“No, sir,” replied the middy, giving his fellow a quick glance full of mirth. “Row-boat, sir, pulled by a dozen black fellows—six oars a side. Man holding the ropes in white. Looks to me like—”
“The scoundrel Huggins coming out to surrender?”
“No, sir,” said the lad eagerly. “I can’t quite make out at this distance, but I think it’s like the thin delicate-looking Mr Allen whom Huggins was so insolent to.”
“What!” cried the captain.
“Yes, sir,” said the chief officer, who had had his glass to his eye; “Mr Murray is quite right. This is the head man—proprietor, I suppose—of the plantation.”
“Come to surrender,” said the captain, rubbing his hands, and then taking the glass his chief officer offered to him. “A nice scoundrel!” muttered the captain, as he scanned the boat. “Everything in style, eh, and a black slave to hold a white umbrella over his head for fear the sun should burn his cheeks. Well, things are going to alter a good deal for him. The cowardly dog! This is showing the white feather, and no mistake. Well, Mr Anderson, I did not expect this.”
The captain tucked the telescope under his arm and drawing himself up, marched off, while preparations were made for the coming boat’s reception. The men were at their stations, and a couple of marines took their places at the gangway, while the young officers eagerly scanned the chief occupant of the boat, the doctor, who had just come on deck after seeing to the slight injuries of the first cutter’s men, joining the midshipmen.
“Thank you, Murray,” he said, handing back the glass the lad had offered him. “So this is the diabolical ruffian whose men fired upon his Majesty’s able seamen and officers, is it? Well, he doesn’t look very terrible. I think I could tackle him with a little quinine.”
“Yes, doctor; he looked to me like a thorough invalid,” whispered Murray.
“He is an invalid, my lad. Had fever badly. The fellow’s come for advice.”