Johnny rubbed his hands and chuckled.
“Soon,” he said, “it will blow what perfidious England calls big guns. Then—ah—then!”
It blew big guns far sooner than he had expected.
The night was intensely dark, but the half-moon would rise about four bells in the middle watch.
When Johnny Crapaud looked towards the fleet, lo! the vessels had extra lights all, and lights were streaming from every port.
“Ha! ha!” he grinned. “They rejoice; they dance. They think they have made me fly. When the gale blows, then they will dance—to different music.”
The watch kept on board the French seventy-four was not extra vigilant. Especially did no one think of looking astern. Had any one on the outlook done so, then just about a quarter of an hour before moonrise he might have seen a dark shape coming hand-over-hand across the water from the direction in which “fair France” lay—fair France that many a poor fellow on Johnny’s ship would never see again.
It was the Tonneraire. She had made a detour with every stitch of canvas set, and was now almost close aboard of the enemy.
Ah! at last they perceive her; and the noise on board the enemy is indescribable—the shrieking of orders, the rattle of arms and cordage, the trampling of feet, the stamping and unlimbering of guns. But against her stern windows, which are all ablaze with light, the Tonneraire concentrates her whole starboard broadside. The effect is startling and terrible. Confusion prevails on board the enemy—almost panic, indeed; and this lasts long enough for the frigate to sail back on the other tack. Jack’s object is to cripple her, and with this object in view he concentrates his larboard broadside again in the stern of the seventy-four, and her rudder is a thing of the past.
Away glides the Tonneraire. She is the phantom now. She loads her guns, and is coming down with the wind again—like the wind, too—when the seventy-four gets in her first broadside. It does but little harm. It does not stop the onward rush of the swift bold frigate even for a moment; and Jack’s next broadside is a telling one, for the Frenchman’s sails are not only ashiver, but aflap, awry, anyhow and everyhow; and just as the moon throws her first faint light athwart the waves, once more the helpless merchantmen tremble to hear the thunder of twenty cannon. For the Tonneraire has crossed the enemy’s hawse, and raked him fore and aft.