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pirates of rising against Blackbeard to follow the fortunes of Sailing-Master Rackham. Here is the ship, as Joe says."
"It has a plausible sound," said Captain Wellsby. "My intention was to wait, but I shall have to strike first."
"Can we fight in this storm, sir, even if we manage to release our sailors?" asked Jack, very dismally.
"Not what we can, but what we must do," growled the stubborn British mariner. "The shame of striking my colors rankles like a wound. God helping me, we shall wipe out that stain if we drown in a sinking ship. I talk to you as a man, Master Cockrell, for such you have proven yourself. And who else is there to serve me in this adventure?"
"To set our sailors free, you mean, sir?" eagerly exclaimed Jack. "I took thought of that. There is nobody but me, neither your mates nor the passengers, who can pass among the pirates without suspicion. The knaves have humored me, hearing the tale of the pirate I knocked on the head and my braggart remark to Blackbeard. They have seen me about the decks with Joe Hawkridge as my boon comrade. 'Tis their fancy that I am likely to enlist."
"Well said, Jack," was the skipper's compliment. "Yes, you might make your way for'ard without interference,—but the fo'castle hatches are stoutly guarded. Again, should my brave fellows find exit, they are weaponless, unready. Moreover, they have been crammed in that dark hole, drenched by the sea, cruelly bruised by the tossing of the ship, and weakened for lack of food and air."
"Granted, sir," sighed Jack. "But if some message could be smuggled in to forewarn them of the enterprise,—would that brace 'em to the assault?"
"Will ye try it, Jack?" asked the skipper, with a note of appeal in his hearty voice. "I know not where else to turn. You take your life in your hands but——"
The shipmaster broke off with a grim smile. It was absurd to prate of life or death in such a strait as this. The boy reflected before he said:
"If—if I fail, sir, Joe Hawkridge will try to pass a message in to the men. You can depend on 't."
"A last resort, Jack. You vouch for him but I trust you far sooner. He has kept sorry company."
"When is the best hour, Captain Wellsby?"
"Just before nightfall when the watches will be changing. I dare not delay it longer than that. In darkness, my lads will be unable to find the foe and strike hard and quick. Nor can they rush to lay hold of the only weapons in their reach,—the pikes in the racks beside the masts. Not a pistol or cutlass amongst 'em, and they must fight with these wicked dogs of pirates who think naught of killing men."
"Let your lusty sailors once get clear, sir," stoutly declared Jack Cockrell, "and they will play a merry game with those long pikes. Then I am to slip the message written by your hand on a bit of paper?"
"That's it! I will command them to pound against the scuttle, three raps, for a signal of response, and you must listen for it. Then it is for them to stand ready, on the chance that you can slip the bar of the hatch or the bolts on the door."
"But if they have to come out singly, sir, and the sentries are ready-witted, why, your men may be cut down or pistoled in their tracks."
"I am so aware," said Captain Wellsby, his honest features glum, "but we cannot change the odds."
He found an ink-horn and quill and laboriously wrote a few lines on a leaf torn from the back of a sea-stained log-book. Jack tucked it carefully away and thus they parted company, perhaps to meet no more in life. Through the waning afternoon, Jack stowed himself on deck and held long converse with Joe Hawkridge when they met between the keel-chocks of the jolly-boat. Because he shared not the skipper's feeling of distrust, Jack sought the active aid of his chum of a pirate lad. It was agreed that they should endeavor to reach the forecastle together when the ship's bell tolled the hour of beginning the first night watch.
Joe hoped he might decoy or divert the sentries. If not, he had another scheme or two. A gunner's mate of the prize crew had sent him to overhaul the lashings of the battery of nine-pounders which were ranged along the waist. With several other hands Joe had made all secure, because the guns were apt to get adrift in such weather as this and plunge to and fro across the deck like maddened beasts. Now Joe Hawkridge had lingered, on pretext of making sure that one forward gun could be fired, if needs be, as a distress signal should the ship open her seams or strike upon a shoal.
He had satisfied himself that the tompion, or wooden plug which sealed the muzzle was tight, and that no water had leaked through the wrapping of tarred canvas which protected the touch-hole. Before replacing them, he had made two or three trips to the deck-house amidships in which was the carpenter's room. Each time he tucked inside his shirt as many forged iron spikes, bolts, and what not as he could safely carry.
Unobserved, he shoved this junk down the throat of the nine-pounder and wadded it fast with handfuls of oakum. He worked coolly, without haste, as agile as a monkey when the ship careened and the sea spurted through the cracks of the gun-ports. Well pleased with his task, he said to himself, with that grin which no peril could obliterate:
"God alone knows how I can strike fire to a match and keep it alight, but the sky shows signs of easier weather."
The fury of the storm had, indeed, diminished. It might be a respite before the wind hauled into another quarter and renewed its ferocious violence, but the air was no longer thick with the whirling smother of foam and spray and the straining topmasts had ceased to bend like whips. The ship was gallantly easing herself of the waves which broke aboard and the rearing billows astern were not threatening to stamp her under.
It lacked almost an hour of nightfall when Jack Cockrell crept along the poop and halted to lean against the timbered railing by the mizzen shrouds. All he could think of was that Ned Rackham might seize upon this sudden abatement of the gale to hasten his own wicked conspiracy and so ruin the plan to restore the Plymouth Adventure to her own lawful company. This menace had occurred to Captain Jonathan Wellsby who stood tense and rigid at the sailing-master's elbow, watching him from the tail of his eye.
Relief o'erspread the skipper's worn features when he espied Jack Cockrell who stood as if waiting for orders. A nod, a meaning glance, and they understood each other. Striving to appear unconcerned, Jack moved toward the forward part of the ship. He was aquiver with excitement, and his breath was quick and small, but the sense of fear had left him. Captain Wellsby had called him a man and, by God's sweet grace, he would so acquit himself.
The pirates were swarming out of the cabin to taste the clean air and limber their cramped muscles. The ship still wallowed as she ran before the wind and it was breakneck work to clamber about. From the topsail yards fluttered mere ribbons of canvas where the reefed sails had bellied. Ned Rackham shouted for the watch to lay aloft and cut the remnants clear and bend new cloths to keep her from broaching to.
Jack Cockrell's heart leaped for joy. At least a dozen of the most active pirates would have to obey this order. This would remove them from the deck for a precious interval of time. He slouched aimlessly nearer the forecastle, stretching his neck to gaze up at the pirates as they footed the ratlines and squirmed over the clumsy tops. Joe Hawkridge joined him, as if by chance, and they wandered to the lee side of the forecastle. There they were screened from the sight of the sentries.
The wooden shutters of the little windows had been spiked fast on the outside and Jack was at his wits' end to find by what means he might slip the fateful message to the captive seamen. He dared not climb upon the roof and seek for a crack in a hatchway. This would make him too conspicuous.
Cautiously he stole around the massive structure and was all but washed overboard when he gained the windward side where the water broke in hissing cataracts. So great had been its force during the height of the storm, that one of the shutters had been splintered and almost crushed in. Clutching the bit of paper which was tightly rolled and wrapped in a square of oiled linen, Jack pushed it through a ragged crevice in the shutter.
It was gravely doubtful whether the men would discover the message in the gloom of their prison. It might fall to the floor and be trampled unperceived. And yet Jack Cockrell could not make himself believe that deliverance would