When steering for the enemy’s fleet, Sir Horatio Nelson hailed the Zealous, and asked Captain Hood if he thought he might venture to bear up round the shoals.  The answer was,—­

“I cannot say, sir; but if you will allow me the honour of leading into action, I will keep the lead going.”

“You have my permission, and I wish you good luck,” was the reply; and, as Nelson said this, he took off his hat.  Captain Hood, in his hurry to return the courtesy of his admiral, dropped his hat overboard.  He looked after it, laughed, and exclaimed,—­

“Never mind, Webley, there it goes for luck!  Put the helm up, and make all sail.”

Captain Foley of the Goliath, being close to the Zealous, perceiving this manoeuvre, guessed what the orders were, and bore up likewise, so that when the two ships had shaped their course, they were nearly abreast of each other.  The Goliath being a little in advance, which of course was rather annoying, Captain Hood stood on for some time, in hopes of being able to take the lead in the Zealous, but finding this could not be without jostling and confusion, he turned round and said—­

“This will never do!  Well, never mind; Foley is a fine, gallant, worthy fellow.  Shorten sail, and give him time to take up his berth.  We must risk nothing that will tend to the enemy’s advantage.”

This was instantly done!  The Goliath shot ahead, and Captain Foley had the glory of leading the British fleet into action.  By some accident, however, he failed to place the Goliath in opposition to the headmost ship of the enemy’s line.  The experienced eye of Hood instantly saw the consequences, and while the Goliath passed on to the second in the line, Sir Samuel placed his own ship, the Zealous, alongside the first, exclaiming in the joy of his heart, “Thank God! my friend Foley has left me the van ship!”

The indifference to danger and fatigue which was habitual to this great captain cost him, I believe, his life when travelling in the interior of India, near Seringapatam.  He reached a station at which a fresh set of palanquin bearers were to have met him, but had been prevented by some accident.  “It matters not,” he cried, “let us walk.”  And sure enough he set off to perform on foot a stage which might have been dangerous on horseback; for the sun had nearly risen to the meridian, and there was hardly a breath of wind.  Possibly no mischief might have followed this march, but he had been spending some days in the island of Seringapatam, the most unhealthy spot in Mysore; and it is a curious circumstance connected with the malaria of the noxious districts, that its effects frequently lie dormant long after it has been breathed.  Sir Samuel Hood did not escape; but he felt no inconvenience till after he descended from, and entered the Carnatic at Madras.  The jungle fever, of which the fatal seeds had been sown at Seringapatam, attacked him after a few days.  When, unfortunately for the profession and for his country, he fell sick at Madras, and knew that his last moments were fast approaching, he called his faithful friend and old follower in many ships and many actions, Lieutenant, afterwards Captain Walcott to his bedside, and said to him,—­