Part 13

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.