“She’s a Froggie, right enough.” A man with a lined face sat at the lookout with the telescope fully extended and focussed out to sea. “I know that by her lines.”
“A Frenchie? What the devil does she want here, Hargreaves?” Captain Blackwell asked.
Down in the taproom, Smith listened to their conversation as he scanned the newspaper and puffed smoke from his pipe.
“It’s a raiding party, sure as death,” Hargreaves said. “There’s a second ship to the west.”
“Well, rot me,” Blackwell said. “Where’s the Navy we pay so much in taxes for? How did the French get past the blockade and evade the frigates?” He shook his head. “No matter. Call out the men, Hargreaves.”
“Are we going to fight them?”
“You’re damned right we are,” Blackwell said. “I want every able-bodied man gathered on the green
