The Jolly Roger Tales: 60+ Pirate Novels, Treasure-Hunt Tales & Sea Adventures. Лаймен Фрэнк Баум

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      Chapter IX.

       Blackbeard's Errand Is Interrupted

       Table of Contents

      Blackbeard's deep-laden boat was rowed on past the pirogue and turned to follow the channel of the sluggish stream. Bill Saxby thrust aside the cover of grass and boughs and shoved the log canoe out of the cove. So crooked was the course of the creek that the boat was already out of sight and by stealthy paddling it was possible to pursue undetected. Old Trimble Rogers had forgotten his lust to slay Blackbeard. His gloating imagination could picture the contents of that massive sea-chest after a long cruise in southern waters.

      It was foolish to attempt to surprise Blackbeard while afloat in the creek. In a race of it, the handy cock-boat could pull away from the clumsier pirogue manned by two paddles only, for Trimble Rogers was needed to steer and be ready with the musket. This was their only firearm, which Bill Saxby had snatched up during the flight from the camp. At the same time he had lifted a powder-horn and bullet pouch from a wounded pirate.

      "If I do bang away and miss him," grumbled Trimble Rogers, "he's apt to pepper us afore I can reload."

      "But you forswore shootin' him," chided Bill Saxby, between strokes of the paddle.

      "Show me a great sea-chest crammed wi' treasure and I'd put a hole through the Grand High Panjandrum hisself," replied the ancient one. "Aye, Bill, there be more'n one way to skin an eel. We'll lay aboard this bloody blow-hard of a Cap'n Teach whilst he's a-buryin' of it. Here may well be where he has tucked away his other plunder. What if we bag the whole of it?"

      "One more fling, eh, Trimble, and more gold than ye lugged on your back from Guayaquil," grinned young Bill.

      They had spoken in cautious tones and now held their tongues. The paddles dipped with no more than a trickle of water and the canoe hugged the marsh. They were close to the next bend of the stream and the sound of the oars in the cock-boat was faintly audible. As the tallest of the three, the old man stood up after swathing his head in dried grass, and gazed across the curve of the shore. By signs he told his companions that Blackbeard was bound farther up the stream.

      They waited a little, giving their quarry time to pass beyond another turn of the channel. Jack Cockrell was embarked on the most entrancing excursion of his life. This repaid him for all he had suffered. His only regret was that poor Joe Hawkridge had been marooned before he could share this golden adventure. However, he would see that Joe received a handsome amount of treasure. Trimble Rogers was muttering again, and thus he angrily expounded a grievance:

      "A thief is this Cap'n Teach,—like a wild hog, all greed and bristles. 'Tis the custom of honest buccaneers and pirates to divide the spoils by the strict rule,—six shares for the commander, two for the master's mate, and other officers accordin' to their employment, with one share to every seaman alike. Think ye this bloody pick-purse dealt fairly by his crew? In yon sea-chest be the lawful shares of all the woesome lads he marooned this day. An' as much more as he durst skulk away with."

      "Easy, now, old Fire-and-Brimstone," warned Bill, "or that temper will gain the upper hand. Don't spoil the show by bombardin' Blackbeard with that cross-eyed musket."

      Now here was young Master Cockrell, a gentleman and a near kinsman of a high official who had sworn to hang every mother's son of a pirate that harried Carolina waters. And yet this godly youth was eager to lay hands on Blackbeard's treasure so as to divide it among the pirates who had been robbed of it. It was a twisted sense of justice, no doubt, and a code of morals turned topsy-turvy, but you are entreated to think not too harshly of such behavior. Master Cockrell had fallen into almighty bad company but the friends he had made displayed fidelity and readiness to serve him.

      "How far will the chase lead us?" he inquired.

      "Did you men come down this same creek in the pirogue?"

      "Aye, in this very same mess o' pea soup and jungle," answered Bill Saxby. "Two miles in from the coast, at a venture, was where we stumbled on the canoe and tossed the Indians out of it. Beyond that the water spreads o'er the swamp with no fairway for a boat."

      Once more they paddled for a short stretch and then repeated the stratagem of hauling into the dense growth of the mud-flat and pausing until the cock-boat had steered beyond the next elbow of the stream. It became more and more difficult to avoid the fallen trees and other obstructions, but Blackbeard was threading his course like a pilot acquainted with this dank and somber region. The pirogue ceased to lag purposely but had to be urged in order to keep within striking distance.

      Twice they were compelled to climb out and shove clear of sunken entanglements or slimy shoals. But when they held themselves to listen, they could still hear the measured thump of oars against the pins, like the beat of a distant drum in the brooding silence of this melancholy solitude. They had struggled on for perhaps a mile and a half, in all, when Trimble Rogers ordered another halt. He was perplexed, like a hound uncertain of the scent. From the left bank of the creek, a smaller stream meandered blindly off into the swamp. Into which of these watercourses had Blackbeard continued his secret voyage?

      Again they listened, and more anxiously than ever. The tell-tale thump of the oars had ceased. The only sounds in the bayou were the trickle of water from the tidal pools, the wind in the tree-tops, the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker, and the scream of a bob-cat. With a foolish air of chagrin, Trimble Rogers rubbed his hoary pate and exclaimed:

      "Whilst Bill and me were a-paddlin' this hollow log down-stream, we took no heed of a fork like this yonder. With the sun at our backs to guide us, we knew we was makin' easterly to fetch the coast. What say, Bill?"

      "Cursed if I know. Spin a coin. The treasure has slipped us."

      "Rot me if it has!" snarled the old man. "We'll push on as we are, in the bigger stream. That stinkin' ditch on my left hand looks too weedy and shallow to float a boat."

      "It makes no odds. A gamester's choice," amiably agreed Bill.