"People!" Dickory exclaimed, and his heart beat fast with joy. Why his
heart should be joyful he could not have told himself except that there
was no earthly reason to believe that the persons who were making that
fire near that thatched-roof house were pirates. To go to this house,
whatever it might be, to take his chances there instead of remaining
alone in the wide forest, was our young man's instant determination. But
before he started there was something else he thought of. He took off
his coat, and with a bunch of leaves he brushed it. Then he arranged the
plumes of his hat and brushed some mud from them, gave himself a general
shake, and was ready to make a start. All this by a fugitive pursued by
savage pirates on a desert island! But Dickory was a young man, and he
wore the uniform of a naval officer.

After a brisk walk, which was somewhat longer than he had supposed it
would be, Dickory reached the house behind the trees. At a short
distance burned the fire whose smoke he had seen. Over the fire hung an
iron pot. Oh, blessed pot! A gentle breeze blew from the fire towards
Dickory, and from the heavenly odour which was borne upon it he knew
that something good to eat was cooking in that pot.

A man came quickly from behind the house. He was tall, with a beard a
little gray, and his scanty attire was of the most nondescript fashion.
With amazement upon his face, he spoke to Dickory in English.

"What, sir," he cried, "has a man-of-war touched at this island?"

Dickory could not help smiling, for the man's countenance told him how
he had been utterly astounded, and even stupefied, by the sight of a
gentleman in naval uniform in the interior of that island, an almost
desert region.

"No man-of-war has touched here," said Dickory, "and I don't belong to
one. I wear these clothes because I am compelled to do so, having no
others. Yesterday afternoon I escaped from some pirates who stopped for
water, and since leaving them I have made my way to this spot."

The man stepped forth quickly and stretched out his hand.

"Bless you! Bless you!" he cried. "You are the first human being, other
than my family, that I have seen for two years."

A little girl now came from behind the house, and when her eyes fell
upon Dickory and his cocked hat she screamed with terror and ran
indoors. A woman appeared at the door, evidently the man's wife. She had
a pleasant face, but her clothes riveted Dickory's attention. It would
be impossible to describe them even if one were gazing upon them. It
will be enough to say that they covered her. Her amazement more than
equalled that of her husband; she stood and stared, but could not speak.

"From the spring at the end of the island," cried the man, "to this
house since yesterday afternoon! I have always supposed that no one
could get here from the spring by land. I call that way impassable. You
are safe here, sir, I am sure. Pirates would not follow very far through
those forests and morasses; they would be afraid they would never get
back to their ship. But I will find out for certain if you have reason,
sir, to fear pursuit by boat or otherwise."

And then, stepping around to the other end of the house, he called,
"Lucilla!"

"You are hungry, sir," said the woman; "presently you shall share our
meal, which is almost cooked."

Now the man returned.

"This is not a time for questions, sir," he said, "either from you or
from us. You must eat and you must rest, then we can talk. We shall not
any of us apologize for our appearance, and you will not expect it when
you have heard our story. But I can assure you, sir, that we do not look
nearly so strange to you as you appear to us. Never before, sir, did I
see in this climate, and on shore, a man attired in such fashion."

Dickory smiled. "I will tell you the tale of it," he said, "when we have
eaten; I admit that I am famished."

The man was now called away, and when he returned he said to Dickory:
"Fear nothing, sir; your ship is no longer at the anchorage by the
spring. She has sailed away, wisely concluding, I suppose, that pursuit
of you would be folly, and even madness."

The dinner was an exceedingly plain one, spread upon a rude table under
a tree. The little girl, who had overcome her fear of "the soldier" as
she considered him, made one of the party.

During the meal Dickory briefly told his story, confining it to a mere
statement of his escape from the pirates.

"Blackbeard!" exclaimed the man. "Truly you did well to get away from
him, no matter into what forests you plunged or upon what desert island
you lost yourself. At any moment he might have turned upon you and cut
you to pieces to amuse himself. I have heard the most horrible stories
of Blackbeard."

"He treated me very well," said Dickory, "but I know from his own words
that he reserved me for a most horrible fate."

"What!" exclaimed the man, "and he told you? He is indeed a demon!"

"Yes," said Dickory, "he said over and over again that he was going to
take me to England to marry me to his daughter."

At this the wife could not refrain from a smile. "Matrimony is not
generally considered a horrible fate," said she; "perhaps his daughter
may be a most comely and estimable young person. Girls do not always
resemble their fathers."

"Do not mention it," exclaimed Dickory, with a shudder; "that was one
reason that I ran away; I preferred any danger from man or beast to that
he was taking me to."

"He is engaged to be married," thought the woman; "it is easy enough to
see that."

"Now tell me your story, I pray you," said Dickory. "But first, I would
like very much to know how you found out that Blackbeard's ship was not
at her anchorage?"

"That's a simple thing," said the man. "Of course you did not observe,
for you could not, that from its eastern point where lies the spring,
this island stretches in a long curve to the south, reaching northward
again about this spot. Consequently, there is a little bay to the east
of us, across which we can see the anchoring ground of such ships as may
stop here for water. Your way around the land curve of the island was a
long one, but the distance straight across the bay is but a few miles.
Upon a hill not far from here there is a very tall tree, which overtops
all the other trees, and to the upper branches of this tree my daughter,
who is a great climber, frequently ascends with a small glass, and is
thus able to report if there is a vessel at the anchorage."

"What!" exclaimed Dickory, "that little girl?"

"Oh, no!" said the man; "it is my other daughter, who is a grown young
woman."

"She is not here now," said the mother. And this piece of unnecessary
information was given in tones which might indicate that the young lady
had stepped around to visit a neighbour.

"It is important," said the man, "that I should know if vessels have
anchored here, for if they be merchantmen I sometimes do business with
them."

"Business!" said Dickory. "That sounds extremely odd. Pray tell me how
you came to be here."

"My name is Mander," said the other, "and about two years ago I was on
my way from England to Barbadoes, where, with my wife and two girls, I
expected to settle. We were captured by a pirate ship and marooned upon
this island. I will say, to the pirate captain's credit, that he was a
good sort of man considering his profession. He sailed across the bay on
purpose to find a suitable place to land us, and he left with us some
necessary articles, such as axes and tools, kitchen utensils, and a gun
with some ammunition. Then he sailed away, leaving us here, and here we
have since lived. Under the circumstances, we have no right to complain,
for had we been taken by an ordinary pirate it is likely that our bones
would now be lying at the bottom of the ocean.

"Here I have worked hard and have made myself a home, such as it is.
There are wild cattle upon the distant savannas, and I trap game and
birds, cultivate the soil to a certain extent, and if we had clothes I
might say we would be in better circumstances than many a respectable
family in England. Sometimes when a merchantman anchors here and I have
hides or anything else which we can barter for things we need, I row
over the bay in a canoe which I have made, and have thus very much
bettered our condition. But in no case have I been able to provide my
family with suitable clothes."

"Why did you not get some of these merchant ships to carry you away?"
asked Dickory.

The man shook his head. "There is no place," he said sadly, "to which I
can in reason ask a ship to carry me and my family. We have no money, no
property whatever. In any other place I would be far poorer than I am
here. My children are not uneducated; my wife and I have done our best
for them in that respect, and we have some books with us. So, as you
see, it would be rash in me to leave a home which, rude as it is,
shelters and supports my family, to go as paupers and strangers to some
other land."

The wife heaved a sigh. "But poor Lucilla!" she said. "It is dreadful
that she should be forced to grow up here."

"Lucilla?" asked Dickory.

"Yes, sir," she said, "my eldest daughter. But she is not here now."

Dickory thought that it was somewhat odd that he should be again
informed of a fact which he knew very well, but he made no remarks upon
the subject.

Still wearing his cocked hat--for he had nothing else with which to
shield his head from the sun--and with his uniform coat on, for he had
not yet an opportunity of ripping from it the letter he carried, and
this he would not part from--Dickory roamed about the little settlement.
Mander was an industrious and thrifty man. His garden, his buildings,
and his surroundings showed that.

Walking past a clump of low bushes, Dickory was startled by a laugh--a
hearty laugh--the laugh of a girl. Looking quickly around, he saw,
peering above the tops of the bushes, the face of the girl who had
laughed.

"It is too funny!" she said, as his eyes fell upon her. "I never saw
anything so funny in all my life. A man in regimentals in this weather
and upon a desert island. You look as if you had marched faster than
your army, and that you had lost it in the forest."

Dickory smiled. "You ought not to laugh at me," he said, "for these
clothes are really a great misfortune. If I could change them for
something cool I should be more than delighted."

"You might take off your heavy coat," said she; "you need not be on
parade here. And instead of that awful hat, I can make you one of long
grass. Do you see the one I have on? Isn't that a good hat? I have one
nearly finished which I am making for my father; you may have that."

Dickory would most gladly have taken off his coat if, without
observation, he could have transferred his sacred letter to some other
part of his clothes, but he must wait for that. He accepted instantly,
however, the offer of the hat.

"You seem to know all about me," he said; "did you hear me tell my
story?"

"Every word of it," said she, "and it is the queerest story I ever
heard. Think of a pirate carrying a man away to marry him to his
daughter!"

"But why don't you come from behind that bush and talk to me?"

"I can't do it," said she, "I am dressed funnier than you are. Now I am
going to make your hat." And in an instant she had departed.

Dickory now strolled on, and when he returned he seated himself in the
shade near the house. The letter of Captain Vince was taken from his
coat-lining and secured in one of his breeches pockets; his heavy coat
and waistcoat lay upon the ground beside him, with the cocked hat placed
upon them. As he leaned back against the tree and inhaled the fragrant
breeze which came to him from the forest, Dickory was a more cheerful
young man than he had been for many, many days. He thought of this
himself, and wondered how a man, carrying with him his sentence of
lifelong misery, could lean against a tree and take pleasure in
anything, be it a hospitable welcome, a sense of freedom from danger, a
fragrant breeze, or the face of a pretty girl behind a bush. But these
things did please him; he could not help it. And when presently came
Mrs. Mander, bringing him a light grass hat fresh from the
manufacturer's hands, he took it and put it on with more evident
pleasure than the occasion seemed to demand.

"Your daughter is truly an artist," said Dickory.

"She does many things well," said the mother, "because necessity compels
her and all of us to learn to work in various ways."

"Can I not thank her?" said Dickory.

"No," the mother answered, "she is not here now."

Dickory had begun to hate that self-evident statement.

"She's looking out for ships; her pride is a little touched that she
missed Blackbeard's vessel yesterday."

"Perhaps," said Dickory, with a movement as if he would like to make a
step in the direction of some tall tree upon a hill.

"No," said Mrs. Mander, "I cannot ask you to join my daughter. I am
compelled to state that her dress is not a suitable one in which to
appear before a stranger."

"Excuse me," said Dickory; "and I beg, madam, that you will convey to
her my thanks for making me such an excellent hat."

A little later Mander joined Dickory. "I am sorry, sir," said he, "that
I am not able to present you to my daughter Lucilla. It is a great grief
to us that her attire compels her to deny herself other company than
that of her family. I really believe, sir, that it is Lucilla's
deprivations on this island which form at present my principal
discontent with my situation. But we all enjoy good health, we have
enough to eat, and shelter over us, and should not complain."

As soon as he was at liberty to do so, Dickory walked by the hedge of
low bushes, and there, above it, was the bright face, with the pretty
grass hat.

"I was waiting for you," said she. "I wanted to see how that hat fitted,
and I think it does nicely. And I wanted to tell you that I have been
looking out for ships, but have not seen one. I don't mean by that that
I want you to go away almost as soon as you have come, but of course, if
a merchant ship should anchor here, it would be dreadful for you not to
know."

"I am not sure," said Dickory gallantly, "that I am in a hurry for a
ship. It is truly very pleasant here."

"What makes it pleasant?" said the girl.

Dickory hesitated for a moment. "The breeze from the forest," said he.

She laughed. "It is charming," she said, "but there are so many places
where there is just as good a breeze, or perhaps better. How I would
like to go to some one of them! To me this island is lonely and doleful.
Every time I look over the sea for a ship I hope that one will come that
can carry us away."

"Then," said Dickory, "I wish a ship would come to-morrow and take us
all away together."

She shook her head. "As my father told you," said she, "we have no place
to go to."

Dickory thought a good deal about the sad condition of the family of
this worthy marooner. He thought of it even after he had stretched
himself for the night upon the bed of palmetto leaves beneath the tree
against which he had leaned when he wondered how he could be so cheerful
under the shadow of the sad fate which was before him.




CHAPTER XXVIII

LUCILLA'S SHIP


As soon as Dickory had left off his cocked hat and his gold-embroidered
coat, the little girl Lena had ceased to be afraid of him, and the next
morning she came to him, seated lonely--for this was a busy
household--and asked him if he would like to take a walk. So, hand in
hand, they wandered away. Presently they entered a path which led
through the woods.

"This is the way my sister goes to her lookout tree," said the little
girl. "Would you like to see that tree?"

"Oh, yes!" said Dickory, and he spoke the truth.

"She goes up to the very top," said Lena, "to look for ships. I would
never do that; I'd rather never see a ship than to climb to the top of
such a tree. I'll show it to you in a minute; we're almost there."

At a little distance from the rest of the forest and upon a bluff which
overlooked a stretch of lowland, and beyond that the bay, stood a tall
tree with spreading branches and heavy foliage.

"Up in the top of that is where she sits," said the child, "and spies
out for ships. That's what she's doing now. Don't you see her up there?"

"Your sister in the tree!" exclaimed Dickory. And his first impulse was
to retire, for it had been made quite plain to him that he was not
expected to present himself to the young lady of the house, should she
be on the ground or in the air. But he did not retire. A voice came to
him from the tree-top, and as he looked upward he saw the same bright
face which had greeted him over the top of the bushes. Below it was a
great bunch of heavy leaves.

"So you have come to call on me, have you?" said the lady in the tree.
"I am glad to see you, but I'm sorry that I cannot ask you to come
upstairs. I am not receiving."

"He could not come up if he wanted to," said Lena; "he couldn't climb a
tree like that."

"And he doesn't want to," cried the nymph of the bay-tree. "I have been
up here all the morning," said she, "looking for ships, but not one have
I seen."

"Isn't that a tiresome occupation?" asked Dickory.

"Not altogether," she said. "The branches up here make a very nice seat,
and I nearly always bring a book with me. You will wonder how we get
books, but we had a few with us when we were marooned, and since that my
father has always asked for books when he has an opportunity of trading
off his hides. But I have read them all over and over again, and if it
were not for the ships which I expect to come here and anchor, I am
afraid I should grow melancholy."

"What sort of ships do you look for?" asked Dickory, who was gazing
upward with so much interest that he felt a little pain in the back of
his neck, and who could not help thinking of a framed engraving which
hung in his mother's little parlour, and which represented some angels
composed of nothing but heads and wings. He saw no wings under the head
of the charming young creature in the tree, but there was no reason
which he could perceive why she should not be an angel marooned upon a
West Indian island.

"There are a great many of them," said she, "and they're all alike in
one way--they never come. But there's one of them in particular which I
look for and look for and look for, and which I believe that some day I
shall really see. I have thought about that ship so often and I have
dreamed about it so often that I almost know it must come."

"Is it an English ship?" asked Dickory, speaking with some effort, for
he found that the girl's voice came down much more readily than his
went up.

"I don't know," said she, "but I suppose it must be, for otherwise I
should not understand what the people on board should say to me. It is a
large ship, strong and able to defend itself against any pirates. It is
laden with all sorts of useful and valuable things, and among these are
a great many trunks and boxes filled with different kinds of clothes.
Also, there's a great deal of money kept in a box by itself, and is in
charge of an agent who is bringing it out to my father, supposing him to
be now settled in Barbadoes. This money is generally a legacy for my
father from a distant relative who has recently died. On this ship there
are so many delightful things that I cannot even begin to mention them."

"And where is it going to?" asked Dickory.

"That I don't know exactly. Sometimes I think that it is going to the
island of Barbadoes, where we originally intended to settle; but then I
imagine that there is some pleasanter place than Barbadoes, and if
that's the case the ship is going there."

"There can be no pleasanter place than Barbadoes," cried Dickory. "I
come from that island, where I was born; there is no land more lovely in
all the West Indies."

"You come from Barbadoes?" cried the girl, "and it really is a pleasant
island?"

"Most truly it is," said he, "and the great dream of my life is to get
back there." Then he stopped. Was it really the dream of his life to get
back there? That would depend upon several things.

"If, then, you tell me the truth, my ship is bound for Barbadoes. And if
she should go, would you like to go there with us?"

Dickory hesitated. "Not directly," said he. "I would first touch at
Jamaica."

For some moments there was no answer from the tree-top, and then came
the question: "Is it a girl who lives there?"

"Yes," said Dickory unguardedly, "but also I have a mother in Jamaica."

"Indeed," said she, "a mother! Well, we might stop there and take the
mother with us to Barbadoes. Would the girl want to go too?"

Dickory bent his head. "Alas!" said he, "I do not know."

Then spoke the little Lena. "I would not bother about any particular
place to go to," said she. "I'd be so glad to go anywhere that isn't
here. But it is not a real ship, you know."

"I don't think I will take you," called down Lucilla. "I don't want too
many passengers, especially women I don't know. But I often think there
will be a gentleman passenger--one who really wants to go to Barbadoes
and nowhere else. Sometimes he is one kind of a gentleman and sometimes
another, but he is never a soldier or a sailor, but rather one who
loves to stay at home. And now, sir, I think I must take my glass and
try to pick out a ship from among the spots on the far distant waves."

"Come on," said Lena, "do you like to fish! Because if you do, I can
take you to a good place."

The rest of the day Dickory spent with Mr. Mander and his wife, who were
intelligent and pleasant people. They talked of their travels, their
misfortunes and their blessings, and Dickory yearned to pour out his
soul to them, but he could not do so. His woes did not belong to himself
alone; they were not for the ears of strangers. He made up his mind what
he would do. Until the morrow he would stay as a visitor with these most
hospitable people, then he would ask for work. He would collect
firewood, he would hunt, he would fish, he would do anything. And here
he would support himself until there came some merchant ship bound
southward which would carry him away. If the Mander family were anyway
embarrassed or annoyed by his presence here, he would make a camp at a
little distance and live there by himself. Perhaps the lady of the tree
would kindly send him word if the ship he was looking for should come.

It was about the middle of the afternoon, and Lena had dropped asleep
beneath the tree where Dickory and her parents were conversing, when
suddenly there rushed upon the little group a most surprising figure.
At the first flash of thought Dickory supposed that a boy from the skies
had dropped among them, but in an instant he recognised the face he had
seen above the bushes. It was Lucilla, the daughter of the house! Upon
her head was a little straw hat, and she wore a loose tunic and a pair
of sailor's trousers, which had been cut off and were short enough to
show that her feet and ankles were bare. Around her waist she had a belt
of skins, from which dangled a string of crimson sea-beans. Her eyes
were wide open, her face was pale, and she was trembling with
excitement.

"What do you think!" she cried, not caring who was there or who might
look at her. "There's a ship at the spring, and there's a boat rowing
across the bay. A boat with four men in it!"

All started to their feet.

"A boat," cried Mander, "with four men in it? Run, my dear, to the cave;
press into its depths as far as you can. There is nothing there to be
afraid of, and no matter how frightened you are, press into its most
distant depths. You, sir, will remain with me, or would you rather
escape? If it is a pirate ship, it may be Blackbeard who has returned."

"Not so," cried Lucilla, "it is a merchant vessel, and they are making
straight for the mouth of our stream."

"I will stay here with you," said Dickory, "and stand by you, unless I
may help your family seek the cave you speak of."

"No, no," said Mander, "they don't need you, and if you will do so we
will go down to the beach and meet these men; that will be better than
to have them search for us. They will know that people live here, for my
canoe is drawn up on the beach."

"Is this safe?" cried Dickory; "would it not be better for you to go
with your family and hide with them? I will meet the men in the boat."

"No, no," said Mander; "if their vessel is no pirate, I do not fear
them. But I will not have them here."

Now, after Mander had embraced his family, they hurried away in tears,
the girl Lucilla casting not one glance at Dickory. Impressed by the
impulse that it was the proper thing to do, Dickory put on his coat and
waistcoat and clapped upon his head his high cocked hat. Then he rapidly
followed Mander to the beach, which they reached before the boat touched
the sand.

When the man in the stern of the boat, which was now almost within
hailing distance, saw the two figures run down upon the beach, he spoke
to the oarsmen and they all stopped and looked around. The stop was
occasioned by the sight of Dickory in his uniform; and this, under the
circumstances, was enough to stop any boat's crew. Then they fell to
again and pulled ashore. When the boat was beached one of its occupants,
a roughly dressed man, sprang ashore and walked cautiously towards
Mander; then he gave a great shout.

"Heigho, heigho!" he cried, "and Mander, this is you!"

Then there was great hand-shaking and many words.

"Excuse me, sir," said the man, raising his hat to Dickory, "it is now
more than two years since I have seen my friend here, when he was
marooned by pirates. We were all on the same merchantman, but the pirate
took me along, being short of hands. I got away at last, sir" (all the
time addressing Dickory instead of Mander, this being respect to his
rank), "and shipping on board that brig, sir, I begged it of the captain
that he would drop anchor here and take in water, although I cannot say
it was needed, and give me a chance to land and see if my old friend be
yet alive. I knew the spot, having well noted it when Mander and his
family were marooned."

"And this is Lucilla's ship," said Dickory to himself. But to the sailor
he said: "This is a great day for your friend and his family. But you
must not lift your hat to me, for I am no officer."

For a long time, at least it seemed so to Dickory, who wanted to run to
the cave and tell the good news, they all stood together on the sands
and talked and shook hands and laughed and were truly thankful, the men
who had come in the boat as much so as those who were found on the
island. It was agreed, and there was no discussion on this point, that
the Mander family should be carried away in the brig, which was an
English vessel bound for Jamaica, but the happy Mander would not ask any
of the boat's crew to visit him at his home. Instead, he besought them
to return to their vessel and bring back some clothes for women, if any
such should be included in her cargo.

"My family," said he, "are not in fit condition to venture themselves
among well-clad people. They are, indeed, more like savages than am I
myself."

"I doubt," said Mander's friend, "if the ship carries goods of that
description, but perhaps the captain might let you have a bale of cotton
cloth, although I suppose--" and here he looked a little embarrassed.

"Oh, we can buy it," cried Dickory, taking some pieces of gold from his
pocket, being coin with which Blackbeard had furnished him, swearing
that his first lieutenant could not feel like a true officer without
money in his pocket; "take this and fetch the cloth if nothing better
can be had."

"Thank you," cried Mander; "my wife and daughters can soon fashion it
into shape."

"And," added Dickory, reflecting a little and remembering the general
hues of Lucilla's face, "if there be choice in colours, let the cloth be
pink."

When Mander and Dickory reached the house they did not stop, but hurried
on towards the cave, both of them together, for each thought only of the
great joy they were taking with them.

"Come out! Come out!" shouted Mander, as he ran, and before they reached
the cave its shuddering inmates had hurried into the light. When the
cries and the tears and the embraces were over, Lucilla first looked at
Dickory. She started, her face flushed, and she was about to draw back;
then she stopped, and advancing held out her hand.

"It cannot be helped," she said; "anyway, you have seen me before, and I
suppose it doesn't matter. I'm a sailor boy, and have to own up to it. I
did hope you would think of me as a young lady, but we are all so happy
now that that doesn't matter. Oh, father!" she cried, "it can't be; we
are not fit to be saved; we must perish here in our wretched rags."

"Not so," cried Dickory, with a bow; "I've already bought you a gown,
and I hope it is pink."

As they all hurried away, the tale of the hoped-for clothes was told;
and although Mrs. Mander wondered how gowns were to be made while a
merchantman waited, she said nothing of her doubts, and they all ran
gleefully. Lucilla and Dickory being the fleetest led the others, and
Dickory said: "Now that I have seen you thus, I shall be almost sorry if
that ship can furnish you with common clothes, what you wear becomes you
so."

"Oho!" cried Lucilla, "that's fine flattery, sir; but I am glad you said
it, for that speech has made me feel more like a woman than I have felt
since I first put on this sailor's toggery."

In the afternoon the boat returned, Mander and Dickory watching on the
beach. When it grounded, Davids, Mander's friend, jumped on shore,
bearing in his arms a pile of great coarse sacks. These he threw upon
the sand and, handing to Dickory the gold pieces he had given him, said:
"The captain sends word that he has no time to look over any goods to
give or to sell, but he sends these sacks, out of which the women can
fashion themselves gowns, and so come aboard. Then the ship shall be
searched for stuffs which will suit their purposes and which they can
make at their leisure."

It was towards the close of the afternoon that all of the Mander family
and Dickory came down to the boat which was waiting for them.

"Do you know," said Dickory, as he and Lucilla stood together on the
sand, "that in that gown of gray, with the white sleeves, and the red
cord around your waist, you please me better than even you did when you
wore your sailor garb?"

"And what matters it, sir, whether I please you or not?"




CHAPTER XXIX

CAPTAIN ICHABOD


Kate Bonnet was indeed in a sad case. She had sailed from Kingston with
high hopes and a gay heart, and before she left she had written to
Master Martin Newcombe to express her joy that her father had given up
his unlawful calling and to say how she was going to sail after him,
fold him in her forgiving arms, and bring him back to Jamaica, where she
and her uncle would see to it that his past sins were forgiven on
account of his irresponsible mind, and where, for the rest of his life,
he would tread the paths of peace and probity. In this letter she had
not yielded to the earnest entreaty which was really the object and soul
of Master Newcombe's epistle. Many kind things she said to so kind a
friend, but to his offer to make her the queen of his life she made no
answer. She knew she was his very queen, but she would not yet consent
to be invested with the royal robes and with the crown.

And when she had reached Belize, how proudly happy she had been! She
had seen her father, no longer an outlaw, honest though in mean
condition, earning his bread by honourable labour. Then, with a still
greater pride, she had seen him clad as a noble gentleman and bearing
himself with dignity and high complacence. What a figure he would have
made among the fine folks who were her uncle's friends in Kingston and
in Spanish Town!

But all this was over now. With his own hand he had told her that once
again she was a pirate's daughter. She went below to her cabin, where,
with wet cheeks, Dame Charter attended her.

Mr. Delaplaine was angry, intensely angry. Such a shameful, wicked trick
had never before been played upon a loving daughter. There were no words
in which to express his most justifiable wrath. Again he went to the
town to learn more, but there was nothing more to learn except that some
people said they had reason to believe that Bonnet had gone to follow
Blackbeard. From things they had heard they supposed that the vessel
which had sailed away in the night had gone to offer herself as consort
to the Revenge; to rob and burn in the company of that notorious ship.

There was no satisfaction in this news for the heart of the good
merchant, and when he returned to the brig and sought his niece's cabin
he had no words with which to cheer her. All he could do was to tell her
the little he had learned and to listen to her supplications.

"Oh, uncle," she exclaimed, "we must follow him, we must take him, we
must hold him! I care not where he is, even if it be in the company of
the dreadful Blackbeard! We must take him, we must hold him, and this
time we must carry him away, no matter whether he will or not. I believe
there must be some spark of feeling, even in the heart of a bloody
pirate, which will make him understand a daughter's love for her father,
and he will let me have mine. Oh, uncle! we were very wrong. When he was
here with us we should have taken him then; we should have shut him up;
we should have sailed with him to Kingston."

All this was very depressing to the soul of Kate's loving uncle, for how
was he to sail after her father and take him and hold him and carry him
away? He went away to talk to the captain of the Belinda, but that tall
seaman shook his head. His vessel was not ready yet to sail, being much
delayed by the flight of Bonnet. And, moreover, he vowed that, although
he was as bold a seaman as any, he would never consent to set out upon
such an errand as the following of Blackbeard. It was terrifying enough
to be in the same bay with him, even though he were engaged in business
with the pirate, for no one knew what strange freak might at any time
suggest itself to the soul of that most bloody roisterer; but as to
following him, it was like walking into an alligator's jaws. He would
take his passengers back to Kingston, but he could not sail upon any
wild cruises, nor could he leave Belize immediately.

But Kate took no notice of all this when her uncle had told it to her.
She did not wish to go back to Jamaica; she did not wish to wait at
Belize. It was the clamorous longing of her heart to go after her father
and to find him wherever he might be, and she did not care to consider
anything else.

Dame Charter added also her supplications. Her boy was with Blackbeard,
and she wished to follow the pirate's ship. Even if she should never see
Major Bonnet--whom she loathed and despised, though never saying so--she
would find her Dickory. She, too, believed that there must be some spark
of feeling even in a bloody pirate's heart which would make him
understand the love of a mother for her son, and he would let her have
her boy.

Mr. Delaplaine sat brooding on the deck. The righteous anger kindled by
the conduct of his brother-in-law, and his grief for the poor stricken
women, sobbing in the cabin, combined together to throw him into the
most dolorous state of mind, which was aggravated by the knowledge that
he could do nothing except to wait until the Belinda sailed back to
Jamaica and to go to Jamaica in her.

As the unhappy merchant sat thus, his face buried in his hands, a small
boat came alongside and a passenger mounted to the deck. This person,
after asking a few questions, approached Mr. Delaplaine.

"I have come, sir, to see you," he said. "I am Captain Ichabod of the
sloop Restless."

Mr. Delaplaine looked up in surprise. "That is a pirate ship," said he.

"Yes," said the other, "I'm a pirate."

The newcomer was a tall young man, with long dark hair and with
well-made features and a certain diffidence in his manner which did not
befit his calling.

Mr. Delaplaine rose. This was his first private interview with a
professional sea-robber, and he did not know exactly how to demean
himself; but as his visitor's manner was quiet, and as he came on board
alone, it was not to be supposed that his intentions were offensive.

"And you wish to see me, sir?" said he.

"Yes," said Captain Ichabod, "I thought I'd come over and talk to you. I
don't know you, bedad, but I know all about you, and I saw you and your
family when you came to town to visit that old fox, bedad, that
sugar-planter that Captain Blackbeard used to call Sir Nightcap. Not a
bad joke, either, bedad. I have heard of a good many dirty, mean things
that people in my line of business have done, but, bedad, I never did
hear of any captain who was dirty and mean to his own family. Fine
people, too, who came out to do the right thing by him, after he had
been cleaned out, bedad, by one of his 'Brothers of the Coast.' A rare
sort of brother, bedad, don't you say so?"

"You are right, sir," said Mr. Delaplaine, "in what you say of the wild
conduct of my brother-in-law Bonnet. It pleases me, sir, to know that
you condemn it."

"Condemn! I should say so, bedad," answered Captain Ichabod; "and I came
over here to say to you--that is, just to mention, not knowing, of
course, what you'd think about it, bedad--that I'm goin' to start on a
cruise to-morrow. That is, as soon as I can get in my water and some
stores, bedad--water anyway. And if you and your ladies might happen to
fancy it, bedad, I'd be glad to take you along. I've heard that you're
in a bad case here, the captain of this brig being unable or quite
unwilling to take you where you want to go."

"But where are you going, sir?" in great surprise.

"Anywhere," said Captain Ichabod, "anywhere you'd like to go. I'm
starting out on a cruise, and a cruise with me means anywhere. And my
opinion is, sir, that if you want to come up with that crack-brained
sugar-planter, you'd better follow Blackbeard; and the best place to
find him will be on the Carolina coast; that's his favourite
hunting-ground, bedad, and I expect the sugar-planter is with him by
this time."

"But will not that be dangerous, sir?" asked Mr. Delaplaine.

"Oh, no," said the other. "I know Blackbeard, and we have played many a
game together. You and your family need not have anything to do with it.
I'll board the Revenge, and you may wager, bedad, that I'll bring Sir
Nightcap back to you by the ear."

"But there's another," said Delaplaine; "there's a young man belonging
to my party--"

"Oh, yes, I know," said the other, "the young fellow Blackbeard took
away with him. Clapped a cocked hat on him, bedad! That was a good joke!
I will bring him too. One old man, one young man--I'll fetch 'em both.
Then I'll take you all where you want to go to. That is, as near as I
can get to it, bedad. Now, you tell your ladies about this, and I'll
have my sloop cleaned up a bit, and as soon as I can get my water on
board I'm ready to hoist anchor."

"But look you, sir," exclaimed Mr. Delaplaine, "this is a very important
matter, and cannot be decided so quickly."

"Oh, don't mention it, don't mention it," said Captain Ichabod; "just
you tell your ladies all about it, and I'll be ready to sail almost any
time to-morrow."

"But, sir--" cried the merchant.

"Very good," said the pirate captain, "you talk it over. I'm going to
the town now and I'll row out to you this afternoon and get your
instructions."

And with this he got over the side.

Mr. Delaplaine said nothing of this visit, but waited on deck until the
captain came on board, and then many were the questions he asked about
the pirate Ichabod.

"Well, well!" the captain exclaimed, "that's just like him; he's a rare
one. Ichabod is not his name, of course, and I'm told he belongs to a
good English family--a younger son, and having taken his inheritance, he
invested it in a sloop and turned pirate. He has had some pretty good
fortune, I hear, in that line, but it hasn't profited him much, for he
is a terrible gambler, and all that he makes by his prizes he loses at
cards, so he is nearly always poor. Blackbeard sometimes helps him, so I
have heard--which he ought to do, for the old pirate has won bags of
money from him--but he is known as a good fellow, and to be trusted. I
have heard of his sailing a long way back to Belize to pay a gambling
debt he owed, he having captured a merchantman in the meantime."

"Very honourable, indeed," remarked Mr. Delaplaine.

"As pirates go, a white crow," said the other. "Now, sir, if you and
your ladies want to go to Blackbeard, and a rare desire is that, I
swear, you cannot do better than let Captain Ichabod take you. You will
be safe, I am sure of that, and there is every reason to think he will
find his man."

When Mr. Delaplaine went below with his extraordinary news, Dame Charter
turned pale and screamed.

"Sail in a pirate ship?" she cried. "I've seen the men belonging to one
of them, and as to going on board and sailing with them, I'd rather die
just where I am."

To the good Dame's astonishment and that of Mr. Delaplaine, Kate spoke
up very promptly. "But you cannot die here, Dame Charter; and if you
ever want to see your son again you have got to go to him. Which is also
the case with me and my father. And, as there is no other way for us to
go, I say, let us accept this man's offer if he be what my uncle thinks
he is. After all, it might be as safe for us on board his ship as to be
on a merchantman and be captured by pirates, which would be likely
enough in those regions where we are obliged to go; and so I say let us
see the man, and if he don't frighten us too much let us sail with him
and get my father and Dickory."

"It would be a terrible danger, a terrible danger," said Mr. Delaplaine.

"But, uncle," urged Kate, "everything is a terrible danger in the search
we're upon; let us then choose a danger that we know something about,
and which may serve our needs, rather than one of which we're ignorant
and which cannot possibly be of any good to us."

It was actually the fact that the little party in the cabin had not
finished talking over this most momentous subject before they were
informed that Captain Ichabod was on deck. Up they went, Dame Charter
ready to faint. But she did not do so. When she saw the visitor she
thought it could not be the pirate captain, but some one whom he had
sent in his place. He was more soberly dressed than when he first came
on board, and his manners were even milder. The mind of Kate Bonnet was
so worked up by the trouble that had come upon her that she felt very
much as she did when she hung over the side of her father's vessel at
Bridgetown, ready to drop into the darkness and the water when the
signal should sound. She had an object now, as she had had then, and
again she must risk everything. On her second look at Captain Ichabod,
which embarrassed him very much, she was ready to trust him.

"Dame Charter," she whispered, "we must do it or never see them again."

So, when they had talked about it for a quarter of an hour, it was
agreed that they would sail with Captain Ichabod.

When the sloop Restless made ready to sail the next day there was a
fine flurry in the harbour. Nothing of the kind had ever before happened
there. Two ladies and a most respectable old gentleman sailing away
under the skull and cross-bones! That was altogether new in the
Caribbean Sea. To those who talked to him about his quixotic expedition,
Captain Ichabod swore--and at times, as many men knew, he was a great
hand at being in earnest--that if he carried not his passengers through
their troubles and to a place of safety, the Restless, and all on board
of her, should mount to the skies in a thousand bits. Although this
alternative would not have been very comforting to said passengers if
they had known of it, it came from Captain Ichabod's heart, and showed
what sort of a man he was.

Old Captain Sorby came to the Restless in a boat, and having previously
washed one hand, came on board and bade them all good-bye with great
earnestness.

"You will catch him," said he to Kate, "and my advice to you is, when
you get him, hang him. That's the only way to keep him out of mischief.
But as you are his daughter, you may not like to string him up, so I say
put irons on him. If you don't he'll be playin' you some other wild
trick. He is not fit for a pirate, anyway, and he ought to be taken back
to his calves and his chickens."

Kate did not resent this language; she even smiled, a little sadly. She
had a great work before her, and she could not mind trifles.

None of the other pirates came on board, for they were afraid of Sorby,
and when that great man had made the round of the decks and had given
Captain Ichabod some bits of advice, he got down into his boat. The
anchor was weighed, the sails hoisted, and, amid shouts and cheers from
a dozen small boats containing some of the most terrible and bloody
sea-robbers who had ever infested the face of the waters, the Restless
sailed away: the only pirate ship which had, perhaps, ever left port
followed by blessings and goodwill; goodwill, although the words which
expressed it were curses and the men who waved their hats were
blasphemers and cut-throats.

Away sailed our gentle and most respectable party, with the Jolly Roger
floating boldly high above them. Kate, looking skyward, noticed this and
took courage to bewail the fact to Captain Ichabod.

He smiled. "While we're in sight of my Brethren of the Coast," he said,
"our skull and bones must wave, but when we're well out at sea we will
run up an English flag, if it please you."




CHAPTER XXX

DAME CHARTER MAKES A FRIEND


Captain Ichabod was in high feather. He whistled, he sang, and he kept
his men cleaning things. All that he could do for the comfort of his
passengers he did, even going so far as to drop as many of his "bedads"
as possible. Whenever he had an opportunity, and these came frequently,
he talked to Mr. Delaplaine, addressing a word or two to Kate if he
thought she looked gracious. For the first day or two Dame Charter kept
below. She was afraid of the men, and did not even want to look at them
if she could help it.

"But the good woman's all wrong," said Captain Ichabod to Mr.
Delaplaine; "my men would not hurt her. They're not the most tremendous
kind of pirates, anyway, for I could not afford that sort. I have often
thought that I could make more profitable voyages if I had a savager lot
of men. I'll tell you, sir, we once tried to board a big Spanish
galleon, and the beastly foreigners beat us off, bedad, and we had a
hard time of it gettin' away. There are three or four good fellows in
the crew, tough old rascals who came with the sloop when I bought her,
but most of my men are but poor knaves, and not to be afraid of."

This comfort Mr. Delaplaine kept to himself, and on the second day out,
the food which was served to them being most wretchedly cooked, Dame
Charter ventured into the galley to see if she could do anything in the
way of improvement.

"I think you may eat this," she said, when she returned to Kate, "but I
don't think that anything on board is fit for you. When I went to the
kitchen, I came near dropping dead right in the doorway; that cook,
Mistress Kate, is the most terrible creature of all the pirates that
ever were born. His eyes are blistering green and his beard is all
twisted into points, with the ends stuck fast with blood, which has
never been washed off. He roars like a lion, with shining teeth, but he
speaks very fair, Mistress Kate; you would be amazed to hear how fair he
speaks. He told me, and every word he said set my teeth on edge with its
grating, that he wanted to know how I liked the meals cooked; that he
would do it right if there were things on board to do it with. Which
there are not, Mistress Kate. And when he was beatin' up that batter for
me and I asked him if he was not tired workin' so hard, he pulled up
his sleeve and showed me his arm, which was like a horse's leg, all
covered with hair, and asked me if I thought it was likely he could tear
himself with a spoon. I'm sure he would give us better food if he could,
for he leaned over and whispered to me, like a gust of wind coming in
through the door, that the captain was in a very hard case, having
lately lost everything he had at the gaming-table, and therefore had not
the money to store the ship as he would have done."

"Oh, don't talk about that, Dame Charter," said Kate; "if we can get
enough to eat, no matter what it is, we must be satisfied and think only
of our great joy in sailing to my father and to your Dickory."

That afternoon Captain Ichabod found Kate by herself on deck, and he
made bold to sit down by her; and before he knew what he was about, he
was telling her his whole story. She listened carefully to what he said.
He touched but lightly upon his wickednesses, although they were plain
enough to any listener of sense, and bemoaned his fearful passion for
gaming, which was sure to bring him to misery one day or another.

"When I have staked my vessel and have lost it," said he, "then there
will be an end of me."

"But why don't you sell your vessel before you lose it," said Kate, "and
become a farmer?"

His eyes brightened. "I never thought of that," said he. "Bedad--excuse
me, Miss--some day when I've got a little together and can pay my men
I'll sell this sloop and buy a farm, bedad--I beg your pardon,
Miss--I'll buy a farm."

Kate smiled, but it was easy to see that Captain Ichabod was in earnest.

The next day Captain Ichabod came to Mr. Delaplaine and took him to one
side. "I want to speak to you," he said, "about a bit of business."

"You may have noticed, sir, that we are somewhat short of provisions,
and the way of it is this. The night before we sailed, hoping to make a
bold stroke at the card-table and thereby fit out my vessel in a manner
suitable to the entertainment of a gentleman and ladies, I lost every
penny I had. I did hope that our provisions would last us a few days
longer, but I am disappointed, sir. That cook of mine, who is a
soft-hearted fellow, his neck always ready for the heel of a woman, has
thrown overboard even the few stores we had left for you, the good Dame
Charter having told him they were not fit to eat. And more, sir, even my
men are grumbling. So I thought I would speak to you and explain that it
would be necessary for us to overhaul a merchantman and replenish our
food supply. It can be done very quietly, sir, and I don't think that
even the ladies need be disturbed."