The Black Buccaneer Read online

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  "If a man starts to haul on that line, I'll shoot himdead!" [See page 62.]]

  THE BLACK BUCCANEER

  BY

  STEPHEN W. MEADER

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR

  NEW YORK

  HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY

  COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.

  Twelfth printing, May, 1940

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY QUINN & BODEN COMPANY, INC., RAHWAY, N. J.

  FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

  "If a man starts to haul on that line, I'll shoot himdead!" _Frontispiece_

  FACING PAGE

  "Ho, ho, young woodcock, and how do ye like thecompany of Stede Bonnet's rovers?" 23

  "Don't say a word--sh!--easy there--are youawake?" 143

  A sudden red glare on the walls of the chasm 223

  Job had bracketed his target 247

  THE BLACK BUCCANEER

  CHAPTER I

  On the morning of the 15th of July, 1718, anyone who had been standingon the low rocks of the Penobscot bay shore might have seen a large,clumsy boat of hewn planking making its way out against the tide thatset strongly up into the river mouth. She was loaded deep with ashifting, noisy cargo that lifted white noses and huddled broad, woollybacks--in fact, nothing less extraordinary than fifteen fat Southdownsheep and a sober-faced collie-dog. The crew of this remarkable craftconsisted of a sinewy, bearded man of forty-five who minded sheet andtiller in the stern, and a boy of fourteen, tall and broad for his age,who was constantly employed in soothing and restraining the bleatingflock.

  No one was present to witness the spectacle because, in those remotedays, there were scarcely a thousand white men on the whole coast ofMaine from Kittery to Louisberg, while at this season of the year theIndians were following the migrating game along the northern rivers. Thenearest settlement was a tiny log hamlet, ten miles up the bay, whichthe two voyagers had left that morning.

  The boy's keen face, under its shock of sandy hair, was turned towardthe sea and the dim outline of land that smudged the southern horizon.

  "Father," he suddenly asked, "how big is the Island?"

  "You'll see soon enough, Jeremy. Stop your questioning," answered theman. "We'll be there before night and I'll leave you with the sheep.You'll be lonesome, too, if I mistake not."

  Jeremy]

  "Huh!" snorted Jeremy to himself.

  Indeed it was not very likely that this lad, raised on the wildest offrontiers, would mind the prospect of a night alone on an island tenmiles out at sea. He had seen Indian raids before he was old enough toknow what frightened him; had tried his best with his fists to save hismother in the Amesbury massacre, six years before; and in a littlesettlement on the Saco River, when he was twelve, he had done a man'swork at the blockhouse loophole, loading nearly as fast and firing astrue as any woodsman in the company. Danger and strife had given thelad an alert self-confidence far beyond his years.

  Amos Swan, his father, was one of those iron spirits that fought out thestruggle with the New England wilderness in the early days. He hadfollowed the advancing line of colonization into the Northeast, hewinghis way with the other pioneers. What he sought was a place to raisesheep. Instead of increasing, however, his flock had dwindled--wolveshere--lynxes there--dogs in the larger settlements. After the lastonslaught he had determined to move with his possessions and his twoboys--Tom, nineteen years old, and the smaller Jeremy--to an island tooremote for the attacks of any wild animal.

  So he had set out in a canoe, chosen his place of habitation and built atemporary shelter on it for family and flock, while at home the boys,with the help of a few settlers, had laid the keel and fashioned thehull of a rude but seaworthy boat, such as the coast fishermen used.

  Preparations had been completed the evening before, and now, while Tomcared for half the flock on the mainland, the father and younger sonwere convoying the first load to their new home.

  In the day when these events took place, the hundreds of rocky bits ofland that line the Maine coast stood out against the gray sea as bleakand desolate as at the world's beginning. Some were merely hugeup-ended rocks that rose sheer out of the Atlantic a hundred feet high,and on whose tops the sea-birds nested by the million. The larger ones,however, had, through countless ages, accumulated a layer of earth thatcovered their gaunt sides except where an occasional naked rib of graygranite was thrust out. Sparse grass struggled with the junipers for afoothold along the slopes, and low black firs, whose seed had beenwind-blown or bird-carried from the mainland, climbed the rugged crestof each island. Few men visited them, and almost none inhabited them.Since the first long Norse galley swung by to the tune of the singingrowers, the number of passing ships had increased and their characterhad changed, but the isles were rarely touched at except by mishap--ashipwreck--or a crew in need of water. The Indians, too, left the outerones alone, for there was no game to be killed there and the fishing wasno better than in the sheltered inlets.

  It was to one of the larger of these islands, twenty miles south of thePenobscot Settlement and a little to the southwest of Mount Desert, thata still-favoring wind brought the cumbersome craft near mid-afternoon.In a long bay that cut deep into the landward shore Amos Swan had founda pebbly beach a score of yards in length, where a boat could be run inat any tide. As it was just past the flood, the man and boy had littledifficulty in beaching their vessel far up toward high water-mark. Next,one by one, the frightened sheep were hoisted over the gunwale into theshallow water. The old ram, chosen for the first to disembark, quicklywaded out upon dry land, and the others followed as fast as they werefreed, while the collie barked at their heels. The lightened boat wasrun higher up the beach, and the man and boy carried load after load oftools, equipment and provisions up the slope to the small log shack,some two hundred yards away.

  Jeremy's father helped him drive the sheep into a rude fenced pen besidethe hut, then hurried back to launch his boat and make the return trip.As he started to climb in, he patted the boy's shoulder. "Good-by, lad,"said he gently. "Take care of the sheep. Eat your supper and go to bed.I'll be back before this time tomorrow."

  "Aye, Father," answered Jeremy. He tried to look cheerful andunconcerned, but as the sail filled and the boat drew out of the cove hehad to swallow hard to keep up appearances. For some reason he could notexplain, he felt homesick. Only old Jock, the collie, who shouldered upto him and gave his hand a companionable lick, kept the boy fromshedding a few unmanly tears.