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“We are not a letter of marque. It is perfectly true that this brig is owned by an Amsterdam merchant. His name is, Bartholomew Tulp, and he is my stepfather.”

I asked no more questions. I would not seem curious, though there was something in Captain Greaves’ reserve, and something in the enigmatic character of this ocean errand, which made me very thirsty to hear all that he might be willing to tell. Never had I heard of a ship manned by a crew who knew not whither they were going. I speak of the merchant service. As to the Royal Navy, the obligation of sealed orders must always exist; but when a man enters as a sailor aboard a merchantman, the first and most natural inquiry he wishes his captain to answer is, “Where are you bound to?”

Greaves sat watching me, as did his dog. The captain smoked, with a countenance of abstraction and an air of deep musing, whilst he lightly stroked his dog’s back with his foot.

“My mate is a devil of a fool!” he exclaimed, breaking the silence that had lasted some minutes. “He is a Dutchman, and his name is Van Laar. He speaks English very well, but he is no sailor. The wind headed us after leaving Amsterdam, and, having my doubts of Van Laar, I told him to put the brig about, and she missed stays in his hands. Worse—when she was in irons, he did not know what to do with her. I abominate the rogue who misses stays; but can villainy in a sailor go much further than not knowing what to do when a ship has missed stays?”