“A pretty termination to our nest-hunting expedition, Claud!” said Martin, as, about an hour afterwards, we stood watching the approach of another boat bringing the officer.
“Yes—to be taken back to Batavia as traitors and rebels to the Dutch Government! Oh! how foolish I was to mention our connection with Ebberfeld!”
“Aye,” replied my brother; “but never mind, old fellow—cheer up, something may turn up yet to rescue us;” but just at that moment the boat grated against the side of the prahu, and a Dutch sailor, striking us with a rattan-cane, told us to salute the officer.
“Salute that fellow—by jingo, no! Why, it is little cockatoo,” cried Martin, as he recognized the same midshipman who had overhauled our birds’-nests.
“Hush, Martin! remember we are in his power now,” said I; but the warning was useless—the consequential little fellow had overheard the words.
“Give that young pirate a couple of dozen with your rattan, Hans,” said he; “it will teach him manners.”
But, in an instant, Martin had caught up a handspike. “The first,” he cried, “who attempts to lay hands upon me shall have this in his breast.”
But open resistance was useless—worse, for it caused our petty tyrant not only to add to the number of blows, but to have my poor brother taken below and clapped in irons, to all of which I made no objection; for I knew that, while at liberty, I should have at least some chance of assisting him. I patiently bided my time, and an opportunity soon came.
Some hours after the midshipman had arrived on board, and we had passed out of sight of the war-sloop, the Dutch sailors reported to their officer that there was neither meat nor poultry—indeed, nought but rice—on board; whereupon the little worthy had Martin brought before him.
“Now, young devilskin,” he began.