“Her business surely demands it still,” said I. Only an arrant landsman could have reconciled the lumbering old craft with any idea of privateering; but this was only my theory, and I clung to it.
“We shall not need to test her.”
“You rely on your guns, then?” I had observed the care lavished on these. They were of brass, and shone like the door-plates in the main cabin.
“Why, as to that,” he answered evasively, “I’ve had to before now. The last voyage I commanded her—it was just after the war broke out with America—we fell in with a schooner off the Banks; we were outward bound for Halifax. She carried twelve nine-pounder carronades and two long nines, beside a big fellow on a traverse; and we had the guns you see—eight nine-pounders and one chaser of the same calibre—post-office guns, we call them. But we beat her off after two hours of it.”
“And saved the mails?”
He rose abruptly (we had seated ourselves on a couple of hen-coops under the break of the poop). “You will excuse me. I have an order to give”; and he hurried up the steps to the quarter-deck.
It must have been ten days after this that he stopped me in one of my eternal listless promenades and invited me to sit beside him again.
“I wish to take your opinion, Mr. Ducie. You have not, I believe, found salvation? You are not one of us, as I may say?”
“Meaning by ‘us’?”
“I and mine, sir, are unworthy followers of the Word, as preached by John Wesley.”