Part 1
THE LAST BUCCANEER
The Last Buccaneer Or The Trustees of Mrs A
By L. Cope Cornford
_Author of “Northborough Cross,” “Captain Jacobus,” etc._
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Philadelphia J. B. Lippincott Company 1902
COPYRIGHT, 1902 BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
Published October, 1902
_Electrotyped and Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A._
TO RUDYARD KIPLING
CAPTAIN DAWKINS EXPLAINS
_Some plunder large, some pilfer small, Some takes it straight, some on the bend: The same remark doth fit ’em all-- Of buccaneering there’s no end._
I seen a man I much admired Ranging the seas of all the world, Intent to take what he required, Where’er the Bloody Flag’s unfurled. He’s laid East Indiamen aboard And King’s ships too, and--what seems odd-- From pillaging a fairy hoard He turned to fill his hold with cod.
He’s Admiral o’ Buccaneers, Chief o’ th’ trade that never slacks! And borrel men like we, I fears, May carry on till canvas cracks-- May steal the title--filch the stuff-- His tops’ls still is all we see: The fac’ is, we ain’t good enough. But there! You hearken unto me:--
_Let him that stole now steal no more_: That signal’s hoist in Holy Writ. Why, if you’ve wared your little store And so don’t need no more of it, You quit the trade--but not till then. Or, not until the Picaroon What only steals the life o’ men Beats up alongside, late or soon.
_Some plunder large, some pilfer small, Some takes it straight, some on the bend: The same remark doth fit ’em all-- Of buccaneering there’s no end._
CONTENTS
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CHAPTER PAGE
DEDICATION--CAPTAIN DAWKINS EXPLAINS 5
I. SHOWS HOW A SIMPLE BAIT WILL SERVE TO HOOK THE WILLING FISH 9
II. WE SET OUR HANDS TO A CHRISTIAN ENTERPRISE 26
III. IN WHICH THE “BLESSED ENDEAVOUR” IS DEPRIVED OF DIRECTION BOTH SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL 46
IV. A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION 63
V. MR MURCH’S REPENTANCE 77
VI. TWO CATSPAWS AND A LADY 94
VII. THE “WHEEL OF FORTUNE” MAKES A QUICK RUN 105
VIII. THE STORY OF THE INCOMPARABLE LADY AND THE ADMIRAL OF BUCCANEERS 124
IX. HOW THE SUPERCARGO ASSERTED HIS INDEPENDENCE 136
X. “DUX FEMINA FECIT” 152
XI. THE LITTLE CRUISE OF “LA MODESTE” 166
XII. THE OLD BUCCANEER AND THE NEW 183
XIII. SHOWING WHAT BEFELL IN CARATASCA 209
XIV. CAPTAIN MURCH TAKES COMMAND 221
XV. WHICH CONTAINS THE ONLY OSTENSIBLE LOVE-SCENE IN THE BOOK 234
XVI. MR DAWKINS GIVES US A LITTLE SURPRISE 238
XVII. THE LUCK IS FAIRLY OUT 250
XVIII. HOOKY GAMALIEL PAYS THE SCORE 260
XIX. TELLS THE CONCLUSION OF THE NIGHT’S ADVENTURES 276
XX. THE LONGEST LIVER TAKES ALL 289
XXI. MR DAWKINS HAS THE LAST WORD 310
THE LAST BUCCANEER
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I
SHOWS HOW A SIMPLE BAIT WILL SERVE TO HOOK THE WILLING FISH
One dark, moist winter afternoon, in the year of our Lord 1708, I chanced upon Brandon Pomfrett, as he was on his way to visit me. Brandon, who was my school-fellow, was now clerk in his uncle’s warehouse in Bristol. I was an humble schoolmaster in the same famous city; not discontented with my lot, and not contented, either. But Pomfrett chafed in his shackles; ’twas chiefly his dislike of tedium that drove him to seek my society--for want of a better--and that was presently to drive us both farther, perhaps, than we ever thought to go.
We turned down the narrow alley, with the ancient houses leaning foreheads across, that led to my lodging. A strong, hoarse voice arose out of the dusk, singing:
“All a-sailing to the stars, Ye gentlemen Jack-tars; We’ll meet again at Fiddler’s Green, All up among the stars,”
bellowed the voice, and a burly man, with something of a seafaring air about him, came rolling up the causeway. We drew aside to let him pass, but he halted abruptly in front of us.
“Asking your pardon, gentlemen,” says he, “but could you tell me if I was shaping my course anyways near right for the _Burning Bush_, kept by a man of the curi’s name of Gamaliel? Not,” said the stranger, “that I ain’t been here before, nor that I don’t know the course--but if a man’s liquor runs from his legs to his head, what’s that poor seaman to do? I reckon I could fetch him in time, but time is--well, now, shipmates, _you_ know what time is, no one better, by the looks of you,” ended the mariner, apparently with some obscure design of complimenting us. The stranger laying his thick, brown hand familiarly on Pomfrett’s arm as he spoke, we could not but remark a great ruby that glowed in a gold setting upon his little finger; a strange ornament for a merchant seaman.
“We’ll show you the way, sir,” says Pomfrett, whose curiosity was perhaps aroused by the sight of the ring.
Now, the _Burning Bush_ had an ill repute as a crimp’s ken; Gamaliel’s was no place for the reputable; and it behooves a schoolmaster to make at least a pretence of piety; wherefore I hung back.
“Oh, be hanged!” said Pomfrett. “I know Gamaliel--he does business at the warehouse. Come along.”
“Ay, ay,” the mariner broke in, “heave ahead, shipmate; never spoil a merry meeting; a tot of rum will set you as brisk as a bee. Why,” says he, “you and me and you--I should say him, but meaning polite--we three, I reckon, will be as thick as thieves before the night’s out. Crack on, shipmates, for the port o’ call.”
And, turning sharp to the left, down a narrow passage, we came to the _Burning Bush_, a low-browed tavern with small latticed windows, that gave no hint of the great extent of the rambling premises behind them, and entered the sanded parlour, where Mr John Gamaliel was standing with his back to a bright fire. A little, thin, eager man was John Gamaliel; his nose was hooked, his fingers crooked inward like a sailor’s (a sailor he had been), his body had a forward droop, like a fish-hook.
“What! Mr Pomfrett?” said Gamaliel. “And Mr Winter, our notable instructor of youth? And Mr Dawkins, too--I had no notion you were acquainted, gentlemen.”
“Well, we are, ye see, Hookey,” returned Mr Dawkins, “so set glasses round, and smart, my lad.”
“Why, now,” said Hookey Gamaliel, bustling with glasses and bottles, “here’s a singular coincidence--you’re dropping in like this, Mr Pomfrett, and very friendly too, for only this morning I was saying to Mr Dawkins here, I must pay a visit to your good uncle, Mr Pomfrett, to show him a little curiosity of the sea. It might be worth his while to look at it.”
At these words, Mr Dawkins fixed a sudden, frowning gaze upon the speaker, who returned his look with a steady composure. It was as though Mr Dawkins were making a strenuous attempt to clear the fumes of liquor from his head, in order to enter into the conversation.
“And very curiously, too,” the Jew went on, with his eyes still upon the face of Mr Dawkins, upon which a light of understanding was beginning to dawn, “the article in question is the property of my friend, Mr James Dawkins, here, who----”
“I take it that you mean the bottle, in this here palaver, Hookey,” broke in Mr Dawkins, still staring upon the Jew. “Is that it?”
“The bottle, to be sure, Mr Dawkins. According to what you said, you know,” returned Gamaliel, “or I wouldn’t have taken the liberty.”
“Ay, ay,” said Dawkins. “According to what I said. Which was,” says he, turning to Pomfrett, “that I hadn’t no objections to one or two respectable merchants of this here city seeing the thing, but I wouldn’t make it generally public--not generally--for reasons good. But you shall see for yourselves, gentlemen, and give me your opinion, if you’ll be so good.--Fetch aft the bottle, Hookey.”
Gamaliel lit a lamp, and for the first time we saw plainly what manner of man was our mariner. His little eyes gleamed under a penthouse brow, tufted with grey hair, from a broad face tanned mahogany-colour, his mouth very wide, shutting with a square jaw. He was dressed in a fine blue coat with brass buttons and a brocaded waistcoat. But, the buttons were tarnished, the clothes were soiled, and fitted him ill, folding in deep creases upon his massive figure, as though they had been made for another man. His great hands, tattooed and knotted and scarred, loosely clasped together upon the table before him, would alone have marked him for a sailor. But, what kind of a sailor? Mariners were plentiful in Bristol; we should know the marks of them by heart; but this gentleman had something in addition--some latent, yet unmistakable quality which we could not name. It was not only the strong impression he disengaged that Mr Dawkins, mariner, would be a dangerous man to anger; there was more than that. As his little eyes, deep-set in the shadow, caught a sparkle of the lamplight and gleamed at us, and his wide mouth curved in a smile, wrinkling his brown chin, we knew very well that there lurked a whole secret history, and a kind of menace, behind that crafty, good-humoured visage. Yet we were not daunted; rather, we were attracted by Mr Dawkins.
“You see,” said Gamaliel, going to a corner cupboard, “I am what I may term a confidential agent in such little matters; this same curiosity being of some value, why, Mr Dawkins gives it to me to take care of when ashore. The beach is a more dangerous place to seamen, Mr Pomfrett, if you’ll believe me, than----”
“Here, stow that, Hookey,” interrupted Mr Dawkins. “Your tongue’s too long by half, my lad. Let’s see the booty.”
Gamaliel placed on the table a round-bellied Dutch flask, the mouth tied over with canvas. Inside was a brown and crumpled scrap of paper. Mr Dawkins cut the string with a clasp-knife, which he stuck beside him in the board, shook out the paper, spread it flat on the table, and bent over it with an eager attention.
“Well, now,” remarked Gamaliel, “a person might think as you’d never seen that curiosity afore, to look at you, and you bringing it thousands of leagues across the sea in your own chest.”
Dawkins, unheeding, continued to study the paper. “That’s it, sure enough,” said he, presently. “Here you are, sirs--a ven’rable relic of good old days.” He pushed the paper across the table. This is what we read:
“Capt. Grammont to Capt. de Graaf. “COZUMEL IS. August 7, 1686.
“Wee having taken the towne of Merida neare Campeachy and got much booty the barke being overladen burried silver pigges and the rest of the plate 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. You shall know the place by the felled tree bridging the stream above itt between two groves of acajou trees a cross-cut on two or three. Wee purpose to go to Tortuga there to meet you if God will.”
This singular communication ended with a totally illegible signature and a flourish in another hand.
“Where did you find this?” demanded Pomfrett.
“Where but on the island--island of--the island, as I were saying,” replied Mr Dawkins, with an uneasy glance at Gamaliel, whose watchful countenance turned from one to the other as the conversation went on. “Me and two more, what’s dead now, we found it, a-coming ashore for wood and water for Her Majesty’s ship _Ranger_. And so it happened,” he ended, abruptly.
“But I don’t understand. Why, the date’s 1686--twenty-two years ago. And who were Captain Grammont and Captain de Graaf? Spin the yarn, man,” cried the impatient Pomfrett.
“The captains was buccaneers both, I reckon,” returned Dawkins, with more assurance. “And we come ashore, all as I was saying, for”--with deliberation--“to wood and to water--Her--Majesty’s ship--_Ranger_. Me and a man called Ratsey, and another called Magnes. Both dead, now. And cruising about the island, if you understand, we comes upon one of them big crosses as the old buccaneers used to set up at a place of rendezvous, when they wished for to leave instructions to a sister ship, or what not. A spar and a yard lashed cross-wise, if you understand; and you march ten paces north and then you dig, and there’s the bottle. Ain’t that so, Hookey?”
Gamaliel nodded. “Well,” continued the adventurer, somewhat confirmed in his assurance, “we, happening to have heard of the custom, did so. And there’s the bottle. Stab me dead where I sit, if that ain’t the bottle.”
“And where was this, did you say?” Pomfrett was quite eager by this time.
“On the island--port of call for buccaneers, I reckon.”
“Yes, but _what_ island?”
“Don’t it say?” demanded Mr Dawkins, irritably. “There, on the paper, where you’re a-looking?”
“Oh!--Cozumel Island,” said Pomfrett, referring to the script.
“That’s it--Cozumel. A man,” said Mr Dawkins, with a defiant glance at Gamaliel, “cannot carry in his head all the names of all the islands in the South Seas, which is thick as peas with ’em. Ain’t that so, Hookey?”
“To be sure,” assented Gamaliel, smoothly.
“And when did you find this, Mr Dawkins?”
Dawkins looked at Gamaliel.
“A matter of a year ago, wasn’t it?” said Gamaliel.
“Sure enough,” said Dawkins. “That were it--a year ago.”
“Why did you leave the _Ranger_?” I asked; for, at this time, when England was at war with both France and Spain, men were scarce aboard ships-of-war, and not lightly let go.
“She paid off in Jamaica,” answered Dawkins. “And I come home in the _Gentle Susan_, merchant ship. The other two, Ratsey and Magnes, as I was speaking of, they died on the v’yage.”
“Now, perhaps you can guess, Mr Pomfrett,” Gamaliel cut in, “why I was anxious to show this singular find to your good uncle. We all know there’s treasure scattered up and down the South American coasts--well, it seemed to me, here was a rare chance to pick some up. And why not your uncle, as well as another? Nothing in it, perhaps, but still, a chance. What do you think, Mr Pomfrett?”
“I should think that after twenty-two years there’d be mighty little left.”
Mr Gamaliel appeared to consider this proposition as something strikingly novel. “Dear me,” said he. “Well, I expect you’re right, sir. But I’ve been thinking over the matter and putting two and two together, as you may say, until I half thought there might be something in it after all. Captain Grammont and Captain de Graaf was brother-buccaneers--blood-brothers sworn. That’s history. Now, after taking Campeachy in Yucatan together, in 1686--same date, see you, as the writing--Grammont put to sea and never came back any more. And somewhere about that time, Captain de Graaf entered the service of the French government and helped to put down piracy--and none better for the job, I should reckon. That’s history, too. Well, I take it that after Grammont took Merida, as the writing says, and left that there message for de Graaf, he was cast away with all hands. For it’s history, likewise, that he was never heard of any more. He didn’t know, you see, when he wrote that letter, as how de Graaf had turned his coat. Which was why de Graaf never fetched up at the port o’ call on Cozumel Island, and so never got the letter. Consequently----” He paused. Dawkins was regarding him, I thought, with a certain admiration.
“You mean,” said Pomfrett, “that the silver’s there now?”
“I put it to you, is it likely to be found without the clue? I’ll wager a piece of eight to a penny it wouldn’t,” returned Gamaliel.
“Spoken like a printed book, Hookey, strike me dumb if it ain’t,” observed Mr Dawkins. “That’s the way of it, sure enough. The plunder’s there, I’ll warrant. On’y, where’s the ship to carry it away?”
“The ship? Ah, well, that’s another p’int altogether,” said Hookey Gamaliel, with a cunning grin. “At any rate, Mr Pomfrett, you’ll have something to tell your uncle. A little story and a relic of the old buccaneers, no less. ’Tis singular how things do fall out; but when a man’s been down to the sea in ships, as I have, why, he ceases to marvel at anything. There’s wondrous things in the deep.”
He was running on with his glib Jew’s tongue, when Pomfrett rose to go.
“A little sitting at the feet of Gamaliel is enough,” said he, when we were out in the foggy dark of the alley. “What a yarn, eh? Do you believe it? I’ve half a mind to. There’s something queer about Mr Dawkins; do you think he’s a pirate himself? I tell you what, come round to the back, and we’ll have another look at ’em without their knowing.”
Pomfrett was better acquainted with the byways of Bristol than I, who was born there. We plunged into the black alley that led behind the _Burning Bush_. It branched left and right, covert for the hunted of the press-gang. Into the tavern by the back door we crept, and into a side room to the right hand. A tall press and a scrutoire were dimly discernible; it was here, apparently, that Gamaliel sat at his accounts, with an eye upon his customers, for a breast-high partition separated the chamber from the front room we had just quitted. Red curtains were drawn between the ledge of the bulkhead and the ceiling, and we spied upon the pair through a rift in the drapery.
“No prey, no pay. Keep to the rules, you crimping swab.” Mr Dawkins filled the room with his bellowing.
“As you please, Jemmy,” returned Gamaliel’s reedy voice. “I know the rules as well as you, I reckon. You get no more, without you pay for what you got--nor you don’t get that, neither.”
“Now, I ask you fair and candid,” grumbled Dawkins, “have I got a guinea piece in the wide world? You know better than that, Hookey. Here! Hands off that bottle!”
Dawkins jumped to his feet, leaning forward upon the table, his open knife poised on his lifted palm, as Gamaliel caught up the bottle, replaced it swiftly in the cupboard, and turned the key.
“Put down that knife, Jemmy,” said Gamaliel, composedly. “No good ever come of quarrelling among shipmates. Come! Take another glass, and we’ll talk it over comfortable and polite, as gentlemen should.”
He poured out a tot of rum, and Mr Dawkins, with a very ugly look, sat down again.
“I’ve no objections to a amicable conference, not I,” said Dawkins. “But stakes on the table, I say.”
“Why, of course,” said Gamaliel. “Put down your pretty ring, then, and I put down the bottle.”
“You don’t want much, do you?” said Dawkins. Nevertheless, he moistened his finger and pulled off his ring.
It shone and winked like a star upon the rough board, a great ruby set in brilliants. Gamaliel set the bottle beside it.
“Now,” said Dawkins, “put a price on what you done, Hookey.”
“Oh, well, we shan’t quarrel over the price,” said Gamaliel, amiably. “We haven’t come to the dividend yet. Say a hundred pieces of eight, and I hold the ring as bond.”
“Why, you shark, the ring’s worth five times that,” cried Dawkins. “And I wouldn’t sell it, neither.”
“It’s only security, Jemmy--only a matter of form,” said the Jew.
“Well, you give me a receipt, and I hold the bottle,” said Dawkins.
“And mighty little use to you, by what I heard to-night,” returned Gamaliel. “But please yourself, Jemmy. I reckon you’ll do better next time.”
“All’s one for that,” said Dawkins. “Agreed. I take the bottle.”
He laid a hand on the bottle, and Gamaliel reached for the ring. But Dawkins was too quick for him. He snatched up the ring, clapped it into his mouth, and sprang back, his knife shining in his hand.
“Now stand quiet, Hookey,” said he, stowing the bottle inside his vest. “I could wipe the floor with two such as you, and never sweat over it. What! You wouldn’t take the word of a gentleman o’ fortune, wouldn’t you? And a Jew, too, was it! Mother of Moses! Well, now you got to, d’ye see? A hundred pieces of eight, was it?--how cheap you work, Hookey, to be sure.”
He made towards the door, and we crept out of the house, and winding in and out the net-work of alleys, we gained my lodging.
II
WE SET OUR HANDS TO A CHRISTIAN ENTERPRISE
Brandon Pomfrett and I discussed the story of the bottle; it seemed improbable enough; yet the letter of the old pirate captains ran in our minds like a song. I had read the history of the old buccaneers, as recounted by Mr John Esquemeling, the Dutchman, and translated into French and English--each translator causing the heroes of his own nationality to shine predominant over the others--and there was nothing in the records to contradict the sailor’s account. True, it seemed unlikely that the signal cross should remain unremarked for more than twenty years on a coast infested by pirates; but, on the vast and wild shores of Yucatan, the thing was still possible. Brandon swore he would persuade his uncle, the wealthy Brandon Pomfrett, of Bristol, to fit out a privateer, and send him in her to lift the treasure. The nephew had constantly urged the uncle to invest money in the privateering business, which, in those days, was no uncommon speculation; but Uncle Brandon had as constantly refused. The enterprise, said he, was too full of risk; there was no security; and, whereas you might fall across the right sort of merchant bottoms, conversely, you might not; while Frenchman or Spaniard might sink you in the deep sea, or a storm might cast you away. But now, argued Brandon the younger, whose one desire was to escape from his desk, there was something definite to put before the old man; the thing was as safe as going to church; out you went, dug up the silver, and brought it home, picking up any little ships that Providence might think fit to leave in your way. So Brandon, bubbling with expectation, went to tackle his uncle.
It was about a week later that one of those days befell when the schoolmaster flags at his post and the scholars seem possessed of the devil. He wrestles in vain; virtue, for the time, has gone out of him; he knows it, and the boys know it; and all is a steaming welter of cries, tears, gleeful disorder, and ineffectual onslaughts. Suddenly came an ominous hush; every eye was turned upon a burly figure, who stood by the door, hat in hand, surveying the youngsters with an amiable grin. It was Dawkins.
“Master Winter,” says he, in his thundering voice, with a salute, “they told me you was here, and I made so bold as to invade the sanctuary of learning, as you may say. I have the honour to bring you a letter, sir, from Mr Brandon Pomfrett.”
He rolled across the floor, in the dead silence, and handed me a packet.
“Now, if you’ll be so good as to read that there despatch, Master Winter, for I’ve promised to carry the answer to Mr Pomfrett, I’ll take command of the ship in the meanwhile, so’s you can fix your mind on the business, clear and easy.”