“I don’t think he much does; and this fellow has shown plenty of it,” said the Joe Miller, softly; and the men about him laughed heartily.
“I think, sir,” observed I, “that it is an injustice to this fine ship’s company, to hint at their requiring Dutch courage.” (Dutch courage is a term for courage screwed up by drinking freely.) “And I most respectfully beg leave to observe, that the men have not had their afternoon’s allowance; and, after the fatigues they have undergone, really require it.”
“I command this ship, sir,” replied he.
“Certainly, sir, I am aware of it,” rejoined I. “She is now all ready for action again, and I wait your orders. The enemy is two miles on the lee quarter.”
The surgeon here came up with his report.
“Good heavens!” said the captain, “forty-seven men killed and wounded; Mr Webster dangerously. Why, the brig is crippled. We can do no more—positively, we can do no more.”
“We can take that brig, anyhow,” cried one of the seamen, from a dozen of the men who were to leeward, expecting orders to renew the attack.
“What man was that?” cried the captain.
No one answered.
“By God! this ship is in a state of mutiny, Mr Simple.”