A bright look-out was kept, for the ship was now right in the spot where it was likely she might meet with the Dutch privateers.
It was Stevenson's watch, and as he walked the poop he stopped suddenly, for the look-out reported a sail to the W.S.W. Foster came on deck at once and went aloft In a quarter of an hour it was evident that the stranger bore towards them. The wind was south-east, and very little of it.
“What are you going to do?” asked the mate. “I fancy this is one of the Dutchmen who are on the look-out for us.”
“So do I,” answered Foster, “I'll tell you what I am going to do: brace sharp up on the larboard tack and run down to her. I am not going to run away from one infernal Dutchman, and I can only see one of 'em.”
“You're captain of the ship, and you can do as you please; but I am hanged if I think you'll pull it off this time. Half the crew are sick, and this fellow looks as if he meant fighting.”
“All hands on deck; starboard forebrace!” was all the answer Foster made. Then he went to the signal locker, and getting out the American ensign, with his own hands ran it up to the peak, hoping by this means to get close enough to the other ship to prevent her from running away from a fight, if the captain should turn out not one of the fighting sort.
As soon as the sails were trimmed the skipper walked to the break of the poop, and, with the air of a captain of a seventy-four, gave the order, “Clear ship for action!”
Then the mate ventured to remark that half of the guns were down below on the 'tween decks, where they had been put out of the way for the generally peaceful occupation of whaling.
“Well, get 'm up. What the devil do you think I mean by clearing for action?”
Accordingly, the six-pounders were hoisted upon deck and quickly mounted, what little powder and shot the Policy carried was brought into a handy place, and the mate, with something of a smile, reported, “Ship cleared for action, sir.”