It was foolish to attempt to surprise Blackbeard while afloat in the creek. In a race of it, the handy cock-boat could pull away from the clumsier pirogue manned by two paddles only, for Trimble Rogers was needed to steer and be ready with the musket. This was their only firearm, which Bill Saxby had snatched up during the flight from the camp. At the same time he had lifted a powder-horn and bullet pouch from a wounded pirate.

"If I do bang away and miss him," grumbled Trimble Rogers, "he's apt to pepper us afore I can reload."

"But you forswore shootin' him," chided Bill Saxby, between strokes of the paddle.

"Show me a great sea-chest crammed wi' treasure and I'd put a hole through the Grand High Panjandrum hisself," replied the ancient one. "Aye, Bill, there be more'n one way to skin an eel. We'll lay aboard this bloody blow-hard of a Cap'n Teach whilst he's a-buryin' of it. Here may well be where he has tucked away his other plunder. What if we bag the whole of it?"

"One more fling, eh, Trimble, and more gold than ye lugged on your back from Guayaquil," grinned young Bill.

They had spoken in cautious tones and now held their tongues. The paddles dipped with no more than a trickle of water and the canoe hugged the marsh. They were close to the next bend of the stream and the sound of the oars in the cock-boat was faintly audible. As the tallest of the three, the old man stood up after swathing his head in dried grass, and gazed across the curve of the shore. By signs he told his companions that Blackbeard was bound farther up the stream.

They waited a little, giving their quarry time to pass beyond another turn of the channel. Jack Cockrell was embarked on the most entrancing excursion of his life. This repaid him for all he had suffered. His only regret was that poor Joe Hawkridge had been marooned before he could share this golden adventure. However, he would see that Joe received a handsome amount of treasure. Trimble Rogers was muttering again, and thus he angrily expounded a grievance:

"A thief is this Cap'n Teach,—like a wild hog, all greed and bristles. 'Tis the custom of honest buccaneers and pirates to divide the spoils by the strict rule,—six shares for the commander, two for the master's mate, and other officers accordin' to their employment, with one share to every seaman alike. Think ye this bloody pick-purse dealt fairly by his crew? In yon sea-chest be the lawful shares of all the woesome lads he marooned this day. An' as much more as he durst skulk away with."

"Easy, now, old Fire-and-Brimstone," warned Bill, "or that temper will gain the upper hand. Don't spoil the show by bombardin' Blackbeard with that cross-eyed musket."

Now here was young Master Cockrell, a gentleman and a near kinsman of a high official who had sworn to hang every mother's son of a pirate that harried Carolina waters. And yet this godly youth was eager to lay hands on Blackbeard's treasure so as to divide it among the pirates who had been robbed of it. It was a twisted sense of justice, no doubt, and a code of morals turned topsy-turvy, but you are entreated to think not too harshly of such behavior. Master Cockrell had fallen into almighty bad company but the friends he had made displayed fidelity and readiness to serve him.

"How far will the chase lead us?" he inquired.

"Did you men come down this same creek in the pirogue?"

"Aye, in this very same mess o' pea soup and jungle," answered Bill Saxby. "Two miles in from the coast, at a venture, was where we stumbled on the canoe and tossed the Indians out of it. Beyond that the water spreads o'er the swamp with no fairway for a boat."

Once more they paddled for a short stretch and then repeated the stratagem of hauling into the dense growth of the mud-flat and pausing until the cock-boat had steered beyond the next elbow of the stream. It became more and more difficult to avoid the fallen trees and other obstructions, but Blackbeard was threading his course like a pilot acquainted with this dank and somber region. The pirogue ceased to lag purposely but had to be urged in order to keep within striking distance.

Twice they were compelled to climb out and shove clear of sunken entanglements or slimy shoals. But when they held themselves to listen, they could still hear the measured thump of oars against the pins, like the beat of a distant drum in the brooding silence of this melancholy solitude. They had struggled on for perhaps a mile and a half, in all, when Trimble Rogers ordered another halt. He was perplexed, like a hound uncertain of the scent. From the left bank of the creek, a smaller stream meandered blindly off into the swamp. Into which of these watercourses had Blackbeard continued his secret voyage?

Again they listened, and more anxiously than ever. The tell-tale thump of the oars had ceased. The only sounds in the bayou were the trickle of water from the tidal pools, the wind in the tree-tops, the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker, and the scream of a bob-cat. With a foolish air of chagrin, Trimble Rogers rubbed his hoary pate and exclaimed:

"Whilst Bill and me were a-paddlin' this hollow log down-stream, we took no heed of a fork like this yonder. With the sun at our backs to guide us, we knew we was makin' easterly to fetch the coast. What say, Bill?"

"Cursed if I know. Spin a coin. The treasure has slipped us."

"Rot me if it has!" snarled the old man. "We'll push on as we are, in the bigger stream. That stinkin' ditch on my left hand looks too weedy and shallow to float a boat."

"It makes no odds. A gamester's choice," amiably agreed Bill.

They paddled with might and main, flinging caution to the winds. Jack Cockrell was well versed in handling one of these dugout canoes and his stout arms made Bill Saxby grunt and sweat to keep stroke with him. When the craft grounded they strove like madmen to push it clear. Trimble Rogers tore the water with a paddle, straining every sinew and condemning Blackbeard to the bottomless pit in a queer jargon of the Spanish, French, and English tongues. It required such a lurid vocabulary to give vent to his feelings. He was even more distressed when he sighted the clump of gum trees near by which he and Bill had purloined the pirogue. Beyond this the creek was impassable.

"Throwed a blank! Wear ship and drive back to the fork o' the waters," shouted the old man. "Hull down an' under though he be, we'll nab yon picaro, with his jolly treasure. Rapido, camaradas! Vivo!"

To make haste was easier said than done but the sluggish current was now in their favor and there was no more than a half mile to traverse under stress of furious exertion. The heavy canoe crashed through obstacles which had delayed the upward journey and they knew where to avoid the worst of the shoals. What fretted them was the fear that Blackbeard might have buried the sea-chest and descended the creek while they were engaged in this wild-goose chase. But this seemed unlikely and, moreover, old Trimble Rogers was the man to nose out the marks of the landing-place and the trail which must have been left.

Where the two streams joined, the pirogue turned and shot into the smaller one. To their surprise it presently widened and was like a tiny lagoon, with the water much clearer as if fed by springs. The view was less broken and there were glimpses of dry knolls in the swamp and verdure not so noxious and tanglesome. Along the edge of this pretty pond skimmed the pirogue while Trimble Rogers keenly scanned every inch of it for the imprint of a boat's keel. A hundred yards and the water again narrowed to a little creek. Impetuously the canoe swung to pass around a spit of land covered with a thicket of sweet bay.

There, no more than a dozen feet beyond, was the captain's cock-boat from the Revenge. Its bow had been pulled out of the water which deepened from a shelving bank. The boat was deserted but above the gunwale could be seen the iron-bound lid of the massive sea-chest. Those in the pirogue desired to behold nothing else. They were suddenly diverted by a tremendous yell which came booming out of the tall grass where it waved breast-high on the shore of the stream. A pistol barked and the ball clipped a straggling lock of Trimble Rogers' gray hair.

Driving his two seamen before him, Blackbeard rushed for his boat as fast as the bandy legs and clumsy sea-boots could carry him. In fancied security he had explored the nearest knoll. And now appeared this infernal canoe, surging full-tilt at his treasure chest.

Things happened rapido enough to glut even an old buccaneer. The consternation in the pirogue prevented any thought of checking headway with the paddles. This hollowed cypress log, narrow beamed and solid at both ends, still moved with a weighty momentum. Its astounded crew were otherwise occupied. Blackbeard appeared to have the advantage of them. Jack Cockrell ducked to the bottom of the canoe. Bill Saxby's eyes of baby blue were big and round as saucers as he wildly flourished his paddle as the only cudgel at hand.

With a whoop-la, old Trimble Rogers leaped to his feet, the long musket at his shoulder. Before he could aim at the savage, bushy figure of Blackbeard, the prow of the pirogue crashed into the side of the cock-boat, striking it well toward the stern. The ancient freebooter described a somersault and smote the water with a mighty splash, musket and all. Blowing like a grampus, he bobbed to the top, clawing the weeds from his eyes but still clutching the musket. Nobody paid his misfortune the slightest heed.

The water deepened suddenly, as has been said, where the current had scoured the bank. With the nose of the little boat pulled well up in the mud, the stern sloped almost level with the surface of the stream. The blunt, slanting bow of the pirogue banged into the plank gunwale and slid over it. The force of the blow dragged the cock-boat to one side and wrenched it free of the shore. It floated at the end of a tether but the bow of the canoe pressed the stern under and tipped it until the water rushed in.

Listed far over, the sea-chest slid a trifle and this was enough to push the gunwale clear under. The boat filled and capsized, what with the weight of the chest and the pressure of the canoe's fore part. Down to the oozy bed sank Blackbeard's treasure.

The arch-pirate himself came charging out of the marsh-grass in time to witness this lamentable disaster. His hoarse ejaculations were too dreadful for a Christian reader's ears. Dumfounded for an instant, he gathered his wits to fire another pistol at the pirogue. The ball flew wild, as was to be expected of a marksman in a state of mind so distraught. He had overlooked those two poor seamen of his who had been impressed to bury the treasure, after which they were presumably to be pistoled or knocked on the head. Dead men told no tales. Doomed wretches, they were quick to snatch from this confusion the precious hope of life.

The pockmarked fellow, who was powerfully built, whirled like a cat as he heard Blackbeard's pistol discharged just behind him. There was no time to draw and cock another pistol. The seaman fairly flew at the pirate captain's throat. Down they toppled and vanished in the grass together. A moment later Blackbeard bounded to his feet, a bloody dirk in his hand. He had done for the poor fellow who lay groaning where he fell. Terrified by this, the other seaman wheeled and fled to the bank of the creek, seeking the pirogue as his only refuge.

He leaped for it but his feet slipped in the treacherous mud and his impetus was checked so that he tumbled forward, striking the solid side of the dugout with great force. He was splashing in the water but his exertions were feeble. Either the collision had stunned him or he was unable to swim. Bill Saxby and Jack Cockrell were trying to swing the canoe clear of the boat and effect a landing. Trimble Rogers had rescued himself from the creek and was ramming a dry charge into his dripping musket. Blackbeard was a deadly menace and their attention was fixed on him.

When they endeavored to lend a hand to the helpless seaman he had sunk beneath the surface of the roily stream. They saw him come up and turn a ghastly face to them, but he went down like a stone before a hand could clutch at him. A few bubbles and this was the end of him. Jack Cockrell hesitated with a brave impulse to dive in search of him although he knew the bottom was a tangle of rotted trees, but just then Bill Saxby yelled to him to follow ashore with a paddle for a weapon. The luckless seaman was already drowned, this was as good as certain, and Jack jumped from the pirogue.

Blackbeard had halted his onrush and he wavered when he beheld stout Bill Saxby within a few strides of him and long Trimble Rogers galloping through the grass with his musket. Another pistol shot or two would not stop these three antagonists and a buffet from one of those hewn paddles would dash out a man's brains. The most ferocious of all pirates for once preferred to run away and live to fight another day. His boat denied him, he whirled about to plunge through the tall, matted grass. He was running in the direction of the dry knoll whence he had appeared.

Infuriated by the fate of the two seamen, Trimble Rogers made a try at shooting him on the wing but the musket ball failed to find the mark. It was necessary to hunt him down for the sake of their own safety. They might have gone their way in the pirogue but this would have been to abandon the sea-chest without an effort to drag it up or fix its location.

Now it might seem an easy matter for these pursuers, two of them young and active, to run down this fugitive Blackbeard, encumbered as he was by middle age and dissipation. They put after him boldly, with little fear of his pistols. In this dense cover he would have to fire at them haphazard and he was unlikely to tarry and wait for them. They saw him in glimpses as he fled from one grassy patch to another, or burst out of a leafy thicket, the great beard streaming over his shoulders like studding-sails, the red turban of calico a vivid blotch of color.

Nimble as they were, however, they failed to overtake him. This was because he was familiar with this landscape of bog and hummock and pine knoll. Jack Cockrell fell into a hidden quagmire and had to be fished out by main strength. Bill Saxby was caught amidst the tenacious vines, like a bull by the horns, and old Trimble came a cropper in a patch of saw-tooth palmetto. They straggled to the nearest knoll after Blackbeard had crossed it. Then he followed a ridge which led in the direction of another of these dry islands.

The pursuers halted to gaze from this slight elevation. There was not a solitary glimpse of the crimson turban. Trimble Rogers plowed through the prickly ash, short of wind and temper, with the musket again ready for action. His language was hot enough to flash the powder in the pan.

"Lost him a'ready, ye lubbers, whilst I fetched up the rear?" he scolded. "Leave the old dog to find the trail. I be hanged if I take him alive for Stede Bonnet. What say, Bill? Skin and stuff him for a trophy——"

"First catch the slippery son o' Satan," tartly answered Bill. "He hides away like a hare. You can track him, no doubt, Trimble, but the sun will be down ere long. I'll not pass the night in this cursed puddle of a place."

Just then Jack Cockrell roved far enough to find on the knoll a small pit freshly dug, with a spade and pick beside it. Like excited children, his two comrades ran to inspect the hole which Blackbeard's seamen had dug ready for the treasure chest. Then they scattered to explore the knoll in search of signs to indicate where previous hoards might have been buried. Trimble Rogers scouted like a red Indian, eager to find traces of upturned earth, or the leaf mould disturbed, or marks of an axe on the pine trees as symbols of secret guidance. It was a futile quest, possibly because the high spring tides, when swept by easterly gales, had now and then crept back from the coast to cover the knoll and obliterate man's handiwork.

Like a hunter bewitched, the gray buccaneer was absorbed in this rare pastime until Bill Saxby exclaimed:

"Is there no wit in our addled pates? Quit this dashed folly! What of the treasure chest that was spilled from the boat?"

"It won't take wings. Wait a bit," growled Trimble. "Madre de Dios, but there must be more of it here. This truant Cap'n Teach knew the road well. Did ye mark how he doubled for the knoll, like a fox to its hole?"

Jack Cockrell ended the argument when he spoke up, with a shamefaced air:

"We are three heartless men! One of the seamen is drowned, rest his soul, and we could not save the poor wretch. But the other fellow was stabbed and lies in the grass near the stream. For all we know, there may be life in him."

"Heartless? 'Tis monstrous of us," cried Bill Saxby. "This greed for pirates' gold is like a poison."

They hastened to retrace their steps. The wounded seaman was breathing his last when they reached his side. They could not have prolonged his life had they remained with him. Jack Cockrell stroked his damp forehead and murmured:

"Farewell to ye, Jesse Strawn. Any message before you slip your cable?"

There was a faint whisper of:

"Scuppered, lad! Take warnin' and avast this cruel piratin' or you'll get it. A few words from the Bible 'ud ease me off."

To Jack's amazement, the veteran sinner of the lot, old Trimble Rogers, fumbled in his breeches and withdrew a small book carefully wrapped in canvas. Solemnly he hooked behind his ears a pair of huge, horn-rimmed spectacles and knelt beside the dying pirate. In the manner of a priest the buccaneer intoned a chapter of Holy Writ which he appeared to know by rote. Then he said a prayer in a powerful broken voice. Silence followed. The others waited with bared heads until Trimble said:

"His soul has passed. Shall we give the poor lad a decent burial?"

"His grave is ready. He helped dig it himself," said Bill Saxby. "And may his ghost be a torment to the fiend that slew him."

It seemed a fitting suggestion. In the freshly made treasure pit on the knoll they laid the dead pirate and used the spade to cover him. Jack Cockrell had a sheath knife with which he fashioned a rude cross and hacked on it:

"Aye, his ghost will flit to plague this Cap'n Teach," said Trimble Rogers. "We can leave Jesse Strawn to square his own account. Now for the sea-chest, though I misdoubt we can fish it up."