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.