“Who are you and what do you want?” asked a voice from the frigate, so soon as we were within hail.
“We are English and starving. For God’s sake, throw us a rope!” I answered.
The rope being thrown and the sloop made fast, I asked the officer of the watch to take us on board the frigate, as seeing the condition of our boat and ourselves, I did not think we could possibly reach our destination, that my wife was very sick, and unless she could have better attention than we were able to give her, might not recover.
“Of course we will take you on board—and the poor lady. Pass the word for the doctor, you there! But what on earth are you doing with a lady in a craft like that, so far out at sea, too?”
Without waiting for an answer to his question, the officer ordered a hammock to be lowered, in which we carefully placed Angela, who was thereupon hoisted on the frigate’s deck. We men followed, and were received by a fine old gentleman with a florid face and white hair, whom I rightly conjectured to be the captain.
“Well,” he said, quietly, “what can I do for you?”
“Water,” I gasped, for the exertion of coming on board had been almost too much for me.
“Poor fellow! Certainly. Why did I not think of it before? You shall have both food and drink. Somebody bring water with a dash of rum in it—not too much, they are weak. And Mr. Charles, tell the wardroom steward to get a square meal ready for this gentleman. Might I ask your name, sir?”
“Nigel Fortescue.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fortescue. Mine is Bigelow, and I have the honor to command the United States ship Constellation. Here’s the water! I hope you have not forgotten the dash of rum, Tomkins.—There! Take a long drink. You will feel better now, and when you have had a square meal, you shall tell me all about it. And the others? You are an old salt, anybody can see that.”