“WOULD HE EVER COME AGAIN?”

“A sailor’s life’s the life for me,
He takes his duty merrily;
If bullets whistle, Jack can sing,
Still faithful to his friend and king.”
Dibdin.

ACK was right about love and “the creel,” or rather, I should say, the old song is right,—

“Mickle lighter is the boat
When love bears up the creel.”

For the next three months the swift Tonneraire was here, there, and everywhere—except in England. She cruised much farther south, and chiefly along the coast of France, and seldom put into harbour except to cut out some merchantman, snugly ensconced, perhaps, under the guns of a fort, and deeming herself in a very safe position. It was, unfortunately for her, the feeling of security that proved her ruin.

Three or four several times did the Tonneraire thus prove herself a crack ship. A crack ship with a crack crew and officers, remember; for the best of ships is but a drone unless well managed. Not even a drone, indeed; for a drone is a most duty-full bee, and a most respectable member of the apiarian republic. There is a vast deal of very indifferent music in the very best of fiddles, and I feel quite convinced that had some less active officer commanded even the Tonneraire, he would have had little to show at the end of his cruise.

In his daring cutting-out expeditions Jack had been invariably successful. First and foremost he chased the vessel, and failing to overhaul her, he bore away seawards again, as if he had given up all hope, she perhaps taking refuge under the guns of a fort. But although he might sail out of sight of land, soon as the shades of evening began to fall the Tonneraire came round. Then all depended on cleverness and pluck.

The Ferdinand was a gun-brig that, on the morning of the 12th of June ’97, had saucily fired at the Tonneraire, then shown her a clean pair of heels. She was near to the port of T——, so could afford to be insolent. Jack sent a fifty-six pound shot tearing through her rigging, without doing much damage, on which the Ferdinand fired again from her stern. Only a puff of white smoke, only a ten-pound shot, with a sound withal like that of a boy’s pop-gun. But it was enough. Jack’s Highland blood was up; and he said to M?Hearty, who was near him on the poop, “I’ll have her, if only for her insolence.”

M?Hearty laughed. It was not polite; but he couldn’t help it. For the doctor and captain of the Tonneraire were the dearest friends.

“You’ve been much livelier and happier within this last month or two,” said M?Hearty. “Tell me, sir, are you in love?”

“What would you do if I were?”

“Nothing, Captain Jack. I’ve got pills to cure melancholy; but for love, well, I never had it myself, so I shouldn’t know what to do. But—may you be happy.”

It was very dark that night when the Tonneraire stole silently back. She hauled her main-yard aback, and five armed boats, under command of Tom, were despatched to cut the saucy Frenchman out. The oars were muffled, and there was not a glimmer of light permitted to shine anywhere about the ship.

The captain of marines and Murray both went in different boats, and on this occasion M?Hearty himself. The great fellow said he wanted to stretch his legs and swing his arms about a bit.

“Don’t get shot, anyhow, doctor,” said Jack.

“My clear Captain Mackenzie, I’m positively bulletproof.”

Young Murray was in high glee. He put on white gloves for the occasion. M?Hearty left his sword on board, and his coat and hat, and positively entered the boat bareheaded, in his shirt sleeves, and armed with a cutlass.

“Nobody will see me,” he said to Jack.

“I’ll be bound they’ll feel you,” laughed the captain of marines.

This was as pretty a cutting-out action as ever I have heard of.

Feeling sure of their safety, the Frenchmen were careless in their watch. The officers were wining and playing cards down below, when suddenly there was a shout, and a rattle and bump and rush. Hardly had the bugle, that awakened echoes from the walls of the fort, sung out to summon the crew to repel boarders, ere our fine fellows were on board. Stern was the resistance made, however, to the British tars. Big M?Hearty had boarded on the port-bow, and came flailing away aft. He knew nothing of sword-exercise, but simply grasped the cutlass, a huge one, by both hands, and hammered away in old Highland fashion. But a Frenchman fell at every blow.

Murray fought like a little lion, but was knocked under a gun, and lay like a dead thing till all the fight was over, and long after.

Yes, they were victorious.

“Better go back to your cards and wine,” shouted M?Hearty, as he drove the last officer down below.

Meanwhile, will it be believed, the fort opened fire on their own brig.

Tom caused every light at once to be extinguished. Then sail was set, and though the brig was struck over and over with round shot, again they managed to cut her out. As she got fairly under way, our fellows returned a cheer of defiance to the fort, and just one gun was fired by way of farewell.

The capture had not been without mishap. Two of our men were killed outright, and about ten, including Murray, were wounded. At first it was thought the sprightly young officer was dead, but soon after being carried on board his own ship, he opened his eyes, stared wildly around him for a few moments, then sank again into insensibility. He had been merely stunned.

This made the third time Murray had come to grief in action.

“It was always the same,” he said, “even when I was a little fellow; I never could fight without getting a bad black eye. Just my luck.”

The brig was manned by a prize crew, half the Froggies, as our Jacks carelessly called them, being taken on board the man-o’-war. These were started for England a day or two afterwards, in a gun-brig of ours which was fallen in with homeward bound.

The Ferdinand was sent home, a midshipman being in charge as captain, and a happy lad was he. But long before he reached England this same gun-brig was recaptured by the French, and this same middy, prize crew and all, made prisoners. He was not so happy then! only this is the fortune of war.

Jack Mackenzie used to boast that the Tonneraire carried the smartest lot of midshipmen that the service could boast of. They were indeed a fine lot, not midshipmites but midshipmen; for some indeed had been, for acts of valour, promoted from gunners or boatswains.

It needed all their strength and courage to fight the battle I shall now briefly describe.

Everything, it is said, is fair in love and war. I do not know about the love, but I am certain about the war. It is the aim and object of any one nation carrying on war with another, not only to destroy the war-ships of the enemy, but to sink and burn her vessels of commerce wherever found. In this memorable cruise of Jack Mackenzie’s, then, he was ever on the outlook for a sail or sails. The Tonneraire was as fleet as the wind. If, then, a man-o’-war, French or Spanish, was fallen in with, unless the odds seemed out of all proportion against him, Jack fought her. If she was too big he performed a strategic retreat; well, in plainer language, he ran away.

But he used to send boats in and around the numerous islands on the coast of France to reconnoitre, and frequently they found something lying at anchor worth attacking. When, one forenoon, Tom Fairlie returned and reported a whole convoy of merchantmen lying at anchor under the protection of a frigate and the forts between the island of N—— and the mainland, Jack at once held a council of war, and it was resolved to attack after nightfall. On this occasion all the boats save one were needed, and the little expedition consisted of seven officers, over one hundred Seamen, and fifty marines.

As usual, the boarding took place after dark. I need not describe the fight; it was fierce, brief, and terrible, but finally the frigate was captured.

At this time very little wind was blowing, and a half-moon in the sky shed a sad but uncertain light upon the blood-slippery decks.

And now a council of war was held to consider what had best be done. The destruction of the fleet of fifteen merchantmen, who as the tide was running out had grounded in shallow water, was imperative. It was determined, therefore, to leave a sufficient force of men on board the captured vessel, in case of an attempt on the part of the foe to regain their ship, and to proceed forthwith to burn the fleet. Tom Fairlie left four of his sturdiest mids and eighty men on board the frigate, and then left her. In less than half-an-hour every one of the merchantmen was well a-lit, the crews having already escaped in their boats. It was a strange and appalling sight. The flames were red and lurid, the green hills, the dark rocks, and the sands were lit up with a brilliancy as of noonday, while the rolling clouds of smoke, laden as thickly with sparks as the sky in a snowstorm, were carried far away southwards and seaward. But the light was dazzling, confusing; and before the bold sailors knew which way to steer, they ran aground. The tide, in ten minutes’ time, left them high and dry.

Guns from the forts, too, began to roar out; and to add to the terror of the situation, a company of soldiers was drawn up on the beach, and Tom’s men began to fall, uncertain though their fire was.

It was a trying situation; but Tom Fairlie was as cool as an old general. He descried that troops of marines, hundreds in fact, were being poured into the frigate, and that she seemed already recaptured. He resolved, therefore, to desert his boats and cross the bay, where lay a craft which could contain all his men.

This was done at extraordinary hazard, Tom’s men, though bearing their wounded with them, keeping up a running fire till the craft was reached. Luckily the soldiers had retired, but it took his men half-an-hour to get the little schooner into deep water.

It was a sad though heroic story that Tom Fairlie had to tell when in the gray dawn of that summer’s morning he rejoined his ship.

Jack now made all sail southwards, to report proceedings to his admiral.

He was welcomed most kindly; and although he half expected a reprimand for losing so many boats and so many men, he received nothing but praise for his gallantry, and a special despatch was sent home descriptive of the whole cruise of the Tonneraire.

“We cannot expect to fight without losses,” said the good admiral warmly; “and I am always pleased when my officers do their duty, as you and your brave associates have done yours.”

Jack’s face glowed with shy pride. It was so delightful to be thus talked to that his eyes filled with tears.

The Tonneraire got more boats, and was soon again on the war-path; but somehow everybody in the mess, and even the sailors forward, sadly missed the merry, laughing face of young Murray, for the boy was among the captured.

Would he ever come again?