Part 2

He picked up a battered college-cap from the floor where some rascal had flung it, and set it askew on his huge, grizzled head. The boys broke into a shout of laughter. Dawkins stepped up into the master’s desk and rapped it smartly with the cane.

“Si-lence in the ranks!” he roared. You might have heard him at the docks. He stood leaning forward, his hands on the desk, glaring upon them. They subsided on the instant, for the first time that day.

“Now,” said Mr Dawkins, standing upright. “Pay attention! Come! You done a gross dereliction of duty, but perhaps you don’t know that you done it. I’ll give you a chance. What’s the word when the captain steps on the quarterdeck? Not a answer? Well, I’ll tell you, this once. Stand to attention!” he bellowed. “Stand up!”

The roomful of bewildered youngsters stood up.

“Silence!” Mr Dawkins, with a formidable frown and shake of the head, stepped down from the master’s desk, and began to pace the floor in front of the attentive ranks, his big, tattooed hands thrust into his waistcoat pockets. What, I thought, if one of the school guardians were to come in, to find this outrageous mariner stalking to and fro, a broken mortar-board over one eye, my cane stuck under his arm, and Mr Henry Winter standing by, helpless?

To make an end of this silly business, I broke open the packet, which contained a letter from Brandon Pomfrett. “Glory be to God, my uncle hath consented!” he wrote. “Come to see him at once. As for your schoolmastering, fling it over the hedge. I have something better for you safe in hand.”

I scarce hesitated an instant. “Mr Dawkins,” I began. He turned short upon me.

“How now, shipmate?”

There was a laugh at the back of the room, checked as Dawkins faced about.

“Who laughed there?” he thundered. “What! Can’t two gentlemen talk on the quarterdeck, without disturbance by a mess of tallow-faced young swabtails like you! Let me see a smile, and I’ll cut a smile on that boy that’ll last a month!”

Shaking his head and grumbling, Dawkins turned again to me.

“I will come,” said I. “Tell Mr Pomfrett I will come!”

“And that’s good news, too, I’ll warrant,” cried Dawkins. “Why, we shall be shipmates yet, I’ll lay a dollar. Both masters, we are, too, and there’s a curi’s thing to reflect upon,--sailing-master and schoolmaster. We shall be a pair of brothers, I reckon, in less than no time. Now,” said Mr Dawkins, facing the boys with a formidable visage, “as to this here crew of yours, master. Would you consider it wisdom to flog the lot? Or would you, otherwise, consider a spree ashore, and a scramble for silver money”--he jingled the coins in his pockets, frowning horribly--“as doing good, in a general way of speaking?”

“Dismiss, boys. And a holiday to-morrow.”

Dawkins flung his college-cap to the ceiling, and the cane after it, and led the cheering. They crowded about him; and with a little boy astride of his shoulders, a big boy dragging at either sleeve, the whole crowd poured forth into the playground, where Dawkins began to toss coins among them by handfuls. The worthy mariner had found means to replenish his purse, it seemed, since last we met.

Upon the following evening I was seated at dinner with Mr Brandon Pomfrett, his nephew, and his sister Deborah. Pomfrett the elder was a square, stern old gentleman of sixty, with prominent nose and chin. His little grey eyes looked directly at you; his wide, thin lips never relaxed. A man, you would say, upright, dogmatic, severely kind, and pretty dull company withal. His sister Deborah was a straight-backed widow lady, with beautiful white hair. In her first youth she had espoused a wealthy old Greek, Constantine Adrianopoulo by name, who did not long survive the ordeal. You cannot go about saying Adrianopoulo; and the Greek’s respectable relict was never known otherwise than as Mrs A. With Brandon Pomfrett the elder I could converse, for a short time, with comparative comfort. But Mrs A. was extraordinarily repellent. She had the sallow skin that goes with dark eyes, high cheek-bones, and a club-nose; she spoke very gently; she was scrupulously courteous, rigidly pious, fervently Protestant; she gave much labour and money to the poor; and still contrived to infuse into all she said and did a spice of malice, an after-taste of venom. As for Brandon the younger, he hated his aunt. Between these portentous elders sat their nephew, with his amiable fair face and big blue eyes. His parents were dead; his Uncle Brandon had thought it his duty to adopt the boy, and, accordingly, he adopted him. Had his duty told him, instead, to drown young Pomfrett like a kitten, it is probable that he would have arranged the stone about his neck with precisely the same emotions, neither more nor less.

“Well, Mr Winter,” said Mr Pomfrett, with his wooden geniality, which suggested that Mr Pomfrett had said to himself, once for all, There are times when it is my duty to be genial, and I will, “I have, as I daresay Brandon has told you, agreed to accede to his wishes, and to send him to sea.”

“It is always a good thing, do you not think so, Mr Winter, to give a young man a fresh opportunity,” said Mrs A. “A change may work wonders.”

“So, sir,” Mr Pomfrett went on, “my nephew goes as owners’ agent in a privateer we are fitting out for the South Seas. To be more precise, Mrs A. is fitting out the bark. I shall put in but little of my own. And although there are a few other merchants interested in the venture, their shares are but small. The enterprise is really Mrs A.’s.”

“It is the bounden duty of a professing Christian--provided that God has blessed him with the means--to come to the help of his country, and especially of the Protestant Church, at such a time as this,” observed Mrs A., firmly.

I learned, afterwards, that Uncle Brandon had counselled his sister not to risk her money; but the old lady was greedy of riches, and obstinate as flint. She had taken a whim to pick up that silver--there was an end of discussion.

“Brandon, you see, Mr Winter, is become, virtually, his aunt’s trustee,” observed Mr Pomfrett. He had a way of enunciating the most commonplace sentiment with a sort of unctuous relish, which might have been pardoned him if he were ever witty. “Yes,” said Mr Pomfrett. “Yes. Trustee of Mrs A.”

“’Tis not the money,” said Mrs A., “but the idea; and that is a great trust for a young man.”

All this solemn talk was but leading up to the reason why I had been called into conference, which was, to offer me the berth of assistant, or clerk, to the owners’ agent. I fancy that Brandon had made me out to be his mentor, his unshaken pillar of morality. At all events, he was to be the first trustee; and Harry Winter, it appeared, was the second. I took the night to consider the matter. No need to tell of my doubts and hesitations--I accepted the berth. Books, I thought then--as, indeed, I think now--make the best half of life; nevertheless, a man should acquaint himself with the other. And the next day the agent and his clerk attended the meeting of the owners and officers of the enterprise.

In the high, sombre hall of the Guild to which Mr Pomfrett belonged we sat about a long table, covered with a dark-blue cloth, and set with pens, ink, paper, and sand. Mr Pomfrett sat in the great carved chair at the head of the table; Mrs A. sat next her brother, her negro boy, a silver collar about his neck, standing behind her; and a dozen or so of Bristol merchants were ranged on either side of the table. Below them were the captain and officers of the _Blessed Endeavour_. And among these was Mr Dawkins.

We were met together to draw up the Articles of Agreement. As soon as the company was assembled, Mr Pomfrett arose from his chair, and everyone disposed themselves to listen. There was a short pause. The yellow light, filtering through the small-paned windows, duskily illumined the neat powdered heads of the audience, all turned one way, and threw into strong relief the speaker’s rugged features. Mrs A.’s bony face, with the cavernous eyes, looked like the face of a corpse. From the deep shadow of the panelled walls dim old portraits of dead merchants contemplated their successors, playing the same game as themselves had fattened on.

“Is he going to open with a prayer?”

Brandon looked at me as though I had whispered blasphemy. There was nothing of levity about the owners’ agent.

“My friends,” began Mr Pomfrett, skilfully compromising between “Gentlemen,” a form of address which would have slighted Mrs A., and “Ladies and gentlemen,” which was inadmissible, since there was but one lady there, “my friends, it cannot but be a satisfaction to your minds, as it is to my own, to reflect upon the change--the great change--which has of late years passed upon the nature of such an enterprise as that which we are met together to inaugurate to-day. Before the Peace of Ryswick was concluded in the year of our Lord 1697, there was a singular and lamentable lack of distinction between privateering, which may be described as a legitimate form of trading under the conditions of necessity imposed by warfare, and buccaneering, or piracy, a brutal, detestable, and unlawful mode of aggrandisement practised by private persons. Doubtless the French, who were then leagued with us against the Spaniard, did very much to lead our English captains astray in the matter.” A murmur of applause, in which the voice of Mrs A. was fiercely audible. “Be that as it may, with the spread of true religion, and with the Frenchman as enemy instead of ally, a happier and more righteous state of things has come about. The privateer goes forth, with the sanction and under the approval of the crown, to repair, by her private exertions, those ravages inflicted by the papist on the commerce of this country. Though she goes armed, she goes not to shed blood. She does but go, sword in hand, to redress the balance of--the balance,” said the orator, after a moment’s consideration, “of the world’s justice.” More applause. “The taxes,” continued Mr Pomfrett, with some approach to animation, “imposed upon us in war-time are little short of ruinous. What is our remedy? It is an old maxim of economy to pay your expenses out of the enemy’s coffers. This, then, is the business of the privateer. She is to capture the merchant bottoms of the enemy, and to appropriate the cargo, and, if advisable, the ship. The crew and passengers are left unharmed.”

Here an old gentleman with a fat white face was understood to enquire, what happened if the enemy’s ship would not yield without fighting?

“In that case,” replied Mr Pomfrett, “force must be used. Any bloodshed that may occur is not to be taken as the fault of the assailant. But I believe the case is rare.”

“Sir,” said the old gentleman, “I rejoice to hear it.” He leaned back in his chair and stared fixedly at me, as if challenging me to find another meaning in his words. I glanced at Dawkins. That astute mariner sat with his hands folded on the table and his eyes cast down.

“I understand, sir,” said a very tall, stooping man, with a hanging underlip, “that the prisoners of the captured vessel are sometimes turned adrift. I would ask, sir, what becomes of these persons, who are perhaps far out at sea and deprived of victuals.”

“I refer you, sir, to Captain Shargeloes,” returned Mr Pomfrett. “He has sailed on the private account, and has experience.”

The captain, a lean, loose-jointed, swarthy man, with a lively dark eye, seemed a trifle embarrassed by the question; but it may have been that he was not a ready speaker. “How should I know, sir?” said he. “Becomes of them? I never saw what became of them. I never took it I had any concern with that--eh? They have their victuals--ship’s victuals, biscuit, fish--unless we happen--eh? to want them ourselves. Becomes? They go home, or they go to the bottom.”

There was a short silence. Mrs A. whispered something to her brother.

“I have to remind the company,” said Mr Pomfrett, aloud, “that we are dealing with papists--the worst foes of mankind. In setting them, if captured, adrift, we deliver them into the hands of the Almighty, to whom vengeance belongs. Every ship taken is thus a service done to the cause of true religion.”

“Speaking of religion, I would ask,” said a merchant with a purple nose, in a rich, thick voice, “is there a chaplain appointed?”

“A chaplain will be appointed, if a suitable clergyman can be found,” said Mr Pomfrett. “In any case, morning and evening prayer will be conducted on board.”

These important preliminaries concluded, we settled to discuss the constitution of the council for directing the affairs of the _Blessed Endeavour_. Briefly, the chief officers formed the council, with the captain as president, with casting vote, “to determine all matters and things whatsoever that may arise, or be necessary for the general good, during the whole voyage.” The constitution, framed on the customary lines, was speedily agreed to and signed by every shareholder in the venture. The names of the chief officers were then read out: John Shargeloes, captain; Brandon Pomfrett, Jr., owners’ agent; Henry Winter, his assistant; William Dawkins, master and pilot, being well acquainted with the South Seas. There were also a quartermaster, a chief mate and second mate, coxswain of the pinnace, gunner and eight men, called the gunner’s crew; carpenter, boatswain and his mate, cooper and his assistant, ship’s steward, sailmaker, smith and armourer, ship’s corporal, officer’s cook, and ship’s cook. All these, besides their salaries, had a right to certain shares, _pro rata_, in all plunder. Each man of the crew also had his proper share, with shares for disablement. In case of death, the dead man’s share went to his next of kin. A Book of Plunder was to be kept by the owners’ agent, and attested by the ship’s officers. Here it is necessary to distinguish. Technically speaking, the owners had no part in plunder, as such. Certain things were classed as plunder; these were divided among the ship’s company according to the proportion agreed upon. All the rest belonged to the owners absolutely. For example, bedding, clothes, gold rings, buckles, buttons, liquors, provisions, arms, ammunition, watches, wrought silver or gold crucifixes, prisoners’ movables generally, and wearing apparel were plunder; whereas, money, women’s ear-rings, loose diamonds, pearls and precious stones, bar gold or silver, called plate, were not plunder, but belonged to the owners. The regulations regarding plunder, with the penalties for concealment, were drawn up in an agreement, and signed by all the officers in council, on board the _Blessed Endeavour_. I make mention of the matter in this place for the sake of convenience. The definition of what was and what was not plunder was embodied in the officers’ agreement with the owners. As for the owners’ individual profits, they were, of course, determined by the proportion originally invested by each in the ship. By all accounts, Mrs A. stood to make a fortune.

When the signatures were affixed to the documents, Mr Pomfrett arose once more.

“My friends,” said he, “our business is now concluded. Speaking for the owners, I would say that they have willingly confided a considerable trust to the officers of the _Blessed Endeavour_, knowing that their office will be faithfully and truly discharged in all matters and things whatsoever. The enterprise is long and remote, and not devoid of danger; but you have a stout ship, well furnished with arms, both small and great, and well victualled. Captain Shargeloes is known to all of us as a competent and zealous officer. Mr Dawkins, master and pilot, has been twice round the world, and is well acquainted with the South Seas. It is to this gentleman, as I need hardly remind you, that we owe the news of the whereabouts of a large quantity of plate, whose acquisition is a main object of the voyage, and which takes off somewhat from the speculative character customable to such enterprises. It may be that the plate cannot be found--perhaps some voyager more fortunate than ourselves has already visited the spot. The matter is uncertain--to that we must make up our minds. But this is a world of uncertainty. Who knows,” said the orator, propounding the suggestion with his usual relish, as of one whose inner light burns uncommonly clear--“who knows how many of the owners, though we live peaceably at home, will meet around this board to welcome the officers of the _Blessed Endeavour_ upon her return? These things are in the hand of the Almighty. To Him, officers of the _Blessed Endeavour_, we commend you.”

Captain Shargeloes stood up to reply. It was presently borne in upon my reluctant mind that the captain was somewhat in liquor. But it may have been, as I said before, that he was merely unready of speech. The captain was understood to remark that, in his experience, all things went very well, provided there were no mutiny. Mutiny. Mutiny, he felt bound to warn his owners, was the sunken rock which could not be avoided. There was a plot--you knew nothing of it--how could you know?--until the mine was sprung. Then, it was too late. The captain begged the owners to bear in mind that he could not be held responsible for plots; adding, with some obscurity, that he could always feel them in the air. I gathered that Captain Shargeloes had been peculiarly subject to plots (he spoke as though they were an illness) in his life. Not, he explained, that he expected a plot on this voyage--far from it; only, he thought it his duty to set plainly before the owners what, in his judgment, was the chief danger of the sea.

The company dispersing, some of us went down to the docks to look at our ship. The _Blessed Endeavour_ lay at the wharf-side, amid a wilderness of shipping; a brigantine of two hundred and sixty tons burthen, carrying eighteen guns and two pateraroes, or mortars. Her complement was some ninety men, all told. The shipwrights had ceased work, and the _Blessed Endeavour_ lay solitary, her decks littered with lumber, her yards swung all ways, her top-masts printed black upon the sky, where the fires of sunset were dying down. A lady of opulent figure was our brigantine, breasting the water like a swan, the long sweep of her sides scrolling up to the carved work of the taffrail, and the slanting windows and balustrades of the quarter-gallery. The glass of the windows shone like jewels in the coloured lights of the sky and the water, while spars and ropes and the swelling mass of the hull were black as ebony.

So it was that I saw for the first time the ship that was to chariot our fortunes. She lay there, very still in the thickening twilight, yet every leaping line of her was eloquent of strenuous action, of free movement upon great spaces. Here was no thing of rest, but a creature the nearest life man ever made--the life of wave and wind and star.

“And all along of an empty gin-bottle,” said a reedy voice, and there was John Gamaliel, drooping and smirking. “Wonderful how things come about, to be sure! But didn’t I say, now, as something might come of it? Why, Mr Dawkins has got his ship, so he has.”

III

IN WHICH THE _BLESSED ENDEAVOUR_ IS DEPRIVED OF DIRECTION BOTH SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL

There was no doubt that John Gamaliel had his profit out of the business. As Pomfrett’s assistant, the indents for stores and victuals passed through my hands; and Gamaliel’s signature became pretty familiar to me. The Jew, it presently appeared, supplied the most of the crew as well as the provisions. Tinkers, vagabonds, strolling fiddlers, country loobies, out-at-elbows clerks, negroes, and salted mariners: of such are the crews of ships; and all these did Gamaliel produce in due season. Going to and fro in Bristol, as I must in the first weeks of preparation, the Jew often accompanied me, beguiling me with endless stories of deep-sea voyagings. He told of the illimitable spaces of the sea, of a solitude inconceivable to the landsman, where the ship steals onward, day by day, for many weeks, until the faces of all on board are changed; “for they know,” said the Jew, “they are strangers in the secret places of the Almighty;” of the fated man in the ship’s company, the Jonah who brings bad luck, and who must be flung overboard, sooner or later; of the danger of having a clergyman aboard, for “God is jealous, he will have no priests on His sea;” of water-snakes, and sea-cows, and cannibal savages; of the casting away of vessels, beaten out of sight with a single wave, flung upon lee-shores, foundering on hidden rocks; of crews dying of thirst and scurvy, and eaten alive of worms; of derelict barks floating in mid-ocean, furnished with good water and provisions, and never a soul on board. He spoke with a kind of serious wonder, like a child; and I had to keep saying to myself that here was no untaught poet, but an agent-victualler of doubtful probity and a known crimp.

For convenience of transacting business, I lodged with Brandon Pomfrett at his uncle’s house; and to escape the tedium of Mr Pomfrett’s conversation, and the subtle irritation of Mrs A.’s dogmatism, we used to repair to the inn where Captain Shargeloes was lodging. I cannot say that I ever saw our skipper definitely drunk; on the other hand, I could not state, with any certainty, that he was ever sober. The captain was the easiest and most good-humoured of men; would drink and yarn with you for ever; but, at a certain point of intoxication, the word plot would invariably creep into his talk. Never, to be sure, was a poor seaman so plotted and caballed, by his account; owners, agents, officers, and crew--all were in a conspiracy, at one time or another. We learned to take leave of Captain Shargeloes at the word. I do not know how the notion became embedded in his mind; he had seen mutinies enough, and longshore conspiracies to cheat the guileless mariner of his own in plenty; but so had every skipper afloat. The truth was, I suppose, that he knew himself to be a simple man, destitute of natural cunning; so that he found himself, to his continual chagrin, no match for the sharks.