“More than a week, sir.”
“And we have to take that draft on board to fill the places of those sick and missing men?”
“Yes, sir, thirty of them.”
“Thirty-one: at fewest there were twenty-five in hospital and either five or six missing, when I wrote to their Lordships; but since then I find that William O’Brien is missing, and that he boasted to his watch that he always meant to desert when he got the opportunity.”
“He was not a Norfolk man, sir.”
“No, Berry; I would not lose him so lightly if he were a Norfolk man. There is the greatest difference between a forced man and a man who voluntarily offers his life to preserve his country. These Norfolk lads are all volunteers, come for the honour of the country, because their Admiral is a Burnham man.”
“A hundred and more of them.”
They were silent for a bit, but presently the Admiral began again.
“I am sorry that young Hardres could not get to us—him that Lord Eastry wrote to me to have Thomas Irwine’s place, ‘the finest and bravest boy Lord Eastry knew.’ He was the sort we want. I met Harry Fleet when he was captain of the Ramillies, and a finer captain never sailed, of the old bull-dog sort, who did not know as much as I like my captains to know, but who always laid their ships alongside of the enemy. They were wonderful men to fight, those three Fleets! And this young Hardres was the finest and bravest boy Harry Fleet ever knew. What’s that coming along from the west’ard, youngster? You take my glass: I can’t use it yet without feeling dizzy. I can’t quite shake off that miserable sea-sickness, while we are lying-to doing nothing.”
“Looks like a Portsmouth smack, sir,” I said, after peeping for a bit; “but she’s only carrying such a rag of sail that I cannot quite make her out.”