Bonjour matelot

HMS Biggerknob rose and fell to the easy swell of a calm September afternoon, as Captain Hughgerratio Hornblower of his Britannic Majesty's Navy, sat on the poop deck, enjoying a good...

"SAIL, FINE ON THE STARBOARD BOW!" interrupted a voice from aloft.

"Oh... just when I was having a good..."

"DECK THERE..." came that voice again, "LOOKS LIKE A FRENCHY TO ME!"

"Bugger!" Exclaimed Hornblower. "That's certain to mean a fight... not to mention postponing my sh..."

"CAPTAIN, SIR, THEY'RE TURNING TOWARDS US, AND THEY'VE HOISTED COLOURS... LADIES' UNDERWEAR IN RED, WHITE AND BLUE!"

“That settles it, then. A fight it is… BEAT TO QUARTERS AND HOIST OUR COLOURS!”

“Aye aye sir,” came a chorus of replies… sung in the key of E-flat major.

“Er.. beg pardon sir..” said a midshipman, hesitantly, a young lad of 17, with curly blond hair, lapis lazuli eyes, and a fetching smile...

“Sir?” said the young man, quizzically, wondering why his captain was staring into his lapis lazuli eyes.

“Oh… er… yes, lad… what is it?”

“Which colours would you prefer, today, sir?”

“Blue, I think… meat and two veg… make that red meat on a blue background. No… white background… it’ll stand out more.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

“And make sure you hoist it the right way up this time… rampant!”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The two ships sailed towards each other, a converging course set to lock the teeth of nearly 1,000 men into a bloody battle that might see half of them dead.

"RUN OUT THE GUNS"

"Er... yes... sir... er... that might be a bit tricky..."

"A bit... tricky? What do you mean... tricky?"

"Well... it's just that... the guns are not quite... here..."

"What?"

"Well... you know you ordered the guns to be offloaded and spruced up at Portsmouth?"

"Yes... what of it..."

"It's just that we... that is the master gunner... forgot to pick them up again when we left Pompey"

"You mean to say that our guns are, at this very minute, sitting shoreside in Portsmouth Harbour?"

"Well, er... yessir.."

"What the f..."

TWANG!

"What was that twanging noise?"

"Sound of the mainbrace parting, sir."

"Well?"

"Would you like us to splice it, sir?"

"Yes... of course... splice the mainbrace!"

"Hoorah! Splice the mainbrace..." came a thousand voices... (for, as every reader of English naval adventures knows, 'splice the mainbrace' means issue the rum ration). Some of the thousand voices sounded suspiciously French. Hornblower wondered how close the French ship was, until he looked up and saw that it was pretty damn close.

He had to think fast. The French ship probably had many guns on board. Even though French gunners were not as good shots as their English counterparts, they might still do enough damage to win the battle. Particularly since the superior British gunnery was unlikely to sway matters when they... when they didn't have any guns.

"MASTHEAD THERE! WHAT SHIP IS THAT COMING TOWARDS AS AT A FRIGHTENING PACE?"

"FRENCH SHIP 'MANGE TOUT', SIR... 39 GUNS,"

"Thank you, Seaman Masthead. Are you sure it has 39 guns? And why are you shouting when you are standing right next to me?"

"Oh, sorry sir, force of habit. And yes, I am sure there are 39 guns, I counted 'em misself."

"What about the other side of the ship, the side you can't see?"

"Ah, yes sir, in that case... 78 guns."

On receipt of this intelligence, Hornblower immediately grabbed the megaphone from its becket and hailed the Mange Tout:

"MONSIEUR LE CAPITAINE! JE M'APPELLE HORNBLOWER, CAPTAIN OF HMS BIGGERNOB."

"AH, ZEE FAMERSE ORENBLOWAIRE DE LA BIGGERNOB. IT WILL BE AN ONAIRE TO BLOW YEU... THAT IS TO BLOW YEU AND YEUR BIGGERNOB TO BEETS!"

"Monsieur," replied Hornblower, no longer shouting, as the French ship was really, really close now. "Let us not be hasty. Perhaps a little lunch before we fight?"

"Come over 'ere to mon ship, then, Monsieur, and breeng some of your English rum. English food is not fit to eat."

"But we are almost out of rum. Two ankers is all we have left."

"That surpreeses moi, Monsieur, as I thought that all Engleesh sailors are wankers. Mais, un bottelle of rum weel do."

"Very well, Monsieur, I will come along with a bottle and toast your droits de l'homme with it."

"Bon, et bienvenu."

As Hornblower sat, expectantly, in the French ship, the captain summoned the chef de cuisine to serve the best snails and frogs legs on board, with lashings of garlic butter. Unfortunately, the food was less than agreeable.

"Mon dieu! Monsieur le chef, nous n'en voulons pas any of that," said the snails. The leader slithered up to the chef, grabbing a belaying pin and brandishing it at the startled cook who, a trifle taken aback, ran off. The frogs legs simply hopped it.

"Monsieur le capitaine," he exclaimed, breathlessly. "Les escargots refusent d'être mangés et les frogs legs 'ave 'opped it."

Addressing Hornblower, the French captain explained, "I am afraid, Captain, that the lunch of snails in garlic butter with frog-leg garnish is now off the menu. The snails are revolting."

"I have always thought that eating snails is revolting, Monsieur."

As he said this, the snails appeared on deck, cutlasses in hand, driving both captains back, while threatening the French sailors with serious violence.

"Allez vite mes garçons, au bateua. Vite, vite!" said the captain.

It did not take long for the French sailors to take to the boats, the snails looking menacing as they slithered up behind. Hornblower did not hang around to find out what might happen if any of the molluscs caught up with them.

Back on board the HMS Biggernob, English and French sailors, alike, counted their blessings as the snails sailed off into the sunset.

The Biggernob, too, had need to set sail.

"SET A COURSE FOR ENGLAND," ordered Captain Hornblower. "And let's have some decent roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for dinner."

"Vive le rosbif!"