It was already beginning to grow dark. She sat, and she sat; she waited, and she waited; and at last she wept, but very quietly. Her father did not come; Ben Greenway was not there; and even that Charter boy had gone. A man came aft to her; a mild-faced, elderly man, with further offers of refreshment and an invitation to go below out of the night air. But she would have nothing; and as she sadly waited and gently wept, it began to grow truly dark. Presently, as she sat, one arm leaning on the rail, she heard a voice close to her ear, and she gave a great start.
"It is only Dickory," whispered the voice.
Then she put her head near him and was glad enough to have put her arms around his neck.
"I have heard a great deal more," whispered Dickory; "these men are dreadful. They do not know what keeps your father, although they have suspicions which I could not make out; but if he does not come on board by ten o'clock they will sail without him, and without his cash-box."
"And what of me?" she almost cried, "what of me?"
"They will take you with them," said he; "that's the only thing for them to do. But don't be frightened, don't tremble. You must leave this vessel."
"But how?" she said.
"Oh! I will attend to that," he answered, "if you will listen to me and do everything I tell you. We can't go until it is dark, but while it is light enough for you to see things I will show you what you must do. Now, look down over the side of the vessel."
She leaned over and looked down. He was apparently clinging to the side with his head barely reaching the top of the rail.
"Do you see this bit of ledge I am standing on?" he asked. "Could you get out and stand on this, holding to this piece of rope as I do?"
"Yes," said she, "I could do that."
"Then, still holding to the rope, could you lower yourself down from the ledge and hang to it with your hands?"
"And drop into your boat?" said she. "Yes, I could do that."
"No," said he, "not drop into my boat. It would kill you if you fell into the boat. You must drop into the water."
She shuddered, and felt like screaming.
"But it will be easy to drop into the water; you can't hurt yourself, and I shall be there. My boat will be anchored close by, and we can easily reach it."
"Drop into the water!" said poor Kate.
"But I will be there, you know," said Dickory.
She looked down upon the ledge, and then she looked below it to the water, which was idly flapping against the side of the vessel.
"Is it the only way?" said she.
"It is the only way," he answered, speaking very earnestly. "You must not wait for your father; from what I hear, I fear he has been detained against his will. By nine o'clock it will be dark enough."
"And what must I do?" she said, feeling cold as she spoke.
"Listen to every word," he answered. "This is what you must do. You know the sound of the bell in the tower of the new church?"
"Oh, yes," said she, "I hear it often."
"And you will not confound it with the bell in the old church?"
"Oh, no!" said she; "it is very different, and generally they strike far apart."
"Yes," said he, "the old one strikes first; and when you hear it, it will be quite dark, and you can slip over the rail and stand on this ledge, as I am doing; then keep fast hold of this rope and you can slip farther down and sit on the ledge and wait until the clock of the new church begins to strike nine. Then you must get off the ledge and hang by your two hands. When you hear the last stroke of nine, you must let go and drop. I shall be there."
"But if you shouldn't be there, Dickory? Couldn't you whistle, couldn't you call gently?"
"No," said Dickory; "if I did that, their sharp ears would hear and lanterns would be flashed on us, and perhaps things would be cast down upon us. That would be the quickest way of getting rid of you."
"But, Dickory," she said, after a moment's silence, "it is terrible about my father and Ben Greenway. Why don't they come back? What's the matter with them?"
He hesitated a little before answering.
"From what I heard, I think there is some trouble on shore, and that's the reason why your father has not come for you as soon as he expected. But he thinks you safe with Ben Greenway. Now what we have to do is to get away from this vessel; and then if she sails and leaves your father and Ben Greenway, it will be a good thing. These fellows are rascals, and no honest person should have to do with them. But now I must get out of sight, or somebody will come and spoil everything."
Big Sam did come aft and told Kate he thought she would come to injury sitting out in the night air. But she would not listen to him, and only asked him what time of night it was. He told her that it was not far from nine, and that she would see her father very soon, and then he left her.
"It would have been a terrible thing if he had come at nine," she said to herself. Then she sat very still waiting for the sound of the old clock.
Dickory Charter had not told Miss Kate Bonnet all that he had heard when he was stealthily wandering about the ship. He had slipped down into the chains near a port-hole, on the other side of which Big Sam and the black-haired man were taking supper, and he heard a great deal of talk. Among other things he heard a bit of conversation which, when expurgated of its oaths and unpleasant expressions, was like this:
"You are sure you can trust the men?" said Black-hair.
"Oh, yes!" replied the other, "they're all right."
"Then why don't you go now? At any time officers may be rowing out here to search the vessel."
"And well they might. For what needs an old farmer with an empty vessel, a crew of seventy men, and ten guns? He is in trouble, you may wager your life on that, or he would be coming to see about his girl."
"And what will you do about her?"
"Oh, she'll not be in the way," answered Big Sam with a laugh. "If he doesn't take her off before I sail, that's his business. If I am obliged to leave port without his cash-box, I will marry his daughter and become his son-in-law—I don't doubt we can find a parson among all the rascals on board—then, perhaps, he will think it his duty to send me drafts to the different ports I touch at."
At this good joke, both of them laughed.
"But I don't want to go without his cash-box," continued Big Sam, "and I will wait until high-tide, which will be about ten o'clock. It would be unsafe to miss that, for I must not be here to-morrow morning. But the long-boat will be here soon. I told Roger to wait until half-past nine, and then to come aboard with old Bonnet or without him, if he didn't show himself by that time."
"But, after all," said the black-haired man, "the main thing is, will the men stand by you?"
"You needn't fear them," said the other with an aggravated oath, "I know every rascal of them."
"Now, then," said Dickory Charter to himself as he slipped out of the chains, "she goes overboard, if I have to pitch her over."
Nothing had he heard about Ben Greenway. He did not believe that the Scotchman had deserted his young mistress; even had he been sent for to go on shore in haste, would he leave without speaking to her. More than that, he would most likely have taken her with him.
But Dickory could not afford to give much thought to Ben Greenway. Although a good friend to both himself and his mother, he was not to be considered when the safety of Mistress Kate Bonnet was in question.
The minutes moved slowly, very slowly indeed, as Kate sat, listening for the sound of the old clock, and at the same time listening for the sound of approaching footsteps.
It was now so dark that she could not have seen anybody without a light, but she could hear as if she had possessed the ears of a cat.
She had ceased to expect her father. She was sure he had been detained on shore; how, she knew not. But she did know he was not coming.
Presently the old clock struck, one, two—In a moment she was climbing over the rail. In the darkness she missed the heavy bit of rope which Dickory had showed her, but feeling about she clutched it and let herself down to the ledge below. Her nerves were quite firm now. It was necessary to be so very particular to follow Dickory's directions to the letter, that her nerves were obliged to be firm. She slipped still farther down and sat sideways upon the narrow ledge. So narrow that if the vessel had rolled she could not have remained upon it.
There she waited.
Then there came, sharper and clearer out of the darkness in the direction of the town, the first stroke of nine o'clock from the tower of the new church. Before the second stroke had sounded she was hanging by her two hands from the ledge. She hung at her full length; she put her feet together; she hoped that she would go down smoothly and make no splash. Three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—and she let her fingers slip from the ledge. Down she went, into the darkness and into the water, not knowing where one ended and the other began. Her eyes were closed, but they might as well have been open; there was nothing for her to see in all that blackness. Down she went, as if it were to the very bottom of black air and black water. And then, suddenly she felt an arm around her.
Dickory was there!
She felt herself rising, and Dickory was rising, still with his arm around her. In a moment her head was in the air, and she could breathe. Now she felt that he was swimming, with one arm and both legs. Instinctively she tried to help him, for she had learned to swim. They went on a dozen strokes or more, with much labour, until they touched something hard.
"My boat," said Dickory, in the lowest of whispers; "take hold of it."
Kate did so, and he moved from her. She knew that he was clambering into the boat, although she could not see or hear him. Soon he took hold of her under her arms, and he lifted with the strength of a young lion, yet so slowly, so warily, that not a drop of water could be heard dripping from her garments. And when she was drawn up high enough to help herself, he pulled her in, still warily and slowly. Then he slipped to the bow and cast off the rope with which the canoe had been anchored. It was his only rope, but he could not risk the danger of pulling up the bit of rock to which the other end of it was fastened. Then, with a paddle, worked as silently as if it had been handled by an Indian, the canoe moved away, farther and farther, into the darkness.
"Is all well with you?" said Dickory, thinking he might now safely murmur a few words.
"All well," she murmured back, "except that this is the most uncomfortable boat I ever sat in!"
"I expect you are on my orange basket," he said; "perhaps you can move it a little."
Now he paddled more strongly, and then he stopped.
"Where shall I take you, Mistress Bonnet?" he asked, a little louder than he had dared to speak before.
Kate heaved a sigh before she answered; she had been saying her prayers.
"I don't know, you brave Dickory," she answered, "but it seems to me that you can't see to take me anywhere. Everything is just as black as pitch, one way or another."
"But I know the river," he said, "with light or without it. I have gone home on nights as black as this. Will you go to the town?"
"I would not know where to go to there," she answered, "and in such a plight."
"Then to your home," said he. "But that will be a long row, and you must be very cold."
She shuddered, but not with cold. If her father had been at home it would have been all right, but her step-mother would be there, and that would not be all right. She would not know what to say to her.
"Oh, Dickory," she said, "I don't know where to go."
"I know where you can go," he said, beginning to paddle vigorously, "I will take you to my mother. She will take care of you to-night and give you dry clothes, and to-morrow you may go where you will."
CHAPTER IV
ON THE QUARTER-DECK
As the time approached when Big Sam intended to take the Sarah Williams out of port, it seemed really necessary that Mistress Kate Bonnet should descend from the exposed quarterdeck and seek shelter from the night air in the captain's cabin or in her own room; and, as she had treated him so curtly at his last interview with her, he sent the elderly man with the mild countenance to tell her that she really must go below, for that he, Big Sam, felt answerable to her father for her health and comfort. But when the elderly man and his lantern reached the quarter-deck, there was no Mistress Kate there, and, during the rapid search which ensued, there was no Mistress Kate to be found on the vessel.
Big Sam was very much disturbed; she must have jumped overboard. But what a wild young woman to do that upon such little provocation, for how should she know that he was about to run away with her father's vessel!
"This is a bad business," he said to the black-haired man, "and who would have thought it?"
"I see not that," said Black Paul, "nor why you should trouble yourself about her. She is gone, and you are well rid of her. Had she stayed aboard with us, every ship in the colony might have been cruising after us before to-morrow's sun had gone down."
But this did not quiet the cowardly soul of Big Sam.
"Now I shall tell you," said he, "exactly what happened. A little before dark she went ashore in a boat which was then leaving the ship. I allowed her to do this because she was very much in earnest about it, and talked sharply, and also because I thought the town was the best place for her, since it was growing late and her father did not seem to be coming. Now, if the old man comes on board, that's what happened; but if he does not come on board, the devil and the fishes know what happened, and they may talk about it if they like. But if any man says anything to old Bonnet except as I have ordered, then the fishes shall have another feast."
"And now, what I have to say to you," said Black Paul, "is, that you should get away from here without waiting for the tide. If one of these rascals drops overboard and swims ashore, he may get a good reward for news of the murder committed on this vessel, and there isn't any reason to think, so far as I know, that the Sarah Williams can sail any faster than two or three other vessels now in the harbour."
"There's sense in all that," said Big Sam as he walked forward. But he suddenly stopped, hearing, not very far away, the sound of oars.
Now began the body and soul of Big Sam to tremble. If the officers of the law, having disposed of Captain Bonnet, had now come to the ship, he had no sufficient tale to tell them about the disappearance of Mistress Kate Bonnet; nor could he resist. For why should the crew obey his orders? They had not yet agreed to receive him as their captain, and, so far, they had done nothing to set themselves against the authorities. It was a bad case for Big Sam.
But now the ship was hailed, and the voice which hailed it was that of Captain Bonnet. And the soul of Big Sam upheaved itself.
In a few minutes Bonnet was on board, with a big box and the crew of the long-boat. Speaking rapidly, he explained to Big Sam the situation of affairs. The authorities of the port had indeed sadly interfered with him. They had heard reports about the unladen vessel and the big crew; and, although they felt loath to detain and to examine a fellow-townsman, hitherto of good report, they did detain him and they did examine him, and they would have gone immediately to the ship had it not been so dark.
But under the circumstances they contented themselves with the assurance of the respectable Mr. Bonnet that he would appear before them the next morning and give them every opportunity of examining his most respectable ship. Having done this, they retired to their beds, and the respectable Bonnet immediately boarded his vessel.
"Now," cried Captain Bonnet, "where is my daughter? I hope that Ben Greenway has caused her to retire to shelter?"
"Your daughter!" exclaimed Big Sam, before any one else could speak, "she is not here. It was still early twilight when she told me she would wait no longer, and desired to be sent ashore in a boat. This request, of course, I immediately granted, feeling bound thereto, as she was your daughter, and that I was, in a measure, under her orders."
Captain Bonnet stood, knitting his brows.
"Well, well!" he presently cried, with an air of relief, "it is better so. Her home is the best place for her, as matters have turned out. And now," said he, turning to Big Sam, "call the men together and set them to quick work. Pull up your anchors and do whatever else is necessary to free the ship; then let us away. We must be far out of sight of this island before to-morrow's sunrise."
As Big Sam passed Black Paul he winked and whispered: "The old fool is doing exactly what I would have done if he hadn't come aboard. This suits my plan as if he were trying his best to please me."
In a very short time the cable was slipped, for Big Sam had no notion of betraying the departure of the vessel by the creaking of a capstan; and, with the hoisting of a few sails and no light aboard except the shaded lamp at the binnacle, the Sarah Williams moved down the river and out upon the sea.
"And when are you going to take the command in your hands?" asked Black Paul of Big Sam.
"To-morrow, some time," was the answer, "but I must first go around among the men and let them know what's coming."
"And how about Ben Greenway? Has the old man asked for him yet?"
"No," said the other; "he thinks, of course, that the Scotchman has gone ashore with the young woman. What else could he do, being a faithful servant? To-morrow I shall set Greenway free and let him tell his own tale to his master. But I shall tell my tale first, and then he can speak or not speak, as he chooses; it will make no difference one way or another."
Soon after dawn the next morning Captain Bonnet was out of his hammock and upon deck. He looked about him and saw nothing but sea, sea, sea.
Big Sam approached him. "I forgot to tell you," said he, "that yesterday I shut up that Scotchman of yours, for, from his conduct, I thought that he had some particular reason for wanting to go on shore; and, fearing that if he did so he would talk about this vessel, and so make worse the trouble I was sure you were in, I shut him up as a matter of precaution and forgot to mention him to you last night."
"You stupid blockhead!" roared Mr. Bonnet, "how like an ass you have acted! Not for a bag of gold would I have taken Ben Greenway on this cruise; and not for a dozen bags would I have deprived my family of his care and service. You ought to be thrown into the sea! Ben Greenway here! Of all men in the world, Ben Greenway here!"
"I only thought to do you a service," said Big Sam.
"Service!" shouted the angry Bonnet. But as it was of no use to say anything more upon this subject, he ordered the sailing-master to send to him, first, Ben Greenway, and then to summon to him, no matter where they might be or what they might be doing, the whole crew.
The other, surprised at this order, objected that all of the men could not leave their posts, but Bonnet overruled him.
"Send me the whole of them, every man jack. The fellow at the wheel will remain here and steer. As for the rest, the ship will take care of itself for a space."
"What can that old fool of a farmer intend to do?" said Big Sam, as he went away; "he is like a child with a toy, and wants to see his crew in a bunch."
Presently came Ben Greenway in a smothered rage.
"An' I suppose, sir," said he without salutation, "that ye have gi'en orders about the care o' the cows and the lot o' poultry that I engaged to send to the town to-day?"
"Don't mention cows or poultry to me!" cried Bonnet. "I am a more angry man than you are, Ben Greenway, and as soon as I have time to attend to it, I shall look into this matter of your shutting up, and shall come down upon the wrongdoers like sheeted lightning."
"What a fearful rage ye're in, Master Bonnet," said Ben. "I never saw the like o' it. If ye're really angrier than I am, I willna revile; leavin' it to ye to do the revilin' wha are so much better qualified. An' so it wasna accident that I was shut up in the ship's pantry, leavin' Mistress Kate to gang hame by hersel', an' to come out this mornin' findin' the ship at sea an' ye in command?"
"Say no more, Ben," cried Bonnet. "I am more sorry to see you here than if you were any other man I know in this world. But I cannot put you off now, nor can I talk further about it, being very much pressed with other matters. Now here comes my crew."
Ben Greenway retired a little, leaning against the rail.
"An' this is his crew?" he muttered; "a lot o' unkempt wild beasts, it strikes me. Mayhap he has gathered them togither to convert their souls, an' he is about to preach his first sermon to them."
Now all the mariners of the Sarah Williams were assembled aft and Captain Bonnet was standing on his quarter-deck, looking out upon them. He was dressed in a naval uniform, to which was added a broad red sash. In his belt were two pairs of big pistols, and a stout sword hung by his side. He folded his arms; he knitted his brows, and he gazed fiercely about to see if any one were absent, although if any one had been absent he would not have known it. His eyes flashed, his cheeks were flushed, and it was plain enough to all that he had something important to say.
"My men," he cried, in a stalwart voice which no one there had ever heard him use before, "my men, look upon me and you will not see what you expect to see! Here is no planter, no dealer in horses and fat cattle, no grower of sugar-cane! Instead of that," he yelled, drawing his sword and flourishing it above his head, "instead of that I am pirate Bonnet, the new terror of the sea! You, my men, my brave men, you are not the crew of the good merchantman, the Sarah Williams, you are pirates all. You are the pirate crew of the pirate ship Revenge. That is now the name of this vessel on which you sail, and you are all pirates, who henceforth shall sail her.
"Now look aloft, every man of you, and you will see a skull and bones, under which you sail, under which you fight, under which you gain great riches in coins, in golden bars, and in fine goods fit for kings and queens!"
As he spoke, every rascal raised his eyes aloft, and there, sure enough, floated the black flag with the skull and bones—the terrible "Jolly Roger" of the Spanish Main, and which Bonnet himself had hoisted before he called together his crew.
For the most part the men were astounded, and looked blankly the one upon the other. They knew they had been shipped to sail upon some illegal cruise, and that they were to be paid high wages by the wealthy Bonnet; but that this worthy farmer should be their pirate captain had never entered their minds, they naturally supposing that their future commander would not care to show himself at Barbadoes, and that he would be taken on board at some other port.
As for Big Sam, he was more than astounded—he was stupefied. He had well known the character of the ship from the time that Bonnet had taken him into his service, and he it was who had mainly managed the fitting-up of the vessel and the shipping of her crew. He did not know whom Bonnet intended to command the ship, but from the very beginning he had intended to command her himself. But he had been too late. He had not gone among the men as he had expected to do soon after setting sail, and here this country bumpkin had taken the wind out of his sails and had boldly announced that he himself was the captain of the pirate ship Revenge.
The men now began to talk among themselves; and as Bonnet still stood, his sword clutched in his hand and his chest heaving with the excitement of his own speech, there arose from the crew a cheer. Some of them had known a little about Stede Bonnet and some of them scarcely anything at all, except that he was able to pay them good wages. Now he had told them that he was a pirate captain, and each of them knew that he himself was a pirate, or was waiting for the chance to become one.
And so they cheered, and their captain's chest heaved higher, and the soul of the luckless Big Sam collapsed, for he knew that after that cheer there was no chance for him; at least, not now.
"Now go, my boys," shouted Bonnet, "back to your places, every one of you, and fall to your duty; and in honour of that black flag which floats above you, each one of you shall drink a glass of grog."
With another shout the crew hurried forward, and Stede Bonnet stood upon the quarter-deck, the pirate captain of the pirate ship Revenge.
And now stepped up to his master that good Presbyterian, Ben Greenway.
"An' ye call yoursel' a pirate, sir?" said he, "an' ye go forth upon the sea to murder an' to rob an' to prepare your soul for hell?"
Mr. Bonnet winked a little.
"You speak strongly, Ben," said he, "but that might have been expected from a man of your fashion of thinking. But let me tell you again, my good Ben Greenway, that I was no party to your being on this vessel. Even now, when my soul swells within me with the pride of knowing that I am a sovereign of the seas and that I owe no allegiance to any man or any government and that my will is my law and is the law of every man upon this vessel—even now, Ben Greenway, it grieves me to know that you are here with me. But the first chance I get I shall set you ashore and have you sent home. Thou art not cut out for a pirate, and as no other canst thou sail with me."
Ben Greenway looked at him steadfastly.
"Master Stede Bonnet," said he, "ye are no more fit to be a bloody pirate than I am. Ye oversee your plantation weel, although I hae often been persuaded that ye knew no' as much as ye think ye do. Ye provide weel for your family, although ye tak' no' the pleasure therein ye might hae ta'en had ye been content wi' ane wife, as the Holy Scriptures tell us is enough for ony mon, an' ye hae sufficient judgment to tak' the advice o' a judgmatical mon about your lands an' your herds; but when it comes to your ca'in' yoursel' a pirate captain, it is enough to make a deceased person chuckle by the absurdity o' it."
"Ben Greenway," exclaimed Major Bonnet, "I don't like your manner of speech."
"O' course ye don't," cried Ben; "an' I didna expect ye to like it; but it is the solemn truth for a' that."
"I don't want any of your solemn truths," said Bonnet, "and as soon as I get a chance I am going to send you home to your barnyard and your cows."
"No' so fast, Master Bonnet, no' so fast," answered Ben. "I hae ta'en care o' ye for mony years; I hae kept ye out o' mony a bad scrape both in buyin' an' sellin', an' I am sure ye never wanted takin' care o' mair than ye do now; an' I'm just here to tell ye that I am no' goin' back to Barbadoes till ye do, an' that I am goin' to stand by ye through your bad luck and through your good luck, in your sin an' in your repentance."
"If you talk to me like that I will cut you down where you stand!"
"Ben Greenway," cried Captain Bonnet, as he waved his sword in the air, "if you talk to me like that I will cut you down where you stand! You forget that you are not talking to a country gentleman, but to a pirate, a pirate of the seas!"
Ben grinned, but seeing the temper his master was in, thought it wise to retire.
CHAPTER V
AN UNSUCCESSFUL ERRAND
For what seemed a very long time to Kate Bonnet, Dickory Charter paddled bravely through the darkness. She was relieved of the terror and the uncertainty which had fallen upon her during the past few hours, and she was grateful to the brave young fellow who had delivered her from the danger of sailing out upon the sea with a crew of wicked scoundrels who were about to steal her father's ship, and her heart should have beaten high with gratitude and joy, but it did not. She was very cold, and she knew not whither young Dickory was taking her. She did not believe that in all that darkness he could possibly know where he was going; at any moment that dreadful ship might loom up before them, and lights might be flashed down upon them. But all of a sudden the canoe scraped, grounded, and stopped.
"It is our beach," said Dickory, and almost at that moment there came a call from the darkness beyond.
"Dickory!" cried a woman's voice, "is that you?"
"It is my mother," said the boy; "she has heard the scraping of my keel."
Then he shouted back, "It is Dickory; please show me a light, mother!"
Jumping out, Dickory pulled the canoe high up the shelving shore, and then he helped Kate to get out. It was not an easy job, for she could see nothing and floundered terribly; but he seemed to like it, and half led, half carried her over a considerable space of uneven ground, until he came to the door of a small house, where stood an elderly woman with a lantern.
"Dickory! Dickory!" shouted the woman, "what is that you are bringing home? Is it a great fish?"
"It is a young woman," said the boy, "but she is as wet as a fish."
"Woman!" cried good Dame Charter. "What mean you, Dickory, is she dead?"
"Not dead, Mother Charter," said Kate, who now stood, unassisted, in the light of the lantern, "but in woeful case, and more like to startle you than if I were the biggest fish. I am Mistress Kate Bonnet, just out of the river between here and the town. No, I will not enter your house, I am not fit; I will stand here and tell my tale."
"Dickory!" shouted Dame Charter, "take the lantern and run to the kitchen cabin, where ye'll make a fire quickly."
Away ran Dickory, and standing in the darkness, Kate Bonnet told her tale. It was not a very satisfactory tale, for there was a great part of it which Kate herself did not understand, but it sufficed at present for the good dame, who had known the girl when she was small, and who was soon busily engaged in warming her by her fire, refreshing her with food, and in fortifying her against the effects of her cold bath by a generous glass of rum, made, the good woman earnestly asserted, from sugar-cane grown on Master Bonnet's plantation.
Early the next morning came Dickory from the kitchen, where he had made a fire (before that he had been catching some fish), and on a rude bench by the house door he saw Kate Bonnet. When he perceived her he laughed; but as she also laughed, it was plain she was not offended.
This pretty girl was dressed in a large blue gown, belonging to the stout Dame Charter, and which was quite as much of a gown as she had any possible need for. Her head was bare, for she had lost her hat, and she wore neither shoes nor stockings, those articles of apparel having been so shrunken by immersion as to make it impossible for her to get them on.
"Thy mother is a good woman," said Kate, "and I am so glad you did not take me to the town. I don't wonder you gaze at me; I must look like a fright."
Dickory made no answer, but by the way in which he regarded her, she knew that he saw nothing frightful in her face.
"You have been very good to me," said she, rising and making a step towards him, but suddenly stopping on account of her bare feet, "and I wish I could tell you how thankful I am to you. You are truly a brave boy, Dickory; the bravest I have ever known."
His brows contracted. "Why do you call me a boy?" he interrupted. "I am nineteen years old, and you are not much more than that."
She laughed, and her white teeth made him ready to fall down and worship her.
"You have done as much," said she, "as any man could do, and more."
Then she held out her hand, and he came and took it.
"Truly you are a man," she said, and looking steadfastly into his face, she added, "how very, very much I owe you!"
He didn't say anything at all, this Dickory; just stood and looked at her. As many a one has been before, he was more grateful for the danger out of which he had plucked the fair young woman than she was thankful for the deliverance.
Just then Dame Charter called them to breakfast. When they were at the table, they talked of what was to be done next; and as, above everything else, Miss Kate desired to know where her father was and why he hadn't come aboard the Sarah Williams, Dickory offered to go to the town for news.
"I hate to ask too much, after all you have done," said the girl, "but after you have seen my father and told him everything, for he must be in sore trouble, would you mind rowing to our house and bringing me some clothes? Madam Bonnet will understand what I need; and she too will want to know what has become of me."
"Of course I will do that," cried Dickory, grateful for the chance to do her service.
"And if you happen to see Mr. Newcombe in the town, will you tell him where I am?"
Now Dickory gave no signs of gratitude for a chance to do her service, but his mother spoke quickly enough.
"Of course he will tell Master Newcombe," said she, "and anybody else you wish should know."
In ten minutes Dickory was in his canoe, paddling to the town. When he was out of the little inlet, on the shore of which lay his mother's cottage, he looked far up and down the broad river, but he could see nothing of the good ship Sarah Williams.
"I am glad they have gone," said Dickory to himself, "and may they never come back again. It is a pity that Major Bonnet should lose his ship, but as things have turned out, it is better for him to lose it than to have it."
When he had fastened his canoe to a little pier in the town with a rope which he borrowed, having now none of his own, Dickory soon heard strange news. The man who owned the rope told him that Major Bonnet had gone off in his vessel, which had sailed out of the harbour in the night, showing no light. And, although many people had talked of this strange proceeding, nobody knew whether he had gone of his own free will or against it.
"Of course it was against his will," cried Dickory. "The ship was stolen, and they have stolen him with it. The wretches! The beasts!" And then he went up into the town.
Some men were talking at the door of a baker's shop, and the baker himself, a stout young man, came out.
"Oh, yes," said he, "we know now what it means. The good Major Bonnet has gone off pirating; he thinks he can make more money that way than by attending to his plantation. The townspeople suspected him last night, and now they know what he is."
At this moment Master Dickory jumped upon the baker, and both went down. When Dickory got up, the baker remained where he was, and it was plain enough to everybody that the nerves and muscles of even a vigorous young man were greatly weakened by the confined occupation of a baker.
Dickory now went further to ask more, and he soon heard enough. The respectable Major Bonnet had gone away in his own ship with a savage crew, far beyond the needs of the vessel, and if he had not gone pirating, what had he gone for? And to this question Dickory replied every time: "He went because he was taken away." He would not give up his faith in Kate Bonnet's father.
"And Greenway," the people said. "Why should they take him? He is of no good on a ship."
On this, Dickory's heart fell further. He had been troubled about the Scotchman, but had tried not to think of him.
"The scoundrels have stolen them both, with the vessel," he said; and as he spoke his soul rose upward at the thought of what he had done for Kate; and as that had been done, what mattered it after all what had happened to other people?
Five minutes afterward a man came running through the town with the news that old Bonnet's daughter, Miss Kate, had also gone away in the ship. She was not at home; she was not in the town.
"That settles it!" said some people. "The black-hearted rascal! He has gone of his own accord, and he has taken Greenway and his fair young daughter with him."
"And what do you think of that!" said some to the doubter Dickory.
"I don't believe a word of it!" said he; and not wishing on his own responsibility to tell what he knew of Mistress Kate Bonnet, he rowed up the river towards the Bonnet plantation to carry her message. On his way, whom should he see, hurrying along the road by the river bank coming towards the town and looking hot and worried, but Mr. Martin Newcombe. At the sight of the boat he stopped.
"Ho! young man," he cried, "you are from the town; has anything fresh been heard about Major Bonnet and his daughter?"
Now here was the best and easiest opportunity of doing the third thing which Kate had asked him to do; but his heart did not bound to do it. He sat and looked at the man on the river bank.
"Don't you hear me?" cried Newcombe. "Has anybody heard further from the Bonnets?"
Dickory still sat motionless, gazing at Newcombe. He didn't want to tell this man anything. He didn't want to have anything to do with him. He hesitated, but he could not forget the third thing he had been asked to do, and who had asked him to do it. Whatever happened, he must be loyal to her and her wishes, and so he said, with but little animation in his voice, "Major Bonnet's daughter did not go with him."
Instantly came a great cry from the shore. "Where is she? Where is she? Come closer to land and tell me everything!"
This was too much! Dickory did not like the tone of the man on shore, who had no right to command him in that fashion.
"I have no time to stop now," said he; "I am carrying a message to Madam Bonnet."
And so he paddled away, somewhat nearer the middle of the river.
Martin Newcombe was wild; he ran and he bounded on his way to the Bonnet house; he called and he shouted to Dickory, but apparently that young person was too far away to hear him. When the canoe touched the shore, almost at the spot where the fair Kate had been fishing with a hook lying in the sun, Newcombe was already there.
"Tell me," he cried, "tell me about Miss Kate Bonnet! What has befallen her? If she did not go with her father, where is she now?"
"I have come," said Dickory sturdily, as he fastened his boat with the borrowed rope, "with a message for Madam Bonnet, and I cannot talk with anybody until I have delivered it."
Madam Bonnet saw the two persons hurrying towards her house, and she came out in a fine fury to meet them.
"Have you heard from my runaway husband," she cried, "and from his daughter? I am ashamed to hear news of them, but I suppose I am in duty bound to listen."
Dickory did not hesitate now to tell what he knew, or at least part of it.
"Your daughter—" said he.
"She is not my daughter," cried the lady; "thank Heaven I am spared that disgrace. And from what hiding-place does she and her sire send me a message?"
Dickory's face flushed.
"I bring no message from a hiding-place," he said, "nor any from your husband. He went to sea in his ship, but Mistress Kate Bonnet left the vessel before it sailed, and her clothes having been injured by water, she sent me for what a young lady in her station might need, supposing rightly that you would know what that might be."
"Indeed I do!" cried Madam Bonnet. "What she needs are the clouts of a fish-girl, and a stick to her back besides."
"Madam!" cried Newcombe, but she heeded him not; she was growing more angry.
"A fine creature she is," exclaimed the lady, "to run away from my house in this fashion, and treat me with such contumely, and then to order me to send her her fine clothes to deck herself for the eyes of strangers!"
"But, young man," cried Newcombe, "where is she? Tell that without further delay. Where is she?"
"I don't care where she is!" interrupted Madam Bonnet. "It matters not to me whether she is in the town, or sitting waiting for her finery on the bridge. If she didn't go with her father (cowardly sneak that he is), that gives her less reason to stay away all night from her home, and send her orders to me in the morning. No, I will have none of that! If my husband's daughter wants anything of me, let her come here and ask for it, first giving me the reason of her shameful conduct."
"Madam!" cried Newcombe, "I cannot listen to such speech, such—"
"Then stop your ears with your thumbs," she exclaimed, "and you will not hear it."
Then turning to Dickory: "Now, go you, and tell the young woman who sent you here she must come in sackcloth and ashes, if she can get them, and she must tell me her tale and her father's tale, without a lie mixed up in them; and when she has done this, and has humbly asked my pardon for the foul affront she has put upon me, then it will be time enough to talk of fine clothes and fripperies."
Newcombe now expostulated with much temper, but Dickory gave him little chance to speak.
"I carry no such message as that," he said. "Do you truly mean that you deny the young lady the apparel she needs, and that I am to tell her that?"
"Get away from here!" cried Madam Bonnet, with her face in a blaze. "I send her no message at all; and if she comes here on her knees, I shall spurn her, if it suit me."
If Dickory had waited a little he might have heard more, but he did not wait; he quickly turned, and away he went in his boat. And away went Martin Newcombe after him. But as the younger man was barefooted, the other one could not keep up with him, and the canoe was pushed off before he reached the water's edge.
"Stop, you young rascal!" cried Newcombe. "Where is Kate Bonnet? Stop! and tell me where she is!"
Troubled as he was at the tale he was going to tell, Dickory laughed aloud, and he paddled down the river as few in that region had ever paddled before.
Madam Bonnet went into her house, and if she had met a maid-servant, it might have been bad for that poor woman. She was not troubled about Kate. She knew the young man to be Dickory Charter, and she was quite sure that her step-daughter was in his mother's cottage. Why she happened to be there, and what had become of the recreant Bonnet, the equally recreant young woman could come and tell her whenever she saw fit.