IN THE MOON’S BRIGHT WAKE.

“Now welcome every sea delight—
The cruise with eager watchful days,
The skilful chase by glimmering night,
The well-worked ship, the gallant fight,
The loved commander’s praise!”—Old Song.

was not without a tinge of sorrow at his heart that Jack Mackenzie stood on his own quarter-deck and saw the chalky cliffs of England fading far astern, as the gloom of eventide fast deepened into night. He was not the one to give way to useless grief, but he could not help contrasting the hope and joyfulness with which he had last left home with his present state of mind. He was not a post-captain then certainly, but he had that—or thought he had—for which he would gladly now take the epaulettes from off his shoulders and fling them in the sea—namely, the love of the only girl he ever thought worth living for. But she—Well, no matter; that was past and gone. His love had been all a dream, a happy dream enough while it lasted, while his heart had been to her a toy. But then his father, his good old careless-hearted father. Wrecked and ruined! That he was in difficulties Jack had known for years, but he never knew how deep these were, nor that they had so entwined themselves around the roots of the old homestead, that to get rid of the former was to tear up the latter and cast all its old associations to the four winds of heaven. Dear old homestead! Somehow Jack had dreamt he would always have it to go home to on every return voyage, always have his father there to welcome him back, always—

“Hallo!” said a voice at his side, “what is all this reverie about, Jack?”

Tom laid his hand gently, half timidly on his arm as he spoke. Half timidly, I say, because it would not do for even the men to note a shadow of familiarity on poop or quarter-deck betwixt a commander and his captain.

Jack smiled somewhat sadly.

“I daresay, Tom,” he replied, “it was very wrong, but I was just breathing one last sigh for lost love and home. Oh, I don’t care for Grantley Hall so much; but then there is sister, and poor father, and it seems rather hard he should take service again. There is just enough saved out of the wreck for them to live on.”

“Yes; and you’ll win a fortune yet, mayhap an earldom, Jack—”

“Stay, Tom, stay. I care nothing for earldoms, and if I win enough to live on I’ll be content. One thing I do mean to win for Flora’s sake—honour and glory.”

“Keep your mind easy about Flora,” laughed Tom. “I’m going to win all the honour and glory she is likely to want.”

“I’d quite forgotten, Tom—brother.”

“That’s better. And, Jack, I know you’ll get more ambitious as we go on. Now mind you, you’re not so badly off. That wound was a lucky hit. Just look around and beneath you. Ever see a finer frigate? Look at her build, her spars, her rigging, everything taut and trim and ship-shape—the very ship seems proud of herself, considering the independent way she goes swinging over the waves on the wings of this delightful breeze; swinging over the waves, bobbing and bowing to them as if they were mere passing acquaintances, and she proud mistress of the seas. Then, Jack, let me recall your attention to the fact that we have five-and-forty bonnie black guns and three hundred and twenty bold blue-jackets to man and to fight them; and that you—you lucky dog—are monarch of all you survey. Ah, brother mine, there is many a sailor mo’sieur afloat on the seas at this moment ’twixt here and America who well might tremble did he but know the fate that is in store for him when the Tonneraire crosses his hawse.”

“You bloodthirsty man!”

“No, no, no. I’ve got one of the softest hearts ever turned out of dock, but it is all for king and country, you know. Behold how our good ship goes sweeping through the deep! Look, my captain bold, we are coming up to the convoy hand-over-hand. It was a good idea giving them half a day’s start, for some of them, I daresay, we’ll find are lazy lubbers.”

“Well,” said Jack, as we shall still call him, “we must do our best to keep them together. I would not like, however, for my own part, to go out in protection of many convoys.”

“Nor will we; this is only a kind of trial trip. But if you are afraid you won’t have any fighting to do, you may be agreeably disappointed, as the Irishman said.”

Jack Mackenzie laughed.

“What a fire-eater you are, Tom! I wasn’t thinking of fighting. But if I have to fight, I’d rather these merchantmen were a hundred miles away. Fighting in convoy must make one feel as does the father of a family, whom he has to defend against an aggressor while the children cling tightly to his legs.”

From the above conversation it will be gathered that the Tonneraire had sailed at last, and was in charge of a merchant fleet bound for America. This was considered a very responsible task in these warlike days, when the cruisers of the enemy were here, there, and everywhere in our ocean highways, watching a chance to seize our unprotected ships. The Tonneraire had been chosen for her strength and her fleetness, and there was no doubt that under so able a young and dashing commander she would fulfil her mission, and make it warm for any Frenchman who sought to attack the ships.

There they were now sailing as closely together as possible, because night would soon fall, and they could only be distinguished by their lights. A cruise of this sort was seldom, if ever, free from adventure, and it entailed much anxious care and forethought on the part of the captain of the war-vessel convoying them. A good thing this for Jack Mackenzie. No cure for sorrow in this world except honest work. He was really, too, in a manner of speaking, a probationer. To do his duty strictly, wisely, and well on this voyage would certainly entitle him to no step, not even perhaps to praise; but to neglect it, or even to be unfortunate, would cause him to incur the displeasure of the Admiralty and hinder his advancement.

But a whole week went on, and though no Frenchman appeared on the scene, Jack and his fleet had encountered a gale of wind that had driven them considerably out of their course; and when one morning, about eight bells, a cry of “Land” was raised, he knew he must be in the neighbourhood of the Azores or Western Islands.

He was not altogether sorry for this; it would give him a chance of taking in fresh water and of adding to the store of fresh provisions now almost exhausted. For ships in those days were vilely found, and the men called contractors were held in general detestation by every ship in the service.

The merchantmen under Jack numbered fourteen in all, and were of different classes—brigs, barques, and full-rigged ships; but long before sundown they were all securely anchored in front of San Miguel, and Captain Mackenzie, in full uniform, accompanied by Commander Fairlie, had gone on shore to pay his respects to the Portuguese governor.

San Miguel was not so densely populated as it is now, but very quaint as to its town, and very romantic and beautiful as to its scenery all around. The governor dwelt in a villa on a garden-terraced hill in the outskirts. He was very pleased to see the officers, but deferred business till next day.

It was, however, while smoking in the veranda after dinner, and gazing dreamily away across the moonlit ocean, that Jack suddenly sprang up, and, clutching Tom’s arm, pointed seawards.

Slowly sailing across the moon’s bright wake was a French man-o’-war.