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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shall we board her?" cried Big Sam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Marchand looked at him fixedly.

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

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

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

Bonnet looked at Greenway with indignation and contempt.

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

"Nor your friends?" interpolated Ben.

"Nor friends nor any man," shouted Bonnet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black Paul looked hard at him but made no answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which it is Bittern," said the other.

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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




CHAPTER IX

DICKORY SETS FORTH


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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you call me Dickory," he said.

"True, but you are so much younger."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like!"




CHAPTER X

CAPTAIN CHRISTOPHER VINCE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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