For a full half-hour we were hard put to it to avoid being run down by the ships of the mighty fleet, which, we learned from the crew of the Phoenix, was known to have been lying at Helvoetsluys, ready to carry the Prince of Orange to England to wrest the crown from his incapable father-in-law, King James.
"Where are they bound for, being so far down Channel?" asked the master gunner.
"Nay, I know not," replied Captain Jeremy. "But Heaven forfend that they land in the West. Enough English blood was wasted in the last rising, as many of us know."
"What chance hath the Prince, think you?" he continued, addressing the master of the Phoenix, who had also turned out to see the unwonted sight.
"A far better one than had the Duke of Monmouth," was the answer; "though, with all his faults, give me King James. I fought under him when he was Duke of York, and a braver seaman never trod deck."
"Ah! James Duke of York and James King of England are two very different personages, I trow," replied Captain Jeremy. "The best fighter is ever the worst statesman."
"After all," said the master of the Phoenix, "so long as there are English ships at sea and plenty of work for us poor seamen, it matters not much who rules the roost. That's how the wind blows, say I."
"The wind draws ahead," observed Captain Jeremy; "that is the matter that concerns us chiefly. I doubt whether we'll see port today."
This was indeed the case, for the breeze, now provokingly light, had backed till it came from the east'ard, so that it meant a dead beat to windward. To men long absent from home this was especially galling, though in my case I found consolation in being in the company of Mistress Winifred, with whom I generally managed to have several hours pleasurable conversation.
Neither did we make Poole that day nor the next, for it fell a flat calm, after the manner of St. Martin's summer, so that for thirty-six hours we drifted with the tide within sight of the Dorset hills.