weather and dying like dogs from the exposure
The galleys were the war-steamers of that
day. On occasion, the rowers were kept at
work day and night; when they could hold out
no longer, the gangsman walked round, putting
a bit of bread soaked in wine into everybody's
mouth, so that he might not have to leave off
rowing. But worse than the hard rowing was
the state of suspicion in which the poor
creatures lived. Out of the complement of two
hundred marines, fifty were always ready at a
moment's notice to fire upon their own rowers:
of the four or five guns which each galley carried,
two were pointed so as to command the
benches. Each galley-slave had a large cork
hanging from his neck. This was often forced
into his mouth when the galley was going into
action, so as to gag him when it was thought
likely he might try to hold some communication
with the enemy. Of all on board the rowers
were the most exposed. To shoot down a row
of them was the readiest way of crippling the
galley; it was just like aiming at the screw or
the paddles ot a steamer now-a-days. If a
boarding party was thrown into the galley,
there the slaves must sit to be cut down on
their benches. None of the excitement, none
of the wild joy, of battle for them. Marteilhe
gives an instance of what the convicts had
to expect in an engagement. While he is
at Dunkirk, his galley, cruising about the
Nore, falls in with an English frigate taking
a convoy up the river. The Frenchmen are
trying to board, and the gunwale of the galley
almost touches the frigate's side. There's a
cannon so close that Marteilhe could touch it by
stretching out his hand. All the rest on his bench
lie down, thinking so to have the best chance
of escape. But he argues that, as the cannon
is a little above them, the safest way is to sit
upright. Of course, his chain prevents him
from moving to the other side. Well, he
watches the gunner come from port-hole to
port-hole; bang, bang along the whole length
of the ship. He even keeps his eyes on him as
he puts his match to the cannon just opposite,
and then, the next thing he notices is that he is
lying at the full length of his chain on the dead
body of the lieutenant. He must have lain
there some time, for it is night. A happy thing
for him, since it is too dark for him to notice ail
the destruction which had been going on on
board.

" Get up, comrades ; it's all over now," he
cries to his mates whom he supposes still lying
down to escape the shot. But there is no answer.
His next neighbour had been a Turk,
an old janissary who was always bragging of
his courage. "How now, Yusuf," says Marteilhe,
" you're not afraid this time, are you ?"
and he stoops down and takes the Turk by his
arm. The arm comes away in his hand. That
one discharge of grape had killed every one of
the eighteen on the three nearest benches
except Marteilhe himself, and he is left badly
wounded in three places. Pretty well for one
gun. But the whole galley is heaped with dead.
It had been right under the ship's guns ; and
though five other galleys come to help it and
the frigate has to surrender, still it would have
been a very strange kind of victory, had not the
loss fallen heaviest on a class for whom no one
had any pity, and whom no one thought of any
account. They are in almost total darkness,
and dare not light a lamp for fear of bringing
down the men of war which are in the
offing. So the warders go round, throwing into
the sea every one who does not show
unmistakable signs of life. Marteilhe has fainted,
and is lying among the mangled limbs of his
mates. He's dead too, says a warder, and
they begin unriveting his chain, in order to
throw him in. Fortunately, one of them presses
hard on his wounded leg. He shrieks out, and
so gets taken into the hold and thrown on a
coil of rope. Here he lies three days, in a
stifling atmosphere, "the wounded men dying
like flies about him," and nothing done to his
wounds except to wash them once with
camphorated brandy. Of course, gangrene spreads
among them; and when they get to Dunkirk,
they are slung out like cattle and sent on shore
to the hospital. Every galley-slave who gets
wounded is a free man from that moment,
unless he is one of the Protestants; they alone of
all the slaves are absolutely without hope.
Indeed, service, where there are sure to be plenty
of hard knocks is recommended by M. de
Seignelay, son of the great Colbert, as the best
way of bringing obstinate Huguenots round.

After his recovery, however, Marteilhe fares
better. He is put on board, but the doctor
certifies that he is too ill to pull. His gangsman
too, has been impressed with his noble
Christian behaviour, and says in his rough way,
as he is giving him some little indulgence:
"There, if you are to be damned by-and-by, you
will have enough of it then. I'm sure you're very
well-behaved fellows, all of you heretics that I've
had anything to do with." That gangsman
understood toleration far better than marquises
and ministers of state. Eventually Marteilhe is
made secretary to his captain, M. de Langeron, a
wag in his way. A long while before this sea fight,
the galley was at Boulogne, where was living
the Duc d'Aumont, a great man, afterwards
ambassador to England. The captain invites
the duke to spend a long day on board. It is
very calm, so they take his grace out to sea.
Galleys, as we can readily understand, would
only answer in calm weather. They pull
leisurely nearly as far as Dover; and D'Aumont,
walking along the gangways, wonders how the
poor creatures can sleep without bed or bedding.
"Oh, trust me for that," says De Langeron.
"I've got a prescription which never fails to
send them all off as sound as tops;" and passing
the word "double-quick" to the gangsman,
he makes them keep up the pace all
the way back right into Boulogne harbour, a
trifle of ten leagues or so. Duke and captain
go down to dinner, which lasts till past
midnight  ; and then, says De Langeron to his
guest, "Come and see how my prescription has
worked." Most of the poor wretches are really
asleep, worn out with excessive fatigue; those