And so it was. Hoppy had told Jackson where to find the cask of rum in the hold and that gallant seaman had tapped it with a gimlet, inviting his messmates to partake, which they did with gusto. They were worn out from the long vigil through the night and copious libations of the fiery liquor soon stupefied them. They lay like dead men in the hold.
The baffled officer turned on his subordinates, “Where are your pistols?” he demanded.
“They can’t be found, sir,” answered Jenkins.
Then Hoppy enlightened him. “You need not worry about your pistols, Dunton; they are in safe keeping. And now, I’m going to be busy for a few minutes and I want you to be a good boy until I have time to attend to your troubles.”
Near the mainmast there was a large chest containing arms. It was locked, but Hoppy smashed it open with an axe and started to throw the muskets and cutlasses overboard. This made Dunton almost insanely furious. Calling on his officers to help he rushed at Hoppy who whipped out a pistol which he leveled at the advancing Englishman.
“Another step and you are a dead man!” he thundered. “And you, Jenkins and Thomson, stand back! You are decent fellows and I don’t want to kill you, but, by the Almighty, if you don’t stay quiet, I’ll have you all three buried in Yankee soil tomorrow!”
The assailants drew back. Hoppy opened his jacket and displayed an array of pistols stuck in his belt.
“These are your pistols,” said he, “and I may tell you later how I got them; but, for the present, you must be satisfied to know that they are all loaded and that makes more than a bullet apiece for you. If you don’t believe me, watch this!”
He fired and the bullet struck the deck at Dunton’s feet.
“I can afford to waste one shot,” he continued, “but it is the only one that will be wasted if you don’t keep quiet!”