“I thought these colonies were English.” Captain Fletcher cradled his glass of rum in a huge hand, “but they are anything but. The people are either Scotch or Irish, and they’ve intermarried with the Dutch, Germans, or even the French, God help us, to create a hybrid race.”
Smith listened, saying nothing. He saw Abraham Hargreaves on the nearest table, hiding his smile.
Fletcher continued. “From that bastard breeding has sprung the high-spirited brood that boasts so much of British blood and liberty and who have the damned cheek to talk of chastising Great Britain. There’s not an ounce of British blood in them.”
“Aren’t the Scots as British as the English?” Smith asked.
“No, damn them. They’re rebel dogs, gallows bait. Oh, they come crawling to us now, fawning for our acceptance and pl
