Now down comes the Frenchman’s foremast; and shortly after, a wild triumphant shout echoes from stem to stern and stern to stem of brave young Jack’s ship, for the enemy has surrendered.
A French seventy-four striking her flag to a British frigate of forty guns! Yes; but far more daring deeds than that which I now record happened in the dashing days of old.
Captain Jack Mackenzie would have gone right straight on board the enemy, but the master cautioned him.
“Nay, nay, sir,” he said. “There is such a thing as French treachery; I have known it before. Wait till the moon gets higher, and we will board in force. Remember, they may have about five hundred men still alive on that ship.”
Jack took the advice thus vouchsafed; but in half-an-hour’s time the Tonneraire rasped alongside the seventy-four, and a rush was made up the sides of the battle-ship.
But all was safe.
And stark and stiff on his own poop lay the French captain, and alongside him more than one of his officers. The decks were a sad sight in the glimmering moonlight, for splintered timbers and arms lay everywhere, and everywhere were dead and wounded.
More by token, from the uncertain, heavy-swaying motion of the vessel, it was evident she had been badly hit ’twixt wind and water, and was already sinking. All haste was therefore made to save the men. Those of the ship’s boats that were not smashed were lowered, and further assistance was sent for from the merchant fleet, and none too soon either.
A few minutes after the last man—and that was Jack Mackenzie, who personally superintended everything—had left the ill-fated Frenchman, her decks blew up with a dull report, the water rushed in from all sides, and just as the sun threw his first yellow beams upwards through the morning clouds, the great ship shuddered like a dying thing, and shuddering sank.
Such is war; why should we desire it?