“And I understand that you are a good seaman and navigator,” resumed the admiral. “I suppose you have no fear of failing when you go up for your examination?” I modestly replied that I had not, provided that I was treated fairly, and had not a lot of catch-questions put to me.
“Just so,” responded the admiral musingly. “Your navigation, I have no doubt, is all right,” he continued, “and of course you can work a ship when she is all ataunto. But suppose you belonged, let us say, to a frigate, and at the end of an engagement you found yourself in command, and your ship unrigged, what is the first thing you would do?”
I considered for a moment, and then proceeded to describe the steps I should take under such circumstances, the admiral listening all the time intently, but uttering no word and giving no sign of any kind to indicate whether my reply was satisfactory or not, until I had finished, when he said—
“Very good, Mr Courtenay, very good indeed—on the whole. Have you ever helped to fit out a ship?”
“Yes, sir,” answered I, “I was aboard the poor old Althea during the whole time that she was in the hands of the riggers.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “and you heartily wished yourself anywhere else than there, I’ll be bound. But it has done you good, young gentleman; you have profited by your experience, I can see, and will perhaps some day be deeply thankful for the knowledge you then gained. Now, supposing that you found yourself on a lee shore, in a heavy gale of wind, with all your masts gone, what steps would you take for the preservation of the ship and the lives of your crew?”
Again I replied at length, stating that I should anchor the moment that the ship drifted into a suitable depth of water, letting go both bowers, backing them up with the sheet anchors, and shackling the remainder of the bower cables on to those of the sheet anchors, which latter I should then veer away upon to within a few fathoms of the clinch.
“And suppose that, having done this, your ship dragged, or parted her cables, what then?” persisted the admiral.
“Then, sir,” said I, “we could only trust in God’s mercy, while standing by to take care of ourselves and each other as soon as the ship should strike.”
“Good!” exclaimed the admiral; “a very excellent and proper answer, Mr Courtenay. Now,” he continued, “I have been asking you these questions with a purpose. I wanted to ascertain for myself whether I should be justified in sending you away in command of that little schooner that you took so cleverly, and I think I shall. I believe you will do exactly for the work I have in my mind for you. Sickness and casualties together have played havoc among the officers on this station of late, to such an extent that I have not nearly as many as I want; consequently I am only too glad to meet with young gentlemen like yourself, who have made good use of their opportunities. These waters are swarming with the enemy’s privateers,—with a sprinkling of pirates thrown in, it would appear, from what the skipper of the unfortunate Wyvern says,—and they must be put down—sunk, burned, destroyed by any means that can best be compassed, or, better still, captured. I therefore propose to fit out that little schooner of yours, and to place you in command of her, for the especial purpose of suppressing these pests, and incidentally capturing as many of the enemy’s merchantmen as you can fall in with. Now, how d’ye think you’ll like the job?”