A hoarse laugh and a ringing cheer went up from the Swallow at this truly bull-dog spirit, and we drew off and lay-to to watch the result.

The Frenchman was fully three times the size of his plucky little antagonist, but the Englishman as usual had the advantage in seamanship.  He had managed to cripple his enemy early in the fight, and now had it all his own way.  We watched till the Frenchman’s colours came down, then gave the victors another hearty cheer, and went on our way to seek fighting of our own.

For three days we never sighted a sail.  We had turned south towards the Bay, and were beginning to doubt our luck, when, on the fourth day, a stiff westerly gale forced us to bare poles.  During the night it waxed stronger still, and the little Swallow proved herself well.  Next morning a long line of great ships went gallantly past us over the roaring seas, shepherded by two stately frigates,—­an East Indian convoy homeward bound.  Late that day, the fifth of our cruising, we raised the topmasts of a large ship and made for her hopefully.

“A merchantman,” said Martin Cohu disgustedly, “and English or I’m a Dutchman.  One of the convoy lagged behind.  No pickings for us this time, my lads.”

But there was more there than he expected.

There was always the chance of her having been captured by the French, in which case her recapture would bring some little grist to our mill, and so we crowded sail for her.  And, as we drew nearer, it was evident, from the talk among John Ozanne and his mates, that they could see more through their glasses than we could with our eyes.

“Guyabble!” cried old Martin at last.  “There’s another ship hitched on to her far side.  I can see her masts.  Now, what’s this?  A privateer as like as no, and we’ll have our bite yet, maybe.”

And before long we could all make out the thin masts of a smaller vessel between the flapping canvas of the larger.  John Ozanne ordered us to quarters, and got ready for a fight.  He gave us a hearty word or two, since every man likes to know what’s in the wind.

“There’s a schooner behind yonder Indiaman, my lads, and it’s as likely as not she’s been captured.  If so we’ll do our best to get her back, for old England’s sake, and our own, and just to spite the Frenchman.  If the schooner should prove the Red Hand, and that’s as like as not, for he’s the pluckiest man they have, you know what it means.  It’ll be hard fighting and no quarter.  But he’s worth taking.  The London merchants have put a price on him, and there’ll be that, and himself, and a share in the Indiaman besides, and we’ll go back to Peter Port with our pockets lined.”

We gave him a cheer and hungered for the fray.

John Ozanne took us round in a wide sweep to open the ships, and every eye and glass was glued to them.  As we rounded the Indiaman’s great gilded stern, about a mile away, it did not need John Ozanne’s emphatic—­“It’s him!” to tell us we were in for a tough fight, and that three prizes lay for our taking.  We gave John another cheer, tightened our belts, and perhaps—­I can speak for one at all events—­wondered grimly how it would be with some of us a couple of hours later.