“Must let ‘em know that an officer of my rank in the service knows somewhat of the courtesies of life, eh?”
In about ten days, however, we had gotten the ship into high order and ready for sea, and now the glory and honour of command, like my only epaulet, that had been soaked while on duty in one or two showers, and afterwards regularly bronzed in the sun, began to tarnish, and lose the new gloss, like every thing else in this weary world. It was about this time, while sitting at breakfast in the gunroom one fine morning, with the other officers of our mess, gossiping about I hardly remember what, that we heard the captain’s voice on deck.
“Call the first lieutenant.”
“He is at breakfast, sir,” said the man, whoever he might have been, to whom the order was addressed.
“Never mind then—Here, boatswain’s mate—Pipe away the men who were captured in the boats; tell them to clean themselves, and send Mr——to me”—(This was the officer who had been taken prisoner along with them in the first attack)—“they are wanted in Kingston at the trial today. Stop, tell Mr Cringle also to get ready to go in the gig.”
The pirates, to the amount of forty-five, had been transferred to Kingston jail some days previously, preparatory to their trial, which, as above-mentioned, was fixed for this day.
We pulled cheerily up to Kingston, and, landing at the Wherry wharf, marched along the hot dusty streets, under a broiling sun, Captain Transom, the other Lieutenant, and myself, in full puff, leading the van, followed by about fourteen seamen, in white straw hats, with broad black ribbons, and clean white frocks and trowsers, headed by a boatswain’s mate, with his silver whistle hung round his neck—as respectable a tail as any Christian could desire to swinge behind him; and, man for man, I would willingly have perilled my promotion upon their walloping, with no offensive weapons but their stretchers, the Following, claymores and all, of any proud, disagreeable, would-be mighty mountaineer, that ever turned up his supercilious, whisky blossomed snout at Bailie Jarvie. On they came, square-shouldered, narrow-flanked, tall, strapping fellows, tumbling and rolling about the piazzas in knots of three and four, until, at the corner of King Street, they came bolt up upon a well-known large, fat, brown lady, famous for her manufacture of spruce beer.
“Avast, avast a bit”—sung out one of the topmen—“let the nobs heave a head, will ye, and let’s have a pull.”
“Here, old mother Slush,” sung out another of the cutter’s crew. “Hand us up a dozen bottles of spruce, do you hear?”
“Dozen battle of pruce!” groaned the old woman—“who shall pay me?”