CHAPTER XXXV
THE BEGINNING OF THE VOYAGE
AT FIRST the three fugitives—the young lady and Jack and Dred—sailed away in silence. The wind blew swiftly, and the dark, silent shores seemed to slide away strangely and mysteriously behind them. As they ran out into the broad, misty waters of the greater river, the distorted half-moon was just rising from a bank of clouds in the east, and a sort of obscure light lit up everything indistinctly. The wind was blowing fresh and cool, and as the boat came further and further out into the wider waters it began to pitch and dance. “About!” called Dred, and, as he put down the tiller and drew in the sheet, hand over hand, the sail flapping and fluttering, Jack and the young lady crouched, and the boom came swinging over. The boat heeled over upon the other course, and then drove forward swiftly with a white splash of loud water at the bow, and a long misty wake trailing behind, flashing every now and then with a sudden dull sparkle of pallid phosphorescence.
Neither Jack nor Dred had spoken anything to the young lady since they had left the wharf behind, and she sat silent and motionless in the stern where they had placed her. Jack had gone forward to raise the peak a little higher. As he came back, stepping over the thwarts, he looked at her; her face shone faint and pallid in the moonlight, and he saw her shudder. “Why, mistress,” he said, “you are shivering—are you cold?”
JACK AND DRED RESCUE ELEANOR—THE START.
“No, I’m not cold,” said she, in a hoarse, dry voice. And then, for the first time, Jack noticed the sparkle of tears upon her cheeks. Dred was looking at her, and perhaps saw the tears at the same time.
“Here,” said he, suddenly, “put on this overcoat; ‘twill make you more comfortable.” She protested feebly, but Dred and Jack persisted, and Jack held the coat for her as she slipped her arms into it.
“There’s a scarf in the traveling-bag yonder,” she said. “If you’ll let me have it I’ll put it on.”
Jack reached the bag to her, and she placed it upon the seat beside her and opened it, turning over the clothes until she found what she wanted. Then she wrapped the scarf around her head, tying it in beneath her chin. She felt in her pocket for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “How long will it take us to get back to Virginia?” she asked.
Jack looked at Dred. “Why, I don’t know,” said Dred. “Maybe not more’n a week.”
“A week!” she repeated.
“Why, yes. Perhaps not that long, though,” he added, “if the weather holds good, and we’re not stopped any place.” No one said anything for a while, and the boat plunged swiftly on, the waves, every now and then clapping against the bow, sending a dash of spray astern, and the water gurgling away noisily behind. Suddenly Dred turned toward the young lady again. “You must be tired,” he said. “I know very well you must be tired.”
“No, I’m not very tired,” said she, faintly.
“Why, mistress, I know you must be tired from the sound of your voice. Here, lad”—to Jack—“you take the tiller while I see if I can make her comfortable. Now, then,” he said, as he turned to her, “you lie down there with your head on this here bundle, and I’ll cover you over.”
She obeyed him silently, and he covered her over with the second overcoat, tucking it in under her feet. “I’ll never forget what you are doing for me, as long as I live,” she said. “I—” her lips moved, but she could not say anything more.
“That’s all very well, mistress,” said Dred, gruffly. “Never you mind that, just now.”
Jack looked long and fixedly at the young lady’s face, pallid in the growing moonlight which sparkled in her dark eyes; she looked singularly beautiful in the white light. “Where be ye going?” called out Dred, suddenly. “Keep to your course!” And then he came back to himself and the things about him with a start, to find the yawl falling off to the wind. Then once more Dred settled himself in his place, relieving Jack of the tiller. Presently he took out his tobacco-pipe and filled it. He struck the fire with the flint and steel, holding the tiller under his arm as he did so. Then he lit his pipe, puffing hard at it for a while. The wind blew the young lady’s hair across her face and she raised her hand to put it back. Jack half lay upon the bench opposite, resting upon his elbow, his cheek upon his hand.
“D’ye see,” said Dred, beginning abruptly with the thoughts in his mind, and without any preface, “according to what I calculate they won’t be able to folly us afore late to-morrow morning. ‘Twill take ‘em some time to get a crew together to man the sloop, and it may be ten o’clock afore they gets away. In course, arter they do have her manned they’ll overhaul us fast enough; but if we have so much start as we’re like to have, why, ’tis like we’ll keep our lead till we get up into the Sound.” Jack listened, saying nothing. In spite of himself he was dozing off every now and then, and awakening with a start. As Dred talked to him, the words came distantly to his ears. “D’ye see,” said Dred, after puffing away at his pipe for a while in silence—and once more Jack aroused from the doze with a start at the sound of his voice—“D’ye see, what we’ll have to do’ll be to sail up into Albemarle Sound, past Roanoke Island and so into Currituck Sound. The waters there be shoal, and even if the sloop should folly us we can keep out of her way, maybe, over the shallows. Old Currituck Inlet—if’t is anything like I used to know it three year ago—is so as we can get over it at high tide in the north channel; that is, we may if the bar ain’t closed it yet. The sloop can’t folly through the inlet; she draws too much water for that, and if we once get there, d’ye see, we’re safe enough from all chase. Contrarywise, if they run down to Ocracock, thinking we took that way—what with running so far down into the Sound and we having the gain on ‘em of so much start, they’d have as poor chance as ever you saw in your life to overhaul us afore we gets inside of Cape Henry. D’ye understand?”
Again Jack had dropped off into a dim sleep; at the last question he awoke with a start. “What did you say, Dred?” he asked; “I didn’t hear the last part.”
Dred looked keenly at him for a moment or two; then he took the pipe out of his mouth and puffed out a cloud of smoke. “Well,” he said, “it don’t matter no way. You lay down and go to sleep.”
“No, I won’t,” said Jack. “I’ll just rest this way.” He was lying upon the thwart, his head propped upon his arm. He tried to stay awake, but presently he began again dozing off, waking every now and then to find Dred steadily at the helm, and the young lady lying motionlessly opposite to him. At last he fell fairly asleep and began dreaming.
When he awoke again he found the day had broken, although the sun had not yet risen. They were running down about a quarter of a mile from the shore. A dark, dense fringe of pine forest grew close to the water’s edge. The breeze was falling away with the coming of the day, and the boat was sailing slowly, hardly careening at all to the wind.
Jack sat up, looking about him, and then at the young lady, and there his gaze rested. She looked very white and wan, but she was sleeping deeply and peacefully, her eyelids closed, and the long, dark lashes resting softly on her cheek. Dred followed Jack’s look, and there his eyes rested also. As Jack moved, stretching his stiffened arms, Dred put his finger to his lips and Jack nodded.
About a half a league over the bow of the boat Jack could see the wide mouth of a tributary inlet to the Sound. He slid along the seat toward Dred. “What water is that over there?” he whispered.
“That’s the mouth of the Pungo,” said Dred. “I’m a-going to run ashore at the p’int, and I hope the wind’ll hold to reach it. There’s a lookout tree there, and I want to take a sight to see if there’s any sign of a chase. I don’t know as we’ll get there without oars, though,” he said, “for the wind’s dying down. I tell you what ’tis, lad, you’d better whistle your best for a breeze; for just now ’tis worth gold and silver to us, for the furder we reaches now, the safer we’ll be. By and by, about this time, they’ll be stirring at home to find we’ve gone. If we’d have to lay at the p’int yonder all day, ‘twill give ‘em a chance to man the sloop and be down on us. As like as not they’ll be getting a slant o’ wind afore we do, if it comes out from the west, as ’tis like to do.”
Jack looked over the edge of the boat and down into the brackish water, clear but brown with juniper stain. It seemed to him that the yawl barely crept along. “At this rate,” said Dred, “we’re not making two knot an hour.”
The sun rose round and red over the tops of the trees of the distant further shore, and the breeze grew lighter and lighter. Every now and then the sail, which lay almost flat, began to flutter. Presently the boom swayed inward a little, and as it did so a level shaft of light fell across the young lady’s face. She moved her hand feebly over her face; then she opened her eyes. Jack and Dred were gazing at her as she did so. First there was a blank look of newly awakened life in her face, then bewilderment, then a light of dawning consciousness. Then she sat up suddenly. “Where am I?” she said, looking about her, dazed and bewildered.
“You’re safe enough so far, Mistress,” said Dred; “and I’m glad you’re awake, for’t is high time we was taking to the oars. An ash breeze is all we’ll be like to have for a while now.” He gave the tiller a quick jerk or two. “Come, Jack,” said he; “I’ll make out well enough to do the sailing, but’t is you’ll have to take to the oars.”
“Very well,” said Jack; “that suits me well enough.”
He drew out the oars, clattering, and dropped them into the rowlocks. Then he shot a quick glance over the bow, spat on his hands, and gripped the oars. As he began rowing, the sail swung in over the boat, and Dred steadied it with one hand, holding the tiller with the other. He laid the bow of the boat for a little cypress-tree that stood out beyond the tip of the point in the water. Jack rowed and rowed, and the shore drew foot by foot nearer and nearer; and presently they went slowly around the point into a little inlet or bay sheltered by the woods that stretched out like arms on either side. Then the bow of the boat grated upon the sand, and Dred arose from where he sat. “Here we be,” he said, stretching himself.
Fronting upon the beach was a little sandy bluff three or four feet high, and beyond that stretched away the pine forest, the trees—their giant trunks silver-gray with resin—opening long, level vistas into the woods carpeted with a soft mat of brown needles. “We’ll go ashore here a bit,” said Dred; “you come along o’ me, Jack, and we’ll go down to the p’int to the lookout tree. Don’t you be afraid if we leave you a little while, mistress; we’ll be back afore long.”
“I would like to get out of the boat for a little while too,” she said, “for I’m mightily tired.”
“To be sure you be,” said Dred. “Come, Jack, lend a hand to help her young ladyship ashore.”
They spread out one of the overcoats upon the sand, and made her as comfortable as they could. The sun, which had now risen above the tops of the trees, shone warm and strong across the broad, level stretch of smooth water. The young lady sat gazing away into the distance. “We’ll be back again soon,” said Dred. “Come along, Jack.” She looked toward them and smiled, but made no other reply.
“Methinks she appears better already,” said Jack, as he and Dred walked away together.
“Ay,” said Dred, briefly.
They walked down along the sandy shore for some little distance, and then cut across a little narrow neck of land to the river shore upon the other side. A great, single pine-tree stood towering above the lower growth, and there were cleats nailed to the trunk, leading from the earth to the high branches above. “Here we be,” said Dred; “and now for a sight astern.” He laid aside his coat, and then began ascending the tree by means of the cleats. Jack watched him as he climbed higher and higher until he reached the roof-like spread of branches far overhead. There he flung one leg over the topmost cleat, and, holding fast to the limb, sat looking steadily out toward the westward, his shirt gleaming white among the branches against the sky of the zenith. He remained there for a long time, and then Jack saw him climbing down again. He brushed his hands smartly together as he leaped to the ground, and then put on his coat.
“Well,” said Jack, “did you see anything?”
“No,” said Dred, “I didn’t. ’Tis a trifle thick and hazy-like—d’ye see? But so far as I could make out, there ain’t no chase in sight yet awhile.”
The young girl, when they returned, was walking up and down the beach. She hesitated when she saw them, then came a lingering step or two to meet them, and then stood waiting.
“I see naught so far, mistress,” said Dred, when they had come up to her; “so far as I see we’re safe from chase.”
“You are very good to me,” she said. “I was just thinking how kind you are to me.” She looked from one to the other as she spoke, and her eyes filled with tears. Jack looked sheepish at the sight of her emotion, and Dred touched his forehead with his thumb, with rather an abashed salute. They stood for a moment as though not knowing what to say.
“Well, lad,” said Dred, in a loud, almost boisterous voice, making a pretended feint as though to strike at Jack as he spoke, “’tis time to be off again with an ash breeze, seeing as no other don’t come up for to help us. Every mile we make now, d’ye see, is worth ten furder on. As for a bite to eat, why, we’ll just have to take that as we goes along. Come, mistress, get aboard, and we’ll push off.” He helped the young lady into the boat, and then he and Jack pushed it off, Jack running through the water and jumping aboard with a soaking splash of his wet feet.
CHAPTER XXXVI
A STOP OVER NIGHT
AS THE DAY had settled toward sundown the breeze had sprung up again. There was a growing bank of haze in the west through which the sun shone fainter and fainter as it approached the horizon and then was swallowed up and lost. The wind, blowing strong and full, drove the water into ridges that caught up to the yawl as it sailed free before the breeze, ran past it swiftly, and left it behind. Dred seemed almost elated. “This be the wind for luck,” he said. “Why, I do suppose that, gin the captain the best he could have, we’ve got a fifteen-league start on him, and he’ll never overhaul that. ‘T will blow up stiff from the east’rd to-morrow, like enough, and ‘twill be a cross sea ag’in’ us beating up into the head of the Sound, but fifteen leagues of start means a deal, I can tell ye. And, besides that, the captain’ll most likely sail straight for Ocracock. It be n’t likely, d’ye see, that he’d think of running up into the sounds. He’d think that we’d trust to our lead of any chase and strike right for the open water through Ocracock, and he’ll not think we’d try to make through the shoals out Currituck way.”
Jack had no notion at all of the geography of the sounds, but he did understand that while they were going one way, Blackbeard would probably be going another.
Meantime the gray light of the failing day had softened the harsh outlines of the pine and cypress woods into a mysterious gloom of shadows. They were sailing now not over two or three furlongs from the shore as they ran yawing along before the wind. Upon one side of them were thick swamp forests, upon the other the seemingly limitless water of the sound, reaching away its restless gray without any sign of a further shore.
So they sailed for a while in silence, the gray light growing duller and still more dull. “Do you know,” said Dred, suddenly speaking, “there’s a settlement up beyond that island yonder—or leastwise there was some houses there three or four year ago. I knowed the man what lived there then, and I’m going to put in, d’ye see, and find out whether he lives there yet awhile. If he do, I’ll get him to let us stay over night. D’ye see, I can’t stand sailing forever, and the young lady can’t stand it, neither. So we’ll make a stop here, if we’re able. Like enough we’ll make another in Shallowbag Bay in Roanoke Island. Arter that we’ll make a straight stretch for Currituck.”
Jack was looking out ahead at the island of which Dred had spoken. It was separated by a little inlet from the wooded shores. Dred laid his course toward a point of land that jutted out into the water, and the shore slid swiftly away behind them as they rushed onward before the wind. “How far is it to the settlement?” asked Jack.
“Just beyond the p’int yonder,” said Dred, briefly. He was looking steadily out ahead.
As they came nearer to the point, the waters of a little bay began to open out before them. It spread wider and wider, and at last they were clear of the jutting point. Then Jack saw the settlement of which Dred had spoken.
There was a slight rise of cleared land, at the summit of which perched a group of four or five huts or cabins. They were built of logs and unpainted boards beaten gray with the weather. Two of the houses showed some signs of being inhabited; the others were plainly empty and deserted, and falling to ruin. Near the houses was a field of Indian corn dried brown with the autumn season, and there were two or three scrubby patches of sweet potatoes, but there was no other sign of cultivation.
Dred put down the tiller and drew in the sheet, and the boat, heeling over to the wind that now caught her abeam, met the waves splashing and dashing as it drove forward upon its other course. Gradually the trees shut off the rougher sea, and then the yawl sailed more smoothly and easily. Presently a dog began barking up at one of the houses, and then two or three joined in, and Jack could see the distant hounds dim in the twilight gray of the falling evening, running down from the houses toward the landing. At the continued noise of their barking several figures appeared at the door of the two cabins—first a man, then two or three half-naked children, then a woman. Then a young woman came to the door of the other cabin with a baby in her arms, and a young man. “Ay,” said Dred, “that be Bill Gosse, for certain.” Then finally the boat grated upon the shore, the sail falling off flapping and clattering in the wind, and the voyage of the day was ended.
The man who had first appeared went into the house, the next moment coming out with a tattered hat upon his head. He came down toward the landing, the children following him scatteringly, and the woman standing in the doorway, looking down toward them. The young man was also coming slouching behind. Dred and Jack had lowered the peak and had begun to take in the boom when the man reached the shore. Jack looked at him with a good deal of curiosity, and the young lady sat in the stern thwarts also gazing at him. He was tall and lean and sallow. A straggling beard covered his thin cheeks and chin, and a mat of hair plaited behind hung down in a queue. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he wore a pair of baggy breeches tied at the knees. “Hullo, Bill!” said Dred. “How be ye?”
“Be that you, Chris Dred?” said the man in a slow, dull voice. “Who’ve ye got there with ye?”
“This? This here is a young Virginny lady of quality,” said Dred. “She’s been took sick, and we—this lad and me—is carrying her back home again. I’ll tell ye all about that by and by. What I want to know now is, will you take us in for the night? The holy truth is, I’m just getting over the fever, and this here young lady, as I said, be sick too. We’ve been sailing all day, and so I thought maybe you’d let us make port here for the night.”
The man stood stolidly watching Dred and Jack furl and tie up the sail. He did not offer to help them. “Where did ye come from?” he asked, at last, in the same slow, heavy voice.
“Down from the Pungo,” said Dred.
“Well, you’d better come up to the house and talk to my woman,” said the man, answering Dred’s initial question. “I be willing enough for you to stay, so far as I’m concerned.”
“Very well,” said Dred, “so I will. You wait here, Jack, till I come back again.”
He stepped stiffly out of the boat, and then the two went away together. The young man who had also come down to the shore remained behind, squatted upon the ground, staring fixedly at Jack and the young lady, who looked back at him with a good deal of interest.
“I do hope the good woman’ll let us stay all night,” said the young lady, suddenly breaking the long silence. “Indeed I feel mightily tired, and if I could only rest for that long I know it would do me a vast deal of good.”
“She’ll let you stay,” said the young man. “That’ll be all right, mistress.”
Just then Dred reappeared, coming back alone from the house down through the twilight, and confirmed what the young man had said. “’Tis all right,” he said, “and they’ll give us a berth for the night. Come along, mistress, I’ll help you.”
Miss Eleanor Parker rose, stiffened with the long sitting in the boat, supporting herself with her hand upon the rail. Dred reached out a hand and helped her out over the thwarts and to the beach. Then he climbed into the boat, and taking the case-bottle of rum out of the locker, slipped it into his pocket.
The woman and the three children stood in the doorway watching the three as they approached. As Jack entered he looked back and saw that the young man was bending over the yawl, examining it curiously.
The house consisted of one large room. There was a fireplace at one end of it; two benches, and two or three rickety chairs, a table, and two beds comprised the furniture. The man was standing by the fireplace with an empty pipe between his lips. “This here is the young lady,” said Dred to the woman. “I dare say she’d like to lie down now a bit while you’re getting supper ready,” and Miss Eleanor Parker acknowledged that she was very tired.
“Wasn’t that there Captain Teach’s yawl-boat?” the man asked of Dred.
“Ay,” said Dred.
“I thought I knowed her,” the man said.
Almost as soon as she had eaten her supper, the young lady went again and lay down upon the bed. Then Dred brought out the case-bottle of rum, and he and the two men began drinking. Jack watched them with growing apprehension, for they were helping themselves very freely. He thought every moment Dred would cork the bottle again, but he did not do so, and gradually the effect of the drink began to show itself. Jack could see that Dred was taking more of it than he should. He began to talk more volubly, and the stolid silence of the men began to melt also. The older man became at times almost quarrelsome. He repeated the same thing over and over again, and the young man would laugh foolishly at everything that was said. Jack looked toward the young lady, wondering whether she was conscious of what was going on. But she lay perfectly quiet and motionless, and he thought that maybe she did not perceive it. “Won’t you come over and join us?” said Dred, waving the bottle toward Jack, and then taking a drink himself.
“No,” said Jack, “I won’t.”
“Why not?” said the man. “You be n’t too proud to drink with us, be you?”
“No, I’m not,” said Jack, shortly, “but I don’t choose to. I’m tired, and I wish you’d stop drinking yourselves.”
“You be too proud by half,” the man said, thickly; “that be the trouble with you. You be too proud.”
The young man laughed and wiped his mouth with his fingers. “Why, no, Jack hain’t proud,” said Dred; “Jack and I’ve been messmates for many a day, hain’t we, Jack? D’ye know, he was kidnapped from England. His uncle over there is a rich lord or summat of the sort. Anyways, he’s got a stack of money. Hain’t that so, Jack?”
“I don’t care,” said the man, “who he be. The trouble with him is he be too proud—that’s what’s the trouble with him. When a man axes me to come and drink with him, I don’t care who he be, I goes. I wouldn’t be too proud to drink—no, not if I was a lord instead of a beggarly runaway.”
“He be n’t no runaway,” said Dred. “He and me was two of Blackbeard’s men. Now we be our own men. We be taking that there young lady back to Virginny.” Then he leaned across the table and whispered hoarsely, “She’s a beauty—she is.”
His hoarse whisper sounded very loud through the cabin. Jack shot a look at the young lady, but she did not move or seem to notice what was said. “I wish you’d be still, Dred,” he said; “you’re drinking more than you ought, and you don’t know what you’re saying.”
Dred looked gloomily at him for a while. “You mind your business, lad,” he said, “and I’ll mind mine. I know what I’m doing and what I’m saying well enough.”
Jack made no reply. He curled himself up on the bench and shut his eyes. Dred sat still, looking moodily at him for a little while. “You think I be drinking more than I ought, do you?” But still Jack did not reply nor open his eyes. “I’ll drink as much as I choose, and no man shall stop me.”
“You’ll make yourself sick again, that’s what you’ll do,” Jack said, shortly.
He lay there with his eyes closed, and presently, in spite of himself, the events of the day before and the sleepless nights he had passed began to press upon him, and he drifted off into broken fragments of sleep, through which he heard the men still talking and laughing. At last, after a while, he opened his eyes to silence. The fire had burned low, and the men lay sleeping on the floor with their feet turned toward the blaze. Jack arose, took up the bottle upon the table, and shook it beside his ear. There was still a little liquor in it, and he corked it and laid it behind him on the bench so as to make sure it should not be touched again.
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE SECOND DAY
THE woman was stirring early in the morning, and Jack awoke with a start. Dred was moving uneasily in his sleep, with signs of near waking as Jack went to the door and looked out. It was still hardly more than the dawn of day. It had clouded over during the night, and had been raining, as Dred had predicted. The wind was now blowing swiftly from the east, sending low, drifting clouds hurrying across the sky. From where he stood he could see, through the twilight gray, the white caps, churning every now and then to a sudden flash of foam out across the dim stretch of the sound, and he thought to himself that their voyage was likely to prove very rough. Presently Dred stood beside him. He stood for a while gazing out into the gray daylight, as Jack had done, looking across the sound; then he went out into the open air. He stared up into the wet sky above, and then all around him. “’Tis likely we’ll have a stiffish day of it,” he said, “but we’ll have to make the most of it, let us get ever so wet. ’Tis lucky I thought of fetching the overcoats.” He said nothing about the night before, and did not seem to remember that he had been drinking more than he should have done. The woman of the house emerged from the outshed, carrying an armful of sticks. “Hullo, mistress!” Dred called to her, “I wish you’d wake the young lady and tell her we’ve got to be starting again. Why, it must be well on toward six o’clock by now, allowing for this here thick day.”
The woman was smoking a short, black pipe. She took it out of her mouth with one hand. “Won’t you stay and take a bite to eat first?” said she.
“Why, no, we won’t,” said Dred. “We’ll eat what we want aboard the boat. We’ve got a good rest, and we’re beholden to ye for it.” He opened his hand, and then Jack saw he had a sixpenny-piece in it. “I want you to take this here,” he said, “for to pay you for your trouble.”
The woman stretched out her lean, bony hand, took the coin eagerly enough, and slipped it in her pocket. “I’ll tell her young ladyship that you be waiting,” said she with a sudden access of deference, and then went back into the house.
“Did you see anything of that there bottle o’ rum?” said Dred.
“Yes, I did,” said Jack. “I put it away in the overcoat pocket.”
“That’s all well, then. I thought maybe Bill or Ned Gosse had stole it. Was there anything left in it?”
“A little,” answered Jack.
Beside this Dred made no present reference to the drinking bout of the night before.
When they went back into the house again the young lady was sitting on the edge of the bed, smoothing her hair. “’Tis time we was starting now, mistress,” said Dred, “and the sooner the better.”
They all went down to the boat together, the two Gosse men accompanying them. This time they helped Jack and Dred unfurl the sail, and set the boom and the gaff, and they pushed the boat off into the water when all were aboard. “You’ll have a windy day outside, like enough,” Bill Gosse said, in his slow, dull voice.
“I reckon we will,” Dred replied briefly.
There was a fine spit of rain-like mist drifting before the wind, and the water lapped and splashed chilly, beating in little breakers upon the beach. “You’d better put on this overcoat, mistress,” said Dred, and he held it for the young lady as he spoke.
She looked steadily at him for a moment, and it seemed to Jack, with some intuitive knowledge, that she was thinking of the way Dred had been drinking with the two men the night before. Jack himself took the coat from Dred and held it for her while she slipped her arms into the sleeves. Then he helped her settle herself in the stern. “You’d better put on the other overcoat, Dred,” he said. “I can do very well without it.”
The boat was already dancing and bobbing with the short, lumpy swell that came in from the sound around the point, and gave promise of rough weather outside. The sail flapped and beat noisily in the wind; Jack hoisted the peak, and Dred, drawing the sheet with one hand and holding the tiller with the other, brought her around to the wind. The people on the shore stood watching them as the boat heeled over and then, with gathering headway, swept swiftly away. There were no farewells spoken. Jack, looking behind, saw the people still standing upon the shore as it rapidly fell away astern, dimming in the gray of the misty rain.
“About!” called Dred, sharply, and then the boat, sweeping a curve, came around upon the other tack. Once more they came about, and then presently they were out in the open sound. There was a heavy, lumpy sea running, and the boat began to lift and plunge to the greater swell with every now and then a loud, thunderous splash of water at the bow, and a cloud of spray dashed up into the air. A wave sent a sheet of water into the boat. “I reckon we’ll have to drop the peak a bit, Jack,” Dred said; “she drives too hard.”
The young lady, in the first roughness of the rolling sea, was holding tight to the rail. Jack stumbled forward across the thwarts and lowered the peak. The water was rushing noisily past the boat. “’Tis a head wind we’ve got for to-day,” said Dred, when he had come back into the stern again. “I’m glad we’ve had a bit of rest afore we started, for we’ll hardly make Roanoke afore nine or ten o’clock to-night if the wind holds as ’tis.”
And it was after nightfall when they ran in back of Roanoke Island. The wind had ceased blowing from the east, and was rapidly falling away. Just at sundown, the sun had shot a level glory of light under the gray clouds, bathing all the world with a crimson glow, and then had set, the clouds overhead shutting in an early night. The water still heaved, troubled with the memory of the wind that had been churning it all day. The young lady had been feeling ill, and she now lay motionless upon the bench, where Jack had covered her with everything obtainable, and where she lay with her head upon her bundle of clothes, her face, resting upon the palm of her hand, just showing beneath the wraps that covered her. In the afternoon Dred had handed the tiller over to Jack, who still held it. Now, wrapped in one of the overcoats, he lay upon the other bench, perhaps sleeping. The night had fallen more and more, and soon it was really dark. Jack held steadily to the course that Dred had directed, and by and by he was more and more certain that he was near the land. At last, he really did see the dim outline of the shore, and in the lulls of the breeze he could presently hear the loud splashing of the water upon the beach.
“Dred,” he called, “you’d better come and take the helm.” Dred roused himself instantly, shuddering with the chill of the night air as he did so. He looked about him, peering into the darkness.
“Ay,” he said, after a while. “’Tis Roanoke, and that must be Duck Island over yonder, t’other way. That’s Broad Creek, yonder,” pointing off through the night. “We might run into it, and maybe find some shelter; but what I wants to do, is to make Shallowbag Bay. There’s a lookout tree on the sand-hills there, and I wants to take a sight behind us, to-morrow. D’ye see, ’tis Roanoke Sound we’re running into. If the sloop follys us at all, ‘twill run up the ship-channel Croatan way.”
Jack did not at all understand what Dred meant, but he gave up the tiller to him very readily. He went across to where the young lady lay. “How d’ye feel now, mistress?” he said.
“I feel better than I did,” she said, faintly, opening her eyes as she spoke.
“Would you like to have a bite to eat now?” She shook her head, and once more Jack took his place in the stern.
“There’s another reason why I wants to make Shallowbag Bay,” said Dred. “D’ye see, there’s a house there,—or, leastwise, there used to be,—and I thought if we could get there it might make a shelter for the young lady, for she’s had a rough day of it to-day, for sartin.”
“How far is it?” Jack asked.
“Why,” said Dred, “no more’n a matter of eight mile, I reckon. Here; you hold the tiller, lad, while I light my pipe.”
Maybe an hour or more passed, and then Dred began, every now and then, to take a lookout ahead, standing up and peering away into the darkness. The clouds had now entirely blown away, and the great vault of sky sparkled all over with stars. All around them the water spread out, dim and restless. They were running free close to the shore. A point of sand jutted out pallidly into the water, and through the darkness Jack could dimly see the recurrent gleam of breaking waves upon it. Again Dred was standing up in the boat, looking out ahead. “We’re all right, now,” he said, after a long time of observation, finally taking his seat. “I’ve got my bearings now, and know where I be. The only thing now is, that we sha’n’t run aground, for here and there there’s not enough water to float a chip.” As he ended speaking he put down the tiller, and the yawl ran in close around the edge of the point. He sailed for some little distance before he spoke again. “We’ll have to take to the oars for the rest of the way,” he said, at last; and as he spoke he brought the bow of the boat up to the wind. “We’re done our sailing for to-night. The shanty’s not more’n a mile furder on from here across the bay. We’d better put up the sail here, I reckon. ‘Twill be swinging all around in your way when ye row.”
He arose and went forward, Jack following him, and together they loosened the boom and began reefing the sail still wet with the rain and spray of the day’s storm. The young lady did not move; perhaps she was asleep. Then Dred returned to the tiller, and Jack took to the oars.
In somewhat less than half an hour Jack had rowed the heavy boat across the open water. As he looked over his shoulder, he could see a strip of beach just ahead, drawing nearer and nearer to them through the night. A minute more, and the bow of the boat ran grating upon a sandy shoal and there stuck fast. Dred arose, and he and Jack stepped into the shallow water. The young lady stirred and roused herself as they did so. “Sit still, mistress,” said Dred, “and we’ll drag the boat up to the beach. It seems like there’s a bank made out here since I was here afore.” They drew the boat across the shoal and up the little strip of beach. Beyond, a level, sedgy stretch reached away into the night. “You wait here,” said Dred, “and I’ll go up and see if the shanty be there yet. I know ‘twas there three year ago.”
He went away, leaving Jack and the young lady sitting in the boat.
“Do you think he’ll take us to such a place as he did last night?” she presently asked of Jack.
“No, I know he won’t,” Jack said. “’Tis an empty hut he’s going to take us to this time.”
“I’d rather sleep out in the boat,” she said, “than go to such a house again. ‘Twas dreadful last night when those three men sat drinking as they did.”
“Well,” said Jack, “this is no such a place as that. ’Tis an empty hut; and he only comes here to find shelter for you for the night, and to take an observation to-morrow.”
She had not said anything before as to what she had felt during the previous night, and Jack had thought until now that perhaps it had made little or no impression upon her. “You needn’t be afraid of Dred, mistress,” he said, presently. “He’s rough, but he’s not a bad man, and you needn’t be afraid of him.”
She did not reply; and Jack could read in her silence how entirely she had lost confidence in Dred. Presently he appeared, coming through the darkness. “’Tis all right,” he said; “I have found the cabin. We’ll just pull the yawl a trifle furder up on the beach, and then I’ll take ye up to it. Now, mistress, if you’ll step ashore.”
Jack and Dred helped the young lady out of the boat. She stood upon the damp beach wrapped in the overcoat she had worn all day as Jack drove the anchor down into the sandy soil and made fast the bow-line. Dred opened the locker and brought out the biscuit and the ham.
He led the way for some distance through the darkness, his feet rustling harshly through the wiry, sedgy grass, and by and by Jack made out the dim outline of the wooden hut looming blackly against the starry sky. It was quite deserted, and the doorway gaped darkly. It stood as though toppling to fall; but the roof was sound, and the floor within was tolerably dry. At any rate, it was a protection from the night. As Dred struck the flint and steel, Jack stripped some planks from the wall, breaking them into shorter pieces with his heel, and presently a fire blazed and crackled upon the ground before the open doorway of the hut, lighting up the sedgy, sandy space of the night for some distance around.
After they had eaten their rude meal, they made the young lady as comfortable as possible; then they sat down side by side to dry their damp clothes by the fire. It burned down to a heap of hot, glowing coals, and Jack threw on another armful of sticks; they blazed up with renewed brightness, lighting up the interior of the hut with a red glow.
“Like enough this is the last stop we can make,” said Dred, “betwixt here and the inlet.”
“How far is the inlet from here, d’ye suppose?” Jack asked.
“Perhaps a matter of twenty league or so,” said Dred. “We can’t expect the wind to favor us as it has done. We’ve got along mightily well so far, I can tell ye. We’ve got a lead far away ahead of any chase the captain can make arter us. I do believe we be safe enough now; all the same I’m going over to the sand-hills to-morrow to take a look astern. Over in that direction—” and he pointed with his pipe—“there’s a lookout tree we used to use three or four year ago when we was cruising around here in the sounds.”
“Do you know, Dred,” said Jack, “I believe you’re vastly the better in health for coming off with us? You don’t seem near as sick as you did before we left Bath Town.”
“Ay,” said Dred; “that’s allus the way with a sick body. I hain’t time now to think how sick I be.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE THIRD DAY
JACK was awakened the next morning by Dred stirring about. The sun had not yet arisen, but the sky, mottled over with drifting clouds, was blue and mild. “Well,” said Dred, “I’m going over to the sand-hills now. You and the young lady can get some breakfast ready ag’in’ I get back.”
“Don’t you mean to take me along with you, then?” Jack asked.
“No,” said Dred, “‘twould be no use. You can do more by staying here and getting ready a bite to eat, for I want to make as early a start as may be.”
Jack watched him as he walked across the little sandy hummocks covered with the wiry sedge grass that bent and quivered in the gentle wind. “How long will you be gone, Dred?” he called after the departing figure.
The other stopped and turned around. “About a half hour,” he called back, and then he turned and went on again.
Jack got together some wood for the fire, and presently had a good blaze crackling and snapping. The young lady was stirring, and in a little while she came to the door of the hut and stood looking at him. “Where’s Mr. Dred?” she asked.
“He’s gone across to an observation tree over yonder,” Jack said, pointing in the direction with a bit of wood. “He says he’ll be back within half an hour, and he wants that we should get breakfast ready against that time.”
The young lady stood looking about her. “‘Twill not storm again to-day, will it?” said she.
“No,” said Jack, “the weather’s broken now for good.” He felt a curiously breathless constraint in being thus alone with her with no one else near them, but she was clearly altogether unconscious of any such feeling, and her unconsciousness abashed him all the more. He busied himself studiously about his work without speaking, the young lady standing watching him, and the breakfast was cooked and spread out upon a board some time before Dred returned. His impassive face looked more than usually expressionless. “Did you see anything?” Jack asked.
He did not reply to the question. “We’ll not eat here,” he said; “we’ll just take it aboard the boat and eat it there as we sails along.” And then it flashed upon Jack that he must have seen something. “Ye might ha’ roasted two or three o’ them taties we fetched with us,” Dred continued. “We hain’t touched them yet, and this is like enough to be the last chance we’ll get to do so now, for we ben’t like to go ashore—leastwise this side of the inlet—and arter that we’ve got to make straight to Virginny.” Then he caught Jack’s eye with a meaning glance, and presently led the way around to the other side of the hut. There he leaned with his back against the side of the house, his hands thrust deeply into his breeches pockets. “Well,” he said, in a low voice, “I been and took a lookout astern.”
“Well,” Jack said breathlessly, “what of it?”
“Why,” said Dred, “I see a sail off to the south’rd a-making up Croatan way.”
Jack felt a sudden, quick, shrinking pang about his heart. “Well,” he said, “what of it? Was it the sloop?”
Dred shook his head. “I don’t know that,” he said, “and I can’t just say as ‘twas the sloop—but I can’t say as ‘tweren’t the sloop, neither. It may have been a coaster or summat of the sort; there’s no saying, for ‘twas too far away for me to tell just what it was. But I’ll tell you what ’tis, lad, we’ve just got to get away as fast as may be, for the craft I see ben’t more than fourteen or fifteen knot astarn of us, and, give her a stiff breeze, she may overhaul that betwixt here and the inlet if we tarries too long.”
Jack was looking very fixedly at Dred. “Well, Dred,” he said, “suppose ’tis the sloop, and it does overhaul us, what then?”
Dred shrugged his shoulders, and there was something in the shrug that spoke more voluminously than words could have done. “’Tis no use axing me what then,” he said, presently. “We just sha’n’t let her overhaul us, and that’s all. We’ll not think on anything else.”
The sense of overshadowing danger in the possibility of the boat that Dred had seen being the sloop, and the further possibility of its overhauling them, loomed larger and larger in Jack’s mind the more his thoughts dwelt upon it, swelling up almost like a bubble in his bosom. For a time it seemed as though he could not bear the bigness of the apprehension growing so within him. He wondered that Dred could appear so indifferent to it. “Why, Dred,” he cried, “how can a body help thinking about such a thing?”
Dred looked at him out of his narrow, black, bead-like eyes, and then shrugged his shoulders again. His face was as impassive as that of a sphinx.
Jack stood thinking and thinking. The growing apprehension brought to him for a moment a feeling almost of physical nausea. He believed that Dred believed that the sloop was really Blackbeard’s, and that it was overhauling them. He heaved an oppressed and labored sigh. “I wish,” he said, “we’d only sailed straight ahead instead of stopping over night—first, down yonder at Gosse’s in the swamp, and now here.”
Again Dred shrugged his shoulders. “Well,” he said, “you be hale and strong enough to stand sailing four or six days on end in an open boat. But you don’t seem to think as how the young lady can’t stand it—saying naught of myself. If I hadn’t took care of myself, and had ‘a’ been took sick on your hands, you’d be a deal worse off than you are now. And, arter all,” he added, “’tis a blind chance of that there craft being the sloop. She may be a coaster. Well, ’tis no use stopping here to talk about that there now. The best thing for us to do is to make sail as quick as may be. I don’t see how they got track on us anyhow,” he said, almost to himself, “unless they chanced to get some news on us at Gosse’s, or unless they ran across Gosse hisself.” He slapped his thigh suddenly. “’Tis like enough, now I come to think on it, Gosse went off som’ers to buy rum with the sixpence I gave his mistress, and so ran across the captain in the sloop, som’ers, maybe down toward Ocracock way.”
To all this Jack listened with the heavy oppression of apprehension lying like a leaden weight upon his soul. “Then you do think the sail you saw was the sloop?” said he with anxious insistence, and once more and for the third time Dred shrugged his shoulders, vouchsafing no other reply.
Never for any moment through all that long day did Jack’s spirit escape from that ever-present, dreadful anxiety. Always it was with him in everything that he saw or did or said, sometimes lying dull and inert behind the vivid things of life, sometimes starting out with a sudden vitality that brought again that sickening nausea, as a sort of outer physical effect of the inner distress of spirit.
The breeze had grown lighter and lighter as the day advanced, but by noon they had run in back of a small island, and by three or four o’clock were well up into the shoal water of Currituck Sound. During the time they were crossing the lower part of Albemarle Sound Dred would every now and then stand up to look back; then again he would take his place, gazing out ahead. Each time he had thus stood up, Jack had looked at him, but could learn nothing of his thoughts from his expressionless face.
Suddenly Dred glanced up overhead, the bright sunlight glinting in his narrow black eyes. “The wind be falling mightily light,” he said, and then again he stood up and looked out astern, stretching himself as he did so. This time when he sat down he exchanged one swift glance with Jack, and Jack knew that he had seen something. After that he did not rise again, but he held the tiller motionlessly, looking steadily out across the water that grew ever smoother and smoother as the breeze fell more and more away. By and by he said suddenly: “Ye might as well get out the oars and row a bit, lad; ‘twill help us along a trifle.”
The cloud of anxiety was hanging very darkly over him as Jack went forward and shipped the oars into the rowlocks. The sun had been warm and strong all day, and, without speaking, he laid aside his coat before he began rowing. They were skirting along now well toward the eastern shore of Currituck Sound. There was a narrow strip of beach, a strip of flat, green marsh, and then beyond that a white ridge of sand. Flocks of gulls sat out along the shoals, which, in places, were just covered with a thin sheet of water. Every now and then they would rise as the boat crept nearer and nearer to them, and would circle and hover in clamorous flight. Presently, as Jack sat rowing and looking out astern, he himself saw the sail. The first sight of it struck him as with a sudden shock, and he ceased rowing and resting on his oars looking steadily at it. He felt certain that Dred believed it to be the pirate sloop; he himself felt sure that it must be, for why else would it be following them up into the shoals of Currituck Sound? Then he began rowing again. Suddenly, in the bright, wide silence, the young lady spoke. “Why, that is another boat I see yonder, is it not?”
“Yes, mistress,” said Dred, briefly. He had not turned his head or looked at her as he spoke, and Jack bowed over the oars as he pulled away at them.
After that there was nothing more said for a long time. The young lady sat with her elbow resting upon the rail, now looking out at the boat astern, and now down into the water. She was perfectly unconscious of any danger. A long flock of black ducks threaded its flight across the sunny level of the distant marsh, and there was no cessation to the iterated and ceaseless clamor of the gulls. Now and then a quavering whistle from some unseen flock of marsh-birds sounded out from the measureless blue above. Jack never ceased in his rowing; he saw and heard all these things as with the outer part of his consciousness; with the inner part he was thinking, brooding ceaselessly upon the possibility of capture. He looked at Dred’s impassive face, and now and then their eyes met. Jack wondered what he was thinking of; whether he thought they would get away, or whether he thought they would not, for the other gave no sign either of anxiety or of hope.
The sail was hanging almost flat now. Only every now and then it swelled out sluggishly, and the boat drew forward a little with a noisier ripple of water under the bows. Jack pulled steadily away at the oars without ceasing. It seemed to him that the sail of the boat in the distance stood higher from the water than it had. At last he could not forbear to speak. “She’s coming nigher, ain’t she, Dred?” he asked.
“I reckon not,” said Dred, without turning his head. “I reckon ’tis just looming to the south’rd, and that makes her appear to stand higher. Maybe she may have a trifle more wind than we, but not much.”
The young lady roused herself, turned, and looked out astern. “What boat is that?” she said. “It has been following us all afternoon.”
Dred leaned over and spat into the water; then he turned toward her with a swift look. “Why, mistress,” he said, “I don’t see no use in keeping it from ye; ’tis like that be Blackbeard’s boat—the sloop.”
The young lady looked steadily at him and then at Jack. “Are they going to catch us,” she asked, “and take us back to Bath Town again?”
“Why, no,” said Dred, “I reckon not; we’ve got too much of a start on ‘em. It be n’t more than thirty knot to the inlet, and they’ve got maybe six knot to overhaul us yet.” He turned his head and looked out astern. “D’ye see,” said he, “ye can’t tell as to how far they be away. It be looming up yonder to the south’rd. ’Tis like they be as much as seven knot away rather than six knot.” Again he stood up and looked out astern. “They’ve got a puff of air down there yet,” he said, “and they have got out the sweeps.”
Jack wondered how he could see so far to know what they were doing.
The breeze had died away now to cat’s-paws that just ruffled the smooth, bright surface of the water. Dred, as he stood up, stretched first one arm and then the other. He stood for a while, resting his hand upon the boom, looking out at the other vessel. Then he began to whistle shrilly a monotonous tune through his teeth. Jack knew he was whistling for a wind. Presently he took out his clasp-knife and opened it as he stepped across the thwarts. Jack moved aside to make way for him. He stuck the knife into the mast and then went aft again. The young lady watched him curiously. “What did you do that for?” she asked.
“To fetch up a breeze, mistress,” said Dred, shortly.
All this time Jack was pulling steadily at the oars without ceasing. The sun sloped lower and lower toward the west. “They ain’t gaining on us now,” said Dred; but Jack could see that the sail had grown larger and higher over the edge of the horizon.
The yellow light of the afternoon changed to orange and then to red as the sun set in a perfectly cloudless sky. Suddenly, Jack felt his strength crumbling away from him like slacked lime. “I can’t row any more, Dred,” he said. “I’m dead tired, and my hands are all flayed with rowing.” He had not noticed his weariness before; it seemed as though it came suddenly upon him, its leaden weight seeming to crush out that dreadful anxiety to a mere dull discomfort of spirit.
The palms of his hands were burning like fire. He looked at the red, blistered surface; they had not hurt him so much until he stretched them, trying to open them. His hands and arms were trembling with weariness.
“You’d better take a drink of rum,” said Dred; “‘twill freshen you up a bit. You’d better take a bite, too.”
“I don’t feel hungry,” he said hoarsely.
“Like enough not,” said Dred. “But ‘twill do you good to eat a bite, all the same. The biscuits are aft here. By blood! we didn’t leave much in the bottle down at Gosse’s, did we?” and he shook the bottle at his ear. “Here, mistress, eat that,” and he handed a biscuit to the young lady.
The sail in the distance burned like fire in the setting sun. The three looked at it. “D’ye say your prayers, mistress?” said Dred.
She looked at him as though startled at the question. “Why, yes, I do,” she said. “What do you mean?”
“Why, if you do say your prayers,” said Dred, “when you say ‘em to-night just ax for a wind, won’t ye? We wants to make the inlet to-night, as much as we wants salwation.”
The sun set; the gray of twilight melted into night; the ceaseless clamor of the gulls had long since subsided, and the cool, starry sky looked down silently and breathlessly upon them as they lay drifting upon the surface of the water. “I’ll take a try at the oars myself,” said Dred, “but I can’t do much. You go to sleep, lad, I’ll wake you arter a while.”
Jack lay down upon the bench opposite the young lady. He shut his eyes, and almost instantly he seemed to see the bright level of the water and the green level of the marsh, as he had seen them all that afternoon; he seemed to hear the clamor of the gulls ringing in his ears, and his tired and tingling body felt almost actually the motion of rowing. At last his thoughts became tangled; they blurred and ran together, and before he knew it he was fast asleep—the dead sleep of weariness—and all care and fear of danger were forgotten.