I had never said a word to
him about the loss of my father's will, and had no intention of
doing so, biding my time, and I was a little vexed that Joe in his
impetuous espousal of my cause had let the fellow know of our
suspicions. He halted a moment, then with a "What are you prating
about, turnip head?" he turned on his heel and walked away.
Joe, in a great rage, was for springing after him, but I caught him
by the arm and begged him to let the matter rest.
"Snatch my bowlines!" he cried, in a tone reminding me of Captain
Cawson; "he'd better 'ware of running across my course. If I come
athwart his hawser I'll turn him keel upwards, I will."
I diverted the current of his anger by asking him how he had become
a prisoner of the French.
"Why, in a deuced unlucky way," says he. "Captain Benbow--he's now
rear admiral, but will always be captain to me--he had a mind to
draw alongside that there place they call St. Malo, and cut out a
frigate of Doggy Trang he believed to be there, and he sent me and
some more by night to take the bearings of the harbor. We was in a
skiff, and a gale came on and beat us about all night and split our
sails and drove us ashore in the very teeth of a crew o' Frenchies.
There was a tight little scrimmage, I promise you, but they were
two to one, and grappled us close, and clapped a stopper on our
cable, hang 'em. They chained us together, the dogs, and marched us
into St. Malo with scarce a rag to our backs, and yesterday they
sent me and some more here.
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