he would watch the enemy, and get to westward of them if he could; but before this he had expressed his opinion that the best course was to fall back to the Gunfleet, and then the ships from the west might come up to Portsmouth, and join him over the “Flats,” that is the shallows at the mouth of the Thames. The ships from the west were Killigrew’s squadron. Torrington knew that they had been cruising and must be foul, and it was certainly within his knowledge that they were less numerous than his own fleet. Yet he proposed to subject them to the risk of passing the French fleet, which he thought too great to be run by himself. This was not how Tromp had behaved when he united the fleets of the Maas and the Texel in defiance of Monk at the end of the First Dutch War. It would seem that there are two types of fighting man. The first when in presence of the enemy instinctively thinks, “How can I strike with the most effect.” The great race are of this type. To it belong Blake and Monk, Hawke, Hood, Nelson, and their like, among our admirals; and, among our enemies, Tromp, De Ruyter, and Suffren. Then there is another kind of fighting man who may be brave enough personally, but who, when he is a commander, instinctively says, “How can I prevent the enemy from hurting me.” This kind of leader has fortunately been rare with us at sea, but Herbert was of the race, and so was Byng. Such men are always looking over their shoulders, always making the most of the enemy’s force, always exaggerating the defects of their own command. They seek for excuses to do nothing, and when they do come to the resolution to fight, the opposite determination to retreat forms itself underneath, as it were spontaneously. This was the natural tendency of Herbert as he had already shown in Bantry Bay, and it was strengthened by his wish to punish those political rivals in London who had refused to take his advice, and had turned him out of the Admiralty.