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Title: Blackbeard: Buccaneer

Author: Ralph D. Paine

Illustrator: Frank E. Schoonover

Release Date: May 14, 2008 [EBook #25472]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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[Illustration: THIS LEAN, STRAIGHT ROVER LOOKED THE PART OF A COMPETENT
SOLDIER]




BLACKBEARD BUCCANEER

_By_ RALPH D. PAINE

[Illustration]

          _Illustrated by
          Frank E. Schoonover_

          THE PENN PUBLISHING
          COMPANY PHILADELPHIA




          COPYRIGHT
          1922 BY
          THE PENN
          PUBLISHING
          COMPANY

          Blackbeard: Buccaneer

          Made in the U. S. A.




Contents



      I. THAT COURTEOUS PIRATE, CAPTAIN BONNET                         7

     II. THE MERCHANT TRADER, _PLYMOUTH ADVENTURE_                    21

    III. HELD AS HOSTAGES TO BLACKBEARD                               43

     IV. THE CAPTIVE SEAMEN IN THE FORECASTLE                         62

      V. RELEASING A FEARFUL WEAPON                                   79

     VI. THE VOYAGE OF THE LITTLE RAFT                                99

    VII. THE MIST OF THE CHEROKEE SWAMP                              114

   VIII. THE EPISODE OF THE WINDING CREEK                            132

     IX. BLACKBEARD'S ERRAND IS INTERRUPTED                          147

      X. THE SEA URCHIN AND THE CARPENTER'S MATE                     161

     XI. JACK JOURNEYS AFOOT                                         177

    XII. A PRIVATE ACCOUNT TO SETTLE                                 189

   XIII. OUR HEROES SEEK SECLUSION                                   203

    XIV. BLACKBEARD APPEARS IN FIRE AND BRIMSTONE                    217

     XV. MR. PETER FORBES MOURNS HIS NEPHEW                          232

    XVI. NED RACKHAM'S PLANS GO MUCH AMISS                           248

   XVII. THE GREAT FIGHT OF CAPTAIN TEACH                            260

  XVIII. THE OLD BUCCANEER IS LOYAL                                  274

    XIX. THE QUEST FOR PIRATES' GOLD                                 288




ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                    PAGE

  THIS LEAN, STRAIGHT ROVER LOOKED THE PART OF A COMPETENT
    SOLDIER                                               _Frontispiece_

  THE BRAWN OF THESE LADS MADE THE PIKE A MATCH FOR A
    PIRATE'S CUTLASS                                                  83

  THE FIRST MATE LEAPED UP WITH A HORRIBLE YELL                      120

  JACK ALMOST BUMPED INTO THE DUGOUT CANOE                           129

  THEY CAPERED AND HUGGED EACH OTHER                                 164

  HE LOOMED LIKE THE BELIAL WHOM HE WAS SO FOND OF CLAIMING
    AS HIS MENTOR                                                    224

[Illustration]




Blackbeard: Buccaneer




CHAPTER I

THAT COURTEOUS PIRATE, CAPTAIN BONNET


THE year of 1718 seems very dim and far away, but the tall lad who
sauntered down to the harbor of Charles Town, South Carolina, on a fine,
bright morning, was much like the youngsters of this generation. His
clothes were quite different, it is true, and he lived in a queer, rough
world, but he detested grammar and arithmetic and loved adventure, and
would have made a sturdy tackle for a modern high-school football team.
He wore a peaked straw hat of Indian weave, a linen shirt open at the
throat, short breeches with silver buckles at the knees, and a
flint-lock pistol hung from his leather belt.

He passed by scattered houses and stores which were mere log huts
loopholed for defense, with shutters and doors of hewn plank heavy
enough to stop a musket ball. The unpaved lanes wandered between mud
holes in which pigs wallowed enjoyably. Negro slaves, half-naked and
bearing heavy burdens, jabbered the dialects of the African jungle from
which they had been kidnapped a few months before. Yemassee Indians clad
in tanned deer-skins bartered with the merchants and hid their hatred of
the English. Jovial, hard-riding gentlemen galloped in from the indigo
plantations and dismounted at the tavern to drink and gamble and fight
duels at the smallest excuse.

Young Jack Cockrell paid scant heed to these accustomed sights but
walked as far as the wharf built of palmetto piling. The wide harbor and
the sea that flashed beyond the outer bar were ruffled by a piping
breeze out of the northeast. The only vessel at anchor was a heavily
sparred brig whose bulwarks were high enough to hide the rows of cannon
behind the closed ports.

The lad gazed at the shapely brig with a lively curiosity, as if here
was something really interesting. Presently a boat splashed into the
water and was tied alongside the vessel while a dozen of the crew
tumbled in to sprawl upon the thwarts and shove the oars into the
thole-pins. An erect, graceful man in a red coat and a great beaver hat
roared a command from the stern-sheets and the pinnace pulled in the
direction of the wharf.

"Pirates, to be sure!" said Jack Cockrell to himself, without a sign of
alarm. "'Tis Captain Stede Bonnet and his _Royal James_. I know the
ship. I saw her when she came in leaking last October and was careened
on the beach at Sullivan's Island. A rich voyage this time, for the brig
rides deep."

The coast of South Carolina swarmed with pirates two hundred years ago,
and they cared not a rap for the law. Indeed, some of these rascals
lived on friendly terms with the people of the small settlements and
swaggered ashore to squander the broad gold pieces and merchandise
stolen from honest trading vessels. You must not blame the South
Carolina colonists too harshly because they sometimes welcomed the
visiting pirates instead of clapping them in jail. Charles Town was a
village at the edge of a wilderness filled with hostile Indians. By sea
it stood in fear of attack by the Spaniards of Florida and Havana. There
were almost no crops for food and among the population were many
runaways from England, loafers and vagabonds who hated the sight of
work.

The pirates helped them fight their enemies and did a thriving trade in
goods that were sorely needed. Respectable citizens grumbled and one
high official was removed in disgrace because he encouraged the pirates
to make Charles Town their headquarters, but there was no general outcry
unless the sea-rovers happened to molest English ships outside the
harbor.

It was Captain Stede Bonnet himself who steered the pinnace and cursed
his sweating sailors in a deep voice which went echoing across the bay.
He made a brave figure in his scarlet coat, with the brass guard of his
naked cutlass winking in the sun. His boat's crew had been mustered from
many climes and races, several strapping Englishmen, a wiry, spluttering
little Frenchman, a swarthy Portuguese with gold rings in his ears, a
brace of stolid Norwegians, and two or three coal black negroes from
Barbadoes.

They were well armed, every weapon burnished clean of rust and ready for
instant use. Some wore tarnished, sea-stained finery looted from hapless
prizes, a brocaded waistcoat, a pair of tasseled jack-boots, a plumed
hat, a ruffled cape. The heads of several were bound around with knotted
kerchiefs on which dark stains showed,--marks of a brawl aboard the brig
or a fight with another ship.

Soon a second boat moved away from the _Royal James_ and many people
drifted toward the wharf to see the pirates come ashore, but they left
plenty of room when the captain scrambled up the weedy ladder and told
his men to follow him. Charles Town felt little dread of Stede Bonnet
himself. He knew how to conduct himself as a gentleman and the story was
well known,--how he had been a major in the British army and a man of
wealth and refinement. He had left his home in Barbadoes to follow the
trade of piracy because he couldn't get along with his wife, so the
rumor ran. At any rate, he seemed oddly out of place among the dirty
rogues who sailed under the black flag.

He looked more the soldier than the sailor as he strode along the wharf,
his lean, dark visage both grim and melancholy, his chin clean shaven,
his mustachios carefully cropped. There were respectful greetings from
the crowd of idlers and a gray-haired seaman all warped with rheumatism
spoke up louder than the rest.

"Good morrow to ye, Cap'n Bonnet! I be old Sam Griscom that sailed bos'n
with you on a marchant voyage out of Liverpool. An' now you are a fine
gentleman of fortune, with moidores and pieces of eight to fling at the
gals, an' here I be, a sheer hulk on the beach."

Captain Stede Bonnet halted, stared from beneath heavy brows, and a
smile made his seamed, sun-dried face almost gentle as he replied:

"It cheers me to run athwart a true old shipmate. A slant of ill
fortune, eh, Sam Griscom? You are too old and crippled to sail in the
_Royal James_. Here, and a blessing with the gift."

The pirate skipper rammed a hand in his pocket and flung a shower of
gold coins at the derelict seaman while the crowd cheered the generous
deed. It was easy to guess why Stede Bonnet was something of a hero in
Charles Town. He passed on and turned into the street. Most of his
ruffians were at his heels but one of the younger of them delayed to pay
his compliments to a pretty girl whose manner was sweet and shy and
gentle. She had remained aloof from the crowd, having some errand of her
own at the wharf, and evidently hoped to be unobserved. Jack Cockrell
had failed to notice her, absorbed as he was in gazing his fill of
Captain Stede Bonnet.

The girl resented the young pirate's gallantry and would have fled, but
he nimbly blocked her path. Just then Jack Cockrell happened to glance
that way and his anger flamed hot. He was about to run after Captain
Bonnet and beg him to interfere but the maid's distress was too urgent.
Her blackguardly admirer was trying to slip his arm around her trim
waist while he laughingly demanded a kiss from those fair lips. She
evaded him and screamed for help.

There were lusty townsmen among those who beheld the scene but they
sheepishly stood in their tracks and were afraid to punish the insolent
pirate with his dirk and pistols. He was much taller and heavier than
Jack Cockrell, the lad of seventeen, who came of gentlefolk and was
unused to brawls with weapons. But the youngster hesitated no more than
an instant, although his own pistol lacked a flint and was carried for
show.

His quick eye spied a capstan bar which he snatched up as a cudgel.
Chivalry had taught him that a man should never reckon the odds when a
woman appealed for succor. With a headlong rush he crossed the wharf and
swung the hickory bar. The pirate dodged the blow and whipped out his
dirk which slithered through Jack's shirt and scratched his shoulder.
Undismayed, he aimed a smashing blow at the pirate's wrist and the dirk
went spinning into the water.

The rascal tugged at a pistol in his belt but it was awkward work with
his left hand and he was bewildered by this amazing attack. Before he
could clear for action, Jack smote him on the pate and the battle ended
then and there, for the pirate staggered back, missed his footing, and
toppled overboard with a tremendous splash.

Leaping to the edge of the wharf, Jack saw him bob to the surface and
strike out for shore. Then the doughty young champion ran to offer his
escort to the damsel in distress. But she had hastened to slip away from
this hateful notoriety and he saw her at the bend of the street where
she turned to wave him a grateful farewell.

He would have hastened to overtake her but just then Captain Stede
Bonnet came striding back in a temper so black that it terrified his own
men. His wrath was not aimed at Jack Cockrell, for he laid a hand upon
the lad's arm and exclaimed:

"A shrewd stroke, boy, and a mettlesome spirit! You struck him swift and
hard. 'Twould please me better if you had killed the dog."

Stede Bonnet waited with folded arms until the culprit had emerged from
the water. Jack Cockrell had punished him severely and there was no more
fight in him. His head was reeling, the blood ran into his eyes, and he
had swallowed much salt water. Captain Bonnet crooked a finger at him
and he obeyed without a word. For a moment they stood face to face, the
wretched offender trembling, the captain scowling as he said:

"And so you mistook a lady for a common serving wench, Will Brant? Would
ye have Charles Town rise and reeve the ropes about our necks? Is this
your promise of good behavior? Learn a lesson then, poor fool."

With the steel-shod butt of a pistol Stede Bonnet hit him squarely
between the eyes. He dropped without a groan and lay stretched out as if
dead. The captain kicked him once and carelessly shouted:

"Ho, men! Toss this squire o' dames into the pinnace to await our
return. And harkee, take warning."

Jack Cockrell felt almost sorry for his fallen foeman but the other
pirates grinned and did as they were told. It was a trifling episode.
Resuming his stroll to the tavern, Captain Bonnet linked Jack's arm in
his and fairly towed him along while the assorted scoundrels trooped
behind them. It was shocking company for a lad of the most respectable
connections but he felt greatly flattered by the distinction. The name
of Stede Bonnet had spread terror from the Capes of the Chesapeake to
the blue waters of the Caribbean.

"And so you were unafraid of this bullying Will Brant of mine," said the
captain, with one of his pleasant smiles. "You clipped his comb right
handsomely. And who may ye be, my brave young sprig?"

"I am John Spencer Cockrell, may it please you, sir," was the answer.
"'Twas a small thing to do for a lady. Your pirate would have been too
much for me in a fair set-to."

"Pirate? A poor word!" objected Captain Bonnet, his accents severe but
the bold eyes twinkling. "We are loyal servants of the King, sworn to do
mischief to his lawful enemies,--to wit, all ships and sailors of Spain.
For such a young gentleman adventurer as you, Master Cockrell, there is
a berth in the _Royal James_. Will ye rendezvous at the tavern and sign
your fist to the articles?"

Jack stammered that his kinfolk would never consent, at which Captain
Bonnet forbore to coax him but kept a grip on his arm as though they
were chums who could not bear to be parted. Down the middle of the
street paraded this extraordinary company, the seamen breaking into a
song which ran:

          "In Bristowe I left Poll ashore,
             Well stored wi' togs an' gold,
           And off I go to sea for more,
             A-piratin' so bold.
           An' wounded in the arm I got,
             An' then a pretty blow;
           Comed home I find Poll's flowed away,
            _Yo, ho, with the rum below!_"

Charles Town might be glad to get the pirates' gold but it seemed a
timorous welcome, for the merchants peered from their doorways like
rabbits when the hounds are loose, and nervous old gentlemen took cover
in the near-by alleys. Stede Bonnet knew how to keep his men in hand and
allowed only part of the company ashore at once. They were like
hilarious children out for a lark, capering outside the tavern to the
music of a strolling fiddler or buying horses on the spot and trying to
ride them. When they were pitched off on their heads the mirth was
uproarious.

In a field beside the tavern some townsmen were shooting at a mark for a
prize of a dressed bullock while a group of gentlemen from the
plantations were intent on a cock-fight in the tap-room. Here was rare
pastime for the frolicsome blades of the _Royal James_ and soon they
were banging away with their pistols or betting their gold-pieces on the
steel-gaffed birds, singing the louder as the bottle was passed. Captain
Stede Bonnet stayed prudently sober, ready for any emergency, his
demeanor cool and watchful while he chatted with old acquaintances.

He talked often with Jack Cockrell to whom he had taken a strong fancy,
and pressed the lad to dine with him. Jack was uneasy at being seen so
publicly with a notorious pirate but the experience was delightful
beyond words. The captain asked him many questions, twisting his
mustachios and staring down from his commanding height with an air of
friendly interest. He had found a lad after his own heart.

The seamen tired of their sport and sought new diversion. Some of them
kicked off their boots and clinched in wrestling matches for prodigal
stakes of gold and jewels. Others found girls to dance with them or
wandered off to buy useless trinkets in the shops. Jack Cockrell knew he
ought to be posting home to dinner but he was tempted to accept Stede
Bonnet's cordial bidding. Boyish friends of his hovered near and
regarded him as a hero. No pirate captain had ever deigned to notice
them.

Alas for Jack and his puffed-up pride which was doomed to a sudden fall!
There advanced from a better quarter of the town a florid, foppishly
dressed gentleman of middle age who walked with a pompous gait. He was
stout-bodied and the heat of the day oppressed him. Mopping his face
with a lace handkerchief or fanning himself with his hat, he halted now
and then in a shady spot. Very mindful of his rank and dignity was Mr.
Peter Arbuthnot Forbes, sometime London barrister, at present Secretary
to the Council of the Province.

He differed from some of his neighbors in that he abominated pirates and
would have given them short shift. A trifle near-sighted, he was quite
close to the tavern before he espied his own nephew and ward, Jack
Cockrell, in this shameful company of roisterers. The august uncle
blinked, opened his mouth, and turned as red as a lobster. Indignation
choked his speech. For his part, Jack stood dumfounded and quaking, the
picture of a coward with a guilty conscience. He would have tried to
steal from sight but it was too late.

Captain Stede Bonnet enjoyed the tableau and several of his wicked
sailors were mimicking the pompous strut of Mr. Peter Arbuthnot Forbes.
Poor Jack mumbled some explanation but his irate uncle first paid his
respects to Captain Bonnet.

"Shame to you, sirrah," he cried in a voice that shook with passion. "A
man of good birth, by all accounts, who has fallen so low as to lead
these vile gallows-birds! And you would entice this lad of mine to
follow your dirty trade?"

Captain Bonnet doffed the great beaver hat and bowed low in mocking
courtesy. He perceived that this fussy lawyer was not wholly a popinjay,
for it required courage to insult a pirate to his face. The reply was
therefore milder than expected.

"Mayhap I am painted blacker than the fact, Councilor. As for this fine
stripling who has so disgraced himself, the fault is mine. He risked his
life to save a maid from harm. The deed won my affection."

"The maids of Charles Town would need to fear no harm if more pirates
were hanged, Captain Bonnet," roundly declared Mr. Forbes, shaking his
gold-tipped cane at the freebooter.

"'Tis fortunate for me that you lack the power, my fat and petulant
gentleman," was the smiling response.

"Laugh while you may," quoth the other. "These Provinces may soon
proclaim joint action against such pests as you."

With a shrug, the Secretary turned to his crestfallen nephew and sharply
exclaimed:

"Home with you, John Cockrell. You shall go dinnerless and be locked in
your room."

The seamen guffawed at this and Jack furiously resented their ridicule.
He was on the point of rebellion as he hotly retorted:

"I am no child to be treated thus, Uncle Peter. Didn't you hear Captain
Bonnet report that I had proved myself a man? I trounced one of his own
crew, a six-foot bully with a dirk and pistols."

"A fig for that," rapped out Uncle Peter. "Your bully was drunk and
helpless, I have no doubt. Will you bandy words with me?"

With this his plump fingers closed on Jack's elbow which he used as a
handle to lead him firmly and rapidly away. Behind them pranced a limber
young negro who showed every tooth in his head. Jack heard the derisive
laughter of the pirates who had hailed him as a hero. His cup of
bitterness overflowed when it occurred to him that Captain Bonnet would
despise a lad who could be led home in custody of a dandified tyrant of
an uncle.




CHAPTER II

THE MERCHANT TRADER, _PLYMOUTH ADVENTURE_


RUBBING his ear which Mr. Peter Arbuthnot Forbes had soundly boxed
before releasing him, Jack marched along in gloomy silence until he was
conducted into his small, unplastered room. His uncle stalked out and
shot the ponderous bolt behind him. Passing through the kitchen, he
halted to scold the black cook as a lazy slattern and then sat himself
down to a lonely meal. Jack was a problem which the finicky, middle-aged
bachelor had been unable to solve. He had undertaken the care of the boy
after his parents had died in the same week of a mysterious fever which
ravaged the settlement. The uncle failed to realize how fast this
strapping youngster was growing into manhood. He disliked punishing him
and was usually unhappy after one of these stormy episodes.

Mr. Peter Forbes pecked at his dinner with little appetite and his plump
face was clouded. Shoving back his chair, he paced the floor in a
fidgety manner and, at length, opened the door of Jack's room. The
hungry prisoner was lounging upon a wooden settle, his chin in his hand,
while he sullenly stared at the wall. Always mindful of his manners, he
slowly rose to his feet and waited for another scolding.

"I wish we might avoid such scenes as these, Jack," sadly observed Uncle
Peter, his hot temper cooled. "No sooner do you leave my sight than some
new mischief is afoot."

"You do not understand, sir," impatiently protested the nephew. "In your
eyes I am still the urchin who came out from England clinging to his
dear mother's skirts. Would ye have me pass my time with girls or have
no other friends than snuffy old Parson Throckmorton, my tutor, who
tries to pound the Greek and Latin into my thick skull?"

"He is a wise and ripened scholar who wastes his effort," was the dry
comment. "Most of the lads of the town are coarse louts who pattern
after their ribald elders, Jack. They will lead you into evil courses."

"I shall always pray God to be a gentleman, sir," was the spirited
response, "but I must learn to fight my own battles. Were it not for
hardy pastimes with these other stout lads, think you I could have
cracked the crown of a six-foot pirate?"

Uncle Peter gazed at the boy before he spoke. Tanned and hard and
muscular, this was a nephew to be proud of, a man in deeds if not in
years, and there was unswerving honesty in the straight mouth and firm
chin. The guardian sighed and then annoyance got the better of his
affection as he burst out:

"Perdition take all pirates! You were cozened by this hell-rake of a
Stede Bonnet and thought it a rare pleasure! John Spencer Cockrell, own
nephew to the Secretary of the Colony!"

"I did but copy older men of fair repute," demurely answered Jack, a
twinkle in his eye. "Graybeards of Parson Throckmorton's flock traffick
in merchandise with the pirates and are mighty civil to them, I note."

"A vile business!" cried Uncle Peter. "It was decided at the recent
conference in Virginia that I should go to England as a delegate to lay
before His Majesty's Government such evidence as might invoke aid in our
campaign against the pirates. It was my intention to leave you in care
of Parson Throckmorton, Jack, but I have now resolved to take you with
me. And you will remain at school in England. No more of this boon
comradeship with villains like Stede Bonnet."

Poor Jack looked most unhappy at the tidings. It was not at all in
accord with his ambitions. Here was worse punishment than he had dreamed
his uncle could inflict. Dolefully he exclaimed:

"To live in tame and stupid England, locked up in a school? Why, I am
big enough to join the forays against the Indians, or to fight bloody
battles against the pirates if you really mean to chastise them. But I
cannot promise to attack Captain Bonnet. He is a friend of mine."

"You shall come to see him hanged," shouted Mr. Peter Arbuthnot Forbes,
very red in the face. "The merchant ship _Plymouth Adventure_ is
expected soon, and you and I shall take passage in her for Merry
England, thanking heaven to see the last of the barbarous Carolinas for
a time."

"Thank your own thanks, sir," grumbled Jack. "Captain Bonnet may be a
pirate but he is not nearly so heartless as my own uncle. He asked me to
dinner at the tavern. I am faint for lack of food. My stomach sticks to
my ribs. 'Tis a great pity you were never a growing boy yourself. For a
platter of cold meat and bread I will take my oath to chop you a pile of
firewood as high as the kitchen."

The gaoler relented and bustled out to ransack the pantry. Having
demolished a joint and a loaf, young John Spencer Cockrell was in a mood
much less melancholy. In fact, when he swung the axe behind the fence of
hewn palings, he was humming the refrain of that wicked ditty: "_Yo, Ho,
with the Rum Below!_" He was tremendously sorry that he had been
snatched away from the engaging society of Captain Bonnet and his wild
crew, and the future had a gloomy aspect, but even these grievances were
forgotten when he descried, in a lane which led past the house, the
lovely maid whose cause he had championed at the wharf.

She was Dorothy, only daughter of Colonel Malcolm Stuart who commanded
the militia forces of the Colony. Although she was the elder by two or
three years and gave herself the airs of a young lady, Jack Cockrell
hopelessly, secretly adored her. It was an anti-climax for a hero to be
serving out his sentence at the wood-pile and he turned his back to the
gate while he made the chips fly. But Dorothy had no intention of
ignoring him. She paused with a smile so winsome that Jack's heart
fluttered and he dropped the axe to grasp her outstretched hand. He
squeezed it so hard that Dorothy winced as she said:

"What a masterful man it is, but please don't crush my poor fingers. I
fled from those pirates at the wharf, Jack, instead of waiting to offer
you my most humble thanks. Will you accept them now? They come straight
from the heart."

For such a reward as this Jack would have fought a dozen pirates. Baring
his head, he murmured bashfully:

"A trifling service, Mistress Dorothy, and 'tis my devout hope that I
may always be ready in time of need."

"So?" she exclaimed, with mischief in her eyes. "I believe you would
slay a pirate each morning before breakfast, should I ask it."

"Or any other small favors like that," gallantly returned Jack.

"A proper courtier," cried Dorothy. "My father will thank you when he
returns from North Carolina. When I ventured to the wharf this morning
it was in hopes of sighting his armed sloop."

The dwelling of Mr. Peter Arbuthnot Forbes was at some distance from the
tavern which was on the sloping ground that overlooked the harbor, among
the spreading live-oaks and magnolias. Borne on the breeze came the
sounds of Stede Bonnet's pirates at their revels, pistol shots, wild
choruses, drunken yells. Jack was not disturbed although Mistress
Dorothy moved closer and laid a hand on his arm. Presently the tumult
ceased, abruptly, and now Jack was perplexed. It might mean a sudden
recall to the ship. Something was in the wind. The youth and the maid
stood listening. Jack was about to scramble to the roof of the house in
order to gaze toward the harbor but Dorothy bade him stay with her. Her
fair cheek had paled and she shivered with a vague apprehension.

This sudden stillness was uncanny, threatening. Soon, however, a trumpet
blew a long, shrill call to arms, and they heard one hoarse, jubilant
huzza after another.

"Have Stede Bonnet's pirates mustered to sack the town?" implored
Dorothy.

"I can speedily find out," replied her protector.

"Oh, I pray you not to leave me," she tremulously besought him.

"Captain Bonnet will wreak no harm on Charles Town," Jack assured her.
"I know him too well for that. You saw what he did to the base varlet
who annoyed you at the wharf,--felled him like an ox."

"If only my father were here, to call out the troops and rout this
rabble of sea rogues, Jack dear," was her fluttering prayer.

A little after this, the tumult increased and it was drawing nearer. It
was a martial clamor of men on the march, with the rattle of drums and a
loud fanfare of trumpets. Mr. Peter Arbuthnot Forbes came running out of
the house, all flustered and waving his hands, and ordered the two young
people indoors. The servants were closing the heavy wooden shutters and
sliding the bars across the doors.

Jack slipped out into the lane and hailed a neighbor who dashed past.
The news was babbled in fragments and Jack scurried back to blurt to his
uncle:

"An Indian raid,--the savages are within a dozen miles of Charles Town,
laying waste the plantations,--slaying the laborers. The militia is
called to arms but they lack a leader. Colonel Stuart is sorely missed.
Captain Bonnet called another boat-load of his pirates ashore, and they
march in the van to assail the Indians. May I go with them, Uncle Peter?
Must I play the coward and the laggard?"

"Nonsense, John Cockrell. These mad pirates have addled your wits. Shall
I let you be scalped by these painted fiends of Yemassees?"

"Then you will volunteer in my stead," shrewdly ventured Jack, with a
glance at Dorothy.

"Um-m. Duty and my official cares prevent," quoth the worshipful
Secretary of the Colony, frowning and pursing his lips. Dorothy smiled
at this and winked at Jack. Uncle Peter was rated a better lawyer than a
valiant man of war.

"Let us stand at a window," exclaimed the girl. "Ah, they come! My
faith, but this is a brave array. And Captain Bonnet leads them well."

She had never expected to praise a pirate but there was no denying that
this lean, straight rover in the scarlet coat and great cocked hat
looked the part of a competent and intrepid soldier. He was superbly fit
for the task in hand. Catching sight of Jack Cockrell and Dorothy Stuart
in the window, he saluted by raising the hilt of his cutlass and his
melancholy visage brightened in a smile.

Behind him tramped his men in column of fours, matchlocks across their
shoulders, bright weapons swinging against their thighs as they sang all
together and kept step to the beat of the drums.

          "But ere to Execution Bay,
             The wind these bones do blow,
           I'll drink an' fight what's left away,
            _Yo, ho, with the rum below_."

Behind these hardy volunteers straggled as many of the militia company
as had been able to answer the sudden call, merchants, clerks, artisans,
and vagabonds who seemed none too eager to meet the bloodthirsty
Yemassees. Their wives and children trailed after them to the edge of
the town, amidst tears and loud lamentations. The contrast did not
escape the eye of Mr. Peter Arbuthnot Forbes who reluctantly admitted:

"Give the devil his due, say I. These wicked brethren of the coast go
swaggering off of their own free will, as though it were to a frolic. I
will remember it in their favor when they come to hang."

A long roll of the drums and a lilting flourish by the pirate trumpeter
as a farewell to Charles Town and its tavern and its girls, and the
company passed from view. The lane was again deserted and silent and
Jack offered to escort Dorothy Stuart to her own home. As they loitered
across an open field, he cried in a fierce flare of rebellion:

"My good uncle will drive me too far. Let him sail for old England and
leave me to find my own career. Upon my soul, I may run away to join a
pirate ship."

Dorothy tried to look grave at this dreadful announcement but a dimple
showed in her cheek as she replied:

"My dear Jack, you can never be braver but you will be wiser some day.
Banish such silly thoughts. You must obey your lawful guardian."

"But did you see the lads in the militia company? Two or three of them I
have whipped in fair fight. And Uncle Peter wants to keep me tucked in a
cradle."

"Softly, Jack," said she, with pretty solicitude. "Stede Bonnet has
bewitched you utterly."

The stubborn youth shook his head. This day of humiliation had been the
last straw. He was ripe for desperate adventure. It would have made him
happy and contented to be marching against the Indians with Stede Bonnet
and his cut-throats, in peril of tomahawks and ambuscades.

Small wonder that poor Jack Cockrell's notions of right and wrong were
rather confused, for he lived in an age when might ruled blue water,
when every ship was armed and merchant seamen fought to save their skins
as well as their cargoes. English, French, Spanish, and Dutch, they
plundered each other on the flimsiest pretexts and the pirates harried
them all.

Still sulky, Jack betook himself to the rectory next morning for his
daily bout with his studies. Parson Throckmorton was puttering in the
garden, a shrunken little man who wore black small-clothes, lace at his
wrists, and a powdered wig. Opening the silver snuff-box he almost
sneezed the wig off before he chirruped:

"Ye mind me of Will Shakespeare's whining schoolboy, Master
John,--creeping like snail unwillingly to school. A treat is in store
for us to-day, a signal treat! We begin our Virgil. '_Arma virumque
cano._'"

"Arms and a man? I like that much of it," glowered the mutinous scholar,
"but my uncle makes me sing a different tune."

"He accepted my advice,--that you be educated in England," said the
parson.

"Then I may hold you responsible for this hellish thing?" angrily
declaimed Jack. "Were it not for your white hairs----"

He subsided and had the grace to apologize as they entered the library.
The tutor was an impatient old gentleman and the pupil was so
inattentive that his knuckles were sharply rapped with a ruler. A
blunder more glaring and the ruler came down with another whack. This
was too much for Jack who jumped up, rubbed his knuckles, and shouted:

"Enough, sir. I would have you know that I all but killed a big, ugly
pirate yesterday."

"So rumor informs me," rasped Parson Throckmorton, "but you will give
yourself no grand airs with me. Construe this passage properly or I must
tan those leather breeches with a limber rod."

This was too much for the insulted Jack who slammed down the book,
clapped on his hat, and tramped from the room in high dudgeon. Such
scurvy treatment as this was fairly urging him to a life of crime on the
rolling ocean. He wandered down to the wharf and wistfully gazed at the
lawless brig, _Royal James_, which swam at her anchorage in trim and
graceful beauty. A few men moved briskly on deck, painting the bulwarks
or polishing brass. Evidently Stede Bonnet had sent off word to be all
taut and ready to hoist sail for another cruise.

After a while the truant went homeward and manfully confessed to the
quarrel with Parson Throckmorton. Uncle Peter Forbes was amazingly mild.
There was no gusty outbreak of temper and, in fact, he had little to
say. It was in his mind to patch up a truce with his troublesome nephew
pending their departure for England. He even suggested that the studies
be dropped and advised Jack to go fishing in his canoe.

Several days later, Captain Bonnet and his pirates came back from their
foray against the Indians. They were a foot-sore, weary band, the
wounded carried in litters and several men missing. Their gay garments
were caked with mud, the finery all tatters, and most of them were
marked with cuts and scratches, but they pulled themselves together and
swaggered into Charles Town as boldly as ever to the music of trumpet
and drum. Stede Bonnet carried an arm in a sling. As he passed the
Secretary's house he cheerily called out to Jack:

"Ahoy, my young comrade! 'Twill please you to know that fair Mistress
Dorothy Stuart may sleep in peace."

"Did you scatter the savages, sir?" asked Jack, running out to shake his
hand.

"God bless ye, boy, we exterminated 'em."

The gratitude of Mr. Peter Arbuthnot Forbes was stronger than his
dislike and he came out to thank the captain in behalf of the citizens
of Charles Town. To his excited questions the pirate replied:

"There be old buccaneers from Hispaniola in my crew, may it please Your
Excellency,--fellows who hunted the Indians in their youth,--tracked 'em
like hounds through forest and bayou. Others served their time with the
log-wood cutters of Yucatan. They laughed at the tricks of these
Yemassees of the Carolinas."

One of the militia company broke in to say to Mr. Forbes:

"Your Honor's own plantation was saved from the torch by this doughty
Captain Bonnet. It was there he pulled the flint arrow-head from his arm
and was near bleeding to death."

Mr. Peter Forbes could do no less than invite the pirate into the house,
for the wounded arm had been rudely bandaged and was in sore need of
dressing. Jack fetched a tray of cakes and wine while his uncle bawled
at the servants who came running with soft cloths and hot water and
healing lotions. Captain Bonnet protested that the hurt was trifling and
carelessly explained:

"My own ship's surgeon was spitted on a boarding-pike in our last action
at sea and I have not found me another one. You show much skill and
tenderness, sir."

"The wound is deep and ragged. Hold still," commanded Mr. Peter Forbes.
"You have been a soldier, Captain Bonnet, commended for valor on the
fields of Europe and holding the king's commission. Why not seek pardon
and serve with the armed forces of this province? My services in the
matter are yours to command."

Stede Bonnet frowned and bit his lip. All he said was:

"You meddle with matters that concern you not, my good sir. I am a man
able to make my own free choice."

"Captain Bonnet does honor to the trade of piracy," cried the admiring
Jack, at which his uncle declared, with a wrathful gesture:

"I must remove this daft lad to England to be rid of you, Stede Bonnet.
You have cast a wicked spell over him."

"To England?" said the pirate, with a sympathetic glance at the boy. "I
would sooner lie in gaol."

"And reap your deserts," snapped Uncle Peter.

"No doubt of that," frankly agreed the pirate. "And what thinks the lad
of this sad penance?"

"I hate it," was Jack's swift answer. "Will you grant our merchant ship
safe conduct, Captain Bonnet?"

"What ship, boy? You have only to name her. She will go scathless, as
far as in my power."

"The _Plymouth Adventure_," replied Jack. "It would ruin my uncle's
temper beyond all mending to be taken by pirates."

"I pledge you my word," swore Stede Bonnet. "Moreover, if trouble
befall you by sea or land, Master Cockrell, I pray you send me tidings
and you will have a friend in need."

That night those who dwelt near the harbor heard the clank of a windlass
as the crew of the _Royal James_ hove the cable short, and the
melodious, deep-throated refrain of a farewell chantey floated across
the quiet water. With the flood of the tide and a landward breeze, the
brig stole out across the bar while the topsails were sheeted home. When
daylight dawned, she had vanished in the empty reaches of the Atlantic.

The brig sailed without Jack Cockrell. His shrewd uncle saw to that. It
was not by accident that a constable of the town watch loitered in the
lane by the Secretary's house. And Uncle Peter himself was careful not
to let the lad out of his sight until the beguiling Stede Bonnet had
left his haunts in Charles Town. Life resumed its routine next day but
the boy's whole current of thought had been changed. He was restless,
craving some fresh excitement and hoping that more pirates might come
roaring to the tavern green.

He found welcome diversion when the _Plymouth Adventure_, merchant
trader, arrived from London after a famous passage of thirty-two days to
the westward. Her master's orders were to make quick dispatch and return
with freight and passengers direct from Charles Town. Jack was given no
more leisure to brood over his own misfortunes. There were many errands
to be done for Mr. Peter Forbes, besides the chests and boxes to be
packed and stoutly corded. As was the custom, they had to supply their
own furniture for the cabin in the ship and Jack Cockrell enjoyed the
frequent trips aboard.

He found much to interest him in the sedate, bearded Captain Jonathan
Wellsby of the _Plymouth Adventure_, in the crew of hearty British tars
who feared neither man nor devil, in the battery of nine-pounders, the
stands of boarding-pikes, and the triced hammock nettings to protect the
vessel against hand-to-hand encounters with pirates. The voyage might be
worth while, after all. There were to be a dozen of passengers, several
ladies among them. The most distinguished was Mr. Peter Arbuthnot
Forbes, Secretary of the Provincial Council, who was accorded the
greatest respect and given the largest cabin.

It was an important event when the _Plymouth Adventure_ hoisted all her
bunting on sailing day and Charles Town flocked to the harbor with
wistful envy of the lucky people who were bound home to old England.
There were sad faces among those left behind to endure the perils,
hardships and loneliness of pioneers. Jack Cockrell's heart beat high
when he saw sweet Dorothy Stuart in the throng. He tarried ashore with
her until the boatswain's pipe trilled from the _Plymouth Adventure_ to
summon the passengers on board. Colonel Stuart, blonde and bronzed and
stalwart, escorted his winsome daughter and he praised Jack for his
deed of courage, telling him:

"There will soon be fewer pirates for you to trounce, I hope, my lad."

"The town will be a stupid place without a visit from the jolly rovers
now and then," honestly replied Jack, at which Colonel Stuart laughed
and his daughter suggested:

"With my brave knight in distant England, deliver me from any more
pirates."

Jack blushed and was both happy and sad when the dear maid took a flower
from her bodice and gave it to him as a token of remembrance. He
solemnly tucked it away in a pocket, stammered his farewells, and went
to join his uncle who waited in the yawl at the wharf. Once on board the
_Plymouth Adventure_, they were swept into a bustle and confusion.
Captain Jonathan Wellsby was in haste to catch a fair wind and make his
offing before nightfall. His sailors ran to and fro, jumping at the
word, active and cheery. Stately and slow, the high-pooped merchant
trader filled away on the larboard tack and pointed her lofty bowsprit
seaward.

The watches were set, ropes coiled down, and the tackles of the cannon
overhauled. The skipper paced the after-deck, a long telescope under his
arm, while the passengers lined the rail and gazed at the rude
settlement that was slowly dropping below the horizon. The sea was
tranquil and the breeze steady. The ship was clothed in canvas which
bellied to drive her eastward with a frothing wake. Safely she left the
outer bar astern and wallowed in the ocean swell.

The afternoon sun was sinking when a sail gleamed like a bit of cloud
against the southerly sky. Captain Wellsby held to his course and showed
no uneasiness. Soon another sail became visible and then a third, these
two smaller than the first. They might be honest merchantmen steering in
company, but the skipper consulted with his mates and the spy-glass
passed from hand to hand. The passengers were at supper in the cuddy and
their talk and laughter came through the open skylights.

Presently the boatswain piped the crew to quarters and the men moved
quietly to their battle stations, opening the gun-ports and casting
loose the lashings. The boys fetched paper cartridges of powder in
buckets from the magazine and the gunners lighted the matches of tow.
Cutlasses were buckled on and the pikes were scattered along the
bulwarks ready to be snatched up.

It was impossible to escape these three strange vessels by beating back
to Charles Town, for the _Plymouth Adventure_ made lubberly work of it
when thrashing to windward. She was a swift ship, however, before a fair
wind, and Captain Wellsby resolved to run for it, hoping to edge away
from danger if his suspicions should be confirmed.

Before sunset the largest of the strange sail shifted her course as
though to set out in chase and overhaul the deep-laden merchant trader.
Captain Wellsby stood near the tiller, his hands clasped behind him, a
solid, dependable figure of a British mariner. The passengers were
crowding around him in distressful agitation but he calmly assured them
a stern chase was a long chase and he expected to slip away under cover
of night. So far as he was aware, no pirates, excepting Stede Bonnet,
had been recently reported in these waters.

Here Mr. Peter Forbes broke in to say that the _Plymouth Adventure_ had
naught to fear from Captain Bonnet who had pledged his word to let her
sail unmolested. Other passengers scoffed at the absurd notion of
trusting a pirate's oath, but the pompous Secretary of the Council could
not be cried down. He was a canny critic of human nature and he knew an
honorable pirate when he met him.

It was odd, but in a pinch like this the dapper, finicky Councilor Peter
Arbuthnot Forbes displayed an unshaken courage as became a gentleman of
his position, while young Jack Cockrell had suddenly changed his opinion
of the fascinating trade of piracy. He had not the slightest desire to
investigate it at any closer range. His knees were inclined to wobble
and his stomach felt qualms. His uncle twitted him as a braggart ashore
who sang a different tune afloat. The lad's grin was feeble as he
retorted that he took his pirates one at a time.

The largest vessel of the pursuit came up at a tremendous pace, reeling
beneath an extraordinary spread of canvas, her spray-swept hull
disclosing an armament of thirty guns, the decks swarming with men. She
was no merchant ship, this was already clear, but there was still the
hope that she might be a man-of-war or a privateer. Captain Wellsby
looked in vain for her colors. At length he saw a flag whip from the
spanker gaff. He laid down the glass with a profound sigh.

The flag was black with a sinister device, a white blotch whose outline
suggested a human skull.

Captain Wellsby gazed again and carefully examined the two sloops which
were acting in concert with the thirty-gun ship. It was a squadron, and
the brave _Plymouth Adventure_ was hopelessly outmatched. To fight meant
a slaughter with never a chance of survival.

The passengers had made no great clamor until the menacing ship drew
close enough for them to descry the dreadful pennant which showed as a
sable blot against the evening sky. Two women fainted and others were
seized with violent hysteria. Their shrill screams were so distressing
that the skipper ordered them to be lugged below and shut in their
cabins. Mr. Peter Forbes had plumped himself down upon a coil of hawser,
as if utterly disgusted, but he implored the captain to blaze away at
the besotted scoundrels as long as two planks held together. The
Honorable Secretary of the Council had been too outspoken in his
opinions of pirates to expect kindness at their hands.

The sailors also expected no quarter but they sullenly crouched at the
gun-carriages, gripping the handspikes and blowing the matches while
they waited for the word. The pirate ship was now reaching to windward
of the _Plymouth Adventure_, heeling over until her decks were in full
view. Upon the poop stood a man of the most singular appearance. He was
squat and burly and immensely broad across the shoulders. What made him
grotesque was a growth of beard which swept almost to his waist and
covered his face like a hairy curtain. In it were tied bright streamers
of crimson ribbon. Evidently this fantastic monster was proud of his
whiskers and liked to adorn them.

The laced hat with a feather in it, the skirted coat of buff and blue
which flapped around his bow-legs, and the rows of gold buttons across
his chest were in slovenly imitation of a naval uniform. But there was
nothing like naval discipline on those crowded decks where half the crew
appeared to be drunk and the rest of them cursing each other.

Captain Jonathan Wellsby smothered a groan and his stern mouth twitched
as he said to his chief mate:

"God's mercy on us! 'Tis none other than the bloody Edward Teach,--that
calls himself Blackbeard! My information was that he still cruised off
the Spanish Main and refitted his ships in the Bay of Honduras."

"The madman of the sea," said the stolid mate. "A bad day for us when he
sailed to the north'ard. He kills for the pleasure of it. Now Stede
Bonnet loots such stuff as takes his fancy and----"

"He loves to fight a king's ship for the sport of it," broke in the
skipper, "but this murderer---- An unlucky voyage for the old _Plymouth
Adventure_ and all hands, Mate."

One of the women who had been suffered to remain on deck was close
enough to overhear the direful news. Her hands to heaven, she wailed:

"Blackbeard! Oh, my soul, we are as good as dead, or worse. Fight and
sink him, dear captain. What shall I do? What shall I do? If I had only
minded the dream I had the night before we sailed----"

Jack Cockrell sat down beside his uncle, a limp and sorry youth for one
who had offered to slay a six-foot pirate before breakfast to please a
pretty maid. With a sickly grin he murmured:

"This cockerel crowed too loud, Uncle Peter. Methinks I share your
distaste for piracy."




CHAPTER III

HELD AS HOSTAGES TO BLACKBEARD


TO discover the pestilent Blackbeard in Carolina waters was like a
thunderbolt from a clear sky. Captain Wellsby had felt confident that he
could beat off the ordinary pirate craft which was apt to be smaller
than his own stout ship. And most of these unsavory gentry were mere
salt-water burglars who had little taste for hard fighting. The master
of the _Plymouth Adventure_, so pious and sedate, was a brave man to
whom the thought of surrender was intolerable. From what he knew of
Blackbeard, it was useless to try to parley for the lives of his
passengers. Better it was to answer with double-shotted guns than to beg
for mercy.

The British tars, stripped to the waist, turned anxious eyes to the
skipper upon the quarter-deck while they quaffed pannikins of rum and
water and cracked many a rough jest. They fancied death no more than
other men, but seafaring was a perilous trade and they were toughened to
its hazards. They were facing hopeless odds but let the master shout the
command and they would send the souls of some of these pirates sizzling
down to hell before the _Plymouth Adventure_ sank, a splintered hulk, in
the smoke of her own gunpowder.

Captain Wellsby delayed his decision a moment longer. Something most
unusual had attracted his attention. A ball of smoke puffed from a port
of Blackbeard's ship, but the round shot splashed beyond the bowsprit of
the _Plymouth Adventure_ instead of thudding into her oaken side. This
was a signal to heave to. It was a courtesy both unexpected and
perplexing, because Blackbeard's habit was to let fly with all the guns
that could bear as the summons to submit. Presently a dingy bit of cloth
fluttered just beneath the black flag. It looked like the remains of a
pirate's shirt which had once been white.

"A signal for a truce?" muttered Captain Wellsby. "A ruse, mayhap, but
the rogue has no need to resort to trickery."

The two sloops of Blackbeard's squadron, spreading tall, square
topsails, came driving down to windward in readiness to fire their
bow-chasers and form in line of battle. The passengers of the _Plymouth
Adventure_, snatching at the chance of safety, implored the skipper to
send his men away from the guns lest a rash shot might be their ruin.
They prayed him to respect the precious flag of truce and to ascertain
the meaning of it. Mystified and wavering in his purpose, he told the
mates to back the main-yard and heave the ship to.

Upon his own deck Blackbeard was stamping to and fro, bellowing at his
crew while he flourished a broadsword by way of emphasis. The hapless
company of the _Plymouth Adventure_ shivered at the very sight of him
and yet there was something almost ludicrous in the antics of this
atrocious pirate, as though he were play-acting upon the stage of a
theatre. He had tucked up the tails of his military coat because the
wind whipped them about his bandy legs and made him stumble. The flowing
whiskers also proved bothersome, wherefore he looped them back over his
ears by means of the bows of crimson ribbon. This seemed to be his
personal fashion of clearing for action.

"There be pirates and pirates," critically observed Mr. Peter Forbes as
he stared at the unpleasant Blackbeard. "This is a filthy beast, Jack,
and he was badly brought up. He has no manners whatever."

"Parson Throckmorton would take him for the devil himself," gloomily
answered the lad.

And now they saw Blackbeard raise a speaking-trumpet to his lips and
heard the hoarse voice come down the wind with this message:

"The ship ahoy! Steady as ye be, blast your eyes, or I'll lay aboard and
butcher all hands."

He turned and yelled commands to the two sloops which now rolled within
pistol-shot. In helter-skelter style but with great speed, one boat
after another was lowered away and filled with armed pirates. They rowed
toward the _Plymouth Adventure_ and there were enough of them to carry
her by boarding. In addition to this, she was directly under the guns of
Blackbeard's powerful ship. One valorous young gentleman passenger
whipped out a rapier and swore to perish with his face to the foe, but
Captain Wellsby kicked him into the cabin and fastened the scuttle. This
was no time for dramatics.

"It looks that the old ruffian comes on a peaceful errand," said the
skipper, by way of comfort. But the hysterical ladies below decks
redoubled their screams and one substantial merchant of Charles Town
scrambled down to hide himself among them. Mr. Peter Arbuthnot Forbes
folded his arms and there was no sign of weakness in his pink
countenance. His dignity still sustained him.

As agile as monkeys, the mob of pirates poured over the bulwark,
slashing through the hammock nettings, and swept forward in a compact
mass, driving Captain Wellsby's seamen before them and penning them in
the forecastle. Having cleared the waist of the ship, they loitered
there until a few of them discovered the galley and pantry. They swept
the shelves and lockers bare of food like a pack of famished wolves.
Jack Cockrell looked at them from the poop and perceived that they were
a gaunt, ragged lot. The skins of some were yellow like parchment, and
fits of trembling overtook them. Something more than dissipation ailed
them.

With a body-guard of the sturdiest men, Blackbeard clambered up the
poop ladder and, with wicked oaths, told the skipper to stand forth.
Clean and trig and carefully dressed, Captain Jonathan Wellsby
confronted these savage, unwashed pirates and calmly demanded to know
their errand. It was plain to read that Blackbeard thought himself an
imposing figure. With a smirk and a grimace he bowed clumsily to a woman
on deck who had refused to desert her husband. He growled like a bear at
Captain Wellsby and prodded the poor man with his cutlass as he
thundered:

"You tried my patience, shipmaster, with your cracking on sail. A little
more and I'd ha' slit your throat. Blood an' wounds, would ye dare to
vex Blackbeard?"

Captain Wellsby faced him with unshaken composure and returned in a
strong voice:

"I beg no favors for myself but these helpless people, women amongst
them, came on board with my assurance of safety. They have friends and
kinsmen in Charles Town who will ransom them in gold."

Blackbeard's mien was a shade less ferocious as he cried:

"Gold? Can it cool a fever or heal a festering sore? A score of my men
are down and the others are tottering ghosts. Medicines I must have. A
foul plague on those ports of the Spanish Main which laid my fine lads
by the heels."

Jack Cockrell, who had retreated to the taffrail, decided that this
unkempt pirate was not so absurd as he appeared. There was the strength
of a giant in those hulking shoulders and in the long arms which bulged
the coat-sleeves, and the man moved with a quickness which made that
clumsy air deceptive. The beard masked his features but the eye was keen
and roving, and he had a trick of baring his teeth in a nasty snarl. He
uttered no more threats, however, and seemed to be anxiously awaiting
the reply of Captain Wellsby, who said:

"The few medicines and simples in my chest will not suffice your need.
Your ships are rotten with the Spanish fever."

"A ransom, shipmaster?" exclaimed the pirate. "'Twas in my mind when I
flew a white flag for parley. I will hold some of your fine passengers
as hostages while the others go in to rake Charles Town for medicines to
fetch back to my fleet."

"You will send my ship in?" asked the skipper.

"No! This _Plymouth Adventure_ is my good prize and I will overhaul the
cargo and sink her at my leisure. My ship will tack in to Charles Town
bar. Then let the messengers go in the long-boat to find the store of
medicines. Harkee, shipmaster,--two days, no longer, for their return!
Failing this, the hostages feed the fishes. Such sport 'ud liven the
hearts of my doleful seamen."

It was a shameful bargain, thus to submit to a pirate's whim, but the
wretched ship's company hailed it as a glad surprise. They had stood in
the shadow of death and this was a respite and a chance of salvation.
Captain Wellsby was heart-sick with humiliation but it was not for him
to take into his hands the fate of all these others. Sadly he nodded
assent. Jack Cockrell nudged his uncle and whispered:

"Why doesn't he sail in with his three ships and take what he likes? The
town lies helpless against such a force as this."

"Ssh-h, be silent," was the warning. "He is a wary bird of prey and he
fears a trap. He dare not attack the port, since he lacks knowledge of
its defenses."

Jack's cheek was rosy again and his knees had ceased to tremble. There
was no immediate prospect of walking the plank. To be captured by
Blackbeard was a finer adventure than strutting arm-in-arm with Captain
Stede Bonnet. It was mournful, indeed, that Captain Wellsby should have
to lose his ship but 'tis an ill wind that blows nobody good and the
voyage to England, which Jack had loathed from the bottom of his heart,
was indefinitely postponed. Such an experience as this was apt to
discourage Uncle Peter Forbes from trying it again.

There were sundry chicken-hearted passengers anxious to curry favor with
Blackbeard, who gabbled when they should have held their tongues, and in
this manner he learned that he had bagged the honorable Secretary of the
Provincial Council. The bewhiskered pirate slapped his thighs and roared
with glee.

"Damme, but he looks it! Alack that my sorry need of medicines compels
me to give quarter! Would I might swing this fat Secretary from a
topsail yard! And a rogue of a lawyer to boot! He tempts me----"

"I demand the courtesy due a hostage," exclaimed Mr. Peter Forbes.

"Ho, ho, you shall be my lackey,--the chief messenger," laughed
Blackbeard, showing his yellow teeth. "Hat in hand, begging medicines
for me."

The honorable Secretary was near apoplexy. He could only sputter and
cough. He was to be sent as an errand boy to the people of Charles Town,
at the brutal behest of this unspeakable knave, but refusal meant death
and there were his fellow captives to consider. He thought of his nephew
and was about to plead that Jack be sent along with him when Blackbeard
demanded:

"What of the boy? He takes my eye. No pursy swine of a lawyer could sire
a lad of his brawn and inches."

"I am Master Cockrell," Jack answered for himself, "and I would have you
more courteous to my worthy uncle."

It was a speech so bold that the scourge of the Spanish Main tugged at
his whiskers with an air of comical perplexity. The headstrong Jack was
keen enough to note that he had made an impression and he rashly added:

"'Tis not long since I knocked a pirate on the head for incivility."

Mr. Peter Forbes gazed aghast, with slackened jaw, expecting to see his
mad nephew cut down by the sweep of a broadsword, but Blackbeard merely
grinned and slapped the lad half-way across the deck with a buffet of
his open hand. Dizzily Jack picked himself up and was furiously scolded
by his uncle. Their lives hung by a hair and this was no time to play
the fool. For once, however, Jack was the wiser of the two. In an
amiable humor Blackbeard exclaimed:

"And so this strapping young jackanapes knocks pirates on the head!
There be lazy dogs among my men that well deserve it. You shall stay
aboard, Master Cockrell, whilst the juicy lubber of a lawyer voyages
into Charles Town. He may sweat an' strive the more if I hold you as his
security. Zounds, I'll make a gentleman rover of ye, Jack, for I like
your mettle."

It was futile for the unhappy uncle to argue the matter. He could only
obey the tyrant's pleasure and hope for a speedy return and the release
of the terrified passengers. The _Plymouth Adventure_ was ordered to
haul her course to the westward and jog under easy sail toward the
Charles Town bar. Blackbeard was rowed off to his own ship, the
_Revenge_, leaving his sailing-master and a prize crew. These amused
themselves by dragging the weeping women on deck and robbing them of
their jewels and money, but no worse violence was offered. Middle-aged
matrons and elderly spinsters, they were neither young nor fair enough
to be stolen as pirates' brides.

The _Revenge_ and the two sloops hovered within sight of the _Plymouth
Adventure_ and their sails gleamed phantom-like in the darkness. There
was little sleep aboard the captured merchant trader. Some of the
pirates amused themselves with hauling chests and boxes out of the
cabins and spilling the contents about the deck in riotous disorder. One
sprightly outlaw arrayed himself in a silken petticoat and flowered
bodice and paraded as a languishing lady with false curls until the
others pelted him with broken bottles and tar buckets. By the flare of
torches they ransacked the ship for provisions, cordage, canvas, and
heaped them ready to be dumped into boats.

Jack Cockrell looked on until he was too drowsy to stay awake and fell
asleep on deck, his head pillowed on his arm. Through the night the
watches were changed to the harsh summons of the pirate sailing-master
or his mate. Once Jack awoke when a seaman staggered into the moonlight
with blood running down his face. He was not likely to be caught napping
on watch again.

At dawn the _Plymouth Adventure_ was astir and the _Revenge_ ran close
aboard to watch Mr. Peter Arbuthnot Forbes and two prosperous merchants
of Charles Town bundled into the long-boat. Blackbeard shouted bloody
threats through his trumpet, reminding them that he would allow no more
than two days' grace for their errand ashore. Uncle Peter was deeply
affected as he embraced his nephew and kissed him on the cheek. Jack's
eyes were wet and he faltered, with unsteady voice:

"Forgive me, sir, for all the trouble I have made you. Never did I
expect a parting like this."

"A barbarous coast, Jack, and a hard road to old England," smiled the
Secretary of the Council. "Have a stout heart. By God's grace I shall
soon deliver you from these sea vermin."

The boy watched the long-boat hoist sail with a grizzled, scarred old
boatswain from the _Revenge_ at the tiller. It drove for the blue
fairway of the channel between the frothing shoals of the bar and made
brave headway for the harbor. Then the ships stood out to sea to go
clear of a lee shore and the captives of the _Plymouth Adventure_
endured the harrowing suspense with such courage as they could muster.
Should any accident delay the return of the long-boat beyond two days,
even head winds or foul weather, or if there was lack of medicines in
the town, they were doomed to perish.

Jack Cockrell endured it with less anguish than the other wretched
hostages. He had the sublime confidence of youth in its own destiny and
he had found a chum in a boyish pirate named Joseph Hawkridge who said
he had sailed out of London as an apprentice seaman in a ketch bound to
Jamaica. He had been taken out of his ship by Blackbeard, somewhere off
the Azores, and compelled to enlist or walk the plank. At first he was
made cook's scullion but because he was well-grown and active, the chief
gunner had taken him over as a powder boy.

This Joe Hawkridge was a waif of the London slums, hard and wise beyond
his years, who had been starved and abused ever since he could remember.
He had fled from cruel taskmasters ashore to endure the slavery of the
sea and to be kidnapped into piracy was no worse than other things he
had suffered. A gangling lad, with a grin on his homely face, he had
certain instincts of manliness, of decent conduct, although he had known
only men whose souls were black with sin. Heaven knows where he learned
these cleaner aspirations. They were like the reflection of a star in a
muddy pool.

It was easy for Jack Cockrell to win his confidence. Few of his
shipmates spoke kindly or showed pity for him. And their youth drew them
together. Jack's motive was largely curiosity as soon as he discovered
that here was one of Blackbeard's crew ready to confide in him. The two
lads chatted in sheltered corners of the deck, between watches, or met
more freely in the night hours. Jack shuddered at some of the tales that
were told him but he harkened breathless and asked for more.

"Yes, this Blackbeard is the very wickedest pirate that ever sailed,"
said Joe Hawkridge in the most matter-of-fact tones. "You have found him
merciful because he fears a mortal sickness will sweep through his
ships."

"You have curdled my blood enough for now," admitted Jack. "Tell me
this. What do they say of Captain Stede Bonnet? He chances to be a
friend of mine."

Joe Hawkridge ceased to grin. He was startled and impressed. Real
gentlemen like this young Cockrell always told the truth. Making certain
that they could not be overheard, Joe whispered:

"What news of Stede Bonnet? You've seen him? When? Did he cruise to the
north'ard? Has he been seen off Charles Town?"

"He came ashore not long ago, and invited me to dinner at the tavern
with him," bragged Jack. "And he coaxed me to sign in his ship."

"Yes, you'd catch his eye, Cockrell, but listen! What ship had he, and
how many men? God strike me, but I'll not tattle it. I'm true as steel
to Stede Bonnet. If you love me, don't breathe it here."

"There is no love lost betwixt him and Blackbeard?" excitedly queried
Jack.

"Mortal foes they be, if you ask Stede Bonnet."

Feeling sure he could trust this young Hawkridge, Jack informed him:

"Stede Bonnet flies his pennant in a fine brig, the _Royal James_, with
seventy lusty rovers. But what about him, Joe? Why does he hate this
foul ogre of a Blackbeard? Did they ever sail together?"

"'Twas in the Bay of Honduras. Captain Bonnet was a green hand at the
trade but zealous to win renown at piratin'. And so he made compact with
Blackbeard, to sail as partners. There was Stede Bonnet with a fine ship
and his own picked crew. By treachery Blackbeard stole the vessel from
him. Bonnet and his men were left to shift for 'emselves in a rotten old
hulk that was like to founder in a breeze o' wind."

"But they stayed afloat and took them a good ship," proudly exclaimed
Jack, with a personal interest in the venture.

"True, by what you say. D'ye see the _Revenge_ yonder, Blackbeard's tall
cruiser? The very ship he filched from Stede Bonnet by dirty stratagem
and broken oaths!"

"Then the powder will burn when next they meet?"

"As long as there's a shot in the locker, Jack. And Blackbeard's men are
ripe for mutiny. Let 'em once sight Stede Bonnet's topsails and----"

A gunner's mate broke into this interview with a cat-o'-nine-tails and
flogged Joe Hawkridge forward to duty. He ducked and fled with a
farewell grin at the nephew of the Secretary of the Council. Now all
this was diverting enough to keep Jack from bemoaning his fate, but the
other passengers counted the hours one by one and their hearts began to
drum against their ribs. They scanned the sea and the harbor bar with
aching eyes, for the two days were well-nigh spent and there was never a
sign of the long-boat and the messengers with the ransom of medicines
which should avert the sentence of death.

Sunrise of the second day brought them no comfort. The sea was gray and
the sky leaden, without the slightest stir of wind. The drifting vessels
rolled in a swell that heaved as smooth as oil. It was a calm which
presaged violent weather. Against her masts the yards of the _Plymouth
Adventure_ banged with a sound like distant thunder and the idle canvas
slatted to the thump of blocks and the thin wail of chafing cordage.

Captain Jonathan Wellsby was permitted the freedom of the poop by
Blackbeard's sailing-master who seemed a sober and competent officer.
They were seen to confer earnestly, as though the safety of the ship
were uppermost in their minds. Soon the pirates of the prize crew were
ordered to stow and secure all light sail and pass extra lashings about
the boats and batten the hatches. They worked slowly, some of them
shaking with fever, nor could kicks and curses and the sting of the
whistling cat make them turn to smartly. The sailing-master signaled the
_Revenge_ to send off more hands but Blackbeard was either drunk or in
one of his crack-brained moods. With a laugh he pulled a brace of
pistols from his sash and blazed away at the _Plymouth Adventure._

The two sloops of the pirate squadron had sagged down to leeward during
the night and were trying to work back to their stations when the dead
calm intervened. Their skippers had sense enough to read the weather
signs and had begun to take in canvas. On board of the _Revenge_,
however, there was aimless confusion, the mates making some attempt to
prepare the ship for a heavy blow while Blackbeard defied the elements.
His idea of arousing his men was to try potshots with his pistols as
they crept out on the swaying spars.

It was quite apparent that the sailing-master was sorely needed in the
_Revenge_, if order was to be brought out of this chaos, but he received
no orders to quit the _Plymouth Adventure_. He was a proper seaman, Ned
Rackham by name, who had deserted from the Royal Navy, after being
flogged and keel-hauled for some trifling offense. Rumor had it that he
was able to enforce respect from Blackbeard and would stand none of his
infernal nonsense.

"In this autumn season we may catch a storm from the West Indies, Mr.
Rackham," said Captain Wellsby. "The sea has a greasy look and this
heavy ground swell is a portent."

"The feel of it is in the air, shipmaster. There fell an evil calm like
this come two year ago when I was wrecked in a ship-of-the-line within
sight of Havana. Four hundred men sank with her."

"If my sailors were not penned in the fo'castle----" suggested the
merchant skipper.

"None o' that," was the stern retort. "This ship is a prize to
Blackbeard and so she stays, and you will sink or swim with her."

The morning wore on and the two days of grace had passed for those
doleful hostages in the _Plymouth Adventure_. They beheld the black flag
hoisted to the rigging of the _Revenge_ as a signal of tragic import,
but the bandy-legged monster with the festooned whiskers was not to
disport himself with this wanton butchery. The sky had closed darkly
around the becalmed ships, in sodden clouds which were suddenly obscured
by mist and rain while the wind sighed in fitful gusts. It steadied into
the southward and swiftly increased in force until the sea was whipped
into foam and scud.

Staunch and well-found, the _Plymouth Adventure_ went reeling off across
the spray-swept leagues of water, showing only her reefed topsails and
courses. The two pirate sloops vanished beyond the curtain of mist. When
last seen, one of them was dismasted and the other was laboring in grave
peril. The _Revenge_ loomed as a spectral shape while Blackbeard was
endeavoring to get her running free in pursuit of the _Plymouth
Adventure_. But slovenly, reckless seamanship had caught him unready.
His sails were blowing to ribbons, ropes flying at loose ends, and it
was with great difficulty that the vessel could be made to mind her
tiller.

Already the sea was rising in crested combers which broke with the noise
of thunder and the fury of the wind was insensate. Slowly the struggling
_Revenge_ dropped astern, yawing wildly, rolling her bulwarks under,
splintered spars dangling from the caps. She was a crippled ship which
would be lucky to see port again. It was to be inferred that Blackbeard
had ceased to cut his mirthful capers on the poop and that he would have
given bushels of doubloons to regain his sailing-master and men.

In the _Plymouth Adventure_ things were in far better plight, even with
the feeble, short-handed prize crew. Prudently snugged down in ample
time, with extra hands at the steering tackles, they let her drive. She
would perhaps wear clear of the coast and there was hope of survival
unless the tempest should fairly wrench her strong timbers asunder.

Lashed to the weather rigging, Captain Jonathan Wellsby wiped the brine
from his eyes and waved his arm at the helmsman, now to ease her a
little, again to haul up and thus thwart some ravening sea which
threatened to stamp his ship under. Sailing-Master Ned Rackham was
content to let the skipper con his own vessel in this great emergency.

The mind of Captain Wellsby was very active and he pondered on something
else than winning through the storm. He had been helpless while under
the guns of the _Revenge_, with the two sloops in easy call. Now the
situation was vastly different. He had been delivered out of
Blackbeard's clutches. And in the forecastle were thirty British seamen
with hearts of oak, raging to be loosed with weapons in their hands.
Peering into the gray smother of sea and sky, Captain Jonathan Wellsby
licked his lips hungrily as he said to himself:

"Not now, but if the storm abates and we float through the night, these
lousy picaroons shall dance to another tune."




CHAPTER IV

THE CAPTIVE SEAMEN IN THE FORECASTLE


JACK COCKRELL was seasick. This was enough to spoil any adventure.
Curled up under a boat, the spray pelted him and the wild motion of the
ship sloshed him back and forth. He took no interest even in piracy. Joe
Hawkridge, tough as whip-cord and seasoned to all kinds of weather, came
clawing his way aft while the water streamed from his thin shirt and
ragged breeches. The pirates of the prize crew had sought shelter
wherever they could find it. The waist of the ship was flooded with
breaking seas. A few of the larboard watch were huddled forward, close
to the lofty forecastle where they were stationed as sentries over the
imprisoned sailors of the _Plymouth Adventure_.

The commotion of the wind shrieking in the rigging and the horrid crash
of the toppling combers were enough to convince a landlubber that the
vessel was doomed to founder. But Joe Hawkridge clapped young Jack an
affectionate clout on the ear and bawled at him:

          "For his work he's never loth,
             An' a-pleasurin' he'll go,
           Tho' certain sure to be popt off;
            _Yo, ho, with the rum below!_"

Jack managed to fetch a sickly smile of greeting, but had nothing to
say. Joe snuggled down beside him and explained:

"I wouldn't dare sing that song if Blackbeard's bullies could hear me.
'Tis known as Stede Bonnet's ditty, for a fight or a frolic."

"By Harry, they can roll it out. My blood tingled when they chorused it
through Charles Town," said Jack, with signs of animation and a sparkle
in his eye. "Tell me truly, Joe. What about this pirate sailing-master,
Ned Rackham? He seems a different sort from your other drunken wretches.
He is more like one of Captain Bonnet's choosing."

"Gulled you, has he?" cried Joe. "I was afeard of that. And he's getting
on the blind side of your skipper. This Cap'n Jonathan Wellsby is brave
enough and a rare seaman, but he ne'er dealt with a smooth rogue like
Ned Rackham. He stays sober to plot for his own advantage. He will serve
Blackbeard only till he can trip him by the heels. Now listen well,
Jack, seasick though ye be. You will have to warn your skipper, Captain
Wellsby."

"Warn him of what? My poor head is so addled that I can fathom no plots.
How can Ned Rackham do us mischief while this infernal gale blows? He
toils with might and main for the safety of the ship."

"Yes, you dunce, and let a lull come," scornfully exclaimed the boyish
pirate. "What then? A fine ship this, and well gunned. She would make a
smackin' cruiser for Ned Rackham, eh? He hoists the Jolly Roger on his
own account and laughs at Blackbeard."

"Take our ship for his own?" faltered Jack, his wits confused. "I never
thought of that. Why, that means getting rid of us, of the passengers
and crew."

Joe passed a hand across his throat with a grimace that said more than
words.

"He has the ship's company disarmed and helpless, Jack. And pirates
a-plenty to work her till he recruits a stronger force. All hands of 'em
have a surfeit of Blackbeard's bloody whims an' didoes."

"And Captain Wellsby will be caught off his guard?" said Jack, shivering
at the aspect of this new terror.

"Can he do aught to prevent, unless he is bold enough to forestall it?"
answered the shrewd young sea waif. "Better die fighting than be slain
like squealin' rats."

"Recapture the ship ere Ned Rackham casts the dice," said Jack. "But it
means playing the hazard in the midst of this storm. How can it be done?
A forlorn venture. It can but fail."

"You are as good as dead if you don't," was Joe's sensible verdict.

Jack Cockrell forgot his wretched qualms of mind and body. The trumpet
call of duty invigorated him. He was no longer a useless lump. The color
returned to his cheek as he crawled from under the boat and shakily
hauled himself to his feet. Joe Hawkridge nodded approval and exhorted:

"A stiff upper lip, my gallant young gentleman. Steady she goes, an' not
too hasty. Ned Rackham is as sharp as a whetted sword. Ware ye, boy,
lest he pick up the scent. Fetch me word, here, beneath this
jolly-boat."

Jack stole away, staggering along the high poop deck until he could
cling to the life-line stretched along the roof of the great cabin.
There he slumped down and feigned helplessness, banged against the
bulwark as a dripping heap of misery or kicked aside by the pirates of
the watch as they were relieved at the steering tackles. From
half-closed eyes he watched Ned Rackham, a vigilant, dominant figure in
a tarred jacket and quilted breeches and long sea-boots. Now and again
he cupped his hands and yelled in the ear of Captain Wellsby whose beard
was gray with brine.

Jack saw that it was hopeless to get a private word with the skipper on
deck. The clamor of the storm was too deafening. The one chance was to
intercept him in the cabin when he went below for food and drink. Jack
dragged himself to the after hatchway which was shoved open a trifle to
admit air, and squeezed himself through. Before he tumbled down the
steep staircase he turned to glance at Captain Wellsby. Unseen by Ned
Rackham, the boy raised his hand in a furtive, beckoning gesture.

The pirates had taken the main room of the after-house for their own
use, driving the passengers and ship's officers into the small cabins or
staterooms. The air was foul below, reeking of the bilges, and the main
room was incredibly filthy. The pirates ate from dirty dishes, they had
scattered food about, and they kicked off their boots to sleep on the
floor like pigs in a sty.

Several of them were seated at the long table, bottle and mug in hand,
and the gloomy place was poorly lighted by a swinging whale-oil lamp.
Jack Cockrell crept unnoticed into a corner and was giddy and almost
helpless with nausea. It seemed ages before Captain Wellsby's legs
appeared in the hatchway and he came down into the cabin, bringing a
shower of spray with him. His kindly face was haggard and sad and he
tottered from sheer weariness. Passing through to his own room, a scurvy
pirate hurled refuse food at him, with a silly laugh, and others
insulted him with the foulest epithets.

He paid them no heed and they returned to their own amusements. Jack
Cockrell aroused himself to stumble after the skipper who halted to
grasp the lad by the shoulder and shove him headlong into the little
room. The door was quickly bolted behind them. A lurch of the vessel
flung Jack into the bunk but he managed to sit up, holding his head in
his hands, while he feebly implored:

"Did you note me wave my hand, sir, when I came below?"

"Yes, and I followed as soon as I could," answered the master of the
_Plymouth Adventure_. "There was the hint of secrecy in your signal,
Jack. What's in the wind?"

"I am the only passenger to win the confidence of one of Blackbeard's
crew," explained the lad. "This Joe Hawkridge is true to us, I'll swear
it. He is a pressed man, hating his masters. He bids me tell you that
Ned Rackham will seize the ship for his own as soon as ever the wind
goes down."

"Um-m, is he as bold as that?" grunted the skipper, rubbing his nose
with an air of rueful surprise. "No honor among thieves, Jack. I thought
him loyal to Blackbeard. I have considered attempting something of my
own when the weather permits but this news quickens me. This young imp
o' Satan that ye call Joe,--he will side with us in a pinch?"

"Aye, sir. And he knows this Ned Rackham well. There has been talk among
the pirates of rising against Blackbeard to follow the fortunes of
Sailing-Master Rackham. Here is the ship, as Joe says."

"It has a plausible sound," said Captain Wellsby. "My intention was to
wait, but I shall have to strike first."

"Can we fight in this storm, sir, even if we manage to release our
sailors?" asked Jack, very dismally.

"Not what we can, but what we must do," growled the stubborn British
mariner. "The shame of striking my colors rankles like a wound. God
helping me, we shall wipe out that stain if we drown in a sinking ship.
I talk to you as a man, Master Cockrell, for such you have proven
yourself. And who else is there to serve me in this adventure?"

"To set our sailors free, you mean, sir?" eagerly exclaimed Jack. "I
took thought of that. There is nobody but me, neither your mates nor the
passengers, who can pass among the pirates without suspicion. The knaves
have humored me, hearing the tale of the pirate I knocked on the head
and my braggart remark to Blackbeard. They have seen me about the decks
with Joe Hawkridge as my boon comrade. 'Tis their fancy that I am likely
to enlist."

"Well said, Jack," was the skipper's compliment. "Yes, you might make
your way for'ard without interference,--but the fo'castle hatches are
stoutly guarded. Again, should my brave fellows find exit, they are
weaponless, unready. Moreover, they have been crammed in that dark hole,
drenched by the sea, cruelly bruised by the tossing of the ship, and
weakened for lack of food and air."

"Granted, sir," sighed Jack. "But if some message could be smuggled in
to forewarn them of the enterprise,--would that brace 'em to the
assault?"

"Will ye try it, Jack?" asked the skipper, with a note of appeal in his
hearty voice. "I know not where else to turn. You take your life in your
hands but----"

The shipmaster broke off with a grim smile. It was absurd to prate of
life or death in such a strait as this. The boy reflected before he
said:

"If--if I fail, sir, Joe Hawkridge will try to pass a message in to the
men. You can depend on 't."

"A last resort, Jack. You vouch for him but I trust you far sooner. He
has kept sorry company."

"When is the best hour, Captain Wellsby?"

"Just before nightfall when the watches will be changing. I dare not
delay it longer than that. In darkness, my lads will be unable to find
the foe and strike hard and quick. Nor can they rush to lay hold of the
only weapons in their reach,--the pikes in the racks beside the masts.
Not a pistol or cutlass amongst 'em, and they must fight with these
wicked dogs of pirates who think naught of killing men."

"Let your lusty sailors once get clear, sir," stoutly declared Jack
Cockrell, "and they will play a merry game with those long pikes. Then I
am to slip the message written by your hand on a bit of paper?"

"That's it! I will command them to pound against the scuttle, three
raps, for a signal of response, and you must listen for it. Then it is
for them to stand ready, on the chance that you can slip the bar of the
hatch or the bolts on the door."

"But if they have to come out singly, sir, and the sentries are
ready-witted, why, your men may be cut down or pistoled in their
tracks."

"I am so aware," said Captain Wellsby, his honest features glum, "but we
cannot change the odds."

He found an ink-horn and quill and laboriously wrote a few lines on a
leaf torn from the back of a sea-stained log-book. Jack tucked it
carefully away and thus they parted company, perhaps to meet no more in
life. Through the waning afternoon, Jack stowed himself on deck and held
long converse with Joe Hawkridge when they met between the keel-chocks
of the jolly-boat. Because he shared not the skipper's feeling of
distrust, Jack sought the active aid of his chum of a pirate lad. It was
agreed that they should endeavor to reach the forecastle together when
the ship's bell tolled the hour of beginning the first night watch.

Joe hoped he might decoy or divert the sentries. If not, he had another
scheme or two. A gunner's mate of the prize crew had sent him to
overhaul the lashings of the battery of nine-pounders which were ranged
along the waist. With several other hands Joe had made all secure,
because the guns were apt to get adrift in such weather as this and
plunge to and fro across the deck like maddened beasts. Now Joe
Hawkridge had lingered, on pretext of making sure that one forward gun
could be fired, if needs be, as a distress signal should the ship open
her seams or strike upon a shoal.

He had satisfied himself that the tompion, or wooden plug which sealed
the muzzle was tight, and that no water had leaked through the wrapping
of tarred canvas which protected the touch-hole. Before replacing them,
he had made two or three trips to the deck-house amidships in which was
the carpenter's room. Each time he tucked inside his shirt as many
forged iron spikes, bolts, and what not as he could safely carry.

Unobserved, he shoved this junk down the throat of the nine-pounder and
wadded it fast with handfuls of oakum. He worked coolly, without haste,
as agile as a monkey when the ship careened and the sea spurted through
the cracks of the gun-ports. Well pleased with his task, he said to
himself, with that grin which no peril could obliterate:

"God alone knows how I can strike fire to a match and keep it alight,
but the sky shows signs of easier weather."

The fury of the storm had, indeed, diminished. It might be a respite
before the wind hauled into another quarter and renewed its ferocious
violence, but the air was no longer thick with the whirling smother of
foam and spray and the straining topmasts had ceased to bend like whips.
The ship was gallantly easing herself of the waves which broke aboard
and the rearing billows astern were not threatening to stamp her under.

It lacked almost an hour of nightfall when Jack Cockrell crept along the
poop and halted to lean against the timbered railing by the mizzen
shrouds. All he could think of was that Ned Rackham might seize upon
this sudden abatement of the gale to hasten his own wicked conspiracy
and so ruin the plan to restore the _Plymouth Adventure_ to her own
lawful company. This menace had occurred to Captain Jonathan Wellsby who
stood tense and rigid at the sailing-master's elbow, watching him from
the tail of his eye.

Relief o'erspread the skipper's worn features when he espied Jack
Cockrell who stood as if waiting for orders. A nod, a meaning glance,
and they understood each other. Striving to appear unconcerned, Jack
moved toward the forward part of the ship. He was aquiver with
excitement, and his breath was quick and small, but the sense of fear
had left him. Captain Wellsby had called him a man and, by God's sweet
grace, he would so acquit himself.

The pirates were swarming out of the cabin to taste the clean air and
limber their cramped muscles. The ship still wallowed as she ran before
the wind and it was breakneck work to clamber about. From the topsail
yards fluttered mere ribbons of canvas where the reefed sails had
bellied. Ned Rackham shouted for the watch to lay aloft and cut the
remnants clear and bend new cloths to keep her from broaching to.

Jack Cockrell's heart leaped for joy. At least a dozen of the most
active pirates would have to obey this order. This would remove them
from the deck for a precious interval of time. He slouched aimlessly
nearer the forecastle, stretching his neck to gaze up at the pirates as
they footed the ratlines and squirmed over the clumsy tops. Joe
Hawkridge joined him, as if by chance, and they wandered to the lee side
of the forecastle. There they were screened from the sight of the
sentries.

The wooden shutters of the little windows had been spiked fast on the
outside and Jack was at his wits' end to find by what means he might
slip the fateful message to the captive seamen. He dared not climb upon
the roof and seek for a crack in a hatchway. This would make him too
conspicuous.

Cautiously he stole around the massive structure and was all but washed
overboard when he gained the windward side where the water broke in
hissing cataracts. So great had been its force during the height of the
storm, that one of the shutters had been splintered and almost crushed
in. Clutching the bit of paper which was tightly rolled and wrapped in a
square of oiled linen, Jack pushed it through a ragged crevice in the
shutter.

It was gravely doubtful whether the men would discover the message in
the gloom of their prison. It might fall to the floor and be trampled
unperceived. And yet Jack Cockrell could not make himself believe that
deliverance would be thwarted. He said a prayer and waited with his ear
against the wall of the forecastle. There he leaned through an agonized
eternity as the slow moments passed. It was like the ordeal of a
condemned man who hopes that a blessed reprieve may save him, in the
last hour, from the black cap and the noose.

Up aloft the pirate seamen were slashing the torn canvas with their
dirks and casting loose the gaskets. Presently they began to come down
to the deck, one by one. Some whispered word must have passed amongst
them, because they drifted aft as by a common impulse although it was
not yet the hour to change the watch. Their gunner's mate, a gigantic
mulatto with a broken nose, went to the poop when Ned Rackham crooked
his finger and these two stood aside, beyond earshot of Captain Wellsby,
while they conferred with heads together.

"They will strike first," Jack whispered to himself.

The misty daylight had not darkened. The decks were not yet dusky with
the shadows which Jack had hoped might enable him to approach the
forecastle door in his brave endeavor to unbar it. The plans were all
awry. Tears filled his eyes. And then there came to his ear a muffled
knock against the other side of the forecastle planking.

Once, twice, thrice! The signal was unmistakable. A little interval and
it was repeated.

Softly the trembling lad tiptoed to the corner of the forecastle house
and peered around it to look for the sentries. Two of them had moved a
few yards away to join a group which gazed aft as if expecting a
summons from Ned Rackham on the poop. The third sentry leaned against
the forecastle door, a cutlass at his belt. He was a long, bony man with
a face as yellow as parchment from the Spanish fever and it was plain to
read that there was no great strength in him.

Faithful Joe Hawkridge sat astride the breech of the nine-pounder at
which he had been so busily engaged earlier in the afternoon. He
appeared to be an idler who merely looked on but he was watching every
motion, and that hard, canny face of his had, for once, forgot to grin.
Releasing a three-foot handspike from its lashing beside the
gun-carriage, he awaited the next roll of the deck and deftly kicked
this handy weapon. It slid toward the forecastle and Jack Cockrell
stopped it with his foot.

There was no time for hesitation. Snatching up the iron-shod handspike,
Jack rushed straight at the forecastle door. Just then the ship lurched
far down and he was shot headlong, like falling off the roof of a house.
He had the momentum of a battering-ram. The sentry yelled and drew his
cutlass with a swiftness amazing in a sick man. His footing was unsteady
or Jack would have spitted himself on the point of the blade. As he went
crashing full-tilt into the man the impact was terrific. They went to
the deck together and the handspike spun out of Jack's grasp. There was
no need to swing it on this luckless pirate for his bald head smote a
plank with a thump which must have cracked it like an egg.

Not even pausing to dart after the cutlass which had clattered from the
lifeless fingers, Jack spun on his heel and wrenched at the heavy bar
across the forecastle door and felt it slide from the fastenings. He
tugged it clear and swung himself up to the roof to draw the bolts which
secured the hatch. Rusted in their sockets, they resisted him but he
spied a pulley-block within reach and used it as a hammer.

All this was a matter of seconds only. The pirates grouped amidships had
been waiting for Ned Rackham's word from aft and they were muddled by
this sudden shift of action. The other sentries stared in foolish
astonishment. The brief delay was enough to let Jack Cockrell free the
hatch. While he toiled furiously, several pistols and a musket were
snapped at him but the flint sparked on damp powder in the pans and only
one ball whistled by his head.

Out of the forecastle hatchway and through the door, the enraged sailors
of the _Plymouth Adventure_ came rocketing like an explosion. They
stumbled over each other, emerging head or feet first, blinking like
owls in the daylight but with vision good enough to serve their purpose.
Their goal was the nearest stand of boarding-pikes at the foot of the
mainmast.

But as they came surging on deck, they were not empty-handed. In the
forecastle was a bricked oven for warmth in winter and for cooking
kettles of soup. This they had torn to pieces and every man sallied
forth with a square, flat brick in each hand and more inside his shirt.
Those who were first to gain the deck pelted the nearest pirates with
these ugly missiles. The air was full of hurtling bricks and the
earliest casualty was a stout buccaneer who stopped one with his
stomach.

Driven back in yelling confusion, the pirates found their firearms
almost useless, so drenched had the whole ship been by the battering
seas, but they were accustomed to fighting it out with the cold steel
and they were by no means a panicky mob. The fusillade of bricks held
them long enough for the merchant sailors to escape from the forecastle
and this was an advantage more precious than Captain Wellsby had hoped
for.

What the pirates required was a leader to rally them for attack. Quicker
than it takes to tell it, Ned Rackham had raced along the poop and
leaped to the waist at peril of breaking his neck. Agile, quick-witted,
he bounded into the thick of it, cutlass in hand, while he shouted:

"At 'em, lads! And give the dogs no quarter!"

With hoarse outcry, his gallows-birds mustered compactly while those who
had been in the cabin came scampering to join them. Curiously enough,
Captain Jonathan Wellsby had been forgotten. He was left alone to handle
the ship while the pirate helmsmen stood by the great tiller. To forsake
it meant to let the vessel run wild and perhaps turn turtle in the
swollen seas. And so the doughty skipper was, for the time, a looker-on.

And now with Ned Rackham in the van, it seemed that the British sailors
were in a parlous plight and that their sortie must fail. Craftily the
pirates manoeuvered to drive them back into the forecastle and there
to butcher them like sheep.




CHAPTER V

RELEASING A FEARFUL WEAPON


JACK COCKRELL sprawled flat upon the forecastle roof and knew not what
to do. He could lay hands on nothing to serve as a weapon and he bade
fair to be trapped like the sailors whose cause he had joined. With a
feeling of despair he let his gaze rove to the scrawny figure of Joe
Hawkridge who still bestrode the nine-pounder and took no part in the
fray. But Joe had no comfort for him, as a gesture conveyed. It had been
Joe's wild scheme to obtain the help of Jack and Captain Wellsby, at the
least, and so cast loose the gun and slew it around to rake the deck and
mow the pirates down. But the men were lacking for this heavy task, and
the sailors of the _Plymouth Adventure_ were too intent on fighting
against fearful odds to pay heed to Joe Hawkridge's appeals. He had even
skulked into the galley and was ready with a little iron pot filled with
live coals which was hidden under a bit of tarpaulin.

Ned Rackham was a young man and powerful, with a long reach and a
skilled blade. He fairly hewed his way into the ruck of the dauntless
sailors who had no more bricks to hurl. Several pirates were disabled,
with broken arms or bloody crowns, but the others crowded forward,
grunting as they slashed and stabbed, and well aware that Ned Rackham
would cut the laggards down should he detect them.

At the moment when there seemed no chance of salvation for the crew of
the _Plymouth Adventure_, Joe Hawkridge leaped from the gun and beckoned
Jack. The grin was restored to the homely, freckled visage and the salt
water gamin danced in jubilant excitement. Down from the forecastle roof
tumbled Jack Cockrell and went sliding across the deck, heels over head,
to fetch up in the scupper. Joe hauled him by the leg, close to the
wooden carriage of the gun, and swiftly told him what was to be done.

Obediently Jack began to loose the knots which secured the rope tackles
but it was a slow task. The wet had made the hemp as hard as iron and he
lacked a marlinspike. Joe dodged around the gun, saw the difficulty and
sawed through one rope after another, all but the last strand or two.
Then the lads tailed on to the breeching hawsers, which held the
carriage from sliding on its iron rollers, and eased the strain as well
as they could.

The ponderous mass was almost free to plunge across the deck. Joe
sweated and braced his feet against a ring-bolt while Jack Cockrell
found a cleat. Ned Rackham's men were moving forward, cut and thrust,
while the sailors grappled with them bare-handed and battled grimly
like mastiffs.

"The next time she rolls!" panted Joe Hawkridge as the hawser ripped the
skin from his palms.

"Aye, make ready to cut," muttered Jack.

The ship heaved herself high and then listed far down to starboard. Joe
slashed at the last strands of the tackles and yelled to Jack to let go
the hawser. Instead of discharging the nine-pounder, they were employing
the piece itself, and the carriage of oak and iron, as a terrible
missile. The moment of launching it was shrewdly chosen. The pirates,
still in compact formation as led by Ned Rackham, were directly abreast
of this forward gun of the main deck battery. The deck inclined at a
steep and giddy pitch. With a grinding roar the gun rolled from its
station. It gathered impetus and lunged across the ship as an instrument
of fell destruction. It was more to be feared than an assault of armed
men.

The warning rumble of the iron wheels as they furrowed the planking was
heard by the pirates. They turned from their game of butchery and stood
frozen in their tracks for a frightened instant. Then they tried to flee
in all directions. Their tarry pigtails fairly stood on end. Well they
knew what it meant to have a gun break adrift in a heavy sea. Two or
three who had been badly hurt were unable to move fast enough. The gun
crunched over them and then seemed to pursue a limping pirate, veering
to overtake him as he fled. He was tossed against the bulwark like a
bundle of bloody rags.

The gun crashed into the stout timbers of the ship's side and they were
splintered like match-wood. It rebounded as the deck sloped sharply in
the next wallowing roll, and now this frenzied monster of wood and iron
seemed fairly to run amuck. It was inspired with a sinister
intelligence, resolved to wreak all the damage possible. The pinnace,
the water barrels, the coamings of the cargo hatches, were smashed to
fragments as the gun turned this way and that and went plunging in
search of victims.

[Illustration: THE BRAWN OF THESE LADS MADE THE PIKE A MATCH FOR A
PIRATE'S CUTLASS]

Left to themselves, the seamen of the _Plymouth Adventure_ would have
risked their lives to cast ropes about the gun and moor it fast. But now
they were quick to see that the tide had been turned in their favor. The
pirates were demoralized. Some were in the rigging, others atop the
bulwarks, and only the readiest and boldest, with Ned Rackham in the
lead, had an eye to the task in hand, which was to regain possession of
the ship.

And now the boatswain of the _Plymouth Adventure_, a rosy giant of a man
from South Devon, shouted to his comrades to follow him. They delayed
until the runaway cannon crashed into another gun, and then they broke
like sprinters from the mark and sped straight for the mainmast, seeking
the rack of boarding-pikes. They ran nimbly, as men used to swaying
decks, and compassed the distance in a few strides.

Ned Rackham perceived their purpose and tried to intercept but his few
staunch followers moved warily, expecting to see that insensate monster
of a gun bear down upon them. The swiftest of the merchant sailors laid
hands on the pikes and whirled to cover their shipmates, until all hands
could be armed. Then the gun came roaring down at them but they ducked
behind the mast or stepped watchfully aside. Men condemned to death are
not apt to lose their wits in the face of one more peril.

These pikes were ashen shafts with long steel points and the merchant
seamen had been trained to use them. And the brawn of these lads made
the pike a match for a pirate's cutlass. Ned Rackham bounded forward to
swing at the broad, deep-chested boatswain. A wondrous pair of
antagonists they were, in the prime of their youth and vigor. The
pirate's cutlass bit clean through the pike shaft as the boatswain
parried the blow but the apple-cheeked Devonshire man closed in and
wrapped his arms around his foe. They went to the deck clutching for
each other's throats and the fight trampled over them.

Meanwhile Joe Hawkridge and Jack Cockrell, unwilling to twiddle their
thumbs, had rushed aft as fast as their legs could carry them. It was a
mutual impulse, to release such of the men passengers as might have a
stomach for fighting and also the ship's officers. Into the doorway
which led from the waist, the two lads dived and scurried through the
main cabin now clear of pirates. Locked doors they smashed with a
broadaxe found in the small-arms chest and so entered all the rooms.

The women passengers were almost dead with suffering, what with the
turbulence of the storm and the wild riot on deck. The lads pitied them
but had no time to console. Several of the men, merchants and planters
of some physical hardihood, begged for weapons and Joe Hawkridge bade
them help themselves from the spare arms which the pirates had left in
the great cabin. In another little room the boys found the mates,
steward, surgeon, and gunner of the _Plymouth Adventure_ and you may be
sure that they came boiling out with a raging thirst for strife.

"Harkee, Jack," said Joe before they climbed to the poop deck, "if the
pirates are driven aft, as I expect, they will make a last stand in this
cabin house which is like a fort. These 'fenseless women must be hidden
safe from harm. Do you coax 'em into the lazarette."

This was a room on the deck below, in the very stern of the ship where
were kept the extra sails and coils of rope and various stores. It was
the surest shelter against harm in such stress as this. Alas, Jack's
persuasions were vain. The frantic women were in no humor to listen, and
so the lads bundled them through the hatch as gently as possible and
for company gave them such male passengers as lacked strength or courage
to join the battle.

While they were thus engaged, two pirates came flying down the ladder
from the poop deck into the main cabin. They revolved like windmills in
a jumble of arms and legs. Close behind them, in a manner more orderly
came Captain Jonathan Wellsby who had tossed the one and tremendously
booted the other. They were the helmsmen whom he had replaced with his
own officers at the steering tackles, while his first mate had been left
in charge of handling the ship.

The skipper was now free to follow his own desires and he fell upon
those two stunned pirates in the cabin and trussed them tight with bits
of rope. Then he reloaded with dry powder all the pistols he could find
and made a walking arsenal of himself. The two lads who now joined him
needed no word of command. At his heels they made for the main deck and
the shout which arose from those British sailors, so sorely beset, was
mightily heartening.

Blazing away with his pistols, the skipper cleared a path for himself,
the pirates being taken aback when they were attacked in the rear. And
they were leaderless, for Ned Rackham had been dragged aside with the
marks of the boatswain's fingers on his throat and a sheath-knife buried
in his side. He was alive but nobody paid heed to his groans.

With the skipper in the thick of it, there was no danger of being penned
in the forecastle again. The pirates were crowded aft, step by step,
before the play of those wicked boarding-pikes. It would be hard to
match a sea fight like this, amid the spray and the washing seas, on a
deck that tipsily danced and staggered, with a truant gun smashing a
good ship to bits and the wounded screaming as they saw this horror
thundering at them. Captain Wellsby's men were at pains to drag their
helpless comrades to safety but the pirates were too callous and too
hard pressed to care for aught save their own worthless skins. They
fought like wolves but they lacked the gristle and endurance of the
stalwart sailors. Wheezing for breath, they ceased to curse and reeled
back in silence while the sailors huzzaed and seemed to wax the lustier.

As was bound to happen, the stubborn retreat broke into a rout. It was
every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. The pirates fled
for the after cabin-house, there to take cover behind the timbered walls
and use the small port-holes for musketry fire. Thus they could find
respite and it would be immensely difficult to dislodge them.

The first mate of the _Plymouth Adventure_ and his own two helmsmen saw
what was taking place and they were of no mind to be cut off at the
stern of the ship. They footed it along the poop and the cabin roof as
the pirates were scampering inside and so gained the waist and were
with their comrades. The tiller deserted, the vessel careened into the
trough of the sea with a portentous creaking of spars and rending of
canvas.

The mainmast had been dealt more than one splintering blow by the
fugitive gun. This sudden strain, of a ship broached to and hurled
almost on her beam ends, was too much for the damaged mast. It broke
short off, a few feet above the deck, and the ragged butt ripped the
planks asunder as it was dragged overside by the weight of the towering
fabric of yards and canvas. One merciful circumstance befell, for the
tangle of shrouds and sheets and halliards ensnared the ramping monster
of a cannon and overturned it. Caught in this manner, the gun was
dragged to the broken bulwark and there it was held with the battered
carriage in air.

The mainmast was floating alongside the ship which it belabored with
thumps that jarred the hull. It was likely to stave in the skin of the
vessel and Captain Wellsby shouted to his men to hack at the trailing
cordage and send the mast clear before it did a fatal injury. A dozen
men risked drowning at this task while the others guarded the after
cabin lest the pirates attempt a sally. These besieged rogues were given
an interval in which to muster their force, organize a defense, and
break into the magazine for muskets and powder and ball.

Now Captain Wellsby was no dullard and he purposed to make short work of
these vile pirates. Otherwise his crippled ship might not survive the
wind and weather. He conferred with his gunner who had bethought
himself, by force of habit, to fetch from aft his powder-horn and
several yards of match, or twisted tow, which were wrapped around his
body, beneath the tarred jerkin.

"It grieves me sore to wreck yonder goodly cabin house," said the
skipper in his beard, "but, by Judas, we'll blow 'em out of it. Haul and
belay your pieces, Master Gunner, and let 'em have a salvo of round
shot."

Reckless of the musket balls which began to fly among them, the sailors
jumped for their stations at the guns. First they set aright that
capsized nine-pounder which had wreaked so much mischief and found that
it could be discharged, despite the broken carriage. Joe Hawkridge and
Jack Cockrell blithely aided to swing and secure it with emergency
tackles and Joe exclaimed, with a chuckle:

"This dose is enough to surprise Blackbeard hisself. 'Tis an
ironmonger's shop I rammed down its throat."

The gun was laid on the largest cabin port-hole just as it framed the
ugly face of a pirate with a musket while another peered over his
shoulder. Joe shook the powder-horn into the touch-hole and the gunner
was ready with the match which he had lighted with his own flint and
steel. Boom, and the gun recoiled in a veil of smoke. Through the cabin
port-hole flew a deadly shower of spikes and bolts while the framework
around it was shattered to bits. It was a most unhealthy place for
pirates. They forsook it instantly. And the musketry fire slackened
elsewhere. It was to be inferred that there was painful consternation in
the cabin.

With boisterous mirth, the sailors deftly turned other guns to bear and
were careful not to let them get adrift. The muzzles had been well
stopped against wetting by the sea and with a little dry powder for the
priming, most of them could be served. They could not be reloaded for
dearth of ammunition but Captain Wellsby felt confident that one round
would suffice.

Methodically the gun-crews aimed and fired one gun after another,
watching the chance between the seas that broke aboard. The solid round
shot, at short range, ripped through the cabin walls and bulkheads and
buried themselves in the frames and timbers of the ship's stern. A good
gunner was never so happy as when he saw the white splinters fly in
showers and these zealous sailormen forgot they were knocking their own
ship to pieces. They were on the target, and this was good enough.

The beleaguered pirates made no more pretense of firing muskets or
defying the crew to dig them out. Their fort was an untenable position.
At this sport of playing bowls with round shot they were bound to lose.
Captain Wellsby sighted the last gun himself. It was a bronze culverin
of large bore, taken as a trophy from the stranded wreck of a Spanish
galleon. With a tremendous blast this formidable cannon spat out a
double-shotted load and the supports of the cabin roof were torn
asunder. The tottering beams collapsed. Half the structure fell in.

It was the signal for the sailors of the _Plymouth Adventure_ to charge
aft and finish the business. They found pirates crawling from under the
wreckage. It was like a demolished ant-heap. In the smaller cabins and
other rooms far aft, which were more or less intact, some of the rascals
showed fight but they were remorselessly prodded out with pikes and
those unwounded were hustled forward to be thrown into the forecastle.
It was difficult to restrain the seamen from dealing them the death they
deserved but Captain Wellsby was no sea-butcher and he hoped to turn
them over to the colonial authorities to be hanged with due ceremony.

The badly hurt were laid in the forecastle bunks where the ship's
surgeon washed and bandaged them after he had cared for the injured men
of his own crew. Ned Rackham was still alive, conscious and defiant,
surviving a wound which would have been mortal in most cases. Whether he
lived or died was a matter of small concern to Captain Wellsby but he
ordered the surgeon to nurse him with special care.

The dead pirates were flung overboard but the bodies of seven brave
British seamen were wrapped in sailcloth to be committed to the deep on
the morrow, with a round shot at their feet and a prayer to speed their
souls. There were men enough to work the ship but she was in a
situation indescribably forlorn. It was possible to patch and shore the
cabin house and make a refuge, even to find place for the wretched women
who were lifted unharmed out of the lazarette. But the stout ship, her
mainmast gone by the board, the deck ravaged by that infernal catapult
of an errant gun, the hull pounded by the floating wreckage of spars,
would achieve a miracle should she see port again.

The combat with the pirates and their overthrow had been waged in the
last hour before the gray night closed over a somber sea. God's mercy
had caused the wind to fall and the waves to diminish in size else the
ship would have gone to the bottom ere dawn. Much water had washed down
into the hold through the broken cargo hatch and the gaps where the
runaway gun had torn other fittings away. The carpenter sounded the well
and solemnly stared at the wetted rod by the flicker of his horn
lantern. The ship was settling. It was his doleful surmise that she
leaked where the pounding spars overside had started the butts. It was
man the pumps to keep the old hooker afloat and Captain Wellsby ordered
his weary men to sway at the brakes, watch and watch.

Joe Hawkridge and Jack Cockrell, more fit for duty than the others, put
their backs into it right heartily while the sailors droned to the
cadence of the pump a sentimental ditty which ran on for any number of
verses and began in this wise:

          "As, lately I traveled toward Gravesend,
           I heard a fair Damosel a Sea-man commend:
           And as in a Tilt-boat we passed along,
           In praise of brave Sea-men she sung this new Song,
          _Come Tradesman or Marchant, whoever he be,
           There's none but a Sea-man shall marry with me!_"

Thus they labored all the night through, men near dead with fatigue
whose hard fate it was to contend now with pirates and again with the
hostile ocean. The skipper managed to stay the foremast and to bend
steering sails so that the ship was brought into the wind where her
motion was easier. The sky cleared before daybreak and the rosy horizon
proclaimed a fair sunrise. How far and in what direction the _Plymouth
Adventure_ had been blown by the storm was largely guesswork. By means
of dead reckoning and the compass and cross-staff, Captain Wellsby hoped
to work out a position but meanwhile he scanned the sea with a sense of
brooding anxiety.

Instead of praying for plenty of sea room, he now hoped with all his
heart that the vessel had been set in toward the coast. She was sinking
under his feet and would not live through the day. It was useless to
toil at the pumps or to strive at mending the shattered upperworks. The
men turned to the task of quitting the ship, and of saving the souls on
board. It was a pitiful extremity and yet they displayed a dogged,
unshaken fidelity. Only one boat had escaped destruction. The pinnace
had been staved in by the thunderbolt of a gun and the yawl, stowed upon
the cabin roof, was wrecked by round shot. The small jolly-boat would
hold the women passengers and the wounded sailors, with the hands
required to tend oars and sail.

Nothing remained but to try to knock together one or more rafts. Captain
Wellsby discussed it with his officers and it was agreed that the
able-bodied pirates should be left to build a raft for themselves,
taking their own wounded with them. This was more mercy than they had
any right to expect. The strapping young Devonshire boatswain, with his
head tied up, was for leaving the blackguards to drown in the forecastle
but the shipmaster was too humane a man for that.

It was drawing toward noon when the first mate descried land to the
westward, a bit of low coast almost level with the sea. In the light air
the sluggish ship moved ever so slowly, with canvas spread on the fore
and mizzen masts. Spirits revived and life tasted passing sweet. To
drift in the open sea upon wave-washed rafts was an expedient which all
mariners shuddered to contemplate. It was with feelings far different
that they now assembled spars and planks and lashed and spiked them
together on the chance of needing rafts to ferry them ashore from a
stranded ship.

Well into the bright afternoon the _Plymouth Adventure_ was wafted
nearer and nearer the sandy coast. Within a half mile of it a line of
breakers frothed and tumbled on a shoal beyond which the water deepened
again. The ship could not be steered to avoid this barrier. Her main
deck was almost level with the sea which lapped her gently and sobbed
through the broken bulwarks. With a slight shock she struck the shoal
and rested there just before she was ready to founder.

With disciplined haste, the jolly-boat was launched and filled with its
human freightage. The boatswain went in charge and four seamen tugged at
the sweeps. There were trees and clumps of bushes among the hillocks of
sand and a tiny bight for a landing place. The bulwark was then chopped
away so that the largest raft could be shoved into the water by means of
tackles, rollers and handspikes. It floated buoyantly and supported as
many as fifteen men, who did not mind in the least getting their feet
wet. Upon a raised platform in the centre of the raft were fastened
barrels of beef and bread and casks of fresh water.

The jolly-boat could hope to make other trips between the ship and the
shore but the prudent skipper took no chances with the weather. A sudden
gale might pluck the _Plymouth Adventure_ from the shoal or tear her to
fragments where she lay. Therefore most of the men, including
passengers, were embarked on the raft. Captain Wellsby remained aboard
with a few of his sailors and our two lads, Joe and Jack, who had not
attempted to thrust themselves upon the crowded raft.

The pirates were making a commotion in the forecastle, yammering to be
freed, but the skipper had no intention of loosing them until all his
people had safely abandoned ship. The jolly-boat made a landing without
mishap and returned to the wreck as the sun went down. More stores were
dumped into it, sacks of potatoes and onions which had been overlooked,
bedding for the women, powder and ball for the muskets, and other things
which it was necessary to keep dry.

Captain Wellsby got rid of the rest of his men on this trip, excepting
the gunner and carpenter, and these lingered with him as a kind of
body-guard pending the ticklish business of releasing the imprisoned
pirates and forsaking them to their own devices. The jolly-boat was
laden to the gunwales and Jack Cockrell held back, saying to Joe
Hawkridge:

"Why trouble the captain to set us ashore? Let us make a raft of our
own. The breeze holds fair to the beach and it will be a lark."

"It suits me well," grinned Joe. "If we wait to go off with the master,
and those sinful pirates see me aboard, I'll need wings to escape 'em.
They saw me serve the gun that was filled with spikes to the muzzle.
Aye, Jack, I will feel happier to be elsewhere when Cap'n Wellsby unbars
the fo'castle and holds 'em back with his pistols till he can cast off
in the jolly-boat."

"Yes, the sight of you is apt to put them in a vile temper," laughingly
agreed Jack, "and 'tis awkward for the master to bother with us. Now
about a little raft----"

"Two short spars are enough. There they lie. And the cabin hatch will do
for a deck. Spikes for thole-pins, and oars from the pinnace. Unlace the
bonnet of the jib for a sail."

"You are a proper sailorman, Joe. A voyage by starlight to an unknown
coast. 'Tis highly romantic."

They set to work without delay. Captain Wellsby had occupations of his
own and no more than glanced at them in passing. Jack insisted on
carrying a water breaker and rations, he being hungry and too busy to
pause for supper. They would make a picnic cruise of the adventure.
Handily Joe reeved a purchase and they hauled away until their raft slid
off the sloping deck to leeward. With a gay hurrah to Captain Wellsby,
they paddled around the stern of the ship and through the ruffle of surf
that marked the shoal.

In the soft twilight they trimmed the sail and swung at the clumsy oars,
while a fire blazing on the beach was a beacon to guide their course.
After a time they rested and wiped the sweat from their faces. The
progress of the raft was like that of a lazy snail. In the luminous
darkness they pulled with all their strength. The wind had died to a
calm. The sail hung idle from its yard. They heard, faint and afar, the
deep voices of the sailors in the jolly-boat as they returned to take
the skipper and his two companions from the ship on which a light
burned.

The lads shouted but there came no answering hail from the unseen boat.
They were perplexed to understand how their courses could be so far
apart. Presently the night breeze drew off the land, bringing with it
the scent of green things growing. Joe Hawkridge stared at the fire on
the beach and then turned to look at the spark of light on the ship. The
raft had drifted considerably to the southward. Anxiously Joe said to
his shipmate:

"The flood o' the tide must be setting us down the coast, in some crazy
current or other. Mayhap it runs strong through this race betwixt the
shoal and the beach with a slant that's bad for us."

"I noted it," glumly agreed Jack. "The jolly-boat passed too far away to
please me. And this landward breeze is driving us to sea."

"No sense in breaking our backs at these oars," grumbled Joe. "We go
ahead like a crab, with a sternboard. Think ye we can swing the raft to
fetch the ship?"

"After Captain Wellsby turns the pirates loose and quits her?" scoffed
Jack.

"I am a plaguey fool," cheerfully admitted Joe Hawkridge. "'Twould be
out of the frying-pan into the fire, with a vengeance."

"And no way to signal our friends," sadly exclaimed Jack. "We forgot
flint and steel. It looks much like another voyage."

"Straight for the open sea, my bully boy," agreed Joe. "And I'd as soon
chance it on a hen-coop."




CHAPTER VI

THE VOYAGE OF THE LITTLE RAFT


THESE sturdy youngsters were not easily frightened, and Jack Cockrell,
the landsman, was confident that wind and tide would change to send the
little raft shoreward. So tranquil was the sea that they rode secure and
dry upon the cabin hatch which was buoyed by the two short spars. Joe
Hawkridge was silent with foreboding of a fate more bitter than the
perils which they had escaped. He had seen a lone survivor of a crew of
pirates picked off a raft in the Caribbean, a grisly phantom raving mad
who had gnawed the flesh of his dead comrades.

They drifted quietly before the land breeze, beneath a sky all jeweled
with bright stars. The fire on the beach dimmed to a red spark and then
vanished from their wistful ken. They could no longer see the light on
the wreck of the _Plymouth Adventure_. Now and then the boys struggled
with the heavy oars and rowed until exhausted but they knew they could
be making no headway against the current which had gripped the derelict
raft. They ate sparingly of flinty biscuit and leathery beef pickled in
brine and stinted themselves to a few swallows of water from the wooden
breaker or tiny cask.

"Hunger and thirst are strange to ye, Jack," said young Hawkridge as
they lay stretched side by side. "Hanged if I ever did get enough to eat
till I boarded the _Plymouth Adventure_. Skin and bone I am. I'll not
call this a bad cruise unless we have to chew our boot-tops. A pesky
diet is leather. I've tried it."

"Truly, Joe?" cried Jack in lugubrious accents. "We may have more heart
when morning comes. A piping easterly breeze, such as is wont to come up
with the sun in Charles Town, and we can steer for the coast all taut
and cheery."

"I dread the sun, Jack. For men adrift the blaze of it fries them like
fish on a grid. A pint of water a day, no more, is the allowance. 'Twill
torture you, but castaways can live on it. They have done it for weeks
on end. Here's two musket balls in my pocket. I can whittle a balance
from a bit of pine and we must weigh the bread and meat."

"Two musket balls' weight of food for a meal?" protested Jack.

"Not a morsel more," was the grim answer. "Granted we be not washed off
this silly raft and drowned when a fresh breeze kicks up the sea, we may
hold body and soul together through five or six days."

"But some vessel will sight us, Joe, even if the plight is as dark as
your melancholy fancies paint it. And I thought you a light-hearted
mariner in danger."

"The sea is a cruel master and she hath taught me prudence," was the
reply. "A vessel sight us? I fear an empty sea so soon after the storm.
And honest ships will be loth to venture out from port if the word sped
that Blackbeard was cruising off Charles Town bar."

Jack Cockrell forsook the attempt to wring comfort out of his hardy
companion who refused to delude himself with vain imaginings. However,
it is the blessed gift of youth to keep the torch of hope unquenched and
presently they diverted themselves with chatting of their earlier
adventures. Jack was minded of his pompous, stout-hearted uncle, Mr.
Peter Arbuthnot Forbes, and wondered how he had fared, whether he had
set out to return to Blackbeard's ship with the store of medicines from
Charles Town when the great storm swooped down. Forgotten were Jack's
hot grievances against the worthy Secretary of the Council who had
sought to take a father's place. Piracy had lost its charm for young
Master Cockrell and meekly would he have obeyed the mandate to go to
school in merry England among sober, Christian folk.

"Tremendous odd, I call it," exclaimed Joe Hawkridge. "Here I was a
pirate and hating the dirty business. And my dreams were all of learnin'
to be a gentleman ashore, to know how to read books and such. Blow me,
Jack, we should ha' swapped berths."

"If my good uncle is alive I mean to commend you to his kindness,"
exclaimed Jack. "We must cleave together, and you shall have a skinful
of books and school and manners."

This pleased the young sea rover beyond measure and he diverted himself
with pictures of a cleaner, kindlier world than he had ever known. In
the small hours of the night, the twain drowsed upon their frail
platform which floated as a speck on the shrouded ocean. The wav