The officers found, so the marine gossips reported, that there was no longer any great show of friendliness among the people regarding us, and, in fact, it was openly said that the Chilians would be well pleased if we were beaten in the battle which seemed so near at hand. "The British government has been threatenin', I reckon," Master Hackett said with an air of great wisdom, "an' the governor himself is countin' on our gettin' the worst of the fight; but there's where he's makin' a mistake, unless it so chances that too many Englishmen come up at the same time." "We shall have the _Essex Junior_ to help us," I said like a simple, whereupon the old man replied scornfully:-- "What would she amount to in a fight? In an action with a frigate she wouldn't be any force to speak of. A craft carryin' ten 18-pound carronades and ten short sixes, with a crew of only sixty men, would likely be in the way rather than lend any help. No, lad, the _Junior_ ain't to be thought of; an' when we go to quarters, you'll find that she'll get orders to keep at a proper distance, if only for the sake of showin' that we don't put two craft against one. The _Phoebe_ will get fair play, an' no mistake." There was never a thought in Master Hackett's mind that the commander of the _Phoebe_ might not count on giving us fair play; but the fact was soon made known to us. "How many men can we muster?" Phil asked. "What with prize crews, an' them as have been drafted to the _Junior_, I'm told that there are only two hundred an' twenty-five aboard this 'ere ship, countin' officers, cooks, boys, and sich-like useless raffle." "How many would likely be on board the _Phoebe_?" "A full hundred more than we've got, an' when it comes to boardin', or close quarters where muskets can be used, that extra hundred will count against us terrible." "Are you growing faint-hearted, Master Hackett?" Phil asked with a laugh; at which question the old man turned upon him savagely. "An old shellback like me grow faint-hearted? You're talkin' at random, lad! My time is bound to come before many years have passed, an' I only hope to lose the number of my mess while standin' by the guns in a fair fight. A sailorman ain't built to die in his bed, nor does it beseem him to be buried on shore. What he needs to put him out of this world comfortably is the roaring of a broadside, the cheers of his messmates, an' a shot tied to his feet when he's dropped over the rail after havin' done his duty. So that we win the battle, it don't make much difference when I go into the next life; but if you should speak of bein' took prisoner, an' kept cooped up in a cage like that day in an' day out, there's where I might show the white feather, an' small blame to me."