And now, having in this chapter brought up my history to the commencement of the year 1805, I shall again enter into a more detailed narrative.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

     More Cry than Wool—­Bramble would dig a Pit for another, and
     tumbles in along with him.

It was in the month of March, 1805, when the easterly winds prevailed, and vessels were detained in the Chops of the Channel, that I agreed with Bramble that we would return together and halve the pilotage.  About eight leagues from the Lizard Point we boarded a small ship which had hoisted the signal, the weather at that time being fine and the wind variable.  When we went on board it was but just daylight, and the captain was not yet on deck, but the mate received us.  We were surprised to find that she mounted twelve brass guns, remarkably well fitted, and that everything was apparently ready for action, rammers and sponges, shot and wadding being all up and at hand.

“A prime morning, shipmate,” said Bramble; then casting his eye over the deck, “A letter of marque, I presume?”

“Yes,” replied the mate, “we have the papers, but still she has never run without convoy since I have been in her; we lost our convoy three days back, and the captain has been rather uneasy ever since.”

“Uneasy! why, I should think that you could beat off a good stout privateer with these guns of yours?”

“Well, I don’t know but what we might, but our cargo is valuable, and we might be overpowered.”

“Very true, and the captain must be anxious.  Where are you from?”

“Smyrna.”

“What’s your cargo?”

“Why, we have raw silk and drysalters’ goods chiefly.  D’ye think we shall have a fair wind?  I don’t care how soon, for we’ve at least twenty passengers on board, and our provisions and water are running rather short.  Here’s the skipper.”

The captain, who now made his appearance, was a tall good-looking young man about thirty, dressed rather fantastically, as I thought, having a laced cap on his head and a party-colored silk sash round his waist, such as they wear in the Mediterranean.

“Well, pilot, what do you think of the wind?”

“Well, sir, I expect we’ll have a slant which will enable us to fetch well to windward of the Lizard, at all events, and then, when the tide turns inshore, we must stand out again.”

“Mr. Stubbs, turn the hands up to make sail.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the mate.

The men came on deck, but the captain roared out for the idlers; these were the passengers who had agreed to work during the passage:  at last they came up, a queer-looking set, and the captain sending down for his speaking-trumpet, sail was made on the ship.

“Why, captain,” said Bramble, “you do it in man-of-war fashion.”

“Well, I’ve not served the King for seven years for nothing,” replied he, “and I hope, sir, not heard the bullets whistling about my head like hail in a hailstorm without knowing how to take care of my ship.  I like everything man-of-war fashion, and then one’s always prepared.  Where’s the boatswain?  Pipe to breakfast.”