Chapter XLVIII

JACK MEETS SOME OLD FRIENDS

IT was late in November when Mr. Burton returned to England. Jack accompanied him as far as Jamestown; and Mr. Simms, who had business at the factory at Yorktown, also went down in the schooner as far as that place.

The day was keen and clear, with a soft, cool wind blowing, before which the schooner sloped swiftly away, dropping the great brick front of Marlborough rapidly behind. The wide rush of air and water seemed very full of life and vigor, and Jack lay up under the weather-rail in the warm sunlight, wrapped in his overcoat and given up utterly to the building of day-dreams.

He had just parted from Nelly Parker, and his mind was very full of thoughts of her. She had been more than usually teasing that morning. “I believe you wouldn’t mind if I were going away from you forever,” Jack had burst out as they stood lingering in the wide sunlight in front of the great house. “I sometimes think that you have no heart in you at all.”

Then she looked at him with sudden seriousness. “Do you, then, really think that of me?” she said. “Well, then, I may tell you that I have a heart, and that it would, indeed, grieve me to the heart if you were going away forever.”

“Would it?” Jack had said.

“Yes. And see—if I have teased you too much, here is my hand.”

Jack took her soft, white hand in his; it was very warm. Then with a sudden impulse he lifted it to his lips and pressed a long, long kiss upon it. She did not withdraw it, and when he looked up he saw that she was still gazing very steadily at him. His heart was beating with exceeding quickness, but he looked as steadily back at her, though with swimming sight. Then she had burst out into a peal of laughter, had snatched her hand away, and had run away back into the house, leaving him standing where he was. Then he had hurried down toward the wharf, hardly sensing whither he was walking, and not answering Mr. Simms when the factor asked him what had kept him so long.

Long after they had dropped Marlborough away behind, he still lay in the sunlight under the rail, wrapped closely in his overcoat, his heart full of the thought of her. He was giving himself over luxuriously to that foolish day-dreaming to which adolescent youth loves to yield itself, and upon the funny inconsequence of which the matured man looks back and laughs from the firmer stand of later years. For one often remembers such dear, foolish day-dreams in after times.

He imagined to himself how he would have to go away to live in England. He would not come back again, he thought, until he had made himself famous; then he would return to her once more. Yes; while he was away from her he would become very famous. Maybe he would enter the navy. There would be a great war, and his ship would be in battle. He pictured to himself a terrible battle in which the senior officers would all be killed, so that it would depend upon him, the youngest of all, to save the ship. He would call upon the men to follow him, and then, in a last desperate, almost hopeless attack, he would rush aboard the enemy’s ship, his men close behind him. They would conquer, but he would have been shot through the arm, and his arm would have to be cut off, and he would go with an empty sleeve—it seemed very pathetic as he thought of it. All the world would talk of the young hero who had saved the ship, and Nelly Parker would hear of it and would think, “He will now never come back to Virginia again. He is too great and too famous to remember me now.” Then one day he would suddenly appear before her. She would say: “What! have you, then, come back to us? Have you, then, not forgotten us?” He would smile and would say: “No, I can never forget you.” He would stand before her with one empty sleeve pinned to his breast. There would be an order upon his breast, and he would say: “I love you and have always loved you, and none but you.”

“If we make it in time,” said Mr. Simms, suddenly, speaking to the Attorney Burton where they stood together looking out toward the shore, “we’ll stop at the Roost this afternoon. There was a letter for Mr. Parker sent up to Marlborough by mistake yesterday, and I may as well leave it on the way down.”

His words broke sharply upon Jack’s thoughts and shattered the dream to fragments. He lay silent for a moment or two. “Do you think,” he said, suddenly, “that Mr. Parker is there now?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Simms, turning toward him, “but I hope he is, so that I can leave this letter for him. Why do you ask?”

“I’d like to go ashore,” said Jack, “but I don’t care to meet him.”

“Why not?” said Mr. Simms. “He can’t do you any harm.”

“I know that very well,” said Jack, “but, all the same, I don’t want to see him, if I can help it.”

It wanted still an hour of sunset when they reached the Roost. Mr. Parker was not at home, and Jack accompanied Mr. Simms up to the house. How familiar and yet how strange everything appeared! How full of countless associations! There was a bed-coverlet hanging from a window, and he seemed to recognize its garish colors. A face passed by the open window—it was Peggy Pitcher. Two or three negroes came out from behind the end of the house and stood looking toward him; among them was Little Coffee. The negro boy stood staring; then, when Mr. Simms had gone into the house, he came forward, and Jack burst out laughing at his staring face. He asked the negro boy where Dennis was; Little Coffee said that the overseer was at the stable, and Jack went directly over to the outbuildings, Little Coffee following him. That feeling of renewed familiarity still surrounded everything. Everywhere the negroes grinned recognition at him, and he spoke to them all, laughing and nodding his head.

He found Dennis sitting in the shed by the stables mending an old saddle. He looked up when Jack came in, as though for a moment puzzled. Then instantly his face cleared. “Why, lad,” he said, “is that you?” He slipped the wax-end betwixt his lips and held out his hand. Then he looked Jack over. “And how you have climbed up in the world, to be sure!” he said.

“Have I?” said Jack, laughing.

They talked together for a little while about indifferent things, and it did not seem to Jack that Dennis was as keenly alert as he should have been to the fact of his visit. There was something very disappointing in it. As they talked, Little Coffee stood by, looking him all over. “How’s Mrs. Pitcher, Dennis?” Jack asked, presently.

“Oh, she’s very well,” said Dennis. “She was talking about you only this morning. I tell you what ’tis, lad, she and his honor had it like shovel and tongs after you ran away.”

“Did they?” said Jack. “Well, I think I’ll go over to the house to see her. I’ve only got a little while to stay. We’re going on down the river to Jamestown. Good-by.”

Dennis took the hand that Jack gave him and shook it warmly.

“I can’t get up,” he said, “for this teasing saddle.”

Jack went away over to the house, still accompanied by Little Coffee. Some one had told Peggy Pitcher that he was about the place, and she was expecting him. Whatever lack of warmth Jack had felt in Dennis’s greeting was fully made up by Mrs. Pitcher. “Why, Jack,” she said, looking all over him, “what a fine, grand gentleman you’ve grown all of a sudden! Well, to be sure! To think that I should have seen you that last time sitting down yonder in the cellar so down in the spirits that ‘twas enough to break a body’s heart to see you, and now you to be grown so fine a young lord of a man, to be sure. I did hear say that you joined the pirates after you got away.”

“No, I didn’t join the pirates,” said Jack. “I went down to North Carolina with them, but I didn’t have any business with them. But never mind that, Mrs. Pitcher. What I wanted to say is that I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me as long as ever I live.”

“Won’t you, Master Jack?” she said, evidently gratified. “Why, now, that’s very kind and noble-spoken of you.”

“I don’t see that ’tis,” said Jack. “Where would I have been now, do you think, if it hadn’t been for you?”

Peggy Pitcher burst out laughing. She sat down on a chair just behind her. “Why, I don’t know,” she said, “and that’s the truth. ’Tis like you’d been in a pretty bad way. His honor was hot ag’in’ you, just then, I can tell you.” She became suddenly serious. “I tell you what ’tis, Master Jack,” she said, “things are not going well with him just now, and he’s a good, kind man, too, when he chooses to be so. Do you remember Master Binderly, who used to come here, blustering about his money?”

“Yes,” said Jack, “I do. And how you said you’d pour hot water upon him if he didn’t go away.”

Again Peggy burst out laughing, and slapped her palm upon her knee. “Ay,” she said, “so I did, to be sure. Well, he’s been pestering about here a deal, of late, and I do suppose that’s why his honor’s away so much. He’s been away now for two weeks.”

Just then he heard Mr. Simms calling him outside. “Master Jack! Master Jack!”

“There,” said Jack, “I must go now. I’ll try to see you some time again, Mrs. Pitcher,” and he gave her his hand.

“Well,” said Peggy Pitcher, as she rose, and took Jack’s hand, “I didn’t think I was helping you into such good luck when I helped you to get away that night.”

“Nor I didn’t, either,” said Jack.

Something, he couldn’t tell what, brought the thought of Nelly Parker into his mind, and he felt a quick fullness of happiness that seemed suddenly to brim his heart more than full.

“Good-by, Mrs. Pitcher,” he said, and again he pressed Peggy’s hand.

“I’ve been hunting all over the place for you,” said Mr. Simms, testily, when Jack came out of the house.

Jack almost never enjoyed himself so much as he did those three or four days while he was at Jamestown. Lieutenant Maynard appeared to be very glad to see him, and welcomed him with great heartiness. Almost from the beginning of their acquaintance he had dubbed Jack “My hero,” and he began calling him so now when they met again. “Well, my hero,” he cried out, as he came aboard the schooner from the man-of-war’s boat, carrying his arm in a sling, “and how do you do by now! Well, your old friend, Blackbeard, has got his quietus. Look ye here, d’ ye see, he left me a remembrance before he went,” and he held out his bandaged hand so that Jack might see it. “A great big cutlass slash across the knuckles,” he said.

“I hear the pirates are all in jail over at Williamsburgh,” said Jack.

“Ay,” said the lieutenant, “and it was lucky for you that you ran away in time, or else you might be there, too.” And then Jack burst out laughing.

The lieutenant introduced Jack to his brother officers of the “Lyme,” and Jack often went aboard of the man-of-war, sometimes to take breakfast, and nearly always to dinner. The officers all seemed to like him, and once Captain St. Clare entertained him over a bottle of Madeira for nearly an hour in the cabin. The life aboard the man-of-war was very new to Jack, and he never lost the vividness of his interest in the charm of the wide, long decks, so immaculately clean; in the towering masts, the maze of rigging, the long, double row of cannon, in the life that swarmed above and below—the sailors, the marines, the sentinels pacing up and down, with every now and then a sparkling glint of the sun on musket-barrel or brass trimmings of accoutrements.

It was a great pleasure and gratification to him to be made so much of aboard the great man-of-war, and he was with his new friends nearly all the time. There were wild, rollicking blades among them—men seasoned to the wickedness of the world, who would sometimes sing songs and tell stories after dinner that were not always fitted for a young boy’s ears. One handsome rattle-brained young fellow in particular, who seemed to take a peculiar liking to Jack, was full of jests and quips, that, though they made Jack laugh, were hardly suitable for him to listen to. But Jack’s nature was of too honest and too robust a sort to offer ground for any pruriency of thought to cling very closely to.

On the second or third day of his stay at Jamestown, he and Lieutenant Maynard went over to Williamsburgh together, to visit the pirate prisoners in the jail at that place. As soon as they had obtained the permit they went straight to the prison, and were admitted by the turnkey to the round-house in which the pirates were confined.

They were all crowded into the one room—the wounded and the unwounded together. At first, Jack could hardly bear the heavy, fetid smell of the place, but the prisoners themselves appeared altogether unconscious of it. There was quite a number of them who had been hurt and who now lay there uncared for in their sufferings; one man, with a cloth tied around his head, looked very pale and ill, and another lay with his face to the wall, perfectly silent all the time that Jack was there.

“Why, ’tis Jack Ballister!” cried one of the men as soon as he had come in at the door. It was Ned Bolles who spoke—the young fellow of about Jack’s age who had been shot in the shoulder when the pirates took the French barque. Then: “Why, Jack,” he said, “what a fine, grand gentleman you are, to be sure!”

Jack laughed. They all crowded around him except Hands and the man with the wounded head, and the other who lay motionless with his face turned toward the wall. Hands sat in a corner upon the floor smoking his pipe, his lame leg stretched out perfectly straight before him. He spoke no word of especial greeting to the visitor. All of the prisoners were handcuffed and wore leg-irons. Some had wrapped rags around the shackles to protect their ankles and wrists from being rubbed by the rough iron. They all seemed very glad to see Jack; apparently glad of any change in the monotony of their imprisonment.

“Well, Jack,” said one of the men, named Dick Stiles, “I tell ‘ee what ’tis, ‘ee be lucky to be here now alive and well. ‘Twas a nigh miss for ‘ee when ‘ee got int’ t’ inlet ahead of us. If ‘ee’d been a minute later ‘ee never ‘a’ got oot t’ be here now.”

“So poor Chris Dred is dead, is he?” another called out.

“Ay,” said Jack, “you did the business for him.”

“Well, Jack,” said one of the men, “you fell into your fortune when you got away. I suppose you’ll be marrying her young ladyship next, won’t you?”

They all burst out laughing. Jack laughed too; but he knew that he was blushing, and was conscious that Lieutenant Maynard was standing at the door, listening to what was said.

“I tell you what ’tis, Jack,” said one of the men; “you be such a grand, great gentleman now, you ought to speak a good word for your old friends. They says our trial is to come off next week, and you ought to ax for our pardon of your new friend the governor, for old times’ sake,” and then they all began laughing.

“Hands says he knows summat’ll save his own neck,” said a voice.

“Ay,” said Hands, from where he sat on the floor, “they daren’t hang me. I know what I know, and they won’t harm me. I’m not afraid of that.”

It seemed very strange to Jack that they should appear to think so little of their approaching trial and the inevitable result that must follow. They must all know that there could be but one end to it, for the governor was determined to make an example of them for the benefit of all other would-be pirates; they seemed to think more of the dullness of their present imprisonment than anything else.

“Lookee, Jack,” one of them said, “do you have any money about ye? Just tuppence or so to buy a twist of ‘baccy; I ha’n’t had a smoke for two days now.” It was the young fellow Bolles who spoke.

“I’ve got sixpence here,” said Jack, “and that’s all. But you’re welcome to it.”

“You wouldn’t give it all to Bolles, would you?” said Salter. “He’s no worse off than the rest on us be.”

As they walked away up the street together, Lieutenant Maynard asked him what it was Hands meant when he spoke to him.

“What do you mean?” said Jack; “I don’t remember what he said.”

“Well,” said the lieutenant, “the talk is that he hath been proclaiming to every one that the governor shall never hang him, and that he knows something concerning Colonel Parker that will save his neck, and that they will never dare to hang him.”

“Does he say that?” said Jack. “Ay, I do remember now what he said to me, though I didn’t think of it at the time. But he knows naught about Colonel Parker—’tis about Mr. Richard Parker.”

“About Mr. Richard Parker?” said the lieutenant. “Do you know what it is, then? What is it, Jack?”

Jack hesitated for a second or two. “I don’t believe I ought to tell you anything about it,” he said. “I don’t believe Colonel Parker would choose to have me say anything about it to you.”

“Nonsense!” said Lieutenant Maynard. “Why should you not tell me? I’ll not speak about it to a living soul. What hath Mr. Richard Parker been about?”

Then Jack told him.

The lieutenant was listening very silently and intently as he walked along. “Why, what a thing do you tell me?” he cried out. “Of course, if that villain Hands knew aught like this conspiracy of Mr. Richard Parker’s he has reason enough to believe that Colonel Parker won’t choose to have it known. I always misliked Dick Parker; but what a prodigious rascal he must be! ’Tis incredible that one born a gentleman could be such a villain as that. But I tell you what it is, Master Jack, this is a mightily serious secret that you have. You’d best keep it tight locked in your own bosom and say naught of it to any living soul.”

As the lieutenant spoke, a heavy feeling fell suddenly upon Jack that he had been very foolish to speak to such a comparative stranger as the lieutenant about such a thing. He walked on in silence, suffering that singularly bitter feeling that we have maybe all of us sometimes smarted under—a feeling that we have betrayed a friend’s secret to a stranger.

He was destined to feel still more uncomfortable about it in time. For almost immediately upon his return to Marlborough he was called into Colonel Parker’s private cabinet. Colonel Parker had just received a packet from Williamsburgh the day before—a long letter from Governor Spottiswood, inclosing a statement from Hands, and he began at once, almost as soon as Jack had come into the room, to speak about what he had in his mind. “Tell me,” he said, “do you know aught of how Nelly came to be taken away from Marlborough?”

“What do you mean, sir?” said Jack, and then his heart began beating. He knew very well what Colonel Parker referred to.

“I mean,” said Colonel Parker, “do you know aught of who ‘twas put this pirate Blackbeard up to carrying poor Nelly away? Did he do it of his own free will, or did you hear that any one set him to do it?”

Jack hesitated, then he said, “Yes, sir; I did hear there was somebody put him up to doing it.”

“What did you hear?” said Colonel Parker. “Come, speak out plain, and tell me just what you know.”

“Well,” said Jack, “‘twas said down there at Bath Town,—that is, by those who came to see the pirate at his house,—’twas said that—that Mr. Richard Parker knew about Miss Nelly’s having been taken away. I don’t know anything about it myself, but that was what they all said. I know that Blackbeard writ three or four letters to Mr. Parker while the young lady was there, and I heard them say again and again that Mr. Parker knew that she had been taken away from home and whither she had been taken, and that he was concerned in it.”

Colonel Parker was leaning with his elbow upon the table, and his fingers against his forehead. He was looking very steadily and silently at Jack. He did not speak for a long time after Jack had ended. “Well,” he said, at last, “what then? What else do you know?” And Jack resumed:

“I heard Blackbeard say over and over again that it was Mr. Parker had planned how she should be taken, and that he was to get you to pay for bringing her back again. Mr. Knight the secretary writ three or four letters, too, and sent ‘em to Mr. Parker, and ‘twas said that Mr. Parker was to show the letters to you. But no answer could be got to any of them. Then, by and by, they all began to think that maybe he—Mr. Parker, that is—intended that she shouldn’t come back again at all.”

“Are you sure of all this you’re telling me?” said Colonel Parker.

“I am sure that was what I heard,” Jack said. “‘Twas talked about there in the house betwixt Blackbeard and the others just as things are talked about in a house. They didn’t try to hide the matter or keep it a secret from me, but talked about it always as if ‘twere so.”

Again Colonel Parker sat in silence, and Jack, as he stood there, wished and wished—oh, with what pangs of bitter self-reproach!—that he had not said anything to Lieutenant Maynard about it. He wondered with heavy apprehension what Colonel Parker would say if he knew that he had told such a secret to such a stranger as the lieutenant. Then suddenly Colonel Parker spoke. “Well,” he said, “you can see for yourself without my telling you that naught must be said of all this—no, not to a living soul. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jack, weakly.

“Very well,” said Colonel Parker. “Remember, my boy, that you have in your bosom a very dreadful secret that involves the credit of the whole of our family, and that you must not speak of it to a living soul.”

It may be said here that the lieutenant did not betray Jack’s secret—or, at least, it never came to Jack’s ears that he had done so. It may also be briefly said that Hands was pardoned by Governor Spottiswood, and that in a little less than a month later Mr. Richard Parker ran away from Virginia—it was said from his debts—to Jamaica.