We were talking about all these strange things that had happened,
when suddenly we heard a commotion at the head of the column.
Running hastily forward, I saw Punchard and several of my men
rushing at full speed across a tract of scrubby land in pursuit of
Vetch. He had persuaded the buccaneer beside him, whose hands had
not been bound, to cut his bonds.
I joined in the chase; Cludde hung back; I think that after all he
would not have been ill pleased, for old friendship's sake, if
Vetch had got away. Vetch had had but a few yards' start, but he
was a swift runner, and I doubted much whether any of us could
overtake him. We could not bring him down with a shot, for my men,
though their muskets were loaded, had not kindled their matches, so
that before they could fire he was out of range. Foremost of the
pursuers was Joe, bounding along like a deer, furious (as he
afterwards told me) because he regarded the escape as due to his
own negligence.
We had raced on for maybe half a mile, and still had not lessened
the distance between us and the fugitive, when I suddenly saw him
sink above his ankles into the earth. He uttered a terrible shriek;
the man running beside me, who knew something of the country, cried
out "A cockpit!" in accents of horror and stopped short. But the
agonizing cries of the poor wretch who was sinking inch by inch
into the horrible hole whose treacherous surface had beguiled him
were more than I could endure.
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