“Captain Deering, I believe,” said the commander of the letter of marque.
“Yes, sir,” said the old sailor, who stood in the waist, overlooking some repairs to the topsails, which had been badly torn by a discharge of small shot from one of the British vessels.
“I am Captain Murray, of the Revenge,” said the visitor. “The fleet which you see in the harbor is about to sail to-morrow; I have come to you to know how conditions are outside.”
“There seems to be plenty of the enemy’s craft,” grinned Captain Deering, “and they are mighty liberal with their shot, for witness of which look at my topsails,” and he waved his horny hand toward the rent canvas which some of the sailors were stitching and patching as they sat with their backs to the bulwarks.
“I’ve been asking for delay,” said Captain Murray; “but the merchants want their cargoes afloat, and will listen to nothing else but immediate sailing orders, they having heard that the enemy had sailed.”
“I know what they are,” said the skipper of the Defence. “These land-lubbers are never satisfied. If their old tubs are held back they rave and tear; and if they are taken out in the face of the enemy and are captured or sunk they go on worse than before. Tar my old hull, captain, there’s no way of pleasing such swabs.”
“I see you’ve been in some such position as mine yourself,” said Captain Murray.
“I have,” returned Captain Deering. “I convoyed a fleet out of Charleston before the British took the town. They gave me no peace till I got their old hookers out; and then when the enemy bore down on us, six sail strong and mounting as many guns as I had men, they scuttled here and there like a lot of ducks in a rain-storm. Result was that about half of ’em was seized; and of course when I ran back with the others the entire blame was put upon me.”
“Just so,” said the captain of the letter of marque. “I’m afraid that is how it is going to be with me. When do you sail, Captain Deering?”
“At the next tide,” answered the other.