But see, the two French frigates are now abreast, and the consort hauls her main-yard aback, and an armed boat leaves her side.
Nearer and nearer she rows. Those that behold her on board the Pride hold their breath. They know she is rowing to destruction.
It is awful, and even brave Sir Sidney turns a little as the boat reaches the doomed ship, and the men are seen clambering up her sides. At that dreadful moment a huge cloud of smoke, balloon shaped, rises high above the Désespéré, a sheet of flame shoots into the air, and yards, and masts, and spars, and men are seen high above all. A sound far louder than thunder shakes the Pride from stern to stern. Sir Sidney presses his hand to his eyes and holds it there for a time. When he takes it away at last the Désespéré has gone. A few blackened spars bob here and there on the waves, and the cloud rolls far to leeward, but the silence of death is over all the scene.
Tom Fairlie sat late that night beside poor Jack’s couch. Jack’s brow was bound in blood-wet bandages, his eyes were closed.
“O doctor,” said Tom anxiously, as his eyes sought those of Surgeon MʻHearty, “is there no hope? Surely Jack will live?”
“Jack’s in God’s good hands, lad,” was the solemn reply, “and I am but his servant.”
The surgeon went slowly away, nor turned to look again.
“Poor Jack! poor Jack!” cried Tom; “and on his birthday too!”
He bent over the hardly breathing form, and tears welled through his fingers. He had never known till now how much he loved his shipmate.