Part 9

Meanwhile, there was no sign of Mr Murch. It was to be supposed that he was delayed in Porto-Bello. And, meanwhile, was no sign of Mr Dawkins, either. We were sailing north, but Dawkins might have gone south for all we knew, save that Murch was ranging to the southward, and Dawkins would have little lust to meet him. So we held on, with plans somewhat indeterminate. We could not sail after Dawkins for ever; if for no other reason, because our crew would certainly break into mutiny before long. They came out for plunder, and plunder they would have, sooner or later. Failing Dawkins, we might set a course for Bristol, and keep the crew in a good humour by picking up what ships we could on the way. What would happen when we fetched up in Bristol was a question never at this time debated. Persons in a doubtful situation often avoid a discussion, for, so long as a matter is not talked of, you may, if you like, pretend that it does not exist. But it was clear enough, without any words, that we were in a feeble case. We had but four guns and twenty-odd men, against Mr Dawkins’s eighteen guns and ninety men, or Murch’s eight guns and sixty men. Either pirate could blow us out of the water, if he had a mind.

Meanwhile, we held on steadily before the jolly trade-wind, shepherding its white cloud-flocks upon the blue illimitable fields of heaven. A great part of the captain’s day was occupied in taking the sun and working out the ship’s position; no dead reckoning or rule-of-thumb for Captain Pomfrett; the rest of his time he spent with Morgan Leroux. The skipper would have had the voyage to last for ever on these terms, I think. So we cruised warily among the group of little islands, Albuquerque Cays, Saint Andrew’s Island, Old Providence Island, and Serrana Cays, spying in every harbour, creek, and inlet for our old ship, the _Blessed Endeavour_, captained now by Dawkins. For we reckoned that she would need cleaning by this time, and we hoped to light upon the bark in some sequestered bay, careened and helpless. But we worked through the islands in vain, and steered north-west for Cape Gracias à Dios, at the outflow of the River Coco, where we would take in wood and water. So expert was the captain becoming at the art of navigation, that we did not miss the Cape by more than fifteen miles--a trifling error, easily amended by two or three hours’ tacking about and about, to which evolutions we owed the sight in the offing of a tall ship steering due west. Perceiving that the stranger altered her course as though to speak with us, we went about, and soon showed that, on a wind, we had the heels of her, whoever she might be. Before long she altered her course again, steering for the mainland. But when we fetched up in the shadow of Cape Gracias à Dios that evening there was no ship to be seen, and we thought no more of her for the time, being busied for the next two or three days in getting wood and water for the ship, overhauling her, and making good defects.

Upon the third night after our arrival in this snug anchorage we had been supping late, and came upon deck about midnight--the skipper, and Morgan Leroux, and the writer of these memoirs. The moon had gone down behind the rocky headland, which loomed upon the silver dimness like a huge couchant beast; fire-flies sparkled in the vast shadows of the shore, and out to seaward the smoothly rolling plains of water stretched away and away, glimmering mysterious. Save for the eternal thunder of the surf, which ran so continually in our ears that we ceased to hear it, the night was very still.

“This is a pleasant life,” said Captain Pomfrett. “It’s a pity it must end so soon.”

“Why so soon, then?” asked Morgan Leroux.

“Owners at home, and pirates abroad,” Brandon answered.

“I am so tired of your talk about owners,” said Morgan. “What have you to do with owners, when it was their ship’s company that sold you in Barbadoes? Why, they set Dawkins on to do it, very likely.”

“You wouldn’t say so if you knew my uncle, not to mention aunt,” returned the captain, lazily. “But it was I that brought Dawkins to them in the beginning, and it’s me that has to bring him back in the end--dead or alive.”

“Dead or alive, ho, ho!” came, like an echo, and with a chuckle, close beside us; and there were the head and shoulders of a man, risen above the rail of the bulwarks, black upon the moonlight.

As we turned, he dropped below the rail. Pomfrett cried out “Who’s that?” and we all ran to the side to see a boat, manned by eight or ten men, shoving off from under the counter. Pomfrett challenged, and the same voice answered across the swiftly widening space of water, “Dead or alive, shipmate, dead or alive--ho, ho, ha!”

Pomfrett roared for the watch below, and, the men tumbling up in a hurry, he had a boat lowered and went himself in pursuit. But lowering boats and such evolutions are not performed in a ship of the private account as they are in Her Majesty’s navy. By the time our boat struck the water the stranger had a fair start, and Pomfrett must needs return before very long, having lost all trace of her in the dark.

“That’s Dawkins, for a ducat,” says Morgan; and we supposed that she was right, and that the ship which had chased us three days since was the _Blessed Endeavour_ at last. The watch on deck had no information to give; it was clear the man had been asleep, and he was duly sentenced to a flogging. Then we held a council. If Dawkins were near by, we should hear from him again before long. In that case, were we to fight? Run away we could not, for the wind had dropped. Now, buccaneers do not risk their skins in fighting unless there is a distinct advantage to be gained thereby, and Dawkins stood in very little danger from us. We were too small a force to harm him. All things considered, the captain (whose decision is final in all questions of fighting, chasing, or being chased) decided to clear for action and sit still. It was true that the boat might not have come from Dawkins, but from a strange ship, or even from Murch himself; but, even so, we had no alternative.

Yet I think we had made up our minds that it was Dawkins who had found us out--I hardly know why. Morning dawned in a windless calm, and I went ashore with a perspective glass and Morgan Leroux, who insisted on accompanying me, to climb the headland. We came to a bare place in the ridge, where the trees fell away, and there, looking northward, stretched a big lagoon, and on the shore a tall ship lay careened. Tents were pitched, the smoke of fires lifted light against the dark woods, and men were clustering like ants about the ship. That was the _Blessed Endeavour_, sure enough; I could tell her lines among a thousand.

“So there’s the long-lost bark,” says Morgan, staring through the glass. “She’s not far off, and yet she might as well be an ocean away, for all the use she is. I’ve a month’s mind to pay this Dawkins of yours a visit, Harry. Shall I ask him to dinner?”

In vain I adjured this obstinate girl to return. She laughed me to scorn.

“Your Dawkins does not know me,” said she. “Why should he harm me? I’m a brother skipper, d’ye see, out on the account, like himself. Oh, I’ll spin the man a yarn, never fear. Take your long face back to the captain with my compliments, Harry, and bid him prepare a dinner for Mr Dawkins by six o’clock. Adieu, my friend.” And she plunged into the wood.

Here was a quandary. It was my business to return to the ship and make report; yet how could I let this wild quean go alone into Dawkins’s camp? But supposing I went with her, what could I do against near a hundred pirates? Moreover, I had no longer any doubt but that our visitor of last night was sent by Dawkins, who must therefore be aware of our neighbourhood; and I reflected that Morgan could go on her errand alone with a much better face than if I were to accompany her. Besides, she was not running any great risk.

On the whole, it was better I should go back to the ship; and back I went, but ill at ease.

Captain Brandon Pomfrett fell into a violent passion when I gave him Morgan’s message.

“God do so to me, and more also, but you shall answer for every hair of her head that’s injured. Why did you let her go? Why didn’t you stop her? Why didn’t you go with her?”

Thus Pomfrett, and much more to the same effect. I never saw him in so deplorable a condition of rage and distress. But, after a while, he consented to wait until six o’clock before setting out with the whole ship’s company to rescue the damsel.

“I know,” he said, at last, “it’s her doing. You couldn’t help it--I couldn’t myself. And perhaps she’ll come back safe--she’s very clever, Harry,” says the captain, wistfully.

And, meantime, as you shall hear, Morgan Leroux stood in no danger at all, save in the captain’s excited imagination. The occurrence marks a stage in the relations of these two.

XII

THE OLD BUCCANEER AND THE NEW

So our quest of the stolen ship promised to issue, in no tragical adventure but, a simple dinner-party. When there’s a lady in the case, the schemes of men are commonly disposed quite otherwise than they had planned.

Pacing the quarterdeck, sitting down, getting up again, trying to smoke and forgetting to keep the tobacco alight, now neglecting all oversight of the men, and again turning upon some luckless seaman like a tiger--who now so uneasy as the captain, deprived of his gentleman-adventurer?

“And what in the wide world am I to do with Dawkins, should he come aboard?” says he.

“Put him in irons, take over the _Blessed Endeavour_, then maroon him; simple as you stand there.”

“Don’t you see, you fool, I can’t touch the man so long as he’s aboard? He’s my guest.”

“Morgan’s, you mean.”

“Well, the scoundrel’s _a_ guest, at any rate,” says the skipper, angrily.

“All’s fair in love and piracy. But, of course, if you’re going to stand on scruples with a pirate----”

“And pray what would you do yourself, Harry?”

“I should do what Mistress Morgan bid me,” I answered, promptly.

Brandon had nothing to say to that. “The question is,” he began again, “does he know we’re aboard? If that was his boat came sneaking in the dark, why, he does. If it wasn’t, he doesn’t know, but someone else does. And who may that be? Can it be Murch?”

“If you’ll take a humble clerk’s advice,” I said, “you’ll sit quiet instead of asking riddles; you’ll say your prayers, and keep your powder dry. This is Morgan Leroux’s affair. We have only to look on. If Dawkins doesn’t know we’re aboard, it were a pity to enlighten him. So keep dark, _I_ say.”

The captain condescended to approve this counsel, and we made arrangements accordingly. The dinner--the notion of the dinner struck the skipper as so monstrous absurd, he could not bring himself to instruct the cook, and I had to do so--the dinner was to be served in the captain’s cabin. Next to the captain’s cabin was the great cabin, occupied by Morgan Leroux. We bored spy-holes in the bulkhead between the two, and then, there was no more to be done but to wait. The ship rolled at her moorings, blocks banging and clattering, cordage creaking; the brazen sunlight lapped ship and sea and shore in a blinding glare; the everlasting rumour of the breaking surf, unheeded in the ordinary course of occupation, began to wear upon the mind. All day long the shadows crept or receded upon the white beach, the rocks, piled or scattered, the lofty barrier of forest; all day long the far sea-line, joining the horns of the wide bay, lay vacant of the smallest blur; all day long the sea-birds screamed and dived about the ship, and rode on the heaving water. The shadows lengthened, and the heat lessened sensibly; the men had finished their work, and lay and lounged about the waist and forecastle, smoking and talking, while a savoury smell of cooking meats was diffused from the galley.

If we were but cruising for pleasure, now, with hearts at ease, what a good hour would this be: the day’s work done, the aromatic breath of the woods blown off-shore by the cool land-breeze, the stars beginning to shine in the quiet sky, the great peace of the night descending upon us; whereas, under the prick of hidden circumstance, the tightening cord of suspense, we could neither stand nor lie, and the shining calm about us served but to increase discomfort. But time must go, drag his feet as he may; and there came at last a little sound of music, as of drums and fifes, and the white triangle of a sail came round the point. It was a yawl, filled with people, and drummers and fifers making melody. We stayed until we distinguished Morgan Leroux sitting in the stern-sheets, alongside Mr Dawkins, then dived below, while the boatswain piped all hands to the side. We heard the familiar voice of Dawkins roaring out the stave of a nonsensical sea ditty, as his boat drew near, and from the sound, we took that eminent commander to be half-seas over.

“Oh, lay the helm a-starboard, and round on t’other tack! There’s many a seaman on this cruise what never will go back. So crowd every stitch upon her, and the devil care for the spars! And cry good-bye to earth and sky, for we’re sailing to the stars.

“All a-sailing to the stars, Ye gentlemen Jack-tars; We’ll meet again at Fiddler’s Green, All up among the stars.”

The boat’s crew joined in the chorus, very much out of time, and ceased; we could hear the sea-birds, disturbed from their nesting-places among the rocks, crying and calling overhead, as the party came aboard; then Dawkins struck up again, as he came stumbling down the companion-ladder.

“Oh, up with the Jolly Roger to mizen and peak and main! There’s many a mess of swabs afloat what’s spoiling to be slain-- So double-shot the guns, my lads, and ram ’em very tight, And heave a kiss to Bet and Sis, for we’re out on the chase to-night.”

“Chorus! Cap’n Morgan Leroux, hey? Why, your namesake, my old commander, God bless him, would a loved that song like his very own. I mind one day, he--why, now, split _me_,” said Mr Dawkins, sitting down with a drunken chuckle, “if I rec’lect what in the deep sea I _do_ rec’lect.”

Ensconced in the adjoining cabin, we had our eyes glued to the spy-holes, you may be sure. Morgan Leroux fetched out bottle and glasses from the locker.

“A tot of rum, Mr Dawkins, now, to set you fair for dinner?”

“Spoken like your namesake,” said Dawkins, approvingly. “And you’ll surely join me this time, so I shan’t be ashamed. No? Well, strike me blind if ever I see a thing like this here. A gentleman of fortune, and not drink--why, it ain’t in nature. Well, here’s plate and plunder, full cargoes for every gentleman of fortune!”

Morgan Leroux opened the door between the cabins, and at sight of us her eyes lighted and her cheeks flushed. Brandon caught her hand, as she swiftly slipped the bolt.

“Lass,” he whispered, “I never thought to see you again.”

“All’s well,” said she, giving him both her hands. “I’ve caught the thief for you; he’s properly trepanned. Leave him to me; he’ll drink himself drunk hand to fist before the liquor’s done. Then you can lay him by the heels. But listen,” she added, whispering very low, “_Dawkins never sent that boat_. I found that out for certain. There’s trouble in the wind; never a ship in sight outside; where could the boat come from? Do you think it was Obeah work? Were they ghosts in the boat, that called out ‘Dead or alive?’”

Morgan had been nurtured, you see, among the black people; she believed in the Obeah magic, and hoodoo, and devils and spirits, quite naturally. But, white or black, Eastern or Western, there are few, indeed, who are not secretly credulous of the supernatural; and for a moment we three stared upon one another in a foolish silence; while Dawkins, in the next cabin, happily oblivious, began singing to himself again.

“Ho, we’re out on the chase to-night, Cracking-on for a bloody fight-- Ye fancy men now turn again, And follow the prey to-night.”

“What ho, shipmate!”

“Have you pistols?--very well. Come when I call, but not a moment before. Wait till you hear me say--what shall I say?--O, ‘Dead or alive,’” whispered Morgan, and slipped from the cabin.

So the old buccaneer and the young decoy-duck, dressed in the drake’s finery, set to at their victuals, Dawkins talking noisily the while.

“Now, I don’t ask--nor I haven’t never asked--for anything better than this here,” says Dawkins. “Plenty of rations and plenty of rum and a smart shipmate to keep the bottle rolling. Not that you shines in that last, cap’n, much as I admire your parts and person--no, you don’t, and it’s a sad pity. But there, I seen many a stout seaman gone to the devil by way of this same liquor, and every man to his taste, says I.”

“It’s the sober man that gets the booty, Mr Dawkins,” Morgan put in, to keep the old ruffian talking.

“But the drunk ones is the happiest,” retorted Mr Dawkins. “Look at me! I’m happy--let no one deny it. Leastways, till the liquor’s out, I wouldn’t change with kings on their golden thrones. Why, now, what a thing it is, as a man what wants so little, like me, should have so hard a job to get it--like I have. All my life it’s been the blessed same, ever since I shipped as cabin-boy out o’ Bristol city, me starving at the time. All the dirty work to do, a kick here, a clout with a marlinspike there, the cat going, knives out, provisions running short, and every man-jack with his little bit o’ luck except Dawkins, poor old Dawkins, what only wanted to sit quiet on his beam-ends and consume his victuals in due season.”

“What made you join the Brotherhood, Mr Dawkins?”

“It’s plain to see you’ve never sailed in a merchant bottom, nor yet in the Royal Navy,” replied the buccaneer, with great meaning, “or you wouldn’t ask the question. No, by the bones of the deep, you wouldn’t! What’s the merchant service? Worms in the pork, weevils in the biscuit, no wages, and what there is you’re robbed of. Set a litter of pigs afloat in a coffin, and they’d make better weather of it. Ah, my David, they would so! And talk of the Queen’s Navy--why, there,” said Mr Dawkins, pausing to spit on the floor, “that’s what I think o’ that degraded mess o’ swabs. Lord save you, Cap’n Morgan, you are but young, and the world’s changed since my time; but when I was your age there was but one way of going to sea, any sense, and that was the way of Brotherhood of the Sea, as they called it. Now your namesake, good old Harry Morgan--there was a man!”

“Oh, you sailed under Morgan, did you?”

“Here’s his health, and may you grow to his likeness,” cried Dawkins, filling his glass to the brim and spilling a good deal as he raised it to his lips. “Ah, I sailed under Morgan, and Captain Hansel and Captain Bartholomew Sharp afterwards. Why, I was with Morgan when he took and burned Panama, and that’s a thing not many has lived to brag of--not many, no, no, not many, shipmate.”

Mr Dawkins had reached that stage of intoxication when the patient keeps smiling to himself and repeating the same words over and over.

“Yes,” continued Dawkins, “I was with Cap’n Henry Morgan at the taking of Panama. Ah, the cap’n had all the luck there was on that v’yage, by all accounts.”

“I’ve heard,” said Morgan Leroux, “that Captain Morgan was accused of embezzling the plunder.”

“I never see the end of the exp’dition,” Dawkins answered, shortly. “So I can’t say as to that, you see.” And Brandon nudged me.

“You don’t know, then, what became of the bar silver?” said Morgan. “The cache of bar silver, eh, Mr Dawkins?”

Dawkins stared at the speaker with an expression of amazement that changed to suspicion. His shaggy, rusty brows shut down over his little eyes, his nostrils dilated, he glanced swiftly to left and right, and back again to Morgan’s placid countenance. She was not even looking at him, but was gazing at the lighted candle that stood between them on the table. So they rested a minute or more, the little yellow flame of the candle swaying gently back and forth with the motion of the vessel, lighting Morgan’s high-coloured, straight-browed face of abstraction, and the hairy, lined, mahogany visage, with the little glinting eyes, opposite. Dawkins was labouring with his muddled intelligence, trying hard to think.

“Now, I wonder, just as a matter of curiosity, what made you ask that there question, shipmate,” said Mr Dawkins, with an elaborate show of indifference, evidently desiring to gain time. Mr Dawkins’s interval of reflection had perhaps suggested to him that Morgan’s question might be merely an innocent enquiry suggested by some old, vague story. There were plenty of wild yarns afloat concerning buried treasure and the like.

“Because,” Morgan replied, with a reckless audacity that made us jump, “that silver belongs to me.”

“Ho, it does, does it,” said Dawkins, after a little uneasy silence. “And how might that be, shipmate, make so humbly bold?” he added, with the ominous politeness we knew.

“Ah, well, you know the saying, Mr Dawkins, ‘the longest liver takes all.’”

“Seems to me, shipmate,” said Dawkins, with laboured sweetness, “you’re a-talking in riddles. Now, I was never no hand at riddles.”

Without removing his eyes from Morgan, he was stealthily fingering one of the pistols he wore in his cross-belt of silk, after the manner of the pirates. The persuasion that he had been trepanned was working itself clear in his mind.

“No riddle at all, Mr Dawkins,” said Morgan, pleasantly. “Your old commander, Sir Henry Morgan, was my grandfather----”

Dawkins, in his amazement, dropped his hands upon the table and leaned forward with fallen jaw.

“----And he left his wealth to me. You’ll find it hard to bam your old commander, Mr Dawkins, _dead or alive_!”

We were in the room on the instant, covering Mr Dawkins with our pistols, like a scene in a playhouse. He gave up his arms quite peaceably, in a dazed, helpless way; and sat all shrunken together and staring upon us. Then he turned upon Morgan Leroux, and delivered himself of some pungent observations. Pomfrett stopped him sharply.

“Avast there, Mr Dawkins. I’ll have no swearing aboard my ship.”