They grinned still more when they had lain a few days at Cork, for the crew were continually marrying, although they expected to sail immediately. However, as the two privateers got under way on September 1st,—with the Hastings, a man-of-war—the majority of the crew drank a health to their spouses; waved their hands to them over the rail; and “parted unconcerned.” Truly, a sailor has a lass in every port.
Not many days after their out-going, a sail was sighted and all speed was made to capture her. The Swedish colors fluttered from her mast-head, and she hove to at the first gun. Rogers boarded.
“No contraband goods are here,” said he, after looking into the hold. “We must let her off.”
Then—turning to her captain—he said,
“You can go. I am not a pirate—but a privateer—sailing under Letters of Marque. I only seize goods that are contraband.”
Bobbing and courtesying on the waves, the little Swede soon drifted from view.
But the crew grew mutinous,—for had they not come out for plunder? The boatswain even called Rogers a traitor.
“Seize the fellow and flog him,” cried the sturdy captain. “Put ten of these talkative hounds in irons. We’ll do the talking on this boat, and the sailors must do theirs in the fo’castle.”
This was done immediately.
Next day a seaman came aft, with near half the ship’s company in his rear, and cried: