The boat was already surging through the water faster than it had ever gone before, but the men bent lower and the longer, and the blades of the oars made the water flash and foam as they dipped and rose with the greatest of regularity.
For the lieutenant’s anxiety about the young officer of the White Hawk was growing more and more contagious, and the men gave a cheer as they span the boat along, every smart sailor on board thinking about the frank, straightforward lad who had so bravely gone on the risky expedition.
“Look ye here, Jemmy,” said one of the men to his nearest mate, “talk about ’tacking the enemy, if wrong’s happened to our young gentleman, all I can say is, as I hopes it’s orders to land every night to burn willages and sack everything we can.”
“And so says all of us,” came in a chorus from the rest of the crew.
“Steady! My lads, steady!” cried the master—“keep stroke;” and then he began to make plans as to his first proceedings on getting ashore.
He wasn’t long in making these plans, and when the cove was reached, the two fishing luggers and another boat or two lying there were carefully overhauled, Gurr gazing at the men on board like a fierce dog, and literally worrying the different fishermen as cleverly as a cross-examining counsel would a witness ashore.
Chapter Sixteen.
Always the same answer.