“Sent and received, sir,” he reported as he flourished the flag in a farewell signal and then calmly rolled it up, sticking it back into his boot leather. Then for the first time the sailor noted the menacing attitude of the people about them.
A woman’s voice was calling them from the edge of the crowd. She was endeavoring to reach their side.
“Missi Klinger say you better ride back quick,” she cried, her handsome face ashen with fear for the papalangis. “Come quick with me; it might be death to stay longer.”
Fanua put forth her most eloquent English. She had been educated at the mission school, but like most natives was shy in speaking a foreign language. She had taken Phil’s bridle rein, and now led his horse through the crowd while the other two followed.
“They won’t harm us,” O’Neil declared comfortingly, although he did not believe his own words. “The signal has roused their distrust of us, that’s all.”
“We’re spies,” Sydney exclaimed. “Is it unnatural for them to wish to harm us?”
“There’s no war, sir,” O’Neil said, “so we can’t be spies. And besides, we’re in uniform.”
“Then under the laws of war,” the midshipman replied, “they can take us prisoners.”
“The news will get through just the same,” O’Neil said gladly, “and Commander Tazewell will have warning in time to carry out whatever plan he has decided upon.”
Klinger had left his companions and had advanced to meet the returning Americans. He walked beside Phil’s horse, while Sydney and O’Neil pushed forward their ponies to hear. The manager’s face was the color of his white clothes.