THE PHANTOM FRENCHMAN.

“If to engage we get the word,
To quarters we’ll repair,
While splintered masts go by the board,
And shots sing through the air.”
Dibdin.

EAUTIFUL island of San Miguel! on whose shores, wherever they slope in sheets of sand towards the sea, the white waves play and sing; whose gigantic rocks, frowning black and beetling above the water, are fondly licked by mother ocean’s tongue as dog salutes a master’s hand.

Island, surrounded by seas that towards the far horizon seem unfathomably blue, yet near around are patched in the sunshine with opal, with green, and with azure, and tremble like mercury under the moon and the starlight. Island of fountain-springs, that shoot their white and boiling spray farther skywards than ever spouted Nor’land whale.

Island of mountains, high and wild, whose summits seek to withdraw from earth away, and hide their proud heads above the clouds, when storms rage far beneath.

Island of green and lonesome glens, where bright-winged birds chant low their love-songs to their listening mates, and where many a strange, fantastic fern nods weeping o’er the hurrying streams.

Island of scented orange-groves, of waving palms, of dark dwarf pines—black shapes in many a cloud of green—of the rose, the camellia, the oleander, the passion-flower. Island of wild flowers, that grow and wanton everywhere, that have their home in the woods, that carpet the earth with colour, that clothe the rocks, that hang head downwards in masses over many a foaming cataract, that climb the trees and repose like living, sentient beings among the branches, wooing the bees, attracting the butterflies, and tempting the gay, metallic-tinted moths to expand their cloaks in the sunshine, and fly clumsily to their embrace.

Island of seeming contentment, where even human beings live but to idle and to lounge and to love. Beautiful, beautiful island!

Yes; but an island on which our heroes must not linger, for twice during the night a dark shape glided across the moon’s bright wake, and those on watch on board the Tonneraire knew it was the waiting, watching foe. But when day broke no foe was to be seen. Captain Mackenzie stayed therefore only long enough to take in extra stores, water, and fruit, and to permit his fleet to do likewise; then the signal was made, “Up anchor, and to sea!”

In silence the anchors were weighed on board the man-o’-war; but accompanied on the merchant-vessels by the never-failing song, with its frequent abrupt conclusion, without which merchantman Jack finds it impossible to carry on a bit of duty.

“Hee—hoy—ee! Hee hoy! Pull, and she comes! Hoy—ee—ee! Hoip!”

All that day the young captain of the Tonneraire kept his fleet well together. Not an easy task, for although the wind was by no means high, and was moreover favourable, being north-east by east—the course steered about north-west, the convoy bearing up for Halifax and the Gulf of St. Lawrence—still the sailing powers of the vessels varied considerably. The strength of an iron chain equals the strength of its weakest link, and the speed of a fleet of merchantmen is measured by that of its slowest sailer. While at San Miguel, Jack had tried to impress this upon the minds of his various skippers. He held a meeting of these on board a large full-rigged ship, and told them their motto must be, “Keep together,” as the danger of an attack was imminent. Slow sailers must carry stun’-sails when they found themselves getting behind, while the fast must take in sail.

They admitted this.

“It is as plain as the nose on my face,” said one intelligent skipper, who had a huge red bulbous proboscis you could have almost seen in the dark. “We’ve got to play up to you, Captain Mackenzie, just as the small fry plays up to a great hactor on the stage.”

This was all very well, but then they did not do it, so that the rate of speed was slow; ships and barques having to haul their fore or main yards aback at times to wait for the lazy brigs who either couldn’t or wouldn’t set stun’-sails. And at eventide, while the sun was going in a lacework of golden cloud, and looking so red that he appeared to be ashamed of the fleet, the vessels were scattered all over three square miles, and Jack Mackenzie, not now in the best of tempers, had to collect them as a collie pens his sheep.

It was dark enough after the somewhat brief twilight had given place to light—to light and to lights, for signal-lanterns hung aloft on every ship; so all appeared safe and snug enough.

But what had become of the Frenchman? He had not been seen all day. Was it indeed but a phantom that had been seen in the moon’s bright wake?

A good watch was kept both ’low and aloft; and Jack went down to dinner at the sound of the bugle.

As he passed near the midshipmen’s berth, quite a buzz of happy voices issued therefrom. Jack paused for a few seconds to listen. It was not so very long since he himself had been a middy. No responsibility had he then, any more than rested on any of these bright young hearts at that moment. How they laughed and chaffed and talked, to be sure! Interspersed in the hubbub were now and then snatches of merry song, and now and then the notes of a somewhat squeaky and asthmatical violin, invariably followed by some one shouting, “Stop that awful fiddle!” “Hit ’im in the eye with a bit o’ biscuit!” or “Grease his bow!” Then a deeper bass voice, evidently Scotch, and just as evidently a junior surgeon’s, saying, “Let the laddie practise.—Fiddle away, my boy; I’ll thrash all hands if they meddle with ye.”

Jack went away laughing to himself. Little those boys—who not long since left home and Merrie England—know or care that ere another hour, perhaps, the decks of the Tonneraire may be slippery with blood.

Ah! all the care was his—was the post-captain’s. Uneasy lies the head that—hallo! He had just entered the ward-room, and found all the fellows there quite as happy as the middies. They were at dessert, for they dined earlier than their captain. M?Hearty was seated at the head of the table, and was spinning a short but funny yarn, to which his messmates’ laugh was ready chorus. Tom was vice-president; the lieutenants, the purser, and officers of the marines were ranged along the tables, red jackets and blue, forming a pretty contrast; the table was laden with fruit and flowers from the island they had that morning left, while glasses and cruets sparkled on a tablecloth white as snow.

Jack took all this in at a glance as he entered with a preliminary tap, which was not heard in the delicious hubbub. He almost sighed to think that he had to go away and dine all by himself alone.

On seeing the captain, every one rose, nor would they be seated until he consented to sit down.

“Just sit down, Captain Mackenzie,” said M?Hearty, with a merry twinkle in his eye, “and have a glass of wine while your soup is getting cold.”

“If the president bids me, I must obey,” said Jack, seating himself beside Tom. “It must be but for a moment. There are older men than myself here—our worthy Master Simmons, for example. I came to take your views about that Frenchman. He is evidently a battle-ship, probably a seventy-four. I say fight him; but considering this is my first captaincy—” But he was interrupted. Every man rose to his feet. It was a strange council of war, because every man held aloft a glass of wine.

The words, “Fight him!” ran round the table like platoon firing. There was determination in every eye and in every voice, from the deep bass of the gray-bearded master down to the shrill treble of the rosy-cheeked fledgeling marine-officer Murray, a mere boy, who would certainly have seemed more in place in the cricket-field than on the battle-deck. “I’m going now,” said Jack. “Thank you all.—Excuse me, won’t you, Dr. M?Hearty? I think the soup is cold enough by this time. But we’ll make it hot for the enemy.”

“Hurrah!”

The moon was later in rising that night, being on the wane.

It was the first lieutenant’s watch from eight till twelve. Nothing transpired until about seven bells, when Jack and Tom Fairlie were walking slowly up and down the poop. The moon was now well up, but hidden by a mass of cumulus cloud. Presently she would burst into view, for the clouds were sailing slowly along the horizon, and near hand was a rift of blue.

Instinctively as it were, both officers stopped to gaze in that direction. In a few seconds the moon shot into the field of blue, and her light flashed over the sea.

It flashed upon the phantom Frenchman, as Tom Fairlie called her; but so quickly had she come into view that the sight was startling in the extreme. She was not crossing the moon’s wake this time, however, but bearing down upon the Tonneraire, as if about to attack her. The man at the mast-head had seen her at the same time, and his stentorian shout of, “Enemy on the starboard quarter!” awoke the sleeping ship to instant life as effectually as if a fifty-pounder had fired.

All hands to quarters.

R—r—r—r—r—r—r—r rattled the drum. It rattled once; the heaviest sleeper started and rubbed his eyes. It rattled twice; every man was on his legs and dressing. Thrice; and three minutes thereafter every man stood by his gun, and the cockpit hatches were put down. The ship was ready for action.

Would she come on? would the Frenchman fight? Alas! no. Already she began to assume larger proportions as she showed broadside on. Above the wind, that now blew more gently from the north, the very flapping of her sails and loosening of her sheets could be heard as she came round, and in less than an hour she had almost disappeared in the uncertain light.