Chapter V: Part 5

“Why, what now?” cried the injured Dawkins. “A man may speak, I should hope! One would think Cap’n Morgan’s grandson was a young lady what couldn’t defend herself, to hear you. But there, Mr Pomfrett, you got the weather-gauge, as I say, and you can give your orders. Go on, sir. I’ll give my best attention.”

But Pomfrett was somewhat at a loss. Perceiving, for the first time, how strong a case Dawkins could make out in his own defence, Pomfrett sat uncomfortably silent. Old Dawkins grinned at him.

“You got me here by treach’ry, Mr Pomfrett,” says he, “and I reckon ’tis no use asking for a fair hearing in full council aboard the _Blessed Endeavour_. I ain’t a fool. I know what you want--you want to see me a-drying in the sun at Execution Dock, while you takes all the cash and all the credit too. And very natural, I’m sure. On’y, how are you a-going to do it?”

Still Brandon sat silent. Morgan Leroux gazed at him intently, anxiously. He was contending with his scruples; the civilised conventions which would prevent his fighting a man like Dawkins with his own weapons. Was he, at the dictates of scrupulosity, to let the thief go free, because he was his guest, and so forfeit all his owners’ fortune, and the fortune of Morgan Leroux likewise? For a minute or two, I believe the notion presented itself to Brandon Pomfrett in the alluring light of an heroical sacrifice, such as you read of in books. But common men in common life must act as they can, not as they would, and the truth that Dawkins had taken to his heart in infancy Brandon was to recognise now--just in time.

“Dawkins,” says he, in a hard, sharp voice, that caused the old pirate to look up with a start, “I’ve just two words to say to you. Give me sixfold compensation for having sold us as slaves--that’s six hundred pieces of eight for each, you know; give me back the ship and all that’s in her, resign command in my favour in full council of officers, and you shall go free.”

Morgan Leroux, sitting silent in the corner, clapped her hands.

Dawkins’s tufted eyebrows climbed his forehead, and he looked at the young captain with a queer expression of mingled dismay and admiration.

“Spoken like a gentleman o’ fortune, by the bones of the deep!” says he. “Blest if I thought you had it in you, Mr Supercargo. Very good, commander. And what if I refuse this here modest proposal?”

“You’ll hang at the yard-arm at sunrise.”

“Dear me! At sunrise, too--quite poetical, ain’t it?” said Dawkins; but for all his bold front, he was visibly shaken. “But just a moment, commander, just one little question. What would you gain, now, by hanging poor old Dawkins--at sunrise?”

“Well, you see, it’s not so much what I should gain as what you would lose, Mr Dawkins,” says Pomfrett.

“Ah, I reckon you’re too clever for me, too deep altogether,” retorted Dawkins. “But I ain’t scared, not me, so don’t think it. I’ve lived cheek by jowl with goodman death for a matter of fifty year, you see. What do I lose, says you? Why now, I’ll tell you. I’ll lose a little cottage by the water-side, with a bit of a flagstaff in the garden, and flowers and a seat in it, and what not. I’ll lose a few quiet years of steady rations, which enables a man to fix his attention on repentance, ready for kingdom come, with a Holy Joe a-taking his Sunday tea in the parlour, very likely. Not much by the sound of it, is it? But it’s all poor old Dawkins has in store, for fifty year of hard service--just enough to make the difference of hell on the one side of the great gulf, and a golden crown and harps and such on t’other, for a poor old seaman.”

“Accept my terms, and I’ll give you a chance of the cottage and heaven and all,” said Brandon.

“Would you, now?” cried Dawkins, with a cunning leer. “Why, that’s mortal kind of you, commander, to be sure! You’re a man to be trusted--we all knows that--and I’ll take your word on it, Mr Pomfrett. I know when I’m beaten, I reckon. How much now, would you----”

“All in good time,” said Brandon. “We’ll have the dividend declared before the _Blessed Endeavour_ sails.”

“Now that’s what I call talking!” says Dawkins. “The dividend declared--that’s real business. And then she sails for England, does she? That’s good news, too. And who’ll command the barky, cap’n, if I might ask?”

“I will,” said Brandon.

“Ho!” said Dawkins, with an appearance of deep thought. “Yes, of course. I might a knowed that much, says you. But now you and me is friends again, commander, you’ll not take a friendly hint amiss, I’m sure. The crew I got together, Mr Pomfrett, ain’t exactly Mary’s little lambs, as you might say--eh?”

He cocked his eye at Pomfrett with an expression of extraordinary significance.

“I’ll take my chance of that,” says the valiant skipper.

“Now you listen to me for a brace of shakes,” returned Dawkins, with a sudden change of manner. “This is straight talk, this is. I know where I stand. I’m a-going to play the square game. You can see for yourself I’ve naught to gain by telling you. But as sure as sunrise, if anyone but Dawkins--or Cap’n Murch, maybe, but he ain’t about, you say?--as sure as death, I say, if you takes command of that there ship, there’ll be mutiny, hot mutiny, damned hot. By the bones of the deep, Mr Pomfrett, there’ll be a bloody throat-cutting, gospel truth there will.”

Pomfrett glanced uneasily at Morgan Leroux. The probability of the statement was undeniable. Love and war are excellent pursuits, but they should be carried on separately. Dawkins dropped the lids over his little, twinkling eyes, and seemed to study the table.

“Under favour, commander,” he resumed, presently, “I would humbly suggest another way--me what has a rope round his neck and feels the hemp rough on his skin a’ready.”

“Well?”

“Declare the dividend as you say, all well and good. The officers, they don’t know--any more than you do, come to that, Mr Pomfrett--they don’t know, not being told, d’ye see, that the ship ain’t being sailed on the private account for the owners’ satisfaction, all the samey as we started, so there won’t be no trouble about the dividend of the plunder. You and me can settle that, private. Then there’s pickings for the crew, for we ain’t been altogether idle while you was a holiday-making in Barbadoes, so there won’t be no trouble about _that_, neither. And then--well, I hardly like to mention it, commander, I don’t indeed.”

“Speak up,” says Brandon.

“Why,” Dawkins went on, with a sort of deprecating suggestion that he was laying himself open to a painful misunderstanding, and knew it, and could bear it--“why, it come into my mind that bygones being bygones, and you and Mr Winter aboard again, all shipshape and comfortable, and the dividend being declared, and all, d’ye see,”--Mr Dawkins’s laborious insinuation of extraordinary sincerity was a thing to behold--“I thought to myself, d’ye see, why not let things be as they was afore, commander?”

“You mean, you propose to retain the command of the _Blessed Endeavour_ yourself--is that it?”

“Well, you see, commander, I was elected in full council. There’s no getting away from that. And the officers, they wouldn’t understand a new arrangement, d’ye see; they’d want a explanation. And then, d’ye see, if you was to give ’em what you might call _your_ explanation, they mightn’t--I don’t say they wouldn’t--but they _mightn’t_ believe you, captain. It ain’t,” said Mr Dawkins, piously, “that I want to put myself forward--you see that, don’t you, commander?--it’s on’y what’s best to be done for all parties consarned.”

We looked at each other in silence. There was no doubt about it--Dawkins dead was more dangerous than Dawkins living; since, if he lived, we had but to reckon with himself alone; but if he were removed, perils multiplied at every step. The old rascal had the weather-gauge of us, after all. We looked at each other. It was Morgan Leroux who broke into a peal of laughter, and suddenly we were all laughing; we laughed until the tears came, all except Mr Dawkins, who sat with his big, scarred hands loosely clasped on the table in front of him, gazing at us with a face of wood. His gravity was like a reproof. We turned serious again as suddenly as we had broken into mirth.

“Well, gentlemen, what’s it to be?” said Dawkins. “Hang me and put your heads in a hornets’ nest, or call me Captain Dawkins and sail to England as safe and easy as the Lord High Admiral in a blessed ship-o’-the-line?”

“Why, really, Mr Dawkins,” began Pomfrett, “I think you should offer some sort of security, just as a matter of form, you know, that we shan’t be hove overboard, or marooned on the next island.”

“Security? Why, I’ll do what I can. I’ll give you what I got. I can’t do no more,” said Dawkins. “Gratitude, now, gratitude for saving me a hanging, what d’ye say to that, commander, for a sheet-anchor to wind’ard?”

“No; won’t do,” said Brandon. “I’ve got to set twice six hundred pieces of eight, a cargo of silver, and a tall ship against that item. Try again.”

“Fear of committing sin?” suggested Dawkins.

“No.”

“Fear of the law, then?”

“No; there’s not enough of that commodity south of the Line, Mr Dawkins.”

“Fear of the ship’s company? There’s some of ’em would be almost called honest.”

“Pass again,” said Brandon.

“Well, you’re hard to please, commander, so help me. What,” said Mr Dawkins, “if I were to swear a oath on the Book, now?”

“That’s better,” said Brandon, “and the least you can do.”

“Oh, that’s better, is it?” said Dawkins, evidently discomfited. “Well what must be, must, I reckon. Fetch aft the Book, commander.”

Brandon took a Testament from the locker where his kit was stowed, and there and then administered a terrific oath to Mr Dawkins, binding him, under the most blasting penalties in this world and the next, to perform his share of our mutual agreement. A pirate has a certain respect for an oath taken on the Bible; and although it is always doubtful how far it will bind him when the pinch comes, this thin strand of superstitious faith was all we had to trust in.

“Well an’ good,” said Dawkins, drawing the back of his hand across his lips. “Now it’s my turn, commander. Take the Book in your right hand and say after me.”

And he launched into an apocalyptic imprecation beside which Brandon’s attempt at a sacrament paled its ineffectual fire. To Morgan Leroux, and to me, did Mr Dawkins, not sparing us a single jot, then administer this tremendous compact.

“And now,” said Mr Dawkins, filling his glass for the first time since we had entered the cabin, “a glass all round to wet the agreement, shipmates, and then--as there ain’t to be no hanging at sunrise--why, I’ll turn in for a stretch off-shore on this here locker, commander, by your kind leave.”

He lay down, wrapped in his boat-cloak, and slept instantly. A sentry was stationed at the door of the cabin, and we three went on deck. As we emerged into the dusky glimmer of moonlight shining diffused behind clouds, the watch challenged loudly. “Boat ahoy!” But there was no boat to be seen. “I could ’a’ sworn there was a boat, too,” said the man. “Yonder, out by the headland.”

The crag stood forth black upon the dim glow of the sky, and the sparkling heave of the empty sea. There might be a whole fleet behind the rock, for all we knew. This second mysterious visitation, false alarm though it might be, affected us disagreeably. Was it not enough, we complained, to be finally committed to a hazardous adventure, a voyage whose every hour brought peril, but we must have a new terror thrust upon us out of the night?

XIII

SHOWING WHAT BEFELL IN CARATASCA

The next morning we weighed anchor and sailed round Cape Gracias à Dios to the Caratasca Lagoon, and there was the _Blessed Endeavour_, high and dry on the sandy beach, having her bottom scrubbed. You would think, now, that Brandon Pomfrett was rising on the crest of fortune’s wave: his ship recovered, with her hold full of treasure, the girl he admired in his company, and fixed to remain there. And yet, one look at Dawkins’s burly figure and old, sly visage was enough to poison expectation. You could no more put your trust in him than in a wild boar of the woods. You might try to imagine yourself doing so, and you would always fail. And it was a far cry to England from Caratasca Cays. But, what choice had we? None. We must even run the gauntlet. I think Brandon Pomfrett would have given his right hand, or, at least, his left, to carry off Morgan Leroux in the _Modesty_ ship and pitch his owners’ interests overboard. Indeed, I suggested that he should do so, offering to remain aboard the _Blessed Endeavour_ in his place. But he would not have it--such is the force of early training in the service of Madam Duty.

“No, no,” says he. “Where there’s three of us, Dawkins may play fair. With one alone--why, I leave you to guess the sequel. As it is, I don’t see how we’re to sleep of nights. We three--or at least the two of us--must keep watch and watch about and pistols primed.” And so we did. So long as we were shipmates with Captain Dawkins he never caught the trio napping; two waked while one slept, that was the arrangement; and Morgan Leroux took her spell fairly. I would not have married that wild wench for a king’s ransom; such desperate adventures were not for the quiet clerk; but he gave her full meed of admiration.

“And supposing Mistress Morgan Leroux is--is _found out_?” I said. “Because, you know, it’s sure to happen, sooner or later. And what then?”

“Ay, ay,” said the unhappy agent. “I tell you, the thought rides me like a nightmare. Well, you’ll see. I’ll contrive to cheat the devil there, too.”

“It’s not one devil, it’s ninety fiends of the pit you’ve to deal with, my son. Well, we’ll hope for the best--the longest liver takes all.”

You see, our supercargo had a weighty burden for green shoulders to carry. A man may bear almost any weight of his proper work, and never be the worse of it; but when a woman comes and gaily perches herself a-top, ’tis then his sinews begin to crack.

To the general council of officers, held that evening, Captain Dawkins in these words genially introduced the agent and his clerk.

“Gentlemen, here’s Mr Pomfrett and Mr Winter returned among us after their turn ashore, which I’m sure neither you nor I begrudge them. We’ve managed to carry on, by hook or by crook, and even done a little business on our own account, in the mean time. Now, here’s the supercargo, come to overhaul the Book of Plunder, as it’s only right he should, d’ye see, and he demands a dividend.”

Mr Dawkins’s insinuation had instant effect. One of the mates arose and requested some explanation of our absence from the ship. Was it to be understood, he desired to know, that we were to come and go as we pleased, while the rest of the ship’s company kept to their job, and then we were to return at our pleasure and overhaul their takings?

“Easy, my lad, easy,” said Dawkins. “What you’re a saying is disrespectful to me”--Mr Dawkins winked shamelessly--“and don’t you forget it, my son. If I’ve consented to accept Mr Pomfrett’s explanation, why, that’s enough, I should think. So let’s hear no more of it. Let bygones----”

“Stop!” cried Pomfrett. “Mr Dawkins, you know as well as I do, that I have to account to my owners in this matter, and not to you, nor to any man aboard.--Quartermaster!”

“Sir.” The grizzled old quartermaster jumped to his feet with an expectant alacrity.

“Take notice of what I say. Now, gentlemen! I’ll fight any man aboard this ship who calls my conduct in question.” He glanced about the ring of hostile faces. There was a dead silence.

“Come now,” said the quartermaster, rubbing his hands, “ain’t there any gentleman anxious for to oblige? Why, we ain’t had a spell ashore with the small-arms all the v’yage.”

It is the quartermaster’s business, by pirates’ law, to stand umpire in all quarrels involving a duel, which must always be fought on shore. But our friend was not to exercise his office on this occasion. No one took up the challenge.

“Very well,” said Brandon. “Then since we are not to fight, let us be friends. Now, I’ll tell you, we’ve not quitted the ship for our own pleasure, of that you may take your oath. We’ve been about the owners’ business; and if you want proof, there’s the little _Modesty_ lying off the beach. That ship joins the expedition, gentlemen, and she’s not empty, either.”

Thus did the agent turn the tide in his favour; and everyone clamoured to hear the story of our adventures. But Dawkins, who had his own reasons for checking indiscriminate curiosity, hastily called the meeting to order. The dividend was duly declared; and, reserving the plate for the owners, there remained about an hundred pieces of eight, either in money or money’s worth, per share, the men taking a single share each, the officers more, in proportion to their rank. All Captain Dawkins’s winnings he handed to Pomfrett. This payment left him still in debt to us, on account of the compensation we demanded for the slave-dealing transaction.

“You had better remit the rest,” I said. “I would sooner have Dawkins in a good temper than the money, any day. You saw in the council how dangerous he is.”

“Ah, but I had the dog in hand,” said Pomfrett. “And I’ll pouch every penny, though Dawkins sweat blood for it.”

This had a fine sound, no doubt; but I thought it highly improbable that Mr Dawkins would indulge in any such painful exercise. And, indeed, so soon as the dividend had been declared, Mr Dawkins went about on another tack. He called another council to settle on our plan of action, and opened proceedings by roundly stating that the owners’ agent, after his secret transactions ashore--whatever they might have been--considered that enough had been done for the owners; that, as for the ship’s company, an hundred pieces of eight should surely content them; and that, in fine, we should sail for England. This was a method of stating the case which left Pomfrett nothing which he could openly challenge, since the statement was substantially true. He had to sit still under the implication, biting his nails, his face dark with passion, amid a clamour of protest. They would put to sea and cruise for the Spanish plate-ships; they would go southward, through Magellan’s Straits, and plunder the towns of the Pacific coast; they would do anything, in fact, and go anywhere; but they would never go home till they were glutted to the brim.

“Your proposition don’t seem what you might call popular, Mr Pomfrett,” says Dawkins, with a grin. “I reckon we’ll have to beat up for plunder yet, sir.”

“Lay your course, then,” says Pomfrett. “You’ll find me follow you, Mr Dawkins.”

So Dawkins laid his course, and the council agreed to follow it. Mr Dawkins would take boats up the river Coco, which flows out under Cape Gracias à Dios, and attempt the town of Cartagena. “It’s a rich town,” says he, “and never been taken before, that I know of. A virgin city, is Cartagena, and, by what I’ve heard, there’s diamonds in it, too.”

The resolution was carried by acclamation. The ship would not be ready for sea for a week; the men were tired of the beach, and here was a fine prospect of excitement, if no more. So some sixty men and officers embarked in the boats of the two ships, well furnished with small-arms and victuals, pulled out of the lagoon one morning, and vanished into the unknown. The agent, Morgan Leroux, and myself were left to finish the work of fitting the _Blessed Endeavour_ for sea, with the rest of the men, to the number of twenty-five or thirty. There was plenty to be done, for, when the ship came to be examined for defects, it was evident she had never been properly overhauled before sailing from Bristol docks--another instance of the owners’ sinful negligence.

“These damned fat burgesses,” said the agent, with great bitterness, “would sooner see the whole expedition founder in sight of land than fetch a guinea out of their bursting money-bags.”

But, we gained three weeks’ respite by reason of this last bit of parsimony. The men worked fairly, after a fit of insubordination which brought six of them to the whipping-post the very day after Dawkins left. The agent stood by with a pistol in each hand and had three dozen well laid on, and there was but little trouble with them after that salutary example.

The Indians of those parts, a brown and peaceable folk, came out of the woods and trafficked fresh meat, hog’s flesh and turtle, yams and green stuff, for knives and beads and such toys. They made an encampment near by, and with their huts of branches and palm-leaves and our tents of sailcloth, and the camp-fires burning night and day, we made quite a settled little colony by the still waters of the great lagoon. As for Brandon Pomfrett, he followed Morgan Leroux like her shadow, greedily snatching a certain feverish pleasure in her society, though it is likely that the suspense in which we lived--except when we forgot all in the present, which happened oftener than you might suppose--infused a deal of discomfort into those tantalising relations. Soon or late, the inevitable Dawkins would come merrily back to us, with all his crew; ever the shadow of Murch menaced us from afar; there was the mysterious visitation at night of the strange boat, with its answering challenge, “_Dead or alive_,” still unexplained; and, looming ahead of us, the problem of the return voyage, sure to be long, hazardous, difficult, and very likely fatal. True, there was one solution, one way of escape, that Morgan Leroux urged us to follow--to set sail there and then in the _Blessed Endeavour_, with the crew we had, for the nearest port in English possession, fill up the complement, and away to England. But Pomfrett would not have it. He was bound, he said, to respect his compact with Dawkins.

“And do you suppose,” said Morgan, “that he won’t break faith with you, as soon as he gets a chance? I thought you had more sense.”

But the agent was firm. “Very well,” said Morgan, “you must even stay and be damned, if you’re so squeamish. But it’s hard on me, I’m bound to say, it’s hard on me. I never swore a silly oath to a treacherous old dog that couldn’t keep his word if he tried.”

“And what, in God’s name, does it matter _who_ you swore to, if you did swear,” cried the wretched Pomfrett. And then they began to wrangle, and I left them to settle it between themselves. Be warned, ye bachelors, by this example; and when you ride with fortune, do not take a lady on the crupper. I think it likely that, if Morgan had persisted in her expostulations, Brandon would have yielded at last. Had she made a direct issue of the matter, and challenged him to choose between herself and Dawkins, between Morgan Leroux and his plighted word, I am sure he would have whistled his pledges down the wind and taken the lady; and I, for one, would not blame him. But Morgan never went so far; it was a temptation that must have allured her constantly, yet she never yielded. She had a good heart, this Morgan, as I always said. So we stayed, and in good time we were damned, even as Morgan had prophesied.

Dawkins and his party had been absent for three weeks; the _Blessed Endeavour_, all sound and seaworthy once more, had been warped off at high water, and lay out in the lagoon, moored fore and aft; and we were hoisting her heavy cargo in against Dawkins’s return, which we were hourly expecting. There was no watch kept; we were all extremely busy; and so, when there came the sudden boom of a heavy gun, fired somewhere close at hand, the echoes ringing from rock to rock, we were properly alarmed.

There, lying off the lagoon, was a great ship, the sun shining on her tower of canvas, turning her to a full-sailed ship of pearl. As we looked, the little black ball of a flag ran up the main halliards, broke free, and flew broad and black at the mast-head, flaunting its white device of the figure of death. It was the _Wheel of Fortune_. Murch had come at last.

XIV

CAPTAIN MURCH TAKES COMMAND

Those of Mr Murch’s men who were of our party set up a cheer for the _Wheel of Fortune_, but we ourselves were far from any such demonstration. Mr Murch was a dangerous enigma; we lay at his mercy; there was not a gunner left aboard, and there was no question of resistance. But pirates never fight for fun, and we did not anticipate bloodshed. We ran up English colours in response to their salute, and we saw them lowering a boat, which glided towards us across the intolerable glitter of the water, silent, save for the splash of oars, with Murch’s great figure sitting immobile in the stern-sheets. Morgan Leroux clasped Pomfrett’s arm. It was the first sign of dependence I had remarked in that courageous lady. The boatswain piped all hands to the side as she drew near, and Murch stepped aboard between the files of saluting men, as stately as an admiral. He greeted us with his customary solemn courtesy; his large and solemn countenance, netted all over with fine lines, betrayed no more emotion than a bronze mask; and, though he must have known of Morgan’s escape in _La Modeste_, yet, for all we knew to the contrary, he had supposed that the agent and his clerk were still ranging the woods by Porto-Bello. And here we were, a little family party on the quarterdeck of the _Blessed Endeavour;_ and I leave you to imagine which of us felt the less at ease on that occasion.

“I am glad, Mr Pomfrett, to perceive you have found your ship again,” said Mr Murch, politely.

“I think,” retorted Pomfrett, “I can scarce thank you for carrying out that part of your agreement, Mr Murch.”

“You think not?” says Murch. “Well, well, I would not be too hasty, neither, sir. Youth is prone to be hasty. But we’ll talk of that, too, among other matters. I’ll have no knots in the cable--all shall be clear before we’ve done, Mr Pomfrett, be sure of that.”

I own that, for my part, my heart sank to hear the old spider closing upon us once more with his web of fine speeches, that seemed, as I fancied, to answer in some mysterious way to the net-work of hieroglyphics on his sombre countenance. We went down, then, to finish our talk in the privacy of the great cabin, which Mr Dawkins had left in a wretched disorder: books, charts, and instruments tossed pell-mell on the lockers, empty bottles rolling on the floor, and a heavy reek of tobacco.

“Mr Dawkins keeps a dirty ship, it seems,” quoth Murch. “But you and I will soon alter that, Mr Pomfrett.”

The owners’ agent fixed his blue eyes on the speaker. His glance had lost its look of mild and innocent enquiry of late; it was hard, even menacing, the eyelids drawn obliquely at their outer corners. Mr Pomfrett was beginning to know his own mind, you see.

“I stop not to enquire how you came hither,” continued Murch, returning look for look. “I make it a rule to deal with a situation as I find it; and I may tell you, we have no time at present to be swapping stories of adventure. They will serve for our amusement when we are fairly on the high seas, with Mr Dawkins hull-down on the lee. It’s with Dawkins we are first concerned, Mr Pomfrett--dead or alive, you know, dead or alive,” says Murch, with a peculiar intonation.

“Then it was your boat paid us a visit by night, under Cape Gracias?” said Pomfrett.

“Did you take us for ghosts, sir? Well, I may tell you, I have a singular belief that the grave would not hold me--no, nor the deep sea--had I a duty left undone. I have the highest opinion of your integrity, Mr Pomfrett; as a guardian of youth, your qualifications are, I doubt not, superior to my own; but even that belief cannot absolve me from my trust to a dead friend; nor can a similar confidence pretermit the obligations of my ward.”

He glanced sternly at Morgan Leroux, who was seated in her usual attitude, chin on hand, regarding him composedly, though she had gone, I thought, a little pale.

“But I accuse no one of such ingratitude,” Murch went on, “for, had you desired to escape me indeed, you would surely not have left two or three plundered ships to mark your way, broad as sign-posts, when it were so easy to scuttle them. No, no. I prefer to believe that you did but anticipate my plans a little, and to save time, the while I was engaged in Porto-Bello, you went to find Mr Dawkins for me. I thank you. You have found him. And so have I--in Cartagena. Of course, all the inhabitants had taken to the woods, with their possessions; it is singular how a man of Dawkins’s experience will never learn to close the earths before he bolts the prey; but there it is, and I was able to save him the trouble of collecting their dues from them. I have a bag or two of diamonds aboard the _Wheel of Fortune_, Mr Pomfrett, as to which I should like your opinion.”

He paused, thrusting his lower jaw a little forward, so that the semicircular wrinkles curving from nostril to chin deepened; his narrow eyes roved from face to face with a sort of stealthy derision, highly disagreeable to his audience. The old beast of prey had tracked us leisurely across the trackless sea, kept his ship out of sight while we lay under Cape Gracias à Dios, where he spied upon us with boats, and waited until we had settled with Dawkins for peace or war, as we were bound to settle soon or late. Had we fought with Dawkins, both sides would have been weakened, to Mr Murch’s advantage; but, as we concluded a treaty together, Mr Murch bided his time a little longer, until we were separated from Dawkins. Then, having us safely on the beach, Murch followed Dawkins up the River Coco and swept up the plunder of Cartagena while Dawkins did the fighting. Evidently, it were better to have Murch on our side than against us.

“Is Dawkins returning?” Pomfrett asked, curtly.

“I reckon Mr Dawkins is on the road,” answered Murch. “That is, unless the Spaniards have cut off his retreat, which they might have done, for Dawkins mislaid his boats. It was a pity they should be lost, so I even brought them down-stream myself; you can’t have too many boats, as a general rule.”

Pomfrett considered this intelligence; then he turned sharply upon Murch.

“Come, Mr Murch,” says he, “let us be clear, and no misunderstanding at all, as you might say yourself. You took Dawkins’s boats, you say. Was there any fighting?”

“I’m always charmed to answer questions when they bear to the point,” says Murch. “If you mean, was there any collision betwixt Dawkins and myself, I may tell you that the two parties never saw each other, with the exception of a trifling few men Mr Dawkins left to guard the boats.”

“Then I may take it that Dawkins, having captured the town and driven the inhabitants into the woods”--Pomfrett was conscientiously mastering the situation, as usual--“you robbed them and then came away in Dawkins’s boats, leaving him----”

“To pad the hoof, sir, like the old cut-purse he is,” Murch concluded, with a grave nod. “Now, are you satisfied, Mr Pomfrett? Very well. Then I have a proposal to make to you two gentlemen, to which I beg your serious attention.”

He leaned forward, rapping the table once or twice with the knuckles of his clenched fist, and glowering upon us like a thunderstorm.

“You and me have got to square accounts, Mr Pomfrett,” says he. “Now, I’m not a man that wastes two words where one will serve, and so I’ll ask but this question: Are you prepared to take my ward here, Morgan Leroux, in lawful and honourable marriage? Yes or no?”

“Yes.” Pomfrett answered prompt as an echo.

Mr Murch, his arm outstretched, the great corded hand resting on the table, stared at Pomfrett, quiet as a man of stone, for perhaps five seconds. Then, without moving any other part of him, he turned his eyes on Morgan Leroux.

“And what do you say, wench?”

Morgan’s wide black eyes blinked swiftly once or twice. “Yes,” said she, and closed her mouth and sat composedly watching, as before.

Murch’s whole figure relaxed, and he slowly drew himself upright. Then he nodded again, two or three times, very solemnly.

“I notice, Mr Pomfrett,” said he, “that you have not, at present, made any reference to myself in this matter.”

“Do you wonder at that, Mr Murch?” said Brandon.

“Ah,” said Mr Murch. “Hasty, hasty--hot and hasty, Mr Pomfrett, never got to church. If I am willing to forget the past, sir, surely you should be. I would have marooned you for reasons of my own, which figure well enough in the account betwixt my Maker and myself, let me tell you. But you have stolen away my ward, Mr Pomfrett--you took advantage of the ignorance and credulity of an innocent girl, unused to the world’s ways.”

“Let it go at that, uncle,” Morgan put in. “You’ll not better it. Cry quits, now.”

Murch was just a hair taken aback. “Here’s too much talk altogether,” he cried roughly. “Come. Yea or nay, and be done. Will you sail to-night for England, Mr Pomfrett?”

“With you?”

“Under me,” Mr Murch corrected him.

Pomfrett glanced at Morgan Leroux. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes.

“See, now, how simple stands the matter,” Murch went on, with his weighty deliberation. “We sail in this ship, this very _Blessed Endeavour_, that has cost us so much endeavour, blessed or not; transfer the cargo from the _Wheel of Fortune_, take her to Barbadoes, and sell her there; the Governor will be glad to have her back again, for I may tell you, Mr Pomfrett, to show how fenced by the law is an enterprise, that his Excellency hath a share in the adventure. We will take your little bark as a tender, and sell her or not, as we find convenient. After Barbadoes, we cut sail for England, sir.”

Pomfrett sat silent, with his eyes on the floor. Morgan was steadfastly regarding him, with a distressed, appealing look that I could never have withstood for a moment, myself.

“Perhaps you think it strange in me to propose this arrangement,” continued Murch. “But if you will so consider the matter, ’tis entirely natural. My motive is pure self-interest--the mainspring of man’s actions here below. There is no other worth mentioning that influences any one; therefore, why deny it? I want to see my ward settled in marriage; the single estate is dangerous for females. I want to settle myself, in a manner which shall enable me to move in the society of my equals--a society,” says Murch, with dignity, “from which I have been too long estranged. I see in you, Mr Pomfrett, a respectable gentleman who shall serve me to both these ends. I need not, I think, say more.”

Still the owners’ agent sat silent, frowning at the floor. He was inly writhing on the horns of a most savage dilemma. All he valued in life drew him to close with Murch. On the one hand, he could see his owners satisfied and himself married and wealthy, all his troubles done. And on the other, only poor old Dawkins and a famine-stricken crew struggling down the river-banks, through the forest, with nothing in the world to hope for save the agent’s word of honour--the good faith of the supercargo with whom Mr Dawkins had dealt so crookedly. And why should a man keep faith with that treacherous old person, Dawkins? Perhaps in this painful crisis Mr Pomfrett recalled his own proud words: “What does it matter whom you swore to, if you did swear?” And, again, what use to Dawkins in refusing to take advantage of Murch’s offer. Murch, with his men and guns, had us all in the hollow of his hand. Still, the fact remained, that Mr Dawkins was rightful captain of the _Blessed Endeavour_, ostensibly commanding her for the owners; and for the owners’ agent to acquiesce in Murch’s suggestion were nothing less than to make terms with a thief and a robber. In some such guise must the problem have framed itself in the agent’s mind while he sat with his face averted from Morgan’s burning eyes. He broke silence at last, raising his head and turning to Murch, without looking towards Morgan.

“It seems to me, Mr Murch, I’ve no more choice in the matter than any skipper of an unarmed merchant ship you choose to lay aboard.”

“Why, there’s always the beach, Mr Pomfrett,” Murch returned. “I shall be glad to have you with me, sir, but God knows I’ll force my kindness on no man living, and there you have it, once for all. Now, I would not hurry you, sir, but time presses. Which is it to be?”

“I’ll sail under you, Mr Murch,” said Pomfrett, and the face of Morgan Leroux lightened like a breaking sky. Murch never altered a line of his countenance--that great dark face, which began to oppress me, like some monstrous visage seen in a dream.

“And really, Mr Pomfrett, I think you are well advised,” said Murch; and for my part, I agreed with the old buccaneer. I did not guess, as you will see, the extent of the supercargo’s mental reservations.

And that evening, before sunset, three ships sailed from Caratasca Cays. Mr Murch and his ward sailed in his ship, the _Wheel of Fortune_, Murch’s first mate had charge of ours, the _Blessed Endeavour_, while the owners’ agent, all forsworn, and his accomplice, Harry Winter, had command of his _Modesty_ ship, with her original crew. But, before these arrangements were complete, I have a little episode to relate, of a nature so tender that it demands a chapter to itself.

XV

WHICH CONTAINS THE ONLY OSTENSIBLE LOVE-SCENE IN THE BOOK

The conversation of lovers, as related by poet and romancer, is apt to raise a serious doubt in the mind of the reader. For, it is the very nature and rule of such intercourse that it be not carried on in presence of a witness, and that nothing concerning it be divulged by the parties themselves. How, then, did the chronicler gain the information he is so incontinent to impart, if not by hearing and observation? He might, indeed, write of his own experience, disguisedly; but, he should be ashamed to do that, and we can place little faith in the records of a gentleman so unscrupulous. He may, of course, paint from imagination, but, obviously, in that case, we are as far from the truth as ever. So difficult is this problem that some have even averred that the passion of love, as depicted by the said poet and romancer, is nothing but an invention of the ingenious artist--an unsubstantial paradise created by them for their pleasure. The mark of the true lover, say the precisians, is a contented silence. For my own part, I would not be taken to possess an opinion on the subject. But I have to record what did actually fall under my own observation; and if it be a rare distinction to have listened to a pair of lovers conversing, that distinction is mine. I did not seek the occasion; I could not avoid it; it came to me.

When the conversation related in the last chapter was ended, Mr Murch left the cabin and went on deck. We could hear his great voice booming out a string of peremptory orders. Now, you must understand that the declining sun, shooting a brilliant beam through the porthole, divided the cabin into dusky halves, so that, from where I sat humbly in the background, Pomfrett’s face, seen through the shaft of misty radiance, appeared as though floating bodiless in the brown shadow. He was staring at Morgan Leroux with a most tragical expression. Of the lady I could see no more than a shadowy apparition. So they sat, silent, for a long minute. Then Morgan spoke.

“Well, are you happy now?” she said. It was a new voice; the masculine tone had given place to an accent of such a caressing endearment that I behooved to remind them of the presence of a third party. But neither took any heed.

Pomfrett made no reply, gazing upon the lady with a look of such despair you would think he was under sentence of hanging, instead of promotion to matrimony. Then Morgan arose and came to him, and it was a woman, and no wild hoyden playing the gallant, who kneeled down beside him.

“Well, are you happy now?” she said, again.

Still Pomfrett answered nothing, nor did he lift his hand to touch the pretty head that was bowed upon his knee, but the muscles of his cheek twitched a little, and his mouth set hard. Poor owners’ agent! he was sore beset.

“Why don’t you speak to me?” said Morgan, lifting a face all melted and broken, as the thin ice on still water breaks and melts in the winter sun.

“My dear, my dear,” said Pomfrett, “I don’t know what to say.” He stopped.

“Say nothing, then,” quoth Morgan, contentedly.

“Ah, but I must,” groaned Pomfrett. “I must keep faith with my owners, and I must keep faith with you, and how to do both?”

“We’ll find a way, somehow,” Morgan answered, soothing him as though he were a child.

“But will you trust me, whatever I do--whatever I have to do?” he cried.

“That means you are going to do something foolish,” said Morgan. “What are you planning, my dear?”

“Ay, but will you?” said he, with what seemed to the listener a superfluous anxiety.

“You are but a foolish boy,” Morgan answered, and reached forth her hands to draw down his stubborn head. I rose and stole from the cabin.

And a little later, as I have said, the three ships stood out from Caratasca, and those lovers were parted. Murch would have his ward aboard with him, and very right. We found the _Modesty_ ship but a dismal craft without the gentleman-adventurer. But the two had had their time, the time and chance that come to all, they say; and never again were we three shipmates to sail in company.

XVI

MR DAWKINS GIVES US A LITTLE SURPRISE

Now, from Caratasca Cays to the island of Barbadoes is near eight hundred sea-miles; say a week’s voyage with a fair wind; and in about that time we entered the muddy water that for several leagues surrounds the island of Barbadoes. That evening Admiral Murch signalled to us to lay-to, since he would not make the harbour in the dark. Night came at a stride, and ere the other two ships had their riding-lights displayed Pomfrett had set sail, had gone about, and the _Modesty_ ship was heading back again for Caratasca.

All the way we had been discussing plans, but where was the use of plans when we could see no further than the ship’s bolt-sprit? Had we slipped away before, Murch would have chased us; now that he lay in sight of harbour, he would very likely let us go, and say no more about it. Pomfrett was going to keep faith with Dawkins after all; his owners must take their chance; and as to the third obligation to which he stood committed, that must wait likewise. The little blind boy with the bow and arrows must wait his turn; an exercise, after all, to which he should be well accustomed. Poor Morgan Leroux must even suffer; but I’ll wager that her sufferings were lighter than her lover’s. During the voyage to Barbadoes he would spend hours beside the taffrail staring at the _Blessed Endeavour_, where she leaned and rose and dipped, a cable’s length to starboard; and if he caught but a glimpse of Morgan, and a wave of her kerchief, I suppose he thought himself lucky. Now, as he held the wheel himself, his face was set like a death’s head, dim in the gleaming dark; and when the boatswain came aft, to enquire delicately, as a gentleman of fortune should, the meaning of this right-about-face, Pomfrett struck the man on the mouth, consigning him to perdition. Our friend went grumbling to the waist; and thereafter we had much ado to stay the men from breaking into open mutiny. A gay voyage we had of it; but, what with fair words and hard blows, we made Caratasca Cays at last, and dropped anchor in the great lagoon once more. Never were two mariners gladder to see the beach; yet there at the water’s edge, huddled about the camp-fire, was the fount and origin of all our troubles. Not sixty men, by what we could make out from the deck; perhaps twenty, or less; but there was Dawkins, whom no disaster seemed to quell. We saw him standing apart, and heard him roaring orders, while the men ran hither and thither, apparently putting themselves in a posture of defence; and the brown Indians came out upon the top of the beach, and stood looking on, in the shadow of the forest. We had a boat lowered, and rowed ashore with a white shirt hoisted on an oar, in case these desperate gentlemen should think fit to fire on their best friends. Dawkins suffered us to land in silence; then he broke out in a voice that scared the sea-birds, brandishing a great pistol.

“What now, Mr Pomfrett? Where’s Mr Murch? Lying-to round the point, I reckon. I might ’a’ known it from the first, but I believed in you, God curse me for a fool. Where’s Murch, I say?”

“I don’t know,” says Pomfrett, with great composure. “I left him off Barbadoes. I thought you’d want the ship, captain.”

Dawkins dropped his pistol hand and glowered at him, shaking his head. “You’re right there, shipmate,” he growled. “We do want a ship--a little. Ah, but I ain’t satisfied yet, Mr Supercargo, not by a long reckoning. Nor yet these here poor gentlemen o’ fortune--what’s left of ’em--_they_ ain’t satisfied, if I don’t mistake.”

They were not, to judge by their furious looks and questions, as they crowded about us; and Pomfrett there and then called a council. He had taken his resolution; they should sail to England if they chose to come aboard; or--in Mistress Morgan’s phrase--they could stay where they were and be damned. This was no occasion, you see, for circumlocution; everyone spoke their mind roundly, except Mr Dawkins, who held an unaccountable silence. As for gratitude to us for having rescued them, these gentlemen, whatever they felt, were careful to conceal any spark of that uncomfortable emotion.

“You talk very big, Mr Supercargo,” said one. “What! Go to England and rot in the streets, after all what we’ve done? A pleasant thing, to be sure! A proper way to talk to gentlemen of fortune! Just cast your eye round you. Now where would you be if we up and took the blessed ship, what belongs to us as much as you, I reckon?” And the observation was much applauded.

“Just cast your eye over there,” returned Pomfrett, jerking his thumb to where the little _Modesty_ ship sat like a butterfly on the water, “and you’ll see a couple of guns trained on you.” They looked, and, sure enough, there was the red glimmer of the lighted matches, as we had taken care there should be. “Sit still, shipmates,” says Pomfrett. “My gunner isn’t a patient man; and if any of you was to give way to his feelings, there might be an accident.”

Pomfrett was master of the situation for the time; he had but to lift his hand, and a couple of rounds of grape would be whistling about the ears of the unfortunate pirates. So he gained himself a hearing; and when he set before them the posture of affairs, and told them he had sacrificed all to keep faith with Captain Dawkins, they believed him. Landsmen would still have suspected the agent of some secret duplicity; but sailors are a folk both cunning and simple; and they will accept plain dealing with the confidence of children. Pomfrett dictated his terms, implacable as a slaver captain: it was England or the beach; and, since no better might be, they sulkily elected for England. After all, every man had his little gleanings out of Cartagena, though Murch had reaped the harvest; and we might pick up a ship or two on the voyage. Dawkins gave his vote with the others; for, in all questions of policy, save the questions of chasing and fighting, the captain ranks with the rest of the council. He made no remark at the time, but while the men were preparing to embark he drew Pomfrett aside.

“Mr Pomfrett,” says he, “you’ve dealt fair by me--no man couldn’t deal fairer--and I’ll deal fair by you, so help me God! Now, to show you,” Dawkins screwed up an eye, with his head on one side. “You remember that little business of the glass bottle, maybe?”

“An old trick; lucky for you, ’twas new to me,” says the agent, shortly. He did not enjoy these reminiscences.

“An old trick, was it? Why, now, I reckon Murch put you up to that--eh?” returned Dawkins, with a cunning leer. “He don’t believe in no messages in no glass bottles from no Captains de Graaf and Captains Grammont--not he. Eh?”

“Not very likely, Mr Dawkins.”

“Not very likely, as you say, shipmate. No, not likely. Jevon Murch would never be bammed by a simple little dodge like that, would he? So he don’t believe in it?”

“No, he don’t,” answered Pomfrett, wondering what the old rogue might mean by this persistency.

“Why, then, if he don’t--and I reckon he don’t--that’s a good thing for you and me, shipmate,” Dawkins went on, with great deliberation. “And why, says you? Why is this same old Dawkins, this poor old broken-down forsaken buccaneer on his beam-ends, a-talking like this here? That’s what you’re a-thinking, shipmate, at this blessed minute. Has he took leave of his senses, owing to hunger and disapp’intment, and the blessed sun, or what not, you’re asking of yourself.” Dawkins paused in this singular adjuration, his little eyes glowing under his penthouse brows, took a step forward, laid his hand on Pomfrett’s breast, and spoke low. “It’s true,” says he. “The bottle’s true. So far as I know, mind ye, that is. So far as I know, and I’ll swear it on the Book. I didn’t find that there same bottle, nor that message, mind ye, but I found another bottle and another message, and then I lost ’em ashore in a island port. Drunk, I reckon. But not before I’d a-learned the writing by heart. Gamaliel wrote it out from what I rec’lected, so he did, and Gamaliel, he supplied the bottle. And Gamaliel, he thought it was all a bam. But,” said Mr Dawkins, with indescribable emphasis, “_it ain’t!_”

He fell back a step, and Pomfrett stood regarding him with amazement.

“Now, by your leave, commander, we’ll lay that pretty little ship o’ yours for Catoche Bay on the coast of Yucatan--all as we was, commander, all as we was at the start, and on the way home, too,” Dawkins ended.