For the next three months the swift Tonneraire was here, there, and everywhere—except in England. She cruised much farther south, and chiefly along the coast of France, and seldom put into harbour except to cut out some merchantman, snugly ensconced, perhaps, under the guns of a fort, and deeming herself in a very safe position. It was, unfortunately for her, the feeling of security that proved her ruin.
Three or four several times did the Tonneraire thus prove herself a crack ship. A crack ship with a crack crew and officers, remember; for the best of ships is but a drone unless well managed. Not even a drone, indeed; for a drone is a most duty-full bee, and a most respectable member of the apiarian republic. There is a vast deal of very indifferent music in the very best of fiddles, and I feel quite convinced that had some less active officer commanded even the Tonneraire, he would have had little to show at the end of his cruise.
In his daring cutting-out expeditions Jack had been invariably successful. First and foremost he chased the vessel, and failing to overhaul her, he bore away seawards again, as if he had given up all hope, she perhaps taking refuge under the guns of a fort. But although he might sail out of sight of land, soon as the shades of evening began to fall the Tonneraire came round. Then all depended on cleverness and pluck.
The Ferdinand was a gun-brig that, on the morning of the 12th of June ’97, had saucily fired at the Tonneraire, then shown her a clean pair of heels. She was near to the port of T——, so could afford to be insolent. Jack sent a fifty-six pound shot tearing through her rigging, without doing much damage, on which the Ferdinand fired again from her stern. Only a puff of white smoke, only a ten-pound shot, with a sound withal like that of a boy’s pop-gun. But it was enough. Jack’s Highland blood was up; and he said to MʻHearty, who was near him on the poop, “I’ll have her, if only for her insolence.”
MʻHearty laughed. It was not polite; but he couldn’t help it. For the doctor and captain of the Tonneraire were the dearest friends.
“You’ve been much livelier and happier within this last month or two,” said MʻHearty. “Tell me, sir, are you in love?”
“What would you do if I were?”
“Nothing, Captain Jack. I’ve got pills to cure melancholy; but for love, well, I never had it myself, so I shouldn’t know what to do. But—may you be happy.”
It was very dark that night when the Tonneraire stole silently back. She hauled her main-yard aback, and five armed boats, under command of Tom, were despatched to cut the saucy Frenchman out. The oars were muffled, and there was not a glimmer of light permitted to shine anywhere about the ship.
The captain of marines and Murray both went in different boats, and on this occasion MʻHearty himself. The great fellow said he wanted to stretch his legs and swing his arms about a bit.