We had four mates, all tried Peter Port men, and our only fears were as to possible lack of the enemy's merchant ships in quantity and quality sufficient for our requirements. On the second day out, a slight haze on the sky-line shortening our view, the sound of firing came down to us on the wind, and John Ozanne promptly turned the Swallow's beak in that direction.
We edged up closer and closer, and when the haze lifted, came on a hot little fight in progress between a big ship and a small one, and crowded the rigging and bulwarks to make it out.
"Little chap's a Britisher, I'll wager you," said old Martin Cohu, the bo's'un.
"A privateer then, and t'other a merchantman."
"Unless it's t'other way on. Anyway the old man will make 'em out soon;" and we anxiously eyed John Ozanne working away with his big brass-bound telescope, as we slanted up towards the two ships, first on one tack then on the other.
The larger vessel's rigging we could see was badly mauled, the smaller ship dodged round and round her, and off and on, plugging her as fast as the guns could be loaded and fired.
"That's no merchantman," said old Martin. "A French Navy ship—a corvette—about fifteen guns a-side maybe, and t'other's an English gun brig; making rare game of her she is too. Minds me of a dog and a bull."
"Maybe the old man'll take a hand just for practice."
And John Ozanne was quite willing. We were ordered to quarters, and ran in, with our colours up, prepared to take our share. But the commander of the brig had his own ideas on that matter, strong ones too, and he intimated them in the most unmistakable way by a shot across our bows, as a hint to us to mind our own business and leave him to his.
A hoarse laugh and a ringing cheer went up from the Swallow at this truly bull-dog spirit, and we drew off and lay-to to watch the result.