Morning on board the _Kestrel_, his Britannic majesty's cutter, lying on and off the south coast on the lookout for larks, or what were to her the dainty little birds that the little falcon, her namesake, would pick up. For the _Kestrel's_ wings were widespread to the soft south-easterly breeze that barely rippled the water; and mainsail, gaff topsail, staysail, and jib were so new and white that they seemed to shine like silver in the sun. The larks the hover-winged _Kestrel_ was on the watch to pick up were smuggling boats of any sort or size, or Jacobite messages, or exiles, or fugitives--anything, in fact, that was not in accordance with the laws of his most gracious majesty King George…
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