The scene on board was quiet and peaceful enough that morning.  A knot of midshipmen on the forecastle were discussing Landais’s conduct, and cursing the concordat which prevented our commodore from bringing him up short.  Mr. Stacey, the sailing-master, had the deck, and the coasting pilot was conning; now and anon the boatswain’s whistle piped for Garrett or Quito or Fogg to lay aft to the mast, where the first lieutenant stood talking to Colonel de Chamillard, of the French marines.  The scavengers were sweeping down, and part of the after guard was bending a new bolt-rope on a storm staysail.

Then the—­fore-topmast crosstrees reports a sail on the weather quarter, the Richard is brought around on the wind, and away we go after a brigantine, “flying like a snow laden with English bricks,” as Midshipman Coram jokingly remarks.  A chase is not such a novelty with us that we crane our necks to windward.

At noon, when I relieved Mr. Stacey of the deck, the sun had eaten up the fog, and the shores of England stood out boldly.  Spurn Head was looming up across our bows, while that of Flamborough jutted into the sea behind us.  I had the starboard watch piped to dinner, and reported twelve o’clock to the commodore.  And had just got permission to “make it,” according to a time-honoured custom at sea, when another “Sail, ho!” came down from aloft.

“Where away?” called back Mr. Linthwaite, who was midshipman of the forecastle.

“Starboard quarter, rounding Flamborough Head, sir.  Looks like a full-rigged ship, sir.”

I sent the messenger into the great cabin to report.  He was barely out of sight before a second cry came from the masthead:  “Another sail rounding Flamborough, sir!”

The officers on deck hurried to the taffrail.  I had my glass, but not a dot was visible above the sea-line.  The messenger was scarcely back again when there came a third hail:  “Two more rounding the head, sir!  Four in all, sir!”

Here was excitement indeed.  Without waiting for instructions, I gave the command: 

“Up royal yards!  Royal yardmen in the tops!”

We were already swaying out of the chains, when Lieutenant Dale appeared and asked the coasting pilot what fleet it was.  He answered that it was the Baltic fleet, under convoy of the Countess of Scarborough, twenty guns, and the Serapis, forty-four.

“Forty-four,” repeated Mr. Dale, smiling; “that means fifty, as English frigates are rated.  We shall have our hands full this day, my lads,” said he.  “You have done well to get the royals on her, Mr. Carvel.”

While he was yet speaking, three more sail were reported from aloft.  Then there was a hush on deck, and the commodore himself appeared.  As he reached the poop we saluted him and informed him of what had happened.

“The Baltic fleet,” said he, promptly.  “Call away the pilotboat with Mr. Lunt to follow the brigantine, sir, and ease off before the wind.  Signal ‘General Chase’ to the squadron, Mr. Mayrant.”