A HAPPY SHIP.

“On Friendship so many perfections attend
That the rational comfort of life is a friend.”
Dibdin.

the early part of the present century the poet Dibdin wrote with great feeling and spirit concerning the “generous Britons and the barbarous French.” There is no doubt about it, the French in those days were far more cruel to their prisoners than ever we were to ours.

And so the wounded on board the Tonneraire were absolutely astounded at the kind treatment they experienced under good M?Hearty and his assistants. The surgeon himself looked in face—or figure-head—as rough and weather-beaten a sailor as ever trod a plank, but in heart he was as tender as any woman. More than one of his poor patients wrung the doctor’s red hands, and, with tears rolling over their sallow cheeks, prayed Heaven to bless him for his goodness and sympathy.

But this was not all, for even the men were good to the prisoners. Many a morsel of tobacco did they give them on the sly; and if a Jack-tar observed that one was asleep in his hammock, he would sign to his fellows to make as little noise as possible. It is no wonder, therefore, that the “Froggies,” as they were called, nearly all recovered from their wounds. Two or three, however, succumbed, and these were buried with as much ceremony as if they had been British sailors. The same impressive and beautiful service was repeated by the grating where the body lay; the same solemn silence prevailed while it was being read; and I am not sure that some of our Jacks did not even shed a tear—on the sly, that is, for your true sailor ever tries to hide two things, his grief and his tender-heartedness—as with dull plash the body dropped into the sea.

Contrary winds and storms delayed the voyage. Nearly a whole month flew by, and still the little fleet had not yet reached the longitude of Newfoundland. But to his credit be it told, Jack and his officers had managed to keep them all well together, and had not lost one.

The Tonneraire was a very happy ship, the primary reason being that Jack Mackenzie, though a thorough upholder of the sacredness of duty, was really kind and thoughtful at heart. He knew the value in the service of strict obedience to command. I have heard it said that a man-o’-war sailor or a soldier is a mere machine. He is not even that, he is only part of a machine; but he has the honour to be part and portion of one of the grandest machines that ever were perfected—the upholder of our national honour, the defender of British hearths and homes, and the protector of tender women and helpless babies.

We man-o’-war sailors, and ye soldiers, carry on war, it is true, and we hit just as hard as we know how to—and war is a fearful game at the best; but, dear civilians, do not forget that we constitute the only institutions that can render peace possible, and your homes happy and safe, machines though we be.

But how would it be if strict, unthinking, unhesitating obedience were not exacted from every man and officer in the service to the commands of his superior officers? Why, on the day of battle the army or navy would be a mere squabbling mob, worse even than the British Parliament.

I may mention here that it was his cheerful obedience to orders, his good-natured smiling alacrity—minus officiousness, mind you—his unselfishness and his bravery, that gained for Jack Mackenzie the proud position he now held.

Young men who mean to enter the service should read that last sentence of mine over again, ay, even get it by heart.

I digress, you say? So I do.

Well, I was saying that the Tonneraire was a happy ship. All the officers, both junior and senior, agreed. The chief lights of the senior mess were Tom Fairlie, always good-humoured and cheerful; honest M?Hearty, rough and genial; young Murray, the boy marine officer, merry and innocent; and Simmons the master, who would have his growl, who was all thunder without the lightning, but a very excellent old fellow, when young Murray didn’t tease him too much. Between M?Hearty, Fairlie, Murray, and Jack himself a strange sort of a compact was made. It was Murray who proposed it one lovely moonlight night, when the four were together on the poop. Young Murray had cheek enough for anything. He was the second son of a noble lord, and would himself be a lord one day—probably. Not that his rank in life made him any the cheekier, but I suppose it was born in the boy. He cared little or nothing for the etiquette or punctilios of the service when it suited him not to. For example, he one day actually linked his arm through that of an admiral on the quarter-deck. Everybody was aghast; but the good old admiral merely smiled. He knew boys and liked them.

But that night on the quarter-deck Murray said openly and innocently to Jack: “I like you, sir—fact, I wish you were my brother; and you too, Fairlie, though you’re a fool sometimes; and you, M?Hearty, though you’re often absurdly rough. I wish we could be together for years and years and years, in the same ship, you know, and all that sort of thing.”

“Well, why not?” said M?Hearty. “Let us try; eh, captain?”

“I’m agreeable,” said Jack.

“And I,” said Fairlie.

“Hurrah!” cried Murray. So the compact was made.

The men forward, taking the cue from their officers, were just as jolly. Those were terrible days of flogging. For a look or a glance, a man might be tied up and receive four dozen lashes with the terrible “cat.” It was a brutal punishment. But M?Hearty was dead against it; Jack too; and so the grating was never rigged on board the Tonneraire.

Well, despite dirty weather and head winds, the fleet finally sailed into the mouth of the St. Lawrence river without ever losing a stick. At the Canadian capital, Jack and his officers, ay, and the men as well, had what the Yankees call “a real good time of it.” Jack became quite a hero among the ladies, young and old. Yet he did not let that elate him. His heart was not his own—as yet, though he might get over his grief for his lost love Gerty.

But having refitted, there was nothing left but to put to sea again.

The Tonneraire cruised all down by the American coast and to the West Indies. Before reaching Jamaica she was attacked by two French line-of-battle ships. What they were doing here they themselves best knew. They were badly wanted just then on the other side of the sea. Now this was a chance to test the sailing powers of the Tonneraire. Discretion is sometimes better than valour. Valour is sometimes folly. Jack ran. Nelson himself did so once or twice. You and I, my bold young reader, are not going to stand a blow from a big fellow without hitting back; but if the big fellow brings his big brother, then we may as well take the opportunity of going shopping, or somewhere. Jack Mackenzie went shopping, so to speak, and the Tonneraire won the race.

I wish I had space in my story to tell you something about Jamaica, and the lovely West India Islands, first discovered by Columbus. I am strangely tempted to. I will. I won’t. I shall. I shan’t. Belay! I’ve won.

At the time of which I am writing—the latter end of 1796—there was a very pretty naval combination formed, with a view to crush the might of Britain. The French, who had a navy nearly as powerful as our own, got the Dutch and Spaniards to join them, and felt certain that we should go down to Davy Jones by the run, and never more—

“Sweep through the deep
While stormy winds do blow.”

Instead of saying “got the Dutch and Spaniards to join them,” I should have written, “formed an alliance with these nations against us,” because we determined that, with Heaven on our side, we should prevent a junction of the fleets. So brave Scotch Duncan shut the Dutch up in the Texel like a lot of rats. They had not the pluck to come out and fight him. Well, Duncan would have blown them sky-high, as he eventually did. There was a French fleet at Brest, and the Spaniards farther south, and had they all got together—but then they didn’t. You know the position of a game of draughts when you have one of your enemy’s crowned heads in each corner, and he cannot move without danger. That is blockade, and that is how we held and meant to hold the French, Spaniards, and Dutch till we should smash them time about, and then sing, “Britannia, the pride of the ocean,” or some bold equivalent thereto.

The Spaniards had their lesson first.

It was well for Jack Mackenzie that he arrived off Cadiz in his swift Tonneraire[B] about a week before the great battle of St. Vincent. I do not mean to describe this fight at any length; every school-boy knows all about it. I merely wish to remind the reader of some of its chief events, because to me it has always seemed such a blood-stirring battle. The haughty Don had a fleet of twenty-seven sail of the line and two frigates. Some of his ships, like the Santissima-Trinidad, were perfect montes belli—thunder-bergs. Fancy a four-decker carrying one hundred and thirty guns! and the Spaniards had six that carried one hundred and twenty; while we had only two of one hundred guns, the Victory and Britannia.

On the 1st of February Lord St. Vincent, then Sir John Jervis, was in the Tagus with only ten ships; but as the great fleet of the Don sailed from Carthagena to effect a junction with the French fleet at Toulon, Jervis set sail after them. He meant to spoil some of the paint-work about that fine Spanish fleet. It was very brave of him, and quite British. Luckily on the 6th he was joined by Admiral Parker with five ships, and on the 13th—hurrah!—by Commodore Nelson himself. Strangely enough, Nelson on the previous night seems to have sailed right through the Spanish fleet.

St. Valentine’s Day 1797 will ever be memorable in the naval annals of this country, for, in a driving mist and fog, our fleet that morning forgathered with the might of Spain off Cape St. Vincent. The majestic appearance of the ships of the Don could not but have impressed our officers and men, but it did not awe them. The bigger the ship the larger the target, our Nelson used to say.

Our fleet advanced in two beautiful lines. The Spaniards somehow had got divided into two groups—one of nineteen ships, the other group some distance to leeward—and these two made haste to unite. But Jervis spoiled that move by getting between them and attacking the main body. After the battle had fairly commenced, and each ship of ours had her orders, Nelson noted an attempt on the part of Don Josef de Cordova to pass round Jervis’s rear and join the other portion of the fleet; and despite the fact that he was disobeying orders—“They can but hang me,” he said to Captain Miller—he slipped back and threw his ship, the Captain, right athwart the mighty Santissima-Trinidad, thus driving the Don’s fleet back. It was, as the reader knows, this daring action on the part of Nelson that decided the battle. But how terribly the fight raged after that; how pluckily Nelson, with his vessel a wreck, boarded and captured ship after ship; how the hell of battle raged for three long hours, let history tell, as well as speak of cases of individual heroism. Suffice it for me to say that the battle was won and the Don was thrashed, among the captured ships being the mighty Trinidad herself, the Spanish admiral’s castle.

The Tonneraire suffered severely. Sixty poor fellows would never again see their native land, and many more were wounded.

Young Murray was among the severely wounded, but Jack himself, and Tom as well, escaped without a scratch.

“Oh dear me, dear me!” said M?Hearty, running up for a few moments from the heat and smoke of the stifling cockpit, “I am thirsty.”

Poor M?Hearty! he wasn’t a pretty sight to look at, begrimed with smoke and blood. But he just had a drink, and a big one, and went back once more to his terrible work.

But the good doctor was washed and dressed and smiling again when he came to the captain’s cabin that evening while the stars were shining, to report, “Everything tidy, and all going on well.”

“And poor Murray?” said Jack.

“He’ll be all right—a bullet clean through the chest. That’s nothing to a young fellow like him.”

“Well, stay and dine,” said Jack.

“Willing, sir. What a glorious day we’ve had! But I can assure you, Captain Mackenzie, I’d rather have had my head above the hatches, now and then, anyhow.”

“Be content,” said Jack, laughing; “it might have been blown off, you know.”