When I went on deck again at seven bells (7:30 a.m.) things looked pretty much as I had left them, excepting that the sea had continued to get up and was now running higher than I had ever seen it before. Our little craft was tossed about on its angry surface lightly as a withered leaf; now rising up as though about to take flight into the midst of the rushing storm-wrack overhead, and anon plunging down the steep sides of the watery hills as though intent on reaching the very ocean’s bed itself. It was very exciting, as well, it must be confessed, as somewhat trying to the nerves, to stand on the deck and watch the approach of the mountainous seas, rushing with threatening upreared crest upon the little craft, as though determined to engulf her. But, by watchful attention to the helm, her bows always met them at a safe angle, and away they would sweep past us, harmless, but hissing and seething in impotent fury.
According to custom, Tom Hardy had charge of the deck while Smellie and I were below at breakfast. On our returning to the deck at the conclusion of the meal, he joined us to remark that he was under the impression he had once or twice heard the sound of firing to windward.
“Surely not,” said little Smellie; “you must be mistaken, Mr Hardy,” (we always Mistered Tom, to his intense gratification, now that he had charge of a watch). “What ships could possibly fight in this weather?”
“Depends on the course they happen to be steering, sir,” responded Tom. “It’s poorish weather for a fight, I’ll allow; but if one ship happens to be chasing t’other, and they’m both running before it, both bow and stern-chasers might be worked, heavy as the sea is. Besides, it looks a deal worse to us, afloat here in this cock-boat, than ’twould if we was aboard the old ‘Juno,’ for instance; and a’ter all—hark! didn’t you hear anything just then, gentlemen?”
The boom of a gun, muffled by the roar of the gale, but still heard with sufficient distinctness to render the sound unmistakable, at that moment broke upon the ear.
I pulled out my watch and noted the time. “Now listen for the next report!” I exclaimed; “perhaps it is a ship in distress.”
But it was immediately evident that it could be nothing of that sort, for even as I spoke, another report came floating down upon the wings of the gale, and then two others in quick succession.
Tom Hardy sprang into the main-rigging, and, going aloft as far as our short masts would permit, stood for nearly a minute, swaying about with the roll and pitch of the vessel, his eyes shaded by one hand, gazing eagerly to windward.
“Here they comes!” he hailed; “one a’ter t’other. Two frigates, seemin’ly; and one on ’em’s a Frenchman all over—the chap that’s leadin’; t’other’s of course one of our ships.”
“How are they steering?” I hailed.