A stiff easterly breeze whitened the gray seas next morning. It was
cloudy and seemed to be getting ready for a blow. The pirate and her
prize had drifted all night, bound together, and as day broke a tipsy
lookout spied land to the westward. Herriot came on deck hastily at the
call and himself went to the rail to heave the lead. The soundings
showed a bare four fathoms of water. Bonnet was summoned and the crew,
hardly recovered from their orgy, staggered about the deck preparing to
get under way again. Seven men, under Dunkin, were told off to man the
_Francis._ A dozen others were needed to plug her shot-holes before she
was really seaworthy. This task being finally accomplished, the ropes
were taken off, the sails run up and the two sloops, closehauled to
starboard, set about beating off shore.
It was a terrible day for Jeremy and Bob. In the crew there was the
regular fighting, swearing and vomiting that always followed a night of
carousal. The fact that they were short-handed made the work harder and
the grumbling louder than ever. The bow of the _Royal James_ was partly
shot away above the bits, and there was a full day's work for every hand
that could be spared rigging canvas over the gap to prevent its taking
in water in case of a storm. Meanwhile the fo'c's'le was in as filthy a
state as could well be imagined. Herriot thrust his head down the hatch
once during the morning and as he caught the sickening stench of the
place he called the two boys, who had been up forward helping the
patching.
"Here, young 'uns, get below and clean up," he ordered sharply, and
handed each lad a bucket and a deck-brush. They filled the buckets and
went below reluctantly. At first it was impossible for them to stay
under hatches for more than five minutes at a time, so they took turns
in running up for air and a fresh supply of water. Gradually the
flooding they gave the place told in its atmosphere, and by noon they
had put it into decent shape again. Hardly had Jeremy come on deck,
weary and sickened with this task, when Captain Bonnet called to him
from the companion. He made his way aft and entered the cabin. Bonnet
had just resumed his place at the broad table. Opposite him and facing
Jeremy was the big slouched figure of Captain Manewaring. "Bring the
wine, Jeremy," said the buccaneer quietly, and without turning. He was
looking with steady eyes at his guest. Jeremy went back along the
passage to the wine-locker under the companion stairs and took from it
two bottles of Madeira. As he was closing the cupboard door, Bonnet's
voice cut the air like a knife. The two words he spoke were not loud,
but pronounced with a terrible distinctness. "You lie!" was what he
said.
Jeremy shivered and waited, listening. There was no reply loud enough
for him to hear through the closed door of the cabin. After a moment he
tiptoed back and before turning the knob listened again. Nothing but
silence. He opened the door with a pounding heart and stepped into the
room.
The two men sat motionless in their places. Bonnet held a cocked pistol
in his right hand, its point covering the other man's head. On the table
before Manewaring was a second pistol. His face was drawn and gray and a
fine sweat stood upon his forehead. Jeremy shrank against the wall,
hardly breathing, his two bottles clutched idiotically, one in each
hand. The tense seconds ticked on by the cabin clock.
"Come--quick!" said the pirate, with a gesture toward the other pistol.
Manewaring's hand appeared over the edge of the table and gave a
trembling jerk toward the pistol-butt. Then it fell back into his lap.
He gasped. A drop of sweat ran down his temple into his gray beard.
Again the only sounds were the tick of the cabin clock, the wash of the
seas outside and the hoarse breathing of the cornered man. At length he
moved with a sort of shudder, whispered the name of his Maker and seized
the butt of the pistol desperately.
Bonnet had raised his weapon, pointing to the ceiling. "I shall count
three, then fire," said he in the same even voice.
"One----" But before he spoke again his opponent had jerked his muzzle
down and fired. Bonnet must have seen the flash of the intention in his
eyes, for he threw himself to the left at that instant, and the shot
went crashing through a panel of the door. With the deliberate sureness
of Fate the pirate took aim at his adversary, who whimpered and
grovelled behind the table. Then he shot him. Jeremy's knees went limp,
but he saved himself from falling and managed to set the bottles on the
table.
Behind him as he staggered out, Stede Bonnet poured himself a glass of
wine and drank it with a steady hand. The boy met a crowd of men at the
head of the companion, but was too shaken to tell them what had
happened. Herriot, going below, heard the details of the duel from the
Captain's own lips. Under the sailing-master's orders the body of the
dead man was carried out on deck, sewed into a piece of sailcloth and
heaved over the rail without more ado. Jeremy made his way to his bunk
and told Bob the story between chattering teeth.
There was silence on the ship that afternoon. Bonnet's action had
sobered his rough company to the point where they ceased quarreling and
talked in undertones, gathering in little knots about the slanted deck
when not at work. The two boys were glad enough to be out of the way.
Jeremy, tired and discouraged, sat on the bunk's edge, his shoulders
hunched and his eyes on the floor. His young companion, who had more
cause for hope, watched him with sympathetic eyes. He could see that the
New England boy was too dejected even to try to plan their escape--the
usual occupation of their hours together. Finally he reached over, a bit
shyly, and gave him a friendly pat on the back.
"Brace up, Jeremy," he said. "You're clean tuckered out, but a rest and
a nap'll help. Here, cover yourself up and I'll do your work tonight.
Maybe I'll have a scheme thought up to tell you in the morning."
Jeremy cared little whether he slept or woke, for the events of the past
days, coupled with the disappointment of not being set ashore as he had
hoped, had brought even his determined courage to a low ebb. He was on
the verge of a fever, and Bob's prescription of rest and sleep was what
he most needed. Made snug at the back side of the berth, where little
or no light came, he fell into a fitful slumber. Bob took a last look to
see that his friend was comfortable and went on deck.
Pharaoh Daggs had taken a great deal of liquor the night before, as was
his wont when grog was being passed. The rum he consumed seemed to
affect him very little. No one ever heard him sing, though his cruel
face, with its awful, livid scar, would lean forward and sway to and fro
with the rhythm of the choruses. He could walk a reeling deck or climb a
slack shroud as well, to all appearances, when he had taken a gallon as
most men when they were sober. From Newfoundland to Trinidad he was
known among the pirates as a man whose head would stand drink like a
sheet-iron bucket. This reputation was made possible by the fact that he
was no talker at any time, and when in liquor clamped his jaws like a
sprung trap. Whatever effect the alcohol may have had upon his mind was
not apparent because no thoughts passed his lips. The rum did go to his
head, however. The instinctive effort of will that kept his legs steady
and his mouth shut had no root in thought. Behind the veil of those
light eyes, the brain of Pharaoh Daggs, drunk, was like a seething pit,
one black fuddle of ugliness. To compensate for the apparent lack of
effect of liquor upon him, the inward disturbance usually lasted long
after the more tipsy seamen had slept around to clear heads.
Today he lolled with his sneering face toward the weather beam, a figure
upon whose privacy no one would care to trespass. The sound of the shots
and the tale of the duel had neither one awakened in him any apparent
interest. Through the long afternoon till nearly five o'clock he
slouched by the fo'c's'le. Then with a leisurely stretch he walked to
the hatch, and peered down it. Wheeling about he scanned the deck
craftily, looking at all the men in turn, before he descended the
ladder.
In the half-light below he paused again, and seemed to send his piercing
glance into every bunk, from the forward to the after bulkhead. Finally,
satisfied that no one else was in the fo'c's'le, he went to his own
sleeping place, on the port side, and kneeling beside the berth hauled a
heavy sea-chest from beneath it.
Jeremy's light sleep was broken by a scraping sound close by. He opened
his eyes without moving, and from where he lay could see a man busy at
something opposite him. As the figure turned and straightened, he knew
it for the man with the broken nose. The boy was instantly on the alert,
for he had every reason to distrust Daggs. Without making a sound he
worked nearer to the edge of the bunk and pulled the cover up to hide
all but his eyes. The pirate hauled his chest out farther into the
middle of the floor, where more light fell.
[Illustration]
Then he knelt before it and unlocked it with a key which he took from
about his neck. Jeremy almost expected to see a heap of gold coin as the
lid was raised. He was disappointed. A garment of dark cloth, probably a
cloak, and some dirty linen were all that came to view. The buccaneer
lifted out a number of articles of seaman's gear and laid them beside
him. After them came a leather pouch, quite heavy, Jeremy thought. The
man raised it carefully and weighed it in his hand. It must have been
his portion of the spoils taken on the voyage. However, this was not
what he was after, it seemed, for a moment later it was laid on the
floor beside the other things. Next he removed two pistols and a second
pouch of the sort used for powder and shot. There was a long interval as
he rummaged in the bottom of the box, under other contents which Jeremy
could not see. At last the pirate stood up, holding a rolled paper tied
with string. Another long moment he peered about him and listened. When
he had reassured himself, he untied the string and opened the paper, a
square document, perhaps a foot each way. It was discolored and worn at
the edges, apparently quite old. What was inscribed on it Jeremy could
not see, stare as he might. Daggs examined it a moment, then knelt,
preoccupied, and spread it upon the floor. With one finger he traced a
line along it, zigzagging from one side diagonally to the foot, his lips
moving silently meanwhile. Then his other hand hovered above the
document for a time before he planted his thumb squarely upon a spot
near the top.
Jeremy's thoughts kept time with his racing heart. He watched every
motion of the buccaneer with a fierce intentness that missed no detail.
Daggs had been quiet for a full two minutes, a crafty gloating smile
playing over his thin lips. Now once more he touched a place upon the
sheet before him. "Right there, she'll be," he muttered. Then, after
slowly rolling up the paper, he replaced it and locked the box. The eyes
of the boy in the bunk gleamed excitedly, for he was sure now of the
nature of the document. Beyond any reasonable doubt, it was a chart.
"Solomon Brig's treasure!" he whispered to himself as the tall figure of
the man with the broken nose clambered upward through the hatch.