"Stand by now to set the main
jib!" Like most of the pirate sloops-of-war, Stede Bonnet's _Revenge_
was schooner-rigged. She carried fore and main top-sails of the old,
square style, and her long main boom and immense spread of jib gave her
a tremendous sail area for her tonnage. The breeze had held steadily
since sundown and was, if anything, rising a little. Short seas slapped
and gurgled at the forefoot with a pleasant sound. Jeremy, desperately
tired, had dropped by the mast, scarcely caring what happened to him.
The sloop slid out past the dark headlands, and heeled to leeward with a
satisfied grunt of her cordage that came gently to the boy's ears. His
head sank to the deck and he slept dreamlessly.

CHAPTER VI

A rough hand shook him awake. He was lying in a dingy bunk somewhere in
the gloom of the cramped forecastle. "Come, young'un," growled a voice,
strange to Jeremy, "you've slept the clock around! Cap'n wants you aft."

The lad ached in all his bones as he rolled over toward the light. As he
came to a sitting position on the edge of the bunk, he gave a start, for
the face scowling down at him looked utterly fiendish to his sleepy
eyes. Its ugliness fairly shocked him awake. The man had a grim, bristly
jaw and a twisted mouth. His eyes were small and cruel, so light in
color that they looked unspeakably cold. The livid gray line of a
sword-cut ran from his left eyebrow to his right cheek, and his nose was
crushed inward where the scar crossed its bridge, giving him more the
look of an animal than of a man. A greasy red cloth bound his head and
produced a final touch of barbarity. To the half-dazed Jeremy there
seemed something strangely familiar about his pose, but as he still
stared he was jerked to his feet by the collar. "Don't stand there, you
lubber!" shouted the man with the broken nose. "Get aft, an' lively!" A
hard shove sent the boy spinning to the foot of the ladder. He climbed
dizzily and stumbled on deck, looking about him, uncertain where to go.
It must have been past noon, for the sun was on the starboard bow.

The _Revenge_ was close-hauled and running southwest on a fresh west
wind. Dave Herriot leaned against the weather rail, a short clay pipe in
one fist and his bushy brown beard in the other. At the wheel was a
swarthy man with earrings, who looked like a Portuguese or a Spaniard.
Glancing over his shoulder, Jeremy saw most of the crew lolled about
forward of the fo'c's'le hatc