THE QUEST FOR PIRATES' GOLD
A SMALL sloop was making its leisurely way up the Carolina coast with a
crew of a dozen men all told. The skipper was Captain Jonathan Wellsby
who was taking this holiday cruise before sailing for England to command
a fine new ship in the colonial trade. In the cabin were Jack Cockrell
and Joe Hawkridge, Councilor Peter Arbuthnot Forbes, and that brisk
young linen draper William Saxby. In the forecastle were trusty seamen
who had sailed in the _Plymouth Adventure_. The sloop's destination was
Cherokee Inlet and she was equipped with tackle and gear for a peculiar
kind of fishing.
For once they made a voyage without fear of pirates. Safely the sloop
passed in by the outlying cay where the charred bones of Blackbeard's
brig were washed by the surf. An anchorage was found in the bight where
the _Revenge_ had tarried, close by the beach and the greensward of the
pirates' old camp. After diligent preparation all hands manned a boat
which pulled into the mouth of the sluggish creek. With axes to clear
the entanglements and men enough to shove over the muddy shoals the
boat was slowly forced up-stream and then into the smaller creek at the
fork of the waters.
Uncle Peter Forbes was as gay as a truant schoolboy. This was the lark
of a lifetime. The two lads, however, were uneasy and depressed. To them
this sombre region was haunted, if not by ghosts then by memories as
unhappy. They would not have been surprised to see Blackbeard skulking
in the tall grass, his head bound in red calico, his pistols cocked to
ambush them. And, alas, old Trimble Rogers was not along to protect them
with his musket. He had lived and dreamed in expectation of this quest.
"We'll find no treasure, nary a penny of it," dolefully observed Joe
Hawkridge who had actually begun to shiver.
"Of course we can find the sea-chest, you ninny," scolded Jack.
"Dead or alive, Cap'n Ed'ard Teach flew away with it afore now," was
Joe's rejoinder. "He was a master one at black magic."
"Don't chatter like an idiot," spoke up Uncle Peter who was wildly
brushing the mosquitoes from a sun-blistered nose. "My faith, I cannot
understand how you lads got out of this swamp alive. It breeds all the
plagues of Egypt."
They came to the tiny lagoon and rounded the bend beyond which the
pirogue had capsized Blackbeard's cock-boat. There was nothing to
indicate that any human being had visited this lonely spot since that
sensational encounter. No trees had been cut down to serve as purchases
for lifting the sea-chest from its oozy hiding-place. It was agreed that
some traces would have remained if Blackbeard had been at work here
before his death.
A camp was made upon the higher ground of the knoll and the party went
about its task with skill and deliberation. Jointed sounding rods of
iron were screwed together and the exact position of the spot determined
from Jack Cockrell's chart and description. But neither he nor Joe
Hawkridge could be coaxed into lending more active assistance. They were
afraid of disturbing the bones of the drowned seaman who had fled from
Blackbeard's bloody dirk. Jack had seen him go down and it was not a
pleasant recollection. And so these two heroes who had faced so many
other perils without flinching were content to putter about
half-heartedly and let the others exert themselves.
All one day they prodded and sounded but struck only sunken logs. What
gave them more concern than this was the discovery that the slender
rods, sharpened to a point, could be driven through one yielding stratum
after another of muck and ooze. Through myriad years the decaying
vegetable matter of this rank swamp had been accumulating in these
layers of muck. There was no telling how deep down the weight of the
sea-chest might have caused it to settle.
Mr. Peter Forbes began to lose his youthful optimism and took four men
to go and dig in the knoll while the others continued to search for the
chest. The wooden cross still stood above the grave of Jesse Strawn and
the long-leaf pines murmured his requiem. Having selected at random a
place where he thought treasure ought to be, the worthy Councilor
wielded a shovel until he perspired rivers.
"Confound it, Blackbeard must have left a scrap of paper somewhere to
give us the proper instructions," he complained. "'Tis the custom of all
proper pirates. Look at the trouble he has put us to."
"I helped search the cabin afore the brig was set afire," replied one of
the seamen, "and all the writin' we found was in the bit of a book with
the leaves tore out, same as Cap'n Wellsby made a fair copy of."
"That explains it," cried Uncle Peter. "I have no doubt the vile
Blackbeard destroyed his private note of where he hid it, just to make
the matter more difficult for us honest men."
This was plausible, but it failed to solve the riddle. A day or two of
impatient digging and the portly Secretary of the Council was almost
wrecked in mind and body, what with insects and heat, ague and fatigue.
The ardor of his companions had likewise slackened. The boat's crew
swore that the condemned sea-chest must have sunk all the way to China.
Joe Hawkridge still argued that Blackbeard had whisked it away in a
cloud of smoke and brimstone. The unhappy Mr. Peter Forbes suggested:
"What say you, lads, to dropping down to the sloop for a respite from
this accursed swamp? There we can take comfort and discuss what is to be
done next."
Captain Jonathan Wellsby, who was a stubborn man, urged that they fish
once more for the sunken chest before taking a rest, and this was agreed
to. The sounding rods were plied with vigor and, at length, one of them
drove against some solid object deep in the mud. It was more unyielding
than a water-soaked log. The iron rod was lifted and rammed down with a
thud which was like metal striking against metal. The explorers forgot
the torments of the swamp. Uncle Peter Forbes was in no haste to flee
the mosquitoes and the fever.
The sailors began to rig the spars and tackle as a derrick set up on the
bank of the creek, with grapple hooks like huge tongs to swing out over
the water and grope in the muddy depths. Absorbed in this fascinating
task, they were startled beyond measure to hear the _thump, thump_ of
thole-pins sounding from somewhere below them in the swamp. It was no
Indian pirogue. Only a ship's boat heavily manned could make that
cadenced noise of oars. Bill Saxby bade the men be silent while he held
a hand at his ear and harkened with taut attention. The mysterious boat,
following the winding channel of the creek, was drawing nearer. Voices
could be heard, a rough command, a curse, a laugh.
"No honest men, I warrant," growled Captain Jonathan Wellsby, ready to
take command by virtue of long habit. "Who else can they be but pirates,
plague 'em. And they are betwixt us and the sea. All hands ashore and
look to your arms. Lively now."
They were bewildered and taken all aback. In this holiday excursion
after Blackbeard's treasure the party had reckoned only with dead or
phantom pirates. There was some confusion, while Bill Saxby bawled at
the seamen as addle-pated lubbers. Deserting their boat, they scrambled
to cover in the tall grass while those busy with the derrick gear rushed
to catch up muskets and powder-horns.
The strange boat was steadily forging up-stream and presently it was
disclosed to view no more than a cable-length away. It was a pinnace
filled with ruffianly fellows, more than a score of them. No merchant
seamen these but brethren of the coast, freebooters who were
gallows-ripe. Bill Saxby was quick to recognize two or three of them as
old hands of Blackbeard's crew who must have deserted their leader in
time to escape his fate. Presumably they had recruited others of their
own stamp to go adventuring in the Cherokee swamp. They could have only
one purpose. The very sight of them was enough to explain it. They were
in quest of treasure like bloodhounds trailing a scent.
Against such a force as this, discretion was the better part of valor. A
ferocious yell burst from the pinnace and a flight of musket balls
whistled over the heads of the fugitives who had so hastily abandoned
their operations with the derrick and gear and the boat. Stout Bill
Saxby and his comrades, finding concealment in the swamp, primed their
muskets and let fly a volley at the pinnace which was an easy target. A
pirate standing in the stern-sheets clapped a hand to his thigh and sat
down abruptly. Another one let go his oar to dangle a bloody hand.
The pinnace drifted with the tide and stranded on a weedy shoal while
the blue powder smoke hung over it like a fog. For the moment it was a
demoralized crew of pirates, roaring all manner of threats but at a loss
how to proceed. The other party took advantage of this delay to beat a
rapid retreat along the path which led to the knoll where the camp was
pitched. Upon this higher ground they might hope to defend themselves
against a force which outnumbered them. They ran at top speed, bending
low, hidden from observation, avoiding the pools and bogs.
The pirates were diverted from their hostile intentions as soon as they
caught sight of the tall spars and tackle, and the boat with its
sounding rods and other gear. With a great clamor they swarmed out of
the pinnace and began to investigate. This gave the refugees on the
knoll a little time to make their camp more compact, to wield the
shovels furiously and throw up intrenchments, to cut down trees for a
barricade, to fill the water kegs, to prepare to withstand an assault or
a siege.
The sun went down and the infatuated pirates were still exploring the
creek, convinced that they could straightway lay hold of the treasure
they had come to find. They kindled a fire on the bank and evidently
intended to pass the night there. This mightily eased the minds of the
toilers upon the knoll. Their predicament was still awkward in the
extreme but the fear of sudden death had been lifted. And it seemed
possible that these bothersome pirates might conclude to leave them
alone.
It went sorely against the grain, however, to be driven away from the
precious sea-chest when it was almost within their grasp, to have to
scuttle from this crew of scurvy pirates. Jack Cockrell was for making a
sortie by night, gustily declaiming to his companions:
"The sentries will be drunk or drowsy. I know these swine. A well-timed
rush and we can cut 'em down and pistol the rest. Didn't they open fire
on us from the pinnace?"
"Aye, Jack, and we'll fight to save our skins," said the cool-headed
Captain Wellsby, "but 'tis a desperate business to attack yon
cut-throats, even by night, and there will be men of us hurt and killed.
Blackbeard's gold is not worth it."
"Right sensibly put," declared Mr. Peter Forbes. "We had best spend this
night in felling more trees and notching logs to pile them breast high.
If these pirates find the sea-chest, they will leave us unmolested. If
they fail to find it, they may conclude that we have already discovered
the treasure. In that event, they will storm the knoll and give us no
quarter."
"It would be rank folly to surrender," said stout Bill Saxby. "There be
men in the pinnace who have no love for me nor for the two lads. 'Twas a
shrewd suspicion of theirs that Blackbeard had played secret tricks in
this Cherokee swamp, what with his excursions in that little cock-boat."
Keeping vigilant watch, they labored far into the night until the camp
on the knoll was a hard nut to crack, with its surrounding ditch and
palisade of logs behind which a man could lie and shoot. Now and then it
might have been noted that Jack Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge conferred
with their heads together as though something private were in the wind.
As soon as they were relieved from duty, some time before the dawn, they
stole very softly away from the knoll and groped along the path which
led to the creek. Curiosity and the impetuous folly of youth impelled
them to reconnoitre the pirates' bivouac.
"We may hear something worth listening to," whispered Jack, "and perhaps
we can crawl close and steal some of their arms."
"None of that," chided young Hawkridge. "I am a man of goodly station in
Charles Town and I would go back with a whole hide."
"You have grown too respectable," grumbled Jack. "Here is the chance for
one last fling----"
His words stuck in his throat. A gurgle of horrified amazement and he
tumbled headlong into the grass with a bare, sinewy arm wrapped around
his neck. He fought to free himself but the breath was fairly choked out
of him. Joe Hawkridge was desperately thrashing about in the swamp,
gasping and snorting, his cries also smothered. In a twinkling they were
captives, their arms tightly bound behind them, the stifling grip of
their necks unrelaxed. Weakened almost to suffocation, the two lads
could make no lively resistance. Jack uttered one feeble shout for help
but subsided when those strong fingers tightened the clutch on his
windpipe.
The assailants made no sound. Not a word was uttered. There were several
of them, for the helpless prisoners were picked up bodily and lugged
along by the head and the heels. They expected to be taken into the
pirates' camp, believing they had been surprised and overpowered by an
outlying sentry post. It was an old game, reflected Joe Hawkridge, to
hold them alive as hostages. But he was vastly puzzled when these silent
kidnappers, deftly picking their way in the darkness, took a direction
which led them away from the bank of the creek. They had forsaken the
trampled path and were proceeding through the trackless swamp whose
pitfalls were avoided by a sort of sixth sense.
A mile of this laborious, uncanny progress and the bearers dumped their
burdens and paused to rest. The two lads dizzily crawled to their feet
and peered at the shadowy figures surrounding them. They heard a
guttural exclamation and words exchanged in a strange, harsh tongue.
"Indians, blow me!" hoarsely whispered Joe, his throat sore and swollen.
"Comrade ahoy!" croaked Jack. "No pirates these, but Yemassees. Do they
save us for the torture?"
"God knows. 'Tis a sorry mischance as ever was. I'd sooner meet up with
Blackbeard's ghost. Are ye badly hurt?"
"Like a man hanged by the neck, Joe, but no mortal wounds. Had we minded
Uncle Peter we would be safe in the sloop by now. One more day of
hunting that filthy treasure undid us."
The half dozen Yemassees squatted about them, talking in low tones, and
offered no further violence. Presumably they were waiting for daybreak,
having conveyed their prisoners beyond all chance of rescue. The two
lads shivered with fear and weariness. They were bruised and breathless
and the thongs which tightly bound their wrists made their arms ache
intolerably. Bitter was the regret at invading this baleful Cherokee
swamp when they might have remained safe from all harm in pleasant
Charles Town.
Sadly they watched the eastern sky grow brighter while the gloom of the
desolate swamp turned wan and gray. The Indian captors became visible,
brown, half-naked men wearing leggings and breech-clouts of tanned
deerskin. Two of them carried muskets. They were not made hideous by
war-paint, as Jack Cockrell was quick to note. He said to his companion:
"A hunting party, Joe. They were spying on our camp, like enough, or
keeping watch of the pirates. No doubt they wonder why white men come to
fight one another in the swamp."
"They will wish to find out from us," was the hopeful reply. "They seem
a deal more curious than bloodthirsty. A stout heart, say I, and we may
weather it yet."
Soon the lads were roughly prodded ahead and went stumbling and
splashing through the marshy verdure and slippery ooze until they came
to higher ground and easier walking. Upon this ridge they descried the
camp of the Yemassees--huts fashioned of poles and bark and boughs, a
freshly killed deer hanging from a tree, smoke rising from beneath a
huge iron kettle, plump, naked children scampering in play with several
barking dogs, the squaws shrilly scolding them. Several warriors lazily
emerged from the huts, yawning, brushing the long black hair from their
eyes.
They moved more actively at perceiving the procession which approached
from the swamp. Two or three ran back to the largest shelter and
presently a big-bodied, middle-aged man strode out, his mien stern and
dignified, his rank denoted by the elaborate fringed tunic of buckskin
and the head-dress of heron plumes. He shouted something in a sonorous
voice. The hunting party hastened forward, dragging the two English lads
by the elbows and flinging them down at the feet of the chief. He stood
with arms folded across his chest, scowling, formidable.
Then he spoke a few words of broken English, to the astonishment of the
captives. He mentioned the names of settlements on the Cape Fear River
where, it was inferred, he had been on friendly terms with the
colonists. His manner was not so much hostile as questioning. In Charles
Town both Joe and Jack had learned the common phrases of the Indian
tongue such as were used among the merchants and traders. Pieced out
with signs and gestures, they were able to carry on a halting dialogue
with the chief of this small band.
They were able to comprehend that he hated pirates above all other men.
He recognized the name of Blackbeard and indicated his great joy that
this eminent scoundrel had met his just deserts. Many times the
freebooters of the coast had hunted and slain the Indians for wanton
sport. And perhaps the word had sped of that expedition of Captain Stede
Bonnet out of Charles Town when he had exterminated the Yemassees who
had set out to harry and burn the near-by plantations. The two uneasy
lads felt that they still stood in the shadow of death unless they could
persuade the chief that they were not pirates, that they were in no way
to be confused with the crew of blackguards which had ascended the creek
in the pinnace.
The chief delayed his judgment. Two young men lifted the huge kettle
from the fire. It was steaming with a savory smell of stewed meat. The
captives were invited to join the others in spearing bits of venison
with sharpened sticks. Chewing lustily, with a noble appetite, Joe
Hawkridge confided:
"My spirits rise, Jack. An empty belly always did make a coward of me.
How now, my lusty cockerel? Shall we flap our wings and crow?"
"Crow we must, or have our necks wrung as pirates," said Jack, gnawing a
bone. "Which one of us shall make the first oration?"
"The nephew of the Councilor, of course," cried Joe, "with his cargo of
Greek and Latin education. Make a power of noise, Jack."
And now indeed did young Master Cockrell prove that all those drudging
hours with snuffy Parson Throckmorton had not been wasted. Standing in
an open space, clear of the crowd, he addressed the chief in loud and
impressive language. The gist of it was that he and his friends were the
sworn foes of all pirates and especially anxious to rid the world of
such vermin as those that had come into the Cherokee swamp in the great
ship's boat and were encamped on the bank of the creek.
This other peaceful party entrenched on the knoll were honest,
law-abiding men of Charles Town who would harm no one. They had come in
search of pirates' gold. If the chief of the Yemassees would join forces
with them and smoke the pipe of peace, they would drive those foul
pirates out of the Cherokee swamp. And should the gold be found, it
would be fairly divided between the godly men of Charles Town and their
Indian allies. To bind this bargain Master Cockrell and Master Hawkridge
were ready to pledge their honor and their lives.
It was a most eloquent effort delivered with much gesticulation. The
Yemassee braves set in a circle and grunted approval. They liked the
sound and fury of it. Jack hurled scraps of Homer and Virgil at them
when at a loss for resounding periods. The chief nodded his
understanding of such words as _pirates_ and _gold_ and actually smiled
when Jack's pantomime depicted the death of Blackbeard on the deck of
his ship. _Gold_ was a magic word to these Indians. It would purchase
muskets and powder and ball, cloth and ironmongery and strong liquors
from the white men of the settlements.
The chief discussed it with his followers. During the lull Joe
Hawkridge said, with a long sigh of relief:
"My scalp itches not so much, Jack. The notion of having it twisted off
with a dull blade vexed me. Ye did wondrous well. The mouth of Secretary
Peter Forbes would ha' gaped wide open."
"Much sound and little sense, Joe, but methinks it hit the target. I
took care to sprinkle it with such words as yonder savage could bite
on."
"If we find no gold, the fat may be in the fire again, but it gives us
time to draw breath."
They rubbed their chafed wrists and sat on the ground while the savages
held a long pow-wow. The chief was explaining the purport of Master
Cockrell's impressive declamation. There was no enmity in the glances
aimed at the English lads. It was more a matter of deliberation, of
passing judgment on the truth or the falsity of the story. It was plain
to read that the Yemassees desired to lay greedy hold of Blackbeard's
gold. They were like children listening to a fairy tale. The fat little
papooses crawled timidly near to inspect the mysterious strangers and
scrambled away squealing with delicious terror.
The hours passed and the verdict was delayed. Two young braves stole
away into the pine woodland on some errand, at the behest of the chief.
It was after noon when they returned. With them came a dozen Yemassee
warriors from another hunting camp, strong, quick-footed men in light
marching order who were armed with long bows and knives. The chief spoke
a few words and mustered his force. All told he had more than thirty
picked followers. The English lads were told to move with them.
In single file the band flitted silently along the ridge and plunged
into the swamp. The prisoners were closely guarded. At the slightest
sign of treachery the long knives would slither between their ribs. This
they well knew and their devout prayer was that their friends on the
knoll might not commit some rash act of hostility and so ruin the
enterprise. With heart-quaking trepidation they perceived at some
distance the rude barricade of logs and the yellow streaks of earth
hastily thrown up.
The cautious Yemassees concealed themselves as though the swamp had
swallowed them up. The chief made certain signs, and the lads understood
his meaning. Jack Cockrell ripped a sleeve from his shirt and tied it to
a stick as a flag of truce. Joe Hawkridge advanced with them, the
stalwart chief between them, his empty hands extended in token of peace.
The ambushed Yemassees, lying in the tall grass, were ready to let fly
with musket balls and flights of arrows or to storm the knoll.
A sailor on sentry duty gave the alarm and the lads saw a row of heads
bob above the logs, and the gleam of weapons. Then Captain Jonathan
Wellsby moved out into the open and was joined by Mr. Peter Forbes.
They stood gazing at the singular spectacle, the bedraggled runaways who
had vanished without trace, the odd flag of truce, the brawny, dignified
savage making signs of friendship. The men in the stockade were ordered
to lay down their arms. They came running out to cheer and wave their
hats.
Mr. Peter Forbes was torn betwixt affection and the desire to scold his
flighty nephew. They met half-way down the slope and Jack hastened to
explain:
"Before you clap us in irons as deserters, Uncle Peter, grant a parley,
if you please. Our lives hang by a hair."
"God bless me, boy, we thought the pirates had slain you both,"
spluttered Uncle Peter, a tear in his eye. "What means this tall
savage?"
"A noble chief of the Yemassees who used us with all courtesy," said
Jack.
Captain Wellsby had drawn Joe Hawkridge aside and was swiftly
enlightened concerning the alliance with the Indians. Presently they
were holding a conference, all seated together in the shade of a tree. A
tobacco pipe of clay, with a long reed for a stem, was lighted and
passed from hand to hand. The chief puffed solemnly with an occasional
nod and a grunt. It was agreed, with due ceremony, that the pirates
should be attacked in their camp and driven away. The Yemassee warriors
would make common cause with the Englishmen. As a reward, Blackbeard's
treasure was to be fairly divided, half and half.
The chief raised his voice in a long, deep shout of summons and his band
of fighting men emerged from their ambush in the swamp. There was no
reason for delaying the movement against the pirates. The Yemassees were
eager for the fray. They were about to advance through the swamp,
cunningly hidden, while the Englishmen followed at a slower pace to
spread out on the flanks. Just then there was heard a sudden and riotous
commotion among the pirates at the creek. It was a mad, jubilant uproar
as though some frenzy had seized them all. Bill Saxby leaned on his
musket and listened for a long moment.
"The rogues have fished up the sea-chest, by the din they make," said
he. "We left that sounding rod a-stickin' in the mud. They save us the
trouble, eh, Captain Wellsby?"
The skipper laughed in his beard and floundered ahead like a bear. Jack
Cockrell passed the word to the chief that the gold was awaiting them.
Like shadows the Yemassees drew near the creek and then, full-lunged,
terrific, their war-whoop echoed through the dismal Cherokee swamp.
Nimble Jack Cockrell was not far behind them, his heart pumping as
though it would burst.
He was in time to see four lusty pirates swaying at a rope which led
through the pulley-blocks of the spars that overhung the creek as a
tall derrick. They were hoisting away with all their might while there
slowly rose in air a mud-covered, befouled sea-chest all hung with weeds
and slimy refuse. Two other pirates tailed on to a guy rope and the
heavy chest swung toward the bank, suspended in air.
At this moment the screeching chorus of the Indian war-whoop smote their
affrighted ears, followed by the discharge of muskets. These startled
pirates let go the tackle and the guy rope and, with one accord, leaped
for the pinnace which floated close to the bank. The weighty sea-chest
swinging in air came down by the run as the ropes smoked through the
blocks. It had been swayed in far enough so that it fell not in the
water but upon the edge of the shore between the derrick spars. The
rusty hinges and straps were burst asunder as the treasure chest crashed
upon a log and cracked open like an egg.
Out spilled a stream of doubloons and pieces of eight, a cascade of gold
and silver bars, of jewels flowing from the rotten bags which had
contained them. In this extraordinary manner was the hoard of the
departed Blackbeard brought to light. The unfortunate pirates who had
found the spoils tarried not to gloat and rejoice. They appeared to have
urgent business elsewhere. In hot pursuit came the ravening Yemassees,
yelling like fiends, assisted by the reinforcements of Captain Jonathan
Wellsby.
What saved the lives of these panic-smitten pirates was the dramatic
explosion of that great treasure chest when it fell and smashed upon the
log. Indians and Englishmen alike forgot their intent to shoot and
slaughter. They rushed to surround the bewitching booty, to cut capers
like excited urchins.
"Share and share," roared Captain Wellsby, shoving them headlong. "Half
to the Yemassees and half to us. Our word is given. Stand back, ye
lunatics, while we do the thing with order and decency."
Already the pinnace was filled with cursing pirates who saw that the
game was lost. Some of them had left their weapons in camp, others fired
a few wild shots, but those who had any wit left were tugging at the
oars to make for the open sea.
"After 'em," roared Bill Saxby. "Follow down the creek to make sure they
do not molest our sloop."
A score of men, Indians included, jumped into the boat and pulled in
chase, no longer on slaughter bent. The only thought in their heads was
to despatch the errand and return to squat around the treasure chest.
Jack Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge remained to help scoop up the coin and
jewels and stow them in stout kegs and sacks. The stoical chief of the
Yemassees was grinning from ear to ear as he grunted:
"_Plenty gold. Good! Hurrah, boys!_"
Arm-in-arm Jack Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge danced a sailor's hornpipe
upon the splintered lid of Blackbeard's sea-chest while they sang with
all their might:
"For his work he's never loth,
An' a-pleasurin' he'll go,
Tho' certain sure to be popt off,
_Yo, ho, with the rum below._"
THE END
[Illustration]
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 34, "Steve" changed to "Stede" (Stede Bonnet frowned)
Page 77, "than" changed to "them" (rally them for attack)
Page 85, "arsensal" changed to "arsenal" (arsenal of himself)
Page 306, "Yemasses" changed to "Yemassees" (The Yemassees were eager)