.

There was not much bickering. In the shadow of certain death, these
outlaws of the sea seemed to have acquired a spirit of resignation which
was akin to dignity. They had lost the game. In their own lingo, it was
the black spot for all hands of 'em. With the coolness of night they
revived to bathe in the surf which made their thirst less hard to bear.
There was not much sleep. Men walked in restless circles, looking up at
the stars, muttering to themselves, or scanning the sea which had known
their crimes and follies.

[Illustration: THEY CAPERED AND HUGGED EACH OTHER]

Joe Hawkridge scooped out a bed for himself in the sand and dropped off
to sleep by spells, with dreams of ease and quiet ashore and learning to
be a gentleman. It was daylight when shouts startled him. The other
derelicts were in a frenzy of agitation. They capered and hugged each
other, and made unearthly sounds. Joe brushed the sand from his eyes and
saw a small vessel approaching the tiny island. Her rig was made out to
be that of a snow, which was very like a brig, the difference being in
the larger main-topsail and the absence of a spanker or after
steering-sail.

Such trading craft as this snow came coasting down from Salem and other
New England ports to Virginia and the Carolinas laden with molasses,
rum, salt, cider, mackerel, woodenware, Muscavado sugar, and dried
codfish. They bartered for return cargoes and carried no specie,
wherefore pirates like Stede Bonnet seldom molested them excepting to
take such stores as might be needed and sometimes actually to pay for
them. They were the prey of miscreants of Blackbeard's stripe who
destroyed and slew for the pleasure of it.

This trim little snow was making to the southward in fancied security,
having picked up a landfall, as the marooned pirates conjectured. No
doubt her master had failed to receive warning that Blackbeard was in
these waters and he was running his risk of encountering other
marauders. He must have seen that there were people in distress on the
tide-washed strip of sand. The snow shifted her helm and fired a gun.
The marooned wretches could scarce credit their amazing good fortune but
a grave, slow-spoken fellow who had been a carpenter's mate in the
_Revenge_ thought the rejoicing premature.

"When that God-fearin' skipper takes a look at us, he will sheer off and
clap on sail, lads. For shipwrecked sailors you are a pizen lot o' mugs.
The only blighted one of ye what