There was a momentary silence, during which, as the men stood ready to man the two boats that had been lowered, the lieutenant and his junior tried to make out where the schooner lay, but on every side, as the Kestrel lay softly rolling in the trough of the sea, a thick bank of darkness seemed to be closing them in, and pursuit of the schooner by boats would have been as mad a venture as could have been set upon by the officer of a ship.
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Repairing Damages.
During the excitement, the bustle of the attack, the lieutenant had seemed more himself, and he had given his orders in a concise and businesslike way; but now that they were left to themselves all seemed changed, and he reverted to his former childish temper, turning angrily upon Hilary as the cause of all his misfortunes.
“Never in the whole career of the English navy,” he cried, stamping his bare foot upon the deck, “was officer plagued with a more helpless, blundering junior than I am. Bless my heart! it is very cold, and I’ve no coat on. Mr Leigh, fetch my coat and waistcoat.”
“Yes,” he continued, as he put on the two garments, “as I said before, never was officer plagued with a more helpless, blundering, mischievous junior.”
“Very sorry, sir. I do my best,” said Hilary bluntly.
“Exactly, sir. You do your best,” said the lieutenant; “and your best is to lay the Kestrel—His Majesty’s ship Kestrel—right in the track of that French schooner, and but for my fortunate arrival upon deck we should have been sunk.”