Somers said nothing as his cherry bounce was liberally distributed, leaving only a very small glass of the dregs and heel-taps for himself; and his good nature under so much chaff made the reefers more jolly than ever. His health, with many pious wishes that he might learn to know a handy-billy when he saw it, was drunk with all honors; and as a great favor he was permitted to drink his one small glass in peace. In the midst of the jollity a commotion was heard overhead, and the cry of “Sail, ho!” In another moment every midshipman made a dash for the gangway and ran on deck.
Nearly every officer of the frigate was there too. Commodore Barry glass in hand, watched from the flying bridge, a sail off the starboard quarter. By the squareness of her yards and the symmetry of her sails she was evidently a ship of war, and was coming down fast. The Delaware, which sailed equally as well as “Old Wagoner,” was close by to starboard. On sighting the strange and menacing ship, the Delaware was seen to bear up and draw nearer her consort—for it was well known that a contest with a French ship would by no means be declined by any American ship. Commodore Barry, who was a veteran of the glorious days of Paul Jones and the gallant though infant navy of the Revolution, was more than willing to engage. Every moment showed more and more clearly the character and force of the stranger. The day was bright and cloudless, and, as they were in the sunny atmosphere of West India waters, objects could be seen at a great distance. The frigate was remarkably handsome and sailed well. The Americans counted more than twenty portholes, and very accurately guessed her to be one of the great fifty-gun frigates of which both the French and the English had many at that day. If she were French, it meant a fight; and so nearly matched were the two frigates that it would be the squarest sort of a fight.
The excitement on the ships was intense. Several of the more active officers clambered up the shrouds, while the rigging was full of men eager to make out the advancing ship, which was coming along at a good gait; and all were eager to know what colors the commodore would show.
“Mr. Ross,” said Commodore Barry, turning to his first lieutenant, “we will show French colors; if he is a ‘Mounseer,’ it will encourage him to make our acquaintance.”
The quartermaster, Danny Dixon, a handsome, fresh-faced sailor of middle age, who had served under the immortal Paul Jones, quickly produced French colors, and amid breathless silence he ran them up.
The stranger was now not more than a mile distant. She had worn no colors, but on seeing French colors run up at the American frigate’s peak, in another moment she too displayed the tricolored flag of France.
At that an involuntary cheer broke from the gallant fellows on “Old Wagoner.” Decatur, behind the commodore’s back, deliberately turned a double handspring, while even the dignified Somers executed a slight pirouette.
As for the men, they dropped down upon the deck like magic, and every man ran to his station. Commodore Barry straightened himself up, and the old fire of battle, that had slumbered since the glorious days of the Revolution, shone in his eyes under his shaggy brows.
“Mr. Ross,” said he, turning to his first lieutenant, “we are in good luck—in excellent good luck, sir. Signal to the Delaware to keep off. I think the officers and men of this ship would feel hurt if we should mar the beauty of the game we are about to play by having odds in our favor; and call the men to quarters without the tap of the drum. The first man who cheers until we have hailed will be sent below, to remain until after the engagement. I desire to come to close quarters, without telling any more about ourselves than our friend the enemy can find out.”
In the midst of a dead silence the signal was made to the Delaware. Only Decatur whispered to Somers, whose station was next his: