Chapter III: Part 3

“Mistress Leroux,” said Brandon, “you know our story. You know what we are. We’re marooned by a pirate; we’ve lost our ship; we’ve not a guinea in the world; we’re ruined. Mr Murch makes us an offer. Had we only ourselves to consider, we would accept it without question. But we are answerable to the owners. Now, Mr Murch may mean very honestly by us; or--if you will pardon me--he may not. We don’t know Mr Murch. You do. I put myself in your hands. I appeal to you. What do you say?”

Thus Brandon, with a strong flush and very earnestly. Morgan Leroux considered him for a moment.

“You say I know him,” she answered, slowly. “I doubt if I do, though I’ve lived in his house for several years. All I can tell you is, he is just and kind to me, and he has the name of a just man. What he thinks right, that he does, and nothing stops him.”

“There it is!” said Brandon, eagerly--“what he thinks right! The question is, what _does_ he think right? You see, we’re new to this buccaneering business--it seems to have laws of its own, quite different from the Ten Commandments. We haven’t quite got the drift of the thing.”

Morgan looked at him with real concern in her vivid face.

“Do you know, Mr Pomfrett,” said she, gravely, “I think both you and I must take our chance. And for your business, I can tell you that it is of no use appealing to the Governor,” she added, significantly.

This, chiming with our own desires, clinched the matter.

“It seems,” said Brandon, as soon as we were alone, “that we are appointed to serve as pirates’ catspaws. Well, we’ll see which will pull the most from the fire, the thieves or the honest men.”

“Did you never feel,” I asked him, “when we started the business with Dawkins, that there was something behind--that it came too easy to be natural?”

“No,” said Brandon. “Did you?”

I told him that I did; and, what was more, that I had the same feeling at that moment. I told him Murch was too prodigal of his assurances of plain dealing; that, so far as my experience served, honest men did not indulge in these protestations; that I believed them (as I do still) to be the infallible mark of insincerity.

“Why the devil, then,” said Pomfrett, “didn’t you say so before? It’s too late to begin croaking now.”

At which I showed him we had no choice; and, therefore, needed all the more to be wary.

“Well,” said Pomfrett, assuming a light and careless manner, “I believe the girl is honest. She’s on our side.”

I hoped so; but to Master Pomfrett, at that time of his ingenuous life, every wench was an angel of honesty and virtue.

Mr Murch received our decision without changing a line of his cobwebbed countenance or a note in his deep voice. “Very well. We must sail within the week,” was all he said.

VII

THE _WHEEL OF FORTUNE_ MAKES A QUICK RUN

To man, arm, and victual a ship of some sixty men and eight guns, though the ship herself were ready for sea, takes ordinarily three months or more; and so to fit out a privateer, in the guise of a merchant vessel, in six days would seem an incredible performance. Yet we did it in a week--and it took a week to create the world, with unlimited facilities. Mr Murch must have been secretly preparing for some such enterprise for a long time. True, he never said so; but how else should a fine snow (a two-masted, square-sailed vessel), new rigged and cleaned, be waiting at the quay-side for a purchaser? How else should sundry merchants have the indents of stores ready made out in the back office, and the ammunition packed? And how else should the men of the crew present themselves in batches with such remarkable celerity? And what a crew! ’Twas the rout of Comus putting to sea. Scarred, dangerous, foul-mouthed ruffians; little, bustling Frenchmen; thick, mahogany-faced English; oily, sullen Portuguese; huge brutes of negroes and half-castes, most villanous of all. Some came shaking with drink, from the crimps’ houses; some, lean and lusty from their last ship; some, fat with soft living ashore; and some, dreadful tallow-faced creatures, with unkempt hair falling over snakes’ eyes, and hands like claws, from I know not what dark places of iniquity. And they all knew Mr Jevon Murch. I was certain of this. Not a day passed, while they were signing-on in the little office on the quay at Bridgetown, but Murch’s name would recur in their mongrel dialect as they stood talking and waiting their turn. And, of course, the merchants we dealt with had a private understanding with Mr Murch. Sometimes they forgot the pretence, and, a point arising for settlement, it was, “Well, sir, Mr Murch will tell you;” or, “As Mr Murch pleases.” But all business documents were made out in the name of Brandon Pomfrett. And no one asked awkward questions; it was no one’s business to ask questions, unless it were the Governor’s. And, after all, what was it to that high official that a cock-a-hoop young gentleman from England should choose to sail in the snow _Wheel of Fortune_ on a private trading venture?

All that week we worked day and night, ate when we could, and slept where we sat. Heat, dust, smell, cockroaches, a fever of hurry, a nightmare jumble of black people and white; the long road to Murch’s house, hastily traversed at all times of the day and night; Murch sitting at his table, with his unchangeable iron face, steadily transacting business and directing affairs, the week through; mounted men riding up at all hours, sitting awhile with the unchangeable iron face, and riding away; Brandon Pomfrett snatching five bitter-sweet minutes of Mistress Morgan’s company, coming away and pretending he hadn’t; the ship in a dreadful confusion of packages and bales; and always heat, dust, smell, cockroaches, a fever of hurry, and the nightmare jumble of faces black and white--these are the remembrances of that strenuous week. A beastly climate and a beastly place, though curious to see.

We were to sail with the morning tide, keep the offing until dark, then stand in, with two lights in the foremast, to pick up Mr Murch and Mistress Morgan Leroux, off a point below the plantation. All their effects were already aboard, and a cabin fitted up for the lady with every luxury Pomfrett could improvise. Mr Murch had not only got his ship during the week, but had sold his plantation--slaves, house, and all. It was sink or swim, then, for Mr Murch and his ward, as for our two selves, on this venture.

Mr Murch was to act both as captain and master when he came aboard; meanwhile, Pomfrett, who was nominal captain and master as well as nominal owner, was in command. We came aboard the evening before; and Brandon sat for a long time studying a Manual of Seamanship, which he had borrowed from Murch. He read and read, the sweat dropping upon the open page.

“I shall have to take the cursed ship out to-morrow,” said he. “I don’t know how to do it, any more than the dead. And I can’t understand the book. I may have to sail close-hauled, large, quartering, or afore the wind, and how am I to know where the blessed wind will be to-morrow? I can’t remember the directions for each. And the least thing you do wrong, she broaches-to.”

“I thought you told Dawkins you could sail a ship.”

“I can _navigate_ her,” said Pomfrett. “At least, I could if I tried. I’ve learnt the theory. But that’s not _sailing_ her, you fool.”

“Can’t you find a kind of general direction, that will serve for any emergency--a sort of common denominator?”

“You’ll never make a sailor,” says Brandon. “Now listen: _When the wind is on the quarter, the fore-tack is brought to the cat-head, and, the main-tack being cast off, the weather-clue of the main-sail is hoisted up to the yard, and the yards are so disposed as to make an angle of twenty-two degrees with the keel_.”

“Very well. ‘Bring fore-tack to cat-head, cast off main-tack’ (“But supposing it is cast off already?” said Brandon), ‘hoist main-sail, go on rounding yards till I tell you to stop.’ Nothing could be simpler.”

“Ah, but,” says the hopeful mariner, “_when the wind is one point on the quarter, the angle which the yards and sails make with the keel is somewhat less than a point_. See what a delicate business it is! And again, when the wind is right aft, they’re at right angles with the keel, the stay-s’ls hauled down, the main-s’l brailed up, but you mustn’t furl the main-top-s’l and main-t’gallant-s’l, for fear of broaching-to! And supposing the winds fall to light and baffling airs, now a point this way, now the other--what then?”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, “you’d better keep below and let the boatswain take charge.”

“No,” said Brandon, firmly. “One doesn’t command a ship every day. Keep below?--not I. Besides, I should forfeit the respect of the crew if I did.”

“And it would be better to forfeit the ship than that, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course,” says Captain Pomfrett, with perfect seriousness.

I had a premonitory vision of the _Wheel of Fortune_, staggering to and fro in the harbour, running down a boat here, carrying away bow-sprits and jib-booms there, the derision of Bridgetown; and I privately sought the boatswain. Since it was that officer’s duty to repeat the captain’s orders to the crew, he might yet save us. Our boatswain was a fat, good-humoured person, with a very long body, very short legs, and a tiny grey eye shining in the crease of his red cheek. I approached him with delicacy--so much delicacy that the worthy man, who was three parts drunk, had a difficulty in apprehending my drift.

“Ho,” says he, expostulating, “you’re a pleasant gentleman, Mr Winter, and no mistake. What harm have I ever done to you, Mr Winter, that you should wish to see me triced up to the gratings, a-biting on a cork, and the corporal a-laying on his twelve dozen for mutiny? And before we’re out o’ harbour too!”

I explained laboriously that my meaning was quite otherwise. I put it, that the captain’s long spell of work, combined with unusual potations, might cause him to give somewhat uncertain directions; that, in fact, the boatswain was to be responsible for taking out the ship.

“Taking out the ship? Why, now I understand you, Mr Winter. Don’t you fret yourself on that score, sir. I got my orders from Mr Murch. And Mr Pompion” (tompion, I suppose he was thinking of) “three sheets in the wind, is he? Ah, well, my advice to you, Mr Winter, is to go and do thou likewise. There ain’t no better way for to start a v’yage, nor to continue in the same, nor to end it. Rum’s the word, mate--rum!”

His voice dying away, he continued to regard me with a broad smile, apparently under the delusion that he was still speaking. I took his advice--not that I meant to do so. But I had an easy mind, since the wonderful Murch, who forgot nothing, had provided for our safety. We drank not much, that I remember. The rest of the night I forget. The ship was moving when we awoke. We scrambled on deck into the splendid sunshine, to see the quays and houses and green hills sliding behind us as the boats towed the _Wheel of Fortune_ into mid-stream. A light air ruffled the shining water. Captain Pomfrett cocked a haggard eye aloft. The sails were furled, the yards squared by the lifts--that is, at right angles to the ship’s length. The faithful boatswain, bellowing orders from the forecastle, had the tow-rope cast off, the boats hoisted inboard, the men to their stations by the ropes, alow and aloft. Then he walked aft and reported all clear, with a solemn countenance. Captain Pomfrett stood as still as a statue, his legs wide apart, his face blue and white, his hat over one eye. There was a minute’s silence, the ship yawing slowly to the tide-rip.

Suddenly he exploded into life. “Slack away!” he shouted, arms waving. “Slack away!”

The boatswain’s whistle caught the words, the boatswain’s great voice bawled a string of commands, the yards were rounded, the sails let fall, and the ship, a tower of pearl-white canvas, began to travel with a noise of talking water. What Captain Pomfrett meant by his order, neither he nor I nor the boatswain ever knew. “It came upon me,” said Brandon, afterwards, “like an inspiration. It seemed to cover everything, and yet do no harm.”

We stood south-west until Barbadoes dropped beyond the sea-line; went about as the dark fell, and lay-to a couple of miles off-shore, with two lights on the foremast, the signal agreed upon. The moon rose beyond the black hulk of the island; and out of the shadow, down its silver pathway of light, came the boat, rowing with muffled oars.

We were rolling heavily, with much banging and creaking of tackle; but Mr Murch came briskly up the side, followed by a slim and pretty young gentleman. Slings with a chair attached were dropped into the rocking boat, and a white-haired old negress was hoisted inboard, and then the old negro without a tongue. Mr Murch took command, and we stood away again into the night.

“Gentlemen,” said Murch, as Pomfrett and I entered the lighted cabin, “let me present you to Mr Morgan Leroux, a gentleman-adventurer like yourselves.” There, indeed, was Morgan Leroux, in a fine suit of sable trimmed with scarlet, her bright black hair powdered white and tied in a queue. She leaned back in her chair and regarded Pomfrett’s solemn face with tranquil amusement.

“Mr Murch kept swearing he would have no trouble with women aboard his ship,” said she, with her customary frankness. “There can’t be any trouble now, can there?”

Before we turned in for the night Murch produced a document setting forth with all due prolixity how Brandon Pomfrett, gentleman, in respect of certain considerations, made over to Jevon Murch, gentleman, the snow _Wheel of Fortune_, and all, excepting personal effects, contained therein or properly belonging to her.

“Now,” says Murch, “you know me; anyone can under-run _my_ cable--they’ll find it sound. This is a matter of form, to be executed in case a Queen’s ship runs us aboard and looks at the ship’s papers, or some such emergency. When we fall across Dawkins, I’ll engage to get your own ship back for you. Meanwhile, put your signature to that, and we’re all square and shipshape.”

Brandon considered the instrument with a doubtful eye. “You will understand, Mr Murch, I have my owners to consider,” says he. “As a matter of form, I think I should sign this when I’ve got my ship again, and not before. Your ship represents my owners’ security.”

“Does it?” Murch returned, grimly. “You may have overlooked the fact that this ship is mine already. And what about my security for salvage money? Have I insisted on that?”

Brandon was obliged to admit that point.

“It seems to me,” Murch went on, with massive deliberation, “that neither you nor I, Mr Pomfrett, would cut a hopeful figure in a court of law. No, sir. We’re outside the law, and must just conduct business as between gentlemen of for--of honour. And you might ask yourself, in a moment of leisure, what is to prevent Captain Murch from marooning two young gentlemen of your acquaintance on the next key?”

How much deeper Brandon would have plunged I know not, for at this moment Murch was called on deck.

“Now look you here, Brandon Pomfrett,” said Morgan Leroux, angrily, “if you will persist in running your head into the noose, you’ll be hanged at last, and I can’t save you. Can’t you see--oh, but men are stupid!--can’t you see Mr Murch has you in his hand? Signing all the documents in the world won’t leave you a ha’porth the worse; and if you anger Murch, he’ll toss you overboard. Why, what stops him now?”

“God knows,” said the bewildered Brandon, staring upon the lighted eyes under the level black brows.

“Why, what but Morgan Leroux, who took you from slavery, you fool,” says she. “But there’s bounds to Morgan’s power, let me tell you. Now sign, and no more nonsense. I’ll be one witness, and Mr Winter, who can write, I daresay, if he can’t talk, will be the other. God bless me,” says Morgan, “signing away a ship that ain’t yours won’t hurt you!”

I record this trifling incident, because it showed us clearly, for the first time, in what a perilous strait we were, and how our lives depended upon the favour of this singular, plain-spoken, fiery exotic of a girl, Morgan Leroux. Pomfrett consoled himself by the reflection that, after all, Murch bore no spite against us.

“Unless you drive him to desperation with your sea-lawyer’s tongue,” I said.

“But I’ve got to think of my owners,” was Pomfrett’s eternal cry. He, the agent, was continually inspired to a sense of duty by the thought of Mrs A., the crabbed old woman with the black slave, his pompous uncle, and the whole hotch-potch of paunchy burgesses who snuffled and canted and sent poor seamen to starve at sea--a remembrance which was merely disgusting to the agent’s clerk. They had taken their chance, and lost it, in my view. And yet I, too, was uncomfortably haunted by a sense of responsibility. Once a trustee, always a trustee.

Now, from Barbadoes to Catoche Bay, in Yucatan, is fifteen days’ sailing with a fair wind, and I had anticipated, as, no doubt, had Master Pomfrett, fifteen days’ pleasant wooing of Mistress Morgan by the enamoured agent. But, somehow or other, I failed to remark the operation. From the moment when the swain clapped eyes on the lady in man’s attire, methought there was a change in his demeanour. Had Morgan not assumed protection of the agent so cavalierly, the change might have passed, but I doubt Mr Pomfrett could not stomach that improper reversal of their relations, in his helpless condition. He was bound to her by gratitude, or conceived that he was, and he sulked accordingly. Morgan forced him to run races with her round the ship, up to the cross-trees and down again, and beat him; made him compete with her in shooting at a mark, and beat him again; persuaded him to dance with her, and reviled his clumsiness with great freedom. Young Brandon began to think small beer of himself under this discipline; he lost a deal of dignity in the process, and conceived an immoderate desire to perform some exploit which should set him even with his tormentor. Yet this Morgan had nothing of the shrew, nothing of the virago. She was simply herself; she had no care, as Murch would say, to make any pretence. What she wanted to do, that she did, openly and freely; what she thought, that she said. Now this behaviour differed so extremely from the conduct of the English girls of Brandon’s acquaintance, that at first he was shocked. He thought, though he never said it, that she must be a bad woman, and this, I think, rather tempted him into her company. Be sure that Mistress Morgan knew what was in his mind. So the duel went forward between these two. I used to remark the boy’s square, guileless face beside the girl’s straight-browed, vigorous beauty, and wonder which would win.

As for Mr Jevon Murch, he left us much to ourselves, being entirely occupied in commanding the ship. If Mr Dawkins could sail a ship the way she ought to be sailed, so could Mr Murch. Yet he never took the chances that the jovial Dawkins risked so gaily. And while Dawkins cared nothing for the looks of the ship, and let the filth accumulate in heaps, Murch would have the decks like snow, the brass-work dazzling bright, the masts and yards scraped and varnished, the guns polished daily. The crew grumbled bitterly among themselves, and presently broke into open complaint. Murch had six men tied to the gratings, and gave them twelve dozen apiece. Their backs were cut to pieces. And thereafter, by a look here, a word there, now and again a blow that shook the offender for a week, Murch established discipline among that wild crew. How long they would have stood the strain I know not; for, so marvellous was Murch’s seamanship that we made Catoche Bay on the evening of the tenth day out, five whole days, or four at the least, before we were due, by all calculation. This was mysterious. But Murch kept the chart in a lockfast place, so we had no notion of where we were until he told us we were come “to our destination.” We had spoken ships almost daily, but there was never a sign of the _Blessed Endeavour_. Had she come and gone? That was the question. Murch wasted no time in solving it. It was dark when we dropped anchor; nevertheless, the captain went immediately ashore, taking with him his negro slave, twenty men, and five officers fully armed, and Mr Brandon Pomfrett. The ship was left in charge of Morgan Leroux, who had her instructions how to deal with Mr Dawkins, should he appear. The boatswain was second in command. I suppose that Murch took the officers with him to neutralize the risk of mutiny in his absence. It is of no use to steal a ship unless you can navigate her, and in his knowledge of navigation lies much of the secret of the officer’s ascendancy in the ships that sail on the private account. As for the humble compiler of these memoirs, he was left aboard as a kind of tame watch-dog.

When the day broke we found ourselves lying in a rocky bay, some two miles from the shore. I searched the coasts with a perspective glass, with intent to discover the marks described in the writing contained in Mr Dawkins’s bottle. “_At a point on nothe mainland Yucatan two leagues due south from the hed of Catoche Bay having the red rocks where the river flows out in line with the extreemest projection of cliffe on west horn of bay_.” Thus, Captain Grammont, the old buccaneer, to Captain de Graaf, his comrade. But I could see neither any red rock in particular, nor river flowing out. Here was another perplexity of this remarkable voyage.

The landing party was expected to return on the second day, but the second day passed, and the third, and still the long beach lay solitary, save for the myriad sea-birds, fishing and screaming. And the deep forest, climbing upon the tall mountains, grilled, silent and mysterious, in the sun, with no sign or sound of man. Morgan Leroux began to grow restless; her careless gaiety died away; a shadow dwelt upon her face. On the fifth day, in the morning watch, I was alone on the quarterdeck, in that still hour of the dawn, when I was aware of Morgan Leroux at my elbow. We both gazed shoreward for awhile, where the beach and the woods were whelmed in shadow and the tops of the far hills took the sunlight. Eastward, the dazzling half-circle of the sea shone clear and desolate. Still, no sign of the adventurers; stranger yet, no sign of Dawkins in the _Blessed Endeavour_.

“Mr Winter,” said Morgan, “I don’t like it. They went by a short way to the place--shorter than the river journey; they should have been back before this.”

“The river--what river?”

“Oh, I forgot,” says Morgan. “You don’t know, of course.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I’ve been looking for a river these four days, till my eyes ached. Here is Catoche Bay; where’s the river? Can you see one? I can’t.”

“Perhaps,” said Morgan, softly, “because it is not there? Come, Mr Winter,” she added, in her serious manner, “we are passable friends, are we not?”

“Surely.”

“Ah, well, you don’t like me--which matters little, Mr Harry Winter, save to yourself--but you don’t trust me neither, and that matters much, because,” says Morgan, “I am one to be trusted, did you but know it. And in this posture of affairs, do you know, friend Harry, I think you and me are to have dealings together, lest worse befall.”

I had not thought of it before--it was true. I neither liked her overmuch, nor trusted her. But, so curious a thing is man, I began to desire to do both, from that moment. Morgan looked at me and smiled pleasantly.

“Come,” says she, “I am going to tell you a story.”

VIII

THE STORY OF THE INCOMPARABLE LADY AND THE ADMIRAL OF BUCCANEERS

This was the story told me by Morgan Leroux, as we leaned on the taffrail of the _Wheel of Fortune_, in the still splendour of the dawn.

“Sir Henry Morgan was, as you know, my grandfather. He rose to be Admiral of Buccaneers and Governor of Jamaica, from very low beginnings. He shipped from Bristol in his youth, and as soon as he came to the Indies he was sold as a slave--a thing,” says Morgan, “which might happen to any gentleman. But he served his time, and when it was out he joined the Brotherhood of the Sea. Jevon Murch was ship’s boy in Mr Morgan’s ship, and he followed Mr Morgan all through. He was at the capture of El Puerto del Principe, and the taking of Porto-Bello. I have often heard him tell of the Spanish governor’s stout resistance, and how he refused quarter--which was great foolishness--and fought to the last, his wife and child clinging about his knees.

“Murch was with Captain Morgan when he took Saint Catherine’s Isle by stratagem, and so acquitted himself in the storming of the Castle of Chagre that Morgan gave him a billet which kept him about his person. So they went to the sack of Maracaibo, where they fought and quite destroyed the Spanish fleet, and Murch was Morgan’s lieutenant at the taking of Panama. I have heard the story of the burning of Panama from Mr Murch, for my grandfather never spoke of his life. Some drunken fool, it seems, set light to a house, and not the whole army of the pirates could extinguish the conflagration. The houses were chiefly of cedar-wood, and the fire burned for a month, with a stifling smell and a great smoke rolling out to sea.

“Meanwhile, Morgan neglected nothing that might gain him sixpence. That was his energetic way. The pirates raked and dug in the ruins and searched the wells and cisterns for booty; search-parties ranged the woods to fetch thence those who had fled, and brought them to be tortured until they gave up their riches; and boats were despatched to the near islands of Tavoga and Tavogilla to bring back others who had fled thither on the first alarm.

“Now, I must tell you that Captain Morgan’s custom was--as Mr Murch hath often described to me--his custom was, when the women were brought in, to have them passed in review before him. He sat in his chair in his lodging, which was the finest house he could find, as grand as the Great Mogul. Now, upon a day, there came in one of the boats, among the other women, a certain Spanish lady, wife to a wealthy merchant of Panama. The merchant had gone to Peru, whereby, no doubt, he saved his head, whatever else he lost. Well, this lady came before Captain Morgan with her old tire-woman, a silly person. ‘Why, Jesus bless me!’ says the duenna, looking at Admiral Morgan, ‘these thieves are like us Spaniards. They told us they had beasts’ faces, and oh, good little Jesus,’ she cries out, shaking, ‘what have I said!’ But my grandfather never marked her. He was looking at the Incomparable Lady--so they called her, not only, Murch says, because of her beauty but, because none other ever held Morgan at siege so long as she. The poor lady began to beseech him with tears to let her go, offering him ransom. ‘Ransom?’ says Morgan. ‘’Tis for me to offer ransom, I think.’ And he gave orders to lodge the lady with her woman in all sumptuousness, and to set a guard upon them. ‘And as for the rest,’ says he, ‘you can take it away. What have I to do with a gallimaufrey of kitchen grease?’ Well, Mr Murch was in charge of the guard that kept the Incomparable Lady. ‘And I saw,’ says Murch to me, ‘I saw Morgan the Welsh werewolf trapped and tamed.’

“I’ll make no pretence of delicacy in talking of my grandfather the admiral. A wolf he was in his youth, bloody and treacherous. Murch says he would never have believed his subjugation possible, but that ’twas the same with all the men. They feared their admiral more than the devil, yet had he offered the least indignity to the Incomparable Lady, there were plenty would have tried to run him through. Morgan visited the Incomparable Lady every day, suing with great gifts of pearl and plate and jewels--suing in vain. Then came the time when Panama was squeezed dry, and the pirates marched away across the Isthmus with a huge booty, driving the prisoners, men, women, and children, like a herd of cattle. The Incomparable Lady was carried in a litter by herself, guarded by Mr Murch and his men. Captain Morgan would walk for miles with his hand on the side of the litter, hoping she would speak kindly to him, if but a single word.

“Now, it was, as we must believe, that Morgan the buccaneer made up his mind there was one thing in the world for him, and that was the love of the Incomparable Lady. Herself he might easily possess; it was her love he wanted. He would never stick at the price. Never in his life had he counted the cost of what he desired; never yet had he failed to get it, soon or late. Her husband was alive? Then would Morgan kill him, or wait until God took the worthy merchant. She would not deign to look on a pirate? Then he would leave off that way of life. But to do that he must have money. You cannot live ashore on nothing; none was less likely to try than Morgan. Very well, money he would get. Did you never hear how Captain Morgan was accused of embezzlement at the dividend of booty, which was held beside the river of Chagre? The charge was true. He took his own proper share; he took much more, and brought it away; and he took more than that, and hid it by the river of Chagre.”

Mistress Morgan paused. A dim notion of what was coming was beginning to dawn upon me.

“You’ll see, Harry Winter, that I trust you,” Morgan went on. “Now listen. There are three persons alive who know where that treasure is hid. The first,” said she, speaking very deliberately, “is Mr Murch, because Sir Henry Morgan told him; the second is the old negro, our servant, whom you know. You may have observed that he’s lost his tongue. The third--now, who’s the third, Mr Winter?”

“Dawkins!” I said. “Dawkins, for a ducat!”

“Right,” said she. “How quick you are, to be sure! Dawkins was young then, younger than Murch, rated ship’s boy at the time. He and the negro, Morgan’s servant, helped Morgan to carry away the treasure secretly from the camp by night. The guards were removed by drink, or some other pretext, and Morgan took what he wanted. Afterwards, he would have killed Dawkins for safety’s sake, but the child was wary, and escaped. Morgan never saw him again. As for the negro, he cut his tongue out. I have never quite understood,” says Morgan, “why my grandfather kept him alive. But the man was a good servant, and it may be that the Incomparable Lady had softened Mr Morgan. Dawkins, Murch says, was a mutinous little thief, and deserved hanging twice over.

“Well, when the dividend was declared, on the morrow, Morgan had everyone searched, he was so zealous to be just in his dealings! He commanded them to search himself; and searched he was, to his boot-soles, the men handling him, according to Mr Murch, like a powder-barrel with the fuse burning, for he was easily ruffled. As the dividend came out, Morgan was entitled to a good sum, besides what he had hidden, yet the reckoning seemed fair enough. The rest got two hundred pieces of eight each. Two hundred little pieces of eight, out of all Panama! Small wonder the admiral was accused of embezzlement. The men turned mutinous, but he kept them under till he came to the coast, so great was his power over them. Then he sailed away without so much as calling a council. And he gave the Incomparable Lady her liberty, saying that his time would come, and he could wait. While he was waiting, he bought a plantation in Jamaica, and became Lieutenant-Governor, and afterwards Governor. Mr Murch bought a plantation in Jamaica, also. He was Morgan’s man to the end. I believe they had sworn blood-brotherhood, but of this I am not certain.

“In course of time, sure enough, Governor Sir Henry Morgan, by simple force of persistence, I believe, prevailed upon the Incomparable Lady. Her husband had died in Peru. She married Sir Henry. A daughter was born to her before she died, who married Captain Leroux, and became my mother. Captain Leroux, my father, was lost at sea, and my mother died soon afterwards. So I was left to my grandfather. When he was summoned to England, on some false accusation, he left poor little Morgan Leroux to Murch, who moved to Barbadoes, for Jamaica was no place for Morgan’s men after Morgan had gone. All those years the treasure was left to lie untouched. For it would never do for the Governor of Jamaica, sworn to put down piracy, and very ardent about the business, to come sailing in with a cargo of plate. And he could send no one, you see, except Murch, who was himself a marked man. Dawkins was thought to be dead. And if he were alive, why, he was but a boy at the time, thirty-seven years ago, the night dark, the place new and unknown--it was highly improbable he could find the spot. Moreover, he could not lift the treasure from a hostile country, unless he commanded a ship; and, even so, he would hardly dare to take her into Sir Henry Morgan’s jurisdiction. No--the two old men reckoned without Dawkins. But, why did he steal your ship? Mr Murch took it that he was after the treasure. For, Murch says, Dawkins is a desperate man. He’s getting old, ’tis his last cast. He’s squandered money and liquor in every port this side o’ the line. Now he’s got his last ship, by good luck; and supposing he misses the booty, do you see, he can still privateer till his hold’s full, then declare the dividend, pay off, and drink himself to death, as happy as a king. I cannot but admire your friend Dawkins, Harry.”

“Then,” said I, after some cogitation, “we are not in Catoche Bay--this is not Yucatan.”

“Dear child,” says Morgan, “not by a thousand leagues. Over there”--she pointed westward, where the mists were rising from the forests and the mountains shone in the blue--“is Panama. Over the horn of the bay”--she flung her arm northward--“is the river of Chagre. Now, do you see?”

The mystery of our speedy arrival was explained. No wonder I could not espy the red rock and the river of Catoche Bay, in a cove of the Isthmus of Darien.

“But why,” I said, after digesting the information, “did Dawkins come to Murch? Surely he was the last person in the world for Dawkins.”

“Dawkins knew little of Murch; he may have remembered his name, but no more. Besides, Mr Murch has an agent in England, and what do you suppose his name is? Why, John Gamaliel, of course--who else? He is agent for many of the planters. And Gamaliel sent letters by Dawkins.”

The Jew again. I wondered if he were concerned in Mr Dawkins’s little scheme.

“And what,” I asked, “about the glass bottle?”

“An old trick, that, but it never seems to stale!” says Morgan, with a broad smile. “See, now--Dawkins gets his ship, and keeps his secret. If he steers for the Isthmus, how are his officers to know it’s not Yucatan, when they fetch up? Did you? And if Dawkins fell sick, or died, or had a mutiny, the ship’s company might search the coasts till the Indians shot them or the Spaniards drove them out--what would they find?”

“As things are, they might find Mr Murch,” I remarked.

“That’s it,” says Morgan. “You are so quick, I declare ’tis a pleasure to talk with you, Harry. If Dawkins has taken boats up the river of Chagre, on the other side of the point yonder, those two old shipmates will meet, I shouldn’t wonder--a little surprise for honest Mr Dawkins, sure enough. Now, you see where we stand?”

“I see that my mate and I are as far from our object as ever, whatever befall.”

“But no farther,” said Morgan. “For I’m your friend--like it or not, I’m your friend, Harry Winter.”

I told her, I liked it very well. Not that I perceived much hope in the young woman’s amity.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said she. “It would be a pity for you and me to stand at loggerheads if Captain Dawkins was to come sailing round the point, with his eighteen guns shotted. And if he’s got the better of Mr Murch, why, look out for the tops’ls of the _Blessed Endeavour_. And if he hasn’t, it’s a strange thing that Mr Murch is away so long. We must have a plan ready, Harry.”

She patted my shoulder in a friendly way, did this singular lady, and left me alone to stare upon that secret barrier of forest and mountain, with plenty of matter for consideration.

IX

HOW THE SUPERCARGO ASSERTED HIS INDEPENDENCE

For seven days longer did we lie rolling in the sun, awaiting Mr Murch’s return. Morgan Leroux discussed many a plan with me; but, since they all depended for their fulfilment upon the issue of unknown events, we naturally concluded upon nothing. We were extremely friendly together, now; and though Mistress Morgan had a shrewd notion of her own security, I do not know what might not have befallen the poor schoolmaster-clerk, had he been left much longer with this engaging young woman. The thing called love is, of course, much a matter of propinquity, and of a protean aspect. I say no more. Time and chance took us by the shoulders in due season; for, on the evening of the twelfth day after Mr Murch’s departure, when the dark had fallen at a stride, there came the red flash of an arquebus on the shore, then two more, the noise of the discharges echoing among the rocks.

A boat was manned inside of a minute and pulling for the shore, with Morgan Leroux and myself in the stern-sheets. Within shot of the beach, I hailed; and Murch’s unmistakable bellow replied. So Murch was safe, at least. They had set light to a handful of branches; we steered for that solitary flame; and there, huddled together in the wavering red light and vast shadow, were seven or eight figures. No sign of booty. It was Murch that caught the rope and hauled in the boat, the rest limping and stumbling behind him, two or three falling and lying where they fell; and Murch, without a word to us, gave orders to carry them into the boat. But where was Brandon Pomfrett? I was first ashore, peering into each face of the survivors. No owners’ agent was there. I demanded of Murch, where he was?

“Ah, Mr Winter, is that you?” says Murch. “We have met with accidents, sir. Mr Pomfrett not with us? Where is Mr Pomfrett?” he called aloud.

“Fell out, sir,” said two or three voices.

“Why, there, now,” Murch went on, “he cannot be far behind. I saw him but now. Climb the beach, and you will find him, Mr Winter. But make haste.”

Climb the beach, quoth he--run my head into a solid wall of blackness. There was no help for it, and on I went, stumbling over the rocks at every step, and shouting my comrade’s name. Suddenly, out of the thick darkness, a hand clutched my arm. I had a jolt of fright, but the voice of Morgan Leroux brought me to my senses.

“Keep quiet,” said she, speaking low. “Stop where you are.”

At the same moment I heard Murch give the order to shove off. The splash of the oars was inaudible in the thunder of the surf.

“Why, is he going to leave us?” I said.

“We are going to leave him, Harry,” said Morgan. “Keep quiet, I say, if you value your life. As for me, he thinks I am on board. Now come.”

There was no disputing Morgan, any more than her grandsire. We stumbled forward in the dark until we fetched up against a boulder. Looking back, we saw the water all a-gleam with phosphorescent light, flakes of fire dropping from the oar-blades, where the boat was ploughing a channel of lambent flame. Far away the ship’s lights shone, swinging to and fro in the dark. Overhead a thick curtain of cloud hid the stars; landward the fire-flies glimmered and darted, and we knew we were close to the forest.

“We must get forward,” said Morgan. “When Murch comes aboard and misses me, he’ll send a search-party.”

We found a way round the boulder, plunged into the wood, and struggled onward, striking against tree-trunks, lashed with branches, sinking knee-deep in moss or rotting wood. The air was heavy and fragrant, and whenever we halted, a thousand little wood-noises assailed our ears. And presently we caught the cry of a man’s voice, calling for help. Now here, in the pitch-dark wood, I was taken with a sudden revelation. This Morgan Leroux, this strange volume written in an unknown tongue, hardly deciphered here and there, whose hidden meaning both allured and warned, was turned unaccountably to a human creature, quick and fierce with some nameless emotion.

“That’s Brandon Pomfrett,” says Morgan, and answered him, high and shrill. He replied, and we replied; and so back and forth, as we floundered in the wood, this way and that. It is no easy matter to track a voice in the dark. And they must have heard us on the ship, for answering hails came, far and long-drawn, so that we confused their cries with Brandon’s, and the fear of pursuit was added to our confusion. But Morgan Leroux was brave as a man in the stress of that passage, and we kept on, boring our way like rats in a faggot-stack, until Brandon’s voice rang nearer and nearer, and we stumbled upon him where he lay at the foot of a rock, bound hand and foot.

“God! I thought I was dead,” says he, rolling over, as we freed him. “Have you any drink? I’ve touched nothing for two days.”

We had neither food nor drink with us; and if we were hungry, what was the supercargo? Morgan explained the posture of affairs, but I doubt if Pomfrett understood what she said. He hugged himself with his arms, and seemed to sleep. Never was so unheroic a rescue. Since, in all likelihood, Murch would delay sending to find us until the dawn, we composed ourselves to watch for the light. There we sat, in that discomfortable wilderness, while Pomfrett groaned and muttered in his sleep, and the leaden minutes laboured by with incredible sluggishness, until our faces showed dimly visible, each to the other, strange as ghosts, as a flaky greyness began to mingle with the dark. Then we took Pomfrett by the shoulders, dragged him protesting to his feet, and made him stand between us.

“Now,” says Morgan, “can you walk? So! Then we’ll strike for Porto-Bello. I can pass for a Spaniard anywhere.”

Pomfrett, coming to his senses, flatly refused to budge. “What are you doing here?” says he. “You must go directly back to Murch. As for us, we can shift for ourselves. Murch is quit of us--that’s all he wants. He told me so when he tied me up, and I was too tired to prevent him. Come, we’ll take you back to the beach.”

Thus was the first blow struck in the duel between these two. Pomfrett might have remembered that Morgan had risked her life to find him; but starving men cannot pick their words.

“Oh, is that the way of it?” said Morgan. “Is that how you talk to me?”

“Look you,” returned Brandon, laboriously, stopping at every other word to find the next, “I’ve lost my ship and I’ve lost the silver--Dawkins has it--he came with fifty men and beat us off. Well, then, we’ve lost all, we’re marooned--cannot you see? We’re like to die. You go back to your ship, and you’re safe.”

“All very noble and generous, Brandon Pomfrett. But let me tell you, my friend, that you waste time. If Murch catches you, I’ll not answer for what he’ll do this time. I can’t keep my petticoat over you for ever. Murch has done with you, has he? Well, now, I’ve done with Murch, do you see?”

“Do you mean,” said Brandon, stupidly, “that you’re coming with us?”

Sure, here was a laggard in love, if ever there was one. Morgan drew a little apart and looked at him. There was an uncomfortable silence. Here were we, lost, starving, in imminent danger of capture, and we must needs stand and dally with fine feelings.

“You would be rid of me, Mr Pomfrett,” says Morgan, presently, with a formidable quietude. “Is that what you would say? Out with it!”

Brandon clutched his chin. “I would not be unkind. I am thinking of you----” he began.

“That’s enough,” said Morgan. She plunged into the thicket, and was gone. In the deep stillness, we heard her crashing through the underwood. So we stood for a long time, till the sounds died away. I don’t know what were Brandon’s feelings; for myself, I own I felt a certain relief. What we chiefly wanted was breakfast. As the light broadened in the sky, we went a little forward, and presently found a patch of sunlight in a glade, where Brandon sat down, while I went to shoot something eatable with a pistol. Since the danger of pursuit was gone with Morgan’s departure, one might, I supposed, shoot as one pleased. I wasted a deal of ammunition on that breakfast. A pistol in unskilful hands is a miserable weapon for the uses of the chase, but I brought down a fat bird like a pheasant, a sitting shot, at last, and we devoured it raw, and found it excellent good. Brandon drank the warm blood like any heathen savage, and was wonderfully cheered. I told him, then, where we were--not in Yucatan at all, but on the coast of Darien; and I related Mistress Morgan’s story of her grandmother, the Incomparable Lady.

“Oh, now I understand,” said Pomfrett. “But Murch has lost his chance. We had found the plate, with the help of the old negro, when Dawkins came up with double our numbers. There was a bloody fight, and we lost nearly all our men. The rest escaped as best they could, and a fine march we had of it, with neither bite nor sup for two days and two nights. Well, if Dawkins has the plunder, it’s mine.”

“If it please you to think so,” I said.

“Where’s the ship, do you think?” asked Brandon, disregarding innuendo.

“At sea, where else?”

“And where’s the nearest port?”

“Porto-Bello, that Captain Morgan sacked, if he left any of it.”

“And where’s Porto-Bello?”

“Southward a day’s march.”

“Come along,” says Brandon, getting to his feet quite briskly.

“What do you think you’re going to do?”

“Ask me when we get to Porto-Bello,” says Pomfrett. “Up, you lazy swab!”

“Oh, very well,” I said. “Take the town of Porto-Bello, take Dawkins, take the _Blessed Endeavour_, and take Morgan Leroux’s marriage portion, we two, all by our two selves. Then take Murch and the _Wheel of Fortune_, and--what of Mistress Leroux? You’ll have her money, you may as well have herself. Take Morgan Leroux. Is that all?”

“The money’s aboard my ship,” says Brandon, with unmoved solemnity. “That’s enough for me. Come, now, march!”

And march we did, with intolerable labour, through that infernal wilderness, keeping the eternal booming of the surf on our left hand for a guide. Up and up we climbed in the fainting heat of the forest until we came out upon a spur of the mountains, and beheld the coast-line, jutting forth into many a rocky headland away to the northward, and beneath our feet the huddled brown roofs and white fortifications of Porto-Bello town, and its harbour thick with masts. Far as eye could reach the great glistening plane of the sea was bare of shipping. Where, then, was Mr Dawkins? and where Mr Murch? Down we went, two hapless wights, knowing no more than our boot-soles what should befall us.

It was dark by the time we gained the outskirts of the town, on the inland side. Dark walls blotted upon the stars; we could hear the sentries call and counter-call. Captain Morgan had battered Porto-Bello to pieces; but the indomitable Spaniard had built it up again, it seemed. Within was supper. We could see in our minds the spit turning, and hear the hissing of the fat; we beheld the ruby sparkle of the wine in the hospitable light of a tavern. The risk of capture was not great. We might pass as common sailors; only, how to persuade the sentry? Brandon would have been glad to kill him, I make no doubt; but Brandon was spent nearly to death; and as for Henry Winter, he had never slain a man, and had small stomach for the experiment.

We stood in the shadow of the trees by the road-side, bitterly considering the matter; but we could think of nothing to serve, save to wait until the country carts came in at sunrise, and pass in their train, if, indeed, it were the custom of this country for carts to come in. So we stayed, shivering in the heavy dew, until we were aware of footsteps drawing near along the road, and three men came walking softly. We followed them, keeping hidden, into the very shadow of the wall, where the sentry stood or paced before the gate. Voices spoke low in Spanish, there were a sudden stamping and a sound of hard breathing as of men struggling together, and three men came back along the road, closed about a fourth--the sentry, by the glimmer of his steel cap. Now more and yet more men appeared softly out of the dark, talking low together; and their words were English. Without more ado, we joined ourselves to them, unnoticed in the dark, and immediately recognized the men of the _Wheel of Fortune_. The redoubtable Murch was not there; we looked in vain for his head and shoulders looming above the rest. The whole body of some thirty men moved forward, and it was the sentry (I knew he had a pistol at his ear and a knife in the small of his back) who gave the countersign, and brought us under the deep arch of the gateway into Porto-Bello town. Not to excite suspicion, we broke up into groups of two or three, following each other at intervals of twenty paces or so; and in this manner we traversed the principal street, which was lighted by lamps here and there, turned to the right hand, and ascended dark and narrow ways until we gathered about a door in a high wall. Within, the garden was lighted as for a festival; the leaves of the trees above the wall glimmered gold; there was a noise of music and a gay sound of many voices.

“There’s victuals going inside,” says Brandon, hoarsely, in my ear. “In we go, whoever stays out.” And we edged through the crowd towards the door.

“You know your orders,” said one, and lo! it was the voice of Morgan Leroux. Brandon started back, but I took him firmly by the arm. I was hungry. “You two come with me,” went on Morgan.

“That we will,” said I, at her elbow. She turned as though she had been stung, and scanned us sharply.

“’Twas you I meant,” said she, with wonderful readiness. “Crowby and Harper, fall back.” And she knocked upon the door with the handle of her walking-cane.