“Oh no, sir,” said the young lieutenant quietly. “I’m not very bad; a cut from a heavy sword through my cap. It has stopped bleeding. My hands are a little bruised.”
“But how was this?”
“As we advanced to board, they threw quite a volley of stink-pots fizzing away into us. I burned myself a little with them.”
“Chucking ’em overboard, sir,” cried the boatswain. “Splendid it was.”
“Nonsense!” cried Mr Brooke. “You threw ever so many. But it was hot work, sir.”
“Hot! it is horrible. How many prisoners have you there?”
“Eighteen, sir; the survivors escaped.”
“But you shouldn’t have fired the junks, man,” said the captain testily. “There may have been wounded on board.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr Brooke, with his brow puckering; “wounded and dead there were, I daresay, thirty; but the enemy set fire to their vessels themselves before they leaped overboard, and it was impossible to save them: they burned like resin. We saved all we could.”
“I beg your pardon; I might have known,” cried the captain warmly. “Come to my cabin. Mr Reardon, be careful with those prisoners; they are savage brutes.”