Chapter Fifty Three.
Worse than ever.
“This is bad, my lads,” said the skipper, joining the boys.
“What’s wrong, father?” said Poole. “Why, it’s close upon sundown, and it begins to look as if they are going to steal upon us in the dark, which will give them a lot of advantage. I would rather have been able to see what we are about. What an evening, though, for a fight! I have journeyed about the islands and Central America a good deal, and it is nearly all beautiful, but this river and its cliffs, seen in the warm glow, is just my idea of a perfect paradise. Look at the sky, with those gorgeous clouds! Look at the river, reflecting all their beauties! And the trees and shrubs, looking darker in the shades, and in the light as if they had suddenly burst forth into bloom with dazzling golden flowers. And here we are going to spoil everything with savage bloodshed.”
“We are not, Captain Reed,” said Fitz sharply; “you would not fire a shot if you were not obliged.”
“Not even a blank cartridge, my boy,” said the skipper, laying his hand upon the middy’s shoulder. “I loathe it, and I feel all of a shiver at the thought of my brave lads being drilled with bullets or hacked with knives. If it comes to it—and I am afraid it will—”
“I say, father, don’t talk of trembling and being afraid!” said Poole reproachfully.
“Why not, my boy?”