All through the scorching afternoon the battle went on, the rattle
and crack of musketry penetrating ever deeper into the town to show
that the defenders were being driven steadily back. By sunset two
hundred and fifty Spaniards were masters of Bridgetown, the islanders
were disarmed, and at Government House, Governor Steed - his gout
forgotten in his panic - supported by Colonel Bishop and some lesser
officers, was being informed by Don Diego, with an urbanity that was
itself a mockery, of the sum that would be required in ransom.
For a hundred thousand pieces of eight and fifty head of cattle, Don
Diego would forbear from reducing the place to ashes. And what time
that suave and courtly commander was settling these details with the
apoplectic British Governor, the Spaniards were smashing and looting,
feasting, drinking, and ravaging after the hideous manner of their
kind.
Mr. Blood, greatly daring, ventured down at dusk into the town.
What he saw there is recorded by Jeremy Pitt to whom he subsequently
related it - in that voluminous log from which the greater part of
my narrative is derived.
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