“I believe you are right, Mr Oxbelly, so if you please we will up with the anchor at once.”
The crew of the Rebiera had been well chosen; they were prime men-of-war’s men, most of whom had deserted from the various ships on the station, and, of course, were most anxious to be off. In a few minutes the Rebiera was under way with all sail set below and aloft. She was in excellent trim, and flew through the water; the wind was fair, and by night they had passed Portland Lights, and the next morning were steering a course for the Bay of Biscay without having encountered what they feared more than an enemy—a British cruiser to overhaul them.
“I think we shall do now, sir,” observed Mr Oxbelly to our hero; “we have made a famous run. It’s twelve o’clock, and if you please I’ll work the latitude and let you know what it is. We must shape our course so as not to run in with the Brest squadron. A little more westing, sir. I’ll be up in one minute. My wife—but I’ll tell you about that when I come up.
“Latitude 41 degrees 12 minutes, sir. I was about to say that my wife, when she was on board of the privateer that I commanded—”
“Board of the privateer, Mr Oxbelly?”
“Yes, sir, would go; told her it was impossible, but she wouldn’t listen to reason—came on board, flopped herself into the standing bed-place, and said that there she was for the cruise—little Billy with her—”
“What! your child, too?”
“Yes, two years old—fine boy—always laughed when the guns were fired, while his mother stood on the ladder and held him on the top of the booby-hatch.”
“I wonder that Mrs Oxbelly let you come here now?”
“So you would, sir, but I’ll explain that—she thinks I’m in London about my half-pay. She knows all by this time, and frets, I don’t doubt; but that will make her thin, and then there will be more room in the bed. Mrs Oxbelly is a very stout woman.”