"Swim to the bottom, most likely. But we might fetch one o' them cays or the coast itself if he steers close in to find smooth water. 'Tis the worst odds yet but I'd sooner drown than tarry in this vessel. One miracle was wrought when the cask came driftin' to the beach to save me, and who knows but the Lord can spare another one for the salvation of us poor lads that mean to do right and forsake piratin'."
As they expected, there came soon the familiar racket of making sail and trimming yards and the clank of the capstan pawls. Then the anchor flukes scraped and banged against the bow timbers. The vessel heeled a little and the lapping water changed its tune to a swash-swash as the hull pushed it aside. The brig was alive and in motion.
"She makes no more than two or three knots," observed Joe, after a little while. "Ye can tell by the feel of her. The wind is steady but small."
"Then he can't go clear of the islands till long after night," thankfully returned Jack.
Joe made another trip to crane his neck at the main hatch. The bright thread of daylight had dimmed. He could scarce discern it. The lads occupied themselves with reckoning the distance, the hour, and the vessel's speed. Now that Joe had satisfied himself that the end of the day was near, he knew what the ship's bell meant when it was struck every half-hour. They would await the passing of another hour, until two bells of the first watch, by which time they calculated the brig should be in the wide, outer channel between the seaward islands.
The plan was to emerge through the forepeak in the very bows of the ship where a scuttle was let into the deck. There they might hope to lower themselves to the chain stays under the bowsprit and so drop into the sea. They would be washed past the ship, close to her side, and into the wake, and there was little chance of drawing attention. True it was that in this hard choice they preferred to swim to the bottom if so it had to be.
They crouched where they were hid, waiting to hear the fateful signal of two bells. It struck, mellow, clear, and they were about to creep in the direction of the forepeak. But Joe Hawkridge gripped his comrade's arm and held him fast. A whispered warning and they ceased to move. Behind them, in the after part of the ship, gleamed a lantern. It illumined the open door of the bulkhead which walled off the storeroom. And in this doorway, like a life-sized portrait, grotesque and sinister, set in a frame, was the figure of Blackbeard.
He advanced into the hold and the cowering stowaways assumed that he had come to search them out. The impulse was to dash into the forepeak and so plunge overboard, flinging away all caution, but before their palsied muscles could respond, the behavior of Blackbeard held them irresolute and curious. He had turned his back to them and was shouting boisterously to others to follow him. Seven men came through the doorway, one after the other, hanging back with evident reluctance. It was impossible to discern who they were, whether officers or seamen. Every one carried in his arms what looked to be a tub or an iron pot. These they set upon the dunnage boards which covered the ballast and made a flooring in the hold.
Blackbeard bellowed at them to squat in a circle, which they meekly did. He was in one of his fiendishly mirthful humors, rumpling his beard, strutting to and fro, laughing in senseless outbursts. At such times his men were most fearful for their lives. What sort of an infernal pastime he had now concocted was beyond the imagination of the lads who were concealed a dozen yards away. He was not hunting them, this much was plain, and it seemed wise to be quiet and avoid drawing attention to themselves.
They saw Blackbeard ignite a torch at the lantern and poke it into one pot after another. Flames began to burn, blue and green and yellow, and lurid smoke rolled to the deck-beams overhead. Amid this glare and reek of combustibles, Blackbeard waved his torch and tremendously proclaimed: