“Probably another enemy’s ship taken,” observed Captain Fancourt.
“Are the Admiralty going to send you to sea again, Fancourt?” asked Sir Reginald, who had overheard Harry’s remark.
“They are not likely, during these stirring times, Sir Reginald, to allow any of us to remain idle on shore if they think us worth our salt, and I hope to deserve that, at least,” answered Captain Fancourt.
“You are worth tons of that article, or the admiral’s despatches greatly overpraise you,” observed Sir Reginald, laughing at his own joke. “I remember reading with great delight the gallant way in which, after your captain was wounded, you fought the Hector on your voyage home from the West Indies, when she was attacked by two 40-gun French frigates. You had not, I fancy, half as many men, or as many guns mounted, as either one of them, while, in addition to their crews, they were full of troops, yet you beat them off when they attempted to board; and though they had pretty well knocked your ship to pieces, you compelled them to make sail away from you, leaving you to your fate. If I recollect rightly, you bore up for Halifax with more than half your crew killed and wounded.”
“You give me more credit than is my due, Sir Reginald,” observed Captain Fancourt, “I was but a young lieutenant, though I did my duty. Captain Drury fought the ship, and we should all have lost our lives had not we fallen in with the Hawk brig, which rescued us just as the old Hector sank under our feet.”
“Well, well, when our enemies find out that it is the fashion of English sailors to fight till their ship goes down, they will be chary of attacking them with much hopes of victory.”
While the baronet was speaking, Harry had taken his seat next to a pretty dark-eyed young girl, giving her a kiss on the cheek and at the same time a pat on the back, a familiarity to which his sister Julia was well accustomed from her sailor brother, who entertained the greatest admiration and affection for her.
“You should not treat the demoiselle in that mode at table, Monsieur Harry,” observed a lady who was sitting on his other side.
“I beg your pardon, Madame De La Motte, I ought, I confess, to have paid my respects to you first.”
“Ah, you are mediant, incorrigible,” said the lady, in broken English, laughing as she spoke.