The crew of the Lawrence gave little heed to sleeping, on this night; there were a few who turned into their hammocks, but Alec and I were not among the number. It would have been impossible for me to close my eyes while death seemed so near, and he, dear lad, could not rest because of the anxiety in his heart.
We two left the group of sailors who listened eagerly to the wondrous tales with which old Silas was regaling them, and walked well aft where we might see the commodore when he came on deck, for the officers of the brig had gone below immediately after the new banner was displayed.
“If Oliver lives through the morrow, he will have won for himself a name such as few can boast of,” Alec said proudly.
It seemed as if the lad lost sight of himself in the great love he bore this brother who was our commander, and, realizing that a trifling accident might change the fortunes of war, I said, with the idea of lessening his disappointment in case it chanced that the British won the victory:—
“We are the weaker in both guns and men, Alec, and old Silas argues idly when he claims that our people can fight better than the enemy.”
“Commodore Barclay is not as good an officer as Oliver.”
“He has surely had more experience,” I ventured to suggest.
“That does not count against such a man as my brother.”
“I am ready to admit all you claim for our commodore, and make even stronger statements; but yet it is not well to be so positive regarding the result, Alec dear. No man can say what a day may bring forth, and our crews are to be pitted against experienced men-of-war’s-men.”
“Oliver will be the victor!” the lad said emphatically, and in such a tone as told me that any attempt to make him less confident might cause hard feelings between us.