It was but a few days before the battle that my father made his promised visit to London.  The seaman had no love of cities, and was happier wandering over the Downs, and turning his glass upon every topsail which showed above the horizon, than when finding his way among crowded streets, where, as he complained, it was impossible to keep a course by the sun, and hard enough by dead reckoning.  Rumours of war were in the air, however, and it was necessary that he should use his influence with Lord Nelson if a vacancy were to be found either for himself or for me.

My uncle had just set forth, as was his custom of an evening, clad in his green riding-frock, his plate buttons, his Cordovan boots, and his round hat, to show himself upon his crop-tailed tit in the Mall.  I had remained behind, for, indeed, I had already made up my mind that I had no calling for this fashionable life.  These men, with their small waists, their gestures, and their unnatural ways, had become wearisome to me, and even my uncle, with his cold and patronizing manner, filled me with very mixed feelings.  My thoughts were back in Sussex, and I was dreaming of the kindly, simple ways of the country, when there came a rat-tat at the knocker, the ring of a hearty voice, and there, in the doorway, was the smiling, weather-beaten face, with the puckered eyelids and the light blue eyes.

“Why, Roddy, you are grand indeed!” he cried.  “But I had rather see you with the King’s blue coat upon your back than with all these frills and ruffles.”

“And I had rather wear it, father.”

“It warms my heart to hear you say so.  Lord Nelson has promised me that he would find a berth for you, and to-morrow we shall seek him out and remind him of it.  But where is your uncle?”

“He is riding in the Mall.”

A look of relief passed over my father’s honest face, for he was never very easy in his brother-in-law’s company.  “I have been to the Admiralty,” said he, “and I trust that I shall have a ship when war breaks out; by all accounts it will not be long first.  Lord St. Vincent told me so with his own lips.  But I am at Fladong’s, Rodney, where, if you will come and sup with me, you will see some of my messmates from the Mediterranean.”

When you think that in the last year of the war we had 140,000 seamen and mariners afloat, commanded by 4000 officers, and that half of these had been turned adrift when the Peace of Amiens laid their ships up in the Hamoaze or Portsdown creek, you will understand that London, as well as the dockyard towns, was full of seafarers.  You could not walk the streets without catching sight of the gipsy-faced, keen-eyed men whose plain clothes told of their thin purses as plainly as their listless air showed their weariness of a life of forced and unaccustomed inaction.  Amid the dark streets and brick houses there was something out of place in their appearance, as when the sea-gulls, driven by stress of weather, are seen