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He was about to give the order when Joe Hawkridge, gunner's mate, called to Jack Cockrell standing his watch at the helm: "Remember the snow I told ye of? Yonder is the same rig and tonnage, alike it as peas in a pod." Jack spoke to the shipmaster who summoned Joe to the quarter-deck.
"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.
The poop was deserted in the twinkling of an eye, even to the pair of helmsmen and the officer of the watch. Against the sky of night the unwelcome phantoms were wan and luminous while the groans which issued from them were enough to curdle the blood of the brawniest pirate. He who had been Jack Cockrell in mortal guise was quick to slide the cabin hatch closed and fasten it.
The girl resented the young pirate's gallantry and would have fled, but he nimbly blocked her path. Just then Jack Cockrell happened to glance that way and his anger flamed hot. He was about to run after Captain Bonnet and beg him to interfere but the maid's distress was too urgent.
It was not too much to say that he displayed absolute genius with the sturdy Master Cockrell to aid and abet him. Joe clawed in the dark until he found the sack with a few pounds of wheat flour in it. A quick whisper and his comrade grasped the great idea. They took no thought of a sequel. They would trust to opportunity. Hastily they rubbed the flour into their shirts and breeches.
They eyed Jack Cockrell with quizzical interest and he did his best to be at ease, permitting Joe to vouch for him as a young gentleman with a taste for piracy who had won Blackbeard's favor in the Plymouth Adventure. They were plied with eager questions regarding the fate of the merchant ship and Ned Rackham's prize crew.
Sproul with a decided tartness that was only a reflex of the deep affection she bore the mistress of the Little House, which had existed since childhood and would endure. "I hear some of the cars coming," announced Mrs. Cockrell, as she began to crochet furiously at the last petal of a rose. "Is my cap straight? I do so want to finish this row and can't go in to look." "You'll put out St.
A gamester's choice," amiably agreed Bill. They paddled with might and main, flinging caution to the winds. Jack Cockrell was well versed in handling one of these dugout canoes and his stout arms made Bill Saxby grunt and sweat to keep stroke with him. When the craft grounded they strove like madmen to push it clear.
Jack Cockrell had no desire to join this stupid revel but he was eager to get ashore to discover what opportunity there might be to escape. But the wiser Joe Hawkridge counseled patience, saying: "Wait a bit. We'd be as helpless as any babes should we take to our heels in this ungodly wilderness. Is there a town or plantation near by?" "I know not," ruefully confessed Jack.
His body would be prepared for Christian burial because of the esteem in which he was already held by many of the townspeople. To Jack Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge it was sad news indeed but tender-hearted Bill Saxby mourned like one who had lost a parent. He closed the shop for a day and hung black ribbons on the knob.
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