Power, however, who had great confidence in his own success as a fisherman, wanted the rest to leave a cold veal pie behind, assuring them that he would take care that they had an ample supply of salmon-peel, and bass, and flounders, which he promised to catch and cook for them.
“That is all very well,” said Marshall; “but I vote that we take the pie, and then we can be eating that while Power is dining on the fish which he has not yet caught.”
“Now, do you, Toby, take the helm, and we will row,” said Marshall, seating himself ready to pull the stroke oar.
Digby jumped in next him, for he knew that he was about to fulfil his promise, to get Toby to spin a yarn.
All took their seats, up went the oars. “Give way!” sung out Toby. The oars came with a simultaneous flop into the water, and the young crew bending to them, the boat glided swiftly and steadily over the smooth surface. The scenery for some distance was very beautiful: there were high cliffs, broken and fantastic in shape, with here and there openings through which green fields, and woods, and cottages could be seen, and deep bays and inlets, and, further off, downs, or heather land, on which sheep or cattle were feeding. The sky was blue, the air was fresh and pure; all were enjoying themselves, though they could not perhaps tell why.
“Try old Toby now,” whispered Digby into Marshall’s ear.
Marshall began in a diplomatic way. “Now, Toby,” he said, “while we are pulling and cannot talk much, it seems a pity that you should not be telling us something we should like to hear. You have been in a battle or two, I dare say; perhaps fought with double your numbers, and came off victorious, as I have heard of British seamen doing more than once.”
“I believe you, Master Marshall,” interrupted Toby. “I have been in a battle when we had three to one against us, and still we thrashed them. I’ll tell you how it was. I belonged, in those days, to the Spartan, a smart frigate of thirty-eight guns, and a first-rate dashing officer, Captain Jahleel Brenton, commanded her. We were in the Mediterranean in the year 1810. Many were the things we did which we had a right to talk about. It was about the end of April we were cruising in company with the Success frigate, Captain Mitford, and the sloop Espoir, when, standing in for the Castle of Terrecino, on the Italian coast, we made out a ship, three barques, and several feluccas, at anchor under shelter of the guns of that fort. Our captain, as soon as he saw them, determined to have them; so as he was commodore, do you see, he ordered away the boats of the squadron to cut them out. I was not a little pleased to find myself in one of the Spartan’s boats. The whole expedition was commanded by Lieutenant Baumgart, of the Spartan; and we had with us another brave officer, Lieutenant George Sartorius, of the Sirius.
“We rendezvoused on board the Spartan, and soon after noon pulled in for the castle, covered by the fire of the squadron, which opened a brisk cannonade on the town and batteries. The enemy were not idle, and the shot were flying pretty thick about us, but that did not stop our way.
“‘There’s the ship, my boys, and we must have her, and the barques too, if we can,’ sung out our lieutenant; and on we dashed, with a loud cheer, towards her.