We cast off next day, amid the cheers and wavings of a great crowd.  Half Peter Port stood on the walls of the old harbour.  Some had friends and relatives on board, and their shoutings were akin to lusty, veiled prayers for their safe return.  Some had eggs in our basket, and in wishing us good speed were not without an eye to the future, and maybe were already counting their possible chickens.  We gave them cheer for cheer, and more again for the St. Sampson people.  Then, with all our new swing making a gallant show, we swept past Grand Braye, and Ancresse, and turned our nose to the north-west.

We were all in the best of spirits.  The Swallow was well found and well armed, and showed a livelier pair of heels than I had looked for, and that, in an Ishmaelitish craft, was a consideration and a comfort.  She was roomy too, and would make better times of bad weather, I thought, than would Torode’s beautiful black snake.  We were sixty men all told, and every man of us keen for the business we were on, and with sufficient confidence in John Ozanne to make a willing crew, though among us there were not lacking good-humoured jokes anent his well-known easy-going, happy-go-lucky proclivities.  These, however, would make for comfort on board, and for the rest, he was a good seaman and might be expected to do his utmost to justify the choice of his fellow-townsmen, and he was said to have a considerable stake in the matter himself.

We had four mates, all tried Peter Port men, and our only fears were as to possible lack of the enemy’s merchant ships in quantity and quality sufficient for our requirements.  On the second day out, a slight haze on the sky-line shortening our view, the sound of firing came down to us on the wind, and John Ozanne promptly turned the Swallow’s beak in that direction.

We edged up closer and closer, and when the haze lifted, came on a hot little fight in progress between a big ship and a small one, and crowded the rigging and bulwarks to make it out.

“Little chap’s a Britisher, I’ll wager you,” said old Martin Cohu, the bo’s’un.

“A privateer then, and t’other a merchantman.”

“Unless it’s t’other way on.  Anyway the old man will make ’em out soon;” and we anxiously eyed John Ozanne working away with his big brass-bound telescope, as we slanted up towards the two ships, first on one tack then on the other.

The larger vessel’s rigging we could see was badly mauled, the smaller ship dodged round and round her, and off and on, plugging her as fast as the guns could be loaded and fired.

“That’s no merchantman,” said old Martin.  “A French Navy ship—­a corvette—­about fifteen guns a-side maybe, and t’other’s an English gun brig; making rare game of her she is too.  Minds me of a dog and a bull.”

“Maybe the old man’ll take a hand just for practice.”

And John Ozanne was quite willing.  We were ordered to quarters, and ran in, with our colours up, prepared to take our share.  But the commander of the brig had his own ideas on that matter, strong ones too, and he intimated them in the most unmistakable way by a shot across our bows, as a hint to us to mind our own business and leave him to his.