But a whole week went on, and though no Frenchman appeared on the scene, Jack and his fleet had encountered a gale of wind that had driven them considerably out of their course; and when one morning, about eight bells, a cry of "Land" was raised, he knew he must be in the neighbourhood of the Azores or Western Islands.

He was not altogether sorry for this; it would give him a chance of taking in fresh water and of adding to the store of fresh provisions now almost exhausted. For ships in those days were vilely found, and the men called contractors were held in general detestation by every ship in the service.



The merchantmen under Jack numbered fourteen in all, and were of different classes—brigs, barques, and full-rigged ships; but long before sundown they were all securely anchored in front of San Miguel, and Captain Mackenzie, in full uniform, accompanied by Commander Fairlie, had gone on shore to pay his respects to the Portuguese governor.

San Miguel was not so densely populated as it is now, but very quaint as to its town, and very romantic and beautiful as to its scenery all around. The governor dwelt in a villa on a garden-terraced hill in the outskirts. He was very pleased to see the officers, but deferred business till next day.

It was, however, while smoking in the veranda after dinner, and gazing dreamily away across the moonlit ocean, that Jack suddenly sprang up, and, clutching Tom's arm, pointed seawards.

Slowly sailing across the moon's bright wake was a French man-o'-war.



CHAPTER XI.

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.

Beautiful 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.



CHAPTER XII.

A BATTLE BY NIGHT.

"What art thou, fascinating War, Thou trophied, painted pest, That thus men seek and yet abhor, Pursue and yet detest?"—DIBDIN.

Day after day Jack's fleet held on its course, and the weather continued unbroken and fine. Day after day the phantom Frenchman hovered somewhere about, afraid perhaps to try conclusions with that rakish, spiteful-looking British frigate, or perhaps but biding her chance.

Twice or thrice Jack put about, sailed back and challenged her, with a shot, to fight if she dared. There never came the slightest response from Johnny Crapaud—she seemed indeed a phantom.

And at night those on board the Tonneraire could not help thinking the phantom was ever near them, even when it was too dark to see her. I do not think, however, that it kept many of the officers awake at night, although it must be confessed Jack was ill at ease. If it were possible for the enemy to steal near enough in the pitchy dark portion of the night, the first intimation of her presence might be a raking broadside that would sweep the decks fore and aft; then farewell the Tonneraire.

There are few things more difficult to bear than what Scotch people so expressively term "tig-tire," or excessive tantalization. There came a day when Jack called his chief officers together in his own cabin.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I've had enough of that French fellow. Why should he follow us night and day, like the shadow of the evil one, and yet refuse to fight? I mean to carry war into the enemy's camp, or rather on to his quarter-deck, if you think my plan feasible. Remember, I am hot-headed and young."

Jack then unfolded his plans, and they were generally approved, though the old master was somewhat doubtful of their success.

"However," he growled, "I'll take the wheel. Better, perhaps, after all, that we should take the initiative; for, blow me to smithereens, if that tantalizing Froggie ain't spoiling my appetite!"

There was a general laugh at this, and the council broke up.

Next day it blew little more than a seven-knot breeze, and the sun sparkled on the waters like showers of diamonds. The Frenchman marvelled much to see not only the British frigate, but all the merchant fleet close together, and with main or fore yards aback. The truth is, Captain Mackenzie was issuing his orders by boat.

About an hour afterwards Johnny Crapaud smiled grimly to himself to see the Tonneraire fill her sails and tack out to offer him battle.

"The fool!" said Johnny. "When the gale of wind shall come, then I shall fight. Till then, non, non!"

So he filled and bore southwards next; and as Jack had no desire for a race, he returned to his fleet. He had done all he wanted to: he had put Johnny on the wrong scent.

That night, at sunset, clouds gathered up and quite obscured the sky.

Johnny rubbed his hands and chuckled.

"Soon," he said, "it will blow what perfidious England calls big guns. Then—ah—then!"

It blew big guns far sooner than he had expected.

The night was intensely dark, but the half-moon would rise about four bells in the middle watch.

When Johnny Crapaud looked towards the fleet, lo! the vessels had extra lights all, and lights were streaming from every port.

"Ha! ha!" he grinned. "They rejoice; they dance. They think they have made me fly. When the gale blows, then they will dance—to different music."

The watch kept on board the French seventy-four was not extra vigilant. Especially did no one think of looking astern. Had any one on the outlook done so, then just about a quarter of an hour before moonrise he might have seen a dark shape coming hand-over-hand across the water from the direction in which "fair France" lay—fair France that many a poor fellow on Johnny's ship would never see again.

It was the Tonneraire. She had made a detour with every stitch of canvas set, and was now almost close aboard of the enemy.

Ah! at last they perceive her; and the noise on board the enemy is indescribable—the shrieking of orders, the rattle of arms and cordage, the trampling of feet, the stamping and unlimbering of guns. But against her stern windows, which are all ablaze with light, the Tonneraire concentrates her whole starboard broadside. The effect is startling and terrible. Confusion prevails on board the enemy—almost panic, indeed; and this lasts long enough for the frigate to sail back on the other tack. Jack's object is to cripple her, and with this object in view he concentrates his larboard broadside again in the stern of the seventy-four, and her rudder is a thing of the past.

Away glides the Tonneraire. She is the phantom now. She loads her guns, and is coming down with the wind again—like the wind, too—when the seventy-four gets in her first broadside. It does but little harm. It does not stop the onward rush of the swift bold frigate even for a moment; and Jack's next broadside is a telling one, for the Frenchman's sails are not only ashiver, but aflap, awry, anyhow and everyhow; and just as the moon throws her first faint light athwart the waves, once more the helpless merchantmen tremble to hear the thunder of twenty cannon. For the Tonneraire has crossed the enemy's hawse, and raked him fore and aft.

Now down comes the Frenchman's foremast; and shortly after, a wild triumphant shout echoes from stem to stern and stern to stem of brave young Jack's ship, for the enemy has surrendered.

A French seventy-four striking her flag to a British frigate of forty guns! Yes; but far more daring deeds than that which I now record happened in the dashing days of old.

Captain Jack Mackenzie would have gone right straight on board the enemy, but the master cautioned him.

"Nay, nay, sir," he said. "There is such a thing as French treachery; I have known it before. Wait till the moon gets higher, and we will board in force. Remember, they may have about five hundred men still alive on that ship."

Jack took the advice thus vouchsafed; but in half-an-hour's time the Tonneraire rasped alongside the seventy-four, and a rush was made up the sides of the battle-ship.

But all was safe.

And stark and stiff on his own poop 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 assistance 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 assistance, 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 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.

[B] Fictitious name, the reader of history will note.

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."



CHAPTER XIV.

MUTINY.

"To be a hero, stand or fall, Depends upon the man; Let all then in their duty stand, Each point of duty weigh, Remembering those can best command Who best know to obey."—DIBDIN.

It is terrible to think and to remember that about this time our country was in the greatest danger of being conquered and lost through mutiny. Of all evils that can befall a navy this is surely the worst.

There was a mutinous spirit in the fleet of Sir John Jervis after the battle of St. Vincent, which the gallant knight used all his endeavours to quell. He was a brave and most energetic officer, and not only did he have the good of his country at heart, but he spared no effort to render those who served under him happy and comfortable. I do not refer to the officers only, but to the men as well. One would not be far wrong in saying that he knew almost every man in the fleet. He loved his people, and liked to have them happy, going among them, and even suggesting games and amusements. Those were the days of tossing cans, and of Saturday nights at sea, and the drinking of the healths of wives and sweethearts. So long as the men kept sober, Jervis rather liked this, and was never better pleased than when, on the last evening of the week, he heard the voices of the men raised in song, or the squeaking of the merry fiddle and gleesome flute.

But Sir John would have discipline, etiquette, and dress.

Jack Mackenzie was never more honoured nor pleased than when he and M'Hearty were asked to dine with the admiral on board the flagship, the Victory. Sir John was jovial, nay, even jolly. Jack was shy, but he had to talk, and much to his own surprise soon found himself as much at home in the admiral's society as he would have been in that of his own father.

As for M'Hearty, nothing put that good fellow out, and at the admiral's request he gave a very graphic account indeed of his doings in the cockpit on the day of the battle. Sir John laughed heartily when the doctor wound up seriously with the words, "But, dear Sir John, I was thirsty."

To have seen this admiral to-night, no one would have believed that he had that day signed the death-warrant of the ringleader of the mutineers on board the Marlborough. But so it was, and to-morrow he should die.

It was on board the Marlborough that the mutiny had found a hot-bed. It was on board the Marlborough that Sir John determined this man should be hanged, hoisted up by the hands of his own messmates, whom his seditious eloquence had seduced from duty's path.

It was a stern resolve. The captain of the Marlborough had come on board to beg that the man might be executed in some other ship. His messmates, he averred, would never hang him, but would break at once out into open mutiny. This officer was dismissed to his ship with one of the severest reprimands ever administered to any captain in his majesty's service.

Down below, in a darksome cabin of the cockpit of the Victory, Jack went to see an old shipmate of his, a boatswain who had been with him in the Ocean Pride. He was wounded, but recovering, and was delighted to have a visit from one he had known as a mere boy.

And not far from this gloomy cabin was the cell in which the unhappy man was confined who next morning early should pay the penalty for his insubordination. Jack just caught one glimpse of his gray unhappy face, in which his dark eyes gleamed like living coals. That face haunted him in his dreams throughout the livelong night.

He saw that face again next morning, as the man was being taken to the ship to be hanged by his messmates. The same gray, cadaverous hue, the same dark and stony stare. "Had he a wife," Jack wondered, "or a sister that loved and cared for him, or prattling children who would never see their sailor 'daddy' more?" Oh, the sadness of it!

The whole fleet witnessed that punishment from rigging and decks. Every precaution was taken to insure its being carried out. Captain Campbell of the Blenheim superintended. Launches armed with carronades were ranged near the Marlborough, and the orders they had were to open fire at once upon the rebellious ship if the men refused obedience, or dared to open a port, and, if need be, to sink her with all hands, in presence of the fleet.

But see! the trembling wretch stands out upon the cat-head, the awful rope around his neck. The end is rove through a block in the fore-yard arm, and taken down and round the deck, so that every man may help to pull.

Bang! A great gun is fired from the flagship. The sound thrills through every heart, and every eye is turned towards the Marlborough's cat-head. The rope trembles, is tightened, and finally—there is an end.

The mutiny is nipped in the bud, and the fleet is saved.

But thus it must ever be. Mutiny is a monster that must be crushed by the iron heel of force, ere yet it is fully hatched.

* * * * *

Jack was not sorry when all was over and the boats returned to their respective ships. To relieve his mind he went to see Murray. The poor boy smiled feebly, and held out his white worn hand to clasp that of Jack.

"I've been thinking of home, and my little sweetheart, sir."

"Have you a little sweetheart?"

"Yes; look!"

He took out a miniature from his breast—one of the sweetest young faces Jack had ever seen.

"That is why I don't want to die, sir."

Jack heaved a sigh. But after this all the spare time he had he passed by the side of young Murray's cot. And now came the terrible bombardment of Cadiz.



CHAPTER XV.

BEFORE CADIZ.

"For honour, glory, and the laws, Is native courage given; And he who fights his country's cause, Fights in the cause of Heaven."—DIBDIN.

It may be doubted whether the awful bombardment of Cadiz was a necessity of war. A bombardment is always a cruel undertaking, and often seems positively cowardly. But Sir John had one particular reason of his own, independent of exigency, for this cannonade. There was still a smouldering fire of disaffection among the seamen of the fleet, and he therefore determined to keep the sailors busy. Busy with a terrible busy-ness surely, for day and night, night and day, the firing went on, while many a daring cutting-out expedition was organized; and in some of these, deeds of heroism were accomplished that the British nation may well be proud of, even till this day. In one of these, during a boat action, Nelson himself was overpowered, and narrowly escaped being slain. But for his coxswain, who twice or thrice interposed his own body betwixt the swords of the assailants and the commodore, the battle of the Nile would never have been fought.[C]

[C] This man was for his gallantry promoted to be a gunner, and not long afterwards was killed at his gun.

In the cutting-out expeditions and boat actions, in or near to the harbour, and in repelling attempts to run the blockade from the town, our officers, even our captains, fought side by side with their men.

The marines were particularly gallant and courageous. Sir John Jervis delighted to honour this gallant body of men. They certainly deserved to be petted and made much of; but the admiral had another reason for his treatment of them. He thought he might possibly have eventually to play them off against the seamen in case of revolt.

Surely, upon the whole, this year 1797 was one of the most eventful in the whole history of this long and bloody war. A dark cloud seemed hanging over our native land, which at any moment might burst into a storm that would end in our utter collapse, if not destruction. And the shadow of this cloud was in every heart. Nor is this to be wondered at. The people were positively an-hungered, the children were crying for bread. Far away in the north, the crops had all but failed, and famine and death stared the people in the face. Britain's best blood was being drained off to the wars; her sturdiest sons—those who ought to have stayed at home to work for the women and children—were "weeded away." Money seemed to have taken unto itself wings and flown off; and in February the Bank of England itself came down with a crash, and closed its doors. Even those who in wild disorderly mobs did not preach anarchy or cry for bread, called aloud for "Peace." Peace, indeed! what would peace have meant at such a time but dishonour and ruin. No, no! peace could not again hover on her white wings over our distracted country for many a day. To make matters worse, Ireland was ripe for rebellion, and our British forces by land had been unsuccessful; for we had been beaten and thrashed by the French in Holland. Is it not a pretty picture?

But the darkest hour had yet to come. I have already told you about the combination formed against us. Well, had the Dutch fleet been able to join forces with the French, this brave Britain of ours would no longer have ruled the ocean, and all the horrors of invasion, massacre, and rapine would have been added to our other troubles. We were depending upon our Channel fleet to avert the last and overwhelming calamity, when all at once, to the horror of every one, this fleet mutinied and refused to go to sea. They even seized their officers, and though they lifted no hand against them, they disarmed them, and either made them prisoners or allowed a few, among whom were medical officers, to go on shore.

The men demanded increase in pay and other allowances; and it must be confessed that, upon the whole, they had their grievances. It was not before several anxious weeks had gone by that the differences were settled.

It was the good old admiral Lord Howe who himself brought the king's free pardon to the men, and the Act of Parliament granting them their just demands. He was a very great favourite, and looked upon as quite a father to the fleet.

Then on the 17th of May the ships put to sea.



We must remember that seamen in the royal navy in those old days had a good deal to complain of. The pay was inadequate, the food was often unfit for human consumption, leave was seldom given in port, and discipline was often maintained by the cat-o'-nine-tails, the services of which might in nine cases out of ten have been dispensed with.

Just a word or two about the mutiny at the Nore, and I have done, for ever I trust, with so shocking a subject. The men here were far more insolent and overbearing in their demands. The president of the mutineers—fancy calling a mutineer a president!—was, worse luck, a Scotsman from Perth, of the name of Parker. He indeed ruled it for a time with a high hand, and was virtually admiral of the fleet at Sheerness, up and down the streets of which, carrying red flags, his fellows marched, in order to secure the sympathy of civilians.

At this time, it will be remembered, Admiral Duncan was blockading the Texel, hemming in the Dutch fleet so that they might not join the French. Was it not a terrible thing that with the exception of two ships—the Venerable (the flagship) and the Adamant—his fleet should desert him, sail across the water and join the scoundrel Parker at the Nore?

Poor Scotch Duncan! When even the men of the flagship showed signs of revolting, he drew them around him, and in a voice which seemed almost choked with rising tears addressed them in words that were at once simple and touching. His concluding sentences were somewhat as follows:—

"Often and often, men, it has been my pride with you to look into the Texel on a foe which dreaded to come out to meet us. But my pride is humbled now indeed; and no words of mine can express to you the anguish and sorrow in my heart. To be deserted by my fleet in the presence of the enemy is a disgrace that is hard, hard to bear, for never could I have deemed it possible."

That speech settled Jack as far as the flagship was concerned; for British sailors really have soft, kind hearts. It is as true even to this hour what Dibdin wrote about Jack as it was in the dashing days of old:—

"'Longside of an enemy, boldly and brave, He'll with broadside on broadside regale her; Yet he'll sigh to the soul o'er that enemy's grave, So noble's the mind of a sailor.

"Let cannons roar loud, burst their sides let the bombs, Let the winds a dread hurricane rattle, The rough and the pleasant he takes as it comes, And laughs at the storm and battle.

"To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave, Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer, He's gentle as mercy, as fortitude brave, And this is a true British sailor."

President Parker of the "Republic Afloat" formed a cordon across the mouth of the Thames, and intercepted all traffic. But he did not burn a long peat stack, to use a Scotticism; for the nation was enraged at him, and one by one his ships went back to their allegiance. He was seized, and after a three days' trial was condemned and executed, cool and intrepid to the very last.

The battle of St. Vincent—by no means a crowning victory—did much to cheer the drooping hearts of the people of England. It was an earnest of what was to follow, and probably did more to restrain the crawling demon Revolution than anything else could have done; for Britain ever loved her ships and her sailors.

But none knew the state of our country at this time better than Sir John Jervis, nor how much depended upon the success of our arms at sea. It was for this reason that he threw himself so thoroughly heart and soul into the great game of naval warfare, and became the pivot around which the whole fleet lived and moved.

There were many petty officers, and men too, among the ships who were fully aware that we were fighting against fearful odds. But a sailor is so constituted that he never lets care trouble him. Jack Mackenzie was a very great favourite with his men. He knew the way to their hearts. It was not his young friend Murray's bedside only that he visited. There was not a wounded or a sick man in the whole ship who did not see him at least once a day, and he freely distributed wine, jellies, and many another dainty from his own mess to comfort and sustain the sick.

Jack spliced the main-brace sometimes too. One Saturday evening he returned from a very daring and extra-well-carried-out brush with the enemy's river craft, in which his gallant fellows had cut out a barque from the very harbour's mouth, without the loss of a man. As soon as he had refreshed himself somewhat with a bath and change of clothes, he visited young Murray, whom he found doing well, and hopeful now that he would live to see his little sweetheart once again. Then he saw the sick men, after which he gave orders to splice the main-brace.

Walking forward some hours after this, you might have heard such songs as "Tom Bowling" rolled up from near the forecastle, or Dibdin's "Saturday Night at Sea."

"'Twas Saturday night: the twinkling stars Shone on the rippling sea; No duty called the jovial tars, The helm was lashed a-lee. The ample can adorned the board: Prepared to see it out, Each gave the lass that he adored, And pushed the can about."

Jack on this particular evening had M'Hearty and Tom Fairlie to dine with him, and they were still lingering over dessert, when the steward informed the captain that Jones the boatswain desired to speak to him.

It was an odd request at such a time, but Jones was immediately admitted. His face was very serious indeed. He glanced uneasily at the servants, and interpreting the look to mean that he wished privacy, Captain Mackenzie ordered them to retire.

If Jones was serious, Jack was much more so when he made his statement, which he did in straightforward British sailor's English.



CHAPTER XVI.

JACK AND THE MUTINEERS.

"Obedience every work combines, Diffuses to each part That ardour which the mind refines, Expands and mends the heart." DIBDIN.

"It's been a-going on for some little len'th o' time, your honour," said Jones. "Me and my messmates took little heed o't for a time, thinkin' it were only Scrivings' bombast, 'cause ye see, sir, he's only a blessed mouth of a fellow arter all."

"Ha!" interrupted M'Hearty, "that fellow is one of your pressed men, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Jack; "the ringleader of the smugglers, and a bold, bad man."

"That's he to a T," said Jones. "Well, they're all in it, the twenty o' them. I'm no sneak, and I'm no spy, but I thought it was my duty to tell your honour. They're preaching mutiny, and they're spreading sedition, and—and"—here Jones lost his temper, and forgot himself so far as to bring his fist down on the table with a force that made all the glasses rattle—"I'd hang the blessed lot."

Jones was thanked, told to keep dark, and, after a stiff glass of the captain's rum, retired. This man had done his duty.

Early next morning, Admiral Sir John was surprised to receive a visit from Captain Mackenzie.

The latter soon opened fire in true sailor fashion.

"Admiral," he said, "I've come to make an exchange. I want two of your best men for two of my very bad hats."

The admiral laughingly requested an explanation. "For," he added, "you certainly seem to me to wish the better half of the bargain."

Jack explained in a very few words. He desired, instead of bringing the would-be mutineers to trial, to send one or two of them to every ship in the fleet.

"'Pon honour," said Jervis, "the plan does you credit. I'd have hanged one or two of them. But this is better—indeed it is. Well, I'll take your two blackest hats; and I shan't forget to mention your cleverness when I send home a despatch. Come down to breakfast."

That very day the smugglers were scattered all over the fleet, and peace once more reigned in the Tonneraire.

* * * * *

In a few weeks' time the wounded on board Jack's ship were nearly all well; and he was not sorry when one day he was sent for by the admiral, and told that he was to proceed to sea. There were many ships, both Spanish and French, sailing to and fro on the coast carrying despatches of great importance, because they were intended to enable the enemy to complete their plans. These he was to chase, and either capture or destroy as suited him best.

Before he left on this cruise, the men and officers of the Tonneraire were delighted to receive letters from home. Jack took his little packet with a beating heart, and, retiring to his cabin, gave orders that he was not to be disturbed until he should again appear.

Ah, no one save a sailor knows the real delight experienced in receiving letters from home! And here was one in his father's handwriting. Why, it was dated from Ireland; and that is where the general was stationed, waiting, as he said, to give a true Highland welcome to the French as soon as they should land. It said nothing about the lost estate and the bonnie house that once was their home; but it was bold and hopeful throughout. The general had heard of all Jack's doings, and was proud of such a son. He concluded with a fatherly blessing, bidding him never forget he was a Grant Mackenzie.

Then he opened Flora's letter. Sisterly throughout. She was as happy at Torquay as she could expect to be, but longed—oh so much—to see her dear brother once more. Then she went on to talk of old times, and how happy they would be when they were all together once again. So it concluded, without one word about Gerty.

He laid the letter down with a sigh. A strange sense of loneliness, of forsakenness, took possession of his heart. He thought he had forgotten his false love. At this moment she seemed dearer to him than ever.

He next took slowly up from the table a letter in a strange, ill-spelt, scrawly hand, and opened it mechanically. But his face brightened as he began to read. I append a portion of it with a few corrections:—

"MY DEAR LUV,—Which it is me as misses you. Yes, Master Jack, me and missus too, though you promised to marry me when you grew a man, and used to give me such sweet kisses. Oh, I wish I had some now! I know'd as that was only Jack's little joke. Me a servant girl, and you a big, tall, beautiful officer. But, la! the larks as we used to 'ave when putting you to bed. It makes me larf now to think of 'em; and how you wouldn't go to sleep till I lay down beside you and sung you off. Yes, missus misses you, and so do I. And poor old Sir Digby has been laid up with the gout; and poor dear missus says as how she won't marry him for two years yet to come. And old master's content because he says he knows she'll be Lady Digby by-and-by. But missus she do look so sad and peaky sometimes; only when old Mr. Richards comes she just goes wild with joy, and sits on his knee just like old times, and sometimes, poor child, goes to sleep with her head on his shoulder. But here comes missus, only she mustn't see this letter. No more at present, but remains yours till death, with luv and sweet kisses.—MARY."

Love and sweet kisses, indeed! Jack laughed aloud. Then he read Mary's letter all over again. Then, will it be believed? he kissed it. After this, can you credit it? he placed it in his bosom. What did Jack mean, I wonder?

The next letter was a right hearty one, from kind old Mr. Richards. There was a deal of business in it, and a deal that wasn't; but the sentence that pleased Jack best was this: "I'm looking after Gerty. I'm saving her for you. Old Keane may sacrifice his daughter to Sir Digby, but there will be two moons in the sky that day, and another in the duck-pond. Keep up your heart, boy. I'm laying the prettiest little trap for Sir Digby ever you saw. Gee-ho! Cheerily does it."

Cheerily did do it. All the gloom that poor Flora's kind letter had left in Jack's heart was banished now, and he had begun to sing.

He was leaving his room, when he ran foul of Tom Fairlie.

Tom was singing too, and smiling.

Jack pulled him right into his cabin and shut the door.

"What are you all smiles about?" said Jack.

"Why are you all smiles?" said Tom.

"Had a letter from Flora?"

"Heard about Gerty?"

Then something very funny or very joyous seemed to tickle the pair of them at precisely the same moment, and they laughed aloud till all the glasses on the swing-table rang out a jingling chorus.

"I say, Tom," said Jack at last, "I feel I can fight the French now."

"Precisely how I feel. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Well, come and dine with me to-night—all alone." And Tom did.



CHAPTER XVII.

IN A FOOL'S PARADISE.

"The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows fu' weel; And mickle lighter is the boat When love bears up the creel."—Old Song.

In the interests of truth, I have now to record that my hero, Captain Jack Mackenzie, formed one of the most ridiculous resolutions any young man could have been guilty of making. It is all very well building castles in the air—indeed, it is rather a pretty pastime than otherwise, and may at times be productive of good; but when it comes to building for one's self, willingly and with wide-open eyes, a whole paradise—fool's, of course—and quietly taking up one's abode therein, the absurdity of the speculation must be apparent to every one.

But this is just what our Jack now set about doing. For many a long month back he had worked and slaved, and fought battles, and sailed his ship, and did all he could, it must be confessed, to make everybody around him happy, while a load of sorrow, which felt as big as a bag of shrapnel or a kedge anchor, lay at his own heart. He now determined to get rid of this incubus, to leave it, or creep out from under it somehow. During all these months he had tried, and tried hard, to forget his lost love Gerty, but all in vain. Trying to forget her made matters infinitely worse, so now he meant to indulge himself in the sweet belief that she still was his, still loved him; that there was no such individual in the world as silly old Sir Digby; and that he, Jack, had only to go home, if it pleased Heaven to spare him, and claim the dear girl as his wife.

He certainly did not mean to force himself to think about her, only he would do nothing to impede the flow of happy thoughts whenever they showed a tendency to come stealing over his soul. These are his own words, spoken to himself in the privacy of his state-room. And between you and me and the binnacle, reader, not to let it go any further, I believe it was poor Mary's letter, with its "dear luv" and its "sweet kisses," that was at the bottom of Jack's resolve. For had she not written, as plain as quill can write, the magical sentence, "Yes, missus misses you; so do I"? It didn't matter a spoonful of tar about the "so do I," but there was the "missus misses you." Ah! it was around these simple, euphonious words that hope hung like a garland of forget-me-not. Why did missus miss him? Mary wouldn't have said that missus missed him if missus didn't. So ran Jack's thoughts as he walked up and down the floor of his cabin. No, Mary wasn't a girl of that sort. Missus missed him, and there was an end of it. Missus missed him, ergo missus must sometimes think about him, and upon this belief he meant to hinge his happiness. Missus must—

"Rat—tat—tat—tat."

"Come in. Ah, Tom, there you are! Glad you've come a little before dinner is served. Well, we're all ready for sea, I suppose?"

"Yes; as soon as you like to-morrow morning, sir."

"Well, dowse the 'sir,' Tom, else I'll send you away without a morsel of dinner. We're not on the quarter-deck now, you know. You're Tom, and I'm just Jack."

A few minutes afterwards, Tom, strolling carelessly towards Jack's writing-table, picked up a sheet of paper, and to his astonishment read as follows:—

"Missus missed thee, so do I, Drop the tear and sigh the sigh; Yet ne'er let sorrow cloud thy brow— She loved thee once, she loves thee now."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Tom aloud.

Jack got as red as a tomato, and rushed to rescue the manuscript.

"Put it down at once, Tom! How dare you?"

But Tom only laughed the more. He read Jack's inspiration from end to end, in spite of all that Jack could do.

"Well," he said when he had finished, "I knew you could fight a bit, but this is a revelation. 'Missus missed thee'—ha! ha! ha!"

It was well for Jack and Tom both that the steward and servants entered at that moment with the dinner. Poetry soon gave place to soup, and sentiment fled on the appearance of the roast-beef.

But when dessert was placed upon the table, and the servants had gone, Jack, feeling bound to open his heart to somebody, told Tom about the fool's paradise to which he meant to flit from Castle Despair, in which he had dwelt so long.

Tom was a thoroughly practical kind of a young fellow, and now he shook his head consideringly.

"M—m—m, well," he said, "the notion isn't half a bad one, you know, perhaps. But, Jack, doesn't it savour somewhat of the reckless? Scotsmen are all reckless, I know, especially, I believe, the Grant Mackenzies; and your idea may be good, but—a—"

"Well, well, Tom, out with it, man. What are you humming and hawing about?"

"Why, it's like this, you see—and, mind, I speak to you as a brother—it may be very pleasant, say, for a few friends met together to take an extra glass of wine, and spend a happy evening, but shouldn't they think of their heads in the morning?"

"I have thought of my head in the morning, Tom; I have thought of the awakening. I do know that some day I shall see an announcement in the Times of the marriage of Sir Digby Auld and—heigh-ho! Gerty; that then I shall have to leave my pretty paradise, and that the flaming sword of honour will forbid my ever entering there again. But till then, Tom, till then. Bother it all, man, you wouldn't have a fellow make himself miserable all his life, simply because he knows he has got to go to Davy Jones' locker at the finish?"

"Oh no," said Tom, gravely.

"Well, then, brother mine, I mean to live in my fool's paradise as long as ever I can, and when the end comes I'll flit."

"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 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?



CHAPTER XIX.

THE BATTLE OF CAMPERDOWN.

"The flag of Britannia, the flag of the brave, Triumphant it floateth on land and o'er wave, And proudly it braveth the battle and blast, For when tattered with shot it is nailed to the mast." Old Song.

It was early on the morning of one of those bright and bracing days in the beginning of October, when summer seems to return as if to say good-bye before giving place to winter with its wild winds, its stormy seas, its driving mist and sleet. The Tonneraire had sailed in towards Havre on the previous evening. To put it in plain English, she was on the prowl. Jack had received word from a fisherman that lying at anchor was a very large store-ship belonging to the French, and he meant to cut her out or destroy her. But either the fisherman had deceived him or the vessel had sailed. He found no vessel that he could make a prize of, nor any foeman worthy of his steel.

Having been up half the night, Jack Mackenzie was tired, and had lain down to sleep. The ship was under easy sail, and going to the north and west, right before the wind. Jack was dreaming about his old home of Grantley Hall. He was walking in the garden on a bright moonlight night with his sister and Gerty; but the sister had gone on, up the broad green walk, while the other two stopped beside the old dial-stone, the figures on which were quite overgrown with green moss and gray pink-tipped lichens.

"See, see, Gerty," he was saying, as he hurriedly cleared the stone, "the old time appears again, the dear old days have come once more. The figures were always there though we could not see them. Our old love, Gerty, like the figures in the dial, has been obscured, but never, never lost." A bonnie blush had stolen over her face, and her long eyelashes swept her cheeks, as she glanced downwards at a bouquet of blue flowers Jack had given her. She was about to reply, when sharp as a pistol-shot on the quiet morning air rang out the voice of the outlook aloft,—

"Sail ahead, sir; right away on the starboard bow!"

Gerty with her flowers of blue, Gerty with the bonnie blush on her cheek and the love-light in her eye, Grantley Hall, green grassy walks, dial-stone, and all vanished in a hand-clap, and next moment Jack was hurriedly dressing to go on deck.

She was a French sloop of war. Disappointed at his want of success on the previous night, Jack announced to Tom Fairlie his generous intention of blowing her sky-high.

So all sail was crowded in chase.

The sloop bore away before the wind. She knew, perhaps, her best course for safety and escape.

It was very tantalizing but very exciting withal. She might have been a phantom ship, so steadily did she crack on all day long, Jack never getting a knot nearer, nor she a knot farther off. Stun'-sails were set and carried away, all was done that could be done; but when at last the crimson sun sank in a pink and purple haze, all on board could see that the sloop had won the race.

But strange things happen, and but for this sloop Jack would never have had the honour of being at the battle of Camperdown. They had sailed very far north; and about five bells in the morning watch, while it was still dark, the Tonneraire found herself surrounded with mighty men-of-war. Now, if these were Frenchmen, the days and years of the swift Tonneraire were assuredly numbered. But they were not. They were the ships of Britannia, who was even then ruling the sea—the fleet of bold Scotch Duncan, who had been refitting at Yarmouth, when he had heard that the great Dutch fleet of De Winter had at last crawled out of the Texel, and was on its way south to effect a junction with the French, then—Heaven help Britannia!

"Going to join the French fleet De Winter is, is he?" Scotch Duncan said when he heard the news. Duncan never said a bad word, but on this memorable occasion he hitched up his Scotch breeks and added, "I'll be dashed if he does. Make the signal 'Up anchor!'" Having issued this order, he coolly entered his state-room to lock his drawers and put away his papers and jewellery, for he knew the ship would be knocked about a bit. As he did so he whistled "Johnnie Cope."

And now the Tonneraire was hailed by the flagship, and told to fall in with the fleet.

Tom Fairlie rubbed his hands with delight, M'Hearty chuckled, and old Simmons rumbled out some remark to the effect that he knew Duncan well, and that "you youngsters" (that was Tom and Jack) "will soon have your fill of honour and glory."

So they did.

And braver battle than Camperdown was never fought. Not only did our fellows exhibit the greatest of courage, but gallant De Winter as well.

The Dutch had about twenty ships, and we nineteen in all. Since the suppression of the mutiny at the Nore, Duncan had regained all his fleet; and the men seemed determined to wipe out the stain that had blackened their characters. And right well they succeeded.

You must go to history for a complete account of the battle. Suffice it for me to say that on coming up with the enemy's fleet on the 11th of October, Duncan broke right through it and got inshore. De Winter could not have got away had he wanted to ever so much. The great battle was fought dangerously near to the coast indeed, for here were shoals and sands that were quite unknown to our fleet. The beach was lined with spectators, who must have been appalled at this terrible conflict of giants.

The Tonneraire was splendidly handled. Old Simmons himself took the wheel, and carried her grandly alongside a Dutchman nearly double her size, so close that the guns touched, and seemed to belch fire and destruction down each other's iron throats. But Jack had no intention of stopping there to be blown out of the water by the Dutchman's broadsides.

"Away, boarders!" It was Jack's own brave voice sounding through the trumpet, high over the din of battle.

Then, ah then! a scene ensued that it may be just as well not to describe too graphically. Our marines and blue-jackets boarded pell-mell and together, and amid the roar of cannon from other ships, the incessant rattle of musketry from the tops, the hand-to-hand fight raged on, with shouts and groans and shrieks of execration. Hitherto no wounded man had been borne below to the cockpit, so that M'Hearty was idle as yet. He was on the rigging with the captain, from which they had a bird's-eye view of the battle.

"Look, sir, look, the captain of marines has fallen. Oh, I can't stand this!"

Next moment he had leaped below. Off went his coat and waistcoat and hat. He seized a cutlass, and in a minute more was on the Dutchman's deck, flailing away like a perfect Wallace Redivivus. Many a head he broke, for he literally showered his blows like wintry rain.

He saved the marine captain's life, although that sailor-soldier was severely wounded. It is almost unnecessary to say that, under the circumstances, Captain Jack Mackenzie forgave the gallant doctor for leaving his ship without permission.

But the toughest fight of all raged around Duncan's flagship, the Venerable, when she tackled that of the Dutch admiral De Winter—namely, the Vreyheid. Just as in days of long, long ago the chiefs of opposing armies used to delight to single each other out and fight hand-to-hand, so did bold Duncan keep his eye on the Dutchman, and as soon as the battle had commenced he went straight for her. As he bore down towards her, however, the States-General presented a target that he could not resist, for she was stern on to the Venerable. Murderous indeed was the broadside Duncan poured into her, raking her from aft to fore. This vessel soon after left the battle ranks, with a loss of over two hundred and fifty killed and wounded.



And now the great tulzie commenced in awful earnest, for Duncan ranged himself up against the Vreyheid to the lee, while to windward of her was the Ardent. But three mighty Dutchmen came down hand-over-hand to the defence of their brave admiral's ship. So fearful was the fire of these latter that Duncan's ship would speedily have been placed hors de combat, had not others come to his rescue and restored the balance. But nothing could withstand the fury of Duncan's onslaught; and at last, with every officer dead or wounded, the brave Dutch admiral hauled down his flag. Twice during the terrible combat had Admiral Duncan's flag been shot away. It was then that bold Jack Crawford, whose name indicates his Scottish origin, wrapped the colours round his waist, and providing himself with nails and a hammer, climbed nearly to the main-truck and nailed the ensign to the mast.

Duncan received De Winter's sword, and soon after the battle was over and the victory ours. A glorious day and a glorious victory, but, ah! how dearly bought. It gives us some faint notion of the pluck and go of our navy in those fighting days of old, to learn that the Ardent had her captain and forty officers and men slain outright, and no less than one hundred and seven wounded.

The scene in the cockpit during a fight like this is one that genius alone could graphically depict. The centre-ground of the picture is the big table, around which the surgeons are at work, stripped to their shirts, their faces stained, their hands and garments dripping gore. The whole place is filled with stifling smoke, through which the glimmering lights are but faintly seen; but all around are ranged the wounded, the gashed, the bleeding, awaiting their turn on the terrible table. You can hear them if you cannot see them—hear them groaning, sometimes even shrieking, in their agony; and the mournful call for "Water! water!" is heard in every lull of the fight or momentary cessation of cannon's roar. And bending low as they move among them are the stewards and idlers of the ship, serving out the coveted draught. But down the blood-slippery companion-ladder come the bearers incessantly, carrying as gently as a Jack can their sorely-stricken messmates. Verily a sad scene! On deck war is witnessed in all its pomp and its panoply, on deck is honour and glory; the dark side is seen in the cockpit—the sorrow, the despair, the hopelessness, the agony, the death.



CHAPTER XX.

NELSON AND THE NILE.

"With one of his precious limbs shot away, Bold Nelson knowed well how to trick 'em; So, as for the French, 'tis as much as to say, We can tie up one hand, and then lick 'em." DIBDIN.

Things in England began to look up. Those who preached revolution were forced to hide their heads with shame after the great battle of Camperdown. For this fight had completely restored confidence in our country's powers, and for the time being the fears of invasion had fled far away.

In many a lordly hall over all the land the feast was laid, on many a lofty hill the bonfires blazed; it was indeed a season of great rejoicing.

In one of the window recesses of Mr. Keane's somewhat lonesome and dreary suburban mansion, as the shadows of evening fell on the almost leafless elms around the house, sat Gerty. She was looking out into the gathering night, looking out at the slowly-falling leaves; for though a book lay in her lap, it was almost too dark to read. By her side sat a beautiful deer-hound, with his muzzle leaning on her knee, and gazing up into her face with his brown earnest eyes, as if he knew there was sorrow at her heart.

He—Jack—had given her that dog as a puppy, and no power on earth could make her part with him. As she turned her eyes from the window, she noted his speaking look, and as she bent to caress him, a tear fell on his rough gray neck.

Presently there was a knock at the door, and in rushed Mary the maid.

Mary seemed about half daft. She was waving aloft a copy of the Times, and scarce could speak for excitement. But she managed to point to a certain column.

"What is it, Mary? I cannot see."

"Which it's our boy Jack as is mentioned for conspeakyewous bravery. Aren't you glad and proud?"

"Glad and proud? O Mary! silly child. And I am to be the bride of another. Nay, father insists that I shall give Sir Digby his answer to-night at the ball."

"An' I should do it, missus; that I should. I'd put it in fine polite English, but I'd put it straight, all the same. When he knelt before me,—'Jump up, old Granger,' I should say. 'Right about face. Shoulder hip. Quick march. I loves another, and I cannot marry thee.'"

"O Mary," said Gerty, smiling in spite of herself, "how you talk! Hush, child; not another word. I'm bound to make my father happy, and—I will."

* * * * *

The ball to which Gerty and her father were going that evening was Sir Digby's. This gentleman possessed both a town and a country house; but if the truth must be told, he was at present absolutely living on his future prospects.

"Well," he told one of his chief cronies that evening before the arrival of the guests, "when my brother dies—and he is a terribly old buffer—I shall drop into a nice thing. But it is just like my confounded luck that he should linger so long. And to tell you the truth, D'Orsay, I'm a bit pinched, and some of the Jews are pressing."

"Why don't you marry?"

"Well, I'm going to. Ah! she's a sweet young thing, Miss Keane; and though the father is a skinflint, he's wealthy, and I'll make him settle a bit before I give my ancient name away. Wager on that."

"Hold hard, Digby; I wouldn't be your friend if I didn't tell you."

"Didn't tell me what?"

"Why, man, haven't you heard? The firm of Griffin, Keane, and Co. is ruined. 'Pon honour. South Sea biz, or something. Had it from a friend, who had it from one of the firm. It's a secret, mind. But it is true."

"Good heavens, D'Orsay, you do not tell me so? Then I too am ruined!"

"What! you haven't proposed—you're not tied?"

"Nay, nay; all but. That is nothing, D'Orsay—nothing; but on the strength of this marriage I have borrowed thousands. Fleet prison is my fate if what you say is true."

"Look here, Digby," said D'Orsay, after a pause, "you are a man of the world, like myself. Now if I were you, I should transfer my affections. See?"

"In which quarter?"

"Why, there is Miss Gordon; a trifle old, to be sure, but positively rolling in wealth, and rolling her eyes whenever she sees you."

Sir Digby muttered something about a bag of broken bottles, but D'Orsay went on,—

"I'd marry her; 'pon honour I should."

"Think of life with that old hag."

"Think of life in the Fleet, my friend."

Sir Digby winced, and for a time made no reply.

"D'Orsay," he said at last, "I am a man, and, I trust, a gentleman. I'd prefer to marry Gerty even—even—"

"If she were a beggar. Bravo, Digby!" And D'Orsay laughed in the way men of the world do laugh.

"I didn't say that. I—I—'pon my soul, D'Orsay, I do not know what to do."

* * * * *

Miss Gordon was the belle of that ball, as far at least as dress and jewellery were concerned. She came of a noble family, too, and gave herself all the airs common in those days to ladies of title—hauteur, dignity, and condescension by turns. But towards Sir Digby she was as soft and sweet as a three-month-old kitten.

If Sir Digby Auld had meant to propose to sweet Gerty Keane that night, he never had a chance, for neither she nor her father appeared. It was reported that he had had a fit. But this was not so. After he was dressed, however, and the carriage waiting, he received a letter. He no sooner read it than it dropped from his hands on the floor, and he leaned back in his chair with his face to his hands.

Gerty was by his side in a moment.

"O father, are you ill?" she cried. "Shall I summon assistance?"

He recovered himself at once. "Nay, nay," he said; "only grief for the death of an old friend." He smoothed her hair as he replied. "Gerty, we will not go out to-night."

But the letter he picked off the floor and carefully put away in his pocket-book.

* * * * *

A whole half-year passed away without any events transpiring that much concern our narrative. Jack Mackenzie was still on the war-path, playing havoc with the commerce of France and Spain. Indeed he had constituted himself a kind of terror of the seas. His adventures were not only most daring, but carried out with a coolness that proved they were guided by a master mind. Indeed Jack Mackenzie and all his officers knew now to a very nicety what might be done with the swift Tonneraire, and what could not. Her bold young captain did not mean to be either captured or sunk, and he was wise enough to run away whenever he found himself overmatched. But this was not very often.

One surprise, during this time, Jack and his officers had received, and it was a very happy one. While lying at anchor with Lord St. Vincent's ships, one day a boat pulled off from the flagship, and there leaped therefrom and came swiftly up the ladder—who but young Murray himself. He saluted the quarter-deck, and he saluted Jack as he reported himself, smiling all over like the happy boy he was.

"I've come on board to join, sir. Isn't it jolly, just? And I'm promoted to a lieutenancy."

M'Hearty, Simmons, and every soul in the mess were most pleased to see him, and that evening Murray was the hero of the hour; and a very long and strange story he had to tell of his imprisonment, his harsh treatment, and his making love to the prison-governor's daughter, through whose cleverness he at last managed to escape, dressed as a grisette.

He kept his messmates laughing till long after seven bells in the first watch; and it must be said that not this night only, but every other night, Murray infused into the mess a joy and jollity to which it had been all winter a stranger.

* * * * *

Meanwhile a greater hero than Jack Mackenzie must hold the stage for a brief spell—namely, Nelson himself. Napoleon Bonaparte, after lying awake for a night or two, gave birth to a grand idea. Hyder Ali, in the south of India, hated the British as one hates a viper, and gladly would have crushed our power under his heel. But he needed help. It occurred to Bonaparte to aid him, and so oust us from our Indian Empire, which was then being quickly built up. It was a pretty idea, and well carried out at the commencement; for Bonny, as our sailors called him, managed to sail from France with thirty thousand veteran, well-tried troops; and having the good luck to elude our fleet, he called at Malta, which he quickly brought to terms, then made straight for Egypt. Here he landed from his fleet, which I believe had orders to return, but did not.

With such men as those old troops of Napoleon's the conquest of Egypt and the Mamelukes was but a picnic, and all very pleasant for Bonny and his merry men, though sad enough for the country on which these human locusts had alighted. Cairo fell, and the great warrior now set himself to rebuild the constitution of the country and create a native army.

Lord St. Vincent sent the brave one-eyed, one-armed Nelson with a fleet to destroy the French expedition. That he quickly would have done. He speedily would have cooked his hare, but he had to catch it first. Where ever was the French fleet? No one could tell him, and his adventures in search of it would fill a goodly volume. It reads like one long entrancing romance.

Jack Mackenzie, in his Tonneraire—the real name of the ship I am bound not to mention—joined this fleet, and thus was present at the great battle of the Nile.

Poor Nelson was almost worn out with anxiety and watching; but when he arrived at Aboukir Bay and found the foe, all his courage and all his calmness returned, and although the sun was slowly sinking in the west, our Nelson resolved not to wait an hour even, but attack the enemy there and then.



CHAPTER XXI.

WILLIE DIED A HERO'S DEATH.

"Then, traveller, one kind drop bestow, 'Twere graceful pity, nobly brave; Nought ever taught the heart to glow Like the tear that bedews a soldier's grave." DIBDIN.

I cannot help thinking that if glory is to be measured by pluck and skill combined, the battle of the Nile was even a more glorious fight than that of Trafalgar. The former battle required more physical exertion from the men individually, and therefore was a greater strain upon their courage. How? you may ask. I will tell you; and although my view of the matter may savour of the reasoning of the medico, still I think you will admit I have common-sense on my side. Besides, I am a sailor-surgeon; I have seen our brave blue-jackets working, and fighting too, under various conditions, so it cannot be said I speak altogether without experience. Well, the battle of Aboukir Bay or the Nile began in the evening, when the men were more or less jaded or tired. They had, moreover, just come off a weary voyage or cruise, and a night's good quiet sleep would have made a wonderful difference to them both in physique and morale. Trafalgar was fought by day, beginning in the forenoon. Aboukir was contested in the hottest season of the year; Trafalgar in the cool—namely, toward the end of October. Therefore, I say, all the more honour and glory to our brave fellows; and may we fight as well and as fortunately during the next great naval war, which cannot now be far away.

I never can read or even think about that long hide-and-seek cruise of Nelson's in the Mediterranean, in search of the French expedition, without a feeling of disappointment. Why, oh why was it ordained that he should not catch Napoleon with his fleet and his army at sea? Could he have but sent the firebrand to the bottom of the salt ocean, what conflagrations Europe would have been spared, what shedding of blood, what hopeless sorrow and bitter tears!

But there! I am keeping the fleets waiting. For his part, Brueys, the French admiral, would have preferred to wait. "He means to attack," he said to one of his captains, referring to Nelson, "but he cannot be mad enough to attack to-night."