"No fear of me!" was all he said. "You keep out of sight, because of
your twang. I'll teach them a little good English--better than ever came
out of Cornwall. The best of all English is not to say too much."
The captain and his mate enjoyed their supper, while Carne in the
distance bore the pangs of a malady called bulimus, that is to say, a
giant's ravening for victuals, without a babe's power of receiving them.
For he was turning the corner of his sickness now, but prostrate and
cold as a fallen stalactite.
"Aha! We have done well. We have warmed our wits up. One glass of what
you call the grog; and then we will play a pleasant game with those
Englishmen!" Carne heard him say it, and in his heart hoped that the
English would pitch him overboard.
It was high time for those two to finish their supper. The schooner
had no wheel, but steered--as light craft did then, and long
afterwards--with a bulky ash tiller, having iron eyes for lashing it in
heavy weather. Three strong men stood by it now, obedient, yet muttering
to one another, for another cable's length would bring them into danger
of being run down by the frigate.
"All clear for stays!" cried Polwhele, under orders from Charron. "Down
helm! Helm's alee! Steady so. Let draw! Easy! easy! There she fills!"
And after a few more rapid orders the handy little craft was dashing
away, with the wind abaft the beam, and her head about two points north
of east.
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