"Sail on the weather-bow, sir."
Diving into the cabin, he snatched up a spyglass and eagerly scanned the approaching vessel, which was coming up Channel, bringing a strong breeze with her. She was showing no colors, but there was something about her cut that made him feel a little uncomfortable. Turning to Babbage, who stood by, he handed him the spy-glass, saying:
"French?"
"French she be, sir, leastways furrin, and a spanking brig."
Jack looked a little blue.
It was difficult to estimate distances in the haze, but the stranger could scarcely be more than a mile away. Every now and again a gust of wind lifted the fog, and if Jack attempted to put about the movement would almost certainly be seen. Even if he could outsail the approaching vessel before the wind, which was at least doubtful, her bow-chasers would badly cripple him before he could run out of range.
"What chance have we of escaping, if she is French?" he said to Babbage, who was standing by his side.
"Not a brass farden's worth, sir. She carries thirty guns at the least; and if there is a man aboard that can shoot, she can hull us easy as winking without changing her course."
"That's bad, then."
"And worse to foller, sir, as brother Sol used to say."