“On the 8th, boat sent ashore, but no news of our linguist.”
“On the 9th, as the trade-winds are blowing fresh, concluded to leave our good Alexander to practice his linguistic and other accomplishments ashore. Adieu to our linguist.”
Thus disappeared the sleek and crafty Joseph.
There was still trouble from insubordination, for Mr. Page—second mate of the Duchess—refused to accompany Mr. Cook (second in command on the Duke). Whereupon the hot-tempered Captain Cook—being the superior officer on board—struck him, and several blows were interchanged.
At last Page was forced into the boat and brought to the Duke, where he was ordered to the forecastle in the bilboes (leg irons sliding upon a long, iron bar). But he jumped overboard—despising the chance of being gobbled up by a shark—and started to swim to his own ship. He was brought back, flogged, and put in irons; and he evidently found a week of this kind of thing sufficient; for he submitted himself humbly to future orders.
Thus Woodes Rogers had already learned that the life of a privateer commander was not a happy one.
Steering southwest, a large French ship was seen and chased, but she got away from the two consorts with surprising ease. On March 6th, when off the coast of Peru, a sail was sighted.
“Let the Duchess bear down on her port and the Duke to starboard,” cried Captain Rogers. “Heave a solid shot across her bow, and, if she refuses to capitulate, let her have your broadsides.”
Dipping, tossing, rolling; the two privateers swooped down upon their prey, like hawks. She flew the yellow flag of Spain—and—as the first ball of lead cut across her bowsprit, it fluttered to the deck. Up went a white shirt, tied to a rat-line, and the crew from the Duke was soon in charge, and steering her for Lobas: a harbor on the coast.
“She’s a tight little barque,” said Rogers, when he had landed. “I’ll make her into a privateer.”