The Jolly Roger Tales: 60+ Pirate Novels, Treasure-Hunt Tales & Sea Adventures. Лаймен Фрэнк БаумЧитать онлайн книгу.
the reflection of a star in a muddy pool.
It was easy for Jack Cockrell to win his confidence. Few of his shipmates spoke kindly or showed pity for him. And their youth drew them together. Jack's motive was largely curiosity as soon as he discovered that here was one of Blackbeard's crew ready to confide in him. The two lads chatted in sheltered corners of the deck, between watches, or met more freely in the night hours. Jack shuddered at some of the tales that were told him but he harkened breathless and asked for more.
"Yes, this Blackbeard is the very wickedest pirate that ever sailed," said Joe Hawkridge in the most matter-of-fact tones. "You have found him merciful because he fears a mortal sickness will sweep through his ships."
"You have curdled my blood enough for now," admitted Jack. "Tell me this. What do they say of Captain Stede Bonnet? He chances to be a friend of mine."
Joe Hawkridge ceased to grin. He was startled and impressed. Real gentlemen like this young Cockrell always told the truth. Making certain that they could not be overheard, Joe whispered:
"What news of Stede Bonnet? You've seen him? When? Did he cruise to the north'ard? Has he been seen off Charles Town?"
"He came ashore not long ago, and invited me to dinner at the tavern with him," bragged Jack. "And he coaxed me to sign in his ship."
"Yes, you'd catch his eye, Cockrell, but listen! What ship had he, and how many men? God strike me, but I'll not tattle it. I'm true as steel to Stede Bonnet. If you love me, don't breathe it here."
"There is no love lost betwixt him and Blackbeard?" excitedly queried Jack.
"Mortal foes they be, if you ask Stede Bonnet."
Feeling sure he could trust this young Hawkridge, Jack informed him:
"Stede Bonnet flies his pennant in a fine brig, the Royal James, with seventy lusty rovers. But what about him, Joe? Why does he hate this foul ogre of a Blackbeard? Did they ever sail together?"
"'Twas in the Bay of Honduras. Captain Bonnet was a green hand at the trade but zealous to win renown at piratin'. And so he made compact with Blackbeard, to sail as partners. There was Stede Bonnet with a fine ship and his own picked crew. By treachery Blackbeard stole the vessel from him. Bonnet and his men were left to shift for 'emselves in a rotten old hulk that was like to founder in a breeze o' wind."
"But they stayed afloat and took them a good ship," proudly exclaimed Jack, with a personal interest in the venture.
"True, by what you say. D'ye see the Revenge yonder, Blackbeard's tall cruiser? The very ship he filched from Stede Bonnet by dirty stratagem and broken oaths!"
"Then the powder will burn when next they meet?"
"As long as there's a shot in the locker, Jack. And Blackbeard's men are ripe for mutiny. Let 'em once sight Stede Bonnet's topsails and——"
A gunner's mate broke into this interview with a cat-o'-nine-tails and flogged Joe Hawkridge forward to duty. He ducked and fled with a farewell grin at the nephew of the Secretary of the Council. Now all this was diverting enough to keep Jack from bemoaning his fate, but the other passengers counted the hours one by one and their hearts began to drum against their ribs. They scanned the sea and the harbor bar with aching eyes, for the two days were well-nigh spent and there was never a sign of the long-boat and the messengers with the ransom of medicines which should avert the sentence of death.
Sunrise of the second day brought them no comfort. The sea was gray and the sky leaden, without the slightest stir of wind. The drifting vessels rolled in a swell that heaved as smooth as oil. It was a calm which presaged violent weather. Against her masts the yards of the Plymouth Adventure banged with a sound like distant thunder and the idle canvas slatted to the thump of blocks and the thin wail of chafing cordage.
Captain Jonathan Wellsby was permitted the freedom of the poop by Blackbeard's sailing-master who seemed a sober and competent officer. They were seen to confer earnestly, as though the safety of the ship were uppermost in their minds. Soon the pirates of the prize crew were ordered to stow and secure all light sail and pass extra lashings about the boats and batten the hatches. They worked slowly, some of them shaking with fever, nor could kicks and curses and the sting of the whistling cat make them turn to smartly. The sailing-master signaled the Revenge to send off more hands but Blackbeard was either drunk or in one of his crack-brained moods. With a laugh he pulled a brace of pistols from his sash and blazed away at the Plymouth Adventure.
The two sloops of the pirate squadron had sagged down to leeward during the night and were trying to work back to their stations when the dead calm intervened. Their skippers had sense enough to read the weather signs and had begun to take in canvas. On board of the Revenge, however, there was aimless confusion, the mates making some attempt to prepare the ship for a heavy blow while Blackbeard defied the elements. His idea of arousing his men was to try potshots with his pistols as they crept out on the swaying spars.
It was quite apparent that the sailing-master was sorely needed in the Revenge, if order was to be brought out of this chaos, but he received no orders to quit the Plymouth Adventure. He was a proper seaman, Ned Rackham by name, who had deserted from the Royal Navy, after being flogged and keel-hauled for some trifling offense. Rumor had it that he was able to enforce respect from Blackbeard and would stand none of his infernal nonsense.
"In this autumn season we may catch a storm from the West Indies, Mr. Rackham," said Captain Wellsby. "The sea has a greasy look and this heavy ground swell is a portent."
"The feel of it is in the air, shipmaster. There fell an evil calm like this come two year ago when I was wrecked in a ship-of-the-line within sight of Havana. Four hundred men sank with her."
"If my sailors were not penned in the fo'castle——" suggested the merchant skipper.
"None o' that," was the stern retort. "This ship is a prize to Blackbeard and so she stays, and you will sink or swim with her."
The morning wore on and the two days of grace had passed for those doleful hostages in the Plymouth Adventure. They beheld the black flag hoisted to the rigging of the Revenge as a signal of tragic import, but the bandy-legged monster with the festooned whiskers was not to disport himself with this wanton butchery. The sky had closed darkly around the becalmed ships, in sodden clouds which were suddenly obscured by mist and rain while the wind sighed in fitful gusts. It steadied into the southward and swiftly increased in force until the sea was whipped into foam and scud.
Staunch and well-found, the Plymouth Adventure went reeling off across the spray-swept leagues of water, showing only her reefed topsails and courses. The two pirate sloops vanished beyond the curtain of mist. When last seen, one of them was dismasted and the other was laboring in grave peril. The Revenge loomed as a spectral shape while Blackbeard was endeavoring to get her running free in pursuit of the Plymouth Adventure. But slovenly, reckless seamanship had caught him unready. His sails were blowing to ribbons, ropes flying at loose ends, and it was with great difficulty that the vessel could be made to mind her tiller.
Already the sea was rising in crested combers which broke with the noise of thunder and the fury of the wind was insensate. Slowly the struggling Revenge dropped astern, yawing wildly, rolling her bulwarks under, splintered spars dangling from the caps. She was a crippled ship which would be lucky to see port again. It was to be inferred that Blackbeard had ceased to cut his mirthful capers on the poop and that he would have given bushels of doubloons to regain his sailing-master and men.
In the Plymouth Adventure things were in far better plight, even with the feeble, short-handed prize crew. Prudently snugged down in ample time, with extra hands at the steering tackles, they let her drive. She would perhaps wear clear of the coast and there was hope of survival unless the tempest should fairly wrench her strong timbers asunder.
Lashed to the weather rigging, Captain Jonathan Wellsby wiped the brine from his eyes and waved his arm at the helmsman, now to ease her a little, again to haul up and thus thwart some ravening sea which threatened to stamp his ship under. Sailing-Master Ned Rackham was content