It seemed to me as if no more than half an hour had passed before
Nicholas Skot was making another proclamation, and this time to the
effect that whosoever, after that moment, was heard uttering profane
words, should have a can full of cold water poured down his sleeve.
On hearing this, the unruly ones laughed in derision and straightway
began to shout forth such a volley of oaths as I had never heard during
a drunken brawl in the streets of London.
It was not long, however, that they were thus allowed to shame decent
people. Down from the fort came Captain Smith, with six stout men behind
him, and in a twinkling there was as hot a fight within twenty paces of
Master Ratcliffe's tent, as could be well imagined.
And the result of it all was, much to the satisfaction of Nathaniel
and myself, that every one of these men who had amused themselves by
uttering the vilest of oaths, had a full can of the coldest water that
could be procured, poured down the sleeve of his doublet.
The method of doing it was comical, if one could forget how serious was
the situation. Two of my master's followers would pounce upon the fellow
who was making the air blue with oaths, and, throwing him to the ground,
hold him there firmly while the third raised his arm and carefully
poured the water down the sleeve.
Now you may fancy that this was not very harsh treatment; but I
afterward heard those who had been thus punished, say that they would
choose five or six stout lashes on their backs, rather than take again
such a dose as was dealt out on that day after John Smith was made
captain and commander, or whatsoever you choose to call his office, in
the village of Jamestown.