Part 14

“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.

“Do you think I would not go myself, if I had not promised to stay here?” demanded Morgan.

“God forbid!” I said. “Only absolve me of the same promise, and you shall be rid of me at once!”

“Bless you, Harry, I don’t want to be rid of you!” cried this singular lady, changing from wrath to kindness in a moment. “I’m short of temper, I know. You must forget what I said. Only it went to my heart to see you stand there prating like a sea-lawyer, and Murch doing his eight knots over the hills.”

The sun was rising behind Dundry Hill, with the old tower a-top that keeps vigil over Bristol city, as horse and man ploughed through the melting snow; the sky was clearing to seaward, and a space of blue was lifting about the horizon. Murch was out of sight, and the schooner was hidden in the deep gorge of the river behind me. No more solitary atom in all the bleak world than Henry Winter, riding on a fool’s errand, to meet a fool’s end very likely. In the thawing drift and the deep mire the going was very heavy; at present the odds were in favour of the ship, despite the contrary wind. It was noon before a black spot appeared far in front, crawling up the hillside all ribbed with brown amid the white.

We were climbing the spurs of the Mendips by this time; and when the road began to descend on the farther side into the flat country of the Brent Marshes, I let Mr Murch forge still further ahead. At Weare, where one crosses the River Ax, I learned from the people of the ale-house that a solitary traveller had passed an hour since. We had covered some twenty miles in five or six hours. I could not tell how the schooner did, for the road lay too deep inland. But all across the marshes the road slants towards the coast, and the sea rose again into view upon the right hand. The dim, blue plain was studded here and there with sails, but whether the schooner were in sight or not I could not determine. Then the road turned due south to Bridgwater. The dusk was thickening fast, and horse and man were pretty well jaded when we clattered into the little town. The red firelight beaconed from the windows, and I had more urgent desire for a bed than ever in my life. But there was no rest for this miserable adventurer. He must press on, and when he could bear the saddle-chafe no longer, he must even pad the hoof himself. The horse was near foundered already, and when I made request at the inn for a fresh mount, behold, Mr Murch, for no doubt but it was he, had already departed astride the only nag available. I stayed in that house an hour, had a meal while the horse was baiting, gave the wretched beast a drench of wine after the manner of the highwaymen, and started anew.

The next stage was Watchett, and with good luck we might make it in three hours. You are to remember that no man fresh from the sea feels easy on a horse, though he be an experienced rider, which I never was; conceive, then, the misery of Henry Winter. The saddle was no better than red-hot iron to him, every bone ached, and he had a dreadful pain in his belly. As the darkness gathered, a thick, soft rain began to fall. The horse stumbled and plashed and floundered onward, now and again coming to a dead stop, hanging his head and blowing heavily. Every minute the rider thought he could endure no longer, and then he would try for one more minute; and so, minute by minute, the pain and weariness wore themselves into a kind of nexus of suffering, a dolorous condition in which he seemed to have existed always, and which would endure for ever. Then he fell into a broken sleep, bowing forward with both hands clasping the pommel of the saddle; and he thought he was at sea again and had fallen asleep on watch; and then he thought he was a child, going to church with the sound of the bells in his ears, the tedious Sunday bells; and then he would awake again to see the moon shining from a rift in the clouds and a humped shadow gliding beside him. At these times I had wit enough to take an observation of the stars; and so it was, I suppose, that I kept the road, travelling at the foot of the Quantocks, and passed between the butt of the hills and the sea, and came to Watchett.

It was midnight then, and not a light shone in any window, save one; and, steering for that, I came to the inn of the place. I slid off and fell down in a heap, and staggered up, and into the tavern; and there, beside a great fire, with a bottle at his elbow, sat Mr Murch. I had forgot Mr Murch. There he was, and I suppose I stood staring at him like a ninny. Murch looked up, took his cigarro from his mouth, and surveyed me in silence.

“What, Mr Winter?” says Murch. “This is indeed an unexpected meeting. Why, I thought I saw you no later than this morning, but my eyes are older than they were, and I believed they had deceived me. Well, and how do you do, sir?”

He held out his hand, and what could I do but take it? He ordered supper for me, and mulled wine, and what could I do but accept his hospitality? I have often asked myself these questions; and although my conduct may have presented a lamentable weakness, I have never repented it. Mr Murch plied me with food and wine, using the most dignified courtesy; when I had well eaten and drunk, he offered me a cigarro; and still he talked of the weather, and the state of the roads, and the prospects of the country, and what else I forget, but never a word of nearer import. And so long as he chose to maintain reserve, I was in no mood to break it.

“I am truly sorry, Mr Winter,” says Murch, at length, “that I cannot ask you to be my guest for the night. But the truth is, I have affairs of some urgency that call me farther, and I must be jogging even now.”

“The regret would be mine,” I said, “were it not, by a singular chance, that I must be going forward likewise.”

“Dear me!” cried Murch. “And which way lies your road, sir?”

“Along the coast, all down into Devon. And which way lies yours, sir?”

“Why, the very same,” says Murch, heartily. “But what an extraordinary chance, as you say, Mr Winter, that has brought us together from the ends of the earth. We are to be fellow-travellers, again, it seems. What do you say? Shall we be jogging?”

“With all my heart,” I said.