“A prime morning, shipmate,” said Bramble; then casting his eye over the deck, “A letter of marque, I presume?”
“Yes,” replied the mate, “we have the papers, but still she has never run without convoy since I have been in her; we lost our convoy three days back, and the captain has been rather uneasy ever since.”
“Uneasy! why, I should think that you could beat off a good stout privateer with these guns of yours?”
“Well, I don’t know but what we might, but our cargo is valuable, and we might be overpowered.”
“Very true, and the captain must be anxious. Where are you from?”
“Smyrna.”
“What’s your cargo?”
“Why, we have raw silk and drysalters’ goods chiefly. D’ye think we shall have a fair wind? I don’t care how soon, for we’ve at least twenty passengers on board, and our provisions and water are running rather short. Here’s the skipper.”
The captain, who now made his appearance, was a tall good-looking young man about thirty, dressed rather fantastically, as I thought, having a laced cap on his head and a parti-coloured silk sash round his waist, such as they wear in the Mediterranean.
“Well, pilot, what do you think of the wind?”