Kate Bonnet. Frank R. Stockton
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supper, and he heard a great deal of talk. Among other things he heard a bit of conversation which, when expurgated of its oaths and unpleasant expressions, was like this:
"You are sure you can trust the men?" said Black-hair.
"Oh, yes!" replied the other, "they're all right."
"Then why don't you go now? At any time officers may be rowing out here to search the vessel."
"And well they might. For what needs an old farmer with an empty vessel, a crew of seventy men, and ten guns? He is in trouble, you may wager your life on that, or he would be coming to see about his girl."
"And what will you do about her?"
"Oh, she'll not be in the way," answered Big Sam with a laugh. "If he doesn't take her off before I sail, that's his business. If I am obliged to leave port without his cash-box, I will marry his daughter and become his son-in-law—I don't doubt we can find a parson among all the rascals on board—then, perhaps, he will think it his duty to send me drafts to the different ports I touch at."
At this good joke, both of them laughed.
"But I don't want to go without his cash-box," continued Big Sam, "and I will wait until high-tide, which will be about ten o'clock. It would be unsafe to miss that, for I must not be here to-morrow morning. But the long-boat will be here soon. I told Roger to wait until half-past nine, and then to come aboard with old Bonnet or without him, if he didn't show himself by that time."
"But, after all," said the black-haired man, "the main thing is, will the men stand by you?"
"You needn't fear them," said the other with an aggravated oath, "I know every rascal of them."
"Now, then," said Dickory Charter to himself as he slipped out of the chains, "she goes overboard, if I have to pitch her over."
Nothing had he heard about Ben Greenway. He did not believe that the Scotchman had deserted his young mistress; even had he been sent for to go on shore in haste, would he leave without speaking to her. More than that, he would most likely have taken her with him.
But Dickory could not afford to give much thought to Ben Greenway. Although a good friend to both himself and his mother, he was not to be considered when the safety of Mistress Kate Bonnet was in question.
The minutes moved slowly, very slowly indeed, as Kate sat, listening for the sound of the old clock, and at the same time listening for the sound of approaching footsteps.
It was now so dark that she could not have seen anybody without a light, but she could hear as if she had possessed the ears of a cat.
She had ceased to expect her father. She was sure he had been detained on shore; how, she knew not. But she did know he was not coming.
Presently the old clock struck, one, two—In a moment she was climbing over the rail. In the darkness she missed the heavy bit of rope which Dickory had showed her, but feeling about she clutched it and let herself down to the ledge below. Her nerves were quite firm now. It was necessary to be so very particular to follow Dickory's directions to the letter, that her nerves were obliged to be firm. She slipped still farther down and sat sideways upon the narrow ledge. So narrow that if the vessel had rolled she could not have remained upon it.
There she waited.
Then there came, sharper and clearer out of the darkness in the direction of the town, the first stroke of nine o'clock from the tower of the new church. Before the second stroke had sounded she was hanging by her two hands from the ledge. She hung at her full length; she put her feet together; she hoped that she would go down smoothly and make no splash. Three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—and she let her fingers slip from the ledge. Down she went, into the darkness and into the water, not knowing where one ended and the other began. Her eyes were closed, but they might as well have been open; there was nothing for her to see in all that blackness. Down she went, as if it were to the very bottom of black air and black water. And then, suddenly she felt an arm around her.
Dickory was there!
She felt herself rising, and Dickory was rising, still with his arm around her. In a moment her head was in the air, and she could breathe. Now she felt that he was swimming, with one arm and both legs. Instinctively she tried to help him, for she had learned to swim. They went on a dozen strokes or more, with much labour, until they touched something hard.
"My boat," said Dickory, in the lowest of whispers; "take hold of it."
Kate did so, and he moved from her. She knew that he was clambering into the boat, although she could not see or hear him. Soon he took hold of her under her arms, and he lifted with the strength of a young lion, yet so slowly, so warily, that not a drop of water could be heard dripping from her garments. And when she was drawn up high enough to help herself, he pulled her in, still warily and slowly. Then he slipped to the bow and cast off the rope with which the canoe had been anchored. It was his only rope, but he could not risk the danger of pulling up the bit of rock to which the other end of it was fastened. Then, with a paddle, worked as silently as if it had been handled by an Indian, the canoe moved away, farther and farther, into the darkness.
"Is all well with you?" said Dickory, thinking he might now safely murmur a few words.
"All well," she murmured back, "except that this is the most uncomfortable boat I ever sat in!"
"I expect you are on my orange basket," he said; "perhaps you can move it a little."
Now he paddled more strongly, and then he stopped.
"Where shall I take you, Mistress Bonnet?" he asked, a little louder than he had dared to speak before.
Kate heaved a sigh before she answered; she had been saying her prayers.
"I don't know, you brave Dickory," she answered, "but it seems to me that you can't see to take me anywhere. Everything is just as black as pitch, one way or another."
"But I know the river," he said, "with light or without it. I have gone home on nights as black as this. Will you go to the town?"
"I would not know where to go to there," she answered, "and in such a plight."
"Then to your home," said he. "But that will be a long row, and you must be very cold."
She shuddered, but not with cold. If her father had been at home it would have been all right, but her step-mother would be there, and that would not be all right. She would not know what to say to her.
"Oh, Dickory," she said, "I don't know where to go."
"I know where you can go," he said, beginning to paddle vigorously, "I will take you to my mother. She will take care of you to-night and give you dry clothes, and to-morrow you may go where you will."
CHAPTER IV ON THE QUARTER-DECK
AS the time approached when Big Sam intended to take the Sarah Williams out of port, it seemed really necessary that Mistress Kate Bonnet should descend from the exposed quarterdeck and seek shelter from the night air in the captain's cabin or in her own room; and, as she had treated him so curtly at his last interview with her, he sent the elderly man with the mild countenance to tell her that she really must go below, for that he, Big Sam, felt answerable to her father for her health and comfort. But when the elderly man and his lantern reached the quarter-deck, there was no Mistress Kate there, and, during the rapid search which ensued, there was no Mistress Kate to be found on the vessel.
Big Sam was very much disturbed; she must have jumped overboard. But what a wild young woman to do that upon such little provocation, for how should she know that he was about to run away with her father's vessel!
"This is a bad business," he said to the black-haired man, "and who would have thought it?"