“I’ll answer for knowing where we are, sir, if that is your reason, at all events, I wish to stand out till six o’clock.”
“Well, do so, then, if you choose—I’m sure I don’t care if you stand to within gun-shot of the French coast;” and the captain, evidently very much annoyed, went down into the cabin.
About half-past four o’clock the mate came aft and took up the glass, saying that there was an awkward-looking craft on the weather bow. He came aft again, and said, “Pilot, I wish you would take a squint at that craft, for I don’t much like the look of her.”
Bramble went forward, and I followed him. “I say, Tom, that’s a French privateer, as sure as we stand here,” said he, “Look at her. Well, now we shall see what these guns are made of.”
“Don’t put too much trust in them,” said the mate. “I know what sort of people we have here. Had we only ten good men I wouldn’t care for a privateer, but I’m afraid that we have not many we can trust to. However, we’ll do our best, and we can do no more. I’ll go down and tell the captain.”
“It is a Frenchman,” replied I, “and no mistake—every rope and every sail on her are French;” for the vessel, which was a lugger, was not more than four miles from us.
“Well,” replied Bramble, “it would be odd if we were to be taken into a French port after all, wouldn’t it? not very pleasant, though.”
“We’ve men enough to beat her off, or two of her, if that’s all,” replied I.
“Yes, Tom, but I doubt the captain, and without example men don’t fight well. However, we’ll do our best, and if he flinches we won’t.”
The captain now came forward as red as a turkey-cock; he said nothing, looked at the vessel, and then turned as white as a sheet.