hroughout
which Howe continued to pursue. In the evening of May 31st the weather
cleared, and at daybreak the next morning the enemies were in position,
ready for battle, two long columns of ships, heading west, the British
twenty-five, the French again twenty-six through the junction of the
four vessels mentioned. Howe now had cause to regret his absent six, and
to ponder Nelson's wise saying, "Only numbers can annihilate."

The time for manoeuvring was past. Able tactician as he personally was,
and admirable as had been the direction of his efforts in the two days'
fighting, Howe had been forced in them to realize two things, namely,
that his captains were, singly, superior in seamanship, and their crews
in gunnery, to the French; and again, that in the ability to work
together as a fleet the British were so deficient as to promise very
imperfect results, if he attempted any but the simplest formation. To
such, therefore, he resorted; falling back upon the old, unskilful,
sledge-hammer fashion of the British navy. Arranging his ships in one
long line, three miles from the enemy, he made them all go down
together, each to attack a specified opponent, coming into action as
nearly as might be at the same instant. Thus the French, from the
individual inferiority of the units of their fleet, would be at all
points overpowered. The issue justified the forecast; but the manner of
performance was curiously and happily marked by Howe's own peculiar
phlegm. There was a long summer day ahead for fighting, and no need for
hurry. The order was first accurately formed, and canvas reduced to
proper proportions. Then the crews went to breakfast. After breakfast,
the ships all headed for the hostile line, under short sail, the admiral
keeping them in hand during the approach, as an infantry officer dresses
his company. Hence the shock from end to end was so nearly simultaneous
as to induce success unequalled in any engagement conducted on the same
primitive plan.

Picturesque as well as sublime, animating as well as solemn, on that
bright Sunday morning, was this prelude to the stern game of war about
to be played: the quiet summer sea stirred only by a breeze sufficient
to cap with white the little waves that ruffled its surface; the dark
hulls gently rippling the water aside in their slow advance, a ridge of
foam curling on either side of the furrow ploughed by them in their
onward way; their massive sides broken by two, or at time