The battle is past and gone, a whole month has elapsed since then, and the swift Tonneraire is homeward bound with despatches. Many were killed and wounded, among others good old Simmons, the master, who fell at Jack’s side on the deck of a French man-o’-war. He would never grumble again; his deep bass, honest voice would be heard no more. There was hardly a dry eye in the ship when the kindly old man’s hammock was dropped overboard in Aboukir Bay.
Yes, the Tonneraire was homeward bound at last, after an absence of two busy and eventful years. But the saddest, probably, of all her adventures had yet to come. MʻHearty, Tom Fairlie, and young Murray were in the captain’s cabin one evening towards sunset. Murray was particularly bright and pleasant to-night, and his laughing face and merry, saucy blue eyes did every one good to behold.
Suddenly there is a cry on deck, “Sail ahead!” and next minute the drum is beating to quarters. The Tonneraire has been working against a head wind, and now down upon her, like some monster sea-bird with wings outspread, sweeps a huge French ship of war. The battle will be very one-sided, but Jack will dare it. Already it is getting dusk; he must try to cripple the monster. He manages to rake her, and a broadside of iron hail is poured through her stern. He rakes her a second time, and this time down thunders a mast. Well would it have been for Jack and the Tonneraire if he had now put his ship before the wind. But no, he still fights on and on, and suffers terribly; and just as the shades of night deepen into blackness, he manages to hoist enough sail to stagger away, and the Frenchman is too sorely stricken to follow.
Very early next morning, before the stars had quite faded in the west, or the sun had shot high his rays to gild the herald clouds, MʻHearty, looking careworn, unkempt, and weary—for he had never been to bed—entered Jack’s state-room and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
Jack was awake in a moment.
“Anything wrong, doctor?” he asked quickly.
“Alas, sir!” replied MʻHearty, and there was a strange huskiness in his voice as he spoke—“alas, sir! poor young Murray is dying fast.”
“Murray dying!”
“Too true, sir. His wounds are far more grievous than I was aware of. He cannot last many minutes. He wants to see you.”
The boy—for he was but little more—lay in a cot in the sick-bay. He was dressed in his scarlet coat, and his sword lay beside him, for he had refused to be divested of his uniform. He was in a half-sitting position, propped up with pillows, and smiled faintly as Jack knelt by his side and took his thin white hand in his.