Phil shook his head. He was too angry to speak. Then suddenly without command the soldiers filed, at first hesitatingly, casting anxious glances behind them, into the awaiting boats.
“Syd,” Phil said in a low, tense voice, “you know the plan. Keep those cordite shells away from our own men. Get as close in as you can; don’t hesitate to run her ashore if necessary. If I am not mistaken we’ve got these natives in the closest box they’ve ever been in.”
The four boats waited in silence at the gangway. Phil had taken his place with O’Neil in the boat carrying the Colt gun.
“Tell Lieutenant Tillotson we’re ready,” Phil said in his natural voice to Sydney on the gangway.
Lieutenant Tillotson strolled aft slowly, his eyes on the streak of dawn ever increasing in the eastern sky.
“Come on, Tillotson,” Phil said harshly; “we’ve wasted too much time already.”
Lieutenant Tillotson stopped on the gangway and glared angrily at the composed midshipman below him.
“I’d like to know,” he sneered, “what business a midshipman has to give orders to his superior officer.”
“I’ll give you one more chance, Tillotson,” Phil said in a stern, tense whisper; he did not wish the men to hear. He could see even in the dim light the surprised, incredulous look on the faces of his sailors. “Will you please get aboard?”
The lieutenant remained motionless, a dark scowl on his face.