In battle, however, with the air thick with powder smoke, with sanded decks and wounded men, with piles of ammunition and half-naked gunners apparently gone mad, with splinters split from oaken beams and gaping holes where the the enemy’s guns had wrought their havoc—then the deck was bedlam. Roars of cannon, fired in broadsides, orders, oaths, and shrieks of dying wretches—stabs of fire as the cannon belched, glowing matches in the hands of powder-blackened men, messengers running here and there, officers standing by, strained, intent, and heedless of everything save the guns they commanded—there was a scene worthy of the pen of Dante. [Illustration: H. M. S. _DREADNAUGHT_ _The first all-big-gun ship, and the one that gave its name to present-day battleships, which are universally called dreadnaughts or super-dreadnaughts._] And such a sight as a fleet of these ships presented as it grappled with a rival fleet perhaps equally strong. Two lines, each of a score or more of these awkward giants—first they manœuvre for position, each strung out in single file, each with sails set, each silent, each watchful, each anxious. Slowly they converge. Closer and closer they come, their ports open, the black muzzles of the cannon protruding. On the gun-decks men are waiting quietly, peering out, waiting for the command to fire. Above, on the quarter decks, groups of officers with their awkward field glasses, watching the enemy, watching the flagship. Aloft, in the masts, groups of sharpshooters with muskets ready, waiting for an opportunity to bring down the officers and men on the decks of the enemy’s ships. Closer the ships sail and closer still, still noiseless save for the gurgle of water at the bows and the sounds of the rigging. Then on the flagship a string of flags is run up and the attacking fleet changes its course sharply toward the enemy. Another string of flags and a crash of guns—the battle is on. Great clouds of smoke, more cannon roars—the enemy has answered. Closer still, and closer, until each ship is alongside one of the opposing fleet. Grappling irons are thrown over the rail, and the two fleets have become a long tangled row of duelling pairs, each locked tightly to its adversary, their sides grinding together, their rigging tangled. An hour, perhaps, of awful havoc. The line is broken, ships drifting here and there. Broken masts and spars clutter the decks. A ship catches fire and her magazine explodes, and as she sinks the victor cuts the lines that bind the two together and stands on to help a friend. An hour or two—maybe a little more—and the victory is won. History is made—perhaps Trafalgar has been fought and the whole world will feel the effect. Such were the duties of the line-of-battle ships.