Returning to Captain Marchand, Bonnet said:  “I will now step on board my ship and write some letters, which I shall ask you to take to Bridgetown with you.  I shall be ready by the time the rest of your cargo is removed.”

“Oh, don’t do that!” cried Ben; “there is surely pen an’ paper here, close to your hand.  Go down to Captain Marchand’s cabin an’ write your letters.”

“No, no,” cried Bonnet, “I have my own conveniences.”  And with that he leaped on board the Revenge.

“That’s a chance gone,” said Ben Greenway to Captain Marchand, “a good chance gone.  If we could hae kept him on board here an’ down in your cabin, I might hae passed the word to that big miscreant, the sailing-master, to cast off an’ get awa’ wi’ that wretched crowd.  The scoundrels will be glad to steal the ship, an’ it will be the salvation o’ Master Bonnet if they do it.”

“If that’s the case,” said Captain Marchand, “why should we resort to trickery?  If his men want his ship and don’t want him, why can’t we seize him when he comes on board with his letters, and then let his men know that they are free to go to the devil in any way they please?  Then we can convey Major Bonnet to his home, to repentance, perhaps, and a better life.”

“That’s good,” said Ben, “but no’ to punishment.  Ye an’ I could testify that his head is turned, but that, when kindness to a neebour is concerned, his heart is all right.”

“Ay, ay,” said the captain, “I could swear to that.  And now we must act together.  When I put my hand on him, you do the same, and give him no chance to use his sword or pistols.”

The captain of the pirates sat down in his well-furnished little room to write his letters, and the noise and confusion on deck, the swearing and the singing and the shouting to be heard everywhere, did not seem to disturb him in the least.  He was a man whose mind could thoroughly engage itself with but one thing at a time, and the fact that his men were at work sacking the merchantman did not in the least divert his thoughts from his pen and paper.

So he quietly wrote to his wife that he had embraced a pirate’s life, that he never expected to become a planter again, and that he left to her the enjoyment and management of his estate in Barbadoes.  He hoped that, his absence having now relieved her of her principal reason for discontent with her lot, she would become happy and satisfied, and would allow those about her to be the same.  He expected to send Ben Greenway back to her to help take care of her affairs, but if she should need further advice he advised her to speak to Master Newcombe.

The letter to his daughter was different; it was very affectionate.  He assured her of his sorrow at not being able to take her with him and to leave her at Jamaica, and he urged her at the earliest possible moment to go to her uncle and to remain there until she heard from him or saw him—­the latter being probable, as he intended to visit Jamaica as soon as he could, even in disguise if this method were necessary.  He alluded to the glorious career upon which he was entering, and in which he expected some day to make a great name for himself, of which he hoped she would be proud.