The Admiral is working the stump of his right arm; do not cross his hawse, I advise you.
"Youngster to the mast-head. What! Going without your glass, and be damned to you! Let me know what you see, immediately."
"The enemy fleet, Sir, at anchor in the bay."
"Bend on the signal to form in line of battle, Sir Ed'ard."
The bright wind straightens the signal pennants until they stand out rigid like boards.
"Captain Hood reports eleven fathoms, Sir, and shall he bear up and sound?"
"Signal Captain Hood to lead, sounding."
"By the mark ten! A quarter less nine! By the deep eight!"
Round to starboard swing the white thunderheads, the water of their bows washing over the green jade hem. An orange sunset steams in the shrouds, and glints upon the muzzles of the cannon in the open ports. The hammocks are down; the guns run out and primed; beside each is a pile of canister and grape; gunners are blowing on their matches; snatches of fife music drift down to the lower decks. In the cockpits, the surgeons are feeling the edges of knives and saws; men think of their wives and swear softly, spitting on their hands.
"Let go that anchor! By God, she hangs!"