CHAPTER XXII.THE GLORIOUS PIRATE.
Onour way, as we entered the first wood, we came upon the man Barleycorn, who trimmed the path with a macheat. He was a small hairy man, bowed with toil and parched in the sun. He was a man of few words (as the saying is). Ambrose passed him the time of day, and he did but nod his head, as he lopped off a tree-shoot; and, when I asked him pleasantly if his work liked him, he merely winked at me with his eye.
As we stood by him, another approached through the wood. This was a great topping pirate, dressed in sky-blue clothes, with scarlet and green feathers in his hat. He did shine all glorious in the sun with his silver buttons, rings, pendants, bracelets, brooch, and buckle to his belt. He came swearing, as the lapels of his coat caught in the thicket; and, having drawn near, he dealt Barleycorn a kick with his foot, asking “Why the devil he kept not a better gang-way?”
The poor man rolled under a bush, and lay rubbing himself, with a rueful look on his wizened countenance. Then he got up, and fell to work again, saying meekly:
“Never be treading on old Barleycorn, mate. The poor old fellow’s got his work to do.”
This made me laugh; and the pirate said:
“All’s well, old fellow. If this here was Port Royal, I’d physic your bruise with the right tipple. But there, it a’n’t!”
“No,” said Ambrose, “there’s no taverns here for you.”
“I’ll speak nothing against the Doctor,” said the pirate, “but ’tis a thirsty soil an’ thirsty toil, and I wants my tipple. Water’s well enough for wild Indians, but....” He broke off, fetching a deep sigh.
“You mean to say—” began Ambrose; but the other took him up short, saying fiercely:
“Belay with putting words in my mouth! What I means to say, and what I don’t mean to say, a’n’t none of your business. Belike you’ld be bearing tales to the Doctor!”
“Nay,” said Ambrose; “you should know me better than to say so.”
The other was as easily pacified as before he had been incensed. “All’s well,” said he, “I’ll treat you, too—in Port Royal.”
“How goes the work?” asked Ambrose.
“The ship work?” cried the pirate. “Trust me not, if I a’n’t dog-sick of it! The blasting work of haling the King’s ship ashore, above the tide mark!”
“Have you careened her?” said Ambrose.
“Ay, ’tis done, praise the Saints!”
“What’s next to do?”
“Why, haven’t you heard? We’re to set towork with the carpenters to build another King’s ship. John Rance hath his orders.”
“Indeed!” said Ambrose, much astonished.
“Ay, indeed! And pretty work we’re like to have with it!”
“I marvel what the Doctor hath in mind,” said Ambrose. “You do not know, do you?”
“No, by Saint Marta!” answered he, crossing himself. “The Doctor’s intents and purposes are above us seamen. We a’n’t for to think; we’ve got our work to do, like old Barleycorn there. Say, old fellow!” cried he, “bring to for another kick!”
But the forester merely grumbled, as he plied his macheat further along the path.
“But who’s this brave young gentleman?” said the pirate, turning to me. “How do you do, mister?” (holding his hand out), “My name’s Jack Rodgers.”
I took the great hard hand, with a fit remark.
“You come in the King’s ship, didn’t you?” asked he.
“Ay,” said I.
“I thought you did,” said he. “Well, I must weigh. Fare you well, Mr. Clayton. Fare you well, Mr. Ambrose.”
And with this, doffing his hat to us, and bowing with a handsome congee, he went his way. Presently we heard him swearing, as his coat caught in the thicket.