“Oh, they performed their old manoeuvre,” said the lieutenant, bitterly; “as soon as we set off from the Nautilus to board, they took to the boat they had ready trailing alongside, and made for the shore, where I hope the niggers’ll catch ’em and turn ’em into slaves. Hah, here comes Mr Whitney! Poor Russell! has he been long like this?”
“Yes, sir; all the time since the Yankees came off in their boat and surprised us.”
“Then you—you—Why, Mr Vandean, you don’t mean to say you’ve been in command all the time?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mark, modestly. “Fillot has been my first lieutenant.”
“Humph! the forecastle joker, eh?” said Mr Staples, grimly.
“No, sir, there has been no joking,” said Mark. “It has been too serious for that.”
“So I should suppose, my lad. Hah, Whitney, here’s work for you. Poor Russell again. Been insensible for days.”
“And this lad—burned?” said the doctor, sharply. “Why, Mr Vandean! why, my dear boy, what a state you’re in! Get him under an awning at once. I’ll dress your face soon.”
Mark was quite ready to walk, but he was carried and laid down under the shelter of a sail, and in a few minutes Mr Russell was laid beside him, and the doctor went down on one knee to make a careful examination.
“Very bad?” Mark heard the first lieutenant whisper.