“I suppose so,” said the lad, with a sigh, possibly due to the pain he still felt from the late fight with the flames.
“Look at that,” whispered Roberts excitedly. “Why, the skipper seems to think as you do.”
For orders were given, the capstan manned, and the sloop glided towards the anchor by which they now swung, the sails began to fill and help the men in their task, and soon after the anchor stock appeared above the water.
It was quite time, for the canoes were nearing fast, and to the two midshipmen it appeared as if the enemy would be alongside and swarming aboard before their vessel had time to gather way.
“Why don’t we fire, Frank?” said Roberts excitedly.
“Because we’re not in command,” replied Murray coolly, as he tried to measure mentally the length of time it would take for the leading canoe to reach them, rapidly advancing as it was in obedience to the lusty strokes given by some thirty paddles which made the water foam on either side of the frail craft packed with men.
“But it’s absurd. The skipper ought to have given the order long ago.”
“And filled the surface with dead and dying men floating and struggling amongst the shattered pieces of the canoe?”
“Yes: why not? It’s war, sir—war.”
“But war when it is a necessity ought to be carried on in as humane a fashion as is possible.”