Next day the two English privateers stood in close to shore, and, just as the shot was rammed home, a boat put off, in the stern of which sat Mr. Vanbrugh with a present of wine, grapes, hogs and jelly. The prize which had been captured was sent back to Bristol with a picked crew.
The two sea-rovers bore towards the South—soon crossed the Tropic of Cancer—and there had appropriate ceremonies for the occasion. The tinkers, peddlers, fiddlers, and tailors who made up the crew, were each and all hoisted overboard by a rope. A stick was placed between their legs and they were ducked again and again in the brine.
“If any man wants to get off,” spoke Captain Rogers, “he can do so by paying me a half-a-sovereign ($2.50) which must be expended on an entertainment for the rest of the company when England shall be reached. Every man that is ducked is paid in proportion to the number of times that he goes under.”
Several accepted this offer. At which a sailor cried out:
“Duck me twelve times, Captain. I want to have a regular orgy when I get back home.”
And the sailors did it, laughing uproariously.
Sailing to the Cape Verde Islands, the Duke and the Duchess anchored in the harbor of St. Vincent, where one of the crew, who was a good linguist (Joseph Alexander) was sent in a boat to the Governor, at San Antonio, in order to negotiate for supplies. He seemed to prefer Cape Verde to privateering.
“On October 6th,” writes the gallant Rogers, “our boat went to San Antonio to get our linguist, according to appointment. No news of him.”
“On October 6th, our boat returned with nothing but limes and tobacco. No news of our linguist.”
“On October 7th, no news of our linguist.”