Speak English!
“Oh, I am to be tender of the lives of these rebels! Odds blood! Do you think it’s to benefit his health we’re taking him? There’s gallows being planted along the road from Weston to Bridgewater, and he’ll serve for one of them as well as another. Colonel Kirke’ll learn these nonconforming oafs something they’ll not forget in generations.”
“You’re hanging men without trial? Faith, then, it’s mistaken I am. We’re in Tangiers, after all, it seems, where your regiment belongs.”
The Captain considered him with a kindling eye. He looked him over from the soles of his riding-boots to the crown of his periwig. He noted the spare, active frame, the arrogant poise of the head, the air of authority that invested Mr. Blood, and soldier recognized soldier. The Captain’s eyes narrowed. Recognition went further.
“Who the hell may you be?” he exploded.”
“My name is Blood, sir - Peter Blood, at your service.”
“Aye - aye! Codso! That’s the name. You were in French service once, were you not?”
If Mr. Blood was surprised, he did not betray it.
“I was.”
“Then I remember you - five years ago, or more, you were in Tangiers,”
“That is so. I knew your colonel.”
“Faith, you may be renewing the acquaintance.” The Captain laughed unpleasantly. “What brings you here, sir?”
“This wounded gentleman. I was fetched to attend him. I am a medicus.”
“A doctor - you?” Scorn of that lie - as he conceived it - rang in the heavy, hectoring voice.
“Medicinae baccalaureus,” said Mr. Blood.
“Don’t fling your French at me, man,” snapped Hobart. “Speak English!”