Dick gave his orders briefly.
“Take the brig up the Pyfleet,” he said. “Any of these fellows will pilot thee,” he added, pointing to the group of Mersea men on the wall. Then as an afterthought, “and bring five kegs from the hold to me at the Ship Tavern.”
A certain amount of enthusiasm among the volunteer pilots was noticeable after this last remark, and Blueneck smiled as he replied, “Ay, ay, Cap’n.”
Black’erchief Dick and his friend Big French, the smuggler’s carter, turned, climbed the wall, and walked together down the lonely road to the Ship Tavern without speaking.
“Marry!” said Dick, stopping after they had walked for some five minutes, his hand feeling for his knife. “What’s that?”
Big French stopped also and, standing side by side in the middle of the road, they listened intently. Apparently just behind the hedge on their right a human voice, deep and throaty, said clearly, “Rum—rum—rum—rum,” the sound trailing off weirdly on the last word.
The Spaniard crossed himself, but his hand was steady.
“Nay,” Big French’s voice came stifled from his mouth.
The Spaniard drew his knife. “Then I’ll have at it,” he said.