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. MʻHearty? 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.