Kate Bonnet: The Romance of a Pirate's Daughter Read online

  CHAPTER V

  AN UNSUCCESSFUL ERRAND

  For what seemed a very long time to Kate Bonnet, Dickory Charter paddledbravely through the darkness. She was relieved of the terror and theuncertainty which had fallen upon her during the past few hours, and shewas grateful to the brave young fellow who had delivered her from thedanger of sailing out upon the sea with a crew of wicked scoundrels whowere about to steal her father's ship, and her heart should have beatenhigh with gratitude and joy, but it did not. She was very cold, and sheknew not whither young Dickory was taking her. She did not believe thatin all that darkness he could possibly know where he was going; at anymoment that dreadful ship might loom up before them, and lights might beflashed down upon them. But all of a sudden the canoe scraped, grounded,and stopped.

  "What is that?" she cried.

  "It is our beach," said Dickory, and almost at that moment there came acall from the darkness beyond.

  "Dickory!" cried a woman's voice, "is that you?"

  "It is my mother," said the boy; "she has heard the scraping of mykeel."

  Then he shouted back, "It is Dickory; please show me a light, mother!"

  Jumping out, Dickory pulled the canoe high up the shelving shore, andthen he helped Kate to get out. It was not an easy job, for she couldsee nothing and floundered terribly; but he seemed to like it, and halfled, half carried her over a considerable space of uneven ground, untilhe came to the door of a small house, where stood an elderly woman witha lantern.

  "Dickory! Dickory!" shouted the woman, "what is that you are bringinghome? Is it a great fish?"

  "It is a young woman," said the boy, "but she is as wet as a fish."

  "Woman!" cried good Dame Charter. "What mean you, Dickory, is she dead?"

  "Not dead, Mother Charter," said Kate, who now stood, unassisted, in thelight of the lantern, "but in woeful case, and more like to startle youthan if I were the biggest fish. I am Mistress Kate Bonnet, just out ofthe river between here and the town. No, I will not enter your house, Iam not fit; I will stand here and tell my tale."

  "Dickory!" shouted Dame Charter, "take the lantern and run to thekitchen cabin, where ye'll make a fire quickly."

  Away ran Dickory, and standing in the darkness, Kate Bonnet told hertale. It was not a very satisfactory tale, for there was a great part ofit which Kate herself did not understand, but it sufficed at present forthe good dame, who had known the girl when she was small, and who wassoon busily engaged in warming her by her fire, refreshing her withfood, and in fortifying her against the effects of her cold bath by agenerous glass of rum, made, the good woman earnestly asserted, fromsugar-cane grown on Master Bonnet's plantation.

  Early the next morning came Dickory from the kitchen, where he had madea fire (before that he had been catching some fish), and on a rude benchby the house door he saw Kate Bonnet. When he perceived her he laughed;but as she also laughed, it was plain she was not offended.

  This pretty girl was dressed in a large blue gown, belonging to thestout Dame Charter, and which was quite as much of a gown as she had anypossible need for. Her head was bare, for she had lost her hat, and shewore neither shoes nor stockings, those articles of apparel having beenso shrunken by immersion as to make it impossible for her to get themon.

  "Thy mother is a good woman," said Kate, "and I am so glad you did nottake me to the town. I don't wonder you gaze at me; I must look like afright."

  Dickory made no answer, but by the way in which he regarded her, sheknew that he saw nothing frightful in her face.

  "You have been very good to me," said she, rising and making a steptowards him, but suddenly stopping on account of her bare feet, "and Iwish I could tell you how thankful I am to you. You are truly a braveboy, Dickory; the bravest I have ever known."

  His brows contracted. "Why do you call me a boy?" he interrupted. "I amnineteen years old, and you are not much more than that."

  She laughed, and her white teeth made him ready to fall down and worshipher.

  "You have done as much," said she, "as any man could do, and more."

  Then she held out her hand, and he came and took it.

  "Truly you are a man," she said, and looking steadfastly into his face,she added, "how very, very much I owe you!"

  He didn't say anything at all, this Dickory; just stood and looked ather. As many a one has been before, he was more grateful for the dangerout of which he had plucked the fair young woman than she was thankfulfor the deliverance.

  Just then Dame Charter called them to breakfast. When they were at thetable, they talked of what was to be done next; and as, above everythingelse, Miss Kate desired to know where her father was and why he hadn'tcome aboard the Sarah Williams, Dickory offered to go to the town fornews.

  "I hate to ask too much, after all you have done," said the girl, "butafter you have seen my father and told him everything, for he must be insore trouble, would you mind rowing to our house and bringing me someclothes? Madam Bonnet will understand what I need; and she too will wantto know what has become of me."

  "Of course I will do that," cried Dickory, grateful for the chance to doher service.

  "And if you happen to see Mr. Newcombe in the town, will you tell himwhere I am?"

  Now Dickory gave no signs of gratitude for a chance to do her service,but his mother spoke quickly enough.

  "Of course he will tell Master Newcombe," said she, "and anybody elseyou wish should know."

  In ten minutes Dickory was in his canoe, paddling to the town. When hewas out of the little inlet, on the shore of which lay his mother'scottage, he looked far up and down the broad river, but he could seenothing of the good ship Sarah Williams.

  "I am glad they have gone," said Dickory to himself, "and may they nevercome back again. It is a pity that Major Bonnet should lose his ship,but as things have turned out, it is better for him to lose it than tohave it."

  When he had fastened his canoe to a little pier in the town with a ropewhich he borrowed, having now none of his own, Dickory soon heardstrange news. The man who owned the rope told him that Major Bonnet hadgone off in his vessel, which had sailed out of the harbour in thenight, showing no light. And, although many people had talked of thisstrange proceeding, nobody knew whether he had gone of his own free willor against it.

  "Of course it was against his will," cried Dickory. "The ship wasstolen, and they have stolen him with it. The wretches! The beasts!" Andthen he went up into the town.

  Some men were talking at the door of a baker's shop, and the bakerhimself, a stout young man, came out.

  "Oh, yes," said he, "we know now what it means. The good Major Bonnethas gone off pirating; he thinks he can make more money that way than byattending to his plantation. The townspeople suspected him last night,and now they know what he is."

  At this moment Master Dickory jumped upon the baker, and both wentdown. When Dickory got up, the baker remained where he was, and it wasplain enough to everybody that the nerves and muscles of even a vigorousyoung man were greatly weakened by the confined occupation of a baker.

  Dickory now went further to ask more, and he soon heard enough. Therespectable Major Bonnet had gone away in his own ship with a savagecrew, far beyond the needs of the vessel, and if he had not gonepirating, what had he gone for? And to this question Dickory repliedevery time: "He went because he was taken away." He would not give uphis faith in Kate Bonnet's father.

  "And Greenway," the people said. "Why should they take him? He is of nogood on a ship."

  On this, Dickory's heart fell further. He had been troubled about theScotchman, but had tried not to think of him.

  "The scoundrels have stolen them both, with the vessel," he said; and ashe spoke his soul rose upward at the thought of what he had done forKate; and as that had been done, what mattered it after all what hadhappened to other people?

  Five minutes afterward a man came running through the town with the newsthat old Bonnet's daughter, Miss Kate, had also gone away in the ship.She was not
at home; she was not in the town.

  "That settles it!" said some people. "The black-hearted rascal! He hasgone of his own accord, and he has taken Greenway and his fair youngdaughter with him."

  "And what do you think of that!" said some to the doubter Dickory.

  "I don't believe a word of it!" said he; and not wishing on his ownresponsibility to tell what he knew of Mistress Kate Bonnet, he rowed upthe river towards the Bonnet plantation to carry her message. On hisway, whom should he see, hurrying along the road by the river bankcoming towards the town and looking hot and worried, but Mr. MartinNewcombe. At the sight of the boat he stopped.

  "Ho! young man," he cried, "you are from the town; has anything freshbeen heard about Major Bonnet and his daughter?"

  Now here was the best and easiest opportunity of doing the third thingwhich Kate had asked him to do; but his heart did not bound to do it. Hesat and looked at the man on the river bank.

  "Don't you hear me?" cried Newcombe. "Has anybody heard further from theBonnets?"

  Dickory still sat motionless, gazing at Newcombe. He didn't want to tellthis man anything. He didn't want to have anything to do with him. Hehesitated, but he could not forget the third thing he had been asked todo, and who had asked him to do it. Whatever happened, he must be loyalto her and her wishes, and so he said, with but little animation in hisvoice, "Major Bonnet's daughter did not go with him."

  Instantly came a great cry from the shore. "Where is she? Where is she?Come closer to land and tell me everything!"

  This was too much! Dickory did not like the tone of the man on shore,who had no right to command him in that fashion.

  "I have no time to stop now," said he; "I am carrying a message to MadamBonnet."

  And so he paddled away, somewhat nearer the middle of the river.

  Martin Newcombe was wild; he ran and he bounded on his way to the Bonnethouse; he called and he shouted to Dickory, but apparently that youngperson was too far away to hear him. When the canoe touched the shore,almost at the spot where the fair Kate had been fishing with a hooklying in the sun, Newcombe was already there.

  "Tell me," he cried, "tell me about Miss Kate Bonnet! What has befallenher? If she did not go with her father, where is she now?"

  "I have come," said Dickory sturdily, as he fastened his boat with theborrowed rope, "with a message for Madam Bonnet, and I cannot talk withanybody until I have delivered it."

  Madam Bonnet saw the two persons hurrying towards her house, and shecame out in a fine fury to meet them.

  "Have you heard from my runaway husband," she cried, "and from hisdaughter? I am ashamed to hear news of them, but I suppose I am in dutybound to listen."

  Dickory did not hesitate now to tell what he knew, or at least part ofit.

  "Your daughter--" said he.

  "She is not my daughter," cried the lady; "thank Heaven I am spared thatdisgrace. And from what hiding-place does she and her sire send me amessage?"

  Dickory's face flushed.

  "I bring no message from a hiding-place," he said, "nor any from yourhusband. He went to sea in his ship, but Mistress Kate Bonnet left thevessel before it sailed, and her clothes having been injured by water,she sent me for what a young lady in her station might need, supposingrightly that you would know what that might be."

  "Indeed I do!" cried Madam Bonnet. "What she needs are the clouts of afish-girl, and a stick to her back besides."

  "Madam!" cried Newcombe, but she heeded him not; she was growing moreangry.

  "A fine creature she is," exclaimed the lady, "to run away from myhouse in this fashion, and treat me with such contumely, and then toorder me to send her her fine clothes to deck herself for the eyes ofstrangers!"

  "But, young man," cried Newcombe, "where is she? Tell that withoutfurther delay. Where is she?"

  "I don't care where she is!" interrupted Madam Bonnet. "It matters notto me whether she is in the town, or sitting waiting for her finery onthe bridge. If she didn't go with her father (cowardly sneak that heis), that gives her less reason to stay away all night from her home,and send her orders to me in the morning. No, I will have none of that!If my husband's daughter wants anything of me, let her come here and askfor it, first giving me the reason of her shameful conduct."

  "Madam!" cried Newcombe, "I cannot listen to such speech, such--"

  "Then stop your ears with your thumbs," she exclaimed, "and you will nothear it."

  Then turning to Dickory: "Now, go you, and tell the young woman who sentyou here she must come in sackcloth and ashes, if she can get them, andshe must tell me her tale and her father's tale, without a lie mixed upin them; and when she has done this, and has humbly asked my pardon forthe foul affront she has put upon me, then it will be time enough totalk of fine clothes and fripperies."

  Newcombe now expostulated with much temper, but Dickory gave him littlechance to speak.

  "I carry no such message as that," he said. "Do you truly mean that youdeny the young lady the apparel she needs, and that I am to tell herthat?"

  "Get away from here!" cried Madam Bonnet, with her face in a blaze. "Isend her no message at all; and if she comes here on her knees, I shallspurn her, if it suit me."

  If Dickory had waited a little he might have heard more, but he did notwait; he quickly turned, and away he went in his boat. And away wentMartin Newcombe after him. But as the younger man was barefooted, theother one could not keep up with him, and the canoe was pushed offbefore he reached the water's edge.

  "Stop, you young rascal!" cried Newcombe. "Where is Kate Bonnet? Stop!and tell me where she is!"

  Troubled as he was at the tale he was going to tell, Dickory laughedaloud, and he paddled down the river as few in that region had everpaddled before.

  Madam Bonnet went into her house, and if she had met a maid-servant, itmight have been bad for that poor woman. She was not troubled aboutKate. She knew the young man to be Dickory Charter, and she was quitesure that her step-daughter was in his mother's cottage. Why shehappened to be there, and what had become of the recreant Bonnet, theequally recreant young woman could come and tell her whenever she sawfit.