every moment was precious, but Archy saw for himself that much remained to be done, and it would be many days yet before the ships could be made ready to leave.

About ten o'clock in the morning he hired a small boat and put out to the Royal George. As he neared her, he saw her great hull slowly and almost imperceptibly careen on the starboard side, by which he was approaching her, and, presently, a gang of men in slings were let down over her port side. Archy knew very well what that meant. Something was to be done to her hull below the water-line, and as the day was perfectly still, without a breath to ruffle the dead calm of the water, the ship had been heeled over to save time, instead of the more tedious process of being put in dry-dock to have the work done. Soon the sound of ripping planks off and the noise of hammers and chisels echoed over the water. A swarm of little boats were gathered around the monster, and her decks were alive with people. Forward was a crowd of women and children, families of the men, who were allowed on board for an hour or two, as all work was suspended while the ship was being heeled over.

The ladder was over the starboard side, and as Archy, on reaching the ship, ran lightly up it he felt a strange joy at again touching the deck of a ship; and, with the joyful expectation of youth, he fancied that in a little while the American navy would possess a whole fleet of noble ships like those he saw around him.

As he stepped over the side the officer of the deck was standing close by, and, on Archy's explaining that he knew Admiral Kempenfelt and had a letter for him, the lieutenant called the Admiral's orderly, and in a few moments Archy was shown into the great cabin.

"Ah, my young friend, happy to see you!" cried Admiral Kempenfelt, rising from his table, where he was writing, and shaking Archy's hand cordially. "So it seems, from Lord Bellingham's letter, which I have glanced over, that you have had some adventures since I saw you last."

"Yes, sir," replied Archy, smiling, and returning the Admiral's kindly grasp. "But not the sort I want. The Seahorse's people seem to have ended my fighting career when they picked me up at the Texel nearly three years ago, and now that our countries are on the verge of peace, it looks as if I would never have another chance to do a little whacking on my own account."

"Ah, that's the way with you youngsters; nothing but whack—whacking all the time. Wait until you get my age and you will love peace, as I do. I am heartily glad, though, that this quarrel with our late colonies is over. Not one-tenth of our people have been in favor of the war for two years past, and both sides have done enough now to come to an honorable peace. I have heard something of you since you have been in England this time. So you won't turn Englishman for Bellingham and all it carries with it?"

"No, sir. Would you turn Frenchman for Versailles and St. Cloud, and the Louvre thrown in?"

"No, hanged if I would!"

Archy bowed and slapped himself on the breast, saying:

"I perceive I am in good company, sir."

"Well, now, Mr. Baskerville, let us see about getting you to Gibraltar before we get there. A vessel—the Fox—is now waiting for a wind to carry some French officers across, to be exchanged off Ushant. You could go very well in her, and, once in France, you can take care of yourself. I apprehend no difficulty in your communicating with your cousin. The Duc de Crillon is well known to be most courteous in conveying letters to the garrison, and even sent some delicacies to General Eliot, who was forced to decline them, and there is actually much polite communication between the two commanders-in-chief. I will myself give you letters to the Admiral, and to Captain Wilbur, of the Fox, which, I am sure, will secure you a berth in her."

Admiral Kempenfelt took up a pen and began writing rapidly; but the cabin floor, which had been at an angle, was tilted still more, and his chair slid down, while Archy caught the table as it was slipping after the chair.

"Deuced inconvenient, this heeling of the ship; but it saves time, and time is everything to our brave fellows at Gibraltar," and the Admiral calmly resumed his writing. But Archy was not so calm. He looked out of the cabin windows on the starboard side, and the nearness of the rippling water gave him a kind of shock. He tried to calculate the angle of the floor, which perceptibly became more acute, and a sudden apprehension flashed over him that the ship was over too far to one side—but he dared not speak.

Meanwhile the Admiral went on calmly writing, threw sand on the two letters he had written, and after reading them over handed them to Archy.

"There," he said, "I hope these will serve your turn. It gives me pleasure to do you a kindness, even if you are an enemy," and he placed his hand affectionately on Archy's shoulder. "May we meet again under happier circumstances: in peace, all our quarrels forgot, and nothing but good-will between us all—amen."

Something in the Admiral's kind voice, the grasp of his manly hand, touched Archy's heart. The feeling of instant and dreadful apprehension had grown upon him in the few minutes that the Admiral continued writing. Every moment he hoped that the ship would be righted; instead of that, the floor became a more sharply inclined plane. Against her stout wooden walls he could hear the ringing of the carpenters' blows, and it sounded like a knell of death to him. He looked closely into Admiral Kempenfelt's eyes to see if there was any premonition of danger; but the Admiral seemed strangely unconscious of what so powerfully affected Archy, and although barely able to keep his feet on rising, gave no sign of fear that the ship might go over.

Archy longed to ask the Admiral to go on deck with him, and even faltered out:

"Will you not come above, sir?"

"No," replied the Admiral, surprised at the suggestion. "I have work to do. Remember me to my friends at Gibraltar. Good-bye, and all good go with you."

"If we do not meet again, Admiral," said Archy, in a voice which trembled a little, and then, all at once, the words he had meant to utter left him, and an overmastering impulse made him turn and walk out of the cabin as quickly as he could.

Outside the door the orderly had braced himself against one of the quarter-deck guns. Something in the man's face arrested Archy's attention at that instant. There were strange noises about the ship, a dull reverberation like thunder, followed by a slight crash, and the men were running to and fro.

"What is the matter?" asked Archy of the man.

"Nothing, sir, except that the ship is heeled over too far; the guns have broken loose, and I believe in five minutes we shall all be under eighteen fathom of water," coolly replied the orderly.

The appearance of the deck was far from reassuring. As Archy took off his cap in passing the officer in charge of the deck he observed the carpenter say a few words in a low tone to the officer, whose reply was perfectly audible.

"If you know more about this ship, sir, than I do, you had better take the deck."

Archy ran to the ladder. The platform was far under water, and on looking for his boat he saw the boatman about twenty yards off, pulling away for his life.

"Come here!" shouted Archy.

The man simply shook his head, pulled a little farther out, and then lay on his oars. Archy put his hand in his pocket and held up his purse. At that the boatman quickly picked up his oars, and, rowing as if his life depended on it, in a few minutes was alongside.

Archy's conduct had not escaped observation. Several officers were walking about the deck, and, although they said nothing, their faces were grave enough as they leaned over the rail and watched the boat, into which Archy sprang while it was yet several feet away from the half-submerged ladder.

"It wasn't the money for myself, sir, that brought me back," gasped the boatman, as with tremendous strokes the boat shot away from the leaning hull of the ship; "but it was worth while to try for my wife and family. That there ship is in the most dangersome way I ever see a ship. One puff of wind now will send her over."

"Lay on your oars," said Archy, watching with painful interest the mighty hull on which the hammering and pounding sounded preternaturally loud.

The perilous position of the ship was plain to the whole fleet, and every eye was turned towards her. On several of the ships near her the order was quietly given to stand by to lower the boats. In the stillness of the August morning every sound could be heard, and on board the Royal George was much noise. The women and children forward were laughing and chattering with the sailors, and every moment a burst of loud laughter showed that the men were enjoying their little holiday time. The noise of the workmen striking the hull was incessant, but above all there would come the frequent ominous sound of a gun that would break loose from its fastenings and roll down the inclined plane to starboard. The officer of the deck continued to walk up and down in what seemed to every eye that watched him an almost insane ignorance of the danger of the ship. The boatman turned to Archy and said:

"I see the carpenter go up to him once afore, but he didn't take no heed. I dare say the carpenter won't ax him no more."

However, at this moment the officer turned and disappeared below.

Thousands of eyes were fixed upon the Royal George in agonizing apprehension. Archy, in uncontrollable agitation, cried aloud:

"Why don't they haul the guns back? The ports are all open, and if she heels a foot more she is gone. Oh, God!"

For the Royal George was slowly, inch by inch, heeling over more; and at the same instant, afar off, the bright water grew dark with an advancing wind—the wind of death—which stole towards the great ship softly and silently.

Suddenly the people on board the doomed ship seemed to realize their peril. The officer of the deck reappeared and ran quickly aft. The crowd forward stopped its shouting and singing and laughing; the sharp blare of the boatswain's pipe was heard, calling all hands on deck—but it was too late. The towering hull gave one lurch as the wind struck it, the awful shriek of a thousand voices smote the air, and in another moment, with a roar that was heard for miles, the Royal George went down, head foremost, in a black vortex of her own making.

For a few minutes Archy was dazed and paralyzed with the horror of the sight. He saw the black and seething whirlpool made by the monster, with her hundred and twenty guns, her giant masts and spars, her huge anchors and cables, for one horrible moment upon the blue and sunlit water. He heard the roar of the rushing air through her ports, the thunder of guns and anchors breaking through the decks, and a frightful crashing, as if every mast and spar and deck in the ship had been splintered at once; and, worst of all, one wild shriek from twelve hundred souls, swallowed up with her; and never, to his dying hour, could Archy Baskerville forget that cry—a cry that haunted forever, night and day, all who heard it. It was only when it had ceased, when instead of the stately ship he saw a seething mass of waters where she lay a minute before, and where now a few human beings were tossed like leaves upon the water—it was only then that he came a little to his senses, and shouted to the boatman:

"Give me an oar, and pull—pull!"

In a little while they were among the floating bodies. The few minutes had somewhat sobered Archy. He still felt as if he were in some terrible dream, but almost without his own volition he began to act rationally. He threw down his oar, and, leaving the management of the boat to the boatman, stripped off his jacket, trousers, and shoes, and, plunging into the water, swam vigorously towards the first man he saw. As he got near enough he recognized the orderly who had been on duty at the Admiral's door. The man could not swim; but, although almost sinking in his heavy clothes, quietly obeyed Archy, who called to him:

"Don't catch me around the neck—put your hand on my shoulder."

He would have been hard to save, as his clothes were heavy with water, but the boat came alongside at that moment and he was hauled in. Archy cried to him:

"The Admiral?"

"Gone," briefly answered the marine. "He never left the cabin."

Every ship in the fleet sent boats, and in half an hour all of the survivors were picked up, and then came a terrible reaction. The flags were half-masted, the booming of minute-guns over the water was heard, and the people on the ships and crowds that ran to the shore gave way to paroxysms of grief and horror. Even those who had lost no friend or relative, and they were few, were overcome with the dreadful shock of the disaster.

Archy Baskerville's nerve lasted him until, with the boatman's help, he had handed the orderly and three other men they had saved over to the large cutter which was collecting the survivors from the small boats, and then he gave way to a perfectly hysterical burst of grief. Within an hour from the time that he had shown the utmost coolness and courage in saving life, he could only throw himself down in the boat and weep and sob like a nervous woman over the horrors he had seen. The boatman, his stolid face ashy pale, sat trembling, and presently said, in a thick voice, to Archy:

"'Tis lucky, sir, that both of us wasn't took this way when there was something to do. I swear to you, sir, my arms is so weak I can hardly pull the boat ashore, and I know my wife is near wild with fright, and—and—I don't seem to feel that, nor nothin', sir."

"Pull me to the Fox, and then you can go ashore and fetch my portmanteau," said Archy. All he wanted then was to get away from that dreadful spot.

The Fox, a small gun-brig, was then getting up her anchor, as the wind was increasing, for which she had waited, and her orders admitted of no delay.

As Archy came over the side of the brig, the men, with white, set faces, were walking around the capstan in silence, the creaking sound painfully audible. The officers, mute, and, as Archy could see, many of them as shaken as he, were standing about the deck, and as Archy handed Captain Wilbur—a stern, weather-beaten man—Admiral Kempenfelt's letter, on which the ink was scarcely dry, he tried to speak, but he could only say, "Admiral Kempenfelt," and burst into tears.

Captain Wilbur lifted his cap as he took the letter, and then turned aside, to conceal his agitation. Presently he spoke in a low voice:

"Everything shall be attended to at once. I will send Admiral Kempenfelt's letter to the flag-ship immediately, and we will not be detained more than an hour. Would that we had sailed before we saw that awful sight!"

The afternoon sun was declining when the Fox passed out to sea. Archy looked resolutely seaward—he could not bear to turn his eyes towards the dreadful spot where the Royal George had gone down.

At eight bells, after relieving the watch, Captain Wilbur called all hands on deck, and, having no chaplain, he himself held a simple religious service, in which all, both officers and men, joined fervently. Captain Wilbur, although a dashing officer, was a stern man, a rigid moralist, and counted as puritanical—but all hearts were subdued by the terrible calamity they had just witnessed. Archy felt that he had special cause for gratitude, and he gave thanks with a greater devoutness of spirit than he had felt since the hour that Commodore Jones—a man of deep though unobtrusive piety—had exhorted him to thank God for the glorious success of their country.

They had sailed on the 29th of August, and by extraordinary good-fortune found themselves off Ushant within thirty-six hours. There, waiting for them, was the French frigate Alceste, with the English officers to be exchanged for the French. To Archy's delight and surprise he found that as soon as the French officers were landed at Ushant the Alceste was to take aboard the Comte d'Artois, the King's brother, and the Duc de Bourbon, who were determined to see the last act in the tragedy and to sail for Gibraltar.

The gallant French officers expressed the utmost sympathy for the terrible disaster suffered by the British navy, and especially at the loss of Admiral Kempenfelt, who was admired and respected even by his enemies. The Admiral's letter—the last he had ever penned—was recommendation enough to Archy, even without his prestige as having served under Paul Jones. He was at once offered a berth on the Alceste, which he gladly accepted, and on the 12th day of September he came in sight, for the third time, of the Rock of the Lion.

So celebrated had this siege become that persons from all parts of Europe came, as the Comte d'Artois and the Duc de Bourbon, to see the last mortal struggle between Spain and England for this mighty fortress. On that September day when they cast anchor in the harbor of Algeciras, the shore, as far as the eye could reach, was an armed camp. The gigantic fortifications, armed with hundreds of the heaviest siege guns, were manned by forty thousand men. Fifty French and Spanish battle-ships, nine of which wore admiral's flags, were drawn up in menacing array, and beside them were a hundred gunboats, mortar vessels and bomb-ketches, ten enormous floating batteries, and three hundred smaller boats, to land men when a practicable breach in the defences should be made.

From these enormous forces of attack, Archy turned his eyes on the great fortress. The golden light of morning bathed the summit of the Rock in fire, and the ensign of St. George floated proudly above it. There were not six thousand men, and less than a hundred guns, to oppose the tremendous bombardment of the Spaniards and French; but these were the seasoned sailors, soldiers, and marines who had held out stubbornly against death and defeat in every form for more than three years.

Precisely at seven o'clock in the morning a signal-gun boomed over the water, and then began the unparalleled assault, which made all that had gone before it mere child's-play.