How the Crew of the “Black Petrel” were in sore Straits.
The supply of food, supplemented by the bottles of beer, which were equitably distributed so as to give all the men a tiny cup or two, had a wonderful effect upon their spirits, so that the rest of the afternoon was passed waiting patiently for the night, the sailors expressing themselves as willing to do whatever their leaders bade.
Billy Widgeon was the spokesman, Small occupying a sort of middle position between officers and men.
“We says, sir,” he began, addressing the major—“I mean they says as we—I mean they ain’t fighting men, never having ’llsted or gone in the ryle navy; but in a case like this they will—no, we will, for of course I ar’n’t going to stand back—have no objection to a bit of a set-to so as to lick the niggers. For if ever niggers wanted licking it’s niggers as’ll take advantage of a ship being in a calm, and part of her officers and crew away, and—and—here: what was I to say next, lads?”
Billy Widgeon had come to a stand-still, and had to appeal to his companions.
“That’s about all,” said one of the men. “I’d stow it now.”
“Right, mate; I will,” said Billy, who had recovered himself a little and was beginning to think of a great many more things he would like to say. “So we’re ready, sir, whether it’s fisties or pistols, and if Mr Gregory yonder and Mr Morgan—as we’re werry sorry he’s wounded—don’t give no orders another way, we’ll do as you wants us to, so what’s it to be? Theer, that’s all.”
“Thank you, my lads, thank you,” said the major quietly.
“Not much of a speech, were it?” said Billy to one of his forecastle mates.
“What, yourn?” said the man.