raid,--the savages are within a dozen miles of Charles Town,
laying waste the plantations,--slaying the laborers. The militia is
called to arms but they lack a leader. Colonel Stuart is sorely missed.
Captain Bonnet called another boat-load of his pirates ashore, and they
march in the van to assail the Indians. May I go with them, Uncle Peter?
Must I play the coward and the laggard?"

"Nonsense, John Cockrell. These mad pirates have addled your wits. Shall
I let you be scalped by these painted fiends of Yemassees?"

"Then you will volunteer in my stead," shrewdly ventured Jack, with a
glance at Dorothy.

"Um-m. Duty and my official cares prevent," quoth the worshipful
Secretary of the Colony, frowning and pursing his lips. Dorothy smiled
at this and winked at Jack. Uncle Peter was rated a better lawyer than a
valiant man of war.

"Let us stand at a window," exclaimed the girl. "Ah, they come! My
faith, but this is a brave array. And Captain Bonnet leads them well."

She had never expected to praise a pirate but there was no denying that
this lean, straight rover in the scarlet coat and great cocked hat
looked the part of a competent and intrepid soldier. He was superbly fit
for the task in hand. Catching sight of Jack Cockrell and Dorothy Stuart
in the window, he saluted by raising the hilt of his cutlass and his
melancholy visage brightened in a smile.

Behind him tramped his men in column of fours, matchlocks across their
shoulders, bright weapons swinging against their thighs as they sang all
together and kept step to the beat of the drums.

"But ere to Execution Bay,
The wind these bones do blow,
I'll drink an' fight what's left away,
_Yo, ho, with the rum below_."

Behind these hardy volunteers straggled as many of the militia company
as had been able to answer the sudden call, merchants, clerks, artisans,
and vagabonds who seemed none too eager to meet the bloodthirsty
Yemassees. Their wives and children trailed after them to the edge of
the town, amidst tears and loud lamentations. The contrast did not
escape the eye of Mr. Peter Arbuthnot Forbes who reluctantly admitted:

"Give the devil his due, say I. These wicked brethren of the coast go
swaggering off of their own free will, as though it were to a frolic. I
will remember it in their favor when they come to hang."

A long roll of the drums and a lilting flourish by the pirate trumpeter
as a farewell to