



Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: Cover]



[Illustration: "_HARRY'S BLOOD WAS UP._"  p. 12]




                              CARRIED OFF

                       _A STORY OF PIRATE TIMES_


                                   BY
                              ESME STUART


              AUTHOR OF 'FOR HALF-A-CROWN' 'THE LAST HOPE'
                        'THE WHITE CHAPEL' ETC.



                  _WITH FOUR FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS_




                                 LONDON
                     NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY
                      BROAD SANCTUARY, WESTMINSTER
             NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE
                                  1888




                                  _TO_
                          _CLARISSA AND JOHN_


_I dedicate this story, knowing they are already fond of travelling.
They may be glad to hear that the chief events in it are true, and are
taken out of an old book written more than two hundred years ago.  Yet
they may now safely visit the West Indies without fear of being made
prisoners by the much dreaded Buccaneers._

_E.S._



                        [_All rights reserved_]




                                CONTENTS

CHAPTER


      I. THE SACRIFICE
     II. CAPTURED
    III. A BEAUTIFUL ISLAND
     IV. THE PIRATES ARE COMING
      V. THE SCOUTS
     VI. HATCHING A PLOT
    VII. TREACHERY
   VIII. A BRAVE DEFENCE
     IX. IMPRISONED
      X. A FELLOW-COUNTRYMAN
     XI. THE SECRET PASSAGE
    XII. A NEW EXPEDITION
   XIII. THE ESCAPE
    XIV. DEFENCE TILL DEATH
     XV. IN THE WOODS
    XVI. WAITING FOR LUCK
   XVII. DISCOVERED
  XVIII. HUNTING A FUGITIVE
    XIX. IN A LONELY SPOT
     XX. SAVED
    XXI. A BAG OF GOLD




                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


'HARRY'S BLOOD WAS UP'

CARLO REFUSED ADMISSION (missing from book)

CARLO BEFORE CAPTAIN MORGAN

'SHALL WE LAND?' (missing from book)




                              CARRIED OFF.



                               CHAPTER I.

                             THE SACRIFICE.


It was a beautiful warm spring evening, and as the sun sank slowly in
the west it illuminated with quivering golden light the calm waters that
surrounded green, marshy Canvey Island, which lies opposite South
Benfleet, in the estuary of the Thames.

Harry Fenn had just come out of church, and, as was often his wont, he
ran up a slight hill, and, shading his eyes, looked intently out towards
Canvey and then yet more to his left, where Father Thames clasps hands
with the ocean.

The eminence on which young fair-haired Harry stood was the site of a
strong castle, built long ago by Haesten, the Danish rover, in which he
stowed away Saxon spoil and Saxon prisoners, till King Alfred came down
upon him, pulled down the rover's fortress, seized his wife and his two
sons, and relieved the neighbourhood of this Danish scourge.  How often,
indeed, had the peaceful inhabitants trembled at the sight of the sea
robber's narrow war-vessels creeping up the creek in search of plunder!

Harry, however, was not thinking of those ancient days; his whole soul
and mind was in the present, in vague longings for action; full, too, of
young inquisitiveness as to the future, especially his own future, so
that he forgot why he had come to this spot, and did not even hear the
approach of the Rev. Mr. Aylett, who, having been listening to a tale of
distress from one of his parishioners at the end of the evening service,
had now come to enjoy the view from Haesten's hill.  As he walked slowly
towards the immovable form of the boy, he could not help being struck by
the lad's graceful outline; the lithe, yet strongly built figure, the
well-balanced head, now thrown back as the eyes sought the distant
horizon; whilst the curly fair locks appeared to have been dashed
impatiently aside, and now were just slightly lifted by the evening
breeze; for Harry Fenn held his cap in his hand as he folded his arms
across his chest.  He might have stood for the model of a young Apollo
had any artist been by, but art and artists were unknown things in South
Benfleet at that time.

Mr. Aylett shook his head as he walked towards the lad, even though a
smile of pleasure parted his lips as he noted the comeliness of his
young parishioner, whom he now addressed.

'Well, Harry, my boy, what may be the thoughts which are keeping you so
unusually still?'  Harry started and blushed like a girl, and yet his
action was simple enough.

'Indeed, sir, I did not hear you.  I--I came here to have a look at our
cows down on the marsh. Father----'

Mr. Aylett laughed good-humouredly.

'Am I to believe that that earnest look is all on account of the cattle,
Harry?'  Harry felt at this moment as if he had told a lie, and had been
found out by Mr. Aylett, who was so good and clever that he could
almost, nay, sometimes did, tell one's thoughts.

'No, sir;' then, with a winning smile, the lad added, 'in truth I had
forgotten all about the cattle.  I was dreaming of----'

'Of the future, Harry.  Listen, did not those same thoughts run thus?
That it is dull work staying at home on the farm; that some of thy
relations in past days had famous times in our civil wars, and went to
battle and fought for the King, and that some even had been settlers in
the old days of Queen Bess, and that, when all is said and done, it
wants a great deal of self-denial to stay as thou art now doing,
cheering the declining years of thy good father and mother.  Some such
thought I fancied I could read in your face, boy, when singing in the
choir just now.  Was it so?  I would have you use candour with me.'

Harry turned his cap round and round slowly in his hands.  Mr. Aylett
was certainly a diviner of thoughts; but Harry was far too honest, and
of too good principle, to deny the truth.  It was his honesty, as well
as his pluck and courage, that made him so dear to the clergyman, who
had taught the boy a great deal more learning than usually fell to the
lot of a yeoman's son in those days, even though Mr. Fenn farmed his own
land, was well-to-do, and could, had he so willed, have sent his son to
Oxford; but he himself had been reared on Pitsea Farm, had married
there, and there he had watched his little ones carried to the grave,
all but Harry.  Yes, Harry was his all, his mother's darling, his
father's pride; the parson was welcome to teach him his duty to his
Church, his King and his country, and what more he liked, but no one
must part the yeoman from his only child.

And Harry knew this, and yet often and often his soul was moved with
that terribly strong desire for change and for a larger horizon, which,
so long as the world lasts, will take possession of high-spirited boys.
However, the lad was as good as he was brave; he knew that he must crush
down his desire, or at least that he must not show it to his parents;
but he did not try to resist the pleasure of indulging in thoughts of a
larger life, thoughts which Mr. Aylett guessed very easily, but which
would have made his father's hair stand on end. This evening Mr.
Aylett's face looked so kind that Harry's boyish reserve gave way, and
with rising colour he exclaimed:

'Oh, sir, I can't deny it; it is all true, that, and much more; just now
I had such dreadful thoughts. I felt that I must go out yonder, away and
away, and learn what the world is like; I felt that even father's sorrow
and mother's tears would not grieve me much, and that I must break loose
from here or die.  I know it was wicked, and I will conquer the feeling,
but it seems as if the devil himself tempts me to forget my duty; and
worse,' added poor Harry, who having begun his confession thought he
would make a clean breast of it, 'I feel as if I must go straight to my
father and tell him I will not spend my life in minding cattle and
seeing after the labourers, and that after telling him, I would work my
way out into the big world without asking him for a penny.  Sir, would
that be possible?'

Harry looked up with trembling eagerness, as if on this one frail chance
of Mr. Aylett's agreement depended his life's happiness; but the
clergyman did not give him a moment's hope.

'No, Harry, that is not possible, my lad.  You are an only child.  On
you depends the happiness of your parents.  This sacrifice is asked of
you by God, and is it too hard a matter to give up your own will?  Look
you, my dear Harry, I am not over-blaming you, nor am I thinking that
the crushing of this desire is not a difficult matter, but we who lived
through the late troublous times see farther than young heads, who are
easily persuaded to cozen their conscience according to their wishes.
And if you travelled, Harry, temptations and trials would follow too,
and be but troublesome companions; and further, there would be always a
worm gnawing at your heart when you thought of the childless old folks
at home.  Believe me, Harry, even out in "the golden yonder," as some
one calls it, you would not find what you expect; there would be no joy
for you who had deprived those dependent on you of it.  Take my advice,
boy, wait for God's own good time, and do not fall into strong distemper
of mind.'

Mr. Aylett paused and put a kind hand on the boy's shoulder.  Harry did
not answer at once, but slowly his eyes turned away from the waters and
the golden sun, slowly they were bent upon the marshes where the cattle
were grazing, and then nearer yet to where Pitsea Manor Farm raised its
head above a plantation of elms and oaks.  Then a great struggle went on
in the boy's mind; he remembered he was but sixteen years old, and that
many a year must most likely elapse before he became the owner of Pitsea
Farm and could do as he pleased, and that those years must be filled
with dull routine labour, where little room was left for any adventure
beyond fishing in the creek, or going over to Canvey Island to watch
when the high waves broke over the new embankments made by Joas
Croppenburg, the Dutchman, whose son still owned a third of the rich
marshland of the island as a recompense for his father's sea walls.  But
young Joas used to tell tales of great Dutch sea fights and exploits,
which, if Harry made the sacrifice Mr. Aylett was asking him to make,
would but probe the wound of his desire, and so Croppenburg's stories
must also be given up.

Harry's courage, however, was not merely nominal, it was of the right
sort.  The sacrifice he was asked to make was none the less great
because it was one not seen of men.  He was to give up his will, the
hardest thing a man or a boy can do; but it needed only Mr. Aylett's
firm answer to show Harry that his duty was very plain, and that God
required this of him.

It was like taking a plunge into cold water, where it is the first
resolution that is the worst part of the action; suddenly, with a quick
lifting of his head, and a new hopeful light in his blue eyes very
different from the unsatisfied longing gaze of ten minutes ago, Harry
spoke, and as he did so his clenched hands and his whole demeanour told
plainly that the boy meant what he said.

'I will give it up, sir; as it is, the wishing brings me no happiness,
so I will even put the wishing to flight.'

Mr. Aylett grasped the lad's hand warmly.

'God bless you, Harry, you are a brave fellow. I am proud of you.  Come
to me to-morrow, and I will show you a new book a friend has sent me;
or, better, walk back with me to the Vicarage.'

'I would willingly, sir,' said Harry quietly, 'but father bade me go to
the meadow and see if White Star should be driven in under shelter
to-night.  Our man Fiske has met with an accident, so I promised to see
after White Star before sundown.  She was a little sick this morning.'

'T