The boatswain’s mate’s face lit up with pleasure for a moment, then he turned to Phil, a troubled note in his voice.
“Them dagos can’t hit even the water at night,” he whispered; “some of them have been begging me to come and find out what’s going to happen.”
“But the enemy’s sailors are just as much afraid of the dark,” Phil declared in a low tone.
“These men ain’t sailors,” he answered disgustedly, “they are soldiers, landlubbers. All the sailormen of the country are with the rebels.”
A sudden idea struck the lad. He turned from O’Neil toward Captain Garcia, wrapped in his own thoughts.
“Captain Garcia, O’Neil says all your men are soldiers,” he cried anxiously.
The captain nodded.
“I had to take them,” he returned; “the sailors were disloyal to a man. I was naval attaché at the outbreak of the war in Washington and was forced to be satisfied with the men my government sent to me to man my ship.”
“How many prisoners have you?” Phil questioned hurriedly.
Captain Garcia’s face brightened.