Chapter VI: Part 6

And so we did. But the ship had to be provisioned for the long voyage to England; and, taking advantage of the safe anchorage and the traffic of the friendly Indians, we spent a week in Caratasca Lagoon, getting wood, water, and victuals. After all, there was no hurry. Murch had sailed for England by this time, in all likelihood; his course lay north and east of the islands, while ours lay west and north of them; and we might consider ourselves secure from Murch, who, moreover, was doubtless glad to be rid of us. But, with him went Morgan Leroux; and although the agent, in reward of his fidelity, saw a chance of retrieving a great part of his owners’ losses, he went about heavy-eyed and silent. He was never quiet, working doggedly all day at this and that; nor did he sleep much. He would walk about the camp, along the shore and back again, or, if he were on shipboard, up and down the deck at night; then he would sit down where he was and fall asleep for a little while; and then he would wake again, and again take to his restless wandering. But when we were fairly at sea his melancholy lightened a little, and when we dropped anchor in Catoche Bay, on a fine night of moonlight, he nearly forgot his woes. The glimmering surf ran about us in a half-circle, thundering upon a zone of silver beach; on either hand rose tall cliffs, all black and silver in the moonlight, and beyond, the familiar dark barrier of forest, rising upon dim hills. Here, then, was the haven we had come so far to find. On one side of the bay the forest was cleft in a black notch; a few pines straggled thence upon the beach, bordering a gleam of running water. “_At a point on nothe mainland Yucatan two leagues due south from the hed of Catoche Bay, having the red rocke where the stream flows out in line with the extreemest projection of cliffe on west horn of bay._” Dawkins had the marks by heart, as he had said. Now, the crew had been told nothing of the matter; no one aboard knew of the treasure save Dawkins and Pomfrett and I; so that, if by any evil chance we found ourselves deceived, there would be the less discontent.

We three, then, had a boat ashore at dawn, with a cargo of empty water-barrels, which were to be filled. This made the ostensible object of our landing. There were the marks, sure enough,--a square lump of red, glistening rock standing alone on the stony beach; and, aligning the rock with the extreme point of the west horn of the bay, we took bearings, and found the line to run nearly due south. Leaving the men to fill the barrels, the three explorers struck through the forest. Dawkins trotted forward like a hound on the trail, panting and pounding, his big face shining with sweat, a humming cloud of flies hovering about him and clustering unheeded in patches upon his skin. There was a curious fixed purpose in his face; he kept glancing at us, where we ran on either side of him, with little, quick, ugly glances; and I could not but remember that, were we out of the way, the whole of the prize would fall to Mr Dawkins. He carried a brace of pistols and a sword; but so did we, though it’s true we were no great hands at the use of these weapons. We had travelled thus, with scarce a word spoken, for about a couple of leagues, when the little river, running in a deep gorge, curved to meet us; and there we were, in a grove of acajou trees, as the message had described.

“‘_The felled tree_,’” quoted Dawkins, “‘_bridging the stream between two groves of acajou trees_.’” And there it was; we could see a piece of the trunk, as we hurried forward through the trees. I’ll not deny that, in the few moments during which we traversed the grove, the agent, and I suppose myself, betrayed as much excitement as Dawkins. This elusive hoard of silver, this will-o’-the-wisp treasure, for which we had come so far and suffered so much--did it lie under our hand at last? The next moment we pulled up short, as though struck by a bullet, and stood staring and dismayed.

XVII

THE LUCK IS FAIRLY OUT

It was not much we saw: only a litter of white, fresh chips, pieces of bark, and the new-cut butt end of the felled tree, facing us; but a thunderbolt crashing at our feet would not have stunned the party more effectually. That tree had been felled by white men’s axes but a few days since; so much we perceived at the first glance; the next, showed us a small object standing upright on the middle of the great trunk, giving back the strong sunlight with a glitter that dazzled the eye. Dawkins, with an incoherent mutter of speech, in which we could distinguish the word “Murch,” pointed towards it. The hand he lifted held a pistol, whose muzzle wavered in the air. What was Mr Dawkins doing with a pistol? The other hand held a pistol, too; he had drawn them from his sash as he ran. His eyes were fixed in his head, his jaw was a little dropped, the veins in his neck stood out like cords, and his face was of a purplish colour. The next moment he fell forward on his face and lay motionless. The poor old buccaneer was stricken with a fit. We opened a vein in his huge arm with the point of a clasp-knife, and presently his eyelids fluttered and he seemed to revive. So, having bound up the wound, we took away his pistols--for fear of accidents--propped him up, and turned to business.

Pomfrett walked along the felled tree, the open knife shining in his hand, stooped, cut the lashings that held the little and bright object, and returned with a Dutch flask in his hand. It was securely corked, and within was a scrap of paper. Mr Dawkins, with a haggard eye upon our proceedings, and speaking with a thick utterance, was understood to claim the bottle as his own. It may have been, since the origin of our misfortunes had been left in the great cabin of the _Blessed Endeavour_, which ship, if the reader hath had patience to follow our bewildering exchanges in the matter of ships, was now displaying the flag of Captain Jevon Murch. For this was the message written upon the paper which was contained in that accursed flask:

“_Captain Murch to Captain Dawkins or
Captain Pomfrett. As the case may be._

_The prey shall be to him that finds It and the Longest Liver takes
All._”

Captain Dawkins merely gaped when he heard these words. But perhaps he was not in a condition to be stirred by any emotion, for it may be that we had taken more blood from him than was absolutely requisite to ease his distemper. He might not have entertained the notion of shooting his partners in the back; but, then, what was he doing with the pistol? Now he could neither shoot nor walk; and, as we had no mind to carry a couple of hundredweight of limp buccaneer through the forest, Captain Pomfrett sent me for a bearer party. When I returned with the men the two captains were sound asleep in the shade, the empty bottle standing between them, a sarcastic little monument of futility. The men naturally concluded that their officers were sleeping the sleep of the drunken. Down in the gorge, on the other side of the stream, a cave opened in the rocky bank, loose boulders and fresh earth strewn about its mouth. Pomfrett had, he said, made a careful exploration, but had not found so much as a ducat. Every particle of the treasure, if treasure there had been, was gone.

The next day we put to sea, and laid the course for England. Since all was lost, we had but the one thought--to seek Mr Murch until we found him. Now, Murch must have sailed directly from Barbadoes to Catoche Bay, gaining a few days’ start of us the while we were victualling ship in Caratasca Lagoon, on the bare chance of Dawkins’s yarn being true after all; and, to all appearance, he had secured the booty. His ship was crammed with plunder; he had nothing to fear from the pursuit of the little _Modesty_ ship, even supposing she had ever come to Catoche Bay, which to Mr Murch must have seemed an event by no means certain; and so, we had little doubt, Mr Murch had borne away from Catoche Bay for England. If so, we were following on his track; if so, barring accidents, soon or late we should come up with him; and then--why, then, the longest liver should take all. And of all the hopeless enterprises that ever a shipload of poor ruined adventurers embarked upon, I thought, as we cut sail from Catoche Bay, that ours was the most desperate. True, we might have gone a-privateering again, but Brandon Pomfrett was immovably fixed to sail for England. It remained to be seen how long he could keep his resolution in the face of a mutinous crew.

As for Dawkins, he lay on deck beneath an awning; ready to give sailing orders to the boatswain, did that officer require direction; sleeping, smoking, drinking as much as he could get by fear or favour; and playing a dreary card-game, his right hand against his left.

“This is poor old Dawkins’s last voyage, I reckon,” he would maunder. “Poor old Dawkins, what never done no harm, no more than was strickly necessary, as to every man. Murch has bammed us, as I knowed he would. I knowed it from the first. Why did I ever go to Murch in Barbadoes, says you? I don’t know--I don’t know a mite. We was shipmates, you see, and how was I to know he’d up and hoist the old flag before a man could turn around in his bunk? And especially, moreover, how was I to know--how,” said Mr Dawkins, with extreme bitterness, “in the devil was I to know, as _he_ knew all about Cap’n Morgan’s little game? Ah, well, it’s fate, that’s what it is. No man can’t go against his fate. But it’s hard on a old seaman--hard it is, and no mistake. Now I only wanted for to lay up a store of victuals, and live quiet in amongst green trees, and the birds a-singing, and read a chapter of the Bible, Sundays--only wanted what many a tallow-faced landsman who’ve never risked his miserable skin gets natural, and never feels no gratitude for--not him, the swab! Ah, well, there’s many a man upon this cruise what never will come back. We’re a-sailing for the Golden Gates, shipmates. The luck’s out in this here barky, sure enough. You’d better take and heave old Dawkins overboard. He’d thank you for the service--he would, by the bones of the deep!”

This gloomy spirit infected the whole ship’s company: a cursed cruise, a coffin ship with the devil aboard of her, and a lunatic commander,--these were the common expressions. I think we were even disappointed when day by day went by without misfortune. But we had no sooner cleared the Bahamas than the trouble began. The wind, which had hitherto held wonderfully fair, turned contrary, and for three weeks we had a continual succession of foul winds. The _Modesty_ ship spoomed along before the gale, blown clean out of her course into the midst of the Atlantic. Now, we had reckoned our provisions to last, on a very exact allowance, for three months, the time in which we might fairly have hoped to make the voyage. Behold us, then, three weeks out of our reckoning and a thousand miles or so farther from home; the sails bad, the cordage rotten, the ship leaky; the water-casks decayed, the water short, and what there was in very ill condition. Christmas Day found us heading northward again, but on dismally short allowance. And as we neared the Line, the dried beef, being insufficiently cured, began to breed worms. Then the men fell sick with a dreadful illness that caused them to swell from the ankles upward, until they could scarce draw breath. Their pain and misery were so extreme that many lost their wits, and some leaped overboard and were drowned. Within a fortnight twenty-seven men died out of forty-one, and of the fourteen remaining, but six were fit for any duty. Mr Dawkins, who had by this time quite recovered his seizure and its treatment, kept his health, and did the work of three; of the rest, Captain Pomfrett, myself, and the boy who waited on us were the only sound persons aboard. This, our good fortune, may have been due to our berthing aft, away from the crowding and noisome stench of the waist and forecastle. The six men were barely able to man the capstan; to go aloft was beyond them; and so the whole labour of the ship devolved upon the three officers--Captain Pomfrett, Mr Dawkins, and myself. The captain and master took in and hove out the topsails, while I attended the spritsail, and the three took turns at the helm. If any care to imagine for themselves the dreadful misery of that voyage, let them do so; it is not my purpose to tell of it further; and, indeed, the thing were not to be figured in words.

We were either in the Bay of Biscay or some leagues to the westward, in the same latitude, when the wind, increasing suddenly at nightfall to a fine t’gallant gale, carried away the topsails and spritsail. The ship drove before the wind, helpless, but still, the wind blowing south by east, keeping on her course; and the sea, though running high, was not extraordinary dangerous. The next day, the wind abating, we contrived to rig some sort of sail; and so, for sundry days and nights, we continued. I cannot tell how long it was, for we lost all count of time; until, as near as we could judge, we were off Brest, though out of sight of land; and here the wind, rising again, drove us into Berehaven in Ireland.

The low and desolate hills, all covered with snow, rose upon the wild grey sky in the dawning of the day, and at their inhospitable feet we pitched the ship ashore. You may think we were glad to touch the beach again, and I suppose we were, but I have no remembrance of any sensation save an intolerable desire to sleep. The Irishmen came from their wretched huts and helped us to get in what sail there was, and to moor the ship, charging so extortionately for their very unskilful labours that the captain had to pay these savages ten pounds.

We got fresh food and water from the Irishmen, paying for them at the same high rate; and finding that after five or six days the sick men began to pluck up, we declared the dividend of plunder, and left them to go whither they would; the captain, Mr Dawkins, and myself taking passage in a fishing-boat for Bristol.

XVIII

HOOKY GAMALIEL PAYS THE SCORE

We fetched up at Bristol docks in twilight and a flurry of snow. Let the darkness blacken and the snow fall thick and fast, the night could not be too dark and too foul for three broken buccaneers, who only wanted to slink unregarded through the blinded streets. Dawkins headed straight for John Gamaliel’s tavern. “Hooky Gamaliel,” growled Mr Dawkins, “owes this here ship’s company three months’ provisions, and I reckon he’s going to pay. I’ll burn his house over his skulking head for a noggin of rum. It’s going to be hot for Hooky John--damned hot, by the bones of the deep!”

Pomfrett had no desire to face his uncle--and his aunt--on an empty stomach, and so, wrapped in boat-cloaks, we followed Mr Dawkins. With his great head and shoulders bowed, the old pirate forged ahead, ploughing through the snow and leaving great formless footprints, like some monstrous beast of prey. When we came into the narrow alley and saw the red firelight gleam in the tavern windows, Dawkins stopped and turned. “Shipmates,” says he, “you follow old Dawkins’s lead, will you? He knows how to deal with a Jew, does Dawkins. You put your trust in him once more, will you, shipmates?”

“Carry on, old gentleman,” says Pomfrett. “Don’t bring the constables on us, that’s all.”

“Never fear for that. I reckon Gamaliel would scuttle his ship sooner than see the janissaries a-boarding her. Ho! never fear for that.” With a chuckle, he began to chant, in a hoarse whisper:

“Ye fancy men, now turn again,
For we’re out on the chase to-night.”

So three cloaked figures, white with snow, entered the room, where seamen were sitting at their drink, in the warmth and light, Gamaliel, in shirt-sleeves and clean apron, attending upon them. We sat down in a corner, a low partition fencing us from the company, and Gamaliel stepped briskly to us. Our faces were hidden by hat and cloak, so that he should not recognise us at once.

“Give you good-evening, Mr Gamaliel,” says Dawkins, thrusting forth a huge hand, which the other must needs grasp. “A word in your ear, shipmate.” Gamaliel cried out as Dawkins drew him downward with a single powerful wrench, so that the Jew’s distorted and staring face was close to his own.

“Another noise like that, Hooky, and I’ll twist your arm out,” says Dawkins, in a savage whisper. “Now, what time d’ye close?--but it don’t matter--you close early to-night, d’ye see. You close now, immediate, and smart about it. There’s business to discuss, Hooky. Now bring rum, and then clear out this mess of swabs. Smart, now!”

He jerked Gamaliel upright again, as though the wiry Jew were pliant as a figure of straw. We sat and drank our liquor, and very good it was, and watched Gamaliel going from one to another of his guests, whispering confidentially to them. I don’t know what he said, but whatever it was--and in a house like Gamaliel’s a sudden need of departure was no novelty--the argument was effectual. Within half an hour or so the room was clear, the shutters up, and the door locked. Then Dawkins removed hat and cloak and stretched himself at ease before the fire, we following his example. Gamaliel stood contemplating us, his head bent a little forward and one side, his shoulders drooped forward, his crooked hands loosely hanging at his side, all as we remembered. There was discomfiture in his face and a furtive uneasiness, and now and again his glance turned to the door, and he seemed to listen. For once the effusive Jew appeared at a loss for words; he gave us no greeting, asked us no questions, expressed no surprise at our presence there.

“What d’ye stand staring for?” roared Dawkins. “Fetch supper, Hooky; fetch aft the supper, will ye?”

“There’s but little in the house, Mr Dawkins,” said the Jew. “What would you fancy? A bit of Dutch cheese, or----”

“Cheese, was it? Cheese, eh? You hear him, shipmates? Now look you here, Hooky,” said Mr Dawkins, getting up, “you and me will go-look-see the store-room in company, my lad.”

He took the little Jew by collar and elbow, and ran him from the room. We heard the old buccaneer’s great voice booming in the back premises, and presently he returned, driving Gamaliel before him. The Jew was loaded to the chin with victuals. A couple of chickens, a noble round of beef, a prime tongue, two or three loaves of bread, and a round of Gloucester cheese were piled pell-mell in his arms.

“Lookee here, here’s victuals for an admiral, and more where they come from,” shouted Dawkins. “You thieving cur, you spawn of Moses, spread the table, spread all the tables. There’s going to be a party.” He deftly filched a bunch of keys from the innkeeper’s pocket, for the little man was helpless in the buccaneer’s experienced gripe, and would have quitted the room, but the Jew, who was biting and tearing by this time, clung to his skirts.

Dawkins wrenched him loose and flung him on the floor. “Keep the Hebrew stirring, mates,” says he, and went out, bellowing at the pitch of his voice.

“Hi-yeo, messmates, hi-yeo! Any poor seaman want rations and rum? Hi-yeo! Call--call again.”

And immediately there arose cries like the cries of famished animals, deep-mouthed shoutings, and a beating upon doors, from all parts of the old, rambling house, above, beneath, and behind. Mr Dawkins was accomplishing a general gaol-delivery, letting loose the poor mariners whom Gamaliel used to entrap. He would lodge and board the guileless seamen until their money was out, when he would lock them up, take their clothes in pawn, and starve them till he could sell them aboard ship. A crimp’s is a good trade.

Gamaliel lay on the floor for a minute, then picked himself up and went to laying out the victuals, with no apparent sign of injury. Dawkins’s way with the persecuted race seemed effectual enough. Still the Jew kept stopping and listening, with an eye cocked on the door. As for Pomfrett and myself, who sat placidly thawing the salt from our bones by the fire, he never looked at us, but hurried to and fro, stopping and going on again, like a man in some deadly suspense. There was something weighing on Gamaliel’s mind besides the terror of the masterful Dawkins. He had but a few minutes’ respite. From within came the shouts of seamen adrift in the dark house, demanding the way to the tap-room, and the hurrying of footsteps on the boards; and then did Hooky Gamaliel entrench himself behind the table where we were sitting, the perspiration starting in beads upon his face and fear looking out of his eyes.

“Gentlemen, you’ll not see a man murdered in his own house,” says he, clutching Pomfrett’s shoulder. “You’ll stand by me--gentlemen--an old servant of your good uncle’s, Mr Pomfrett--and I’ll stand by you, for there’s trouble coming, Mr Pomfrett, and I know----”

“Hands off,” says Pomfrett, shaking himself free. “Who’s going to murder you, you fool? You fill your lodgers’ bellies, Gamaliel, that’s what you’ve got to do.”

“Oh, this is a horrible business, a dreadful business,” groaned the Jew, clutching himself with both hands, since he could hold on to no one else. “O Mother of Moses, here they come!”

A tall man, his shock of hair ruffled all over his head, and naked as he was born, came rushing into the room, trailing a blanket behind him, and stopped short, dazzled by the light. The next moment he caught sight of the trembling Jew, and made a short rush in his direction, dropping his blanket. Pomfrett stopped him, his open hand against the creature’s face.

“Easy, now,” says he, gently. “Easy, easy all. I’m commander here. Sit down, and take your rations quiet.”

“I want that man, I want that man,” says the naked one, trying to edge past Pomfrett, with his fierce eyes fastened on the Jew.

“Well, you can’t have him, d’ye see,” returned Captain Pomfrett, in the same tone of quiet persuasion. “Obey orders, now, and sit you down. Rations is what you want.”

The room was filling with a little crowd of wild figures, some in shirt and drawers, some in a kilt with a rug about their shoulders, one or two with a filthy blanket held about their naked body. They came crowding about us, a glare of eyes, a gallery of drawn, hungry faces, a hubbub of oaths and clamourings for the blood of Hooky Gamaliel. I suppose, if we had not fenced him in the chimney-corner, the Jew would have been put on the fire straightway. Pomfrett faced the mob with his hands in his pockets, composedly expostulating with the hungry, furious wretches until they quieted down and suddenly turned upon the victuals. They fell upon the meat and drink like a pack of hounds, tearing the meat with teeth and fingers, cramming fowl and beef and bread and tongue all at once, knocking the necks from bottles, pouring down wine and brandy from quart pots.

In the comparative silence that ensued there came the sounds of battering upon a door somewhere upstairs. The Jew, hearkening with an agonised countenance, again took Pomfrett by the sleeve. “Take him away, Mr Pomfrett, take the bloody scoundrel away from that door; don’t let him get in, or there’ll be worsh than murder in a minute. O, this is worsh than all!” In his agitation his accents suddenly thickened to the Hebrew pronunciation.

“What’s in the room, then?” says Pomfrett, freeing himself from the Jew’s hold with his former action.

“Hush, speak lower. Bend down.” As Gamaliel whispered in his ear there came the loud noise of a pistol shot, a momentary silence, then renewed bellowings and hammerings.

“Stay here,” said Pomfrett to me, and ran from the room. The clamour ceased, and the Jew wiped his brow with the back of his shaking hand. All this passed totally unheeded by the gorging crew of released mariners; they scarce looked up from their victuals when, a few minutes after Pomfrett had quitted the room, Mr Dawkins entered it.

That robustious buccaneer came softly in and sat down heavily beside me. The frightened, furtive look had passed from Gamaliel’s face to his own; indeed, by some unexplained process, the two seemed to have changed places. Now that the worst, apparently, had come upon him, the Jew was settling into a stolid resignation, the indispensable attribute of his race, while Dawkins sat uneasily listening, his eyes upon the door.

“And I might ’a’ known it,” he said, presently, without shifting his glance. “I surely might ’a’ known it all along.” He bent a savage look on Gamaliel for a moment. “I’ll pay you for this, Hooky. Lord strike and blast me to ashes where I sit, but I’ll pay you for this.”

“Mother of Moshesh, how could I help it? You know better than that, Mr Dawkins,” said the Jew, sullenly.

“I know this,” says Dawkins, “that the minute Mr Murch sets foot inside this here door I’ll shoot you like a blessed dog, Hooky.”

The name of Murch struck me with a horrid shock of amazement. But the Jew was unmoved.

“You’d better let me go and stop him, then,” was all he said. Dawkins, unheeding, addressed himself to me, still keeping a watchful eye on the door while he talked.

“I reckon you’re surprised, Mr Winter, at what I said. And I was surprised, upstairs, and no mistake. Now I ain’t surprised at anything any more. Dawkins is ready, ay, and willing, to believe everything, like the man in the Bible. Now, here we sit, you and me and Hooky, and Mr Murch within a cable of us, very likely. He’s a-coming to supper, is Murch. Which there won’t be much of it left, seemingly.” Dawkins shot a glance upon the revelling seamen, under cover of whose increasing clatter and clamour his own talk went forward, unheard by any save the Jew and myself. “A nice little family party, ain’t it?” Mr Dawkins looked anything but cheerful at the prospect. “You rec’lect, I daresay, Mr Winter,” Dawkins went on, in a kind of despairing calm, “a--a person, calling himself--I should say herself--no, itself, dash _me_--Morgan Leroux? Well, it’s upstairs, Mr Winter. As sure as sunrise, Morgan Leroux was behind that there door I were knocking at so politeful, and he--she or it, curse me for a poor blind, but she’s like a lady to look at, now, at any rate--she up and fired through the door. But she missed her aim. Then Mr Pomfrett come up, and--well, it’s all right now, I reckon. As for poor old Dawkins, he wasn’t wanted no more. So he come down. And when Cap’n Murch comes aboard, why, look out for squalls.”

He poured out a glass of brandy and sat with his hand on the glass, sipping his liquor now and again, but never turning his watchful gaze from the door. Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, every wise man’s son doth know. All was well with Brandon Pomfrett, doubtless; for the time, at any rate, there were two happy persons in Gamaliel’s house to-night. But old Dawkins and myself had scanty consolation; we had nothing to occupy our minds save the vision of the formidable Murch, approaching steadily, inevitably, through the white, silent streets and the darkness. Presently Dawkins began to sing to himself a melancholy chanty, in a rough, low voice that rose and fell like the wind.

“I’m a-drifting with the tide, messmates, a-drifting with the tide.
So let me drift, and let me drift, away to the sea outside,
Along the stream what flows so fast, and murmurs as it goes,
‘Ho, never lift your hand again, nor turn to face your foes,
For----’”

“What’s that?” There came a muffled knocking on the door. Mr Dawkins lugged a pistol from his pocket. But the knocking ceased, and an uncertain footstep passed by the window.

“Saved again,” said Dawkins. “When Murch knocks, he knocks, and similarly, when he walks, he marches, damn him! Another drunken seaman, I reckon.” He laid the pistol on the table, and went on crooning to himself.

“‘For work is done, and thoughts is vain, you’re tired to the bones;
Rest easy now, I’ll carry you slow, and the end for all atones;
I’ll carry you far, and I’ll carry you light, and drop you in your
place,
And there shall you rest, and sleep your fill, and forget----’

“Blest if the commander don’t look as if he’d found a golden fortune,” cried the singer, breaking off, as Pomfrett stood beside us. The commander’s face was red and pale, his eyes shining, his whole figure quick with some extraordinary emotion. Curious to compare his vivacious entrance, after seeing Mistress Morgan Leroux, with the depression of Mr Dawkins’s return from the presence of the charmer. But, we are all like crystals, changing and brightening and dimmed again with every chance juxtaposition. The humble chronicler presents this philosophical reflection to the reader for what it is worth; he is aware it has naught to do with the story.

“Gamaliel, there’s a little business in hand, and we’re in a hurry. We won’t hurt you,” says Pomfrett.

No man knew better how to bind and gag than Mr Dawkins; two or three table-cloths, a drawer’s apron, and a curtain will serve as well as ropes upon occasion, and we had poor Hooky trussed like a fowl before he had time to open his mouth.

“Put him away in a safe place,” said Pomfrett, and Dawkins hove the Jew over his shoulder and carried him out.

Pomfrett caught me by the sleeve and hurried me upstairs, and there was Mistress Morgan Leroux, as staidly drest and as demure as any cit’s daughter in Bristol, and a thousand times prettier, though she was pale and thin.

And would Harry Winter, cried Pomfrett, in a wonderful stress of excitement, do him one last service? The said Harry Winter could not have refused had he desired to do so, and he assured the commander of his fidelity. Then was he, it appeared, to take charge of the lady, to carry her away to some secret place, and there keep her safe until Mr Pomfrett’s return. For there were news of the lost ship, the _Blessed Endeavour_; Pomfrett must put to sea again that very night. There was not a moment to spare; and if Mr Murch, whose return to the house was imminent, were to come upon us, all would be lost. The explanation was clear enough, so far as it went; there would be time enough for questions when we were forth of that dangerous house. We were in the passage leading to the back door when Dawkins came up.

“What! the pretty bird’s on the wing, is she?” says he. “You wouldn’t care to be took care of by old Dawkins, would you, now, my pretty dove? Not you, and very natural, I’m sure. Ah, well, twenty years ago Dawkins would ’a’ had another tune to call, I reckon. But--make so humbly bold, commander--was your convoy provisioned for the cruise?”

“Money! I clean forgot,” cried Pomfrett.

“Of course you did,” said Dawkins. “And lucky you are, commander, to have an old seaman to think for you, when your head’s gone a-dancing after your heart.” He thrust forward his great fist, revealing a handful of gold and silver. Without any words, Pomfrett swiftly conveyed the money into my pocket. “Coins ain’t plunder--but never mind the rules. And I reckon there’s more stowed away somewheres,” remarked Dawkins. From which it may be surmised that Mr Dawkins had emptied Mr Gamaliel’s till.

The next moment the lady and I were out in the dark, the door bolted behind us. We began to walk forward in silence through the thick snow.

XIX

TELLS THE CONCLUSION OF THE NIGHT’S ADVENTURES

The first thing to be done was to get a lodging for the lady at some place where I was myself unknown, so I steered her towards the best inn of the city. As we went Mistress Morgan told me something of what had befallen since the _Modesty_ bark gave the slip to the _Blessed Endeavour_ off Barbadoes. It was easy to see that Mr March was glad at our departing, though he said little enough on the subject, beyond a curt intimation that Mr Pomfrett was welcome to go and be damned in his own way for an ungrateful young idiot. Mr Murch being immovable, Morgan submitted in silence. After selling his own ship, the _Wheel of Fortune_, and taking her crew aboard our original ship, the _Blessed Endeavour_, whose complement was disbanded, Murch set sail for Catoche Bay, as we had surmised. Not that he believed in Mr Dawkins’s glass bottle, but it was a principle of March’s never to neglect a chance. And, sure enough, he found, and lifted, a considerable booty. Then he sailed for Port of London. Meanwhile, the wily thief had painted out the name of the _Blessed Endeavour_ and painted in the _Wheel of Fortune_. For, he had retained the papers of the real _Wheel of Fortune_; and among them was the deed of gift, by which, as the patient reader may remember, Brandon Pomfrett had assigned that ship to Mr Murch. Thus, in case he were boarded by one of Her Majesty’s ships, Mr Murch would appear as simple captain and owner of the bark _Wheel of Fortune_, sailing on his own account. The position was a trifle ambiguous; but, so long as a gentleman avoided open piracy, no one, in those days, was superfluous to ask questions; and Murch had, on that score, as fair a prospect of a clear run into London as any picaroon could reasonably expect. But, although he escaped the hand of justice, the same tempest that wrought so hardly with us drove him far out of his course likewise; and although the _Blessed Endeavour_, _alias_ _Wheel of Fortune_, never fell into the same extremities as the _Modesty_ ship, her crew went on short rations and suffered much from sickness, so that many died; and when the same storm that drove the _Modesty_ ship ashore in Berehaven struck the _Blessed Endeavour_ in the chops of the Channel (so near upon her heels were we) there were scarce twenty men fit to work the ship. She drove before the wind, northwestward, and in the end Murch beached her in Morte Bay, on the coast of Devon, in an inlet under the lee of the rocky headland called Baggy Point. There she lay, firm fixed by the bows, chock-a-block with plunder. Had he a full ship’s company, Murch could have repaired the leak and towed her off at high tide; but, finding himself hopelessly short-handed, Mr Murch thought best to leave the ship in charge of the boatswain, while he sailed to Bristol in the yawl, to procure a fresh crew. Upon fetching up at Bristol he went straight to his agent, who, as we know, was Mr John Gamaliel; and, for the sake of convenience, took up his quarters in the house of that useful Israelite for the few days during which he was fitting out a schooner and collecting a crew for the salvage of the _Blessed Endeavour_, _alias_ _Wheel of Fortune_. So it was that when we brought up at the house of Gamaliel Mr Murch was on the eve of sailing, a fortunate coincidence which, the writer freely admits, has a spice of the improbable. But so things fell out--and is that the writer’s fault? And I doubt if this turn of fortune would have availed the excellent Pomfrett had not Morgan Leroux, with the instant divination that belongs to some women, prompted the owners’ agent to seize Mr Murch’s schooner and to sail in her himself. Once aboard our old ship, he would be upsides with Mr Murch. It would be a simple matter to represent to the remnant of officers and men that Murch himself had despatched the supercargo on the business; and, in any case, the ship’s company would care for nothing in the world save to be paid off with a handsome dividend, as quick as might be. Even as we talked, Pomfrett should be putting to sea. The carpenters and shipwrights were already aboard; and as for the common seamen who were yet ashore, they might be replaced with the wild crew Mr Dawkins had let loose from Gamaliel’s dungeons; and if Mr Murch appeared in the meantime, why, he was but one against a dozen drunken desperadoes.

Nevertheless, the enterprise carried a thousand risks; March, we knew, would stick at nothing; and the lady under my arm, once so cool and undaunted, was twittering with anxiety.

“I ought to be there,” she kept saying. “I ought never to run away like this--it’s shameful. But he told me to, and I promised. And I’m sorry for Mr Murch. I cannot help it. He was never unkind to me. But what could I do? I had to sacrifice someone. And now, I don’t know what will happen.” And I had scarce settled her in her inn, than Mistress Morgan despatched me to spy out how matters were going. Pomfrett had enjoined me very strictly to stay beside his dear; but ’twas easier to disobey the commander than his lady; and back again I must trudge through the snow to that fatal tavern, the home of our misfortunes, fervently hoping that Mr Murch might not fall across the poor clerk and twist the news of the conspiracy out of him with his two hands. The streets were empty as the desert and dark as caves, save for the glimmer, here and there, of a lamp swinging in the wind. Murch might have had his will and left his victim for dead in perfect security. But I fetched up at Gamaliel’s without harm, and peered in at the open door. Murch had not arrived, that was evident, for there were Pomfrett and his faithful ally, Mr Dawkins, marshalling the crew to go down to the ship. The men were newly clothed--out of Gamaliel’s stores, it is to be supposed; and they were not so drunk but that they could obey orders. Pomfrett, catching sight of me, leaped aside and gripped me by the arm.

“What is it--is anything wrong?” says he, in great alarm. And when I told him how matters stood, he cursed me for infringing his solemn behest like a slaver captain. “But now you are here,” says he, “you can make yourself useful. There’s plenty to be done.”

There was. First, there were the men to be shepherded down to the ship, which would have been easier had we known whereabouts beside the quay she was moored. However, we started for the docks by the nearest way; it was not far, but for all the hurry we made, a sober man could have crawled there on his hands and knees in the time we took. For none of the men were sober, and two or three tumbled down at every few steps. But we were out of the house, at least, and in due time we came to the black water, lapping at the sides of the moored ships, whose masts and rigging glimmered white like a snow-wreathed forest. The men were drawn up in close order beneath the wind-blown flicker of a lamp, and while Pomfrett and Dawkins mounted guard over them, Harry Winter was trotted off in the blinding snow to pick the schooner the _Willing Mind_ out of the maze of shipping. He might have groped till morning had it not been for Mr Murch’s habits of discipline, which kept a riding-light burning and a seaman on watch. So we got aboard, and roused the watch below; and Pomfrett took command in the potent name of Captain Murch; who, said he, having been detained by affairs, would pick up the ship from Portishead, at the mouth of the river, in the morning. The crew who were already aboard, had no reason for suspicion; and in a bitter bad temper they were driven aloft by Dawkins to unfurl the frozen sails.

Next, a pilot had to be found, to take the ship down the river; and Henry Winter must tramp on that errand also. There were pilots in plenty, lodging hard by; most of them were known to me, and a hard-bitten, hard-swearing set of autocrats they were. I had work enough to get the first man out of his bed to the window, and when he learned for what he was wanted he bade the messenger to warmer climes, and clapped-to the casement; the second did likewise; and the third yielded only to the exhibition of a double fee.

Day was breaking, in a leaden and bleak lightening of the sky, as I returned along the quays with the surly pilot at my heels. The snow had ceased; the chill wind, blowing dead up river, was crisping the grey water into little waves; the roofs of the houses and every rope and spar of the wilderness of shipping showed white upon the scowling heavens. Bulwarks were ridged with snow, ships’ sides were crusted with it to the overhang, snow powdered the still figure-heads, caked upon the carved work and lattices of the stern-galleries, and lay thick and level upon deck and hatchway. Here and there a ship’s lanthorn shone with a pallid gleam, a sign of life that set the point upon that scene of desolation. Only upon the little schooner, which carried the last forlorn hope of all our fortunes, were black figures clambering and busy, alow and aloft.

Brandon Pomfrett, captain once more, met us at the gangway and shook hands with the pilot, who rolled stolidly forward to his place. Pomfrett stayed but to hand me more money--more of Gamaliel’s usury, I suppose--and to bid me go directly back to my post, before he gave the order to cast off. So far, then, we had succeeded; Murch, for some inexplicable reason, had not appeared, and a part of the intolerable load under which we had been labouring was lifted.

But, as I entered a side street leading from the quay, I had near brushed against a big man, who stood in the shelter of a bow-window, gazing across the snowy breadth of the quay to where the _Willing Mind_ was shaking out her sails. I caught the gleam of a little eye beneath a tufted eyebrow, white as the snow that powdered the great figure from head to foot, a patch of bronzed skin netted with fine lines, the bridge of a big nose--there was no mistake. Murch neither spoke nor moved, and you may guess that Henry Winter had no desire to tarry. The recognition passed in a moment; the next, I was ploughing up the street as fast as I could walk, and wishing that a foolish scruple did not forbid a headlong flight. I glanced about as I turned the corner. The figure was gone.

Then, it came into my mind that Mr Murch had even more cogent reasons for avoiding our company than we had for avoiding his. We had but to tell our history to Pomfrett’s uncle, the great Brandon Pomfrett, and Mr Murch would be laid by the heels as a common pirate--for his device of changing the ship’s name and papers would never have availed him here--with a fair prospect of Execution Dock to occupy his mind in gaol; while Mr Pomfrett sent to rescue the _Blessed Endeavour_; and although Murch might suppose that Pomfrett the younger would hesitate to follow this direct course, out of regard to Morgan Leroux, he could not reckon upon the youngster’s forbearance; especially as it was undoubtedly the way Murch would himself have taken, in his adversary’s place. Murch was a man of remarkable penetration; but, he could never understand the solemn young agent’s boyish and romantic vanity. He could never have believed that Pomfrett would risk all on the least chance of getting back his ship by his private enterprise, sailing her triumphantly into Bristol docks, and walking into his uncle’s office with an elaborate affectation of unconcern. “Good-day, sir, I hope you are well. Yes, we fetched up this morning; a bit of dirt in the Channel, but nothing to speak of,” etc., etc. If I read Brandon Pomfrett the younger aright, he clung with all his might to the hope of some such ending of all his troubles.

Morgan Leroux was awaiting me, at the cheek of a brisk fire, with something hot on the hob. She was as grateful to me for bringing her the news of the sailing of the _Willing Mind_, as though I had brought the thing to pass by myself. But when I told her of the apparition of Mr Murch, quietly watching his own schooner cast off, she looked very grave. “I don’t like that,” said she, shaking her head, her level brows drawn down. “Mr Murch is never so dangerous as when he’s quiet. And he let them put off without lifting a finger? This wears an ill look, it does, indeed.”

She sat frowning at the fire and biting her underlip, while I set forth the reasons which should undoubtedly influence Mr Murch to keep himself very private.

“All very true, Harry,” says she, “but hardly sufficient. At the same time, I am sure Murch must have come too late to find them at Gamaliel’s house--and he might have seen them from outside, you know--for if he had, there would have been a fight. Oh, yes,” says Morgan, shaking her head, “Brandon and Dawkins and all--you don’t know Murch. He had the name of the strongest man in all the Brotherhood of the Sea, and brave as a lion. No, no. Murch must have missed the party at the tavern, learned all from Gamaliel, and gone straightway to the water-side. And then, I suppose, he did not care to tackle the ship’s company, or risk a great disturbance--and they might have thrown him into the dock. But I don’t know.... The more I think of Mr Murch standing there with his cloak about his face, the less I like it. He’s got something else in his mind. Something else. Now, what can it be?”

We learned, later, that Morgan’s hypothesis was correct. And what was in Mr Murch’s mind, as he stood there watching the _Willing Mind_ casting loose, we were to learn immediately. There came a loud ringing at the bell in the inn-yard, which was used to summon the ostler. The window of the room opened upon the yard, and, drawing aside the curtain, I beheld Mr Murch standing on the stones without. He was bawling for the ostler as though shouting on his quarterdeck in a gale of wind. When the man appeared, Murch ordered a horse to be saddled immediately. Hidden in the curtain, we watched Mr Murch pacing up and down the yard; saw the horse led forth, and Murch inspecting the animal minutely; saw him pay the ostler, mount, and clatter out of the yard; and turned to each other with the same thought in our faces, the same words on our lips.

“He’s riding down to Morte Bay.”

“Where’s the wind?” asks Morgan, quick as light.

“Dead ahead. The schooner must tack all down the Channel.”

“She won’t make four knots an hour.”

“And the distance is the same by sea and land.”

“If Murch gets there first----” Morgan broke off and stared at me in white dismay. “Harry,” says she, “you must follow him.”

XX

THE LONGEST LIVER TAKES ALL

There was no help for it. The poor, guileless clerk must take the road and chase the formidable old captain of buccaneers; and where was the use of such an enterprise, was more than he knew. But, as he may have indicated once or twice in the course of these memoirs, what Mistress Morgan Leroux commanded had to be done. Of course, if Mr Murch won this singular race, and came aboard his ship before Brandon Pomfrett in the _Willing Mind_ could make Morte Bay, our game was lost. Murch would fight the ship or sink her, rather than yield; a single lucky shot would disable the unarmed schooner, and her boats would be helpless under fire of small-arms. Moreover, in a place where none knew him, Mr Murch would have the civil power at his back; his papers were in order; to all appearance, the ship was his; he was the honest shipmaster, and Captain Pomfrett the picaroon. Pomfrett might sheer off, it is true, and invoke the law himself, or appeal for help to a ship of Her Majesty’s, if he could find one. But his chances of either succour on the desolate coast of North Devon were small; moreover, if he came within range of Mr Murch’s artillery, he was like to leave his bones in Morte Bay--a name in itself of unpleasant import--and, in Mr Murch’s favourite phrase, the longest liver would take all. Pomfrett might, again, return as a last resource to Bristol, if he found Mr Murch in possession, and contrived to escape from him. But, by the time he had made the voyage, and his uncle had taken measures to recover the _Blessed Endeavour_, it was hard but Mr Murch would have found a way to put to sea again; and, once on blue water, it was long odds, indeed, if any of our company ever again saw so much as the lift of his topsails. No: there was little room for doubt that the issue lay with the winner of the race between mounted man and sailing ship. But, even so, how was Henry Winter to help? He was no Milanion, goddess-favoured; he had no golden apples to strew in Mr Murch’s path. Indeed, ’tis doubtful if a whole orchard of such fruit would have given pause to this desperate Atalanta. Besides, Murch knew of my presence in Bristol, and he would be on his guard against any surprisal. Altogether, I had as lief give chase unarmed to a bear robbed of her whelps.

I should be better employed (I said) in laying the case before Mr Brandon Pomfrett the elder. It was hard if that magnate, with all Bristol city at his back, could not devise a scheme to reinforce his luckless nephew. But Morgan Leroux scorned the notion.

“What!” says she. “Go whining to that pot-bellied burgess, asking for help for his poor little nephew? I had thought better of your understanding, Henry. I thought you knew Brandon better than that!”

“I know him so well,” said I, “that I know he would forfeit all in the world rather than a scruple of childish vanity.”

Morgan struck her fist upon the table, and I was sorry I had spoken. “Vanity or not,” says she, very angry, “he’s set himself to play a match, and it’s not you shall spoil the sport, Mr Henry Winter, I can tell you. And vanity or none, there’s courage as well, at any rate. And that’s a quality useful at a pinch, Mr Winter,” says Morgan, with great meaning.

“You think I don’t want to go?” I said.

“La, Mr Winter,” Morgan interrupted, looking at me with a highly disagreeable expression, “you are so quick, you quite take my breath away. However could you guess that, now?”

“It’s kind of you, at any rate, to make the parting easier,” I said.

For I saw that I must go; although it did not stand in my code of honourable obligation to fling myself, without sufficient reason, adrift in mid-winter on the wild hills of Somerset and Devon, at the risk of being shot by a bloody and reckless pirate. But, after all, there was a faint possibility that I might prove of service; although, unless I shot Mr Murch from behind a hedge--which was unfortunately impossible, even for a gentleman of fortune--I could not for the life of me see what I should be doing.