“Well, then, Captain Seccombe, I am a passenger on board this ship, and know neither her business here nor why she has behaved in a fashion that makes me blush for her flag—which, by the way, I have every reason to abominate.”
“O, come now! You’re trying it on. It’s a yard-arm matter, and I don’t blame you, to be sure. Cap’n sank the mails?”
“There were none to sink, I believe.”
He conned me curiously.
“You don’t look like a Britisher, either.”
“I trust not. I am the Viscount Anne de Kéroual de Saint-Yves, escaped from a British war-prison.”
“Lucky for you if you prove it. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” He faced about and called, “Who’s the first officer of this brig?”
Reuben Colenso was allowed to step forward. Blood from a scalp-wound had run and caked on his right cheek, but he stepped squarely enough.
“Bring him below,” Captain Seccombe commanded. “And you, Mr. What’s-your-name, lead the way. It’s one or the other of us will get the hang of this affair.”
He seated himself at the head of the table in the main cabin, and spat ceremoniously on the floor.