Itis 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 underhim 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 MʻHearty were asked to dine with the admiral on board the flagship, theVictory. 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 MʻHearty, nothing put that good fellow out, and at the admiral’s request he gave a very graphicaccount 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, Iwasthirsty.”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 theMarlborough. But so it was, and to-morrow he should die.It was on board theMarlboroughthat the mutiny had found a hot-bed. It was on board theMarlboroughthat 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 theMarlboroughhad 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 theVictory, Jack went to see an old shipmate of his,a boatswain who had been with him in theOcean 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 hangedby 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 theBlenheimsuperintended. Launches armed with carronades were ranged near theMarlborough, and the orders they had were to open fire at once upon the rebellious ship if the men refused obedience, ordared 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 theMarlborough’scat-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.Itmay 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 heroismwere 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]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, ifnot 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 tojoin 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.“Up and down the streets, carrying red flags, his fellows marched.”Page133.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 forhuman 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—theVenerable(the flagship) and theAdamant—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 almostchoked 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 soconstituted 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 starsShone 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 MʻHearty 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 partThat ardour which the mind refines,Expands and mends the heart.”Dibdin.Itsbeen 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 MʻHearty, “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 allin 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 yourtwo 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 theTonneraire.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 theTonnerairewere 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! Andhere 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 toread. 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 foryou. Old Keanemaysacrifice 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 boatWhen love bears up the creel.”—Old Song.Inthe 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,ergomissus 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, strollingcarelessly 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. Whatareyou 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?”“Ihavethought of my head in the morning, Tom; Ihavethought of the awakening. I do know that some day I shall see an announcement in theTimesof 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 oldOcean PrideI 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 haveyourhappiness; 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 boatWhen 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 boatWhen love bears up the creel.”For the next three months the swiftTonnerairewas 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 theTonnerairethus 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 theTonneraire, 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 theTonnerairecame round. Then all depended on cleverness and pluck.TheFerdinandwas a gun-brig that, on the morning of the 12th of June ’97, had saucily fired at theTonneraire, then shown her a clean pairof 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 theFerdinandfired 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 MʻHearty, who was near him on the poop, “I’ll have her, if only for her insolence.”MʻHearty laughed. It was not polite; but he couldn’t help it. For the doctor and captain of theTonnerairewere the dearest friends.“You’ve been much livelier and happier within this last month or two,” said MʻHearty. “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 theTonnerairestole silently back. She hauled her main-yard aback, and five armed boats, under command of Tom, were despatched to cut the saucy Frenchman out. Theoars 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 MʻHearty 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. MʻHearty 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 crewto repel boarders, ere our fine fellows were on board. Stern was the resistance made, however, to the British tars. Big MʻHearty 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 MʻHearty, 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.TheFerdinandwas 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 theTonnerairecarried the smartest lot of midshipmen that the service could boast of. They were indeed a fine lot, not midshipmitesbut midshipmen; for some indeed hadbeen, 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. TheTonnerairewas 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 islandof 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 menhalf-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 theTonneraire.“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.TheTonnerairegot 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
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 underhim 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 MʻHearty were asked to dine with the admiral on board the flagship, theVictory. 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 MʻHearty, nothing put that good fellow out, and at the admiral’s request he gave a very graphicaccount 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, Iwasthirsty.”
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 theMarlborough. But so it was, and to-morrow he should die.
It was on board theMarlboroughthat the mutiny had found a hot-bed. It was on board theMarlboroughthat 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 theMarlboroughhad 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 theVictory, Jack went to see an old shipmate of his,a boatswain who had been with him in theOcean 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 hangedby 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 theBlenheimsuperintended. Launches armed with carronades were ranged near theMarlborough, and the orders they had were to open fire at once upon the rebellious ship if the men refused obedience, ordared 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 theMarlborough’scat-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.
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 heroismwere 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]
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, ifnot 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 tojoin 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.
“Up and down the streets, carrying red flags, his fellows marched.”Page133.
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 forhuman 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—theVenerable(the flagship) and theAdamant—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 almostchoked 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 soconstituted 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 starsShone 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 MʻHearty 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.
JACK AND THE MUTINEERS.
“Obedience every work combines,Diffuses to each partThat ardour which the mind refines,Expands and mends the heart.”Dibdin.
Its
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 MʻHearty, “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 allin 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 yourtwo 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 theTonneraire.
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 theTonnerairewere 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! Andhere 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 toread. 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.”
“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 foryou. Old Keanemaysacrifice 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.
IN A FOOL’S PARADISE.
“The boatie rows, the boatie rows,The boatie rows fu’ weel;And mickle lighter is the boatWhen 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,ergomissus 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, strollingcarelessly 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. Whatareyou 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?”
“Ihavethought of my head in the morning, Tom; Ihavethought of the awakening. I do know that some day I shall see an announcement in theTimesof 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 oldOcean PrideI 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 haveyourhappiness; 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 boatWhen love bears up the creel.’”
“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.
J
ACK was right about love and “the creel,” or rather, I should say, the old song is right,—
“Mickle lighter is the boatWhen love bears up the creel.”
For the next three months the swiftTonnerairewas 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 theTonnerairethus 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 theTonneraire, 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 theTonnerairecame round. Then all depended on cleverness and pluck.
TheFerdinandwas a gun-brig that, on the morning of the 12th of June ’97, had saucily fired at theTonneraire, then shown her a clean pairof 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 theFerdinandfired 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 MʻHearty, who was near him on the poop, “I’ll have her, if only for her insolence.”
MʻHearty laughed. It was not polite; but he couldn’t help it. For the doctor and captain of theTonnerairewere the dearest friends.
“You’ve been much livelier and happier within this last month or two,” said MʻHearty. “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 theTonnerairestole silently back. She hauled her main-yard aback, and five armed boats, under command of Tom, were despatched to cut the saucy Frenchman out. Theoars 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 MʻHearty 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. MʻHearty 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 crewto repel boarders, ere our fine fellows were on board. Stern was the resistance made, however, to the British tars. Big MʻHearty 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 MʻHearty, 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.
TheFerdinandwas 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 theTonnerairecarried the smartest lot of midshipmen that the service could boast of. They were indeed a fine lot, not midshipmitesbut midshipmen; for some indeed hadbeen, 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. TheTonnerairewas 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 islandof 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 menhalf-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 theTonneraire.
“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.
TheTonnerairegot 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?
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.