The Story of Jack Ballister's Fortunes

The young lady, in the first roughness of the rolling sea, was holding tight to the rail. Jack stumbled forward across the thwarts and lowered the peak. The water was rushing noisily past the boat. “’Tis a head wind we’ve got for to-day,” said Dred, when he had come back into the stern again. “I’m glad we’ve had a bit of rest afore we started, for we’ll hardly make Roanoke afore nine or ten o’clock to-night if the wind holds as ’tis.”

And it was after nightfall when they ran in back of Roanoke Island. The wind had ceased blowing from the east, and was rapidly falling away. Just at sundown, the sun had shot a level glory of light under the gray clouds, bathing all the world with a crimson glow, and then had set, the clouds overhead shutting in an early night. The water still heaved, troubled with the memory of the wind that had been churning it all day. The young lady had been feeling ill, and she now lay motionless upon the bench, where Jack had covered her with everything obtainable, and where she lay with her head upon her bundle of clothes, her face, resting upon the palm of her hand, just showing beneath the wraps that covered her. In the afternoon Dred had handed the tiller over to Jack, who still held it. Now, wrapped in one of the overcoats, he lay upon the other bench, perhaps sleeping. The night had fallen more and more, and soon it was really dark. Jack held steadily to the course that Dred had directed, and by and by he was more and more certain that he was near the land. At last, he really did see the dim outline of the shore, and in the lulls of the breeze he could presently hear the loud splashing of the water upon the beach.

“Dred,” he called, “you’d better come and take the helm.” Dred roused himself instantly, shuddering with the chill of the night air as he did so. He looked about him, peering into the darkness.

“Ay,” he said, after a while. “’Tis Roanoke, and that must be Duck Island over yonder, t’other way. That’s Broad Creek, yonder,” pointing off through the night. “We might run into it, and maybe find some shelter; but what I wants to do, is to make Shallowbag Bay. There’s a lookout tree on the sand-hills there, and I wants to take a sight behind us, to-morrow. D’ye see, ’tis Roanoke Sound we’re running into. If the sloop follys us at all, ‘twill run up the ship-channel Croatan way.”

Jack did not at all understand what Dred meant, but he gave up the tiller to him very readily. He went across to where the young lady lay. “How d’ye feel now, mistress?” he said.

“I feel better than I did,” she said, faintly, opening her eyes as she spoke.

“Would you like to have a bite to eat now?” She shook her head, and once more Jack took his place in the stern.

“There’s another reason why I wants to make Shallowbag Bay,” said Dred. “D’ye see, there’s a house there, – or, leastwise, there used to be, – and I thought if we could get there it might make a shelter for the young lady, for she’s had a rough day of it to-day, for sartin.”

“How far is it?” Jack asked.

“Why,” said Dred, “no more’n a matter of eight mile, I reckon. Here; you hold the tiller, lad, while I light my pipe.”

Maybe an hour or more passed, and then Dred began, every now and then, to take a lookout ahead, standing up and peering away into the darkness. The clouds had now entirely blown away, and the great vault of sky sparkled all over with stars. All around them the water spread out, dim and restless. They were running free close to the shore. A point of sand jutted out pallidly into the water, and through the darkness Jack could dimly see the recurrent gleam of breaking waves upon it. Again Dred was standing up in the boat, looking out ahead. “We’re all right, now,” he said, after a long time of observation, finally taking his seat. “I’ve got my bearings now, and know where I be. The only thing now is, that we sha’n’t run aground, for here and there there’s not enough water to float a chip.” As he ended speaking he put down the tiller, and the yawl ran in close around the edge of the point. He sailed for some little distance before he spoke again. “We’ll have to take to the oars for the rest of the way,” he said, at last; and as he spoke he brought the bow of the boat up to the wind. “We’re done our sailing for to-night. The shanty’s not more’n a mile furder on from here across the bay. We’d better put up the sail here, I reckon. ‘Twill be swinging all around in your way when ye row.”

He arose and went forward, Jack following him, and together they loosened the boom and began reefing the sail still wet with the rain and spray of the day’s storm. The young lady did not move; perhaps she was asleep. Then Dred returned to the tiller, and Jack took to the oars.

In somewhat less than half an hour Jack had rowed the heavy boat across the open water. As he looked over his shoulder, he could see a strip of beach just ahead, drawing nearer and nearer to them through the night. A minute more, and the bow of the boat ran grating upon a sandy shoal and there stuck fast. Dred arose, and he and Jack stepped into the shallow water. The young lady stirred and roused herself as they did so. “Sit still, mistress,” said Dred, “and we’ll drag the boat up to the beach. It seems like there’s a bank made out here since I was here afore.” They drew the boat across the shoal and up the little strip of beach. Beyond, a level, sedgy stretch reached away into the night. “You wait here,” said Dred, “and I’ll go up and see if the shanty be there yet. I know ‘twas there three year ago.”

He went away, leaving Jack and the young lady sitting in the boat.

“Do you think he’ll take us to such a place as he did last night?” she presently asked of Jack.

“No, I know he won’t,” Jack said. “’Tis an empty hut he’s going to take us to this time.”

“I’d rather sleep out in the boat,” she said, “than go to such a house again. ‘Twas dreadful last night when those three men sat drinking as they did.”

“Well,” said Jack, “this is no such a place as that. ’Tis an empty hut; and he only comes here to find shelter for you for the night, and to take an observation to-morrow.”

She had not said anything before as to what she had felt during the previous night, and Jack had thought until now that perhaps it had made little or no impression upon her. “You needn’t be afraid of Dred, mistress,” he said, presently. “He’s rough, but he’s not a bad man, and you needn’t be afraid of him.”

She did not reply; and Jack could read in her silence how entirely she had lost confidence in Dred. Presently he appeared, coming through the darkness. “’Tis all right,” he said; “I have found the cabin. We’ll just pull the yawl a trifle furder up on the beach, and then I’ll take ye up to it. Now, mistress, if you’ll step ashore.”

Jack and Dred helped the young lady out of the boat. She stood upon the damp beach wrapped in the overcoat she had worn all day as Jack drove the anchor down into the sandy soil and made fast the bow-line. Dred opened the locker and brought out the biscuit and the ham.

He led the way for some distance through the darkness, his feet rustling harshly through the wiry, sedgy grass, and by and by Jack made out the dim outline of the wooden hut looming blackly against the starry sky. It was quite deserted, and the doorway gaped darkly. It stood as though toppling to fall; but the roof was sound, and the floor within was tolerably dry. At any rate, it was a protection from the night. As Dred struck the flint and steel, Jack stripped some planks from the wall, breaking them into shorter pieces with his heel, and presently a fire blazed and crackled upon the ground before the open doorway of the hut, lighting up the sedgy, sandy space of the night for some distance around.

After they had eaten their rude meal, they made the young lady as comfortable as possible; then they sat down side by side to dry their damp clothes by the fire. It burned down to a heap of hot, glowing coals, and Jack threw on another armful of sticks; they blazed up with renewed brightness, lighting up the interior of the hut with a red glow.

“Like enough this is the last stop we can make,” said Dred, “betwixt here and the inlet.”

“How far is the inlet from here, d’ye suppose?” Jack asked.

“Perhaps a matter of twenty league or so,” said Dred. “We can’t expect the wind to favor us as it has done. We’ve got along mightily well so far, I can tell ye. We’ve got a lead far away ahead of any chase the captain can make arter us. I do believe we be safe enough now; all the same I’m going over to the sand-hills to-morrow to take a look astern. Over in that direction – ” and he pointed with his pipe – “there’s a lookout tree we used to use three or four year ago when we was cruising around here in the sounds.”

“Do you know, Dred,” said Jack, “I believe you’re vastly the better in health for coming off with us? You don’t seem near as sick as you did before we left Bath Town.”

“Ay,” said Dred; “that’s allus the way with a sick body. I hain’t time now to think how sick I be.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE THIRD DAY

JACK was awakened the next morning by Dred stirring about. The sun had not yet arisen, but the sky, mottled over with drifting clouds, was blue and mild. “Well,” said Dred, “I’m going over to the sand-hills now. You and the young lady can get some breakfast ready ag’in’ I get back.”

“Don’t you mean to take me along with you, then?” Jack asked.

“No,” said Dred, “‘twould be no use. You can do more by staying here and getting ready a bite to eat, for I want to make as early a start as may be.”

Jack watched him as he walked across the little sandy hummocks covered with the wiry sedge grass that bent and quivered in the gentle wind. “How long will you be gone, Dred?” he called after the departing figure.

The other stopped and turned around. “About a half hour,” he called back, and then he turned and went on again.

Jack got together some wood for the fire, and presently had a good blaze crackling and snapping. The young lady was stirring, and in a little while she came to the door of the hut and stood looking at him. “Where’s Mr. Dred?” she asked.

“He’s gone across to an observation tree over yonder,” Jack said, pointing in the direction with a bit of wood. “He says he’ll be back within half an hour, and he wants that we should get breakfast ready against that time.”

The young lady stood looking about her. “‘Twill not storm again to-day, will it?” said she.

“No,” said Jack, “the weather’s broken now for good.” He felt a curiously breathless constraint in being thus alone with her with no one else near them, but she was clearly altogether unconscious of any such feeling, and her unconsciousness abashed him all the more. He busied himself studiously about his work without speaking, the young lady standing watching him, and the breakfast was cooked and spread out upon a board some time before Dred returned. His impassive face looked more than usually expressionless. “Did you see anything?” Jack asked.

He did not reply to the question. “We’ll not eat here,” he said; “we’ll just take it aboard the boat and eat it there as we sails along.” And then it flashed upon Jack that he must have seen something. “Ye might ha’ roasted two or three o’ them taties we fetched with us,” Dred continued. “We hain’t touched them yet, and this is like enough to be the last chance we’ll get to do so now, for we ben’t like to go ashore – leastwise this side of the inlet – and arter that we’ve got to make straight to Virginny.” Then he caught Jack’s eye with a meaning glance, and presently led the way around to the other side of the hut. There he leaned with his back against the side of the house, his hands thrust deeply into his breeches pockets. “Well,” he said, in a low voice, “I been and took a lookout astern.”

“Well,” Jack said breathlessly, “what of it?”

“Why,” said Dred, “I see a sail off to the south’rd a-making up Croatan way.”

Jack felt a sudden, quick, shrinking pang about his heart. “Well,” he said, “what of it? Was it the sloop?”

Dred shook his head. “I don’t know that,” he said, “and I can’t just say as ‘twas the sloop – but I can’t say as ‘tweren’t the sloop, neither. It may have been a coaster or summat of the sort; there’s no saying, for ‘twas too far away for me to tell just what it was. But I’ll tell you what ’tis, lad, we’ve just got to get away as fast as may be, for the craft I see ben’t more than fourteen or fifteen knot astarn of us, and, give her a stiff breeze, she may overhaul that betwixt here and the inlet if we tarries too long.”

Jack was looking very fixedly at Dred. “Well, Dred,” he said, “suppose ’tis the sloop, and it does overhaul us, what then?”

Dred shrugged his shoulders, and there was something in the shrug that spoke more voluminously than words could have done. “’Tis no use axing me what then,” he said, presently. “We just sha’n’t let her overhaul us, and that’s all. We’ll not think on anything else.”

The sense of overshadowing danger in the possibility of the boat that Dred had seen being the sloop, and the further possibility of its overhauling them, loomed larger and larger in Jack’s mind the more his thoughts dwelt upon it, swelling up almost like a bubble in his bosom. For a time it seemed as though he could not bear the bigness of the apprehension growing so within him. He wondered that Dred could appear so indifferent to it. “Why, Dred,” he cried, “how can a body help thinking about such a thing?”

Dred looked at him out of his narrow, black, bead-like eyes, and then shrugged his shoulders again. His face was as impassive as that of a sphinx.

Jack stood thinking and thinking. The growing apprehension brought to him for a moment a feeling almost of physical nausea. He believed that Dred believed that the sloop was really Blackbeard’s, and that it was overhauling them. He heaved an oppressed and labored sigh. “I wish,” he said, “we’d only sailed straight ahead instead of stopping over night – first, down yonder at Gosse’s in the swamp, and now here.”

Again Dred shrugged his shoulders. “Well,” he said, “you be hale and strong enough to stand sailing four or six days on end in an open boat. But you don’t seem to think as how the young lady can’t stand it – saying naught of myself. If I hadn’t took care of myself, and had ‘a’ been took sick on your hands, you’d be a deal worse off than you are now. And, arter all,” he added, “’tis a blind chance of that there craft being the sloop. She may be a coaster. Well, ’tis no use stopping here to talk about that there now. The best thing for us to do is to make sail as quick as may be. I don’t see how they got track on us anyhow,” he said, almost to himself, “unless they chanced to get some news on us at Gosse’s, or unless they ran across Gosse hisself.” He slapped his thigh suddenly. “’Tis like enough, now I come to think on it, Gosse went off som’ers to buy rum with the sixpence I gave his mistress, and so ran across the captain in the sloop, som’ers, maybe down toward Ocracock way.”

To all this Jack listened with the heavy oppression of apprehension lying like a leaden weight upon his soul. “Then you do think the sail you saw was the sloop?” said he with anxious insistence, and once more and for the third time Dred shrugged his shoulders, vouchsafing no other reply.

Never for any moment through all that long day did Jack’s spirit escape from that ever-present, dreadful anxiety. Always it was with him in everything that he saw or did or said, sometimes lying dull and inert behind the vivid things of life, sometimes starting out with a sudden vitality that brought again that sickening nausea, as a sort of outer physical effect of the inner distress of spirit.

The breeze had grown lighter and lighter as the day advanced, but by noon they had run in back of a small island, and by three or four o’clock were well up into the shoal water of Currituck Sound. During the time they were crossing the lower part of Albemarle Sound Dred would every now and then stand up to look back; then again he would take his place, gazing out ahead. Each time he had thus stood up, Jack had looked at him, but could learn nothing of his thoughts from his expressionless face.

Suddenly Dred glanced up overhead, the bright sunlight glinting in his narrow black eyes. “The wind be falling mightily light,” he said, and then again he stood up and looked out astern, stretching himself as he did so. This time when he sat down he exchanged one swift glance with Jack, and Jack knew that he had seen something. After that he did not rise again, but he held the tiller motionlessly, looking steadily out across the water that grew ever smoother and smoother as the breeze fell more and more away. By and by he said suddenly: “Ye might as well get out the oars and row a bit, lad; ‘twill help us along a trifle.”

The cloud of anxiety was hanging very darkly over him as Jack went forward and shipped the oars into the rowlocks. The sun had been warm and strong all day, and, without speaking, he laid aside his coat before he began rowing. They were skirting along now well toward the eastern shore of Currituck Sound. There was a narrow strip of beach, a strip of flat, green marsh, and then beyond that a white ridge of sand. Flocks of gulls sat out along the shoals, which, in places, were just covered with a thin sheet of water. Every now and then they would rise as the boat crept nearer and nearer to them, and would circle and hover in clamorous flight. Presently, as Jack sat rowing and looking out astern, he himself saw the sail. The first sight of it struck him as with a sudden shock, and he ceased rowing and resting on his oars looking steadily at it. He felt certain that Dred believed it to be the pirate sloop; he himself felt sure that it must be, for why else would it be following them up into the shoals of Currituck Sound? Then he began rowing again. Suddenly, in the bright, wide silence, the young lady spoke. “Why, that is another boat I see yonder, is it not?”

“Yes, mistress,” said Dred, briefly. He had not turned his head or looked at her as he spoke, and Jack bowed over the oars as he pulled away at them.

After that there was nothing more said for a long time. The young lady sat with her elbow resting upon the rail, now looking out at the boat astern, and now down into the water. She was perfectly unconscious of any danger. A long flock of black ducks threaded its flight across the sunny level of the distant marsh, and there was no cessation to the iterated and ceaseless clamor of the gulls. Now and then a quavering whistle from some unseen flock of marsh-birds sounded out from the measureless blue above. Jack never ceased in his rowing; he saw and heard all these things as with the outer part of his consciousness; with the inner part he was thinking, brooding ceaselessly upon the possibility of capture. He looked at Dred’s impassive face, and now and then their eyes met. Jack wondered what he was thinking of; whether he thought they would get away, or whether he thought they would not, for the other gave no sign either of anxiety or of hope.

The sail was hanging almost flat now. Only every now and then it swelled out sluggishly, and the boat drew forward a little with a noisier ripple of water under the bows. Jack pulled steadily away at the oars without ceasing. It seemed to him that the sail of the boat in the distance stood higher from the water than it had. At last he could not forbear to speak. “She’s coming nigher, ain’t she, Dred?” he asked.

“I reckon not,” said Dred, without turning his head. “I reckon ’tis just looming to the south’rd, and that makes her appear to stand higher. Maybe she may have a trifle more wind than we, but not much.”

The young lady roused herself, turned, and looked out astern. “What boat is that?” she said. “It has been following us all afternoon.”

Dred leaned over and spat into the water; then he turned toward her with a swift look. “Why, mistress,” he said, “I don’t see no use in keeping it from ye; ’tis like that be Blackbeard’s boat – the sloop.”

The young lady looked steadily at him and then at Jack. “Are they going to catch us,” she asked, “and take us back to Bath Town again?”

“Why, no,” said Dred, “I reckon not; we’ve got too much of a start on ‘em. It be n’t more than thirty knot to the inlet, and they’ve got maybe six knot to overhaul us yet.” He turned his head and looked out astern. “D’ye see,” said he, “ye can’t tell as to how far they be away. It be looming up yonder to the south’rd. ’Tis like they be as much as seven knot away rather than six knot.” Again he stood up and looked out astern. “They’ve got a puff of air down there yet,” he said, “and they have got out the sweeps.”

Jack wondered how he could see so far to know what they were doing.

The breeze had died away now to cat’s-paws that just ruffled the smooth, bright surface of the water. Dred, as he stood up, stretched first one arm and then the other. He stood for a while, resting his hand upon the boom, looking out at the other vessel. Then he began to whistle shrilly a monotonous tune through his teeth. Jack knew he was whistling for a wind. Presently he took out his clasp-knife and opened it as he stepped across the thwarts. Jack moved aside to make way for him. He stuck the knife into the mast and then went aft again. The young lady watched him curiously. “What did you do that for?” she asked.

“To fetch up a breeze, mistress,” said Dred, shortly.

All this time Jack was pulling steadily at the oars without ceasing. The sun sloped lower and lower toward the west. “They ain’t gaining on us now,” said Dred; but Jack could see that the sail had grown larger and higher over the edge of the horizon.

The yellow light of the afternoon changed to orange and then to red as the sun set in a perfectly cloudless sky. Suddenly, Jack felt his strength crumbling away from him like slacked lime. “I can’t row any more, Dred,” he said. “I’m dead tired, and my hands are all flayed with rowing.” He had not noticed his weariness before; it seemed as though it came suddenly upon him, its leaden weight seeming to crush out that dreadful anxiety to a mere dull discomfort of spirit.

The palms of his hands were burning like fire. He looked at the red, blistered surface; they had not hurt him so much until he stretched them, trying to open them. His hands and arms were trembling with weariness.

“You’d better take a drink of rum,” said Dred; “‘twill freshen you up a bit. You’d better take a bite, too.”

“I don’t feel hungry,” he said hoarsely.

“Like enough not,” said Dred. “But ‘twill do you good to eat a bite, all the same. The biscuits are aft here. By blood! we didn’t leave much in the bottle down at Gosse’s, did we?” and he shook the bottle at his ear. “Here, mistress, eat that,” and he handed a biscuit to the young lady.

The sail in the distance burned like fire in the setting sun. The three looked at it. “D’ye say your prayers, mistress?” said Dred.

She looked at him as though startled at the question. “Why, yes, I do,” she said. “What do you mean?”

“Why, if you do say your prayers,” said Dred, “when you say ‘em to-night just ax for a wind, won’t ye? We wants to make the inlet to-night, as much as we wants salwation.”

The sun set; the gray of twilight melted into night; the ceaseless clamor of the gulls had long since subsided, and the cool, starry sky looked down silently and breathlessly upon them as they lay drifting upon the surface of the water. “I’ll take a try at the oars myself,” said Dred, “but I can’t do much. You go to sleep, lad, I’ll wake you arter a while.”

Jack lay down upon the bench opposite the young lady. He shut his eyes, and almost instantly he seemed to see the bright level of the water and the green level of the marsh, as he had seen them all that afternoon; he seemed to hear the clamor of the gulls ringing in his ears, and his tired and tingling body felt almost actually the motion of rowing. At last his thoughts became tangled; they blurred and ran together, and before he knew it he was fast asleep – the dead sleep of weariness – and all care and fear of danger were forgotten.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE FOURTH DAY

JACK felt some one shaking him. He tried not to awaken; he tried to hold fast to his sleep, but he felt that he was growing wider and wider awake. Dred was shaking him. Then he sat up, at first dull and stupefied with sleep. He did not, in the moment of new awakening, know where he was – his mind did not fit immediately into the circumstances around him – the narrow, hard space of the boat, the starry vault of sky, and the dark water – then instantly and suddenly he remembered everything with vivid distinctness. He looked around in the blank darkness almost as though he expected to see the pursuing boat.