THE FOURTH DAY
JACK felt some one shaking him. He tried not to awaken; he tried to hold fast to his sleep, but he felt that he was growing wider and wider awake. Dred was shaking him. Then he sat up, at first dull and stupefied with sleep. He did not, in the moment of new awakening, know where he was—his mind did not fit immediately into the circumstances around him—the narrow, hard space of the boat, the starry vault of sky, and the dark water—then instantly and suddenly he remembered everything with vivid distinctness. He looked around in the blank darkness almost as though he expected to see the pursuing boat.
“Come,” said Dred. “I’ve let you have a good long sleep, but I can’t let you have no more. We’ve got to take to the oars again, and that’s all there is about it. I tried to row, but I couldn’t do it. And so ever since you’ve been sleeping the boat’s been drifting. I’ll lend a hand with one of the oars for a while. ‘Twill not be so hard on you as if you had to pull both. But I couldn’t row by myself, and that’s all there is of it.”
“How long have I been asleep?” asked Jack.
“A matter of four or five hours,” said Dred.
“Four or five hours!” exclaimed Jack. It seemed to him that he had not been asleep an hour. He stood up, and stretched his cramped limbs. There was not a breath of air stirring. The young lady lay dark and silent in the stern, covered over with the overcoats and wraps, and evidently asleep. She stirred just a little at the sound of their talking, but did not arouse herself.
“Have you seen or heard aught of the sloop?” said Jack.
“No,” said Dred. “Go and take your place, and we’ll pull a bit. I’ll take this seat here; you take the one amidships.”
Jack climbed over the thwarts to his place. He was still drunk and half inert with the fumes of sleep. He took up his oar, and settled it quietly into the rowlock so as not to disturb the young lady. “Do you know what time ’tis, Dred?” he asked.
“I make it about two o’clock,” said Dred, “judging by the looks of the stars.” He was leaning over his oar, opening the bag of biscuit. He handed one back to Jack. “We’ll take a bite to eat and a drop to drink afore we begin rowing,” said he. “Where’s the bottle? Oh, yes; here ’tis,” and again the young lady stirred at the sound of his voice near her.
Jack’s hands were still sore and blistered from the rowing of the day before. At first the oar hurt him cruelly, but his hands presently got used to the dragging jerk, and he dipped and pulled in time with the moving of Dred’s body, which he could dimly see in the darkness. They rowed on in perfect silence. Now and then Jack’s consciousness blurred, and he felt himself falling asleep, but he never ceased his rowing. Then again he would awaken, looking out, as he dipped his oar, at the whirling eddy it made in the water. Every stroke of the oar drew the heavy boat perhaps a yard and a half onward. “A thousand strokes,” said Jack to himself, “will make a mile.” And then he began counting each stroke as he rowed. Again his mind blurred, and he forgot what he was counting. “‘Twas three hundred and twenty I left off with,” he thought, as he wakened again. “Maybe there’s been twenty since then. That would make three hundred and forty. Three hundred and forty-one—three hundred and forty-two—three hundred and forty-three—there was a splash—that was a fish jumped then—three hundred and forty-four—three hundred and forty-five.”
Dred stopped rowing. “I’ve got to rest a bit,” he said, almost with a groan. “Drat that there fever! I don’t know what a body’s got to have fever for, anyway.”
Jack rested upon his oar. It seemed to him that almost immediately he began drifting off into unconsciousness, to awaken again with a start. Dred was still resting upon his oar, and the boat was drifting. They were enveloped and wrapped around by a perfect silence, through which there seemed to breathe a liquid murmur.
Still there was no breeze, but there began to be an indescribable air of freshness breathed out upon the night. The distant quavering whistle of a flock of marsh-birds sounded suddenly out of the hollow darkness above. It was the first spark of the newly awakened life. Again the tremulous whistle sounded as if passing directly above their heads. The young lady still lay darkly motionless in the stern. All the earth seemed sleeping excepting themselves and that immaterial whistle sounding out from that abysmal vault—the womb of day. Jack fancied that there was a slight shot of gray in the east. Again the whistle sounded, now faint in the distance. Then there was another answering whistle; then another—then another. Presently it seemed as though the air were alive with the sound. Suddenly, far away, sounded the sharp clamor of a sea-gull; a pause; then instantly a confused clamor of many gulls. There slowly grew to be a faint, pallid light along the east as broad as a man’s hand, but still all around them the water stretched dark and mysterious.
Dred was again resting upon his oar, breathing heavily. “‘Twill be broad daylight within an hour,” he said, “and then we can see where we be.”
His sudden speech struck with a startling jar upon the solitude of the waking day, and Jack was instantly wide awake. “How far are we from the inlet now, do you suppose, Dred?”
A pause. “I don’t just know. ’Tis maybe not more than fifteen mile.”
“Fifteen miles!” repeated Jack. “Have we got to row fifteen miles yet?”
“We’ll have to if we don’t get a breeze,” said Dred, still panting; “and as we didn’t get a breeze to reach us to the inlet last night, we don’t want it now. ‘Twill only serve to fetch them down upon us now if a breeze do spring up.”
Again, for the third time, the sleeping figure in the stern stirred a little at the sound of voices. The growing light in the east waxed broader and broader. In that direction the distance separated itself from the sky. Jack could see that they were maybe a mile from the marshy shore, over which had now awakened the ceaseless clamor of the gulls and the teeming life of the sedgy solitude. To the west it was still dark and indistinct, but they could see a further and further stretch of water. “I see her,” said Dred. “Well, she don’t appear to have overhauled us much during the night, anyways.”
Jack could see nothing for a while, but presently he did distinguish the pallid flicker of a spot of sail in the far-away distance. Had it gained upon them? It seemed to Jack that, in spite of what Dred had said, it was nearer to them.
The day grew wider and wider. The sun had not yet risen, but everything stood out now in the broad, clear, universal flood of light that lit up the heavens and the earth. The east grew rosy, and the distance to the west came out sharply against the dull, gray sky, in which shone steadily a single brilliant star. The boat was wet with the dew that had gathered upon it.
The young lady roused herself, and sat up, shuddering, in the chill of the new awakening. She looked about her. Then Dred stood up, and looked long and steadily at the strip of beach to the east. “I don’t know much about the lay of the coast up this way,” he said; “there ought to be a signal-mast over toward the ocean side som’ers about here. But, so far as I can make out, we be ten mile from the inlet. I thought we’d been nigher to it than we are.”
The water was as smooth as glass.
Suddenly the sun rose, big, flattened, distorted, from over the sand-hills, shooting its broad, level light across the water, and presently the sail in the distance started out like a red flame in the bright, steady, benignant glow. Again Jack and Dred were rowing, and the boat was creeping, yard by yard, through the water, and leaving behind them a restless, broken, dark line upon the smooth and otherwise unbroken surface.
The sun rose higher and higher, and the day grew warmer and warmer, and still not a breath of air broke the level surface of the water. It was, maybe, ten o’clock, and the point of land they had been abreast of an hour before, lay well behind. “That’s the inlet, where you see them sand-hills ahead yonder,” said Dred.
“How far are they away?” said Jack.
“Not more’n three mile, I reckon.”
The pirates in the sloop were rowing steadily with the sweeps. Jack could see, every now and then, the glint of the long oars as they were dipped into the water and came out, wet and flashing, in the sunlight. “They’re gaining some on us, Dred,” said he, after a while.
“That comes from a sick man’s rowing,” said Dred, grimly. “Well, they won’t catch us now, if the wind’ll only hold off a little longer. But I’m nigh done up, lad, and that’s the truth.”
“So am I,” said Jack. Again, as during the night before, the keen sense of danger that had thrilled him seemed to be sunk into his utter weariness—dulled and blunted.
They rowed for a while in silence. The sand-hills crept nearer. Suddenly Dred stood up in the boat, holding his oar with one hand. He did not speak for a moment. “There’s a breeze coming up down yonder,” he said. “They’re cracking on all sail. They’ll get it, like enough, afore we do. ’Tis lucky we be so nigh the inlet.” He took his place again. “Pull away, lad,” said he; “I reckon we’re pretty safe, but we’ll make it sure. As soon as we get to the inlet we can take all day to rest.”
Jack could see that they were raising every stitch of sail aboard the sloop. Then, presently, as he looked, he could see the sails fill out, smooth and round. “They’ve got it now,” said Dred, “and they’ll be coming down on us, hand over hand.”
The young lady was looking out astern. Jack managed to catch Dred’s eye as he turned for a moment and looked out forward. He could not trust himself to speak. Again that heavy weight of fear and anxiety was growing bigger and sharper. Suddenly it swelled almost to despair. He did not say anything, but his eyes asked, “What are our chances?”
Dred must have read the question, for he said: “Well, it hain’t likely they’ll overhaul us now. If we’d only had wind enough to carry us to the inlet last night we’d been safe; but the next best thing is no wind at all, and that we’ve had. I reckon we’ll make it if we keep close to the shore where ’tis too shoal for them to folly. Yonder comes the breeze. By blood! we’ll get it afore I thought we would.” He drew in his oar, and handed it to Jack. “You take this,” said he, “and keep on rowing, and I’ll trim sail.” He went forward, and raised the gaff a little higher. “Pull away, lad—pull away! and don’t sit staring.”
In spite of what Dred had said, Jack could see that the sloop was rapidly overhauling them. It was now coming rushing down upon them, looming every moment bigger and higher. In the distance Jack could see a black strip lining the smooth surface of the water. It was the breeze rushing toward them ahead of the oncoming sail. Suddenly, all around them, the water was dusked with cat’s-paws. Then came a sudden cool puff of air—a faint breath promising the breeze to come. The sails swelled sluggishly, and then fell limp again. The line of oncoming breeze that had been sharp now looked broken and ragged upon the nearer approach of the wind. “Now she’s coming,” said Dred.
He was looking steadily over the stern. The sloop, every stitch of sail spread, was making toward them. There was a white snarl of waters under her bows. It seemed to Jack that in five minutes she must be upon them. Suddenly there was another cool breath, then a rush of air. The boom swung out, the sail filled, and the boat gave a swift lurch forward with the ripple and the gurgle of water about them. Then the swift wind was all around them, and the boat heeled over to it, and rushed rapidly away.
Jack was still rowing. The motion had grown habitual with him, and now he hardly noticed it. The sloop seemed to be almost upon them; he could even see the men upon the decks. Dred sat grimly at the tiller, looking steadily out ahead, never moving a hair. Jack thrilled as with a sudden spasm, and everything about him seemed to melt into the fear rushing down upon them—the despair of certain capture. It seemed to him that he felt his face twitching. He looked at Dred. There were haggard lines of weakness upon his steadfast face, but no signs of anxiety. Again Dred must have read his look. “They can’t reach in here,” said he; “the water is too shoal.” Suddenly, even as he spoke, Jack saw the sloop coming about. He could hear the creak of the block and tackle as they hauled in the great mainsail, and presently it was flapping limp and empty of wind. Dred turned swiftly and looked over his shoulder. “D’ye see that?” he said. “They’ve run up to the shoal now. They’ve got to keep out into the channel, and that’s about as nigh as they can come to us. They’ll run out into the channel again now. What they’ll try to do’ll be to head us off at the inlet, but they’ve got to make a long leg and a short leg to do that. Ay!” he cried, exultantly, “you’re too late, my hearty!” And he shook his fist at the sloop.
The sloop had now fallen off broadside to them. Its limp sails began to fill again, and it looked ten times as big as it had done running bow on. Suddenly there was a round puff of smoke in the sunlight, instantly breaking and dissolving in the sweeping wind. There was a splash of water; then another splash, and another, and at the same moment a report of a gun. Boom! a dull, heavy, thudding sound, upon the beat of which a hundred little fish skipped out of the water all about the boat.
At the heavy beat of the report, the young lady uttered an exclamation like a smothered scream. The cannon-ball went skipping and ricochetting across their bows and away. “Don’t you be afraid, mistress,” said Dred; “there ben’t one chance in a thousand of their hitting us at this distance; and, d’ye see, they’re running away from us now. Each minute there’s less chance of them harming us. Just you bear up a little, and they’ll be out of distance.”
She brushed her hand for a moment across her eyes, and then seemed to have gained some command over herself. “Are they going to leave us?” she asked.
“Why, no,” said Dred, “not exactly. They know now that we’re making for the inlet. What they’ll do’ll be to run out furder into the channel, and then come back on another tack, and along close in to the inlet so as to head us off. But, d’ye see, the water be too shoal for them, and they’re likely to run aground any moment now. As for us, why, we’ve got a straight course, d’ye see, and our chance is ten to one of making through the inlet afore they can stop us.”
Again there was a puff of smoke that swept away, dissolving down the wind. Again came the skipping shot, and again there was the dull, heavy boom of the cannon. It seemed to Jack that the shot was coming straight into the boat. The young lady gripped the rail with her hand. The cannon-ball went hissing and screeching past them. “By blood!” said Dred, “that was a nigh one, for sartin. ‘Twas Morton hisself lay that gun, I’ll be bound.” Another cloud of smoke, and another dull report, and another ball came skipping across the water, this time wide of the mark. The sloop was now running swiftly away from them, growing smaller and smaller in the distance, her sails again smooth and round, tilting to the wind. They did not fire any more. Jack bent to the rowing, plunging and splashing the water in the tenseness of his apprehension and fear. He no longer felt the smart of his hands or the weariness of his muscles; it seemed to him that he had never felt so strong.
It was not until the guns had been fired that the young lady appreciated the full danger they were in. Jack’s own feelings for the immediate time had been too tense to notice her. Now he saw that she was wringing her hands and tearlessly sobbing, her face as white as ashes. “Come, come, mistress!” said Dred, roughly. “‘Twon’t do no good for you to take on so. Be still, will you?”
The brusqueness of his speech silenced her somewhat. Jack saw her bite at her hand in the tense suppression she set upon herself.
“How far is it to the inlet?” said Jack, hoarsely.
“Half a mile,” said Dred.
Jack turned his head to look. “Mind your oars,” said Dred, sharply; “’tis no time to look now. I’ll mind the inlet. ‘Twon’t get us there any quicker for you to look. By blood!” he added, “she’s coming about again.”
The sloop was maybe a mile away; again it was coming about. “Now for it!” said Dred. “’Tis they or us this time.” Jack swung desperately to the oars. “That’s right—pull away! Every inch gained is that much longer life for all on us.”
The water was now dappled with white caps, and the swift wind drove the yawl plunging forward. The sloop was now set upon the same course that they were, only bearing toward them to head them off. As for them, their leeway was bringing them nearer and nearer the shore. Dred put down the helm a little further so as to keep the boat off the shoals. This lost them a little headway. Jack’s every faculty was bent upon rowing. The sea-gulls rose before them in dissolving flight—the cannon-shots had aroused them all along the shore, and Jack heard their clamor dimly and distantly through the turmoil of his own excited fears. His throat was dry and hot, and his mouth parched. He could hear the blood surging and thumping in his ears. He looked at the young lady as though in a dream, and saw dully that her face was very white and that she gripped the rail of the boat. Her knuckles were white with the strain, and he saw the shine of the rings upon her fingers. The sloop, as he looked at it, seemed to grow almost visibly larger to his eyes; it seemed to tower as it approached. He could see the figures of the men swarming upon the decks. He looked over his shoulder—the inlet was there. “Unship them oars,” said Dred sharply; “’tis sail or naught now.” Then as Jack, unshipping the oars, tipped the boat a little, Dred burst out hoarsely, “Steady, there, you bloody fool! what d’ye heave about so for?” Jack drew in the oars and laid them down across the thwarts, and again Dred burst out roughly: “Look out what ye’re doing! You’re scattering the water all over me.”
“I didn’t mean it,” said Jack; “I couldn’t help it.”
Dred glared at him, but did not reply. Jack looked over his shoulder; the broad mouth of the inlet was opening swiftly before them—the inlet and safety. Suddenly the bottom of the boat grated and hung upon the sand; and Jack, with a dreadful thrill, realized that they were aground. The young lady clutched the rail with both hands with a shriek as the boat careened on the bar, almost capsizing. Dred burst out with a terrible oath as he sprang up and drew in the sheets hand over hand. “Push her off!” he roared. Jack seized one of the oars; but before he could use it the yawl was free again and afloat, and once more Dred sat down, quickly running out the sheets.
Jack’s heart was beating and fluttering in his throat so that he almost choked with it. Dred did not look at the sloop at all. Some one was calling to them through a speaking-trumpet, but Jack could not distinguish the words, and Dred paid no attention to them. There was another puff of smoke, and this time a loud, booming report, and the almost instant splash and dash of the shot across their stern. Jack saw it all, dully and remotely. Why was Dred sailing across the mouth of the inlet instead of running into it? “Why don’t you run into the inlet, Dred?” he cried, shrilly. “Why don’t you run into the inlet? You’re losing time! They’ll be down upon us in a minute if you don’t run in!”
“You mind your own business,” shouted Dred, “and I’ll mind mine!” Then he added, “I’ve got to run up past the bar, ha’n’t I? I can’t run across the sand, can I?”
The sea-gulls were whirling and circling all about them, and the air was full of their screaming clamor.
“About!” called Dred, sharply; and he put down the helm.
Jack could see straight out of the inlet to the wide ocean beyond. It was a quarter of a mile away, and there was a white line of breakers. There was a loud, heavy report—startlingly loud to Jack’s ears—and a cannon-ball rushed, screeching, past them. He ducked his head, crouching down, and the young lady screamed out shrilly. Dred sat at the helm, as grim and as silent as fate. Again the bottom of the boat grated upon the sand. “My God!” burst out Jack, “we’re aground again!” Dred never stirred. The yawl grated and ground upon the sandy bar and then, once more, it was free.
THE PIRATES FIRE UPON THE FUGITIVES.
Then Dred looked over his shoulder. He looked back. Then he looked over his shoulder again. “Get down, mistress!” he called out, sharply. “Get down in the bottom of the boat! They’re going to give us a volley.” Jack saw the glint of the sunlight upon the musket-barrels. The young lady looked at Dred with wide eyes. She seemed bewildered. “Get down!” cried out Dred, harshly. “Are you a fool? Get down, I say!” Jack reached out and caught her violently by the arm and dragged her down into the bottom of the boat. Even as he did so he saw a broken, irregular cloud of smoke shoot out from the side of the sloop. He shut his eyes spasmodically. There was a loud, rattling report. He heard the shrill piping and whistling of the bullets rushing toward them. There was a splashing and clipping. Would he be hurt? There was the jar of thudding bullets. There was a shock that seemed to numb his arm to the shoulder. He was hit. No; the bullet had struck the rail just beside his hand. He was unhurt. He opened his eyes. A vast rush of relief seemed to fill his soul. No one was hurt. The danger was past and gone. No! some of the pirates were about to fire again. There was a puff of smoke; then a broken cloud of smoke, a sharp report, another, and another; then three or four almost together. The bullets were humming and singing, clipping along the top of the water. One—two, struck with a thud against the side of the boat. Jack saw, in a blinded sort of way, that the sloop had come up into the wind; she could follow them no further. There were half a dozen puffs of smoke altogether. O God! would the dreadful danger never be past? Was there no way of escape?
“Ach!” cried out Dred, sharply.
Jack looked up with an agonizing, blinding terror. Was Dred hurt? No; he could not be. There was no sign of hurt. Was that a little tear in his shirt! O God! Was it real? Suddenly there was blood. O, it could not be. Yes; there was a great, wide stain of blood shooting out and spreading over his shirt! “O, Dred!” screamed Jack, shrilly.
“Sit down!” roared Dred. He put his hand to his stomach, at the side, and then there was blood in his hand. Suddenly there was a broken swirl and toss all around them. It was the broken ground-swell coming in past the shoals. The boat pitched and tossed. There was a thundering splash of breakers. Jack sprang up. “Steady!” cried out Dred. Jack’s blinded eyes saw that the pirate sloop was far away in the distance. Were they still shooting? He did not know. He saw everything with dizzy vision. O God! Dred’s shirt was all soaked with blood. What was it now? There was something. They were out in the ocean; that was it—the inlet was passed. “Oh—h!” groaned Dred, “I’m hurt—I’m hurt!”
FIAT JUSTITIA
AS THE BOAT swept into the great lift and fall of the ocean swell, Dred had leaned forward and rested his forehead upon the tiller, which he still held. His body shook and heaved, and Jack sat like one turned to stone. The thought went through his mind, “He is dying—will he die as he sits there? Can it really be that he is dying?” Then Dred looked up, and his face was as white as ashes. Great beads of sweat stood on his forehead. “Some water,” he said, hoarsely; “give me some water, lad.”
Miss Eleanor Parker still lay in the bottom of the boat, whither Jack had dragged her. Jack went forward blindly across the thwarts and brought out a cup of water. His hand shook and trembled; his eyes saw, but did not see, what he was doing; his throat was constricted as though it would choke him. Then he came back with the cup of water. It slopped and spilled over his hand. Suddenly, Miss Eleanor Parker shrieked. She had aroused, and in her first glance had seen the blood. “Oh, what is it?” she cried. Dred had raised himself again from the tiller upon which he had been leaning, and he groaned. Jack pushed past the young lady without speaking to her or noticing her, and Dred reached out his hand for the cup of water. It shook, and part of the water spilled, as he put it to his lips and, throwing back his haggard face, drank it off. The young lady was sitting staring at him, white even to the very lips. “Oh! oh!” she moaned, wringing her hands, “oh! oh!” Jack panted, his breath coming hot in his dry mouth. He tried to moisten his lips again and again, but they remained dry.
The yawl, its course unheeded, had come up into the wind, rising and falling with the slow heaving of the ground-swell, the sail fluttering and flapping. Dred leaned with one elbow upon the seat beside him. “Ye’ll have to go up for’rd, mistress,” he said presently, in a hoarse voice, “I’ve got to do summat—I’ve got to do summat to stop this here place somehow. O Lord!” he groaned. She got up and went forward to the bow, where she crouched down, hiding her face in her hands. “Reach me that there shawl,” said Dred. “We’ve got to tear it up.”
Jack wrenched open the bundle, and with hands and teeth tore the shawl into strips. Dred had stripped off his shirt. Jack looked at him. He saw it, and he thrilled dreadfully and turned his eyes away. “Come, come, lad,” said Dred, “this be no time for any such-like foolishness. Well, give me that strip, I’ll do it for myself.”
The young lady still sat crouched down in the bow. It was all perfectly silent as Jack busied himself about Dred. “Are you more comfortable?” he said, at last.
“Yes,” said Dred. “M-m-m-m,” he groaned. “Let me lie down.” Jack had helped him on with his coat again, and had buttoned it under his chin. He had rolled up the shirt and thrown it overboard. “’Tis all right now, mistress,” he said; “you can come back here again now.”
He supported Dred as the wounded man lay down upon the stern thwart, then he covered him over with the overcoats. He did not leave him to help the young lady as she came aft to sit down upon the bench opposite to where Dred lay. Suddenly she burst out crying.
Dred lay with his eyes closed. His face was white and his forehead covered with a dew of sweat. He opened his eyes for a moment and looked at her, but said nothing, and closed them again. Jack, his breast heaving and panting, sat at the tiller. As he did so he saw that there were stains of blood upon it and upon the seat. Then he drew in the sheets, and the yawl once more came up to its course.
The pirates must have landed from the sloop, for they had come out across the land and down to the beach. They fired a few muskets-shots after the boat, but the bullets fell short, and Jack held the yawl steadily to her course, and soon they were dropping the hills of the inlet far and farther away behind.
After a while Dred began every now and then to sigh recurrently, and it was very dreadful to listen to him. All about them was the bright sunlight and the swift salt wind driving the boat onward with its tragic freight under the warm, mellow sky, so serenely calm and so remotely peaceful. Jack, sitting there, heard, as from a distance, the young lady’s convulsive sobbing. Suddenly Dred spoke hoarsely. “I want another drink of water,” he said.
“Will you get the water for him, mistress?” said Jack. Then he knew that he too was crying, and he wiped his eyes with the skirt of his jacket.
She instantly arose and went forward to the barraca in the bows, presently coming back with a brimming cup of water. Dred raised himself upon his elbow and drank it off, and again they sailed onward for a long time of silence.
Suddenly Dred spoke in a low, uncertain voice. “You’ve got to run ashore, lad,” he said. “I can’t stand this any more; I’ve got to get ashore.”
“Do you think I can get the boat through the breakers?” Jack said, chokingly.
“Ye’ll have to,” said Dred, groaning as he spoke, “for I can’t bear it here.” Then Jack drew in the sheets and brought the boat up with its bow diagonally toward the distant beach. The sand-hills of the inlet were lost in the distance, and all danger of pursuit was over. As the yawl drew nearer to the beach, Jack could see that very little surf was running. “You’ll have to bring her around with her bows to the sea,” whispered Dred, opening his eyes; “and then take to the oars—and let the surf drive her in to the beach. Try to keep her off—lad—keep her bows steady.” He panted as he spoke.
Jack left the tiller and shipped the oars. They were now close to the beach, and the ground-swell was sharpening to the breakers that burst into foam a little further in. He brought the bows of the boat around to the sea, and then backed water toward the shore. “Keep her off,” panted Dred, “she’ll go in fast—fast enough of herself.”
Presently they were among the breakers; they were not very heavy, but enough to make it needful to be careful. Suddenly, a coming breaker shot the yawl toward the beach. As the water ebbed, the boat tilted upon the sand. Jack dropped his oars and leaped out. The sweep of the next wave struck against the yawl and tilted it violently the other way. The barraca and the oars slid rattling. Dred groaned, and the young lady grasped convulsively at the rail. “Pull her up!” exclaimed Dred.
“I will,” said Jack, “but I can hardly manage her.” He held to the bows, and when the next wave came he pulled the boat around up upon the beach. The wash of the breaker ebbed, the sand sliding from under his heels. Then came another wave, and with its wash he dragged the yawl still further up the beach. Then he ran up with the bow-line and drove the anchor into the sand. He came back, his shoes and stockings and loose breeches soaked with the salt water. “You get out, mistress,” he said, “then I’ll help Dred.” She obeyed him silently, going a little distance up from the edge of the shore and there sitting crouched down upon the sand. “Now, Dred,” said Jack. Dred groaned as he arose slowly and laboriously. “Easy, easy, lad,” he whispered, as Jack slipped his arm around him. Then he laid his arm over Jack’s shoulder and heavily and painfully clambered out of the boat. He sat for a while upon the rail, the wash of a breaker sweeping up around his feet and ankles. “What a lucky thing ‘twas,” he said, looking down at the thin slide of water, “that we had high tide to carry us through the inlet, else we’d ‘a’ been lost.” Then Jack burst out crying. There seemed something very pitiful in Dred’s thinking about that now. After a while Dred steadied himself and then arose slowly, leaning heavily upon Jack, who supported him as he walked up to the little bank of sand that fronted upon the beach. Here the wounded man made an effort as though to sit down.
“Can’t you go a little further?” said Jack.
“Not much,” he whispered.
“O Dred!” said Jack, “I’m afraid you’re worse, I’m afraid you’re worse—” Dred did not reply. His hand touched Jack’s cheek, and it felt cold and limp.
“What can I do?” said the young lady, rousing herself.
“You may fetch up the two overcoats from the boat,” Jack said, “and be quick about it.”
He had seated Dred upon the sand, where he instantly sank down and lay at length. Jack supported his head until the young lady came with the two rough overcoats. He rolled one of them up into a pillow which he slid beneath Dred’s head, and then he went down to the boat and brought up the oars, and with them and the other overcoat, he and the young lady arranged a shelter over the wounded man’s face.
“Bring me a drink of rum, lad; I feel sort of faint-like,” Dred whispered, and Jack again ran off down to the boat, presently returning with the bottle. He poured out some of the liquor into the cup, and Dred drank it off. It seemed to revive him. “Come here, lad, there’s summat—summat I want to say to ye.” Jack came close to him, and the young lady also approached. “I want to speak to—Jack hisself, mistress,—if you’ll leave us alone a bit,” said Dred; and then she turned and walked away.
Jack watched her as she sat down upon the sand some distance away, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. The sun stood midway in the heavens and it was very warm, and he stripped off his coat as he sat down alongside of Dred. Dred reached out his hand. Jack hesitated for a moment, then, seeing what he wanted, took it. Dred pressed Jack’s hand strongly. “I believe I’ve got my—dose, this time—lad,” he whispered.
“Don’t say that, Dred,” said Jack; “I—” and then he broke down, his body shaking convulsively.
“I don’t know,” said Dred, “but I kind o’ think I—won’t get over this. But if I should die, I want to ax you, lad—don’t you never tell the young mistress ‘twas I—shot her brother.”
“No, I won’t,” gasped Jack. “I won’t tell her, Dred,” and again Dred pressed the hand he held.
He waited for a long, long while,—his breath every now and then catching convulsively,—thinking Dred might have something more to say; but the wounded man did not speak again, but lay there holding his hand. “Is that all, Dred?” he said at last. “Have you nothing more on your mind to say?”
Dred did not answer for a while. Then, as though collecting himself, “No—that’s all,” he said; and then again, presently, “I’ve been a bad man, I have. Well, I—can’t help that now—now—now,” and then he lapsed away into silence. He loosened his hold upon Jack’s hand and let his own fall limp.
Then Jack realized with a shock, how very much worse Dred was than he had been. He had been growing ever weaker and weaker, but Jack only fully realized it now. He sat watching; Dred seemed to be drowsing. “I want another drink of rum,” he whispered presently. “Another drink o’ rum—another drink o’ rum—drink o’ rum—drink o’ rum,” and he fell to repeating the words with lips that whispered more and more.
Jack arose instantly. The bottle and cup were at a little distance. The cup had sand in it, and he wiped it out. The young lady, who was sitting a little piece away, arose as she saw him coming. “Is he any better now?” she asked.
Jack could not answer; he shook his head. He knew that Dred was going to die. He was so blinded that he could hardly see to pour out the liquor. But he did so and then brought it to Dred. “Here ’tis, Dred,” he said, but there was no reply. “Here ’tis, Dred,” he said again, but still there was no answer.
Jack thrilled dreadfully. He bent down and set the cup to the wounded man’s lips, but Dred was unconscious of everything. Then he stood up and tossed out the liquor upon the sand. “Mistress!” he called out in a keen, startled voice—“mistress, come here quick! I do believe he’s passing.”
She came over and stood looking down at Dred. She was crying violently. Jack sat squatting beside him. He reached out and felt Dred’s hand, but it was very cold and inert. The young lady crouched down upon the other side, and so they sat for a long, long time. But there did not seem to be any change. The afternoon slowly waned toward sundown, and still they sat there. “You’d better go and rest a bit,” said Jack, at last, to the young lady. “You’re worn out with it all. I’ll call you if there’s any change.”
She shook her head; she would not go.
The sun sank lower and lower and at last set, but still there was no change. The young lady moved restlessly now and then. “You’d better get up and walk a bit,” said Jack, as the gray of twilight began to settle upon them. “You’re cramped, sitting there so long.” Then she got up and walked up and down at a little distance. Jack sat still. By and by he leaned over Dred. Dred had ceased breathing. A sharp pang shot through him. Was it over? Then suddenly Dred began again his convulsive breathing, and Jack drew back once more. The young lady still walked up and down, and the twilight settled more and more dim and obscure. There was a slight movement, and again Jack leaned over and touched Dred. He began breathing again, and again Jack sat down. Then there came a longer pause than usual in the breathing. It is over, thought Jack. But no; he breathed again, now fainter and shorter. He ceased. He breathed. He ceased. There was a long, long pause, then there was a rustling movement, and then silence. Was it over? Jack sat waiting, tremblingly and breathlessly, but there was no further sound. Then he reached over in the darkness and touched Dred’s face. He drew back his hand quickly and sat for a moment stunned and inert. He knew in an instant what it was. He arose.
The stars had begun to twinkle in the dim sky, but sky and sea and earth were blurred and lost to his flooded eyes. He walked over toward the young lady. She stopped as he approached. “How is he?” she said.
“He—he’s dead,” said Jack; and then he put up his arm across his face and began crying.
THE BOAT ADRIFT
NEARLY two months had passed in Virginia since Eleanor Parker had been abducted, and nothing yet had been definitely heard concerning her. There were many vague rumors from Ocracock, and it was known that Blackbeard the pirate had been for some time past up into Virginia waters. He had been seen at Norfolk two or three times, and it was known that he had been up into the James River. It was almost more than suspected that he had been concerned in the outrage, but there was as yet nothing definite to confirm such a suspicion.
Colonel Parker was still too ill to quit his room, though he had so far improved that he had begun to think of taking some steps for the recovery of his daughter.
One day Governor Spottiswood went up to Marlborough to see him. He was almost shocked to find the great man so weak and broken. “The villains!” said the sick man, in a weak and querulous voice, so different from his usual stately tones, “‘twas those men murdered my Ned, and now they have taken all that was left me.”
There was something very pathetic in the helplessness of the proud, great man, and in that weakened, tremulous voice. The governor did not reply, but he pressed the hand he held.
Mr. Richard Parker stood by his brother’s chair during his Excellency’s visit. The governor looked at him and wondered how he could be so calm and unmoved. He had never liked Mr. Richard Parker.
“My brother Richard,” said the invalid, putting his weak hand to his forehead, “my brother Richard seems to think it would be better to wait until we have some word from the villains who kidnapped Nelly.” He turned his eyes towards his brother as he spoke. “But I can’t wait; I must do something to find her, and I can’t wait. Just as soon as I am well enough I am going to take steps to find her. They say that villain Teach hath been seen up in the James River. Maybe ‘twas he took her away, and I am going to fit out a boat,—or two boats, if need be,—and go down to North Carolina and try to find her.”
Colonel Parker’s plan appeared singularly weak and inconsequential to the Governor, but he chose to comfort his friend by encouraging any plan that might bring hope to him.
“The Pearl and the Lyme are lying at Jamestown now,” he said. “I was talking t’other day about your dreadful misfortune to some of the officers who had come over to the palace. Lieutenant Maynard was there, and I am sure, from what he said, if you will fit out two such boats and will raise volunteers for such an expedition, he will take command of it. He is a brave and experienced officer, and hath had to do with the pirates before at Madagascar. He would make the best commander you could have, especially if it came to fighting with the villains.”
“To my mind,” said Mr. Richard Parker, cutting into the talk, “‘twould be a mistake to push against the villains. To my mind, ‘twould be better to rest for a while until we hear from them. I sha’n’t need to tell you that they can have no reason for kidnapping Nelly except for the ransom they can get for her. If that is so—and I’m sure it is so—’twill be to their interest to treat her well, and to look after her with all tenderness, and to let us know about her as soon as possible; but if we should use violence toward them there is no telling what they might do out of revenge. Maybe, if we press them too closely, they may carry her elsewhither from place to place, or, if they find themselves driven into a corner, they may even make away with her for their own safety or out of revenge.” Colonel Parker shuddered at the words, but Mr. Richard Parker continued calmly, as before, “I should advise to wait a little while longer. We have waited so long as this, and it can do no harm to wait a while longer with patience.”
At this Colonel Parker cried out in his sick, tremulous voice, “Patience! patience! ’Tis easy enough for you to talk of patience, brother Richard, but how can I be patient who have all I hold most precious in the world taken away from me? O Nelly, Nelly!” he cried, covering his eyes with his trembling hands, “I would give all I have in the world to have thee safe back again! I would! I would!”
The Governor could not bear to look at the sick man in his grief. He turned away his face and gazed out of the window. Mr. Richard Parker said nothing, but shrugged his shoulders.
Before the Governor went, he took Mr. Richard Parker aside and said to him, “Sir, there may be truth in what you said just now about the inadvisability of driving too hard against the villains, but surely you must see that ‘twill be infinitely better for your poor brother to have something to think of—to arouse himself. He sitteth here eating his heart out, and any plan of action is better for him than none. Were I in your place, I would encourage him in thinking of such things rather than discourage him from such hopes.” But Mr. Richard Parker only shrugged his shoulders as before, without vouchsafing any reply.
Governor Spottiswood had not thought that Colonel Parker’s rambling plans would result in anything, but within two weeks two boats were really fitted out—the schooner that belonged to Marlborough, and a larger sloop that was purchased for the purpose. It took a week or more to victual the boats and arm and man them, and by that time Colonel Parker was able to be up and about. He would listen to no advice, but insisted that he himself should have chief command of the expedition. Mr. Richard Parker advised him vehemently not to go, and Madam Parker besought him with tears to remain at home, while the doctor assured him that it was at the danger of his life that he went. “Sir,” said the great man to the doctor, “I have been a soldier; shall I, then, stay at home when my own daughter is in danger, and let others do the fighting for me? You shall go along, if you please, to look after my poor body, but go I shall, if God gives me life to go,” and so he did, in spite of all that his family could say against it.
At Norfolk he had another though slight attack of his malady, and by order of the doctor, who had sailed with the expedition, he rested for over a week at the home of a friend at that place.
It was while he was lying at Mr. Chorley’s house that he received the first fragment of news concerning the young lady that was at all definite.
A coasting vessel from South Carolina ran into Norfolk on Saturday night, coming direct from Ocracock, where she had put in during a storm a few days before. The captain of the coaster said that while they were lying at the inlet he had heard a good deal of talk about a strange lady whom it was said Blackbeard had brought down from Virginia to North Carolina a month or so before, and whom he had taken somewhere up into the sounds. It was a general report that she was extremely beautiful, and a lady of quality, and that she had been brought to North Carolina against her will.
It was on Sunday morning that somebody told Lieutenant Maynard about the coasting captain and his news, and he lost no time in coming to speech with the man. He took him directly to Mr. Chorley’s house, where Colonel Parker was still staying. Mr. Chorley and Mr. Chancellor Page and Dr. Young were all present when Captain Niles told his story to Colonel Parker. “It must be Nelly!” cried out the poor bereaved father. “It can be no one else than she!”
“I would not build too much upon such a rumor,” said Mr. Chorley. “Nevertheless, it does seem as though, at last, you have really news of her. And now the question is, how do you propose to act? ‘Twill never do to be too hasty in such a delicate matter.”
But Colonel Parker was so eager to set sail at once in quest of his daughter that he would listen to nothing that his friends advised to the contrary. Mr. Chorley urged again and again that the utmost caution should be used lest the pirates should carry the young lady still further away from rescue, or maybe take some violent action to protect themselves. He suggested that Governor Eden be written to and requested to take the matter in hand. “Write to Governor Eden!” Colonel Parker cried out; “why should I write to Eden? Why suffer so much delay? Have I not boats fitted out and sufficiently armed and manned with brave fellows to face all the pirates of North Carolina if need be? Nay; I will go down thither and inquire into this report myself without losing time, and without asking Governor Eden to do it for me.”
This, as was said, was on Sunday morning, and Colonel Parker determined that the expedition should set sail for North Carolina early upon the morning of the following day.
It was on this same day that the news was first brought to Virginia of the loss of the French bark. One of Colonel Parker’s two boats—the sloop, which was at that time under command of an ex-man-of-war boatswain, known at Norfolk as “Captain” Blume—one of Colonel Parker’s two boats had been beating up and down the mouth of the bay for several days past, hailing incoming or outgoing vessels in the hope of obtaining some news concerning the young lady. It was about ten o’clock that Sunday morning, when the lookout in the foretop of the schooner sighted an open boat under a scrap of sail, beating up into the bay against the wind. By and by they could make out with the glass that there were men in the boat waving their hats and something white, apparently a shirt or a shift, at the end of an oar. When the sloop ran down to the boat they found it loaded with twenty men and two women; one of the women very weak and exhausted from exposure, all of them haggard and famished.
The boat was one of those belonging to the French bark that the pirates had taken, and it had been adrift, now, for eleven days, having been parted from the others at sea during a time of heavy and foggy weather.
One of the women and three of the men were French; all the others were English—the remnant of the crew of the English bark that the Frenchman had rescued from the water-logged and nearly sinking vessel.
The man in command of the boat had been the mate of the English bark, and the story he told when he came aboard the sloop was one of continued mishaps and misfortunes that had followed them ever since they had quitted Plymouth in England for Charleston in South Carolina. Two days out from England, he said, the smallpox had broken out aboard, and the captain had died of a confluent case. Then, while the crew was still short-handed with the sickness, a storm had struck them and driven them far out of their course to the southward. Then the vessel had sprung a leak and was actually sinking under them when the French bark had picked them up. Then the Frenchman had been attacked and captured by the pirates, and all hands had been set adrift in the open boats with only three days’ provisions. That, as was said, had been eleven days before, and since that they had been trying in vain to make the Chesapeake capes, having been again and again driven out of their course by the heavy weather.
It is strange how much misfortune will sometimes follow an ill-fated vessel, one mishap succeeding another without any apparent cause or sequence. The mate said with a sort of rueful humor that he would not trust even yet that his troubles were over, nor until he felt his feet on dry land at Norfolk. He said that the Englishwomen and six of the Englishmen were redemption servants who had been shipped from Plymouth for Charleston.
After having heard the castaways’ story, Captain Blume thought it best to put back to Norfolk with the rescued crew. He reached that town late at night and reported immediately to Lieutenant Maynard, who was aboard of the schooner at the time, making ready for the departure on the morrow. The lieutenant, together with Captain Blume and the shipwrecked mate, went ashore and to Mr. Chorley’s house, where Colonel Parker still lay.
It was then nearly midnight, and as it was too late to find the magistrate, Colonel Parker gave orders that the rescued boat’s crew should be transferred to the schooner—it being the larger vessel of the two—and so held until the morning. They could then be turned over to the proper authorities for an examination under oath, and the bond-servants deposited in some place of safekeeping until they could be duly redeemed.
Lieutenant Maynard himself went aboard the sloop with Captain Blume to see that the transfer of the shipwrecked crew was properly made. As he stood by the rail while the men were being mustered a man came across the deck and directly up to him. He was one of the castaways, and when he came near enough for the light of the lantern to fall upon him, the lieutenant could see that he was a little man with a lean, dark face, and that he had a stringy, black beard covering his cheeks. His face was peppered over with the still purple pits of recent smallpox, and he was clad in a nondescript costume made up of a medley of borrowed raiment. Mr. Maynard looked the little man over as he approached. “Well, my man,” he said, “and what can I do for you?”
“Sir,” said the little man, “I ask for nothing but justice.”
“You go forward again, Burton,” said the mate of the rescued boat; “you’ll have plenty of chance to talk to the magistrate to-morrow.”
“Not till the gentleman hears me!” cried the little man.
“What do you want?” said the lieutenant. “What is the trouble?”
“Sir, I have been foully dealt with,” said the little man. “I am a lawyer; my name is Roger Burton. I am a man of repute and was held in respect by all who knew me in Southampton, whence I came. Sir, I was struck upon the head at night and nearly killed, and while I lay unconscious I was kidnapped, and came to myself only to find myself aboard of a vessel bound for the Americas.”
“He was one of a lot of redemption servants brought aboard at Plymouth,” said the mate. “He appeared to have been hurt in a drunken brawl.”
“Sir,” the little man protested, vehemently, “I was never so drunk as that in all my life.”
“Well, I am sorry for you, my man, if what you say is true,” the lieutenant said, “but ’tis none of my business. Many men are brought hither to America as you say you have been, and your case is not any worse than theirs. I am sorry for you, but the affair is not mine to deal with.”
“What, sir!” cried the little man, “and is that all the satisfaction I am to have? Is that all you, one of his Majesty’s officers, have to say to me who hold the position of a gentleman? Sir, in the eyes of the law, I have a right to sign myself esquire, as you have the right to sign yourself lieutenant, and to go under a gentleman’s title. Am I, then, to be put off so when I do but ask for justice?”
“You may sign yourself what you choose,” said the lieutenant; “and as for justice, I tell you ’tis none of my affairs. I am not a magistrate, I am an officer of the navy. You are a lawyer, you say—well, then, you can plead your own case when you get ashore, and if you have justice on your side, why, I have no doubt but that you will obtain it.”
“Come, now, Burton, you go forward where you belong,” said the mate.
The little man gave one last earnest look at the lieutenant. He must have seen that it was of no use to plead his case further, for he turned and walked away with his head hanging down.
“How many of those poor people had you aboard?” the lieutenant asked.
“We had fifteen in all. I had seven with me in the boat; six men and one woman. All the others but two died of smallpox.”