YES, there was Blackbeard's ship hard in the sand which had gripped her keel while she was steering to enter the Cherokee Inlet. There was no pearly vapor of swamp mist out here to shroud her from attack. The air was clear and bright, with a robust breeze which stirred a flashing surf on the shoals. Under lower sails, the two sloops watchfully crept nearer until their crews could examine the stranded brig and read the story of her plight. She stood on a slant with the decks sloped toward the enemy. This made it impossible to use her guns with any great effect.
Captain Wellsby tacked ship and kept theKing Georgewell away from the cay, as Joe Hawkridge advised. With an ebbing tide, it was unsafe to venture into shallower water in order to pound Blackbeard's vessel with broadsides. Lieutenant Maynard came aboard in a small boat and was quite the dandy with his brocaded coat and ruffles and velvet small-clothes. One might have thought he had engaged to dance the minuet. Colonel Stuart met him in a spick-and-span uniform of His Majesty's Foot, cross-belts pipe-clayed white assnow, boots polished until they shone. Such gentlemen were punctilious in war two hundred years ago.
"Your solid shot will not pound him much at this range, my good sir," said the lieutenant. "With his hull so badly listed toward us, you can no more than splinter the decks while his men take shelter below."
"I grant you that," regretfully replied the soldier. "And case-shot will not scatter to do him much harm. Shall I blaze away and demoralize the rascals whilst you make ready your boats?"
"Toss a few rounds into the varlets, Colonel Stuart. It may keep them from massing on deck. One boat from your ship, if it please you, with twenty picked men. I shall take twenty men from each sloop as boarders."
"Sixty in all?" queried the colonel. "Why not take a hundred?"
"They would be tumbling over one another,—too much confusion. This is not a large vessel yonder. We must have room on deck to swing and cut."
"I will have my men away in ten minutes, Lieutenant Maynard," crisply replied the blonde, raw-boned Scotsman with a finger at his hat-brim in courteous salute. He proceeded to call the men by name, strapping, sober fellows who had followed the sea amid the frequent perils of the merchant service. Jack Cockrell was the only landsman and he felt greatly honored that he should be included. Gone was his unmanly trepidation. Was he more worthy to live than these humble seamenwho fought to make the ocean safer for other voyagers, who were true kinsmen of the Elizabethan heroes of blue water? He tarried a moment to wring Joe Hawkridge's hand in farewell and to tell him:
"If I have ill luck in this adventure, old comrade,—do you mind presenting my best compliments, and—and a fond farewell to Mistress Dorothy Stuart?"
"Strike me, Jack, stow that or you'll have me blubberin'," said Joe. "Bring me a lock of Cap'n Teach's whiskers as a token for my lass in Fayal if ever I clap eyes on her again. And you'd best take this heavy cutlass which I whetted a-purpose for ye. 'Twill split a pirate like slicin' an apple."
With this useful gift in his hand, Master Cockrell swung himself into the boat where Colonel Stuart stood in the stern-sheets. Perhaps he, too, was dwelling on a fair maid named Dorothy who might be left fatherless before the sun climbed an hour higher. The sloops were moving nearer the cay under sail and oar, trailing their crowded boats behind them. Blackbeard had hauled two or three of his guns into such positions that he could open fire but the sloops crawled doggedly into the shoal water and so screened their boats until these were ready to cast off for the final dash.
It was a rare sea picture, the stranded brig with canvas loose on the yards and ropes streaming, her listed decks a-swarm with pirates in outlandish, vari-colored garb, the surf playing about her in a bright dazzle andthe gulls screaming overhead. The broad, squat figure of Blackbeard himself was never more conspicuous. He no longer strutted the quarter-deck but was all over the ship, menacing his men with his pistols, shifting them in groups for defense, shouldering bags of munitions, or heaping up the grenades and stink-pots to be lighted and thrown into the attacking boats.
It was his humor to adorn himself more elaborately than usual. Under his broad hat with the great feather in it he had stuck lengths of tow matches which were all sputtering and burning so that he ran to and fro in a cloud of sparks and smoke like that Evil One whom he professed to admire. He realized, no doubt, that this was likely to be his last stand. The inferno which he was so fond of counterfeiting, fairly yawned at his feet.
And now the sloops let go their anchors while from astern of them appeared the three boats of the assailants. They steered wide of each other to seek different parts of the pirate brig and so divide Blackbeard's force. The boats of Colonel Stuart and Lieutenant Maynard were racing for the honor of first place alongside. Blackbeard trained two guns on them, filled with grape and chain-shot, and one boat was shattered but it swam long enough for the cheering men to pull it to the brig and toss their grapples to the rail which was inclined quite close to the water. They were in the surf which broke against the ship, but this was a mere trifle.
Most of them went up the side like cats, leaping forthe chains and dead-eyes, slashing at the nettings, swinging by a rope's end, or digging their toes in a crack of a gun-port. Forward they were pouring over the bowsprit, vaulting like acrobats from the anchor stocks, or swarming up the stays. It seemed beyond belief that they could gain footing on the decks with Blackbeard's demons stabbing and hacking and shooting at them, but in such manner as this was many a great sea fight won in the brave days of old.
Lieutenant Maynard gained his lodgment in the bows amid a swirl of pirates who tried to pen him in front of the forecastle house. But his tars of the Royal Navy were accustomed to close quarters and they straightway made room for themselves. Chest to chest and hand to hand they hewed their way toward the waist of the ship where Colonel Stuart raged like the braw, bonny Highlander that he was. Almost at the same time, the third boat had made fast under the jutting stern gallery and its twenty men were piling in through the cabin windows like so many human projectiles.
In theKing Georgebrigantine, Captain Jonathan Wellsby fidgeted and gnawed his lip, with a telescope at his eye, while he watched the conflict in which he could scarce distinguish friend from foe. He could see Blackbeard charge aft to rally his men and then whirl back to lunge into the mêlée where towered Colonel Stuart's tall figure. The powder smoke from pistols and muskets drifted in a thin blue haze. Joe Hawkridge wasfairly shaking with nervousness as he said to the skipper:
"There'll be no clearing the decks 'less they down that monster of a Cap'n Teach. And he has more lives than a cat. See you my dear crony, Master Jack?"
"No, I cannot make him out in that mad turmoil," replied Captain Wellsby. "Nip and tuck, I call it, Joe."
This was the opinion forced upon Lieutenant Maynard as he saw the engagement resolve itself into a series of bloody whirlpools, his seamen and the pirates intermingled. He won his way past the forecastle into the wider spaces of the deck, with only a few of his twenty tars on their feet. Colonel Stuart was hard pressed and the boarders who had come over the stern had as much as they could do to hold their own. Thus far the issue was indecisive.
Jack Cockrell had kept close to the colonel, and felt amazement that he was still alive. His cheek was laid open, a bullet had torn his thigh, and a powder burn streaked his neck, but he felt these hurts not at all. It was a nightmare from which there seemed no escape. He saw Blackbeard rush at him with a raucous shout of:
"The scurvy young cockerel! He will ne'er crow again."
Colonel Stuart sprang between them, blades clashed, and they were swept apart in another wave of jostling combat. A moment later the colonel slipped and fellas a coal-black negro chopped at him with a broken cutlass. Jack Cockrell flew at him and they wrestled until a hip-lock threw the negro to the deck, where the colonel made him one pirate less.
Formidable as these outlaws were, they lacked the stern cohesion which had been drilled into the sailors of the Royal Navy and likewise learned in the hard school of the merchant service. Very slowly the odds were shifting against Blackbeard's crew. It was unmistakable when Lieutenant Maynard cut his way through to join Colonel Stuart, while the third group of boarders was advancing little by little from the after quarter. This meant that the force was gradually uniting in spite of the furious efforts to scatter it.
And now there came an episode which lives in history two centuries after that scene of carnage on the decks of the stranded brig. It has preserved the name of a humble lieutenant of the Royal Navy and saved it from the oblivion which is the common lot of most brave men who do and dare when duty beckons.
Blackbeard was bleeding from a dozen wounds and yet his activity was unabated. He was like a grizzly bear at bay. His men began to believe that his league with Satan, of which he obscenely boasted, had made him invulnerable. He was all that he had proclaimed himself to be, the wickedest and most fearsome pirate of the Western Ocean. And all the while, the slender, boyish Lieutenant Maynard, sailor and gentleman, had one aimin mind, and that was to slay Captain Edward Teach with his own hand. Nor was he at all content until he had cleared a path to where the hairy pirate was playing havoc with his broadsword.
With a loud laugh in mockery, Blackbeard snatched a loaded pistol from one of his men and fired at this foppish young officer who presumed to single him out. The ball chipped Maynard's ear and he dodged the pistol which was hurled at his head. It was curious to note a lull in the general engagement, a little interval of suspense while men regained their breath or tried to staunch their wounds. They were unconsciously awaiting the verdict of this duel between their leaders. Jack Cockrell, for instance, finding himself alone by some chance, leaned against a stanchion and heard his own blood drip—drip—on the deck.
It was a fleeting respite. Blackbeard swung his sword, with the might of those wide shoulders behind it. The lieutenant stepped aside like lightning and the bright weapon whistled past his arm. Then they went at each other like blacksmiths, sparks flying as steel bit steel. Dexterity and a cool wit were a match for the pirate's untamable strength. Gory, snarling, Blackbeard shortened his stroke to use the point. The lieutenant dropped to one knee, thrust upward, and found a vital spot.
Blackbeard stood staring at him with wonder in his eyes. Then those thick, bowed legs gave way and hetoppled like a tree uprooted. He passed out quietly enough, with no more cursing, and in this last moment of sensibility his thoughts appeared to wander far to his youth as a brisk merchant seaman out of Bristol port, for he was heard to mutter, with a long sigh:
"A pretty babe as ever was, Mollie, and the mortal image of its mother."
To his waist the sable beard covered him like a pall and one corded arm was flung across his breast and it showed the design of the skull and cross-bones pricked in India ink. Then as if the dead leader had issued the command, the surviving pirates began to fling down their weapons and loudly cry for quarter. They need not have felt ashamed of the resistance they had made up to this time, but now the delirium of combat had slackened and Blackbeard was no more. One or two of his officers were alive and they knew that the game was lost. Reinforcements could be sent from the sloops and the brigantine as soon as they were signaled for. And there was no flight from a stranded ship. Blackbeard had been able to infuse them with his own madness. Better chance the gallows than no quarter.
Here and there a few of the most desperate dogs of the Spanish Main who had followed Blackbeard's fortunes a long time, refused to surrender but they were either shot down or overpowered. Captain Wellsby was sending off two boats from theKing Georgewith his surgeon, and the sloops were kedging in closer to thecay with the rising tide. Half the seamen were beyond aid and of the pirates no more than twenty were alive. Jack Cockrell was thankful to have come off so lightly, and he consoled himself with the notion that a scar across his cheek would be a manly memento. Colonel Stuart had been several times wounded but 'tis hard killing a Highlander.
It was Lieutenant Maynard's duty to offer public proof that he had slain none other than the infamous Blackbeard, wherefore he made no protest when his armorer hacked off the head of the dead pirate. There was no feeling of chivalry due a fallen foe, valiant though his end had been. This horrid trophy was tied at the end of a sloop's bowsprit, to be displayed for the gratification of all honest sailormen who might behold it in port. It was not a gentle age on blue water and Captain Edward Teach had been the death of many helpless people during his wicked career.
Lieutenant Maynard announced that he would take the two sloops into Bath Town, before proceeding to Virginia, as they were overcrowded vessels and the survivors of the boarding party needed proper care ashore. It would also afford the unscrupulous Governor Eden of North Carolina an opportunity to see his friend, Captain Teach, as a pirate who would divide no more plundered merchandise with him.
The brigantineKing Georgewas ready to escort them into Pamlico Sound, after which she would sail forCharles Town. Before the departure from the entrance of Cherokee Inlet, the stranded vessel was set afire and blazed grandly as the funeral pyre of Blackbeard's stout lads who would go no more a-roving.
Never was a nurse more devoted than Joe Hawkridge when his comrade was mercifully restored to him. Jack was woefully pale and weak but in blithe spirits and thankful to have seen the last of Blackbeard.
"Hulled in the leg and a damaged figger-head," said Joe, as he sat on the edge of the hero's bunk. "Triflin', I call it, when I expected to see you come aboard feet first wrapped in a bit o' canvas."
"I don't want to talk about it, Joe. Let's find something pleasant. Ho for Charles Town, and the green trees and a bench in the shade."
"And a tidy little vessel after a while, you and me and the Councilor a-pleasurin' up the coast with men and gear to fish up the treasure chest."
"And you believe that Blackbeard never got back to the Inlet to save the treasure for himself?" asked Jack.
"Not the way his ship was headed when she struck the shoal."
The brigantine was well on her way to Charles Town when Captain Wellsby found that Master Cockrell could be carried into the comfortable main cabin to rest on a cushioned settle for an hour or two at a time. It was during one of these visits, when Joe Hawkridge was present, that the skipper remembered to say:
"Here is a bit of memorandum which may entertain you lads. Lieutenant Maynard had Blackbeard's quarters searched before the brig was burned. Some valuable stuff was found, but nothing what you'd call a pirate's treasure."
The lads looked at each other but kept their own counsel and Captain Wellsby went on to explain:
"There was a private log, Blackbeard's own journal, with a few entries in it, and most of the leaves torn out. I made a copy of what could be read, for the late Captain Teach was a better pirate than scrivener. Here, Jack, you are the scholar."
Jack read aloud this extract, which was about what might have been expected:
"Such a day! Rum all out,—our company somewhat sober. A confusion amongst us,—rogues a-plotting—great talk of separation. So I looked sharp for a prize. Took one, with a great deal of liquor on board, so kept the company hot, very hot. Then all things went well again."
"That sounds familiar enough to me," was Joe Hawkridge's comment. "And the rest of his writing will be much like it."
"Not so fast," exclaimed Captain Wellsby. "Scan the next page, Jack. 'Twill fetch you up all standing. Not that it puts gold in our pockets, for we know not where to search, but I swear it will make your eyes sparkle and your mouth water."
Trying to hide his excitement, Jack saw a kind of rough inventory, and it ran like this:
"Where I Hid Itt This Cruse:1 Bag 54 Silver Barrs. 1 Bag 79 Barrs & Peaces of Silver.1 Bag Coyned Gold. 1 Bag Dust Gold. 2 Bags Gold Barrs.1 Bag Silver Rings & Sundry Precious Stones. 3 Bags Unpolyshed Stones.1 Silver Box set with Diamonds. 4 Golden Lockets.Also 1 Silver Porringer—2 Gold Boxons—7 Green Stones—Rubies Great & Small 67—P'cl Peaces of Eight & Dollars—Also 1 Bag Lump Silver—a Small Chaine—a corral Necklace—1 Bag English Crowns."
1 Bag 54 Silver Barrs. 1 Bag 79 Barrs & Peaces of Silver.
1 Bag Coyned Gold. 1 Bag Dust Gold. 2 Bags Gold Barrs.
1 Bag Silver Rings & Sundry Precious Stones. 3 Bags Unpolyshed Stones.
1 Silver Box set with Diamonds. 4 Golden Lockets.
Also 1 Silver Porringer—2 Gold Boxons—7 Green Stones—Rubies Great & Small 67—P'cl Peaces of Eight & Dollars—Also 1 Bag Lump Silver—a Small Chaine—a corral Necklace—1 Bag English Crowns."
Captain Jonathan Wellsby listened to this luscious recital with an air of mild amusement. He was of a temper too stolid and sensible to waste his time on random treasure hunting. Blackbeard might have chosen his hiding-place anywhere along hundreds of leagues of coast. He could understand the agitation of these two adventurous lads to whom this memorandum was like a magic spell. Of such was the spirit of youth.
"Any more of it?" demanded Joe Hawkridge.
"The next page was ripped out of the journal," answered the skipper. "What cruise did he mean? If it was this last one, he may have hid it on the Virginia or Carolina coast."
Master Cockrell gave it as an excuse that he had sat up long enough and would return to his bunk. He was fairly bursting for a conference with Joe, and as soon as they were alone he exclaimed:
"It may be the sea-chest! What do you think?"
"A handsome clue, I call it, something to warm the cockles of your heart," grinned the sea urchin. "Aye, Jack, I should wager he wrote that down whilst he lay at anchor in Cherokee Inlet."
"It seems shabby of us to keep the secret from Captain Wellsby, but there is an obligation on us——"
"To Bill Saxby and the old sea wolf," said Joe. "We'll not forget this trump of a skipper when it comes to splittin' up the treasure."
"I am anxious for Captain Bonnet and his crew," remarked Jack. "With this crusade against pirates afoot, our friends may be hanged before we see them again."
SORROW mingled with rejoicing when theKing Georgebrigantine sailed into Charles Town harbor. The sea fight off Cherokee Inlet had taken a heavy toll of brave seamen and there were vacant chairs and aching hearts ashore, but the fiendish Blackbeard had been blotted out and would no more harry the coast. Small and rude as was this pioneer settlement, it was most fair and attractive to the eyes of young Master Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge. In the house of Uncle Peter Forbes they rested at their ease and planned sedate careers for themselves.
Even the treasure ceased to be uppermost in their lively discussions. It could wait a while. They were no longer under the spell of its influence. This different world in which they now dwelt so contentedly made their adventures seem like shadowy figments with precious little romance in them. And neither lad expressed any great anxiety to go exploring the noisome Cherokee swamp and to challenge the ghost of Blackbeard.
Without a sign of rebellion, Jack returned to his books and lessons in Parson Throckmorton's garden. The learning already acquired he began to pass on toJoe Hawkridge, who was a zealous pupil and determined to read and write and cipher without letting the grass grow under his feet. It was this young pirate's ambition to make a shipping merchant of himself, and Councilor Forbes found him employment in a warehouse where the planters traded their rice, resin, and indigo for the varied merchandise brought out from England. Jack aspired to manage his uncle's plantation and to acquire lands of his own and some day to sit in the Governor's Council.
Of a Sunday morning he went to the little English church, dressed in his best and using a cane, for he limped from the wound in his thigh. Joe Hawkridge walked with him, careful to banish his grin, and sat in the Councilor's pew where he paid proper attention to the prayers and responses. This caused some gossip but the ocean waif was winning his way to favor by dint of industry, a shrewd wit, and his perennial good humor.
Frequently they escorted fair Dorothy Stuart home from church. She was fonder than ever of stalwart Master Cockrell because the colonel had told her he would have been a dead man had not the lad intervened to save him from the stroke of a negro pirate. Alas, however, it was not that sentimental devotion for which the lovelorn Jack yearned, and he confided to Joe that his existence was blighted. This evoked no sympathy from the fickle Hawkridge, who was forgetting his black-eyed lass in the Azores and was already a slave toDorothy Stuart. She laughed at them both and was their true friend, tender, and whimsical and anxious for their welfare. It was a valuable chapter in their education.
One morning while Joe was at work in the warehouse near the harbor, he heard a commotion in the street and was about to run out when his employer came in and explained:
"Two pirates captured,—just as I happened to pass. The knaves landed from a boat in broad daylight, unaware that Charles Town has mended its loose habit toward such gentry."
"What will be done with 'em?" quickly asked Joe, with an unhappy premonition.
"They were recognized as two of Stede Bonnet's old hands that used to resort to the tavern. Soldiers of the Governor's guard have been sent for to drag them to the gaol."
Joe hastened out but slackened his pace to lag behind the crowd of idlers who were jostling the prisoners along with hoots and jeers. Yes, there was the tall, gaunt frame and gray head of old Trimble Rogers whose mien was so forbidding and masterful that the mob forbore to handle him too roughly, unarmed though he was. At his elbow trudged chubby Bill Saxby, gazing about him with those wide blue eyes in which was not a trace of guile. Joe realized that for him to intercede would make matters worse. He was a reformed pirate onprobation and was known to have sailed with Blackbeard himself.
Therefore he darted into another street and sped to find Jack Cockrell, who chanced to be at home. They rushed into the room where Uncle Peter Forbes was writing at his desk and informed him that their two staunch comrades had come ashore to find them and were already in custody and something must be done to save them from the wrath of Governor Johnson, who had a mortal distaste for pirates still at large. The Councilor calmed the perturbation by assuring them:
"I have already spoken to His Excellency in behalf of these two men should they appear in this port. He was not wholly pleased but promised clemency should they offer to repent and if I gave surety for the pledge."
"They will be ready to live as respectable as Joe," impetuously declared Master Cockrell. "I'll go bail on it. Bill Saxby is a tradesman by nature and if you will lend him enough money to set himself up as a linen-draper and haberdasher, Uncle Peter, he can live happily ever after."
"And old Trimble Rogers has sailed his last cruise under the Jolly Roger, Councilor," put in Joe Hawkridge. "His timbers are full o' dry rot and he seeks a safe mooring."
"There seems no end to the bad company you drag me into," quoth Uncle Peter. "My hat and broadcloth cloak, Jack, and let us fare to the gaol and see whatthese awkward visitors have to say. After that I will attend upon the Governor."
In better spirits the anxious lads followed the dignified Secretary of the Council to the strongly built gaol on the edge of the town. In a very gloomy cell behind iron bars they found the luckless brace of pirates, shackled hand and foot. Bill Saxby took it like a placid philosopher but the ancient buccaneer was spitting Spanish oaths and condemning the hospitality of Charles Town in violent terms. He quieted instantly at sight of his young friends and the harsh, wrinkled visage fairly beamed as he shouted:
"Ourcamaradas, Bill. Here they be, to haul us out of this filthy hole! I forgive the unmannerly folks that allus used to welcome us."
They shook hands through the bars while Uncle Peter stood aside. He felt that his official station forbade his joining this fraternal reunion. In the narrow corridor he chatted with the gaoler to pass the time while Bill Saxby was explaining to the lads:
"We was in duty bound, in a manner of speakin', to run you down as soon as possible and make a report. Eh, Trimble?"
"Aye, Bill, to see what was to be done about the treasure. We wouldn't have 'em think we had run off with it. D'ye see, Master Cockrell, me and Bill took Cap'n Bonnet into our confidence. He is an honorable man and to be mentioned along with the great Cap'n Ed'ardDavis what I was shipmates with in the South Sea and at the sack of——"
"Stow it, grandsire," cried Bill. "I don't want to linger in gaol while you spin that long-winded yarn. Tell the lads what they want to know."
"If I weren't chained to the wall, Bill, I'd put my fist in your eye," severely retorted the veteran. "As I was a-sayin', Cap'n Bonnet was all courtesy and allowed the treasure belonged to us and he was ready to help find it."
"We told him we had to join up with our gentleman partner, Master Cockrell, and win his consent," said Bill, "afore we put our hooks on that blessed sea-chest."
"Which is exactly how I felt about you," Jack told them and he was greatly touched by this proof of their unbending fidelity. "But how did you manage it to reach Charles Town?"
"Cap'n Bonnet hove to outside the bar last night," explained Trimble Rogers, "and gave us a handy boat to sail in with."
The wary Joe Hawkridge took alarm at this and put a finger to his lips. It was unwise to parade the fact that Stede Bonnet cruised so near. His Excellency, the Governor, was anxious that he should share the fate of Blackbeard. Jack Cockrell had no fear that his Uncle Peter would be a tale-bearer. His private honor would forbid because this interview with the two lads was a privileged communication. What made Jack a trifle anxious was the presence of the gaol keeper in thecorridor. He was a sneaking sort of man, soft of tread and oily of speech and inclined to curry favor with those in authority.
Councilor Peter Forbes had tactfully withdrawn this person beyond earshot but he began to edge toward the cell. Old Trimble Rogers tried to heed Joe's cautionary signal but what he meant to be a whisper was a hoarse rumble as he explained:
"Cap'n Bonnet sends word he will be off this coast again in thirty days. He will come ashore hisself, to Sullivan's Island to get the answer, whether you are to go with us, Master Cockrell, to Cherokee Inlet."
Jack glanced at the gaol keeper but he was a dozen feet away and deep in talk with Mr. Forbes. There was no sign that this confidence had been overheard. Bill Saxby scolded the buccaneer for his careless speech but the old man had been a freebooter too long to be easily tamed. With artful design, Jack led him away from this dangerous ground and suggested:
"You are done with pirating? And will you both be ready to stay ashore in Charles Town after this,—this certain errand is accomplished?"
"I swear it gladly and on my own Bible," answered Trimble Rogers.
"Swear it for me," said Bill Saxby.
Mr. Forbes interrupted and told the lads to go home and await his conference with Governor Johnson. It proved to be a session somewhat stormy but the upshotwas a pardon conditioned on good behavior. The convincing argument was that these men had been faithful to Master Cockrell through thick and thin and had saved him from perishing in the Cherokee swamp. Moreover, it might be an inducement to others of Stede Bonnet's crew to surrender themselves and forsake their evil ways.
No sooner were these two pirates released from gaol than they found an active friend in Mr. Peter Forbes. He went about it quietly, for obvious reasons, but he felt under great obligation to them for their goodness to his nephew. Just at this time one of the shop-keepers became a bankrupt because of unthrifty habits and too much card-playing. Through an agent, Peter Forbes purchased the stock of muslins and calicos, of brocades and taffetas, calash bonnets, satin petticoats, shoe-buckles, laces, and buttons. And having given his promissory notes for said merchandise, Bill Saxby proudly hung his own sign-board over the door.
There was a flutter among the ladies. Here was a noteworthy sensation, to be served by an obsequious pirate with innocent blue eyes who had sailed the Spanish Main. A few days and it was evident that William Saxby, late of London, would conduct a thriving trade. He was fairly enraptured with his good fortune and congenial occupation and took it most amiably when Jack Cockrell or Joe Hawkridge sauntered in to tease him. He was a disgrace to Stede Bonnet, said they, and never had a pirate fallen to such a low estate as this.
Trimble Rogers was in no situation to rant at smug William, the linen draper. The old sea wolf who had outlived the most glorious era of the storied buccaneers, had a few gold pieces tucked away in his belt and at first he was content to loaf about the tavern, with an audience to listen to his wondrous tales which ranged from Henry Morgan to the great Captain Edward Davis. But he had never been a sot or an idler and soon he found himself lending a hand to assist the landlord in this way or that. And when disorder occurred, a word from this gray, hawk-eyed rover was enough to quell the wildest roisterers from the plantations.
Children strayed to the tavern green to sit upon his knee and twist those fierce mustachios of his, and their mothers ceased to snatch them away when they learned to know him better. Sometimes in his leisure hours he pored over his tattered little Bible with muttering lips and found pleasure in the Psalmist's denunciation of his enemies who were undoubtedly Spaniards in some other guise. He puttered about the flower beds with spade and rake and kept the bowling green clipped close with a keen sickle. In short, there was a niche for Trimble Rogers in his old age and he seemed well satisfied to fill it, just as Admiral Benbow spent his time among his posies at Deptford when he was not bombarding or blockading the French fleet off Dunkirk.
Jack Cockrell halted for a chat while passing the tavern and these two shipmates retired to a quiet cornerof the porch. The blind fiddler was plying a lively bow and a dozen boys and girls danced on the turf. Trimble Rogers surveyed them with a fatherly aspect as he said:
"They ain't afeard of me, Jack, not one of 'em. Was ever a worn out old hulk laid up in a fairer berth?"
"None of the sea fever left, Trimble? What about Captain Bonnet? He is due off the bar two days hence. My uncle frowns upon my sailing with him to seek the treasure. He insists that I steer clear of pirates."
"And that's entirely proper, Jack. I look at things different like, now I be a worthy citizen. 'Tis better to fit out a little expedition of our own, if we can drag silly Bill out of his rubbishy shop."
"Oh, he will come fast enough after a while. We are all tired of the sea just now," said Jack. "What about Captain Bonnet and meeting him at Sullivan's Island to pass the word that we must decline his courteous invitation?"
"I shall tend to that," answered the retired buccaneer, "And from what gossip I glean in the tavern, Cap'n Bonnet had best steer for his home port of Barbadoes and quit his fancy piratin'. This fractious Governor has set his heart on hangin' him. And Colonel Stuart is up and about again and has ordered theKing Georgeto fit for sea. 'Tis rumored he has sent messages to the north'ard for Lieutenant Maynard to sail another cruise in his company."
"Then be sure you warn Stede Bonnet," strongly advised Jack. "I would not be disloyal to the Province or to mine own good uncle, but one good turn deserves another."
Two days after this, Trimble Rogers vanished from the tavern and found Jack's canoe tied in a cove beyond the settled part of the town. It was in the evening of this same day that Jack was reading in his room by candle-light when a tap-tap on the window shutter startled him. He threw it open and dimly perceived that Dorothy Stuart stood there. Her face was white in the gloom and she wore a dress of some dark stuff. At her beckoning gesture, Jack slipped through the window and silently led her into the lane.
"Oh, Jack, I have been so torn betwixt scruples," she softly confided. "And I hope I am not doing wrong. If I am disloyal to my dear father, may I be forgiven. But I have made myself believe that there is a stronger obligation."
"It concerns Stede Bonnet," murmured Jack, reading the motive of this secret errand.
"Yes, you are bound to befriend him, Jack, on your honor as a gentleman."
"He has been warned to keep clear of Charles Town, Dorothy. Trimble Rogers has gone off to meet him."
"But it is worse than that. The keeper of the gaol, Jason Cutter, was closeted with my father this morning. I heard something that was said. Soldiers have been sent to Sullivan's Island."
"To capture Captain Bonnet?" wrathfully exclaimed Jack. "Did Colonel Stuart go with them? Does he know why Stede Bonnet risks putting into this harbor in a small boat? It is to do a deed of pure friendship and chivalry."
"All my father understands is what the gaoler reported," replied Dorothy, "and the Governor acted on this evidence. No, he did not go with the troops but sent a major in command."
"Too late for me to be of service, alas! If they take Captain Bonnet alive, he will most certainly hang. And Bill Saxby and Trimble Rogers will be embroiled in some desperate attempt to aid his escape from gaol."
"I am a dreadful, wicked girl to be thus in league with pirates," sighed Mistress Dorothy, "but I confess to you, Jack dear, that it would grieve my heart to see this charming pirate wear a hempen halter."
"My rival, is he? So I have found you out," flared Jack, pretending vast indignation. "Nevertheless, I shall still be true to him."
"And to me, I trust," she fondly replied. "Oh, I feel so thankful that faithful Trimble Rogers is keeping tryst. He will hear the soldiers blundering about in time to make Captain Bonnet take heed and shove off."
Jack walked home with her, very glad of the excuse, but with jealousy rankling in his bosom. It was not a lasting malady, however, and he had forgotten it next morning when he went early to the tavern to look forTrimble Rogers. There he found the major of the detachment at breakfast with an extraordinary story to tell. He had made a landing on Sullivan's Island after dark and deployed some of his men to patrol the beach that faced the ocean. The squad which remained with him had surprised a man lurking amongst the trees. Pursued and fired at, he had led them an infernal chase until they burst out upon the open beach. There they heard the sound of oars and voices in a boat which was making in for the shore. The hunted man raised his voice in one stentorian shout of:
"Pull out to sea, Cap'n Bonnet. And 'ware this coast. The soldiers are on my heels. Old Trimble Rogers sends a fare-ye-well."
The boat was wrenched about in a trice and moved away from the island, soon disappearing in the direction of the bar. The major's men had shot at it but without effect. When they had rushed to capture the fugitive who had shouted the warning, they found him prone upon the sand. There was not a scratch on him and yet he was quite dead. The prodigious exertion had broken his heart, ventured the major, and it had ceased to beat. His body would be prepared for Christian burial because of the esteem in which he was already held by many of the townspeople.
To Jack Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge it was sad news indeed but tender-hearted Bill Saxby mourned like one who had lost a parent. He closed the shop fora day and hung black ribbons on the knob. They agreed that the end had come for Trimble Rogers as he would have wished it, giving his life in loyal service to a friend and master. And perhaps it was better thus than for the creeping disabilities of old age to overtake him.
"He knew he was liable to pop off," said Bill, "with the rheumatism getting closer to his heart all the time. And he told me, did Trimble, that his share of the treasure was to go to the poor and needy of the town. Orphans and such was Trimble's weakness."
ASMALL sloop was making its leisurely way up the Carolina coast with a crew of a dozen men all told. The skipper was Captain Jonathan Wellsby who was taking this holiday cruise before sailing for England to command a fine new ship in the colonial trade. In the cabin were Jack Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge, Councilor Peter Arbuthnot Forbes, and that brisk young linen draper William Saxby. In the forecastle were trusty seamen who had sailed in thePlymouth Adventure. The sloop's destination was Cherokee Inlet and she was equipped with tackle and gear for a peculiar kind of fishing.
For once they made a voyage without fear of pirates. Safely the sloop passed in by the outlying cay where the charred bones of Blackbeard's brig were washed by the surf. An anchorage was found in the bight where theRevengehad tarried, close by the beach and the greensward of the pirates' old camp. After diligent preparation all hands manned a boat which pulled into the mouth of the sluggish creek. With axes to clear the entanglements and men enough to shove over the muddyshoals the boat was slowly forced up-stream and then into the smaller creek at the fork of the waters.
Uncle Peter Forbes was as gay as a truant schoolboy. This was the lark of a lifetime. The two lads, however, were uneasy and depressed. To them this sombre region was haunted, if not by ghosts then by memories as unhappy. They would not have been surprised to see Blackbeard skulking in the tall grass, his head bound in red calico, his pistols cocked to ambush them. And, alas, old Trimble Rogers was not along to protect them with his musket. He had lived and dreamed in expectation of this quest.
"We'll find no treasure, nary a penny of it," dolefully observed Joe Hawkridge who had actually begun to shiver.
"Of course we can find the sea-chest, you ninny," scolded Jack.
"Dead or alive, Cap'n Ed'ard Teach flew away with it afore now," was Joe's rejoinder. "He was a master one at black magic."
"Don't chatter like an idiot," spoke up Uncle Peter who was wildly brushing the mosquitoes from a sun-blistered nose. "My faith, I cannot understand how you lads got out of this swamp alive. It breeds all the plagues of Egypt."
They came to the tiny lagoon and rounded the bend beyond which the pirogue had capsized Blackbeard's cock-boat. There was nothing to indicate that any human being had visited this lonely spot since that sensational encounter. No trees had been cut down to serve as purchases for lifting the sea-chest from its oozy hiding-place. It was agreed that some traces would have remained if Blackbeard had been at work here before his death.
A camp was made upon the higher ground of the knoll and the party went about its task with skill and deliberation. Jointed sounding rods of iron were screwed together and the exact position of the spot determined from Jack Cockrell's chart and description. But neither he nor Joe Hawkridge could be coaxed into lending more active assistance. They were afraid of disturbing the bones of the drowned seaman who had fled from Blackbeard's bloody dirk. Jack had seen him go down and it was not a pleasant recollection. And so these two heroes who had faced so many other perils without flinching were content to putter about half-heartedly and let the others exert themselves.
All one day they prodded and sounded but struck only sunken logs. What gave them more concern than this was the discovery that the slender rods, sharpened to a point, could be driven through one yielding stratum after another of muck and ooze. Through myriad years the decaying vegetable matter of this rank swamp had been accumulating in these layers of muck. There was no telling how deep down the weight of the sea-chest might have caused it to settle.
Mr. Peter Forbes began to lose his youthful optimism and took four men to go and dig in the knoll while the others continued to search for the chest. The wooden cross still stood above the grave of Jesse Strawn and the long-leaf pines murmured his requiem. Having selected at random a place where he thought treasure ought to be, the worthy Councilor wielded a shovel until he perspired rivers.
"Confound it, Blackbeard must have left a scrap of paper somewhere to give us the proper instructions," he complained. "'Tis the custom of all proper pirates. Look at the trouble he has put us to."
"I helped search the cabin afore the brig was set afire," replied one of the seamen, "and all the writin' we found was in the bit of a book with the leaves tore out, same as Cap'n Wellsby made a fair copy of."
"That explains it," cried Uncle Peter. "I have no doubt the vile Blackbeard destroyed his private note of where he hid it, just to make the matter more difficult for us honest men."
This was plausible, but it failed to solve the riddle. A day or two of impatient digging and the portly Secretary of the Council was almost wrecked in mind and body, what with insects and heat, ague and fatigue. The ardor of his companions had likewise slackened. The boat's crew swore that the condemned sea-chest must have sunk all the way to China. Joe Hawkridge still argued that Blackbeard had whisked it away in acloud of smoke and brimstone. The unhappy Mr. Peter Forbes suggested:
"What say you, lads, to dropping down to the sloop for a respite from this accursed swamp? There we can take comfort and discuss what is to be done next."
Captain Jonathan Wellsby, who was a stubborn man, urged that they fish once more for the sunken chest before taking a rest, and this was agreed to. The sounding rods were plied with vigor and, at length, one of them drove against some solid object deep in the mud. It was more unyielding than a water-soaked log. The iron rod was lifted and rammed down with a thud which was like metal striking against metal. The explorers forgot the torments of the swamp. Uncle Peter Forbes was in no haste to flee the mosquitoes and the fever.
The sailors began to rig the spars and tackle as a derrick set up on the bank of the creek, with grapple hooks like huge tongs to swing out over the water and grope in the muddy depths. Absorbed in this fascinating task, they were startled beyond measure to hear thethump, thumpof thole-pins sounding from somewhere below them in the swamp. It was no Indian pirogue. Only a ship's boat heavily manned could make that cadenced noise of oars. Bill Saxby bade the men be silent while he held a hand at his ear and harkened with taut attention. The mysterious boat, following the winding channel of the creek, was drawing nearer.Voices could be heard, a rough command, a curse, a laugh.
"No honest men, I warrant," growled Captain Jonathan Wellsby, ready to take command by virtue of long habit. "Who else can they be but pirates, plague 'em. And they are betwixt us and the sea. All hands ashore and look to your arms. Lively now."
They were bewildered and taken all aback. In this holiday excursion after Blackbeard's treasure the party had reckoned only with dead or phantom pirates. There was some confusion, while Bill Saxby bawled at the seamen as addle-pated lubbers. Deserting their boat, they scrambled to cover in the tall grass while those busy with the derrick gear rushed to catch up muskets and powder-horns.
The strange boat was steadily forging up-stream and presently it was disclosed to view no more than a cable-length away. It was a pinnace filled with ruffianly fellows, more than a score of them. No merchant seamen these but brethren of the coast, freebooters who were gallows-ripe. Bill Saxby was quick to recognize two or three of them as old hands of Blackbeard's crew who must have deserted their leader in time to escape his fate. Presumably they had recruited others of their own stamp to go adventuring in the Cherokee swamp. They could have only one purpose. The very sight of them was enough to explain it. They were in quest of treasure like bloodhounds trailing a scent.
Against such a force as this, discretion was the better part of valor. A ferocious yell burst from the pinnace and a flight of musket balls whistled over the heads of the fugitives who had so hastily abandoned their operations with the derrick and gear and the boat. Stout Bill Saxby and his comrades, finding concealment in the swamp, primed their muskets and let fly a volley at the pinnace which was an easy target. A pirate standing in the stern-sheets clapped a hand to his thigh and sat down abruptly. Another one let go his oar to dangle a bloody hand.
The pinnace drifted with the tide and stranded on a weedy shoal while the blue powder smoke hung over it like a fog. For the moment it was a demoralized crew of pirates, roaring all manner of threats but at a loss how to proceed. The other party took advantage of this delay to beat a rapid retreat along the path which led to the knoll where the camp was pitched. Upon this higher ground they might hope to defend themselves against a force which outnumbered them. They ran at top speed, bending low, hidden from observation, avoiding the pools and bogs.
The pirates were diverted from their hostile intentions as soon as they caught sight of the tall spars and tackle, and the boat with its sounding rods and other gear. With a great clamor they swarmed out of the pinnace and began to investigate. This gave the refugees on the knoll a little time to make their camp morecompact, to wield the shovels furiously and throw up intrenchments, to cut down trees for a barricade, to fill the water kegs, to prepare to withstand an assault or a siege.
The sun went down and the infatuated pirates were still exploring the creek, convinced that they could straightway lay hold of the treasure they had come to find. They kindled a fire on the bank and evidently intended to pass the night there. This mightily eased the minds of the toilers upon the knoll. Their predicament was still awkward in the extreme but the fear of sudden death had been lifted. And it seemed possible that these bothersome pirates might conclude to leave them alone.
It went sorely against the grain, however, to be driven away from the precious sea-chest when it was almost within their grasp, to have to scuttle from this crew of scurvy pirates. Jack Cockrell was for making a sortie by night, gustily declaiming to his companions:
"The sentries will be drunk or drowsy. I know these swine. A well-timed rush and we can cut 'em down and pistol the rest. Didn't they open fire on us from the pinnace?"
"Aye, Jack, and we'll fight to save our skins," said the cool-headed Captain Wellsby, "but 'tis a desperate business to attack yon cut-throats, even by night, and there will be men of us hurt and killed. Blackbeard's gold is not worth it."
"Right sensibly put," declared Mr. Peter Forbes. "We had best spend this night in felling more trees and notching logs to pile them breast high. If these pirates find the sea-chest, they will leave us unmolested. If they fail to find it, they may conclude that we have already discovered the treasure. In that event, they will storm the knoll and give us no quarter."
"It would be rank folly to surrender," said stout Bill Saxby. "There be men in the pinnace who have no love for me nor for the two lads. 'Twas a shrewd suspicion of theirs that Blackbeard had played secret tricks in this Cherokee swamp, what with his excursions in that little cock-boat."
Keeping vigilant watch, they labored far into the night until the camp on the knoll was a hard nut to crack, with its surrounding ditch and palisade of logs behind which a man could lie and shoot. Now and then it might have been noted that Jack Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge conferred with their heads together as though something private were in the wind. As soon as they were relieved from duty, some time before the dawn, they stole very softly away from the knoll and groped along the path which led to the creek. Curiosity and the impetuous folly of youth impelled them to reconnoitre the pirates' bivouac.
"We may hear something worth listening to," whispered Jack, "and perhaps we can crawl close and steal some of their arms."
"None of that," chided young Hawkridge. "I am a man of goodly station in Charles Town and I would go back with a whole hide."
"You have grown too respectable," grumbled Jack. "Here is the chance for one last fling——"
His words stuck in his throat. A gurgle of horrified amazement and he tumbled headlong into the grass with a bare, sinewy arm wrapped around his neck. He fought to free himself but the breath was fairly choked out of him. Joe Hawkridge was desperately thrashing about in the swamp, gasping and snorting, his cries also smothered. In a twinkling they were captives, their arms tightly bound behind them, the stifling grip of their necks unrelaxed. Weakened almost to suffocation, the two lads could make no lively resistance. Jack uttered one feeble shout for help but subsided when those strong fingers tightened the clutch on his windpipe.
The assailants made no sound. Not a word was uttered. There were several of them, for the helpless prisoners were picked up bodily and lugged along by the head and the heels. They expected to be taken into the pirates' camp, believing they had been surprised and overpowered by an outlying sentry post. It was an old game, reflected Joe Hawkridge, to hold them alive as hostages. But he was vastly puzzled when these silent kidnappers, deftly picking their way in the darkness, took a direction which led them away from the bank ofthe creek. They had forsaken the trampled path and were proceeding through the trackless swamp whose pitfalls were avoided by a sort of sixth sense.
A mile of this laborious, uncanny progress and the bearers dumped their burdens and paused to rest. The two lads dizzily crawled to their feet and peered at the shadowy figures surrounding them. They heard a guttural exclamation and words exchanged in a strange, harsh tongue.
"Indians, blow me!" hoarsely whispered Joe, his throat sore and swollen.
"Comrade ahoy!" croaked Jack. "No pirates these, but Yemassees. Do they save us for the torture?"
"God knows. 'Tis a sorry mischance as ever was. I'd sooner meet up with Blackbeard's ghost. Are ye badly hurt?"
"Like a man hanged by the neck, Joe, but no mortal wounds. Had we minded Uncle Peter we would be safe in the sloop by now. One more day of hunting that filthy treasure undid us."
The half dozen Yemassees squatted about them, talking in low tones, and offered no further violence. Presumably they were waiting for daybreak, having conveyed their prisoners beyond all chance of rescue. The two lads shivered with fear and weariness. They were bruised and breathless and the thongs which tightly bound their wrists made their arms ache intolerably. Bitter was the regret at invading this baleful Cherokeeswamp when they might have remained safe from all harm in pleasant Charles Town.
Sadly they watched the eastern sky grow brighter while the gloom of the desolate swamp turned wan and gray. The Indian captors became visible, brown, half-naked men wearing leggings and breech-clouts of tanned deerskin. Two of them carried muskets. They were not made hideous by war-paint, as Jack Cockrell was quick to note. He said to his companion:
"A hunting party, Joe. They were spying on our camp, like enough, or keeping watch of the pirates. No doubt they wonder why white men come to fight one another in the swamp."
"They will wish to find out from us," was the hopeful reply. "They seem a deal more curious than bloodthirsty. A stout heart, say I, and we may weather it yet."
Soon the lads were roughly prodded ahead and went stumbling and splashing through the marshy verdure and slippery ooze until they came to higher ground and easier walking. Upon this ridge they descried the camp of the Yemassees—huts fashioned of poles and bark and boughs, a freshly killed deer hanging from a tree, smoke rising from beneath a huge iron kettle, plump, naked children scampering in play with several barking dogs, the squaws shrilly scolding them. Several warriors lazily emerged from the huts, yawning, brushing the long black hair from their eyes.
They moved more actively at perceiving the procession which approached from the swamp. Two or three ran back to the largest shelter and presently a big-bodied, middle-aged man strode out, his mien stern and dignified, his rank denoted by the elaborate fringed tunic of buckskin and the head-dress of heron plumes. He shouted something in a sonorous voice. The hunting party hastened forward, dragging the two English lads by the elbows and flinging them down at the feet of the chief. He stood with arms folded across his chest, scowling, formidable.
Then he spoke a few words of broken English, to the astonishment of the captives. He mentioned the names of settlements on the Cape Fear River where, it was inferred, he had been on friendly terms with the colonists. His manner was not so much hostile as questioning. In Charles Town both Joe and Jack had learned the common phrases of the Indian tongue such as were used among the merchants and traders. Pieced out with signs and gestures, they were able to carry on a halting dialogue with the chief of this small band.
They were able to comprehend that he hated pirates above all other men. He recognized the name of Blackbeard and indicated his great joy that this eminent scoundrel had met his just deserts. Many times the freebooters of the coast had hunted and slain the Indians for wanton sport. And perhaps the word had sped of that expedition of Captain Stede Bonnet out of CharlesTown when he had exterminated the Yemassees who had set out to harry and burn the near-by plantations. The two uneasy lads felt that they still stood in the shadow of death unless they could persuade the chief that they were not pirates, that they were in no way to be confused with the crew of blackguards which had ascended the creek in the pinnace.
The chief delayed his judgment. Two young men lifted the huge kettle from the fire. It was steaming with a savory smell of stewed meat. The captives were invited to join the others in spearing bits of venison with sharpened sticks. Chewing lustily, with a noble appetite, Joe Hawkridge confided:
"My spirits rise, Jack. An empty belly always did make a coward of me. How now, my lusty cockerel? Shall we flap our wings and crow?"
"Crow we must, or have our necks wrung as pirates," said Jack, gnawing a bone. "Which one of us shall make the first oration?"
"The nephew of the Councilor, of course," cried Joe, "with his cargo of Greek and Latin education. Make a power of noise, Jack."
And now indeed did young Master Cockrell prove that all those drudging hours with snuffy Parson Throckmorton had not been wasted. Standing in an open space, clear of the crowd, he addressed the chief in loud and impressive language. The gist of it was that he and his friends were the sworn foes of all piratesand especially anxious to rid the world of such vermin as those that had come into the Cherokee swamp in the great ship's boat and were encamped on the bank of the creek.
This other peaceful party entrenched on the knoll were honest, law-abiding men of Charles Town who would harm no one. They had come in search of pirates' gold. If the chief of the Yemassees would join forces with them and smoke the pipe of peace, they would drive those foul pirates out of the Cherokee swamp. And should the gold be found, it would be fairly divided between the godly men of Charles Town and their Indian allies. To bind this bargain Master Cockrell and Master Hawkridge were ready to pledge their honor and their lives.
It was a most eloquent effort delivered with much gesticulation. The Yemassee braves set in a circle and grunted approval. They liked the sound and fury of it. Jack hurled scraps of Homer and Virgil at them when at a loss for resounding periods. The chief nodded his understanding of such words aspiratesandgoldand actually smiled when Jack's pantomime depicted the death of Blackbeard on the deck of his ship.Goldwas a magic word to these Indians. It would purchase muskets and powder and ball, cloth and ironmongery and strong liquors from the white men of the settlements.
The chief discussed it with his followers. Duringthe lull Joe Hawkridge said, with a long sigh of relief:
"My scalp itches not so much, Jack. The notion of having it twisted off with a dull blade vexed me. Ye did wondrous well. The mouth of Secretary Peter Forbes would ha' gaped wide open."
"Much sound and little sense, Joe, but methinks it hit the target. I took care to sprinkle it with such words as yonder savage could bite on."
"If we find no gold, the fat may be in the fire again, but it gives us time to draw breath."
They rubbed their chafed wrists and sat on the ground while the savages held a long pow-wow. The chief was explaining the purport of Master Cockrell's impressive declamation. There was no enmity in the glances aimed at the English lads. It was more a matter of deliberation, of passing judgment on the truth or the falsity of the story. It was plain to read that the Yemassees desired to lay greedy hold of Blackbeard's gold. They were like children listening to a fairy tale. The fat little papooses crawled timidly near to inspect the mysterious strangers and scrambled away squealing with delicious terror.
The hours passed and the verdict was delayed. Two young braves stole away into the pine woodland on some errand, at the behest of the chief. It was after noon when they returned. With them came a dozen Yemassee warriors from another hunting camp, strong,quick-footed men in light marching order who were armed with long bows and knives. The chief spoke a few words and mustered his force. All told he had more than thirty picked followers. The English lads were told to move with them.
In single file the band flitted silently along the ridge and plunged into the swamp. The prisoners were closely guarded. At the slightest sign of treachery the long knives would slither between their ribs. This they well knew and their devout prayer was that their friends on the knoll might not commit some rash act of hostility and so ruin the enterprise. With heart-quaking trepidation they perceived at some distance the rude barricade of logs and the yellow streaks of earth hastily thrown up.
The cautious Yemassees concealed themselves as though the swamp had swallowed them up. The chief made certain signs, and the lads understood his meaning. Jack Cockrell ripped a sleeve from his shirt and tied it to a stick as a flag of truce. Joe Hawkridge advanced with them, the stalwart chief between them, his empty hands extended in token of peace. The ambushed Yemassees, lying in the tall grass, were ready to let fly with musket balls and flights of arrows or to storm the knoll.
A sailor on sentry duty gave the alarm and the lads saw a row of heads bob above the logs, and the gleam of weapons. Then Captain Jonathan Wellsby movedout into the open and was joined by Mr. Peter Forbes. They stood gazing at the singular spectacle, the bedraggled runaways who had vanished without trace, the odd flag of truce, the brawny, dignified savage making signs of friendship. The men in the stockade were ordered to lay down their arms. They came running out to cheer and wave their hats.
Mr. Peter Forbes was torn betwixt affection and the desire to scold his flighty nephew. They met half-way down the slope and Jack hastened to explain:
"Before you clap us in irons as deserters, Uncle Peter, grant a parley, if you please. Our lives hang by a hair."
"God bless me, boy, we thought the pirates had slain you both," spluttered Uncle Peter, a tear in his eye. "What means this tall savage?"
"A noble chief of the Yemassees who used us with all courtesy," said Jack.
Captain Wellsby had drawn Joe Hawkridge aside and was swiftly enlightened concerning the alliance with the Indians. Presently they were holding a conference, all seated together in the shade of a tree. A tobacco pipe of clay, with a long reed for a stem, was lighted and passed from hand to hand. The chief puffed solemnly with an occasional nod and a grunt. It was agreed, with due ceremony, that the pirates should be attacked in their camp and driven away. The Yemassee warriors would make common cause with the Englishmen. As a reward, Blackbeard's treasure was to be fairly divided, half and half.
The chief raised his voice in a long, deep shout of summons and his band of fighting men emerged from their ambush in the swamp. There was no reason for delaying the movement against the pirates. TheYemasseeswere eager for the fray. They were about to advance through the swamp, cunningly hidden, while the Englishmen followed at a slower pace to spread out on the flanks. Just then there was heard a sudden and riotous commotion among the pirates at the creek. It was a mad, jubilant uproar as though some frenzy had seized them all. Bill Saxby leaned on his musket and listened for a long moment.
"The rogues have fished up the sea-chest, by the din they make," said he. "We left that sounding rod a-stickin' in the mud. They save us the trouble, eh, Captain Wellsby?"
The skipper laughed in his beard and floundered ahead like a bear. Jack Cockrell passed the word to the chief that the gold was awaiting them. Like shadows the Yemassees drew near the creek and then, full-lunged, terrific, their war-whoop echoed through the dismal Cherokee swamp. Nimble Jack Cockrell was not far behind them, his heart pumping as though it would burst.
He was in time to see four lusty pirates swaying at a rope which led through the pulley-blocks of the sparsthat overhung the creek as a tall derrick. They were hoisting away with all their might while there slowly rose in air a mud-covered, befouled sea-chest all hung with weeds and slimy refuse. Two other pirates tailed on to a guy rope and the heavy chest swung toward the bank, suspended in air.
At this moment the screeching chorus of the Indian war-whoop smote their affrighted ears, followed by the discharge of muskets. These startled pirates let go the tackle and the guy rope and, with one accord, leaped for the pinnace which floated close to the bank. The weighty sea-chest swinging in air came down by the run as the ropes smoked through the blocks. It had been swayed in far enough so that it fell not in the water but upon the edge of the shore between the derrick spars. The rusty hinges and straps were burst asunder as the treasure chest crashed upon a log and cracked open like an egg.
Out spilled a stream of doubloons and pieces of eight, a cascade of gold and silver bars, of jewels flowing from the rotten bags which had contained them. In this extraordinary manner was the hoard of the departed Blackbeard brought to light. The unfortunate pirates who had found the spoils tarried not to gloat and rejoice. They appeared to have urgent business elsewhere. In hot pursuit came the ravening Yemassees, yelling like fiends, assisted by the reinforcements of Captain Jonathan Wellsby.
What saved the lives of these panic-smitten pirates was the dramatic explosion of that great treasure chest when it fell and smashed upon the log. Indians and Englishmen alike forgot their intent to shoot and slaughter. They rushed to surround the bewitching booty, to cut capers like excited urchins.
"Share and share," roared Captain Wellsby, shoving them headlong. "Half to the Yemassees and half to us. Our word is given. Stand back, ye lunatics, while we do the thing with order and decency."
Already the pinnace was filled with cursing pirates who saw that the game was lost. Some of them had left their weapons in camp, others fired a few wild shots, but those who had any wit left were tugging at the oars to make for the open sea.
"After 'em," roared Bill Saxby. "Follow down the creek to make sure they do not molest our sloop."
A score of men, Indians included, jumped into the boat and pulled in chase, no longer on slaughter bent. The only thought in their heads was to despatch the errand and return to squat around the treasure chest. Jack Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge remained to help scoop up the coin and jewels and stow them in stout kegs and sacks. The stoical chief of the Yemassees was grinning from ear to ear as he grunted:
"Plenty gold. Good! Hurrah, boys!"
Arm-in-arm Jack Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge danced a sailor's hornpipe upon the splintered lid ofBlackbeard's sea-chest while they sang with all their might: