The two prisoners, protesting loudly and mocked at by their companions, were again sent below, their irons still on their wrists.
Conyngham and the lieutenant stood side by side on the quarter-deck. The Britisher was a very young man, and perhaps inexperienced. At all events, he seemed uncertain now what course of action to take. Conyngham’s next words, however, seemed to reassure him, for they evidently spoke his wishes.
“We’ll run close to the frigate, Mr. Holden, and you can tell your captain what you’ve done,” said Conyngham quietly. “I’ll be glad to look into Portsmouth myself, for I have some friends there, and a cargo of sand won’t spoil for a few days’ longer voyage.”
In a few minutes the fog-blurred form of the frigate could be made out now on the port hand. She was hove to, her foresail rippling and fluttering in the freshening breeze, her mainsail against the mast, and her crew standing by the tacks and sheets.
“Pray the Lord that the fog holds four hours longer,” muttered Captain Conyngham to himself.
Mr. Holden hailed the frigate through the trumpet.
“On board the Minerva,” he shouted. “We’re going into Portsmouth, sir.”
“Very good,” was the reply, “wait there for us.”
“And now, Mr. Holden,” spoke Conyngham quietly, “will you take command of the brig, or shall I continue?”
The lieutenant hesitated. Before he could answer Captain Conyngham continued: