In a few seconds our signal was read; and, in response, up went the frigate’s number, which little Smellie read out as it was going aloft. “Private signal pennant. Eight, two, seven, four.”
“Run up the answering pennant,” said I to the signal-man, as I turned up the number in the signal-book.
“Le Narcisse” was the name corresponding to this number; and I was about to turn up the navy list, to learn what particulars I could respecting the craft, when my companion exclaimed, “More bunting. White flag with blue cross, diagonal. Three, nine, nought, one.”
We acknowledged the signal, and, on turning it up, found that it was a request to “Round-to under my lee: wish to communicate with you.”
This brought the signalling to a close; and in about a quarter of an hour afterwards, we rounded-to on the frigate’s lee beam, while that craft laid her main-topsail to the mast.
As soon as the two craft were within hailing distance a dapper little figure, dressed in the full uniform of a French naval captain, leaped into the mizzen-rigging with all the activity of a monkey, and, raising his hat slightly in salute (which I of course scrupulously returned), gave a preliminary flourish or two with a speaking-trumpet almost as big as himself, and then, applying it to his lips squeaked out, in French of course, in a shrill falsetto which set all our people on the broad grin,—
“‘Vidette ahoy!’ Are you the guarda-costa of that name?”
“Ay, ay, monsieur,” I briefly replied.
“Oh! very well,” said he. “I am Citizen Alphonse Latour, captain of ‘Le Narcisse’ frigate, in the service of the French Republic. Whither are you bound?”
“We are cruising to the southward and eastward on the lookout for an English fleet which is reported to be somewhere hereabouts,” I replied, with a mischievous desire to see what effect the mention of an English fleet would have upon him.