by Howard Pyle
Jack lingered for a while, and at first the captain’s wife, busied about her patient, did not see him. Presently the young lady began to cry weakly, and then Betty Teach looked up. “You go down-stairs, too,” she said.
“Can’t I do something to help you?” said Jack, gulping at the sympathetic lump that rose in his throat.
“No, you can’t,” she said, sharply, “except to do as I bid you.” And then Jack followed the captain down into the kitchen.
“They do say,” Mr. Knight was saying, “that there was twenty casks of rum aboard. Well, if that be true, methinks I can help you to rid yourself of some of them at a fair price. Hotchkiss, here, is on his way to Philadelphia, and will take six of them to Mr. West, who’ll handle them as my agent, if you choose to have it so. I dare say he’ll get the best there is out of them for you.”
“The purchase isn’t condemned yet,” said Blackbeard, sullenly.
“Oh, well, ‘twill make no difference just to take a little rum,” said Mr. Knight. “I’ll make that all right with his Excellency.”
Blackbeard sat gloomily without speaking. “Where is the rum?” said Captain Hotchkiss.
“It’s aboard the bark,” said Blackbeard, shortly. “I’ve got a keg of it aboard the sloop, if you choose to come and sample it.” His lowering mood still brooded heavily upon him, but he arose, took down his hat gloomily, and without saying anything further, stalked out of the house, leaving his two visitors to follow him as they chose.
“I’ve a great mind,” said Jack to himself, “to ask Captain Hotchkiss if he won’t take me away to Philadelphia with him.” But he did not do so.
CHAPTER XXXIII
HOW JACK RESOLVED
JACK, MISSING A full night of young, wholesome sleep, dozed a great deal of the afternoon, lying stretched out uncomfortably upon a bench in the kitchen. Dred and Morton talked intermittently, and the occasional growling tenor of their voices mingled ever with his half dreams; an occasional expression striking out now and then from the monotone of words, and rousing him to a fleeting consciousness. Then there would be long pauses of silent tobacco-smoking, in which he would fall to dreaming again.
Ever since the day before, his bosom had been growing more and more full of the thought of the young lady. Now his thoughts recurred to her again and again in his half-waking dozings, remembering always how he had found her in the swamp and how he had covered her cold shoulders with his own coat, how he had lifted her soft swooning body from the floor, how her black hair fell in a cloud over his arm. He seemed to sense again the singular fragrance of her presence, and at times of his half sleeping he would almost feel the touch of her damp chin upon his hand as he buttoned the coat at her throat. There was a strange, keen pleasure in thus dreaming about her, and he yielded himself entirely to it.
Equally present in this half-waking sleep was the fact of the return of the pirates. Once he fancied very vividly that he was on board of the French bark, and that he was trying to escape in her with Miss Eleanor Parker, and that the forecastle was smeared all over with blood. He saw the scene very vividly — almost as though it stood actually before his eyes. Two voices were speaking somewhere, and then he awoke to hear Dred and Morton talking together again.
That evening after supper he rowed Morton up to the town. He himself had made many acquaintances at Bath Town during the two months or more of his life at the pirate’s house. Everybody grew to know him very well — his history, of his family, of his prospects. They used to call him “Gentleman Jack,” and showed him a sort of consideration they would not have done had he not had such advantages of birth and breeding. He used often to go up in the skiff of an evening, to sit and talk at some gathering-place of the planters and the town’s people, returning perhaps late at night through the hollow solitude of the watery silence.
This evening he went with Morton from place to place, watching him as he drank rum, listening to his talk, and sometimes joining in what was said. The town, as has been said, was full of the news of the pirates’ return and of the rich prize they had made, and Morton was welcomed everywhere. He was drinking very freely, and, as he went from house to house, he talked ever more and more openly about the circumstances of the capture of the prize. It almost seemed to Jack as though he himself had part and parcel in it all by virtue of being a member of the pirate’s household. Ordinarily he would have taken great delight in listening to what was said and in saying his say concerning it, but now a strong desire for her presence hung continually over him, urging him almost uncomfortably to get back home again.
So it was that he did not stay very long up in the town, but returned before the night had altogether fallen, and while a pallid light still lingered in the western sky, making it faintly luminous. As he rowed slowly down the smooth stretch of water, solitary and alone, the joy of that strong yearning to be near her again seemed to fill everything, and, as he listened absently to the rhythmic chugging jerk of the oars in the rowlocks, and as he looked out astern at the long, trailing, oily wake that the boat left behind it along the glassy smoothness of the water, he thought of her, bearing strongly upon the thought, and holding it close to him.
He built up incoherent plans for comforting her, for helping her. He had thought a score of times that day about the possibility of helping her to escape, and now in the dusk and the solitude the disjointed thoughts began to assume almost the vividness of reality, and once or twice he thrilled with a quick, keen, nervous pang as though he were upon the eve of actually fulfilling some such determination. These vague plans did not take any definite shape excepting that he said to himself that he might carry her back home as she had been brought thither, and maybe that he might take the big yawl-boat that the pirates had brought back with them in the tow of the sloop, and which now again lay drawn up on the beach near to the landing wharf. Beyond this he had not thought of any plan for taking her away, but only dwelt upon the delight of being with her for such a long time and of taking care of her.
His mind was full of such thoughts as he ran the skiff upon the half sandy, half muddy strip of beach beside the landing wharf, driving the bow of the boat far up on the shore with two or three quick pulls of the oar, and the desire for her presence was so strong upon him that when he reached the house he leaned the oars against the side of the wooden wall, and went around to the further end of the building, where the window of her room opened out to the westward.
Excepting for this window, that side of the house was not inhabited, the lower windows of the bleak and naked parlor being nearly always closed. He had been there before, and as he went thither now, he remembered, with a kind of sudden joy, how he had brought to her one evening two or three peaches that he had gathered at Trivett’s plantation, and how he had thrown them up to her as she leaned out of the window to catch them, and of how he had lingered a little while to talk with her.
The window of her room was open, but there was no light within, and all was very silent. After a moment’s hesitation he called softly, in a tone that was rather a loud whisper than a voice, “Young lady! Mistress! Miss Eleanor!” and then presently again, “Young lady, are you there? ’Tis I, Jack — Jack Ballister.” He waited, looking up, but still there was no reply. By and by he was about to go away, but at the moment he thought he saw a movement at the window. Then her face appeared, shadow-like, above the ledge. “Who is it?” she whispered. “Is that Jack Ballister?”
“Yes,” said Jack, “’tis I. Tell me, mistress, how do you do by now? Do you feel better?”
“Ay,” she answered. “I’m better now than I was. I’ve been ill all afternoon, but I’m feeling better now. But why did you call me?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jack. “I’ve been up to the town, and I was thinking about you. I’ve been thinking about you all day. I felt mightily sorry for you, and I was wondering how you did. I’m glad you’re better now than you were.”
She did not speak immediately; then she said: “Yes, I’m better now th
an I was.”
There was something in the undertone of her voice that seemed to him to bespeak that she had been crying, and was near crying again. The thought that she had been crying struck him very sharply. He stood silent for a moment or two, and then, as though for confirmation, he asked: “What is it, mistress? Has anything — have they been troubling you again? Tell me, have you been crying?” She did not reply. “I know something hath happened,” he whispered. “Tell me what it is,” and then he knew that she was crying now.
“’Tis not much,” she said after a while, during which he stood there not knowing just what to say or do. “’Tis only a little thing. They have taken my clothes away from me, and locked the door so that I sha’n’t run away again. That is all,” and as she spoke he could see, but darkly, the flicker of her handkerchief as she wiped her eyes.
“Taken your clothes!” cried Jack. “Who has taken your clothes?”
“Mistress Teach has just been in and taken them away. Captain Teach went to bed a long while ago, and he sent her to take them away. There, go away, please; you make me cry again, and I am a fool to cry so and for such a little thing.” And then, breaking down, she burst out, almost passionately, “I don’t know why they treat me so!”
Jack stood silent in the presence of her sudden emotion, but still he did not know how to go away and leave her. “There, there, mistress!” he said, awkwardly, “don’t you take it so bitterly; it will all come right in the end, I know that, so don’t cry any more.” Then, feeling the barren inconsequence of his words, he continued, “Do you know what I was thinking as I rowed down from the town just now? I was thinking that I would try to help you to get away from here and back home again, so don’t cry any more.” Then he added, “If you’ll bid me, I’d take you away to-night — I would, and carry you back to Virginia again.”
“No,” she said, in a voice stifled with the restraint she was putting upon herself. “’Tis no use to try to escape. I tried, and I couldn’t get away. I know I’ll never be able to get away from here. I feel that I never shall.” Then she suddenly gave way, and her crying became so vehement that Jack began to be afraid that some one would hear it. “Hush!” he whispered sibilantly, “they’ll hear you.”
“I can’t help it,” she gasped. “Go away, please.”
At that moment some one opened the door at the further end of the house, and a light shone out from the kitchen. Jack instantly slipped away into the darkness around the corner of the building. He waited for a time, but no one came. After a while he peeped around the further corner, but whoever it was that had opened the door had gone back into the house. Then he went around and into the kitchen without trying again to speak to the young lady; but his heart was full of and heavy with pity for her.
Betty Teach and Dred were both in the kitchen when Jack came in — Dred smoking his pipe, the pirate’s wife busied about her work. There was a bundle of clothes lying upon the table, and Jack, as he stood with his back to the fireplace, knew that it belonged to the young lady.
“Did Morton come back with you?” asked Dred.
“No,” said Jack, shortly; and then he added, “He said he’d stay up there all night to-night and be back to-morrow.”
Betty Teach picked up the bundle of clothes and, lifting the lid of the hutch, flung it in, banged down the lid and turned the key, all in the same moment. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “I’ve been up and on my feet ever since midnight, and I’m tired to the marrow.”
A sudden anger flamed up within Jack. “’Tis a bleeding shame,” he cried out, “for you to treat the young lady so and take her clothes from her that way, and to lock her in her room besides.”
Betty Teach turned quickly on him. “Who told you I’d took her clothes away from her and locked her in her room?” she asked, sharply.
Jack hesitated for a moment. “Can’t I see for myself?” he said. “Ain’t those her clothes you’ve locked up in the chest?”
“But who told you I’d locked her in her room?” Betty Teach insisted. “Come, tell me, who told you?”
Then Jack answered, almost sullenly, “Well, if you must know, I stopped on my way up from the boat to ask the young lady how she did, and she told me you’d locked her up and taken her clothes away from her.”
“And so you’ve been around back of the house speaking to her, have you? I thought I heard some one talking outside. And so ’twas you, was it?”
“Well,” said Jack, “and what if it was? What harm was there in my talking to her?”
“Harm!” said Betty Teach. “You’ll see what harm there’s in it if Ned catches you at it, after what happened yesterday. He’ll harm you, I promise you that. ’Tis good for you he’s so dead asleep as not to hear you. He’d harm you with a bullet in your head if he caught you or anybody else hanging around her window out there at night after her trying to run away.”
“No he wouldn’t, neither,” said Jack, stoutly.
“Wouldn’t he?” said Betty. “Well, you just try it again some fine day when he’s about, and you’ll see quicker than you like,” and then she went out of the room and up-stairs to bed.
Jack still stood, and Dred still smoked his pipe in silence for a long while after the pirate’s wife had gone. At last Dred spoke. “It be true enough what she said, lad,” he said. “If you go meddling in this matter you’ll be getting yourself into sore trouble, as sure as you’re born. ’Tis none of your business to be meddling in it.”
“Who said I was meddling?” said Jack. “What have I been doing to meddle?”
Dred shrugged his shoulders and then smoked on for a long time in silence, during which Jack still stood sullenly in front of the fireplace. “Not that I blame you,” Dred suddenly said, as though following out some train of his own thoughts. “If I was a young lad like you be, I wouldn’t sit still to see a pretty young creature like this here young lady put upon as she’s put upon, neither. It ben’t my business no more than it’s yours — except I went up to Marlborough to help fetch her away. But sometimes I can’t abide it to see her sit there moping for day after day, getting sicker and sicker all the while, until some fine day she’ll just fall away and die under our very noses.”
“Die!” cried out Jack with a start, and then, after a moment’s pause, “What do you mean by that, Dred?”
“You’d better not talk so loud,” said Dred, “unless you want ’em to hear you up-stairs.”
“But what did you mean by saying she was going to die?” said Jack, in a lowered voice.
“I didn’t say she was going to die,” said Dred. “I said she was getting sicker all the time, and anybody as is that way stands a chance to die unless they gets better. And how’s she to get any better if she’s kept penned up here, moping for her own home? That’s what I meant when I said I didn’t blame you for making it your business.” Then, after a long while of silence, in which he puffed at his pipe, he continued, abruptly, “Ay, she’s growin’ more and more peaked all the time. She lies abed half the day, nowadays, and afore long, ’tis my belief, she’ll lie in bed all the time and never get up out of it again.”
Jack stood perfectly still, his hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets. He could not trust himself to speak. He did not know how long he stood there, but it must have been for a great while. Then Dred began again: “To my mind, ’twas an ill day when the captain undertook this business of kidnapping. Here he is now, with this young gell on his hands. He’s afraid to let her go, and if he keeps her cooped up she’s as like as not to die on his hands. He don’t know how to treat her, and he can’t contain hisself when she crosses him. Look at the way he talked to her to-day. A few more talks o’ that kind, and, he’ll kill her for sartin’. By blood! I wish I was well out of it all — I do. If she dies on our hands down here ‘twill be the worst day’s happening that ever fell on Bath Town. I’ve been thinking a deal about it lately, and sometimes ’twouldn’t take much to make me cut it all and get away from here.” And then presently he
added, “I don’t see as there’s over much profit in staying, as ’tis.” Again he smoked away at his pipe, puffing quickly to get it alight once more. Then by and by he began once more: “’Tis my belief the captain feels he’s being tricked by Mr. Parker, and that for some reason or other our gentleman hath no notion of ever having her fetched back again. Well, if he thinks that, ’tis my belief, too. Hotchkiss was saying this morning that there be news about that Colonel Parker’s fallen sick and’ll maybe die. And if he dies, and this young lady dies, your Mr. Parker’ll be a mightily rich man. Now you put two and two together, and how many does it make? If she dies, and her father dies, Mr. Parker’ll deny all blame in this matter, and more’n likely’ll come down and roast out the whole lot on us, just to show that he had naught to do in the business. Well, well, ’tis none of my business, but I only hope and pray that we sha’n’t all hang for doing what’ll profit him everything and won’t profit us anything. The captain might ha’ knowed he’d get naught out o’ this business to play ag’in such a sharp blade as Mr. Parker.”
All this time Jack had been standing dumbly, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Every word that Dred said impelled him more and more strongly to say what was in his mind, and every moment he was resolving more and more nearly to a culmination to say his say and to take Dred into his confidence. At last he did speak — it seemed to him almost before he had finally decided to do so. “Dred,” he said, and then, beginning again, “Dred, you told me a while ago that you didn’t blame me for making this my business. Well, I’m going to tell you something, Dred. I’ve been thinking that maybe I’d undertake to help the young lady to get away home again to Virginia.” He waited an instant, and then added, “When I spoke with her just now, outside yonder, I told her that if she called on me to do it, I’d help her to go away, even if it was this very night.”