“Ha!” the corporal grunted again. “It were best, sergeant, to voice such remarks inwardly. The commandante is not proud of the mark he wears.”
Gonzales changed the subject. “The wine!” he thundered. “It goes well on a moonlight night, the same as on a stormy one. But moonlight is a poor business save for lovesick swains. ’Tis no night for a soldier. Would one expect thieves to descend through the moonlight?”
“There be pirates,” the corporal said.
“Pirates!” Gonzales’s great fist descended and met the table with a crash, sending the wine cups bouncing. “Pirates! You have noticed no pirates in Reina de Los Angeles, have you? They have not been playing around the presidio, have they? I am not saying that they know I am stationed here, however— Meal mush and goat’s milk! Pirates is my dish!”
“The town grows wealthy, and they may come,” the corporal said.
“You fear? You tremble?” Gonzales cried. “Are you soldier or fray? Pirates! By the saints, I would that they came! My sword arm grows fat from little use.”
“Talk not of pirates!” the landlord begged. “Suppose they did come?”
“And what if they did?” Gonzales demanded. “Am I not here, dolt? Are there not soldiers? Pirates? Ha!”
He sprang to his feet, those same feet spread wide apart. His hand darted down, and he whipped out his blade.
“That for a pirate!” he shouted, and made a mighty thrust at the wall. “This for a pirate!” And he slashed through the air, his blade whistling so that the corporal and soldiers sprang backward, and the four or five natives who happened to be in the inn cringed in a corner. “Pirates!” cried Gonzales. “I would I could meet one this very night! We grew stale from inaction. There is too much peace in the world! Meal mush and goat’s milk!”