" The one who spoke a little of our language thrust the robes at us and the men all tried to help us get our arms into the sleeves and one managed to squeeze my breast. I screamed, but, with the robe unfastened and loosely open at the front, they half carried us to the main deck.Even though my eyes were flooding with tears, I knew immediately how we were to be whipped; the ship's two cargo derricks had been swung so their ends were about ten feet apart and about the same height from the deck. The hooks swung lazily a little above head height. My body shook with fear and I could barely move but the men soon positioned me where they wanted on a hatchway a couple of feet above the main deck, from where I could see the seemingly unreal scene unfolding in front of me. It was almost as though I was in a dream, but the wind blowing my hair and the smell of the water rushing by, told me it wasn't. Feeling like a woman on a platform waiting to he hung, I saw the chairs arranged in a. I was able to accumulate a reserve of gold and silver coins by winnings at cards and my writing of notes and letters for the unlettered enlisted men around me that desperately needed to communicate their feelings and fears to loved ones far distant and hopefully retaining their memory for that day of return to home and hearth.My informants had advised me that a local blacksmith was a purveyor of the long rifles that were used to such advantage by the Rangers and other woodsmen for hunting and in the conflicts of enemies on a battlefield engaged in chaos and the need of the best tools for the job at hand.The blacksmith was a huge bearded man called simply, “Mister Jolly” and it had to be a joke of some nature because he was the ugliest and meanest-looking specimen of manhood that Jack had seen for many a day. The sour-faced laborer pulled out an assortment of long-rifles that were all products of craftsmen from those frontier places that produced the gems of modern warfare in a way.
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