JACK MEETS SOME OLD FRIENDS
IT was late in November when Mr. Burton returned to England. Jack
accompanied him as far as Jamestown; and Mr. Simms, who had business at
the factory at Yorktown, also went down in the schooner as far as that
place.
The day was keen and clear, with a soft, cool wind blowing, before
which the schooner sloped swiftly away, dropping the great brick front
of Marlborough rapidly behind. The wide rush of air and water seemed
very full of life and vigor, and Jack lay up under the weather-rail in
the warm sunlight, wrapped in his overcoat and given up utterly to the
building of day-dreams.
He had just parted from Nelly Parker, and his mind was very full of
thoughts of her. She had been more than usually teasing that morning.
“I believe you wouldn’t mind if I were going away from you forever,”
Jack had burst out as they stood lingering in the wide sunlight in
front of the great house. “I sometimes think that you have no heart in
you at all.”
Then she looked at him with sudden seriousness. “Do you, then, really
think that of me?” she said. “Well, then, I may tell you that I have a
heart, and that it would, indeed, grieve me to the heart if you were
going away forever.”
“Would it?” Jack had said.
“Yes. And see—if I have teased you too much, here is my hand.”
Jack took her soft, white hand in his; it was very warm. Then with a
sudden impulse he lifted it to his lips and pressed a long, long kiss
upon it. She did not withdraw it, and when he looked up he saw that
she was still gazing very steadily at him. His heart was beating with
exceeding quickness, but he looked as steadily back at her, though with
swimming sight. Then she had burst out into a peal of laughter, had
snatched her hand away, and had run away back into the house, leaving
him standing where he was. Then he had hurried down toward the wharf,
hardly sensing whither he was walking, and not answering Mr. Simms when
the factor asked him what had kept him so long.
Long after they had dropped Marlborough away behind, he still lay in
the sunlight under the rail, wrapped closely in his overcoat, his heart
full of the thought of her. He was giving himself over luxuriously to
that foolish day-dreaming to which adolescent youth loves to yield
itself, and upon the funny inconsequence of which the matured man looks
back and laughs from the firmer stand of later years. For one often
remembers such dear, foolish day-dreams in after times.
He imagined to himself how he would have to go away to live in England.
He would not come back again, he thought, until he had made himself
famous; then he would return to her once more. Yes; while he was
away from her he would become very famous. Maybe he would enter the
navy. There would be a great war, and his ship would be in battle. He
pictured to himself a terrible battle in which the senior officers
would all be killed, so that it would depend upon him, the youngest of
all, to save the ship. He would call upon the men to follow him, and
then, in a last desperate, almost hopeless attack, he would rush aboard
the enemy’s ship, his men close behind him. They would conquer, but he
would have been shot through the arm, and his arm would have to be
cut off, and he would go with an empty sleeve—it seemed very pathetic
as he thought of it. All the world would talk of the young hero who
had saved the ship, and Nelly Parker would hear of it and would think,
“He will now never come back to Virginia again. He is too great and
too famous to remember me now.” Then one day he would suddenly appear
before her. She would say: “What! have you, then, come back to us? Have
you, then, not forgotten us?” He would smile and would say: “No, I can
never forget you.” He would stand before her with one empty sleeve
pinned to his breast. There would be an order upon his breast, and he
would say: “I love you and have always loved you, and none but you.”
“If we make it in time,” said Mr. Simms, suddenly, speaking to the
Attorney Burton where they stood together looking out toward the shore,
“we’ll stop at the Roost this afternoon. There was a letter for Mr.
Parker sent up to Marlborough by mistake yesterday, and I may as well
leave it on the way down.”
His words broke sharply upon Jack’s thoughts and shattered the dream to
fragments. He lay silent for a moment or two. “Do you think,” he said,
suddenly, “that Mr. Parker is there now?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Simms, turning toward him, “but I hope he is,
so that I can leave this letter for him. Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to go ashore,” said Jack, “but I don’t care to meet him.”
“Why not?” said Mr. Simms. “He can’t do you any harm.”
“I know that very well,” said Jack, “but, all the same, I don’t want to
see him, if I can help it.”
It wanted still an hour of sunset when they reached the Roost. Mr.
Parker was not at home, and Jack accompanied Mr. Simms up to the
house. How familiar and yet how strange everything appeared! How full
of countless associations! There was a bed-coverlet hanging from a
window, and he seemed to recognize its garish colors. A face passed by
the open window—it was Peggy Pitcher. Two or three negroes came out
from behind the end of the house and stood looking toward him; among
them was Little Coffee. The negro boy stood staring; then, when Mr.
Simms had gone into the house, he came forward, and Jack burst out
laughing at his staring face. He asked the negro boy where Dennis was;
Little Coffee said that the overseer was at the stable, and Jack went
directly over to the outbuildings, Little Coffee following him. That
feeling of renewed familiarity still surrounded everything. Everywhere
the negroes grinned recognition at him, and he spoke to them all,
laughing and nodding his head.
He found Dennis sitting in the shed by the stables mending an old
saddle. He looked up when Jack came in, as though for a moment puzzled.
Then instantly his face cleared. “Why, lad,” he said, “is that you?”
He slipped the wax-end betwixt his lips and held out his hand. Then
he looked Jack over. “And how you have climbed up in the world, to be
sure!” he said.
“Have I?” said Jack, laughing.
They talked together for a little while about indifferent things,
and it did not seem to Jack that Dennis was as keenly alert as he
should have been to the fact of his visit. There was something very
disappointing in it. As they talked, Little Coffee stood by, looking
him all over. “How’s Mrs. Pitcher, Dennis?” Jack asked, presently.
“Oh, she’s very well,” said Dennis. “She was talking about you only
this morning. I tell you what ’tis, lad, she and his honor had it like
shovel and tongs after you ran away.”
“Did they?” said Jack. “Well, I think I’ll go over to the house to see
her. I’ve only got a little while to stay. We’re going on down the
river to Jamestown. Good-by.”
Dennis took the hand that Jack gave him and shook it warmly.
“I can’t get up,” he said, “for this teasing saddle.”
Jack went away over to the house, still accompanied by Little Coffee.
Some one had told Peggy Pitcher that he was about the place, and she
was expecting him. Whatever lack of warmth Jack had felt in Dennis’s
greeting was fully made up by Mrs. Pitcher. “Why, Jack,” she said,
looking all over him, “what a fine, grand gentleman you’ve grown all
of a sudden! Well, to be sure! To think that I should have seen you
that last time sitting down yonder in the cellar so down in the spirits
that ‘twas enough to break a body’s heart to see you, and now you to be
grown so fine a young lord of a man, to be sure. I did hear say that
you joined the pirates after you got away.”
“No, I didn’t join the pirates,” said Jack. “I went down to North
Carolina with them, but I didn’t have any business with them. But never
mind that, Mrs. Pitcher. What I wanted to say is that I’ll never forget
what you’ve done for me as long as ever I live.”
“Won’t you, Master Jack?” she said, evidently gratified. “Why, now,
that’s very kind and noble-spoken of you.”
“I don’t see that ’tis,” said Jack. “Where would I have been now, do
you think, if it hadn’t been for you?”
Peggy Pitcher burst out laughing. She sat down on a chair just behind
her. “Why, I don’t know,” she said, “and that’s the truth. ’Tis like
you’d been in a pretty bad way. His honor was hot ag’in’ you, just
then, I can tell you.” She became suddenly serious. “I tell you what
’tis, Master Jack,” she said, “things are not going well with him just
now, and he’s a good, kind man, too, when he chooses to be so. Do you
remember Master Binderly, who used to come here, blustering about his
money?”
“Yes,” said Jack, “I do. And how you said you’d pour hot water upon him
if he didn’t go away.”
Again Peggy burst out laughing, and slapped her palm upon her knee.
“Ay,” she said, “so I did, to be sure. Well, he’s been pestering about
here a deal, of late, and I do suppose that’s why his honor’s away so
much. He’s been away now for two weeks.”
Just then he heard Mr. Simms calling him outside. “Master Jack! Master
Jack!”
“There,” said Jack, “I must go now. I’ll try to see you some time
again, Mrs. Pitcher,” and he gave her his hand.
“Well,” said Peggy Pitcher, as she rose, and took Jack’s hand, “I
didn’t think I was helping you into such good luck when I helped you to
get away that night.”
“Nor I didn’t, either,” said Jack.
Something, he couldn’t tell what, brought the thought of Nelly Parker
into his mind, and he felt a quick fullness of happiness that seemed
suddenly to brim his heart more than full.
“Good-by, Mrs. Pitcher,” he said, and again he pressed Peggy’s hand.
“I’ve been hunting all over the place for you,” said Mr. Simms,
testily, when Jack came out of the house.
* * * * *
Jack almost never enjoyed himself so much as he did those three or four
days while he was at Jamestown. Lieutenant Maynard appeared to be very
glad to see him, and welcomed him with great heartiness. Almost from
the beginning of their acquaintance he had dubbed Jack “My hero,” and
he began calling him so now when they met again. “Well, my hero,” he
cried out, as he came aboard the schooner from the man-of-war’s boat,
carrying his arm in a sling, “and how do you do by now! Well, your old
friend, Blackbeard, has got his quietus. Look ye here, d’ ye see, he
left me a remembrance before he went,” and he held out his bandaged
hand so that Jack might see it. “A great big cutlass slash across the
knuckles,” he said.
“I hear the pirates are all in jail over at Williamsburgh,” said Jack.
“Ay,” said the lieutenant, “and it was lucky for you that you ran away
in time, or else you might be there, too.” And then Jack burst out
laughing.
The lieutenant introduced Jack to his brother officers of the “Lyme,”
and Jack often went aboard of the man-of-war, sometimes to take
breakfast, and nearly always to dinner. The officers all seemed to
like him, and once Captain St. Clare entertained him over a bottle of
Madeira for nearly an hour in the cabin. The life aboard the man-of-war
was very new to Jack, and he never lost the vividness of his interest
in the charm of the wide, long decks, so immaculately clean; in the
towering masts, the maze of rigging, the long, double row of cannon, in
the life that swarmed above and below—the sailors, the marines, the
sentinels pacing up and down, with every now and then a sparkling glint
of the sun on musket-barrel or brass trimmings of accoutrements.
It was a great pleasure and gratification to him to be made so much of
aboard the great man-of-war, and he was with his new friends nearly all
the time. There were wild, rollicking blades among them—men seasoned
to the wickedness of the world, who would sometimes sing songs and tell
stories after dinner that were not always fitted for a young boy’s
ears. One handsome rattle-brained young fellow in particular, who
seemed to take a peculiar liking to Jack, was full of jests and quips,
that, though they made Jack laugh, were hardly suitable for him to
listen to. But Jack’s nature was of too honest and too robust a sort to
offer ground for any pruriency of thought to cling very closely to.
On the second or third day of his stay at Jamestown, he and Lieutenant
Maynard went over to Williamsburgh together, to visit the pirate
prisoners in the jail at that place. As soon as they had obtained the
permit they went straight to the prison, and were admitted by the
turnkey to the round-house in which the pirates were confined.
They were all crowded into the one room—the wounded and the unwounded
together. At first, Jack could hardly bear the heavy, fetid smell of
the place, but the prisoners themselves appeared altogether unconscious
of it. There was quite a number of them who had been hurt and who now
lay there uncared for in their sufferings; one man, with a cloth tied
around his head, looked very pale and ill, and another lay with his
face to the wall, perfectly silent all the time that Jack was there.
“Why, ’tis Jack Ballister!” cried one of the men as soon as he had
come in at the door. It was Ned Bolles who spoke—the young fellow of
about Jack’s age who had been shot in the shoulder when the pirates
took the French barque. Then: “Why, Jack,” he said, “what a fine, grand
gentleman you are, to be sure!”
Jack laughed. They all crowded around him except Hands and the man with
the wounded head, and the other who lay motionless with his face turned
toward the wall. Hands sat in a corner upon the floor smoking his pipe,
his lame leg stretched out perfectly straight before him. He spoke
no word of especial greeting to the visitor. All of the prisoners
were handcuffed and wore leg-irons. Some had wrapped rags around the
shackles to protect their ankles and wrists from being rubbed by the
rough iron. They all seemed very glad to see Jack; apparently glad of
any change in the monotony of their imprisonment.
“Well, Jack,” said one of the men, named Dick Stiles, “I tell ‘ee what
’tis, ‘ee be lucky to be here now alive and well. ‘Twas a nigh miss
for ‘ee when ‘ee got int’ t’ inlet ahead of us. If ‘ee’d been a minute
later ‘ee never ‘a’ got oot t’ be here now.”
“So poor Chris Dred is dead, is he?” another called out.
“Ay,” said Jack, “you did the business for him.”
“Well, Jack,” said one of the men, “you fell into your fortune when you
got away. I suppose you’ll be marrying her young ladyship next, won’t
you?”
They all burst out laughing. Jack laughed too; but he knew that he was
blushing, and was conscious that Lieutenant Maynard was standing at the
door, listening to what was said.
“I tell you what ’tis, Jack,” said one of the men; “you be such a
grand, great gentleman now, you ought to speak a good word for your old
friends. They says our trial is to come off next week, and you ought
to ax for our pardon of your new friend the governor, for old times’
sake,” and then they all began laughing.
“Hands says he knows summat’ll save his own neck,” said a voice.
“Ay,” said Hands, from where he sat on the floor, “they daren’t hang
me. I know what I know, and they won’t harm me. I’m not afraid of that.”
It seemed very strange to Jack that they should appear to think so
little of their approaching trial and the inevitable result that must
follow. They must all know that there could be but one end to it,
for the governor was determined to make an example of them for the
benefit of all other would-be pirates; they seemed to think more of the
dullness of their present imprisonment than anything else.
“Lookee, Jack,” one of them said, “do you have any money about ye? Just
tuppence or so to buy a twist of ‘baccy; I ha’n’t had a smoke for two
days now.” It was the young fellow Bolles who spoke.
“I’ve got sixpence here,” said Jack, “and that’s all. But you’re
welcome to it.”
“You wouldn’t give it all to Bolles, would you?” said Salter. “He’s no
worse off than the rest on us be.”
As they walked away up the street together, Lieutenant Maynard asked
him what it was Hands meant when he spoke to him.
“What do you mean?” said Jack; “I don’t remember what he said.”
“Well,” said the lieutenant, “the talk is that he hath been proclaiming
to every one that the governor shall never hang him, and that he knows
something concerning Colonel Parker that will save his neck, and that
they will never dare to hang him.”
“Does he say that?” said Jack. “Ay, I do remember now what he said to
me, though I didn’t think of it at the time. But he knows naught about
Colonel Parker—’tis about Mr. Richard Parker.”
“About Mr. Richard Parker?” said the lieutenant. “Do you know what it
is, then? What is it, Jack?”
Jack hesitated for a second or two. “I don’t believe I ought to tell
you anything about it,” he said. “I don’t believe Colonel Parker would
choose to have me say anything about it to you.”
“Nonsense!” said Lieutenant Maynard. “Why should you not tell me? I’ll
not speak about it to a living soul. What hath Mr. Richard Parker been
about?”
Then Jack told him.
The lieutenant was listening very silently and intently as he walked
along. “Why, what a thing do you tell me?” he cried out. “Of course,
if that villain Hands knew aught like this conspiracy of Mr. Richard
Parker’s he has reason enough to believe that Colonel Parker won’t
choose to have it known. I always misliked Dick Parker; but what a
prodigious rascal he must be! ’Tis incredible that one born a gentleman
could be such a villain as that. But I tell you what it is, Master
Jack, this is a mightily serious secret that you have. You’d best keep
it tight locked in your own bosom and say naught of it to any living
soul.”
As the lieutenant spoke, a heavy feeling fell suddenly upon Jack that
he had been very foolish to speak to such a comparative stranger as
the lieutenant about such a thing. He walked on in silence, suffering
that singularly bitter feeling that we have maybe all of us sometimes
smarted under—a feeling that we have betrayed a friend’s secret to a
stranger.
He was destined to feel still more uncomfortable about it in time. For
almost immediately upon his return to Marlborough he was called into
Colonel Parker’s private cabinet. Colonel Parker had just received a
packet from Williamsburgh the day before—a long letter from Governor
Spottiswood, inclosing a statement from Hands, and he began at once,
almost as soon as Jack had come into the room, to speak about what he
had in his mind. “Tell me,” he said, “do you know aught of how Nelly
came to be taken away from Marlborough?”
“What do you mean, sir?” said Jack, and then his heart began beating.
He knew very well what Colonel Parker referred to.
“I mean,” said Colonel Parker, “do you know aught of who ‘twas put this
pirate Blackbeard up to carrying poor Nelly away? Did he do it of his
own free will, or did you hear that any one set him to do it?”
Jack hesitated, then he said, “Yes, sir; I did hear there was somebody
put him up to doing it.”
“What did you hear?” said Colonel Parker. “Come, speak out plain, and
tell me just what you know.”
“Well,” said Jack, “‘twas said down there at Bath Town,—that is, by
those who came to see the pirate at his house,—’twas said that—that
Mr. Richard Parker knew about Miss Nelly’s having been taken away. I
don’t know anything about it myself, but that was what they all said.
I know that Blackbeard writ three or four letters to Mr. Parker while
the young lady was there, and I heard them say again and again that Mr.
Parker knew that she had been taken away from home and whither she had
been taken, and that he was concerned in it.”
Colonel Parker was leaning with his elbow upon the table, and his
fingers against his forehead. He was looking very steadily and silently
at Jack. He did not speak for a long time after Jack had ended. “Well,”
he said, at last, “what then? What else do you know?” And Jack resumed:
“I heard Blackbeard say over and over again that it was Mr. Parker
had planned how she should be taken, and that he was to get you to
pay for bringing her back again. Mr. Knight the secretary writ three
or four letters, too, and sent ‘em to Mr. Parker, and ‘twas said that
Mr. Parker was to show the letters to you. But no answer could be got
to any of them. Then, by and by, they all began to think that maybe
he—Mr. Parker, that is—intended that she shouldn’t come back again at
all.”
“Are you sure of all this you’re telling me?” said Colonel Parker.
“I am sure that was what I heard,” Jack said. “‘Twas talked about there
in the house betwixt Blackbeard and the others just as things are
talked about in a house. They didn’t try to hide the matter or keep it
a secret from me, but talked about it always as if ‘twere so.”
Again Colonel Parker sat in silence, and Jack, as he stood there,
wished and wished—oh, with what pangs of bitter self-reproach!—that
he had not said anything to Lieutenant Maynard about it. He wondered
with heavy apprehension what Colonel Parker would say if he knew
that he had told such a secret to such a stranger as the lieutenant.
Then suddenly Colonel Parker spoke. “Well,” he said, “you can see
for yourself without my telling you that naught must be said of all
this—no, not to a living soul. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jack, weakly.
“Very well,” said Colonel Parker. “Remember, my boy, that you have in
your bosom a very dreadful secret that involves the credit of the whole
of our family, and that you must not speak of it to a living soul.”
It may be said here that the lieutenant did not betray Jack’s
secret—or, at least, it never came to Jack’s ears that he had done
so. It may also be briefly said that Hands was pardoned by Governor
Spottiswood, and that in a little less than a month later Mr. Richard
Parker ran away from Virginia—it was said from his debts—to Jamaica.