delicate, however, he did recover; but
it was some time before he was fit for duty.

Devoted to his profession, Natty Garland, in spite of his delicate
appearance, became a first-rate, bold, and intelligent seaman, liked by
his Captain, respected by his superior officers and his messmates, and
an especial favourite with the men.

Just before Sir George Rodney had entered Gros Islet Bay, the French
fleet, consisting of twenty-five sail of line-of-battle ships and eight
frigates, under Admiral Count de Guichen, had been haughtily parading
before the island, trying to draw out the then small and unprepared
squadron of Rear-Admiral Hyde Parker. The British officers and men
fumed and growled at the insult, longing for an opportunity of paying
off the vapouring Frenchmen. Never, therefore, were anchors weighed
with greater alacrity than when the signal was seen from Admiral
Rodney's ship for the fleet to make sail and stand out to sea. A course
was steered for Fort Royal Bay, in the Island of Martinique, where the
French fleet was then supposed to be. The English fleet consisted in
all only of twenty line-of-battle ships and two frigates, but their
inferiority in point of numbers in no way made the British seamen less
eager to encounter the enemy.

Now the former order of things was reversed; the smaller fleet was
blockading the larger, which was equally prepared for battle. It was a
beautiful sight to see the stout ships, with their white canvas set alow
and aloft, as they glided over the blue sea in front of the harbour
containing their vaunting enemy. In vain they tacked and wore, and
stood backwards and forwards, never losing sight of the harbour's mouth.
Every opportunity of fighting was offered, but the Frenchmen dared not
come out.

At length Admiral Rodney, disgusted with the pusillanimity of the enemy,
returned to his anchorage in Gros Islet Bay with most of the
line-of-battle ships, leaving only a squadron of the faster sailing
copper-bottomed ships and frigates to watch the enemy's motions, and to
give him notice should they attempt to escape. The seamen little
doubted that they would soon have a brush with the enemy. Among all,
none seemed to anticipate a battle with greater satisfaction than Will
Freeborn. His spirits rose higher by far than they had done since the
death of his wife; and that evening, when Sam Smatch struck up a
hornpipe on the forecastle, no one footed it more merrily than did he.