“And so I would have been had it not been for that broth of a gossoon Rory McHale. I never saw such seamanship as he put out of him. When the mast went he had it cleared away in a few minutes; then he sailed so close in shore that me heart was in me mouth for fear of the rocks. But he slipped the Englishman, and by daylight we were far away. But, lad,” and his voice sank lower and a note of feeling crept into it that sounded strange in so grim a veteran, “I thought ye gone, indeed, when ye went over the stern. I thought to follow ye, but McHale held me back.”
Ethan gripped the warm hearted fellow’s hand, with the tears standing in his eyes.
“Good old Longsword!” he said, quietly. “There was never a time in my life that you were not willing and anxious to stand by me.”
While they were speaking the middy had accosted Dale.
“Looking for a ship?” asked he.
“I am,” said Dale.
“I’m shipping men for the Bon Homme Richard.”
“Is she a privateer?”
The middy laughed.
“I should say not,” he replied. “Her commander is John Paul Jones.”