of forty merchantmen appeared coming round Flamborough Head, protected by two English man-of-war, the Serapis and Countess of Scarborough.  Descrying the five cruisers sailing down, the forty sail, like forty chickens, fluttered in a panic under the wing of the shore.  Their armed protectors bravely steered from the land, making the disposition for battle.  Promptly accepting the challenge, Paul, giving the signal to his consorts, earnestly pressed forward.  But, earnest as he was, it was seven in the evening ere the encounter began.  Meantime his comrades, heedless of his signals, sailed independently along.  Dismissing them from present consideration, we confine ourselves, for a while, to the Richard and the Serapis, the grand duellists of the fight.

The Richard carried a motley, crew, to keep whom in order one hundred and thirty-five soldiers—­themselves a hybrid band—­had been put on board, commanded by French officers of inferior rank.  Her armament was similarly heterogeneous; guns of all sorts and calibres; but about equal on the whole to those of a thirty-two-gun frigate.  The spirit of baneful intermixture pervaded this craft throughout.

The Serapis was a frigate of fifty guns, more than half of which individually exceeded in calibre any one gun of the Richard.  She had a crew of some three hundred and twenty trained man-of-war’s men.

There is something in a naval engagement which radically distinguishes it from one on the land.  The ocean, at times, has what is called its sea and its trough of the sea; but it has neither rivers, woods, banks, towns, nor mountains.  In mild weather it is one hammered plain.  Stratagems, like those of disciplined armies—­ambuscades, like those of Indians, are impossible.  All is clear, open, fluent.  The very element which sustains the combatants, yields at the stroke of a feather.  One wind and one tide at one time operate upon all who here engage.  This simplicity renders a battle between two men-of-war, with their huge white wings, more akin to the Miltonic contests of archangels than to the comparatively squalid tussles of earth.

As the ships neared, a hazy darkness overspread the water.  The moon was not yet risen.  Objects were perceived with difficulty.  Borne by a soft moist breeze over gentle waves, they came within pistol-shot.  Owing to the obscurity, and the known neighborhood of other vessels, the Serapis was uncertain who the Richard was.  Through the dim mist each ship loomed forth to the other vast, but indistinct, as the ghost of Morven.  Sounds of the trampling of resolute men echoed from either hull, whose tight decks dully resounded like drum-heads in a funeral march.

The Serapis hailed.  She was answered by a broadside.  For half an hour the combatants deliberately manoeuvred, continually changing their position, but always within shot fire.  The.  Serapis—­the better sailer of the two—­kept critically circling the Richard, making lounging advances now and then, and as suddenly steering off; hate causing her to act not unlike a wheeling cock about a hen, when stirred by the contrary passion.  Meantime, though within easy speaking distance, no further syllable was exchanged; but an incessant cannonade was kept up.