hip again. He may get hung by the chin in a thicket."

"He's sure to spend this night in the swamp, blast him," earnestly
observed Bill, "and the mosquitoes'll riddle his hide."

"And may Jesse Strawn lose no time in hauntin' him," said Trimble
Rogers.

There was an hour of daylight to spare when they had ascended the larger
creek as far as the canoe could be paddled. There they disembarked and
hid the dugout and the cock-boat in the overhanging bushes where they
could be found again in case of a forced retreat. Bill and Jack burdened
themselves with the sack of food and the water jug while the old
buccaneer set out in the lead as a guide. It was irksome progress for a
time, but gradually the ground became drier and the foliage was more
open. Dusk found them safely emerged from the great Cherokee swamp and
in a pleasant forest of long-leaf pine with a carpet of brown needles.

In fear of Indians, they dared not kindle a fire and so stretched
themselves in their wet and muddy rags and slept like dead men. What
awakened Jack Cockrell before sunrise was a series of groans from
Trimble Rogers who sat with his back against a tree while he rubbed his
legs. Ashamed at being heard, he grumpily explained:

"Cord and faggot 'ud torment me no worse than this hell-begotten
rheumatism. I be free of it in a ship but the land reeks with foul
vapors. It hurt me cruel at Cartagena in the year of----"

"But can you walk all day, in such misery as that?" anxiously
interrupted Jack.

"If not, I'll make shift to crawl," said the old sea dog.

It was apparent to Jack and also to Bill Saxby that the ordeal of the
swamp had crippled their companion whose bodily strength had been
overtaxed. They debated whether to try to return to the coast and risk a
voyage in the canoe but Trimble Rogers swore by all the saints in the
calendar that he was done with the pestilent swamp. He would push on in
spite of the rheumatism. His hardy spirit was unbroken. And so they
resumed the march, the suffering buccaneer hobbling with the musket as a
staff or with a strong arm supporting him.

Halts were frequent and progress very slow. Now and then they had
glimpses of the blue sea and so knew that they held the course true. It
had been reckoned that two days would suffice to bring them to the bay
in which Stede Bonnet's ship was anchored. By noon of this first day,
however, it was plainly evident that Trimble Rogers was done for. He
uttered no complaints