The men had jumped to the weather braces before I gave the command, and all the while more sail were counting from the crosstrees, until their number had reached forty-one.  The news spread over the ship; the starboard watch trooped up with their dinners half eaten.  Then a faint booming of guns drifted down upon our ears.

“They’ve got sight of us, sir,” shouted the lookout.  “They be firing guns to windward, an’ letting fly their topgallant sheets.”

At that the commodore hurried forward, the men falling back to the bulwarks respectfully, and he mounted the fore-rigging as agile as any topman, followed by his aide with a glass.  From the masthead he sung out to me to set our stu’nsails, and he remained aloft till near seven bells of the watch.  At that hour the merchantmen had all scuttled to safety behind the head, and from the deck a great yellow King’s frigate could be plainly seen standing south to meet us, followed by her smaller consort.  Presently she hove to, and through our glasses we discerned a small boat making for her side, and then a man clambering up her sea-ladder.

“That be the bailiff of Scarborough, sir,” said the coasting pilot, “come to tell her cap’n ’tis Paul Jones he has to fight.”

At that moment the commodore lay down from aloft, and our hearts beat high as he walked swiftly aft to the quarterdeck, where he paused for a word with Mr. Dale.  Meanwhile Mr. Mayrant hove out the signal for the squadron to form line of battle.

“Recall the pilot-boat, Mr. Carvel,” said the commodore, quietly.  “Then you may beat to quarters, and I will take the ship, sir.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”  I raised my trumpet.  “All hands clear ship for action!”

It makes me sigh now to think of the cheer which burst from that tatterdemalion crew.  Who were they to fight the bone and sinew of the King’s navy in a rotten ship of an age gone by?  And who was he, that stood so straight upon the quarter-deck, to instil this scum with love and worship and fervour to blind them to such odds?  But the bo’suns piped and sang out the command in fog-horn voices, the drums beat the long roll and the fifes whistled, and the decks became suddenly alive.  Breechings were loosed and gun-tackles unlashed, rammer and sponge laid out, and pike and pistol and cutlass placed where they would be handy when the time came to rush the enemy’s decks.  The powder-monkeys tumbled over each other in their hurry to provide cartridges, and grape and canister and doubleheaded shot were hoisted up from below.  The trimmers rigged the splinter nettings, got out spare spars and blocks and ropes against those that were sure to be shot away, and rolled up casks of water to put out the fires.  Tubs were filled with sand, for blood is slippery upon the boards.  The French marines, their scarlet and white very natty in contrast to most of our ragged wharf-rats at the guns, were mustered on poop and forecastle, and some were sent aloft to the tops to assist the tars there to sweep the British decks with handgrenade and musket.  And, lastly, the surgeon and his mates went below to cockpit and steerage, to make ready for the grimmest work of all.