The Saintly Buccaneer
“Get up!” The guard’s voice echoed in the filthy hold of the frigate Mantigo. Paul gathered his belongings and joined the line of prisoners that waited for the door to open. The voyage from New York to Plymouth had been slow, for the ship was old. He had not complained, but others who had found the moldy ship’s biscuit and rotten beef uneatable were chastised.
A short, muscular seaman with tattoos everywhere but his face laughed gruffly at them. “Yer don’t like this grub? Wait till yer gets to Dartmoor! This’ll look like a piece of cake! Why, a fine, prime rat goes for ten shillin’s, and no lack of bidders!”
They were taken to the berth deck, then put ashore in a drizzle of cold October rain that seemed to freeze the marrow of Paul’s bones. In spite of the early hour as they passed through the town, they found themselves surrounded by drunken sailors out of grog shops, old women carrying jugs of ale and baskets full of cakes, fried eels and boiled sheep’s heads.
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