The harbour was now so unsafe for shipping that orders were given to remove all ships as far as possible. Among the large vessels alongside the dockyard jetty was the _Carisbrooke Castle_, a South-African liner which had lately been chartered by the Admiralty to serve as an auxiliary scout with a Flying Squadron then lying at Spithead. The _Carisbrooke_ had been brought round from Southampton and was taking in a quantity of stores; but the danger of her position made it advisable to get her clear of the harbour without delay. Just when she was abreast of Blockhouse Fort an explosion--accidental or designed, none knew--occurred on board. The great ship, viewed by the flashlight from the fort, was seen to heel over. In half an hour she had settled down, blocking the fairway, and effectually bottling the harbour against all craft of heavy tonnage. On the Gosport side the shore was lined with lookers on. From this side, indeed, looking across the water, the sight was exceptionally striking, for the far-spread glow lit up the towering masts and rigging of the _Victory_ and all the ships in port. From the tower of the old Norman castle at Portchester, away beyond the mudbanks of the harbour, and on the crumbling walls that flanked its water-gate, the villagers gazed spellbound at the awesome sight. Farther away, on the long ridge of Portsdown Hill, the rural population of the district had a yet more impressive view of what was happening. To them it seemed as if the whole town of Portsmouth must be wrapped in flames. Here, on the chalk down, stood a solitary pillar, erected long years ago to the memory of Nelson. Grey, moss-grown, and mournful, it looked down on scenes with which the great sea-captain once had been so familiar.--Southsea Common, where a “blackguard horse” ran away with him; the Sally Port, where his sailors always were coming or going; the old nooks and alleys of “Point,” where the press-gang did its work; the old George Inn, in which he breakfasted on the morning of his last embarkation; the spot on the beach, marked by the anchor of the _Victory_, where the people grasped his hand and, weeping, bade him a final Godspeed; and there, in the light of the burning dockyard, rode the brave old ship in which he died for England. More than a hundred years had passed away, and now the Royal dockyard, that had equipped so many fleets for the greatest of Britannia’s admirals, lay engulfed and wrecked in a tremendous, rolling sea of flame and smoke. Portsmouth, for all purposes of naval warfare, was out of action. CHAPTER XXXI THE NAVAL BATTLE OFF PLYMOUTH