Thus the two boats beat towards the coast of Merrie England in company, and upon the day following, came to anchor in a small harbor, six miles from Plymouth. The captain of the privateer went ashore in order to report to Admiral Digby at Plymouth, while most of the crew also hastened to the beach in order to avoid the chance of being seized by the press-gang, which harried incoming vessels for recruits for His Majesty’s service.
“Can’t I go, too?” asked the cautious “Josh.”
“No, you must remain on board until we come for you,” said the captain, as he jumped into his boat en route for the shore. “Mister Officer, I want to search your record.” Then he laughed brutishly.
But Barney’s thinking cap was working like a mill race. There was a jolly-boat tied to the stern of the privateer, and, when all were safe ashore, he gently slipped into this, purposely skinning his leg as he did so. Then he sculled to the beach; where a group of idlers stood looking out to sea.
“Here,” he cried, as he neared them. “Help me haul up this boat, will yer? She’s awful heavy.”
A custom’s officer was among these loiterers and he was inquisitive.
“Who are you?” said he. “What regiment and where stationed, pray?”
“That I cannot answer, my friend,” calmly replied the acute “Josh,” pointing to the blood as it trickled through his stocking. “I am badly injured, you see, and must go away in order to get my leg tied up. Prithee, kind sir, can you tell me where the crew from my vessel have gone to?”
“They are at the Red Lion at the end of the village,” replied the official of the law. “You are, indeed, badly hurt.”
“Wall, I reckon,” replied the American, and, stumbling up the beach, he was soon headed for the end of the little village.