Part 8

“Where’s Brandon--where’s Mr Pomfrett?” were Morgan’s first words. “Rouse him out--he must be gone before Murch comes, and you too, or there’ll be the devil to pay.” The noise of firing was so loud, I could hardly hear what she said. “I’m in charge of the Governor’s house, while he’s away directing the defence,” Morgan went on, with a pleasant smile. “Now, fetch Brandon, and I’ll get some victuals the while. Smart’s the word, Harry.”

She blew upon a whistle, and a sentry, from the other side of the house, answered the call, and began shouting to the crew, who were quartered somewhere out of sight. Brandon Pomfrett lay as I had left him. This face, at least, suffered little change in sleep; there was the same simple, stubborn honesty which ever marked the owners’ agent. Mark you now these two reflections of different souls; for the souls themselves were already in conflict one with another, and the weakest must lose the game.

A minute or two, and I had Brandon Pomfrett out on the verandah; but Mistress Morgan had found time enough to arrange her hair, and so forth, cares which were lost on Mr Pomfrett. The men brought relics of last night’s sumptuous banquet; and it was Mr Pomfrett’s glass that must be filled with wine, and his silver plate heaped with delicacies, by Morgan’s hands--hands that shook at the noise of artillery and tumult in the town below. As for Mr Winter, he was glad to shift for himself. So we crammed our victuals, standing and looking upon the empty garden, where the extinguished lamps were hanging in the trees and a few withered flowers lay upon the trodden sands of the walks.

“I don’t like this firing,” said Morgan. “But it’s a comfort to think there’ll be no one hurt--the dear Governor will care for that. You don’t understand? It’s just Mr Murch’s way, you see. We enter the town by the back door, all as you saw last night, while Mr Murch lies-to outside the harbour. We visit the Governor, introduced by the sentry--all as you saw.... His Excellency is giving a banquet. So much the better--we get the chief burgesses and soldier people, wives and all, in a bag. We secure the entrances, and there they are, prisoners of war, everyone in his best clothes. I have four pistols in my sash (only one is loaded, because I hate pistols, but how is his Excellency to know that?), and I present myself with my best bow and my whitest hand--a messenger of peace. I take his Excellency by his frill, and lead him apart from the giddy throng. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘Admiral Jevon Murch is lying off the harbour bar, with the Black Flag at the main, and a dozen tall ships at his call----’”

“But has he?” asked Brandon, round-eyed.

“What a question!” Morgan returned. “Have you never heard of a _ruse de guerre_? You forget I was employed in saving all those poor people’s lives. Don’t interrupt--there’s no time. If Murch catches you here, my pretty gentlemen--well, I can’t help you, as I said before.” She glanced about, terror in her face. “To be brief, I told the Governor that Murch would burn the town unless it was ransomed before ten o’clock to-morrow--to-day, that is--for two hundred thousand pieces of eight. Moreover, he and his friends would be hanged on the trees of the garden at sunrise.”

As she talked, in a high voice of feverish rapidity, her eyes shone, laughter passed upon her face like light and was gone, and all the time she kept glancing about and stopping in her talk, as though to listen, amid the noise of the firing, for the tramp of the pirates’ nearing footsteps.

“You would never have done it,” said Brandon, stolidly.

“Not I,” said she, “but Murch would. I was play-acting. And the old gentleman submitted. Perhaps he remembered the visit of Sir Henry Morgan to Porto-Bello. He little knew whose granddaughter he was making submission to. But he stood on a condition that he should be allowed to set up a sham defence, to save his honour before the world. Bless the man, of course he should! He’s making it now--hark to the Governor’s cannon. And off he went to take the shot from all guns, with a guard of honour from the _Wheel of Fortune_ to attend him, in case of accidents. That’s all. Now, would you like a ship?”

She flashed the question at Pomfrett.

“A ship? what sort of a ship?” asked the slow-moving supercargo.

“A ship--don’t you hear me tell you--a ship with masts and sails. Oh, Mother of God, how dull----”

“A ship--yes, I suppose so. But what for?” Brandon lacked the time to appreciate the situation.

Morgan stamped her foot. “To carry you from here before Murch sees you. Hark!” She stared across the garden at the great wooden gate in the wall.

“There’s nothing,” said Brandon, unmoved. “And what ails us with Mr Murch, pray? It’s I that have a quarrel with him, I think. I want to ask your Mr Murch why he marooned me.”

“How long will you dilly-dally?” cried Morgan. “Come! There’s ships in the harbour for the taking. I’ll give you ten men. What’s it to be?”

“Why,” says Brandon, “the ship I want is the _Blessed Endeavour_.”

“Get another and chase her, then,” returned Morgan.

Brandon stood quietly considering the matter, undisturbed by the imminent jeopardy in which we stood. For Murch desired our removal, that was clear; probably because we knew too much of his secret affairs. For myself, I could see well enough that Morgan Leroux had much of a mind towards the amiable Pomfrett; it was scarce extravagant to suppose that Murch perceived as much, having more incentive to observation; and I wondered if the old buccaneer objected to his ward’s fancy. I had no time to pursue the speculation, for there, sure enough, was the tramping of feet coming up the lane without. Then came an imperious hammering on the garden gate, and Murch’s voice bellowing for admission.

“There! I knew it!” cried Morgan, turning white as a napkin. “Go! Get you out by the back, go down to the harbour, and I’ll send the men. Go!”

She laid hands on Brandon in her haste and fear, urging him into the house. “What’s all this?” said he, holding back. “Why should I go? I’m not afraid of Murch.”

Morgan pulled at his sleeve, the tears running down her face.

“Why, very well,” said Brandon, hastily, “let be, I’ll go. Good-bye.”

He looked at her as he spoke, but I think he never read the glance she gave him. The next moment we were retreating through the house. One of the _Wheel of Fortune’s_ crew stood sentry on a little door opening from the back of the garden; seeing who we were, he let us pass, and we went down towards the sea. The inhabitants, black, white, and brown, were tumbling out of their houses, for fear of the pirates. They passed us, singly and in groups, laden with cooking-pots and bundles, all going to camp in the woods, the children running and crying at their heels. All through the town it was the same; and all the while the bells were hammering in the steeples and the big guns were booming in the castle, and never a sign of a pirate to be seen until we came to the quays; and there was the _Wheel of Fortune_ wreathed in smoke, the great black flag flying at the main. She was firing at the moored ships about her, a dozen or more merchant bottoms, and three or four were firing in return, while puffs of smoke kept breaking from the walls of the stone forts at the harbour mouth. A sea-fight is a confused business--masts and sails appearing and disappearing in thickening volumes of smoke, tongued with red flashes, to an intermittent roar of cannon and crash of splintering wood--and the spectator can make but little of it. But, it would appear that Mr Murch, in his bargain with the Governor, had omitted to include the shipping in the harbour. Here was no mock engagement. We could hear the shot strike and see the splinters fly, and here and there a top-mast shut down sideways.

A convenient pile of timber made a shelter against the balls which came ashore now and again, and there we had a little leisure to consider the posture of affairs.

“I don’t understand this girl--this Morgan Leroux,” said Pomfrett.

“Why should you?”

“The girl worries me. Why should she want to come with us--when was it? only yesterday, so it was--and then here she is at Porto-Bello; and now she’ll get us a ship, by her way of it. But I don’t believe she can.”

“_Dux femina fecit_,” I said.

“Yes, but I don’t like it. Besides, the girl’s a pirate, and the daughter of a pirate. Why is it we can never be rid of pirates, whatever we do? All I want is to sail a straight course in the owners’ interests, and it can’t be done for this mess of pirates,” complained the agent. “All we do is to purvey ships for them.”

“Well, here’s a pirate--a female pirate--offering to purvey a ship for you in return.”

“And if she is,” says Brandon, with energy, “I’ll take it. I’ve got to get the property back somehow. I tell you what, Harry, I’ve been thinking that there’s cases where ordinary rules of morals don’t apply.”

“Do you say so? Continue, good supercargo.”

“Well, that’s all,” said Pomfrett, after a little consideration. “But don’t you agree with me?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “But the question is, what are we to do next?”

“Let us look the situation fairly in the face,” said Pomfrett. “I wish there was less noise, but it can’t be helped. First, there’s Dawkins, sailing away with our ship, the _Blessed Endeavour_.”

“And Mr Murch’s silver. Or, rather, Mistress Morgan Leroux’s silver.”

“There again,” said the agent, wrinkling his brow. “How do I know whose silver it is? It may be the very silver I set out to get. You can’t believe these pirate people. Anyway, it’s aboard my ship.”

“Call it yours, then. What next?”

“Next, there’s Murch in his ship, the _Wheel of Fortune_, which he owes to me, engaged in taking Porto-Bello. And next, there’s our ship which we haven’t got, but which Morgan Leroux says she will get for us.”

“And next, there’s ourselves, the Two Gentlemen of Porto-Bello, or the Virtuous Pirates,” I remarked.

“We’re not pirates yet,” said Pomfrett, cocking an eye over the baulks of timber, and diving down again at the report of a gun.

“How about getting Murch a ship under false pretences?”

“That was necessary in the owners’ interests. Besides, we never knew he was going to play this game.” Brandon regarded me with great solemnity. “I see nothing to laugh at,” he added. “I tell you, I’ll stick at nothing to get my ship back. I’m not afraid of words. Call me a pirate, if it amuses you.”

“There’s nothing amusing about Execution Dock,” I said, “and that’s the course you’re shaping, as sure as you’re alive, my buccaneer.”

“I can’t help it,” said the valiant agent. “But there’s no reason why you should run the risk because I do. You’ve no responsibility, and I hold you free to go where you like,” he added, magnanimously.

I thanked him. But--the rules of morality having been stretched all ready for action--the question still remained, what to do next? We sat and contemplated the problem, while the fight went merrily forward in the harbour. Boats had been lowered from the _Wheel of Fortune_ by this time, and a couple of ships had been boarded and, apparently, taken. Presently the firing ceased; the cannonading from the castle, too, had slackened, and the bells had stopped their clamour. We were reflecting that, if the Governor had by any chance discovered how small was Murch’s force, there was still time for him to reverse the fortunes of that astute general, when Morgan Leroux, wrapped in a fine cloak of crimson velvet, appeared upon the quay. Behind her marched William Crowby, the boatswain, and a party of seamen, none too steady on their feet. Neither Murch, nor the devil his master, could keep pirates ashore from liquor.

Morgan beckoning to us, we followed her into a shore-boat; the boatswain took the tiller and steered towards a fine French sloop lying out in the harbour. Not a man appeared on deck; she swung to her moorings, to all appearance deserted.

“Better jam the rudder, all the same,” said Crowby, and put the boat under the counter, where, above our heads, ran the legend, in gold letters, _La Modeste_.

They wedged up the rudder with thwarts and an oar or two; a precaution usually taken on these occasions, to render the ship unmanageable, supposing the crew tried to run. Then we climbed aboard, Morgan Leroux going first, as superior officer. There was never a soul of her crew aboard _La Modeste_. You are to consider us all this time as following meekly the current of events, with scarce a word spoken. The hand of Destiny was on our necks, and with an Oriental composure we beheld the anchors hoisted to the cat-heads, the sails set, and the quays of Porto-Bello sliding past us. And, as in a dream, we saw Morgan Leroux signal to the officer in command of the _Wheel of Fortune_ as we passed her, heard her explain through the speaking-trumpet that she had Murch’s orders to carry the sloop outside; ducked our heads as the forts on either horn of the harbour fired at us, the balls moaning overhead between the masts; and felt the lift of the open sea.

Then Brandon Pomfrett found his voice. “Surely you’re not coming with us?” he said to Captain Morgan.

Morgan turned and looked at him. Even Brandon might have understood her glance. She turned away again without a word, and _La Modeste_, with every stitch of canvas set and drawing, sprang forward, heading north.

XI

THE LITTLE CRUISE OF _LA MODESTE_

The situation was sufficiently delicate. Pomfrett drew me to the port side of the little quarterdeck. Morgan Leroux leaned on the starboard rail, having her back towards us.

“Look here,” said the owners’ agent, “this isn’t what I meant at all. This will never do. It’s impossible. Why did she come?”

“Well, for one thing, you would never have passed Murch’s ship going out of harbour, if it hadn’t been for Morgan Leroux,” I answered.

“Who commands this ship, do you suppose?” returned the supercargo.

“You must ask the lady.”

“But how can she sail with us--or we with her?”

“Too late to enquire, is it not?”

“We can put back.”

“Can we?”

“I’ll soon see,” said the agent, and marched across to Morgan Leroux.

“Well,” said she, “have you done discussing poor Morgan?”

“Will you tell us,” returned Brandon, wisely disregarding the question, “what you--what we are to do?”

“It’s me that should ask you, I think,” said Morgan, placidly. “Here’s your ship. What are you going to do with her?”

“My ship?”

“I said I was going to get you a ship; well, now I’ve done it, haven’t I? You don’t seem weighed down with gratitude.”

“But I am grateful,” cried Pomfrett, eagerly. “I think you’re wonderful. But what troubles me,” he added, in a burst, “is what--where--how I can serve you,” he ended, lamely.

“Will you take me to England?”

“I would gladly,” said the harassed agent. “Only, how can I? Come, Mistress Morgan, I put it to you fairly, can it be done?”

“Don’t speak so loud,” said Morgan, glancing aside at old Crowby, who was handling the wheel. “I’ll answer you fairly. Yes, it can. What are you afraid of? Don’t you know I can take care of myself? Now, then. What’s the alternative?”

“I would put back into Porto-Bello, and give you to your guardian,” answered Brandon, sturdily.

“You’re a brave young man, by your way of it,” said Morgan. “But it would be quicker for you to clap a pistol to your head this minute, and ask Mr Winter to pull the trigger for you. We shall be lucky to escape Mr Murch, as it is. But put back if you want to--only, what about Mr Dawkins and your owners?”

It was true. Behold the incorruptible agent torn in twain.

“I know you mean mighty well,” Morgan went on, with a sudden change of manner, “but you don’t think of me. You think only of yourself; and yet you credit me with pure unselfishness. I had an eye for poor Morgan Leroux, let me tell you, on this little enterprise. You would have left me to sail on the private account with that bloody pirate, Mr Murch, without a thought. You never scrupled to leave me to defend my own good name then--not you. No, no. But when I take the last chance of liberty and honour, and come aboard here, on the same quarterdeck with your worships, oh, then it’s a different tale! It’s ‘Is it right to sail with a woman?’ And ‘Can we endanger our spotless reputation?’ And ‘Put back to your guardian.’ God give you joy of your virtue, gentlemen. I thank Him, mine is of a different kind.” She spoke low, a spot of red on either cheek, an angry spark in her eye, and when she had done she turned her back upon us and walked away.

Brandon looked after the graceful figure with a tightening of the jaw. “Very well,” says he, “if that’s what she wants, by God! she shall have it.” It was not, exactly, what Morgan Leroux wanted, although, no doubt, she desired that too; but Brandon was to know more of the ways of women before he had done. Meanwhile, he went to her, and they talked together.

The prime point was settled, at any rate. Brandon Pomfrett was commander of _La Modeste_. And a modest ship she was--for a pirate--if ever there was one. Captain Pomfrett laid to his duties with a will. Prayers were read on the quarterdeck morning and evening; profane language was punished by stoppage of grog; flogging was the penalty for dicing or drunkenness; for striking an officer, or attempted mutiny, the offender would be incontinently hanged at the yard-arm. The nine men of Murch’s ship, the _Wheel of Fortune’s_ crew, whom we had brought aboard, were divided into port and starboard watches, with double spells to keep, since we had but half the complement required to work the ship. Crowby, the boatswain, was made pilot and sailing-master; I, Harry Winter, was promoted to owners’ agent. The men had no thought but that we were sailing under Murch’s orders, as tender to the _Wheel of Fortune_, and the terror of his name helped to keep them within these strait bounds. They supposed he had appointed Pomfrett to the command of the stolen ship, and expected the _Wheel of Fortune_ to rejoin us very soon. We, too, expected her appearance, and we kept a sharp lookout for her top-masts rising on the sky-line. As for Morgan Leroux, the crew still regarded her as the pretty young gentleman-adventurer, in which character she had shipped at first. It seems strange that her disguise should have availed her for so long, but I can only record the fact. That there are cases upon record of women serving for years in the guise of men, both as soldiers and sailors, is notorious.

Captain Brandon Pomfrett is now, you see, committed to chivalric action. He is rescuing the lady from all sorts of perils, so she declared, and she ought to have known; he is appointed the guardian and trustee of her maiden honour. The position restored his self-respect, something damaged hitherto by the contemplation of his obligation to Morgan Leroux. She had saved him from being bought and sold as a slave, at first; she came to our aid in Porto-Bello; and, for my part, I believe that she persuaded Murch to attack that town, and took her share in the business, in the hope of finding Brandon Pomfrett again--Brandon, who would have none of her, sending her back to the ship when she would have marooned herself along with the supercargo. Then she stole the ship in which we were now all sailing together, and gave it to Pomfrett. And for all these benefits he had returned nothing until now, when the lady cast herself upon his protection. Until now, the more she did for him the less he had liked her. The obligation had galled him; besides, Brandon Pomfrett had no notion of dangling about a petticoat; he had other ends in view. Do you think Morgan Leroux had no perception of these things, when they are plain to common persons like you and me? At any rate, affairs took on another complexion aboard _La Modeste_.

From the moment Captain Pomfrett assumed command, Mistress Morgan found herself waited on hand and foot. The captain, you see, considered it his duty to pay the extreme of nice attention to one in his protection. Morgan, too, became less aggressively masculine in appearance; she wore doublet and hose, indeed, but over these she disposed the fine cloak of crimson damask which came from the house of the Governor of Porto-Bello, so that she really went clad in a loose gown. Moreover, her talk insensibly changed its note. She was less loud and downright, no longer boisterous, but falling into placid silences, in which her dark eyes, shining beneath the straight brows, like lights in still water overhung by cliffs, met Brandon’s glance and held it, and dropped away again. These little signs served to indicate the course and rising of that invisible stream that makes the real history of life. As for the other, the procession of shows, that passes with a great noise and clamour: the life of eating and drinking, fighting and folly, getting and losing; kept its indifferent way with even pace.

Its chronicle, so far as our little voyage on the Ship of Modesty be concerned, began in a report from the cook that there were but a few days’ provisions in store. Whereupon Captain Pomfrett encouraged the watch to vigilance, promising to the man who first sighted a ship the pick of the small-arms aboard her. And the second day at sea we sighted a small snow, flying French colours. Our colours were French, too--a coincidence of which we made use. We overhauled the snow, fired a shot across her bows, summoned her to surrender, and sent a boat aboard to take possession. There was but small resistance, soon put down. These little ships speculate on the chance of running the gauntlet of pirates and privateers, rather than trust to their powers of defence. We pressed six of her crew, negroes and half-castes, took her cargo of wine, brandy, flour, and cocoa, and let her go; but not before Captain Brandon had pillaged her great cabin for dainties to grace the board of his own. Two days later we took, in like manner, another small ship, laden with marmalade, jars of gunpowder, some bar silver, muskets, and bags of bullets.