And stark and stiff on his own p.o.o.p lay the French captain, and alongside him more than one of his officers. The decks were a sad sight in the glimmering moonlight, for splintered timbers and arms lay everywhere, and everywhere were dead and wounded.

More by token, from the uncertain, heavy-swaying motion of the vessel, it was evident she had been badly hit 'twixt wind and water, and was already sinking. All haste was therefore made to save the men. Those of the ship's boats that were not smashed were lowered, and further a.s.sistance was sent for from the merchant fleet, and none too soon either.

A few minutes after the last man--and that was Jack Mackenzie, who personally superintended everything--had left the ill-fated Frenchman, her decks blew up with a dull report, the water rushed in from all sides, and just as the sun threw his first yellow beams upwards through the morning clouds, the great ship shuddered like a dying thing, and shuddering sank.

Such is war; why should we desire it?

But side by side with tragedy do we ever find something akin to the ridiculous or comic.

It was Tom Fairlie himself who was despatched to the merchant fleet to beg them to send all the boats they could to rescue the wounded and prisoners from the sinking war-ship. Almost the first vessel he boarded was that commanded by the skipper who owned the bulbous nose. And here a strange and a wonderful sight met his gaze. Arranged in double rank on the quarter-deck were about twenty or more sailors, each armed with a gun and bayonet, the skipper himself at their head drilling them.

"Shoulder-houp!" he was shouting as Tom leaped down from the bulwark.

The most comical part of the business was this: every one of the honest skipper's sailor-soldiers had a white linen shirt on over his dress, and as the men's legs were bare to the knees, they all looked as near to naked as decency would permit. While Tom stopped to laugh aloud, Captain Bulbous hastened to explain.

"Were comin' to your a.s.sistance, I was, in half-a-minute. Stuck on them shirts so's they should know each other from the French. See? Do look curious, though, I must admit. What! the fight all over? Well, I _am_ sorry."

Before eight bells in the morning watch the prisoners were distributed all over the fleet, with the exception of the wounded, who were under the charge of Dr. M'Hearty on board the saucy _Tonneraire_.

CHAPTER XIII.

A HAPPY SHIP.

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

DIBDIN.

In 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 a.s.sistants. 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, succ.u.mbed, 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 const.i.tute the only inst.i.tutions 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 p.o.o.p. Young Murray had cheek enough for anything.

He was the second son of a n.o.ble 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 s.p.a.ce 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_.