"Tom," he continued, after a pause of about a minute, "on board the old _Ocean Pride_ I once told you the story of my love for Gerty; and I told you also all I knew about dear father's difficulties. We both know now how complete daddy's financial ruin is, but I have never yet told you the true story of Gerty's engagement to Sir Digby Auld. I'll tell you now, and you won't think so hard of the poor girl when I have finished."

Jack Mackenzie spoke for fully a quarter of an hour without intermission, ending with these words: "So you see, brother, the dear girl is positively immolating herself on the altar of filial love, and what she considers duty. She loves the old man Keane surely more dearly than daughter has any right to love a father; and her main ambition and object in life is to see the lonely man happy and respected in his old age. So, dear Tom, don't bid me leave my fool's paradise yet a while.

You have _your_ happiness; I--"

He paused, and sighed a weary kind of sigh.

Tom was touched to the very bottom of his heart. He stretched his arm across the walnuts and grasped his friend's hand.

"Poor Jack!" he said. "Live in your paradise and be happy. Would that I could give you hopes that your lease will be a very long one."

"Besides," continued Jack, excusing himself a little more, "with a light heart I shall be able to drub the French more cheerfully."

Tom's eyes sparkled.

"Ah yes!" he said; "and for the very same reason I too feel in the finest of form for drubbing the French."

"And we've had no single-ship action with the Dons yet."

"Their time is coming."

"Yes, their time is coming. A man never swings a sword half so well, nor sails and fights a ship so well, as when he is in love and happy:

'For mickle lighter is the boat When love bears up the creel.'"

CHAPTER XVIII.

"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.

Jack 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 p.o.o.p, "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 m.u.f.fled, 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 cutla.s.s.

"n.o.body 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 b.u.mp 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 cutla.s.s, 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.