"Halloa, Jem! Where be going of now?" shouted one or two voices from the
Oar-stone point, the furthest outlook of the Havenhead hill.
"To see them Frenchy hoppers get a jolly hiding," Jem Prater replied,
without easing his sculls. He was John Prater's nephew, of the "Darling
Arms," and had stopped behind the fishing to see his uncle's monthly
beer in. "You can't see up there, I reckon, the same as I do here.
One English ship have got a job to tackle two Crappos. But, by George!
she'll do it, mates. Good bye, and the Lord defend you!"
He had nobody but his little brother Sam, who was holding the tiller,
to help him, and his uncle's boat (which he had taken without leave)
was neither stout nor handy. But the stir of the battle had fetched him
forth, and he meant to see the whole of it without taking harm. Every
Englishman had a full right to do this, in a case of such French
audacity, and the English sea and air began to give him fair occasion.
For now the sun had swept the mist with a besom of gold wire, widening
every sweep, and throwing brilliant prospect down it. The gentle heave
of the sea flashed forth with the white birds hovering over it, and the
curdles of fugitive vapour glowed like pillars of fire as they floated
off. Then out of the drift appeared three ships, partly shrouded in
their own fog.
The wind was too light for manoeuvring much, and the combatants swung to
their broadsides, having taken the breath of the air away by the fury of
their fire.
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