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?"
"A noble chief of the Yemassees who used us with all courtesy," said Jack.
Captain Wellsby had drawn Joe Hawkridge aside and was swiftly enlightened concerning the alliance with the Indians. Presently they were holding a conference, all seated together in the shade of a tree. A tobacco pipe of clay, with a long reed for a stem, was lighted and passed from hand to hand. The chief puffed solemnly with an occasional nod and a grunt. It was agreed, with due ceremony, that the pirates should be attacked in their camp and driven away. The Yemassee warriors would make common cause with the Englishmen. As a reward, Blackbeard's treasure was to be fairly divided, half and half.
The chief raised his voice in a long, deep shout of summons and his band of fighting men emerged from their ambush in the swamp. There was no reason for delaying the movement against the pirates. The Yemassees were eager for the fray. They were about to advance through the swamp, cunningly hidden, while the Englishmen followed at a slower pace to spread out on the flanks. Just then there was heard a sudden and riotous commotion among the pirates at the creek. It was a mad, jubilant uproar as though some frenzy had seized them all. Bill Saxby leaned on his musket and listened for a long moment.
"The rogues have fished up the sea-chest, by the din they make," said he. "We left that sounding rod a-stickin' in the mud. They save us the trouble, eh, Captain Wellsby?"
The skipper laughed in his beard and floundered ahead like a bear. Jack Cockrell passed the word to the chief that the gold was awaiting them. Like shadows the Yemassees drew near the creek and then, full-lunged, terrific, their war-whoop echoed through the dismal Cherokee swamp. Nimble Jack Cockrell was not far behind them, his heart pumping as though it would burst.