They could feel it, a gun-thunder which had quailed the winds and waters, rumbling upwards from the sea itself, as if some drowned volcano had cleared its throat numberless fathoms below; and their ship shook to that thunder, vibrated and trembled, humming in enforced harmony.

A game lass was their little ship, a plunger and a "goer" most of the time. But she was now worn just about out from too much daring and panache, too many hasty but vital errands and patrols, and nothing like a proper refit despite rare port-calls at Gibraltar, Lisbon, or at Oporto. Coming apart at the seams, she was; those seams weeping weary salt tears which had her hands at the bilge pumps every morning before breakfast; her oaken flesh and bones baked sere and dry as old toast-and not enough paint, tar, or oils left for even a "lick and a promise" either. Her bottom was foul, and she trailed a verdant jungle of vinelike weed and green slime from her quick-work-slowing her, so that she now lumbered like a dowager with the gout, instead of dancing upon the winds like the light-footed darling she once had been.

Yet her standing and running rigging, her towering masts, still stood in a lean Bristol fashion, her spars and yards were yet sound, and her sails-though much patched-still curved sweetly wind-full. Though her captain had considered frapping her roundabout with lighter kedge or stream-anchor cables, like a truss or corset, to remind her how to hold together for just a bit longer.

But slowed as she was, as frailing, her crew could load and fire three broadsides in less than two minutes, could still cajole her to "dance" at the peak of their expertise, gained in three years' continuous service together.

So she stood, near the end of the battle-line as it sailed on Sutherly, with the lead ships just starting to tack about Nor'west to double back on the two converging packs of foes they faced-a repeating frigate to pass messages or aid a ship which might be disabled.