“Mr. Wharton!” he cried, with a voice like a rusty hinge.

A thin, knock-kneed officer shambled across the poop to him.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve opened the sealed orders, Mr. Wharton.”

A glimmer of curiosity shone upon the meagre features of the first lieutenant.  The Leda had sailed with her consort, the Dido, from Antigua the week before, and the admiral’s orders had been contained in a sealed envelope.

“We were to open them on reaching the deserted island of Sombriero, lying in north latitude eighteen, thirty-six, west longitude sixty-three, twenty-eight.  Sombriero bore four miles to the north-east from our port-bow when the gale cleared, Mr. Wharton.”

The lieutenant bowed stiffly.  He and the captain had been bosom friends from childhood.  They had gone to school together, joined the navy together, fought again and again together, and married into each other’s families, but so long as their feet were on the poop the iron discipline of the service struck all that was human out of them and left only the superior and the subordinate.  Captain Johnson took from his pocket a blue paper, which crackled as he unfolded it.

“The 32-gun frigates Leda and Dido (Captains A. P. Johnson and James Munro) are to cruise from the point at which these instructions are read to the mouth of the Caribbean Sea, in the hope of encountering the French frigate La Gloire (48), which has recently harassed our merchant ships in that quarter.  H.M. frigates are also directed to hunt down the piratical craft known sometimes as the Slapping Sal and sometimes as the Hairy Hudson, which has plundered the British ships as per margin, inflicting barbarities upon their crews.  She is a small brig, carrying ten light guns, with one twenty-four pound carronade forward.  She was last seen upon the 23rd ult. to the north-east of the island of Sombriero.”

   “(Signed) JAMES MONTGOMERY,”

   “(Rear-Admiral). 
   H.M.S. Colossus, Antigua.”

“We appear to have lost our consort,” said Captain Johnson, folding up his instructions and again sweeping the horizon with his glass.  “She drew away after we reefed down.  It would be a pity if we met this heavy Frenchman without the Dido, Mr. Wharton.  Eh?”

The lieutenant twinkled and smiled.

“She has eighteen-pounders on the main and twelves on the poop, sir,” said the captain.  “She carries four hundred to our two hundred and thirty-one.  Captain de Milon is the smartest man in the French service.  Oh, Bobby boy, I’d give my hopes of my flag to rub my side up against her!” He turned on his heel, ashamed of his momentary lapse.  “Mr. Wharton,” said he, looking back sternly over his shoulder, “get those square sails shaken out and bear away a point more to the west.”

“A brig on the port-bow,” came a voice from the forecastle.