"Let the old fool alone," he said; "we fare well, and our lives are easy, having three men to do the work of one. So say I, let us sail on and make merry with his good rum; his money-chest is heavy yet."

"That's what I'm thinking of," said the sailing-master. "Why should I be coursing about here looking for prizes with that chest within reach of my very arm whenever I choose it?"

Black Paul grinned and said to himself: "It is your arm, old Sam, that I am afraid of." Then aloud: "No, let him go. Let us profit by our good treatment as long as it lasts, and then we will talk about the money-box."

Thus Big Sam found that his time had not arrived, and he swore in his soul that his old shipmate would some day rue that he had not earlier stood by him in his treacherous schemes.

So all went on without open discontent, and Bonnet, having sailed northward for some days, set his course to the southeast, with some hundred and fifty eyes wide open for the sight of a heavy-sailing merchantman.

One morning they sighted a brig sailing southward, but as she was of no great size and not going in the right direction to make it probable that she carried a cargo worth their while, they turned westward and ran towards Cuba. Had Captain Bonnet known that his daughter was on the brig which he thus disdained, his mind would have been far different; but as it was, not knowing anything more than he could see, and not understanding much of that, he kept his westerly course, and on the next day the lookout sighted a good-sized merchantman bearing eastward.

Now bounded every heart upon the swiftly coursing vessel of the planter-pirate. There were men there who had shared in the taking of many a prize; who had shared in the blood and the cruelty and the booty; and their brawny forms trembled with the old excitement, of the sea-chase; but no man's blood ran more swiftly, no man's eyes glared more fiercely, than those of Captain Bonnet as he strapped on his pistols and felt of his sword-hilt.

"Ah, ye needna glare so!" said Ben Greenway, close at his side. "Ye are no pirate, an' ye canna make yoursel' believe ye are ane, an' that ye shall see when the guns begin to roar an' the sword-blades flash. Better get below an' let ane o' these hairy scoundrels descend into hell in your place."

Captain Bonnet turned with rage upon Ben Greenway, but the latter, having spoken his mind and given his advice, had retired.

Now came Big Sam. "'Tis an English brig," he said, "most likely from Jamaica, homeward bound; she should be a good prize."

Bonnet winced a little at this. He would have preferred to begin his career of piracy by capturing some foreign vessel, leaving English prizes for the future, when he should have become better used to his new employment. But sensitiveness does not do for pirates, and in a moment he had recovered himself and was as bold and bloody-minded as he had been when he first saw the now rapidly approaching vessel. All nations were alike to him now, and he belonged to none.

"Fire some guns at her," he shouted to Big Sam, "and run up the Jolly Roger; let the rascals see what we are."

The rascals saw. Down came their flag, and presently their vessel was steered into the wind and lay to.

"Shall we board her?" cried Big Sam.

"Ay, board her!" shouted back the infuriated Bonnet. "Run the Revenge alongside, get out your grappling-irons, and let every man with sword and pistols bound upon her deck."

The merchantman now lay without headway, gently rolling on the sea. Down came the sails of the Revenge, while her motion grew slower and slower as she approached her victim. Had Captain Bonnet been truly sailing the Revenge, he would have run by with sails all set, for not a thought had he for the management of his own vessel, so intent he was upon the capture of the other. But fortunately Big Sam knew what was necessary to be done in a nautical manoeuvre of this kind, and his men did not all stand ready with their swords in their hands to bound upon the deck of the merchantman. But there were enough of Pirate Bonnet's crew crowded alongside the rail of the vessel to inspire terror in any peaceable merchantman. And this one, although it had several carronades and other guns upon her deck, showed no disposition to use them, the odds against her being far too great.

At the very head of the long line of ruffians upon the deck of the Revenge stood Ben Greenway; and, although he held no sword and wore no pistol, his eyes flashed as brightly as any glimmering blade in the whole ship's company.

The two vessels were now drawing very near to each other. Men with grappling-irons stood ready to throw them, and the bow of the well-steered pirate had almost touched the side of the merchantman, when, with a bound, of which no one would have considered him capable, the good Ben Greenway jumped upon the rail and sprang down upon the deck of the other vessel. This was a hazardous feat, and if the Scotchman had known more about nautical matters he would not have essayed it before the two vessels had been fastened together. Ignorance made him fearless, and he alighted in safety on the deck of the merchantman at the very instant when the two vessels, having touched, separated themselves from each other for the space of a yard or two.

There was a general shout from the deck of the pirate at this performance of Ben Greenway. Nobody could understand it. Captain Bonnet stood and yelled.

"What are you about, Ben Greenway? Have you gone mad? Without sword or pistol, you'll be—"

The astonished Bonnet did not finish his sentence, for his power of speech left him when he saw Ben Greenway hurry up to the captain of the merchantman, who was standing unarmed, with his crew about him, and warmly shake that dumfounded skipper by the hand. In their surprise at what they beheld the pirates had not thrown their grapnels at the proper moment, and now the two vessels had drifted still farther apart.

Presently Ben Greenway came hurrying to the side of the merchantman, dragging its captain by the hand.

"Master Bonnet! Master Bonnet!" he cried; "this is your old friend, Abner Marchand, o' our town; an' this is his good ship the Amanda. I knew her when I first caught sight o' her figure-head, havin' seen it so often at her pier at Bridgetown. An' so, now that ye know wha it is that ye hae inadvertently captured, ye may ca' off your men an' bid them sheathe their frightful cutlasses."

At this, a roar arose from the pirates, who, having thrown some of their grappling-irons over the gunwale of the merchantman, were now pulling hard upon them to bring the two vessels together, and Captain Bonnet shouted back at Ben: "What are you talking about, you drivelling idiot; haven't you told Mr. Marchand that I am a pirate?"

"Indeed I hae no'," cried Ben, "for I don't believe ye are are; at least, no' to your friends an' neebours."

To this Bonnet made a violent reply, but it was not heard. The two vessels had now touched and the crowd of yelling pirates had leaped upon the deck of the Amanda. Bonnet was not far behind his men, and, sword in hand, he rushed towards the spot where stood the merchant captain with his crew hustling together behind him. As there was no resistance, there was so far no fighting, and the pirates were tumbling over each other in their haste to get below and find out what sort of a cargo was carried by this easy prize.

Captain Marchand held out his hand. "Good-day to you, friend Bonnet," he said. "I had hoped that you would be one of the first friends I should meet when I reached port at Bridgetown, but I little thought to meet you before I got there."

Bonnet was a little embarrassed by the peculiarity of the situation, but his heart was true to his new career.

"Friend Marchand," he said, "I see that you do not understand the state of affairs, and Ben Greenway there should have told you the moment he met you. I am no longer a planter of Barbadoes; I am a pirate of the sea, and the Jolly Roger floats above my ship. I belong to no nation; my hand is against all the world. You and your ship have been captured by me and my men, and your cargo is my prize. Now, what have you got on board, where do you hail from, and whither are you bound?"

Captain Marchand looked at him fixedly.

"I sailed from London with a cargo of domestic goods for Kingston; thence, having disposed of most of my cargo, I am on my way to Bridgetown, where I hope to sell the remainder."

"Your goods will never reach Bridgetown," cried Bonnet; "they belong now to my men and me."

"What!" cried Ben Greenway, "ye speak wi'out sense or reason. Hae ye forgotten that this is Mr. Abner Marchand, your fellow-vestryman an' your senior warden? An' to him do ye talk o' takin' awa' his goods an' legal chattels?"

Bonnet looked at Greenway with indignation and contempt.

"Now listen to me," he yelled. "To the devil with the vestry and da—" the Scotchman's eyes and mouth were so rounded with horror that Bonnet stopped and changed his form of expression—"confound the senior warden. I am the pirate Bonnet, and regard not the Church of England."

"Nor your friends?" interpolated Ben.

"Nor friends nor any man," shouted Bonnet.

"Abner Marchand, I am sorry that your vessel should be the first one to fall into my power, but that has happened, and there is no help for it. My men are below ransacking your hold for the goods and treasure it may contain. When your cargo, or what we want of it, is safe upon my ship, I shall burn your vessel, and you and your men must walk the plank."

At this dreadful statement, Ben Greenway staggered backward in speechless dismay.

"Yes," cried Bonnet, "that shall I do, for there is naught else I can do. And then you shall see, you doubting Greenway, whether I am a pirate or no."

To all this Captain Marchand said not a word. But at this moment a woman's scream was heard from below, and then there was another scream from another woman. Captain Marchand started.

"Your men have wandered into my cabin," he exclaimed, "and they have frightened my passengers. Shall I go and bring them up, Major Bonnet? They will be better here."

"Ay, ay!" cried the pirate captain, surprised that there should be female passengers on board, and Marchand, followed by Ben Greenway, disappeared below.

"Confound women passengers," said Bonnet to himself; "that is truly a bit of bad luck."

In a few minutes Marchand was back, bringing with him a middle-aged and somewhat pudgy woman, very pale; a younger woman of exceeding plainness, and sobbing steadfastly; and also an elderly man, evidently an invalid, and wearing a long dressing-gown.

"These," said Captain Marchand, "are Master and Madam Ballinger and daughter, of York in England, who have been sojourning in Jamaica for the health of the gentleman, but are now sailing with me to Barbadoes, hoping the air of our good island may be more salubrious for the lungs."

Captain Bonnet had never been in the habit of speaking loudly before ladies, but he now felt that he must stand by his character.

"You cannot have heard," he almost shouted, "that I am the pirate Bonnet, and that your vessel is now my prize."

At this the two ladies began to scream vigorously, and the form of the gentleman trembled to such a degree that his cane beat a tattoo upon the deck.

"Yes," continued Bonnet, "when my men have stripped this ship of its valuables I shall burn her to the water's edge, and, having removed you to my vessel, I shall shortly make you walk the plank."

Here the younger lady began to stiffen herself out as if she were about to faint in the arms of Captain Marchand, who had suddenly seized her; but her great curiosity to hear more kept her still conscious. Mrs. Ballinger grew very red in the face.

"That cannot be," she cried; "you may do what you please with our belongings and with Captain Marchand's ship, but my husband is too sick a man to walk a plank. You have not noticed, perchance, that his legs are so feeble that he could scarce mount from the cabin to the deck. It would be impossible for him to walk a plank; and as for my daughter and myself, we know nothing about such a thing, and could not, out of sheer ignorance."

For a moment a shadow of perplexity fell upon Captain Bonnet's face. He could readily perceive that the infirm Mr. Ballinger could not walk a plank, or even mount one, unless some one went with him to assist him, and as to his wife, she was evidently a termagant; and, having sailed his ship and floated his Jolly Roger in order to get rid of one termagant, he was greatly annoyed at being brought thus, face to face, with another. He stood for a moment silent. The old gentleman looked as if he would like to go down to his cabin and cover up his head with his blanket until all this commotion should be over; the daughter sobbed as she gazed about her, taking in every point of this most novel situation; and the mother, with dilated nostrils, still glared.

In the midst of all this varying disturbance Captain Marchand stood quiet and unmoved, apparently paying no attention to any one except his old neighbour and fellow-vestryman, Stede Bonnet, upon whose face his eyes were steadily fixed.

Ben Greenway now approached the pirate captain and led him aside.

"Let your men make awa' wi' the cargo as they please—I doubt if it be more than odds an' ends, for such are the goods they bring to Bridgetown—an' let them cast off an' go their way, an' ye an' I will return to Bridgetown in the Amanda an' a' may yet be weel, this bit o' folly bein' forgotten."

It might have been supposed that Bonnet would have retaliated upon the Scotchman for thus advising him, in the very moment of triumph, to give up his piratical career and to go home quietly to his plantation, but, instead of that, he paused for a moment's reflection.

"Ben Greenway," said he, "there is good sense in what you say. In truth, I cannot bring myself to put to death my old friend and neighbour and his helpless passengers. As for the ship, it will do me no more good burned than unburned. And there is another thing, Ben Greenway, which I would fain do, and it just came into my mind. I will write a letter to my wife and one to my daughter Kate. There is much which I wish them to know and which I have not yet been able to communicate. I will allow the Amanda to go on her way and I will send these two letters by her captain. They shall be ready presently, and you, Ben, stand by these people and see that no harm comes to them."

At this moment there were loud shouts and laughter from below, and Captain Marchand came forward.

"Friend Bonnet," he said, "your men have discovered my store of spirits; in a short time they will be drunk, and it will then be unsafe for these, my passengers. Bid them, I pray you, to convey the liquors aboard your ship."

"Well said!" cried Bonnet. "I would not lose those spirits." And, stepping forward, he spoke to Big Sam, who had just appeared on deck, and ordered the casks to be conveyed on board the Revenge.

The latter laughed, but said: "Ay, ay, sir!"

Returning to Captain Marchand, Bonnet said: "I will now step on board my ship and write some letters, which I shall ask you to take to Bridgetown with you. I shall be ready by the time the rest of your cargo is removed."

"Oh, don't do that!" cried Ben; "there is surely pen an' paper here, close to your hand. Go down to Captain Marchand's cabin an' write your letters."

"No, no," cried Bonnet, "I have my own conveniences." And with that he leaped on board the Revenge.

"That's a chance gone," said Ben Greenway to Captain Marchand, "a good chance gone. If we could hae kept him on board here an' down in your cabin, I might hae passed the word to that big miscreant, the sailing-master, to cast off an' get awa' wi' that wretched crowd. The scoundrels will be glad to steal the ship, an' it will be the salvation o' Master Bonnet if they do it."

"If that's the case," said Captain Marchand, "why should we resort to trickery? If his men want his ship and don't want him, why can't we seize him when he comes on board with his letters, and then let his men know that they are free to go to the devil in any way they please? Then we can convey Major Bonnet to his home, to repentance, perhaps, and a better life."

"That's good," said Ben, "but no' to punishment. Ye an' I could testify that his head is turned, but that, when kindness to a neebour is concerned, his heart is all right."

"Ay, ay," said the captain, "I could swear to that. And now we must act together. When I put my hand on him, you do the same, and give him no chance to use his sword or pistols."

The captain of the pirates sat down in his well-furnished little room to write his letters, and the noise and confusion on deck, the swearing and the singing and the shouting to be heard everywhere, did not seem to disturb him in the least. He was a man whose mind could thoroughly engage itself with but one thing at a time, and the fact that his men were at work sacking the merchantman did not in the least divert his thoughts from his pen and paper.

So he quietly wrote to his wife that he had embraced a pirate's life, that he never expected to become a planter again, and that he left to her the enjoyment and management of his estate in Barbadoes. He hoped that, his absence having now relieved her of her principal reason for discontent with her lot, she would become happy and satisfied, and would allow those about her to be the same. He expected to send Ben Greenway back to her to help take care of her affairs, but if she should need further advice he advised her to speak to Master Newcombe.

The letter to his daughter was different; it was very affectionate. He assured her of his sorrow at not being able to take her with him and to leave her at Jamaica, and he urged her at the earliest possible moment to go to her uncle and to remain there until she heard from him or saw him—the latter being probable, as he intended to visit Jamaica as soon as he could, even in disguise if this method were necessary. He alluded to the glorious career upon which he was entering, and in which he expected some day to make a great name for himself, of which he hoped she would be proud.

When these letters were finished Bonnet hurried to the side of the vessel and looked upon the deck of the Amanda.

Captain Marchand and Greenway had been waiting in anxious expectation for the return of Bonnet, and wondering how in the world a man could bring his mind to write letters at such a time as this.

"Take these letters, Ben," he said, leaning over the rail, "and give them to Captain Marchand."

Ben Greenway at first declined to take the letters which Bonnet held out to him, but the latter now threw them at his feet on the deck, and, running forward, he soon found himself in a violent and disorderly crowd, who did not seem to regard him at all; booty and drink were all they cared for. Presently came Big Sam, giving orders and thrusting the men before him. He had not been drinking, and was in full possession of his crafty senses.

"Throw off the grapnels," exclaimed Big Sam, "and get up the foresel!" And then he perceived Bonnet. With a scowl upon his face Big Sam muttered: "I thought you were on the merchantman, but no matter. Shove her off, I say, or I'll break your heads."

The grapnels were loosened; the few men who were on duty shoved desperately; the foresail went up, and the two vessels began to separate. But they were not a foot apart when, with a great rush and scramble, Ben Greenway left the merchantman and tumbled himself on board the Revenge.

Bonnet rushed up to him. "You scoundrel! You rascal, Ben Greenway, what do you mean? I intended you to go back to Bridgetown on that brig. Can I never get rid of you?"

"No' till ye give up piratin'," said Ben with a grin. "Ye may split open my head, an' throw overboard my corpse, but my live body stays here as long as ye do."

With a savage growl Bonnet turned away from his faithful adherent. Things were getting very serious now and he could waste no time on personal quarrels. Great holes and splits had been discovered in the heads of the barrels of spirits, and the precious liquor was running over the decks. This was the work of the sagacious Big Sam, who had the strongest desire to get away from the Amanda before the pirate crew became so drunk that they could not manage the vessel. He was a deep man, that Big Sam, and at this moment, although he said nothing about it, he considered himself the captain of the pirate ship which he sailed.

For a time Bonnet hurried about, not knowing what to do. Some of the men were quarrelling about the booty; others trying to catch the rum as it flowed from the barrels; others howling out of pure devilishness, and no one paying him any respect whatever. Big Sam was giving orders; a few sober men were obeying him, and Captain Stede Bonnet, with his faithful servant, Ben Greenway, seemed to be entirely out of place amid this horrible tumult.

"I told ye," said Ben, "ye had better stayed on board that merchantman an' gone back like a Christian to your ain hame an' family. It will be no safe place for ye, or for me neither, when that black-hearted scoundrel o' a Big Sam gets time to attend to ye."

"Black-hearted?" inquired Bonnet, but without any surprise in his voice.

"Ay," said Ben, "if there's onything blacker than his heart, only Satan himsel' ever looked at it. It was to be sailin' this ship on his own account that he's had in his villainous soul ever since he came on board; an' I can tell ye, Master Bonnet, that it won't be long now before he's doin' it. I had me eye on him when he was on board the Amanda, an' I saw that the scoundrel was goin' to separate the ships."

"That was my will," said Bonnet, "although I did not order it."

Ben gave a little grunt. "Ay," said he, "hopin' to leave me behind just as he was hopin' to leave ye behind. But neither o' ye got your wills, an' it'll be the de'il that'll have a hand in the next leavin' behind that's likely to be done."

Bonnet made no reply to these remarks, having suddenly spied Black Paul.

"Look here," said he, stepping up to that sombre-hued personage, "can you sail a ship?"

The other looked at Bonnet in astonishment. "I should say so," said he. "I have commanded vessels before now."

"Here then," said Bonnet, "I want a sailing-master. I am not satisfied with this Big Sam. I am no navigator myself, but I want a better man than that fellow to sail my ship for me."

Black Paul looked hard at him but made no answer.

"He thinks he is sailing the ship for himself," said Bonnet, "and it would be a bad day for you men if he did."

"That indeed would it," said Black Paul; "a close-fisted scoundrel, as I know him to be."

"Quick then," said Bonnet; "now you're my sailing-master; and after this, when we divide the prizes, you take the same share that I do. As to these goods from the Amanda, I will have no part at all; I give them all to you and the rest, divided according to rule.

"Go you now among the men, and speak first to such as have taken the least liquor; let them know that it was Big Sam that broke in the hogsheads, which, but for that, would have been sold and divided. Go quickly and get about you a half-dozen good fellows."

"Ye're gettin' wickeder and wickeder," said Ben when Black Paul had hurried away; "the de'il himsel' couldna hae taught ye a craftier trick than that. Weel ye kenned that that black fellow would fain serve under a free-handed fool than a stingy knave. Ay, sir, your education's progressin'!"

At this moment Big Sam came hurrying by. Not wishing to excite suspicion, Bonnet addressed him a question, but instead of answering the burly pirate swore at him. "I'll attend to your business," said he, "as soon as I have my sails set; then I'll give you two leather-headed landsmen all the hoisting and lowering you'll ever ask for." Then with another explosion of oaths he passed on.

Bonnet and Ben stood waiting with much impatience and anxiety, but presently came Black Paul with a party of brawny pirates following him.

"Come now," said Bonnet, walking boldly aft towards Big Sam, who was still cursing and swearing right and left. Bonnet stepped up to him and touched him on the arm. "Look ye," said he, "you're no longer sailing-master on this ship; I don't like your ways or your fashions. Step forward, then, and go to the fo'castle where you belong; this good mariner," pointing to Black Paul, "will take your place and sail the Revenge."

Big Sam turned and stood astounded, staring at Bonnet. He spoke no word, but his face grew dark and his great eyebrows were drawn together. His mouth was half open, as if he were about to yell or swear. Then suddenly his right hand fell upon the hilt of his cutlass, and the great blade flashed in the air. He gave one bound towards Bonnet, and in the same second the cutlass came down like a stroke of lightning. But Bonnet had been a soldier and had learned how to use his sword; the cutlass was caught on his quick blade and turned aside. At this moment Black Paul sprung at Big Sam and seized him by the sword arm, while another fellow, taking his cue, grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Now some of you fellows," shouted Bonnet, "seize him by the legs and heave him overboard!"

This order was obeyed almost as soon as it was given; four burly pirates rushed Big Sam to the bulwarks, and with a great heave sent him headforemost over the rail. In the next instant he had disappeared—gone, passed out of human sight or knowledge.

"Now then, Mr. Paul—not knowing your other name—"

"Which it is Bittern," said the other.

"You are now sailing-master of this ship; and when things are straightened out a bit you can come below and sign articles with me."

"Ay, ay, sir," said Black Paul, and calling to the men he gave orders that they go on with the setting of the main-topsail.

"Now, truly," said Ben, "I believe that ye're a pirate."

Bonnet looked at him much pleased. "I told you so, my good Ben. I knew that the time would come when you would acknowledge that I am a true pirate; after this, you cannot doubt it any more."

"Never again, Master Bonnet," said Ben Greenway, gravely shaking his head, "never again!"

* * * * *

The brig Amanda, with full sails and an empty hold, bent her course eastward to the island of Barbadoes, and the next morning, when the drunken sailors on board the Revenge were able to look about them and consider things, they found their vessel speeding towards the coast of Cuba, and sailed by Black Paul Bittern.



CHAPTER IX

DICKORY SETS FORTH

Mr. Felix Delaplaine, merchant and planter of Spanish Town, the capital of Jamaica, occupied a commodious house in the suburbs of the town, twelve miles up the river from Kingston, the seaport, which establishment was somewhat remarkable from the fact that there were no women in the family. Madam Delaplaine had been dead for several years, and as her husband's fortune had steadily thriven, he now found himself possessor of a home in which he could be as independent and as comfortable as if he had been the president and sole member of a club.

Being of a genial disposition and disposed to look most favourably upon his possessions and surrounding conditions, Mr. Delaplaine had come to be of the opinion that his lot in life was one in which improvement was not to be expected and scarcely to be desired. He had been perfectly happy with his wife, and had no desire to marry another, who could not possibly equal her; and, having no children, he continually thanked his happy stars that he was free from the troubles and anxieties which were so often brought upon fathers by their sons and their daughters.

Into this quiet and self-satisfied life came, one morning, a great surprise in the shape of a beautiful young woman, who entered his office in Spanish Town, and who stated to him that she was the daughter of his only sister, and that she had come to live with him. There was an elderly dame and a young man in company with the beautiful visitor, but Mr. Delaplaine took no note of them. With his niece's hands in his own, gazing into the face so like that young face in whose company he had grown from childhood to manhood, Mr. Delaplaine saw in a flash, that since the death of his wife until that moment he had never had the least reason to be content with the world or to be satisfied with his lot. This was his sister's child come to live with him!

When Mr. Delaplaine sufficiently recovered his ordinary good sense to understand that there were other things in this world besides the lovely niece who had so suddenly appeared before him, he remembered that she had a father, and many questions were asked and answered; and he was told who Dame Charter was, and why her son came with her. Then the uncle and the niece walked into the garden, and there talked of Major Bonnet. Little did Kate know upon this subject, and nothing could her uncle tell her; but in many and tender words she was assured that this was her home as long as she chose to live in it, and that it was the most fortunate thing in the world that Dame Charter had come with her and could stay with her. Had this not been so, where could he have found such a guardian angel, such a chaperon, for this tender niece? As for the young man, it was such rare good luck that he had been able to accompany the two ladies and give them his protection. He was just the person, Mr. Delaplaine believed, who would be invaluable to him either on the plantation or in his counting-house. In any case, here was their home; and here, too, was the home of his brother-in-law, Bonnet, whenever he chose to give up his strange fancy for the sea. It was not now to be thought of that Kate or her father, or either one of them, should go back to Barbadoes to live with the impossible Madam Bonnet.

If her father's vessel were in the harbour and he were here with them, or even if she had had good tidings from him, Kate Bonnet would have been a very happy girl, for her present abode was vastly different from any home she had ever known. Her uncle's house on the highlands beyond the town lay in a region of cooler breezes and more bracing air than that of Barbadoes. Books and music and the general air of refinement recalled her early life with her mother, and with the exception of the anxiety about her father, there were no clouds in the bright blue skies of Kate Bonnet. But this anxiety was a cloud, and it was spreading.

* * * * *

When the Amanda moved away from the side of the pirate vessel Revenge she hoisted all sail, and got away over the sea as fast as the prevailing wind could take her. When she passed the bar below Bridgetown and came to anchor, Captain Marchand immediately lowered a boat and was rowed up the river to the recent residence of Major Stede Bonnet, and there he delivered two letters—one to the wife of that gentleman, and the other for his daughter. Then the captain rowed back and went into the town, where he annoyed and nearly distracted the citizens by giving them the most cautious and expurgated account of the considerate and friendly manner in which the Amanda had been relieved of her cargo by his old friend and fellow-vestryman, Major Bonnet.

Captain Marchand had been greatly impressed by the many things which Ben Greenway had said about his master's present most astounding freak, and hoping in his heart that repentance and a suitable reparation might soon give this hitherto estimable man an opportunity to return to his former place in society, he said as little as he could against the name and fame of this once respected fellow-citizen. When he communicated with the English owners of his now departed cargo, he would know what to say to them, but here, safe in harbour with his vessel and his passengers, he preferred to wait for a time before entirely blackening the character of the man who had allowed him to come here. Like the faithful Ben Greenway, he did not yet believe in Stede Bonnet's piracy.

Madam Bonnet read her letter and did not like it. In fact, she thought it shameful. Then she opened and read the letter to her step-daughter. This she did not like either, and she put it away in a drawer; she would have nothing to do with the transmission of such an epistle as this. Most abominable when contrasted with the scurrilous screed he had written to her.

* * * * *

Day after day passed on, and Kate Bonnet arose each morning feeling less happy than on the day before. But at last a letter came, brought by a French vessel which had touched at Barbadoes. This letter was to Kate from Martin Newcombe. It was a love-letter, a very earnest, ardent love-letter, but it did not make the young girl happy, for it told her very little about her father. The heart of the lover was so tender that he would say nothing to his lady which might give her needless pain. He had heard what Captain Marchand had told and he had not understood it, and could only half believe it. Kate must know far more about all this painful business than he did, for her father's letter would tell her all he wished her to know. Therefore, why should he discuss that most distressing and perplexing subject, which he knew so little about and which she knew all about. So he merely touched upon Major Bonnet and his vessel, and hoped that she might soon write to him and tell him what she cared for him to know, what she cared for him to tell to the people of Bridgetown, and what she wished to repose confidentially to his honour. But whatever she chose to say to him or not to say to him, he would have her remember that his heart belonged to her, and ever would belong, no matter what might happen or what might be said for good or for bad, on the sea or the land, by friends or enemies.

This was a rarely good love-letter, but it plunged Kate into the deepest woe, and Dickory saw this first of all. He had brought the letter, and for the second time he saw tears in her eyes. The absence of news of Major Bonnet was soon known to the rest of the family, and then there were other tears. It was perfectly plain, even to Dame Charter, that things had been said in Bridgetown which Mr. Newcombe had not cared to write.

"No, Dame Charter," said Kate, "I cannot talk to you about it. My uncle has already spoken words of comfort, but neither you nor he know more than I do, and I must now think a little for myself, if I can."

So saying, she walked out into the grounds to a spot at a little distance where Dickory stood, reflectively gazing out over the landscape.

"Dickory," said the girl, "my mind is filled with horrible doubts. I have heard of the talk in Bridgetown before we left, and now here is this letter from Mr. Newcombe from which I cannot fail to see that there must have been other talk that he considerately refrains from telling me."

"He should not have written such a letter," exclaimed Dickory hotly; "he might have known it would have set you to suspecting things."

"You don't know what you are talking about, you foolish boy," said she; "it is a very proper letter about things you don't understand."

She stepped a little closer to him as if she feared some one might hear her. "Dickory," said she, "he did not put that thing into my mind; it was there already. That was a dreadful ship, Dickory, and it was filled with dreadful men. If he had not intended to go with them he would not have put himself into their power, and if he had not intended to be long away he would not have planned to leave me here with my uncle."

"You ought not to think such a thing as that for one minute," cried Dickory. "I would not think so about my mother, no matter what happened!"

She smiled slightly as she answered. "I would my father were a mother, and then I need not think such things. But, Dickory, if he had but written to me! And in all this time he might have written, knowing how I must feel."

Dickory stood silent, his bosom heaving. Suddenly he turned sharply towards her. "Of course he has written," said he, "but how could his letter come to you? We know not where he has sailed, and besides, who could have told him you had already gone to your uncle? But the people at Bridgetown must know things. I believe that he has written there."

"Why do you believe that?" she asked eagerly, with one hand on his arm.

"I think it," said Dickory, his cheeks a little ruddier in their brownness, "because there is more known there than Master Newcombe chose to put into his letter. If he has not written, how should they know more?"

She now looked straight into his eyes, and as he returned the gaze he could see in her pupils his head and his straw hat, with the clear sky beyond.

"Dickory," she said, "if he wrote to anybody he also wrote to me, and that letter is still there."

"That is what I believe," said he, "and I have been believing it."

"Then why didn't you say so to me, you wretched boy?" cried Kate. "You ought to have known how that would have comforted me. If I could only think he has surely written, my heart would bound, no matter what his letter told; but to be utterly dropped, that I cannot bear."

"You have not been dropped," he exclaimed, "and you shall know it. Kate, I am going—"

"Nay, nay," she exclaimed, "you must not call me that!"

"But you call me Dickory," he said.

"True, but you are so much younger."

"Younger!" he exclaimed in a tone of contempt, not for the speaker but for the word she had spoken. "Eleven months!"

She laughed a little laugh; her nature was so full of it that even now she could not keep it back.

"You must have been making careful computation," she said, "but it does not matter; you must not call me Kate, and I shall keep on calling you Dickory; I could not help it. Now, where is it you were about to say you were going?"

"If you think me old enough," said he, "I am going to Barbadoes in the King and Queen. She sails to-morrow. I shall find out about everything, and I shall get your letter, then I shall come back and bring it to you."

"Dickory!" she exclaimed, and her eyes glowed.

There was silence for some moments, and then he spoke, for it was necessary for him to say something, although he would have been perfectly content to stand there speechless, so long as her eyes still glowed.

"If I don't go," said he, "it may be long before you hear from him; having written, he will wait for an answer."

She thought of no difficulties, no delays, no dangers. "How happy you have made me, Dickory!" she said. "It is this dreadful ignorance, these fearful doubts of which I ought to be ashamed. But if I get his letter, if I know he has not deserted me!"

"You shall get it," he cried, "and you shall know."

"Dickory," said she, "you said that exactly as you spoke when you told me that if I let myself drop into the darkness, you would be there."

"And you shall find me there now," said he; "always, if you need me, you shall find me there!"

Dame Charter had been standing and watching this interview, her foolish motherly heart filled with the brightest, most unreasonable dreams. And why should she not dream, even if she knew her dreams would never come true? In a few short weeks that Dickory boy had grown to be a man, and what should not be dreamed about a man!

As Kate ran by the open door towards her uncle's apartments, Dame Charter rose up, surprised.

"What have you been saying to her, Dickory?" she exclaimed. "Do you know something we have not heard? Have you been giving her news of her father?"

"No," said the son, who had so lately been a boy, "I have no news to give her, but I am going to get news for her."

She looked at him in amazement; then she exclaimed: "You!"

"Yes," he said, "there is no one else. And besides I would not want any one else to do it. I am going to Bridgetown in the brig which brought us here; it is a little sail, and when I get there I will find out everything. No matter what has happened, it will break her heart to think that her father deserted her without a word. I don't believe he did it, and I shall go and find out."

"But, Dickory," she said, with anxious, upraised face, "how can you get back? Do you know of any vessel that will be sailing this way?"

He laughed.

"Get back? If I go alone, dear mother, you may be sure I shall soon get back. Craft of all kinds sail one way or another, and there are many ways in which I can get back not thought of in ordinary passage. When any kind of a vessel sails from Jamaica, I can get on board of her, whether she takes passengers or not. I can sleep on a bale of goods or on the bare deck; I can work with the crew, if need be. Oh! you need not doubt that I shall speedily come back."

They talked long together, this mother and this son, and it was her golden dreams for him that made her invoke Heaven's blessings upon him and tell him to go. She knew, too, that it was wise for her to tell him to go and to bless him, for it would have been impossible to withstand him, so set was he in his purpose.

"I tell you, Dame Charter," said Mr. Delaplaine an hour later, "this son of yours should be a great credit and pride to you, and he will be, I stake my word upon it."

"He is now," said the good woman quietly.

"I have been pondering in my brain," said he, "what I should do to relieve my niece of this burden of anxiety which is weighing upon her. I could see no way, for letters would be of no use, not knowing where to send them, and it would be dreary, indeed, to sit and wait and sigh and dream bad dreams until chance throws some light upon this grievous business, and here steps up this young fellow and settles the whole matter. When he comes back, Dame Charter, I shall do well for him; I shall put him in my counting-house, for, although doubtless he would fain live his young life in the fields and under the open sky, he will find the counting-house lies on the road to fortune, and good fortune he deserves."

If that loving mother could have composed this speech for Master Delaplaine to make she could not have suited it better to her desires.

When the King and Queen was nearly ready to sail, Dickory Charter, having been detained by Mr. Delaplaine, who wished the young man to travel as one of importance and plentiful resources, hurried to the house to take his final instructions from Mistress Kate Bonnet, in whose service he was now setting forth. It might have been supposed by some that no further instructions were necessary, but how could Dickory know that? He was right. Kate met him before he reached the house.

"I am so glad to see you again before you sail," she said. "One thing was forgotten: You may see my father; his cruise may be over and he may be, even now, preparing for me to come back to Bridgetown. If this be so, urge him rather to come here. I had not thought of your seeing him, Dickory, and I did not write to him, but you will know what to say. You have heard that woman talk of me, and you well know I cannot go back to my old home."

"Oh, I will say all that!" he exclaimed. "It will be the same thing as if you had written him a long letter. And now I must run back, for the boat is ready to take me down the river to the port."

"Dickory," said she, and she put out her hand—he had never held that hand before—"you are so true, Dickory, you are so noble; you are going—" it was in her mind to say "you are going as my knight-errant," but she deemed that unsuitable, and she changed it to—"you are going to do so much for me."

She stopped for a moment, and then she said: "You know I told you you should not call me Kate, being so much younger; but, as you are so much younger, you may kiss me if you like."

"Like!"



CHAPTER X

CAPTAIN CHRISTOPHER VINCE

It was truly surprising to see the change which came over the spirits of our young Kate Bonnet when she heard that the King and Queen had sailed from Kingston port. She was gay, she was talkative, she sang songs, she skipped in the paths of the garden. One might have supposed she was so happy to get rid of the young man on the brig which had sailed away. And yet, the news she might hear when that young man came back was likely to be far worse than any misgivings which had entered her mind. Kate's high spirits delighted her uncle. This child of his sister had grown more lovely than even her mother had ever been.

Now came days of delight which Kate had never dreamed of. She had not known that there were such shops in Spanish Town, which, although a youngish town, had already drawn to itself the fashion and the needs of fashion of that prosperous colony. With Dame Charter, and often also with her uncle in company, this bright young girl hovered over fair fabrics which were spread before her; circled about jewels, gems, and feathers, and revelled in tender colours as would a butterfly among the blossoms, dipping and tasting as she flew.

There were some fine folk in Spanish Town, and with this pleasant society of the capital Mr. Delaplaine renewed his previous intercourse and Kate soon learned the pleasures of a colonial social circle, whose attractions, brought from afar, had been warmed into a more cheerful glow in this bright West Indian atmosphere.

To add to the brilliancy of the new life into which Kate now entered, there came into the port an English corvette—the Badger—for refitting. From this welcome man-of-war there flitted up the river to Spanish Town gallant officers, young and older; and in their flitting they flitted into the drawing-room of the rich merchant Delaplaine, and there were some of them who soon found that there were no drawing-rooms in all the town where they could talk with, walk with, and perchance dance with such a fine girl as Mistress Kate Bonnet.

Kate greatly fancied gallant partners, whether for walking or talking or dancing, and among such, those which came from the corvette in the harbour pleased her most.

Those were not bright days for Dame Charter. Do what she would, her optimism was growing dim, and what helped to dim it was Kate's gaiety. It did not comfort her at all when Kate told her that she was so light-hearted because she knew that Dickory would bring her good news.

"Truly, too many fine young men here," thought Dame Charter, "while Dickory is away, and all of them together are not worth a curl on his head."

But, although her dreams were dimmed, she did not cease dreaming. A stout-hearted woman was Dickory's mother.

But it was not long before there were other people thereabout who began to feel that their prospects for present enjoyment were beginning to look a little dim, for Captain Christopher Vince, having met Mistress Kate Bonnet at an entertainment at the Governor's house, was greatly struck by this young lady. Each officer of the Badger who saw their captain in company with the fair one to whom their gallant attentions had been so freely offered, now felt that in love as well as in accordance with the regulations of the service, he must give place to his captain. Moreover, when that captain took upon himself, the very next day, to call at the residence of Mr. Delaplaine, and repeated the visit upon the next day and the following, the crestfallen young fellows were compelled to acknowledge that there were other houses in the town where it might be better worth their while to spend their leisure hours.

Captain Vince was not a man to be lightly interfered with, whether he happened to be engaged in the affairs of Mars or Cupid. He was of a resolute mind, and of a person more than usually agreeable to the female eye. He was about forty years of age, of an excellent English family, and with good expectations. He considered himself an admirable judge of women, but he had never met one who so thoroughly satisfied his aesthetic taste as this fair niece of the merchant Delaplaine. She had beauty, she had wit, she had culture, and the fair fabrics of Spanish Town shops gave to her attractions a setting which would have amazed and entranced Master Newcombe or our good Dickory. The soul of Captain Vince was fired, and each time he met Kate and talked with her the fire grew brighter.

He had never considered himself a marrying man, but that was because he had never met any one he had cared to marry. Now things were changed. Here was a girl he had known but for a few days, and already, in his imagination, he had placed her in the drawing-rooms of the English home he hoped soon to inherit, more beautiful and even more like a princess than any noble dame who was likely to frequent those rooms. In fancy he had seen her by his side, walking through the shaded alleys of his grand old gardens; he had looked proudly upon her as she stood by him in the assemblages of the great; in fact, he had fallen suddenly and absolutely in love with her. When he was away from her he could not quite understand this condition of things, but when he was with her again he understood it all. He loved her because it was absolutely impossible for him to do anything else.

Naturally, Captain Vince was very agreeable to Mistress Kate, for she had never seen such a handsome man, taking into consideration his uniform and his bearing, and had never talked with one who knew so well what to say and how to say it. Comparing him with the young officers who had been so fond of making their way to her uncle's house, she was glad that they had ceased to be such frequent visitors.

The soul of Mr. Delaplaine was agitated by the admiration of his niece which Captain Vince took no trouble to conceal. The worthy merchant would gladly have kept Kate with him for years and years if she would have been content to stay, but this could not be expected; and if she married, from what other quarter could come such a brilliant match as this? What his brother-in-law might think about it he did not care; if Kate should choose to wed the captain, such an eccentric and untrustworthy person should not be permitted to interfere with the destiny that now appeared to open before his daughter. These thoughts were not so idle as might have been supposed, for the captain had already said things to the merchant, in which the circumstances of the former were made plain and his hopes foreshadowed. If the captain were not prepared to leave the service, this rich merchant thought, why should not he make it possible for him to do so, for the sake of his dear niece?

With these high ambitions in his mind, the happily agitated Mr. Delaplaine did not hesitate to say some playful words to Kate concerning the captain of the Badger; and these having been received quietly, he was emboldened to go on and say some other words more serious.

Then Kate looked at him very steadfastly and remarked: "But, uncle, you have forgotten Master Newcombe."

The good Delaplaine made no answer, for his emotions made it impossible for him to do so, but, rising, he went out, and at a little distance from the house he damned Master Newcombe.

Days passed on and the captain's attentions did not wane. Mr. Delaplaine, who was a man of honour expecting it in others, made up his mind that something decisive must soon be said; while Kate began greatly to fear that something decisive might soon be said. She was in a difficult position. She was not engaged to Martin Newcombe, but had believed she might be. The whole affair involved a question which she did not want to consider. And still the captain came every day, generally in the afternoon or evening.

But one morning he made his appearance, coming to the house quite abruptly.

"I am glad to find you by yourself," said he, "for I have some awkward news."

Kate looked at him surprised.

"I have just been ordered on duty," he continued, "and the order is most unwelcome. A brig came in last night and brought letters, and the Governor sent for me this morning. I have just left him. The cruise I am about to take may not be a long one, but I cannot leave port without coming here to you and speaking to you of something which is nearer to my heart than any thought of service, or in fact of anything else."

"Speaking to my uncle, you mean," said Kate, now much disturbed, for she saw in the captain's eyes what he wished to talk of.

"Away with uncles!" he exclaimed; "we can speak with them by-and-bye; now my words are for you. You may think me hasty, but we gentlemen serving the king cannot afford to wait; and so, without other pause, I say, sweet Mistress Kate, I love you, better than I have ever loved woman; better than I can ever love another. Nay, do not answer; I must tell you everything before you reply." And to the pale girl he spoke of his family, his prospects, and his hopes. In the warmest colours he laid before her the life and love he would give her. Then he went quickly on: "This is but a little matter which is given to my charge, and it may not engage me long; I am going out in search of a pirate, and I shall make short work of him. The shorter, having such good reason to get quickly back.

"In fact, he is not a real pirate anyway, being but a country gentleman tiring of his rural life and liking better to rob, burn, and murder on the high seas. He has already done so much damage, that if his evil career be not soon put an end to good people will be afraid to voyage in these waters. So I am to sail in haste after this fellow Bonnet; but before—"

Kate's face had grown so white that it seemed to recede from her great eyes. "He is my father," said she, "but I had not heard until now that he is a pirate!"

The captain started from his chair. "What!" he cried, "your father? Yes, I see. It did not strike me until this instant that the names are the same."

Kate rose, and as she spoke her voice was not full and clear as it was wont to be. "He is my father," she said, "but he sailed away without telling me his errand; but now that I know everything, I must—" If she had intended to say she must go, she changed her mind, and even came closer to the still astounded captain. "You say that you will make short work of his vessel; do you mean that you will destroy it, and will you kill him?"



Captain Vince looked down upon her, his face filled with the liveliest emotions. "My dear young lady," he said, and then he stopped as if not knowing what words to use. But as he looked into her eyes fixed upon his own and waiting for his answer, his love for her took possession of him and banished all else. "Kill him," he exclaimed, "never! He shall be as safe in my hands as if he were walking in his own fields. Kill your father, dearest? Loving you as I do, that would be impossible. I may take the rascals who are with him, I may string them up to the yard-arm, or I may sink their pirate ship with all of them in it, but your father shall be safe. Trust me for that; he shall come to no harm from me."

She stepped a little way from him, and some of her colour came back. For some moments she looked at him without speaking, as if she did not exactly comprehend what he had said.

"Yes, my dear," he continued, "I must crush out that piratical crew, for such is my duty as well as my wish, but your father I shall take under my protection; so have no fear about him, I beg you. With his ship and his gang of scoundrels taken away from him, he can no longer be a pirate, and you and I will determine what we shall do with him."

"You mean," said Kate, speaking slowly, "that for my sake you will shield my father from the punishment which will be dealt out to his companions?"

He smiled, and his face beamed upon her. "What blessed words," he exclaimed. "Yes, for your sake, for your sweet, dear sake I will do anything; and as for this matter, I assure you there are so many ways—"

"You mean," she interrupted, "that for my sake you will break your oath of office, that you will be a traitor to your service and your king? That for my sake you will favour the fortunes of a pirate whom you are sent out to destroy? Mean it if you please, but you will not do it. I love my father, and would fain do anything to save him and myself from this great calamity, but I tell you, sir, that for my sake no man shall do himself dishonour!"

Without power to say another word, nor to keep back for another second the anguish which raged within her, she fled like a bird and was gone.

The captain stretched out his arms as if he would seize her; he rushed to the door through which she had passed, but she was gone. He followed her, shouting to the startled servants who came; he swore, and demanded to see their mistress; he rushed through rooms and corridors, and even made as if he would mount the stairs. Presently a woman came to him, and told him that under no circumstances could Mistress Bonnet now be seen.

But he would not leave the house. He called for writing materials, but in an instant threw down the pen. Again he called a servant and sent a message, which was of no avail. Dame Charter would have gone down to him, but Kate was in her arms. For several minutes the furious officer stood by the chair in which Kate had been sitting; he could not comprehend the fact that this girl had discarded and had scorned him. And yet her scorn had not in the least dampened the violence of his love. As she stood and spoke her last bitter words, the grandeur of her beauty had made him speechless to defend himself.

He seized his hat and rushed from the house; hot, and with blazing eyes, he appeared in the counting-room of Mr. Delaplaine, and there, to that astounded merchant, he told, with brutal cruelty, of his orders to destroy the pirate Bonnet, his niece's father; and then he related the details of his interview with that niece herself.

Mr. Delaplaine's countenance, at first shocked and pained, grew gradually sterner and colder. Presently he spoke. "I will hear no more such words, Captain Vince," he said, "regarding the members of my family. You say my niece knows not what fortune she trifles with; I think she does. And when she told you she would not accept the offer of your dishonour, I commend her every word."

Captain Vince frowned black as night, and clapped his hand to his sword-hilt; but the pale merchant made no movement of defence, and the captain, striking his clinched fist against the table, dashed from the room. Before he reached his ship he had sworn a solemn oath: he vowed that he would follow that pirate ship; he would kill, burn, destroy, annihilate, but out of the storm and the fire he would pick unharmed the father of the girl who had entranced him and had spurned him. He laughed savagely as he thought of it. With that dolt of a father in his hands, a man wearing always around his neck the hangman's noose, he would hold the card which would give him the game. What Mistress Kate Bonnet might say or do; what she might like or might not like; what her ideas about honour might be or might not be, it would be a very different thing when he, her imperious lover, should hold the end of that noose in his hand. She might weep, she might rave, but come what would, she was the man's daughter, and she would be Lady Vince.

So he went on board the Badger, and he cursed and he commanded and he raged; and his officers and his men, when the hurried violence of his commands gave them a chance to speak to each other, muttered that they pitied that pirate and his crew when the Badger came up with them.

Clouds settled down upon the home of Mr. Delaplaine. There were no visitors, there was no music, there seemed to be no sunshine. The beautiful fabrics, the jewels, and the feathers were seen no more. It was Kate of the broken heart who wandered under the trees and among the blossoms, and knew not that there existed such things as cooling shade and sweet fragrance. She could not be comforted, for, although her uncle told her that he had had information that her father's ship had sailed northward, and that it was, therefore, likely that the corvette would not overtake him, she could not forget that, whatever of good or evil befell that father, he was a pirate, and he had deserted her.

So they said but little, the uncle and the niece, who sorrowed quietly.

Dame Charter was in a strange state of mind. During the frequent visits of Captain Vince she had been apprehensive and troubled, and her only comfort was that the Badger had merely touched at this port to refit, and that she must soon sail away and take with her her captain. The good woman had begun to expect and to hope for the return of Dickory, but later she had blessed her stars that he was not there. He was a fiery boy, her brave son, but it would have been a terrible thing for him to become involved with an officer in the navy, a man with a long, keen sword.

Now that the captain had raged himself away from the Delaplaine house her spirits rose, and her great fear was that the corvette might not leave port before the brig came in. If Dickory should hear of the things that captain had said—but she banished such thoughts from her mind, she could not bear them.

After some days the corvette sailed, and the Governor spoke well of the diligence and ardour which had urged Captain Vince to so quickly set out upon his path of duty.

"When Dickory comes back," said Dame Charter to Kate, "he may bring some news to cheer your poor heart, things get so twisted in the telling."

Kate shook her head. "Dickory cannot tell me anything now," she said, "that I care to know, knowing so much. My father is a pirate, and a king's ship has gone out to destroy him, and what could Dickory tell me that would cheer me?"

But Dame Charter's optimism was beginning to take heart again and to spread its wings.

"Ah, my dear, you don't know what good things do in this life continually crop up. A letter from your father, possibly withheld by that wicked Madam Bonnet—which is what Dickory and I both think—or some good words from the town that your father has sold his ship, and is on his way home. Nobody knows what good news that Dickory may bring with him."

The poor girl actually smiled. She was young, and in the heart of youth there is always room for some good news, or for the hope of them.

But the smile vanished altogether when she went to her room and wrote a letter to Martin Newcombe. In this letter, which was a long one, she told her lover how troubled she had been. That she had nothing now to ask him about the bad news he had, in his kindness, forborne to tell her, and that when he saw Dickory Charter he might say to him from her that there was no need to make any further inquiries about her father; she knew enough, and far too much—more, most likely, than any one in Bridgetown knew. Then she told him of Captain Vince and the dreadful errand of the corvette Badger.

Having done this, Kate became as brave as any captain of a British man-of-war, and she told her lover that he must think no more of her; it was not for him to pay court to the daughter of a pirate. And so, she blessed him and bade him farewell.

When she had signed and sealed this letter she felt as if she had torn out a chapter of her young life and thrown it upon the fire.



CHAPTER XI

BAD WEATHER

When Dickory Charter sailed away from the island of Jamaica, his reason, had it been called upon, would have told him that he had a good stout brig under him on which there were people and ropes and sails and something to eat and drink. But in those moments of paradise he did not trouble his reason very much, and lived in an atmosphere of joy which he did not attempt to analyze, but was content to breathe as if it had been the common air about him. He was going away from every one he loved, and yet never before had he been so happy in going to any one he loved. He cared to talk to no one on board, but in company with his joy he stood and gazed westward out over the sea.

He was but little younger than she was, and yet that difference, so slight, had lifted him from things of earth and had placed him in that paradise where he now dwelt.

So passed on the hours, so rolled the waves, and so moved the King and Queen before the favouring breeze.

It was on the second day out that the breeze began to be less favouring, and there were signs of a storm; and, in spite of his preoccupied condition, Dickory was obliged to notice the hurried talk of the officers about him, he occupying a point of vantage on the quarter-deck. Presently he turned and asked of some one if there was likelihood of bad weather. The mate, to whom he had spoken, said somewhat unpleasantly, "Bad weather enough, I take it, as we may all soon know; but it is not wind or rain. There is bad weather for you! Do you see that?"

Dickory looked, and saw far away, but still distinct, a vessel under full sail with a little black spot floating high above it.

He turned to the man for explanation. "And what is that?" he said.

"It is a pirate ship," said the other, his face hardening as he spoke, "and it will soon be firing at us to heave to."

At that moment there was a flash at the bow of the approaching vessel, a little smoke, and then the report of a cannon came over the water.

Without further delay, the captain and crew of the King and Queen went to work and hove to their brig.

Young Dickory Charter also hove to. He did not know exactly why, but his dream stopped sailing over a sea of delight. They stood motionless, their sails flapping in the wind.

"Pirates!" he thought to himself, cold shivers running through him, "is this brig to be taken? Am I to be taken? Am I not to go to Barbadoes, to Bridgetown, her home? Am I not to take her back the good news which will make her happy? Are these things possible?"

He stared over the water, he saw the swiftly approaching vessel, he could distinguish the skull and bones upon the black flag which flew above her.

These things were possible, and his heart fell; but it was not with fear. Dickory Charter was as bold a fellow as ever stood on the deck in a sea fight, but his heart fell at the thought that he might not be going to her old home, and that he might not sail back with good news to her.

As the swift-sailing pirate ship sped on, Ben Greenway came aft to Captain Bonnet, and a grievous grin was on the Scotchman's face.

"Good greetin's to ye, Master Bonnet," said he, "ye're truly good to your old friends an' neebours an' pass them not by, even when your pockets are burstin' wi' Spanish gold."

A minute before this Captain Stede Bonnet had been in a very pleasant state of mind. It was only two days ago that he had captured a Spanish ship, from which he got great gain, including considerable stores of gold. Everything of value had been secured, the tall galleon had been burned, and its crew had been marooned on a barren spot on the coast of San Domingo. The spoils had been divided, at least every man knew what his share was to be, and the officers and the crew of the Revenge were in a well-contented state of mind. In fact, Captain Bonnet would not have sailed after a little brig, certainly unsuited to carry costly cargo, had it not been that his piratical principle made it appear to him a point of conscience to prey upon all mercantile craft, little or big, which might come in his way. Thus it was, that he was sailing merrily after the King and Queen, when Ben Greenway came to him with his disturbing words.

"What mean you?" cried Bonnet. "Know you that vessel?"

"Ay, weel," said Ben, "it is the King and Queen, bound, doubtless, for Bridgetown. I tell ye, Master Bonnet, that it was a great deal o' trouble an' expense ye put yersel' to when ye went into your present line o' business on this ship. Ye could have stayed at hame, where she is owned, an' wi' these fine fellows that ye have gathered thegither, ye might have robbed your neebours right an' left wi'out the trouble o' goin' to sea."

"Ben Greenway," roared the captain, "I will have no more of this. Is it not enough for me to be annoyed and worried by these everlasting ships of Bridgetown, which keep sailing across my bows, no matter in what direction I go, without hearing your jeers and sneers regarding the matter? I tell you, Ben Greenway, I will not have it. I will not suffer these paltry vessels, filled, perhaps, with the grocers and cloth dealers from my own town, to interfere thus with the bold career that I have chosen. I tell you, Ben Greenway, I'll make an example of this one. I am a pirate, and I will let them know it—these fellows in their floating shops. It will be a fair and easy thing to sink this tub without more ado. I'd rather meet three Spanish ships, even had they naught aboard, than one of these righteous craft commanded by my most respectable friends and neighbours."

Black Paul, the sailing-master, had approached and had heard the greater part of these remarks.

"Better board her and see what she carries," said he, "before we sink her. The men have been talking about her and, many of them, favour not the trouble of marooning those on board of her. So, say most of us, let's get what we can from her, and then quickly rid ourselves of her one way or another."

"'Tis well!" cried Bonnet, "we can riddle her hull and sink her."

"Wi' the neebours on board?" asked Greenway.

Captain Bonnet scowled blackly.

"Ben Greenway," he shouted, "it would serve you right if I tied you hand and foot and bundled you on board that brig, after we have stripped her, if haply she have anything on board we care for."

"An' then sink her?" asked the Scotchman.

"Ay, sink her!" replied Bonnet. "Thus would I rid myself of a man who vexes me every moment that I lay my eyes on him, and, moreover, it would please you; for you would die in the midst of those friends and neighbours you have such a high regard for. That would put an end to your cackle, and there would be no gossip in the town about it."

The sailing-master now came aft. The vessel had been put about and was slowly approaching the brig. "Shall we make fast?" asked Black Paul. "If we do we shall have to be quick about it; the sea is rising, and that clumsy hulk may do us damage."

For a moment Captain Bonnet hesitated, he was beginning to learn something of the risks and dangers of a nautical life, and here was real danger if the two vessels ran nearer each other. Suddenly he turned and glared at Greenway. "Make fast!" he cried savagely, "make fast! if it be only for a minute."

"Do ye think in your heart," asked the Scotchman grimly, "that ye're pirate enough for that?"



CHAPTER XII

FACE TO FACE

With her head to the wind the pirate vessel Revenge bore down slowly upon the King and Queen, now lying to and awaiting her. The stiff breeze was growing stiffer and the sea was rising. The experienced eye of Paul Bittern, the sailing-master of the pirate, now told him that it would be dangerous to approach the brig near enough to make fast to her, even for the minute which Captain Bonnet craved—the minute which would have been long enough for a couple of sturdy fellows to toss on board the prize that exasperating human indictment, Ben Greenway.

"We cannot do it," shouted Black Paul to Bonnet, "we shall run too near her as it is. Shall we let fly at short range and riddle her hull?"

Captain Bonnet did not immediately answer; the situation puzzled him. He wanted very much to put the Scotchman on board the brig, and after that he did not care what happened. But before he could speak, there appeared on the rail of the King and Queen, holding fast to a shroud, the figure of a young man, who put his hand to his mouth and hailed:

"Throw me a line! Throw me a line!"

Such an extraordinary request at such a time naturally amazed the pirates, and they stood staring, as they crowded along the side of their vessel.

"If you are not going to board her," shouted Dickory again, "throw me a line!"

Filled with curiosity to know what this strange proceeding meant, Black Paul ordered that a line be thrown, and, in a moment, a tall fellow seized a coil of light rope and hurled it through the air in the direction of the brig; but the rope fell short, and the outer end of it disappeared beneath the water. Now the spirit of Black Paul was up. If the fellow on the brig wanted a line he wanted to come aboard, and if he wanted to come aboard, he should do so. So he seized a heavier coil and, swinging it around his head, sent it, with tremendous force, towards Dickory, who made a wild grab at it and caught it.

Although a comparatively light line, it was a long one, and the slack of it was now in the water, so that Dickory had to pull hard upon it before he could grasp enough of it to pass around his body. He had scarcely done this, and had made a knot in it, before a lurch of the brig brought a strain on the rope, and he was incontinently jerked overboard.

The crew of the merchantman, who had not had time to comprehend what the young fellow was about to do, would have grasped him had he remained on the rail a moment longer, but now he was gone into the sea, and, working vigorously with his legs and arms, was endeavouring to keep his head above water while the pirates at the other end of the rope pulled him swiftly towards their vessel.

Great was the excitement on board the Revenge. Why should a man from a merchantman endeavour, alone, to board a vessel which flew the Jolly Roger? Did he wish to join the crew? Had they been ill-treating him on board the brig? Was he a criminal endeavouring to escape from the officers of the law? It was impossible to answer any of these questions, and so the swarthy rascals pulled so hard and so steadily upon the line that the knot in it, which Dickory had not tied properly, became a slipknot, and the poor fellow's breath was nearly squeezed out of him as he was hauled over the rough water. When he reached the vessel's side there was something said about lowering a ladder, but the men who were hauling on the line were in a hurry to satisfy their curiosity, so up came Dickory straight from the water to the rail, and that proceeding so increased the squeezing that the poor fellow fell upon the deck scarcely able to gasp. When the rope was loosened the half-drowned and almost breathless Dickory raised himself and gave two or three deep breaths, but he could not speak, despite the fact that a dozen rough voices were asking him who he was and what he wanted.

With the water pouring from him in streams, and his breath coming from him in puffs, he looked about him with great earnestness.

Suddenly a man rushed through the crowd of pirates and stooped to look at the person who had so strangely come aboard. Then he gave a shout. "It is Dickory Charter," he cried, "Dickory Charter, the son o' old Dame Charter! Ye Dickory! an' how in the name o' all that's blessed did ye come here? Master Bonnet! Master Bonnet!" he shouted to the captain, who now stood by, "it is young Dickory Charter, of Bridgetown. He was on board this vessel before we sailed, wi' Mistress Kate an' me. The last time I saw her he was wi' her."

"What!" exclaimed Bonnet, "with my daughter?"

"Ay, ay!" said Greenway, "it must have been a little before she went on shore."

"Young man!" cried Bonnet, stooping towards Dickory, "when did you last see my daughter? Do you know anything of her?"

The young man opened his mouth, but he could not yet do much in the way of speaking, but he managed to gasp, "I come from her, I am bringing you a message."

"A message from Kate!" shouted Bonnet, now in a state of wild excitement. "Here you, Greenway, lift up the other arm, and we will take him to my cabin. Quick, man! Quick, man! he must have some spirits and dry clothes. Make haste now! A message from my daughter!"

"If that's so," said Greenway, as he and Bonnet hurried the young man aft, "ye'd better no' be in too great haste to get his message out o' him or ye'll kill him wi' pure recklessness."

Bonnet took the advice, and before many minutes Dickory was in dry clothes and feeling the inspiriting influence of a glass of good old rum. Now came Black Paul, wanting to know if he should sink the brig and be done with her, for they couldn't lie by in such weather.

"Don't you fire on that ship!" yelled Bonnet, "don't you dare it! For all I know, my daughter may be on board of her."

At this Dickory shook his head. "No," said he, "she is not on board."

"Then let her go," cried Bonnet, "I have no time to fool with the beggarly hulk. Let her go! I have other business here. And now, sir," addressing Dickory, "what of my daughter? You have got your breath now, tell me quickly! What is your message from her? When did you sail from Bridgetown? Did she expect me to overhaul that brig? How in the name of all the devils could she expect that?"

"Come, come now, Master Bonnet!" exclaimed the Scotchman, "ye are talkin' o' your daughter, the good an' beautiful Mistress Kate, an' no matter whether ye are a pirate or no, ye must keep a guard on your tongue. An' if ye think she knew where to find ye, ye must consider her an angel an' no' to be spoken o' in the same breath as de'ils."

"I didn't sail from Bridgetown," said Dickory, "and your daughter is not there. I come from Jamaica, where she now is, and was bound to Bridgetown to seek news of you, hoping that you had returned there."

"Which, if he had," said Ben, who found it very difficult to keep quiet, "ye would hae been under the necessity o' givin' your message to his bones hangin' in chains."

Bonnet looked savagely at Ben, but he had no time even to curse.

"Jamaica!" he cried, "how did she get there? Tell me quickly, sir—tell me quickly! Do you hear?"

Dickory was now quite recovered and he told his story, not too quickly, and with much attention to details. Even the account of the unusual manner in which he and Kate had disembarked from the pirate vessel was given without curtailment, nor with any attention to the approving grunts of Ben Greenway. When he came to speak of the letter which Mr. Newcombe had written her, and which had thrown her into such despair on account of its shortcomings, Captain Bonnet burst into a fury of execration.

"And she never got my letter?" he cried, "and knew not what had happened to me. It is that wife of mine, that cruel wild-cat! I sent the letter to my house, thinking, of course, it would find my daughter there. For where else should she be?"

"An' a maist extraordinary wise mon ye were to do that," said Ben Greenway, "for ye might hae known, if ye had ever thought o' it at all, that the place where your wife was, was the place where your daughter couldna be, an' ye no' wi' her. If ye had spoke to me about it, it would hae gone to Mr. Newcombe, an' then ye'd hae known that she'd be sure to get it."

At this a slight cloud passed over Dickory's face, and, in spite of the misfortunes which had followed upon the non-delivery of her father's letter, he could not help congratulating himself that it had not been sent to the care of that man Newcombe. He had not had time to formulate the reasons why this proceeding would have been so distasteful to him, but he wanted Martin Newcombe to have nothing to do with the good or bad fortune of Mistress Kate, whose champion he had become and whose father he had found, and to whom he was now talking, face to face.

The three talked for a long time, during which Black Paul had put the vessel about upon her former course, and was sailing swiftly to the north. As Dickory went on, Bonnet ceased to curse, but, over and over, blessed his brother-in-law, as a good man and one of the few worthy to take into his charge the good and beautiful. Stede Bonnet had always been very fond of his daughter, and, now, as it became known to him into what desperate and direful condition his reckless conduct had thrown her, he loved her more and more, and grieved greatly for the troubles he had brought upon her.

"But it'll be all right now," he cried, "she's with her good uncle, who will show her the most gracious kindness, both for her mother's sake and for her own; and I will see to it that she be not too heavy a charge upon him."

"As for ye, Dickory," exclaimed Greenway, "ye're a brave boy an' will yet come to be an' honour to yer mither's declining years an' to the memory o' your father. But how did ye ever come to think o' boardin' this nest o' sea-de'ils, an' at such risk to your life?"

"I did it," said Dickory simply, "because Mistress Kate's father was here, and I was bound to come to him wherever I should find him, for that was my main errand. They told me on the brig that it was Captain Bonnet's ship that was overhauling us, and I vowed that as soon as she boarded us I would seek him out and give him her message; and when I heard that the sea was getting too heavy for you to board us, I determined to come on board if I could get hold of a line."

"Young man," cried Bonnet, rising to his full height and swelling his chest, "I bestow upon you a father's blessing. More than that"—and as he spoke he pulled open a drawer of a small locker—"here's a bag of gold pieces, and when you take my answer you shall have another like it."

But Dickory did not reach out his hand for the money, nor did he say a word.

"Don't be afraid," cried Bonnet. "If you have any religious scruples, I will tell you that this gold I did not get by piracy. It is part of my private fortune, and came as honestly to me as I now give it to you."

But Dickory did not reach out his hand.

Now up spoke Ben Greenway: "Look ye, boy," said he, "as long as there's a chance left o' gettin' honest gold on board this vessel, I pray ye, seize it, an' if ye're afraid o' this gold, thinkin' it may be smeared wi' the blood o' fathers an' the tears o' mithers, I'll tell ye ane thing, an' that is, that Master Bonnet hasna got to be so much o' a pirate that he willna tell the truth. So I'll tak' the money for ye, Dickory, an' I'll keep it till ye're ready to tak' it to your mither; an' I hope that will be soon."



CHAPTER XIII

CAPTAIN BONNET GOES TO CHURCH

The pirate vessel Revenge was now bound to the coast of the Carolinas and Virginia, and perhaps even farther north, if her wicked fortune should favour her. The growing commerce of the colonies offered great prizes in those days to the piratical cruisers which swarmed up and down the Atlantic coast. To lie over for a time off the coast of Charles Town was Captain Bonnet's immediate object, and to get there as soon as possible was almost a necessity.

The crew of desperate scoundrels whom he had gathered together had discovered that their captain knew nothing of navigation or the management of a ship, and there were many of them who believed that if Black Paul had chosen to turn the vessel's bows to the coast of South America, Bonnet would not have known that they were not sailing northward. Thus they had lost all respect for him, and their conduct was kept within bounds only by the cruel punishments which he inflicted for disobedience or general bad conduct, and which were rendered possible by the dissensions and bad feelings among the men themselves; one clique or faction being always ready to help punish another. Consequently, the landsman pirate would speedily have been tossed overboard and the command given to another, had it not been that the men were not at all united in their opinions as to who that other should be.

There was also another very good reason for Bonnet's continuance in authority; he was a good divider, and, so far, had been a good provider. If he should continue to take prizes, and to give each man under him his fair share of the plunder, the men were likely to stand by him until some good reason came for their changing their minds. So with floggings and irons, on deck and below, and with fair winds filling the sails above, the Revenge kept on her way; and, in spite of the curses and quarrels and threats which polluted the air through which the stout ship sailed, there was always good-natured companionship wherever the captain, Dickory, and Ben Greenway found themselves together. There seemed to be no end to the questions which Bonnet asked about his daughter, and when he had asked them all he began over again, and Dickory made answer, as he had done before.

The young fellow was growing very anxious at this northern voyage, and when he asked questions they always related to the probability of his getting back to Jamaica with news from the father of Mistress Kate Bonnet. The captain encouraged the hopes of an early return, and vowed to Dickory that he would send him to Spanish Town with a letter to his daughter just as soon as an opportunity should show itself.

When the Revenge reached the mouth of Charles Town harbour she stationed herself there, and in four days captured three well-laden merchantmen; two bound outward, and one going in from England.

Thus all went well, and with willing hands to man her yards and a proudly strutting captain on her quarter-deck, the pirate ship renewed her northward course, and spread terror and made prizes even as far as the New England coast; and if Dickory had had any doubts that the late reputable planter of Bridgetown had now become a veritable pirate he had many opportunities of setting himself right. Bonnet seemed to be growing proud of his newly acquired taste for rapacity and cruelty. Merchantmen were recklessly robbed and burned, their crews and passengers, even babes and women, being set on shore in some desolate spot, to perish or survive, the pirate cared not which, and if resistance were offered, bloody massacres or heartless drownings were almost sure to follow, and, as his men coveted spoils and delighted in cruelty, he satisfied them to their heart's content.

"I tell you, Dickory Charter," said he, one day, "when you see my daughter I want you to make her understand that I am a real pirate, and not playing at the business. She's a brave girl, my daughter Kate, and what I do, she would have me do well and not half-heartedly, to make her ashamed of me. And then, there is my brother-in-law, Delaplaine. I don't believe that he had a very high opinion of me when I was a plain farmer and planter, and I want him to think better of me now. A bold, fearless pirate cannot be looked upon with disrespect."

Dickory groaned in his heart that this man was the father of Kate.

Turning southward, rounding the cape of Delaware, the Revenge ran up the bay, seeking some spot where she might take in water, casting anchor before a little town on the coast of New Jersey. Here, while some of the men were taking in water, others of the crew were allowed to go on shore, their captain swearing to them that if they were guilty of any disorder they should suffer for it. "On my vessel," he swore, "I am a pirate, but when I go on shore I am a gentleman, and every one in my service shall behave himself as a gentleman. I beg of you to remember that."

Agreeable to this principle, Captain Bonnet arrayed himself in a fine suit of clothes, and without arms, excepting a genteel sword, and carrying a cane, he landed with Ben Greenway and Dickory, and proceeded to indulge himself in a promenade up the main street of the town.

The citizens of the place, terrified and amazed at this bold conduct of a vessel fearlessly flying a black flag with the skull and bones, could do nothing but await their fate. The women and children, and many of the men, hid themselves in garrets and cellars, and those of the people who were obliged to remain visible trembled and prayed, but Captain Stede Bonnet walked boldly up the right-hand side of the main street waving his cane in the air as he spoke to the people, assuring them that he and his men came on an errand of business, seeking nothing but some fresh water and an opportunity to stretch their legs on solid ground.

"If you have meat and drink," he cried, "bestow it freely upon my men, tired of the unsavoury food on shipboard, and if they transgress the laws of hospitality then I, their captain, shall be your avenger; we want none of your goods or money, having enough in our well-laden vessel to satisfy all your necessities, if ye have them, and to feel it not."

The men strolled along the street, swarmed into the two little taverns, soon making away with their small stores of ale and spirits, and accepting everything eatable offered them by the shivering citizens; but as to violence there was none, for every man of the rascally crew bore enmity against most of the others, and held himself ready for a chance to report a shipmate or to break his head.

Black Paul was a powerful aid in the preservation of order among the disorderly. Conflicts between factions of the crew were greatly feared by him, for the schemes which happy chance had caused to now revolve themselves in his master mind would have been sadly interfered with by want of concord among the men of the Revenge.

Captain Bonnet, followed at a short distance by Dickory and Ben, was interested in everything he saw. A man of intelligence and considerable reading, it pleased him to note the peculiarities of the people of a country which he had never visited. The houses, the shops, and even the attire of the citizens, were novel and well worthy of his observation. He looked over garden walls, he gazed out upon the fields which were visible from the upper end of the street, and when he saw a man who was able to command his speech he asked him questions.

There was a little church, standing back from the thoroughfare, its door wide open, and this was an instant attraction to the pirate captain, who opened the gate of the yard and walked up to it.

"That I should ever again see Master Stede Bonnet goin' into a church was something I didna dream o', Dickory," said Ben Greenway, "it will be a meeracle, an' I doubt if he dares to pass the door wi' his sins an' his plunders on his head."

But Captain Bonnet did pass the door, reverentially removing his hat, if not his crimes, as he entered. In but few ways it resembled the houses of worship to which he had been accustomed in his earlier days, and he gazed eagerly from side to side as he slowly walked up the central aisle. Dickory was about to follow him, but he was suddenly jerked back by the Scotchman, who forcibly drew him away from the door.

"Look ye," whispered Ben, speaking quickly, under great excitement, "look ye, Dickory, Heaven has sent us our chance. He's in there safe an' sound, an' the good angels will keep his mind occupied. I'll quietly close the door an' turn the key, then I'll slip around to the back, an' if there be anither door there, I'll stop it some way, if it be not already locked. Now, Dickory boy, make your heels fly! I noticed, before we got here, that some o' the men were makin' their way to the boats; dash ye amang them, Dickory, an' tell them that the day they've been longin' for, ever since they set foot on the vessel, has now come. Their captain is a prisoner, an' they are free to hurry on board their vessel an' carry awa wi' them a' their vile plunder."

"What!" exclaimed Dickory, speaking so earnestly that the Scotchman pulled him farther away from the church, "do you mean that you would leave Captain Bonnet here by himself, in a foreign town?"

"No' a bit o' it," said Ben, "I'll stay wi' him an' so will you. Now run, Dickory!"

"Ben!" exclaimed the other, "you don't know what you are talking about! Captain Bonnet would be seized and tried as a pirate. His blood would be on your head, Ben!"

"I canna talk about that now," said Ben impatiently, "ye think too much o' the man's body, Dickory, an' I am considerin' his soul."

"And I am considering his daughter," said Dickory fearlessly; "do you suppose I am going to help to have her father hanged?" and with these words he made a movement towards the door.

The eager Scotchman seized him. "Dickory, bethink yoursel'," said he. "I don't want to hang him, I want to save him, body an' soul. We will get him awa' from here after the ship has gone, he will be helpless then, he canna be a pirate a minute longer, an' he will give up an' do what I tell him. We can leave before there is ony talk o' trial or hangin'. Run, Dickory, run! Ye're sinfully losin' time. Think o' his soul, Dickory; it's his only chance!"

With a great jerk Dickory freed himself from the grasp of the Scotchman.

"It is Kate Bonnet I am thinking of!" he exclaimed, and with that he bolted into the church.

The captain was examining the little pulpit. "Haste ye! haste ye!" cried Dickory, "your men are all hurrying to the boats, they will leave you behind if they can; that's what they are after."



Bonnet turned quickly. He took in the situation in a second. With a few bounds he was out of the church, nearly overturning Ben Greenway as he passed him. Without a word he ran down the street, his cane thrown away, and his drawn sword in his hand.

Dickory's warning had not come a minute too soon; one boat full of men was pulling towards the ship, and others were hurrying in the direction of an empty boat which awaited them at the pier. Bonnet, with Dickory close at his heels, ran with a most amazing rapidity, while Greenway followed at a little distance, scarcely able to maintain the speed.

"What means this?" cried Bonnet, now no longer a gentleman, but a savage pirate, and as he spoke he thrust aside two of the men who were about to get into the boat, and jumped in himself. "What means this?" he thundered.

Black Paul answered quietly: "I was getting the men on board," he said, "so as to save time, and I was coming back for you."

Bonnet glared at his sailing-master, but he did not swear at him, he was too useful a man, but in his heart he vowed that he would never trust Paul Bittern again, and that as soon as he could he would get rid of him.

But when he reached the ship, three men out of each boat's crew, selected at random to represent the rest, were tied up and flogged, the blows being well laid on by scoundrels very eager to be brutal, even to their own shipmates.

"Ah! Dickory, Dickory," cried Ben Greenway, as they were sailing down the bay, "ye have loaded your soul wi' sin this day; I fear ye'll never rise from under it. Whatever vile deeds that Major Bonnet may henceforth be guilty o' ye'll be responsible for them a', Dickory, for every ane o' them."

"He's bad enough, Ben," said the other, "and it's many a wicked deed he may do yet, but I am going to carry news of him to his daughter if I can; and what's more, I am not going to stay behind and be hanged, even if it is in such good company as Major Bonnet and you, Ben Greenway."

Whatever should happen on the rest of that voyage; whether the well-intentioned treachery of Ben Greenway, or the secret villainies of the crew, should prevail; whether disaster or success should come to the planter pirate, Dickory Charter resolved in his soul that a message from her father should go to Kate Bonnet, and that he should carry it.

* * * * *

The spirits of Dickory rose very much as the bow of the Revenge was pointed southward. Every mile that the pirate vessel sailed brought him nearer to the delivery of his message—a message which, while it told of her father's wicked career, still told her of his safety and of his steadfast affection for her. Indirectly, the bringing of such a message, and the story of how the bearer brought it, might have another effect, which, although he had no right to expect, was never absent from Dickory's soul. This ardent young lover did not believe in Master Martin Newcombe. He had no good reason for not believing in him, but his want of faith did not depend upon reason. If lovers reasoned too much, it would be a sad world for many of them.

When the Revenge stopped in her progress towards the heavenly Island of Jamaica, or at least that island which was the abode of an angel, and anchored off Charles Town harbour, South Carolina, Dickory fumed and talked impatiently to his friend Ben Greenway. Why a man, even though he were a pirate, and therefore of an avaricious nature, should want more booty, when his vessel was already crowded with valuable goods, he could not imagine.

But Ben Greenway could very easily imagine. "When the spirit o' sin is upon ye," said the Scotchman, "the more an' more wicked ye're likely to be; an' ye must no' forget, Dickory, that every new crime he commits, an' a' the property he steals, an' a' the unfortunate people he maroons, will hae to be answered for by ye, Dickory, when the time comes for ye to stand up an' say what ye hae got to say about your ain sins. If ye had stood by me an' helped to cut him short in his nefarious career, he might now be beginnin' a new life in some small coastin' vessel bound for Barbadoes."