"Much sound and little sense, Joe, but methinks it hit the target. I took care to sprinkle it with such words as yonder savage could bite on."
"If we find no gold, the fat may be in the fire again, but it gives us time to draw breath."
They rubbed their chafed wrists and sat on the ground while the savages held a long pow-wow. The chief was explaining the purport of Master Cockrell's impressive declamation. There was no enmity in the glances aimed at the English lads. It was more a matter of deliberation, of passing judgment on the truth or the falsity of the story. It was plain to read that the Yemassees desired to lay greedy hold of Blackbeard's gold. They were like children listening to a fairy tale. The fat little papooses crawled timidly near to inspect the mysterious strangers and scrambled away squealing with delicious terror.
The hours passed and the verdict was delayed. Two young braves stole away into the pine woodland on some errand, at the behest of the chief. It was after noon when they returned. With them came a dozen Yemassee warriors from another hunting camp, strong, quick-footed men in light marching order who were armed with long bows and knives. The chief spoke a few words and mustered his force. All told he had more than thirty picked followers. The English lads were told to move with them.
In single file the band flitted silently along the ridge and plunged into the swamp. The prisoners were closely guarded. At the slightest sign of treachery the long knives would slither between their ribs. This they well knew and their devout prayer was that their friends on the knoll might not commit some rash act of hostility and so ruin the enterprise. With heart-quaking trepidation they perceived at some distance the rude barricade of logs and the yellow streaks of earth hastily thrown up.
The cautious Yemassees concealed themselves as though the swamp had swallowed them up. The chief made certain signs, and the lads understood his meaning. Jack Cockrell ripped a sleeve from his shirt and tied it to a stick as a flag of truce. Joe Hawkridge advanced with them, the stalwart chief between them, his empty hands extended in token of peace. The ambushed Yemassees, lying in the tall grass, were ready to let fly with musket balls and flights of arrows or to storm the knoll.
A sailor on sentry duty gave the alarm and the lads saw a row of heads bob above the logs, and the gleam of weapons. Then Captain Jonathan Wellsby moved out into the open and was joined by Mr. Peter Forbes. They stood gazing at the singular spectacle, the bedraggled runaways who had vanished without trace, the odd flag of truce, the brawny, dignified savage making signs of friendship. The men in the stockade were ordered to lay down their arms. They came running out to cheer and wave their hats.
Mr. Peter Forbes was torn betwixt affection and the desire to scold his flighty nephew. They met half-way down the slope and Jack hastened to explain:
"Before you clap us in irons as deserters, Uncle Peter, grant a parley, if you please. Our lives hang by a hair."
"God bless me, boy, we thought the pirates had slain you both," spluttered Uncle Peter, a tear in his eye. "What means this tall savage?"