Neither Fitz nor Poole had felt any desire to pose as the heroes of the little night attack, which had resulted in the disabling of the armoured man-of-war, but it was with a strange feeling of exultation that they climbed on board in the full sunshine, eager as they were to stand once more upon the decks, and see in the broad daylight what the vessel was like into which they had climbed in the darkness of the night.
Fitz’s first thought as he passed through the gangway was to make for the great gun that stood amidships upon its iron platform and revolving carriage, the huge muzzle elevated, and looking ready to hurl its great shells far and wide; but he had to wait and stand with the schooner’s men drawn up while the prisoners and volunteers who had joined the winning side filed down into the boats that swarmed around, till with one exception the crew had all left the deck, the exception being the firemen, who willy nilly were retained on board for service in connection with the engine under the new President.
All this took time, but at last Don Ramon’s dread had become his joy, and he showed his feeling of triumph as he paced the gunboat’s deck rubbing his hands, and every now and then giving vent to a satisfied “Hah!” as he stopped to converse with Burgess, or to say a kindly word to one or other of the prize crew, not least to the two boys.
“Hah!” cried the carpenter at last. “Now then, gentlemen, I think we must say going to begin. Here’s Mr Burgess as hungry as I am. You would like to come round with us, wouldn’t you, Mr Poole? Mr Burgess says we can get to work as soon as ever we like.”
“Of course we should,” said Poole. “Come on, Fitz;” for just then Don Ramon came up to the mate to make a flowery speech, telling him that he left him in perfect confidence to hold the prize while he went to see to the disposal of the rest of the prisoners who were left, so that no attempt might be made to regain the upper hand.
Poole turned to Fitz expecting to see him eager to follow the carpenter, but it was to find him standing with one foot upon the platform of the great gun, looking at the muzzle, as it sloped toward the sky, evidently deep in thought, and he did not stir until Poole laid a hand upon his arm with the query—
“What are you thinking about?”
“That night,” was the reply.
“So was I just now,” said Poole. “Look there, that’s where I lay with one of the Spaniards holding me down, and afraid to make a sound, or to struggle. It was horrid, and I couldn’t tell what sort of a position you were in. It was ticklish work and no mistake.”
“Yes,” said Fitz, thoughtfully, “horrible for you, but I believe it was worse for me, because something seemed to be tagging at me all the time and telling me that I had no business there.”