My pipe was out; the quarter-deck bulwarks hid the sea, and so I mounted the poop ladder to take a look round before turning in. Away to port, or _larboard_, as we then called it, was a full-rigged ship rolling up Channel under all plain sail, with such a smother of white yeast clouding her bows, and racing aft into the long line of her wake, which went glaring over the dark throbbing waters, that it made one think of the base of a waterspout writhing upwards to meet the descending tube of vapour. She was the first object that took my eye, and I hurriedly crossed the deck to view her. Mr. Prance, the chief mate, stood at the rail watching her. ‘A noble sight!’ said I. ‘Yes, sir, an English frigate. A fifty-one gun vessel, apparently. Upon my word, nothing statelier ever swam, or ever again will swim, than ships of that kind. Look at the line of her batteries--black and white like the keys of a pianoforte! What squareness of yard, sir! Her main-royal should be as big as our topgallant-sail.’ He sent a look aloft at the reeling, fabric over our heads, with a thoughtful drag, at a short growth of beard that curled upwards from his chin like the fore-thatch of a sou’-wester. The noble ship went floating out into the darkness astern, and her pale heights died upon the gloom like a burst of steam dissolving in the wind. ‘What is that out yonder upon the starboard bow there, Mr. Prance?’ said I. He peered awhile, and said: ‘Some craft reaching like ourselves--standing as we head--a lumpish thing, anyhow. What a blot she makes, seeing that she has no height of spar!’ ‘We are overhauling her,’ said I. ‘Ay,’ he answered, keeping his eyes fixed upon her. ‘Doesn’t she seem a bit uncertain, though?’ he muttered, as if thinking aloud. I had wonderfully good sight in those days, and after straining my eyes awhile against the heap of scarce determinable shadow which the craft made, I exclaimed: ‘She’ll be a French lugger, or I’m greatly mistaken.’ ‘I believe you are right, sir,’ answered the mate. He drew a little away from me, as a hint, perhaps, that he desired to address his attention to the vessel on the bow, and suddenly putting his hand to his mouth, he hailed the forecastle in a sharp clear note. An answer was returned swift as the tone of a bell to the blow of its tongue. ‘Show a light forward! Smartly now! That chap ahead seems asleep.’