The principal work, called by Nelson the Mozelle battery, was carried before daylight of July 19, and before dark all the outposts were in the hands of the British.  “I could have wished to have had a little part in the storm,” wrote Nelson, characteristically covetous of strenuous action, “if it was only to have placed the ladders and pulled away the palisadoes.  However, we did the part allotted to us.”  That day a summons was sent to the garrison, but rejected, and work upon batteries to breach the town walls was then pushed rapidly forward; for it was becoming more and more evident that the siege must be brought to an end, lest the entire force of besiegers should become disabled by sickness.  On the 28th the batteries were ready, and General Stuart sent in word that he would not fire upon the hospital positions, where indicated by black flags.  The besieged then asked for a truce of twenty-five days, undertaking to lay down their arms, if not by then relieved.  The general and admiral refused, but were willing to allow six days.  This the garrison in turn rejected; and on the night of the 30th four small vessels succeeded in eluding the blockading frigates and entering supplies, which encouraged the besieged.  On the 31st the batteries opened, and after thirty-six hours’ heavy cannonade the town held out a flag of truce.  An arrangement was made that it should surrender on the 10th of August, if not relieved; the garrison to be transported to France without becoming prisoners of war.

No relief arriving, the place capitulated on the day named.  It was high time for the besiegers.  “We have upwards of one thousand sick out of two thousand,” wrote Nelson, “and the others not much better than so many phantoms.  We have lost many men from the season, very few from the enemy.”  He himself escaped more easily than most.  To use his own quaint expression, “All the prevailing disorders have attacked me, but I have not strength enough for them to fasten upon.  I am here the reed amongst the oaks:  I bow before the storm, while the sturdy oak is laid low.”  The congenial moral surroundings, in short,—­the atmosphere of exertion, of worthy and engrossing occupation,—­the consciousness, to him delightful, of distinguished action, of heroic persistence through toil and danger,—­prevailed even in his physical frame over discomfort, over the insidious climate, and even over his distressing wound.  “This is my ague day,” he writes when the batteries opened; “I hope so active a scene will keep off the fit.  It has shaken me a good deal; but I have been used to them, and now don’t mind them much.”  “Amongst the wounded, in a slight manner, is myself, my head being a good deal wounded and my right eye cut down; but the surgeons flatter me I shall not entirely lose the sight.  It confined me, thank God, only one day, and at a time when nothing particular happened to be doing.”  “You must not think my hurts confined me,” he tells his wife; “no, nothing but the loss