Harry and David, on looking round, observed she was an armed vessel, carrying sixteen long guns, with swivels and other pieces. From the language they heard spoken by the crew, they knew she was French; while, from the varied dresses of the men and officers, they suspected she was a privateer, and not a man-of-war.
“I’m afraid we shall not much like our quarters here,” said Harry. “The best thing we can do is to put a good face on the matter, and go aft and thank the captain for saving our lives; he will see by my uniform that I am an officer, and treat us as gentlemen.”
Poor Harry’s patch of white cloth, however, was not likely to be treated with much respect by a French privateer captain of those days.
“I wonder which of these fellows is captain,” said Harry, as they approached three or four rough-looking fellows, as they were walking the deck with the air of officers. “Oh, I wonder whether they will understand English, for not a word of French can I speak.”
“Nor can I indeed,” said David; “I didn’t think of that.”
“We must make our intentions known, however,” said Harry, “and I must muster up what I can say. I know they always begin by saying ‘Monsieur’ if they want to be polite, so I’ll say ‘Monsieur Captain, Monsieur Captain,’” looking round as he spoke, “we have to thank you for taking us aboard your vessel, and should be still further obliged if you could give us a change of clothes while ours are drying.”
The Frenchmen looked at the boys with an air of indifference.
“Monsieur Captain,” again began Harry, “I say we want to thank you for pulling us out of the water.”
“Perhaps the captain is not among these men,” suggested David.
“I want to see the captain,” said Harry, bowing as before.