“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?” “Why, do you think the Firebrands are thieves, you old canary, you?” “How much, eh?” said the boatswain’s mate. “Twelve feepennies,” quoth the matron. “Oh, ah!” said one of the men--“Twelve times five is half a crown; there’s a dollar for you, old mother Popandchokem--now give me back five shillings.”