"Are you growing faint-hearted, Master Hackett?" Phil asked with a laugh; at which question the old man turned upon him savagely.
"An old shellback like me grow faint-hearted? You're talkin' at random, lad! My time is bound to come before many years have passed, an' I only hope to lose the number of my mess while standin' by the guns in a fair fight. A sailorman ain't built to die in his bed, nor does it beseem him to be buried on shore. What he needs to put him out of this world comfortably is the roaring of a broadside, the cheers of his messmates, an' a shot tied to his feet when he's dropped over the rail after havin' done his duty. So that we win the battle, it don't make much difference when I go into the next life; but if you should speak of bein' took prisoner, an' kept cooped up in a cage like that day in an' day out, there's where I might show the white feather, an' small blame to me."
The conversation was taking on altogether too gloomy a turn, more especially since we knew beyond a peradventure that before many days the frigate would be in action, and I put an end to it by proposing that one or the other of us go on deck for a whiff of fresh air.
Phil took advantage of the opportunity; Master Hackett followed him up the ladder, and I was left with only my gloomy thoughts for company, unless one counts the prisoner, as perhaps would be correct, since on this occasion he took it upon himself to be unusually friendly.
"I'm not counting on saying what your chances will be when the Essex meets the Phœbe" he began. "Your people may get the best of her—"
"As we surely will!" I replied angrily, for I did not like the tone of doubt which accompanied the words.
"Very well, say that you whip her handsomely. Do you think it can be done without sacrificing some of your men?"
"Of course we must expect that more than one poor fellow will lose the number of his mess."
"The Phœbe isn't the only ship that's likely been sent out against you; and even though you whip the first two or three you come across, the time must arrive when you'll be too short-handed to work the frigate. In other words, no matter how successful your ship may be, you're bound to come to grief finally."
It was some such thought as this which was in my own mind, and it angered me that the Britisher should put it into words, for I did not relish being reminded of what appeared to be a fact.