“Very much, sir,” I answered. “But I have a sister, and I couldn’t go away with no one to take care of her; so I must not think of it now Tom Swatridge has gone. All the same, I thank you kindly, sir.”
“Well, well, my lad; we will see what can be done,” he said, and just then a midshipman came up to report that the boat was ready to carry the rescued man, with the surgeon, to the shore.
I found that the master’s mate, Mr Harvey, and one of the men were going in my boat, and of course I did not like to say that I could get into the harbour very well without them. I touched my hat to the commander, who gave me a kind nod—it would not have done for him, I suppose, to shake hands with a poor boy on his quarter-deck even if he had been so disposed—and then I hurried down the side.
I made sail, and took the helm just as if I had been by myself, Mr Harvey sitting by my side, while the seaman had merely to rig out the mainsail with the boat-hook, as we were directly before the wind.
“You are in luck, youngster,” observed Mr Harvey; “though you have lost one friend you’ve gained another, for our commander always means what he says, and, depend on it, he’ll not lose sight of you.”
He seemed a very free-and-easy gentleman, and made me tell him all about myself, and how we had lost father and mother, and how Tom Swatridge had taken charge of Mary and me. His cheerful way of talking made me dwell less on my grief than I should have done had I sailed into the harbour all alone.
“I should like to go and see your little sister and the faithful Nancy,” he said, “but I must return to the brig as soon as that poor man has been carried to the hospital, and I have several things to do on shore. Land me at the Point, you can find your way to the Hard by yourself, I’ve no doubt.”
“The boat would find her way alone, sir, she’s so accustomed to it,” I answered.
We ran in among a number of wherries with people embarking from the Point or landing at it. The Point, it should be understood by those who do not know Portsmouth, is a hard shingly beach on the east side, at the mouth of the harbour, and there was at that time close to it an old round stone tower, from which an iron chain formerly extended across to Blockhouse Fort, on the Gosport side, to prevent vessels from coming in without leave.
“Here, my lad, is my fare,” said Mr Harvey, slipping half a guinea into my hand as he stepped on shore, followed by the seaman; “it will help to keep Nancy’s pot boiling till you can look about you and find friends. They will appear, depend on it.”