"I only thought to do you a service," said Big Sam.

"Service!" shouted the angry Bonnet. But as it was of no use to say
anything more upon this subject, he ordered the sailing-master to send
to him, first, Ben Greenway, and then to summon to him, no matter where
they might be or what they might be doing, the whole crew.

The other, surprised at this order, objected that all of the men could
not leave their posts, but Bonnet overruled him.

"Send me the whole of them, every man jack. The fellow at the wheel
will remain here and steer. As for the rest, the ship will take care of
itself for a space."

"What can that old fool of a farmer intend to do?" said Big Sam, as he
went away; "he is like a child with a toy, and wants to see his crew in
a bunch."

Presently came Ben Greenway in a smothered rage.

"An' I suppose, sir," said he without salutation, "that ye have gi'en
orders about the care o' the cows and the lot o' poultry that I engaged
to send to the town to-day?"

"Don't mention cows or poultry to me!" cried Bonnet. "I am a more angry
man than you are, Ben Greenway, and as soon as I have time to attend to
it, I shall look into this matter of your shutting up, and shall come
down upon the wrongdoers like sheeted lightning."

"What a fearful rage ye're in, Master Bonnet," said Ben. "I never saw
the like o' it. If ye're really angrier than I am, I willna revile;
leavin' it to ye to do the revilin' wha are so much better qualified.
An' so it wasna accident that I was shut up in the ship's pantry,
leavin' Mistress Kate to gang hame by hersel', an' to come out this
mornin' findin' the ship at sea an' ye in command?"

"Say no more, Ben," cried Bonnet. "I am more sorry to see you here than
if you were any other man I know in this world. But I cannot put you
off now, nor can I talk further about it, being very much pressed with
other matters. Now here comes my crew."

Ben Greenway retired a little, leaning against the rail.

"An' this is his crew?" he muttered; "a lot o' unkempt wild beasts, it
strikes me. Mayhap he has gathered them togither to convert their souls,
an' he is about to preach his first sermon to them."

Now all the mariners of the Sarah Williams were assembled aft and
Captain Bonnet was standing on his quarter-deck, looking out upon them.
He was dressed in a naval uniform, to which was added a broad red sash.
In his belt were two pairs of big pistols, and a stout sword hung by his
side. He folded his arms; he knitted his brows, and he gazed fiercely
about to see if any one were absent, although if any one had been absent
he would not have known it. His eyes flashed, his cheeks were flushed,
and it was plain enough to all that he had something important to say.

"My men," he cried, in a stalwart voice which no one there had ever
heard him use before, "my men, look upon me and you will not see what
you expect to see! Here is no planter, no dealer in horses and fat
cattle, no grower of sugar-cane! Instead of that," he yelled, drawing
his sword and flourishing it above his head, "instead of that I am
pirate Bonnet, the new terror of the sea! You, my men, my brave men,
you are not the crew of the good merchantman, the Sarah Williams, you
are pirates all. You are the pirate crew of the pirate ship Revenge.
That is now the name of this vessel on which you sail, and you are all
pirates, who henceforth shall sail her.

"Now look aloft, every man of you, and you will see a skull and bones,
under which you sail, under which you fight, under which you gain great
riches in coins, in golden bars, and in fine goods fit for kings and
queens!"

As he spoke, every rascal raised his eyes aloft, and there, sure enough,
floated the black flag with the skull and bones--the terrible "Jolly
Roger" of the Spanish Main, and which Bonnet himself had hoisted before
he called together his crew.

For the most part the men were astounded, and looked blankly the one
upon the other. They knew they had been shipped to sail upon some
illegal cruise, and that they were to be paid high wages by the wealthy
Bonnet; but that this worthy farmer should be their pirate captain had
never entered their minds, they naturally supposing that their future
commander would not care to show himself at Barbadoes, and that he would
be taken on board at some other port.

As for Big Sam, he was more than astounded--he was stupefied. He had
well known the character of the ship from the time that Bonnet had
taken him into his service, and he it was who had mainly managed the
fitting-up of the vessel and the shipping of her crew. He did not know
whom Bonnet intended to command the ship, but from the very beginning he
had intended to command her himself. But he had been too late. He had
not gone among the men as he had expected to do soon after setting sail,
and here this country bumpkin had taken the wind out of his sails and
had boldly announced that he himself was the captain of the pirate ship
Revenge.

The men now began to talk among themselves; and as Bonnet still stood,
his sword clutched in his hand and his chest heaving with the excitement
of his own speech, there arose from the crew a cheer. Some of them had
known a little about Stede Bonnet and some of them scarcely anything at
all, except that he was able to pay them good wages. Now he had told
them that he was a pirate captain, and each of them knew that he himself
was a pirate, or was waiting for the chance to become one.

And so they cheered, and their captain's chest heaved higher, and the
soul of the luckless Big Sam collapsed, for he knew that after that
cheer there was no chance for him; at least, not now.

"Now go, my boys," shouted Bonnet, "back to your places, every one of
you, and fall to your duty; and in honour of that black flag which
floats above you, each one of you shall drink a glass of grog."

With another shout the crew hurried forward, and Stede Bonnet stood upon
the quarter-deck, the pirate captain of the pirate ship Revenge.

And now stepped up to his master that good Presbyterian, Ben Greenway.

"An' ye call yoursel' a pirate, sir?" said he, "an' ye go forth upon the
sea to murder an' to rob an' to prepare your soul for hell?"

Mr. Bonnet winked a little.

"You speak strongly, Ben," said he, "but that might have been expected
from a man of your fashion of thinking. But let me tell you again, my
good Ben Greenway, that I was no party to your being on this vessel.
Even now, when my soul swells within me with the pride of knowing that I
am a sovereign of the seas and that I owe no allegiance to any man or
any government and that my will is my law and is the law of every man
upon this vessel--even now, Ben Greenway, it grieves me to know that you
are here with me. But the first chance I get I shall set you ashore and
have you sent home. Thou art not cut out for a pirate, and as no other
canst thou sail with me."

Ben Greenway looked at him steadfastly.

"Master Stede Bonnet," said he, "ye are no more fit to be a bloody
pirate than I am. Ye oversee your plantation weel, although I hae often
been persuaded that ye knew no' as much as ye think ye do. Ye provide
weel for your family, although ye tak' no' the pleasure therein ye might
hae ta'en had ye been content wi' ane wife, as the Holy Scriptures tell
us is enough for ony mon, an' ye hae sufficient judgment to tak' the
advice o' a judgmatical mon about your lands an' your herds; but when it
comes to your ca'in' yoursel' a pirate captain, it is enough to make a
deceased person chuckle by the absurdity o' it."

"Ben Greenway," exclaimed Major Bonnet, "I don't like your manner of
speech."

"O' course ye don't," cried Ben; "an' I didna expect ye to like it; but
it is the solemn truth for a' that."

"I don't want any of your solemn truths," said Bonnet, "and as soon as I
get a chance I am going to send you home to your barnyard and your
cows."

"No' so fast, Master Bonnet, no' so fast," answered Ben. "I hae ta'en
care o' ye for mony years; I hae kept ye out o' mony a bad scrape both
in buyin' an' sellin', an' I am sure ye never wanted takin' care o' mair
than ye do now; an' I'm just here to tell ye that I am no' goin' back to
Barbadoes till ye do, an' that I am goin' to stand by ye through your
bad luck and through your good luck, in your sin an' in your
repentance."

[Illustration: "If you talk to me like that I will cut you down where
you stand!"]

"Ben Greenway," cried Captain Bonnet, as he waved his sword in the
air, "if you talk to me like that I will cut you down where you stand!
You forget that you are not talking to a country gentleman, but to a
pirate, a pirate of the seas!"

Ben grinned, but seeing the temper his master was in, thought it wise to
retire.




CHAPTER V

AN UNSUCCESSFUL ERRAND


For what seemed a very long time to Kate Bonnet, Dickory Charter paddled
bravely through the darkness. She was relieved of the terror and the
uncertainty which had fallen upon her during the past few hours, and she
was grateful to the brave young fellow who had delivered her from the
danger of sailing out upon the sea with a crew of wicked scoundrels who
were about to steal her father's ship, and her heart should have beaten
high with gratitude and joy, but it did not. She was very cold, and she
knew not whither young Dickory was taking her. She did not believe that
in all that darkness he could possibly know where he was going; at any
moment that dreadful ship might loom up before them, and lights might be
flashed down upon them. But all of a sudden the canoe scraped, grounded,
and stopped.

"What is that?" she cried.

"It is our beach," said Dickory, and almost at that moment there came a
call from the darkness beyond.

"Dickory!" cried a woman's voice, "is that you?"

"It is my mother," said the boy; "she has heard the scraping of my
keel."

Then he shouted back, "It is Dickory; please show me a light, mother!"

Jumping out, Dickory pulled the canoe high up the shelving shore, and
then he helped Kate to get out. It was not an easy job, for she could
see nothing and floundered terribly; but he seemed to like it, and half
led, half carried her over a considerable space of uneven ground, until
he came to the door of a small house, where stood an elderly woman with
a lantern.

"Dickory! Dickory!" shouted the woman, "what is that you are bringing
home? Is it a great fish?"

"It is a young woman," said the boy, "but she is as wet as a fish."

"Woman!" cried good Dame Charter. "What mean you, Dickory, is she dead?"

"Not dead, Mother Charter," said Kate, who now stood, unassisted, in the
light of the lantern, "but in woeful case, and more like to startle you
than if I were the biggest fish. I am Mistress Kate Bonnet, just out of
the river between here and the town. No, I will not enter your house, I
am not fit; I will stand here and tell my tale."

"Dickory!" shouted Dame Charter, "take the lantern and run to the
kitchen cabin, where ye'll make a fire quickly."

Away ran Dickory, and standing in the darkness, Kate Bonnet told her
tale. It was not a very satisfactory tale, for there was a great part of
it which Kate herself did not understand, but it sufficed at present for
the good dame, who had known the girl when she was small, and who was
soon busily engaged in warming her by her fire, refreshing her with
food, and in fortifying her against the effects of her cold bath by a
generous glass of rum, made, the good woman earnestly asserted, from
sugar-cane grown on Master Bonnet's plantation.

Early the next morning came Dickory from the kitchen, where he had made
a fire (before that he had been catching some fish), and on a rude bench
by the house door he saw Kate Bonnet. When he perceived her he laughed;
but as she also laughed, it was plain she was not offended.

This pretty girl was dressed in a large blue gown, belonging to the
stout Dame Charter, and which was quite as much of a gown as she had any
possible need for. Her head was bare, for she had lost her hat, and she
wore neither shoes nor stockings, those articles of apparel having been
so shrunken by immersion as to make it impossible for her to get them
on.

"Thy mother is a good woman," said Kate, "and I am so glad you did not
take me to the town. I don't wonder you gaze at me; I must look like a
fright."

Dickory made no answer, but by the way in which he regarded her, she
knew that he saw nothing frightful in her face.

"You have been very good to me," said she, rising and making a step
towards him, but suddenly stopping on account of her bare feet, "and I
wish I could tell you how thankful I am to you. You are truly a brave
boy, Dickory; the bravest I have ever known."

His brows contracted. "Why do you call me a boy?" he interrupted. "I am
nineteen years old, and you are not much more than that."

She laughed, and her white teeth made him ready to fall down and worship
her.

"You have done as much," said she, "as any man could do, and more."

Then she held out her hand, and he came and took it.

"Truly you are a man," she said, and looking steadfastly into his face,
she added, "how very, very much I owe you!"

He didn't say anything at all, this Dickory; just stood and looked at
her. As many a one has been before, he was more grateful for the danger
out of which he had plucked the fair young woman than she was thankful
for the deliverance.

Just then Dame Charter called them to breakfast. When they were at the
table, they talked of what was to be done next; and as, above everything
else, Miss Kate desired to know where her father was and why he hadn't
come aboard the Sarah Williams, Dickory offered to go to the town for
news.

"I hate to ask too much, after all you have done," said the girl, "but
after you have seen my father and told him everything, for he must be in
sore trouble, would you mind rowing to our house and bringing me some
clothes? Madam Bonnet will understand what I need; and she too will want
to know what has become of me."

"Of course I will do that," cried Dickory, grateful for the chance to do
her service.

"And if you happen to see Mr. Newcombe in the town, will you tell him
where I am?"

Now Dickory gave no signs of gratitude for a chance to do her service,
but his mother spoke quickly enough.

"Of course he will tell Master Newcombe," said she, "and anybody else
you wish should know."

In ten minutes Dickory was in his canoe, paddling to the town. When he
was out of the little inlet, on the shore of which lay his mother's
cottage, he looked far up and down the broad river, but he could see
nothing of the good ship Sarah Williams.

"I am glad they have gone," said Dickory to himself, "and may they never
come back again. It is a pity that Major Bonnet should lose his ship,
but as things have turned out, it is better for him to lose it than to
have it."

When he had fastened his canoe to a little pier in the town with a rope
which he borrowed, having now none of his own, Dickory soon heard
strange news. The man who owned the rope told him that Major Bonnet had
gone off in his vessel, which had sailed out of the harbour in the
night, showing no light. And, although many people had talked of this
strange proceeding, nobody knew whether he had gone of his own free will
or against it.

"Of course it was against his will," cried Dickory. "The ship was
stolen, and they have stolen him with it. The wretches! The beasts!" And
then he went up into the town.

Some men were talking at the door of a baker's shop, and the baker
himself, a stout young man, came out.

"Oh, yes," said he, "we know now what it means. The good Major Bonnet
has gone off pirating; he thinks he can make more money that way than by
attending to his plantation. The townspeople suspected him last night,
and now they know what he is."

At this moment Master Dickory jumped upon the baker, and both went
down. When Dickory got up, the baker remained where he was, and it was
plain enough to everybody that the nerves and muscles of even a vigorous
young man were greatly weakened by the confined occupation of a baker.

Dickory now went further to ask more, and he soon heard enough. The
respectable Major Bonnet had gone away in his own ship with a savage
crew, far beyond the needs of the vessel, and if he had not gone
pirating, what had he gone for? And to this question Dickory replied
every time: "He went because he was taken away." He would not give up
his faith in Kate Bonnet's father.

"And Greenway," the people said. "Why should they take him? He is of no
good on a ship."

On this, Dickory's heart fell further. He had been troubled about the
Scotchman, but had tried not to think of him.

"The scoundrels have stolen them both, with the vessel," he said; and as
he spoke his soul rose upward at the thought of what he had done for
Kate; and as that had been done, what mattered it after all what had
happened to other people?

Five minutes afterward a man came running through the town with the news
that old Bonnet's daughter, Miss Kate, had also gone away in the ship.
She was not at home; she was not in the town.

"That settles it!" said some people. "The black-hearted rascal! He has
gone of his own accord, and he has taken Greenway and his fair young
daughter with him."

"And what do you think of that!" said some to the doubter Dickory.

"I don't believe a word of it!" said he; and not wishing on his own
responsibility to tell what he knew of Mistress Kate Bonnet, he rowed up
the river towards the Bonnet plantation to carry her message. On his
way, whom should he see, hurrying along the road by the river bank
coming towards the town and looking hot and worried, but Mr. Martin
Newcombe. At the sight of the boat he stopped.

"Ho! young man," he cried, "you are from the town; has anything fresh
been heard about Major Bonnet and his daughter?"

Now here was the best and easiest opportunity of doing the third thing
which Kate had asked him to do; but his heart did not bound to do it. He
sat and looked at the man on the river bank.

"Don't you hear me?" cried Newcombe. "Has anybody heard further from the
Bonnets?"

Dickory still sat motionless, gazing at Newcombe. He didn't want to tell
this man anything. He didn't want to have anything to do with him. He
hesitated, but he could not forget the third thing he had been asked to
do, and who had asked him to do it. Whatever happened, he must be loyal
to her and her wishes, and so he said, with but little animation in his
voice, "Major Bonnet's daughter did not go with him."

Instantly came a great cry from the shore. "Where is she? Where is she?
Come closer to land and tell me everything!"

This was too much! Dickory did not like the tone of the man on shore,
who had no right to command him in that fashion.

"I have no time to stop now," said he; "I am carrying a message to Madam
Bonnet."

And so he paddled away, somewhat nearer the middle of the river.

Martin Newcombe was wild; he ran and he bounded on his way to the Bonnet
house; he called and he shouted to Dickory, but apparently that young
person was too far away to hear him. When the canoe touched the shore,
almost at the spot where the fair Kate had been fishing with a hook
lying in the sun, Newcombe was already there.

"Tell me," he cried, "tell me about Miss Kate Bonnet! What has befallen
her? If she did not go with her father, where is she now?"

"I have come," said Dickory sturdily, as he fastened his boat with the
borrowed rope, "with a message for Madam Bonnet, and I cannot talk with
anybody until I have delivered it."

Madam Bonnet saw the two persons hurrying towards her house, and she
came out in a fine fury to meet them.

"Have you heard from my runaway husband," she cried, "and from his
daughter? I am ashamed to hear news of them, but I suppose I am in duty
bound to listen."

Dickory did not hesitate now to tell what he knew, or at least part of
it.

"Your daughter--" said he.

"She is not my daughter," cried the lady; "thank Heaven I am spared that
disgrace. And from what hiding-place does she and her sire send me a
message?"

Dickory's face flushed.

"I bring no message from a hiding-place," he said, "nor any from your
husband. He went to sea in his ship, but Mistress Kate Bonnet left the
vessel before it sailed, and her clothes having been injured by water,
she sent me for what a young lady in her station might need, supposing
rightly that you would know what that might be."

"Indeed I do!" cried Madam Bonnet. "What she needs are the clouts of a
fish-girl, and a stick to her back besides."

"Madam!" cried Newcombe, but she heeded him not; she was growing more
angry.

"A fine creature she is," exclaimed the lady, "to run away from my
house in this fashion, and treat me with such contumely, and then to
order me to send her her fine clothes to deck herself for the eyes of
strangers!"

"But, young man," cried Newcombe, "where is she? Tell that without
further delay. Where is she?"

"I don't care where she is!" interrupted Madam Bonnet. "It matters not
to me whether she is in the town, or sitting waiting for her finery on
the bridge. If she didn't go with her father (cowardly sneak that he
is), that gives her less reason to stay away all night from her home,
and send her orders to me in the morning. No, I will have none of that!
If my husband's daughter wants anything of me, let her come here and ask
for it, first giving me the reason of her shameful conduct."

"Madam!" cried Newcombe, "I cannot listen to such speech, such--"

"Then stop your ears with your thumbs," she exclaimed, "and you will not
hear it."

Then turning to Dickory: "Now, go you, and tell the young woman who sent
you here she must come in sackcloth and ashes, if she can get them, and
she must tell me her tale and her father's tale, without a lie mixed up
in them; and when she has done this, and has humbly asked my pardon for
the foul affront she has put upon me, then it will be time enough to
talk of fine clothes and fripperies."

Newcombe now expostulated with much temper, but Dickory gave him little
chance to speak.

"I carry no such message as that," he said. "Do you truly mean that you
deny the young lady the apparel she needs, and that I am to tell her
that?"

"Get away from here!" cried Madam Bonnet, with her face in a blaze. "I
send her no message at all; and if she comes here on her knees, I shall
spurn her, if it suit me."

If Dickory had waited a little he might have heard more, but he did not
wait; he quickly turned, and away he went in his boat. And away went
Martin Newcombe after him. But as the younger man was barefooted, the
other one could not keep up with him, and the canoe was pushed off
before he reached the water's edge.

"Stop, you young rascal!" cried Newcombe. "Where is Kate Bonnet? Stop!
and tell me where she is!"

Troubled as he was at the tale he was going to tell, Dickory laughed
aloud, and he paddled down the river as few in that region had ever
paddled before.

Madam Bonnet went into her house, and if she had met a maid-servant, it
might have been bad for that poor woman. She was not troubled about
Kate. She knew the young man to be Dickory Charter, and she was quite
sure that her step-daughter was in his mother's cottage. Why she
happened to be there, and what had become of the recreant Bonnet, the
equally recreant young woman could come and tell her whenever she saw
fit.




CHAPTER VI

A PAIR OF SHOES AND STOCKINGS


The tide was running down, and Dickory made a swift passage to the town.
Seeing on the pier the man from whom he had borrowed the rope, he
stopped to return him his property, and thinking that the good people of
the town should know that, no matter what had befallen Major Bonnet, his
daughter had not gone with him and was safe among friends, he mentioned
these facts to the man, but with very few details, being in a hurry to
return with his message.

Before he turned into the inlet, Dickory was called from the shore, and
to his surprise he saw his mother standing on the bank in front of a
mass of bushes, which concealed her from her house.

"Come here, Dickory," she said, "and tell me what you have heard?"

Her son told his doleful tale.

"I fear me, mother," he said, "that Major Bonnet's ship has gone on
some secret and bad business, and that he is mixed up in it. Else why
did he desert his daughter? And if he intended to take her with him,
that was worse."

"I don't know, Dickory," said good Dame Charter reflectively; "we must
not be too quick to believe harm of our fellow-beings. It does look bad,
as the townspeople thought, that Major Bonnet should own such a ship
with such a strange crew, but he is a man who knows his own business,
and may have had good reason for what he has done. He might have been
sailing out to some foreign part to bring back a rich cargo, and needed
stout men to defend it from the pirates that he might meet with on the
seas."

"But his daughter, mother," said Dickory; "how could he have left her as
he did? That was shameful, and even you must admit it."

"Not so fast, Dickory," said she; "there are other ways of looking at
things than the way in which we look at them. He had intended to take
Mistress Kate on a little trip; she told me that herself. And most
likely, having changed his mind on account of the suspicions in the
town, he sent word to her to return to her home, which message she did
not get."

Dickory considered.

"Yes, mother," he said, "it might have been that way, but I don't
believe that he went of his own accord, and I don't believe that he
would take Ben Greenway with him. I think, mother, that they were both
stolen with the ship."

"That might be," said his mother, "but we have no right to take such a
view of it, and to impart it to his daughter. If he went away of his own
accord, everything will doubtless be made right, and we shall know his
reasons for what he has done. It is not for us to make up our minds that
Major Bonnet and good Ben Greenway have been carried off by wicked men,
for this would be sad indeed for that fair girl to believe. So remember,
Dickory, that it is our duty always to think the best of everything. And
now I will go through the underbrush to the house, and when you get
there yourself you must tell your story as if you had not told it to
me."

Before Dickory had reached his mother's cottage Mistress Kate Bonnet
came running to meet him, and she did not seem to be the same girl he
had left that morning. Her clothes had been dried and smoothed; even her
hat, which had been found in the boat, had been made shapely and
wearable, and its ribbons floated in the breeze. Dickory glanced at her
feet, and as he did so, a thrill of strange delight ran through him. He
saw his own Sunday shoes, with silver buckles, and he caught a glimpse
of a pair of brown stockings, which he knew went always with those
shoes.

"I am quite myself again," she said, noticing his wide eyes, "and your
mother has been good enough to lend me a pair of your shoes and
stockings. Mine are so utterly ruined, and I could not walk barefooted."

Dickory was so filled with pride that this fair being could wear his
shoes, and that she was wearing them, that he could only mumble some
stupid words about being so glad to serve her. And she, wise girl, said
nothing about the quantities of soft cotton-wool which Dame Charter had
been obliged to stuff into the toes before they would stay upon the
small feet they covered.

"But my father," cried Kate, "what of him? Where is he?"

Now Dame Charter was with them, her eyes hard fixed upon her son.

Dickory, mindful of those eyes, told her what he had to tell, saying as
little as possible about Major Bonnet--because, of course, all that he
knew about him was mere hearsay--but dilating with much vigour upon the
shameful conduct of Madam Bonnet; for the young lady ought surely to
know what sort of a woman her father's wife really was, and what she
might expect if she should return to her house. He could have said even
more about the interview with the angry woman, but his mother's eyes
were upon him.

Kate heard everything without a word, and then she burst into tears.

"My father," she sobbed, "carried away, or gone away, and one is as bad
as the other!"

"Dickory," said Dame Charter, "go cut some wood; there is none ready
for the kitchen."

Dickory went away, not sorry, for he did not know how to deport himself
with a young lady whose heart was so sorely tried. He might have
discovered a way, if he had been allowed to do so; but that would not
have been possible with his mother present. But, in spite of her sorrow,
his heart sang to him that she was wearing his shoes and stockings! Then
he cheerfully brought down his axe upon the wood for the dinner's
cooking.

Dame Charter led the weeping girl to the bench, and they talked long
together. There was no optimist in all the British colonies, nor for
that matter in those belonging to France or Spain, or even to the Dutch,
who was a more conscientious follower of her creed than Dame Charter.
She sat by Kate and she talked to her until the girl stopped sobbing and
began to see for herself that her father knew his own business, and that
he had most certainly sent her a message to go on shore, which had not
been delivered.

As to poor Ben Greenway, the good woman was greatly relieved that her
son had not mentioned him, and she took care not to do it herself. She
did not wish to strain her optimism. Kate, having so much else upon her
mind, never thought of this good man.

When Dickory came back, he first looked to see if Kate still wore his
shoes and stockings, and then he began to ask what there was that he
might now do. He would go again to the town if he might be of use. But
Kate had no errand for him there. Dickory had told her how he had been
with Mr. Newcombe at her home, and therefore there was no need of her
sending him another message.

"I don't know where to go or where to send," she said simply; "I am
lost, and that is all of it."

"Oh, no," cried Dame Charter, "not that! You are with good friends, and
here you can stay just as long as you like."

"Indeed she can!" said Dickory, as if he were making a response in
church.

His mother looked at him and said nothing. And then she took Kate out
into a little grove behind the house to see if she could find some ripe
oranges.

It was a fair property, although not large, which belonged to the Widow
Charter. Her husband had been a thriving man, although a little inclined
to speculations in trade which were entirely out of his line, and when
he met his death in the sea he left her nothing but her home and some
inconsiderable land about it. Dickory had been going to a grammar-school
in the town, and was considered a fair scholar, but with his father's
death all that stopped, and the boy was obliged to go to work to do what
he could for his mother. And ever since he had been doing what he
could, without regard to appearances, thinking only of the money.

But on Sunday, when he rowed his mother to church, he wore good clothes,
being especially proud of his buckled shoes and his long brown hose,
which were always of good quality.

They were eating dinner when oars were heard on the river, and in a
moment a boat swung around into the inlet. In the stern sat Master
Martin Newcombe, and two men were rowing.

Now Dickory Charter swore in his heart, although he was not accustomed
to any sort of blasphemy; and as Miss Kate gazed eagerly through the
open window, our young friend narrowly scrutinized her face to see if
she were glad or not. She was glad, that was plain enough, and he went
out sullenly to receive the arriving interloper.

When they were all standing on the shore, Kate did not think it worth
while to ask Master Newcombe how he happened to know where she was. But
the young man waited for no questions; he went on to tell his story.
When he related that it was a man fishing on a pier who had told him
that young Mistress Kate Bonnet was stopping with Dame Charter, Kate
wondered greatly, for as Dickory had met Master Newcombe, what need had
there been for the latter to ask questions about her of a stranger? But
she said nothing. And Dickory growled in his soul that he had ever
spoken to the man on the pier, except to thank him for the rope he had
borrowed.

Martin Newcombe's story went on, and he told that, having been extremely
angered by the conduct and words of Madam Bonnet, he had gone into the
town and made inquiries, hoping to hear something of the whereabouts of
Mistress Kate. And, having done so, by means of the very obliging person
on the pier, he had determined that the daughter of Major Bonnet should
have her rights; and he had gone to his own lawyer, who assured him that
being a person of recognised respectability, possessing property, he was
fully authorized, knowing the wishes of Mistress Kate Bonnet, to go to
her step-mother and demand that those wishes be complied with; and if
this very reasonable request should be denied, then the lawyer would
take up the matter himself, and would see to it that reasonable raiment
and the necessities of a young lady should not be withheld from her.

With these instructions, Newcombe had gone to Madam Bonnet and had found
that much disturbed lady in a state of partial collapse, which had
followed her passion of the morning, and who had declared that nothing
in the world would please her better than to get rid of her husband's
daughter and never see her again. And if the creature needed clothes or
anything else which belonged to her, a maid should pack them up, and
anybody who pleased might take them to any place, provided she heard no
more about them or their owner.

In all this she spoke most truthfully, for she hated her step-daughter,
both because she was a fine young woman and much regarded by her father,
and because she had certain rights to the estate of said father, which
his present wife did not wish to recognise, or even to think about. So
Martin Newcombe was perfectly welcome to take away such things as would
render it unnecessary for the girl to now return to the home in which
she had been born. Martin had brought the box, and here he was.

It was not long before Newcombe and the lady of his love were walking
away through the little plantation, in order that they might speak by
themselves. Dickory looked after them and frowned, but he bravely
comforted himself by thinking that he had been the one into whose arms
she had dropped, through the blackness of the night and the blackness of
the water, knowing in her heart that he would be there ready for her,
and also by the thought that it was his shoes and stockings that she
wore. Dame Charter saw this frown on her son's face, but she did not
guess the thoughts which were in his mind.




CHAPTER VII

KATE PLANS


It was nearly an hour before Kate and Mr. Newcombe returned, and when
they came back they did not look happy. Dickory observed their sad
visages, but the sight did not make him sad. Kate took Dame Charter by
the hand and led her to the bench.

"You have been so kind to me," she said, "that I have almost come to
look upon you as a mother, even though I have known you such a little
while, and I want to tell you what I have been talking about, and what I
think I am going to do."

Mr. Newcombe now stood by, and Dickory also. His mother was not quite
sure that this was the right place for him, but as he had already done
so much for the young lady, there was, perhaps, no reason why he should
be debarred from hearing what she had to say.

"This gentleman," said Kate, indicating Martin Newcombe, "sympathizes
with me very greatly in my present unfortunate position: having no home
to which I can go, and having no relative belonging to this island but
my father, who is sailing upon the seas, I know not where; and
therefore, in his great kindness, has offered to marry me and to take me
to his home, which thereafter would be my home, and in which I should
have all comforts and rights."

Now Dickory's face was like the sky before a shower. His mother saw it
out of the corner of her eye, but the others did not look at him.

"This was very kind and very good," continued Kate.

"Not at all, not at all," interrupted Master Newcombe, "except that it
was kind and good to myself; for there is nothing in this world which
you need and want as much as I need and want you."

At this Dickory's brow grew darker.

"I believe all you say," said Kate, "for I am sure you are an honest and
a true man, but, as I told you, I cannot marry you; for, even had I made
up my mind on the subject, which I have not, I could not marry any one
at such a time as this, not knowing my father's will upon the subject or
where he is."

The sun broke out on Dickory's countenance without a shower; his mother
noticed the change.

"But as I must do something," Kate went on, "a plan came to me while Mr.
Newcombe was talking to me, and I have been thinking of it ever since,
and now, as I speak, I am becoming fully determined in regard to it;
that is, if I can carry it out. It often happens," she said, with a
faint smile, "that when people ask advice they become more and more
strengthened in their own opinion. My opinion, and I may say my plan, is
this: When my father told me he was going away in his ship, he agreed to
take me with him on a little voyage, leaving me with my mother's brother
at the island of Jamaica, not far from Spanish Town. In purposing this
he thought, no doubt, that it would be far better for me to be with my
own blood, if his voyage should be long, rather than to live with one
who is no relative of mine, and does not wish to act like one. This,
then, being my father's intention, which he was prevented, by reasons
which I know not of, from carrying out, I shall carry it out myself with
all possible dispatch, and go to my uncle in Jamaica by the earliest
vessel which sails from this port. Not only as this is my natural refuge
in my trouble, but as my father intended to go there when he thought of
having me with him, it may be a part of his plan to go there any way,
even though I be not with him; and so I may see him, and all may be
well."

Clouds now settled heavily on the faces of each of the young men, and
even the ordinarily bright sky of Dame Charter became somewhat overcast;
although, in her heart, she did not believe that anybody in this world
could have devised a better plan, under the circumstances, than this
forsaken Mistress Kate Bonnet.

"Now there is my plan," said Kate, with something of cheerfulness in her
voice, "if it so be I can carry it out. Do either of you know," glancing
at the young men impartially, but apparently not noticing the bad
weather, "if in a reasonable time a vessel will leave here for Jamaica?"

Dickory knew well, but he would not answer; Kate had no right to put
such a thing upon him. Newcombe, however, did not hesitate. "It is very
hard for me to say," he made reply, "but there is a merchantman, the
King and Queen, which sails from here in three days for Jamaica. I know
this, for I send some goods; and I wish, Mistress Bonnet, that I could
say something against your sailing in her, but I cannot; for, since you
will not let me take care of you, your uncle is surely the best one in
the world to do it; and as to the vessel, I know she is a safe one."

"But you could not go sailing away in any vessel by yourself," cried
Dame Charter, "no matter how safe she may be."

"Oh, no!" cried Kate; "and the more we talk about our plan the more
fully it reveals itself to me in all its various parts. I am going to
ask you to go with me, my dear Dame Charter," and as she spoke she
seized both of the hands of the other. "I have funds of my own which
are invested in the town, and I can afford the expense. Surely, my good
friend, you will not let me go forth alone, and all unused to travel?
Leaving me safely with my uncle, you could return when the ship came
back to Bridgetown."

Dame Charter turned upon the girl a look of kind compassion, but at the
same time she knit her brows.

"Right glad would I be to do that for you," she said, "but I cannot go
away and leave my son, who has only me."

"Take him with you," cried Kate. "Two women travelling to unknown shores
might readily need a protector, and if not, there are so many things
which he might do. Think of it, my dear Dame Charter; to my uncle's home
in Jamaica is the only place to which I can go, and if you do not go
with me, how can I go there?"

Dame Charter now shed tears, but they were the tears of one good woman
feeling for the misfortunes of another.

"I will go with you, my dear young lady," she said, "and I will not
leave you until you are in your uncle's care. And, as to my boy here--"

Now Dickory spoke from out of the blazing noontide of his countenance.

"Oh, I will go!" he cried. "I do so greatly want to see Jamaica."

Without being noticed, his mother took him by the hand; she did not
know what he might be tempted to say next.

Mr. Newcombe stood very doleful. And well he might; for if his lady-love
went away in this fashion, there was good reason to suppose that he
might never see her again. But Kate said no word to comfort him--for how
could she in this company?--and began to talk rapidly about her
preparations.

"I suppose until the ship shall sail I may stay with you?" addressing
Dame Charter.

"Stay here?" exclaimed the good dame. "Of course you can stay here. We
are like one family now, and we will all go on board ship together."

Kate walked to the boat with Mr. Newcombe, he having offered to
undertake her business in town and at her father's house, and to see the
owners of the King and Queen in regard to passage.

Dickory stood radiant, speaking to no one. Master Martin Newcombe was
the lover of Mistress Kate Bonnet, but he, Dickory, was going with her
to Jamaica!

The following days fled rapidly. Long-visaged Martin Newcombe, whose
labours in behalf of his lady were truly labours of love, as their
object was to help her to go where his eyes could no longer feast upon
her, and from which place her voice would no longer reach him, went,
with a bitter taste in his mouth, to visit Madam Bonnet, to endeavour
to persuade her to deliver to her step-daughter such further belongings
as that young lady was in need of.

That forsaken person was found to be only too glad to comply with this
request, hoping earnestly that neither the property nor its owner should
ever again be seen by her. She was in high spirits, believing that she
was a much better manager of the plantation than her eccentric husband
had ever been, and she had already engaged a man to take the place of
Ben Greenway, who had been a sore trouble to her these many years. She
was buoyed up and cheered by the belief that the changes she was making
would be permanent, and that she would live and die the owner of the
plantation. She alone, in all Bridgetown and vicinity, had no doubts
whatever in regard to her husband's sailing from Barbadoes in his own
ship, and with a redundancy of rascality below its decks. The
respectability and good reputation of Major Bonnet did not blind her
eyes. She had heard him talk about the humdrum life on shore and the
reckless glories of the brave buccaneers, but she had never replied to
these remarks, fearing that she might feel obliged to object to them,
and she did not tell him how, in late years, she had heard him talk in
his sleep about standing, with brandished sword, on the deck of a pirate
ship. It was her dream, that his dreams might all come true.

So Kate's baggage was put on board the King and Queen, a very humble
vessel considering her sounding name, and Dame Charter's few belongings
were conveyed to the vessel in Dickory's canoe, the cottage being left
in charge of a poor and well-pleased neighbour.

When the day came for sailing, our friends, with not a few of the
townspeople, were gathered upon the deck, where Kate at first looked
about for Dickory, not recognising at the moment the well-dressed young
fellow who had taken his place. His Sunday costume became him well, and
he was so bravely decked out in the matter of shoes and stockings that
Kate did not recognise him.

To every one Mistress Kate Bonnet made clear that she was going to her
uncle's house in Jamaica, where she expected to meet her father; and
many were the good wishes bestowed upon her. When the time drew near
when the anchor should be heaved, Kate withdrew to one side with Mr.
Newcombe. "You must believe," said she kindly, "that everything between
us is just as it was when we used to sit on the shady bank and look out
over the ripples of the river. There will be waves instead of ripples
for us to look over now, but there will be no change either the one way
or the other."

Then they shook hands fervently; more than that would have been
unwarrantable.

The King and Queen dropped down the stream, and Master Newcombe stood
sadly on the pier, while Kate Bonnet waved her handkerchief to him and
to her friends. Dame Charter sat and smiled at the town she was leaving
and at the long stretches of the river before her. She knew not to what
future she was going, but her heart was uplifted at the thought that a
new life was opening before her son. In her little cottage and in her
little fields there was no future for him, and now to what future might
he not be sailing!

As for Dickory, he knew no more of his future than the sea-birds knew
what was going to happen to them; he cared no more for his future than
the clouds cared whether they were moving east or west. His life was
like the sparkling air in which he moved and breathed. He stood upon the
deck of the vessel, with the wind filling the sails above, while at a
little distance stood Kate Bonnet, her ribbons floating in the breeze.
He would have been glad to sing aloud, but he knew that that would not
be proper in the presence of the ladies and the captain. And so he let
his heart do his singing, which was not heard, except by himself.




CHAPTER VIII

BEN GREENWAY IS CONVINCED THAT BONNET IS A PIRATE


"But how in the name o' common sense did ye ever think o' becomin' a
pirate, Master Bonnet?" said Ben Greenway as they stood together. "Ye're
so little fitted for a wicked life."

"Out upon you, Ben Greenway!" exclaimed the captain, beginning to stride
up and down the little quarter-deck. "I will let you know, that when the
time comes for it, I can be as wicked as anybody."

"I doubt that," said Ben sturdily. "Would ye cut down an' murder the
innocent? Would ye drive them upon an unsteady plank an' make them walk
into the sea? Could ye raise thy great sword upon the widow an' the
orphan?"

"No more of this disloyal speech," shouted Bonnet, "or I will put you
upon a wavering plank and make you walk into the sea."

Now Greenway laughed.

"An' if ye did," he said, "ye would next jump upon the plank yoursel'
an' slide swiftly into the waves, that ye might save your old friend an'
servant, knowin' he canna swim."

"Ben Greenway," said Bonnet, folding his arms and knitting his brows, "I
will not suffer such speech from you. I would sooner have on board a
Presbyterian parson."

"An' a happier fate couldna befall ye," said Ben, "for ye need a parson
mair than ony mon I know."

Bonnet looked at him for a moment.

"You think so?" said he.

"Indeed I do," said Ben, with unction.

"There now," cried Bonnet, "I told you, Ben, that I could be wicked upon
occasion, and now you have acknowledged it. Upon my word, I can be
wickeder than common, as you shall see when good fortune helps us to
overhaul a prize."

The Revenge had been at sea for about a week and all had gone well,
except she had taken no prizes. The crew had been obedient and fairly
orderly, and if they made fun of their farmer-captain behind his back,
they showed no disrespect when his eyes were upon them. The fact was
that the most of them had a very great respect for him as the capitalist
of the ship's company.

Big Sam had early begun to sound the temper of the men, but they had
not cared to listen to him. Good fare they had and generous treatment,
and the less they thought of Bonnet as a navigator and commander, the
more they thought of his promises of rich spoils to be fairly divided
with them when they should capture a Spanish galleon or any well-laden
merchantman bound for the marts of Europe. In fact, when such good luck
should befall them, they would greatly prefer to find themselves serving
under Bonnet than under Big Sam. The latter was known as a greedy
scoundrel, who would take much and give little, being inclined,
moreover, to cheat his shipmates out of even that little if the chance
came to him. Even Black Paul, who was an old comrade of Big Sam--the two
having done much wickedness together--paid no heed to his present
treasons.

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

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

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

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

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

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