“All hands upon deck there!” shouted Harry; “boatswain, pipe up all hands; and do you, Clark, go up aloft and see what you can make of her.” “She is a large vessel,” exclaimed Clark, looking through his spy-glass, “with French colours and ship rig. There, I see her side—all black, and white ports; there is one, two, three—I cannot count them, they are so thick.” “Ay, let her come,” cried Harry—“I warrant her she gets as good as she brings. Up with the British ensign, my lads, and let the Frenchman see what we are.” “And I’ll take good care that it shall not come down in a hurry, with your honour’s leave,” exclaimed the old quartermaster. So saying, he mounted the rigging, and nailed the ensign to the mast. “Now, Mr Frenchman, when that comes down, we’ll strike, but not till then.” All hands were now on deck, and straining their eyes with looking at the strange sail. “Get the ship clear for action,” roared out Harry; “run out the guns there; pull down the studding-sails. Port!” to the man at the helm. “So.” The deck of the brig at this moment presented a most interesting sight—all hands as busy as possible making arrangements for the engagement. Powder-boxes, sponges, and buckets were strewed along the deck—while some were loading the guns, others securing the boats along the booms, and all in high glee at the thoughts of having a peppering match at the Frenchman. The brig was soon cleared, with the guns loaded and double-shotted on both sides, and every man at his post stripped to his shirt. There is perhaps no scene more awfully solemn than that which is presented by a ship going into action. The utmost stillness everywhere prevails, only occasionally broken by the commands of the officers, delivered in a suppressed tone, or the whispers of the sailors delivering to each other little commissions to their wives or relations, if any of them should fall in battle. ’Tis then that the sailor’s heart beats high with hope and expectation, mingled with that undefined emotion of anxiety and dread which the approach of danger always excites. But let the action once begin, and let him hear the guns thundering over his head ’tis then that the sailor forgets his hopes and his fears in his ardour for the conflict. But to return. The breeze had now freshened; and the Frenchman, scudding before it under a press of sail, was now almost within gunshot. “Hang your impudence, you French lubber!” mumbled the old quartermaster to himself, as he paced up and down the deck with a quick unsteady pace—“do you think to run our little vessel under water? But, big as you are, Mr Monsieur, if the little _Hawk_ does not make you sheer off as if you had run foul of a lee-shore, my name is not Jack Scroggins.” The Frenchman seemed inclined to confirm the opinion of the old tar; for on he came, without altering his course, till, on coming within hail of the brig, he bawled out— “Pull down your colours and bring to, or else I’ll sink you.”