THE LAST BUCCANEER
The
Last Buccaneer
Or
The Trustees of Mrs A
By L. Cope Cornford
_Author of “Northborough Cross,”
“Captain Jacobus,” etc._
[Illustration]
Philadelphia
J. B. Lippincott Company
1902
COPYRIGHT, 1902
BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
Published October, 1902
_Electrotyped and Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A._
TO
RUDYARD KIPLING
CAPTAIN DAWKINS EXPLAINS
_Some plunder large, some pilfer small,
Some takes it straight, some on the bend:
The same remark doth fit ’em all--
Of buccaneering there’s no end._
I seen a man I much admired
Ranging the seas of all the world,
Intent to take what he required,
Where’er the Bloody Flag’s unfurled.
He’s laid East Indiamen aboard
And King’s ships too, and--what seems odd--
From pillaging a fairy hoard
He turned to fill his hold with cod.
He’s Admiral o’ Buccaneers,
Chief o’ th’ trade that never slacks!
And borrel men like we, I fears,
May carry on till canvas cracks--
May steal the title--filch the stuff--
His tops’ls still is all we see:
The fac’ is, we ain’t good enough.
But there! You hearken unto me:--
_Let him that stole now steal no more_:
That signal’s hoist in Holy Writ.
Why, if you’ve wared your little store
And so don’t need no more of it,
You quit the trade--but not till then.
Or, not until the Picaroon
What only steals the life o’ men
Beats up alongside, late or soon.
_Some plunder large, some pilfer small,
Some takes it straight, some on the bend:
The same remark doth fit ’em all--
Of buccaneering there’s no end._
CONTENTS
[Illustration]
CHAPTER PAGE
DEDICATION--CAPTAIN DAWKINS EXPLAINS 5
I. SHOWS HOW A SIMPLE BAIT WILL SERVE TO HOOK THE WILLING FISH 9
II. WE SET OUR HANDS TO A CHRISTIAN ENTERPRISE 26
III. IN WHICH THE “BLESSED ENDEAVOUR” IS DEPRIVED
OF DIRECTION BOTH SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL 46
IV. A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION 63
V. MR MURCH’S REPENTANCE 77
VI. TWO CATSPAWS AND A LADY 94
VII. THE “WHEEL OF FORTUNE” MAKES A QUICK RUN 105
VIII. THE STORY OF THE INCOMPARABLE LADY AND THE ADMIRAL OF
BUCCANEERS 124
IX. HOW THE SUPERCARGO ASSERTED HIS INDEPENDENCE 136
X. “DUX FEMINA FECIT” 152
XI. THE LITTLE CRUISE OF “LA MODESTE” 166
XII. THE OLD BUCCANEER AND THE NEW 183
XIII. SHOWING WHAT BEFELL IN CARATASCA 209
XIV. CAPTAIN MURCH TAKES COMMAND 221
XV. WHICH CONTAINS THE ONLY OSTENSIBLE LOVE-SCENE IN THE BOOK 234
XVI. MR DAWKINS GIVES US A LITTLE SURPRISE 238
XVII. THE LUCK IS FAIRLY OUT 250
XVIII. HOOKY GAMALIEL PAYS THE SCORE 260
XIX. TELLS THE CONCLUSION OF THE NIGHT’S ADVENTURES 276
XX. THE LONGEST LIVER TAKES ALL 289
XXI. MR DAWKINS HAS THE LAST WORD 310
THE LAST BUCCANEER
[Illustration]
I
SHOWS HOW A SIMPLE BAIT WILL SERVE TO HOOK THE WILLING FISH
One dark, moist winter afternoon, in the year of our Lord 1708, I
chanced upon Brandon Pomfrett, as he was on his way to visit me.
Brandon, who was my school-fellow, was now clerk in his uncle’s
warehouse in Bristol. I was an humble schoolmaster in the same famous
city; not discontented with my lot, and not contented, either. But
Pomfrett chafed in his shackles; ’twas chiefly his dislike of tedium
that drove him to seek my society--for want of a better--and that was
presently to drive us both farther, perhaps, than we ever thought to go.
We turned down the narrow alley, with the ancient houses leaning
foreheads across, that led to my lodging. A strong, hoarse voice arose
out of the dusk, singing:
“All a-sailing to the stars,
Ye gentlemen Jack-tars;
We’ll meet again at Fiddler’s Green,
All up among the stars,”
bellowed the voice, and a burly man, with something of a seafaring air
about him, came rolling up the causeway. We drew aside to let him pass,
but he halted abruptly in front of us.
“Asking your pardon, gentlemen,” says he, “but could you tell me if
I was shaping my course anyways near right for the _Burning Bush_,
kept by a man of the curi’s name of Gamaliel? Not,” said the stranger,
“that I ain’t been here before, nor that I don’t know the course--but
if a man’s liquor runs from his legs to his head, what’s that poor
seaman to do? I reckon I could fetch him in time, but time is--well,
now, shipmates, _you_ know what time is, no one better, by the looks
of you,” ended the mariner, apparently with some obscure design of
complimenting us. The stranger laying his thick, brown hand familiarly
on Pomfrett’s arm as he spoke, we could not but remark a great ruby
that glowed in a gold setting upon his little finger; a strange
ornament for a merchant seaman.
“We’ll show you the way, sir,” says Pomfrett, whose curiosity was
perhaps aroused by the sight of the ring.
Now, the _Burning Bush_ had an ill repute as a crimp’s ken; Gamaliel’s
was no place for the reputable; and it behooves a schoolmaster to make
at least a pretence of piety; wherefore I hung back.
“Oh, be hanged!” said Pomfrett. “I know Gamaliel--he does business at
the warehouse. Come along.”
“Ay, ay,” the mariner broke in, “heave ahead, shipmate; never spoil
a merry meeting; a tot of rum will set you as brisk as a bee. Why,”
says he, “you and me and you--I should say him, but meaning polite--we
three, I reckon, will be as thick as thieves before the night’s out.
Crack on, shipmates, for the port o’ call.”
And, turning sharp to the left, down a narrow passage, we came to the
_Burning Bush_, a low-browed tavern with small latticed windows, that
gave no hint of the great extent of the rambling premises behind them,
and entered the sanded parlour, where Mr John Gamaliel was standing
with his back to a bright fire. A little, thin, eager man was John
Gamaliel; his nose was hooked, his fingers crooked inward like a
sailor’s (a sailor he had been), his body had a forward droop, like a
fish-hook.
“What! Mr Pomfrett?” said Gamaliel. “And Mr Winter, our notable
instructor of youth? And Mr Dawkins, too--I had no notion you were
acquainted, gentlemen.”
“Well, we are, ye see, Hookey,” returned Mr Dawkins, “so set glasses
round, and smart, my lad.”
“Why, now,” said Hookey Gamaliel, bustling with glasses and bottles,
“here’s a singular coincidence--you’re dropping in like this, Mr
Pomfrett, and very friendly too, for only this morning I was saying to
Mr Dawkins here, I must pay a visit to your good uncle, Mr Pomfrett, to
show him a little curiosity of the sea. It might be worth his while to
look at it.”
At these words, Mr Dawkins fixed a sudden, frowning gaze upon the
speaker, who returned his look with a steady composure. It was as
though Mr Dawkins were making a strenuous attempt to clear the fumes of
liquor from his head, in order to enter into the conversation.
“And very curiously, too,” the Jew went on, with his eyes still upon
the face of Mr Dawkins, upon which a light of understanding was
beginning to dawn, “the article in question is the property of my
friend, Mr James Dawkins, here, who----”
“I take it that you mean the bottle, in this here palaver, Hookey,”
broke in Mr Dawkins, still staring upon the Jew. “Is that it?”
“The bottle, to be sure, Mr Dawkins. According to what you said, you
know,” returned Gamaliel, “or I wouldn’t have taken the liberty.”
“Ay, ay,” said Dawkins. “According to what I said. Which was,” says
he, turning to Pomfrett, “that I hadn’t no objections to one or two
respectable merchants of this here city seeing the thing, but I
wouldn’t make it generally public--not generally--for reasons good. But
you shall see for yourselves, gentlemen, and give me your opinion, if
you’ll be so good.--Fetch aft the bottle, Hookey.”
Gamaliel lit a lamp, and for the first time we saw plainly what manner
of man was our mariner. His little eyes gleamed under a penthouse
brow, tufted with grey hair, from a broad face tanned mahogany-colour,
his mouth very wide, shutting with a square jaw. He was dressed in
a fine blue coat with brass buttons and a brocaded waistcoat. But,
the buttons were tarnished, the clothes were soiled, and fitted him
ill, folding in deep creases upon his massive figure, as though they
had been made for another man. His great hands, tattooed and knotted
and scarred, loosely clasped together upon the table before him,
would alone have marked him for a sailor. But, what kind of a sailor?
Mariners were plentiful in Bristol; we should know the marks of them
by heart; but this gentleman had something in addition--some latent,
yet unmistakable quality which we could not name. It was not only the
strong impression he disengaged that Mr Dawkins, mariner, would be a
dangerous man to anger; there was more than that. As his little eyes,
deep-set in the shadow, caught a sparkle of the lamplight and gleamed
at us, and his wide mouth curved in a smile, wrinkling his brown chin,
we knew very well that there lurked a whole secret history, and a kind
of menace, behind that crafty, good-humoured visage. Yet we were not
daunted; rather, we were attracted by Mr Dawkins.
“You see,” said Gamaliel, going to a corner cupboard, “I am what I may
term a confidential agent in such little matters; this same curiosity
being of some value, why, Mr Dawkins gives it to me to take care
of when ashore. The beach is a more dangerous place to seamen, Mr
Pomfrett, if you’ll believe me, than----”
“Here, stow that, Hookey,” interrupted Mr Dawkins. “Your tongue’s too
long by half, my lad. Let’s see the booty.”
Gamaliel placed on the table a round-bellied Dutch flask, the mouth
tied over with canvas. Inside was a brown and crumpled scrap of paper.
Mr Dawkins cut the string with a clasp-knife, which he stuck beside him
in the board, shook out the paper, spread it flat on the table, and
bent over it with an eager attention.
“Well, now,” remarked Gamaliel, “a person might think as you’d never
seen that curiosity afore, to look at you, and you bringing it
thousands of leagues across the sea in your own chest.”
Dawkins, unheeding, continued to study the paper. “That’s it, sure
enough,” said he, presently. “Here you are, sirs--a ven’rable relic of
good old days.” He pushed the paper across the table. This is what we
read:
“Capt. Grammont to Capt. de Graaf.
“COZUMEL IS. August 7, 1686.
“Wee having taken the towne of Merida neare Campeachy and got much
booty the barke being overladen burried silver pigges and the rest of
the plate at a point on nothe mainland Yucatan two leagues due south
from the hed of Catoche Bay having the red rocke where the stream
flows out in line with the extreemest projection of cliffe on west
horn of bay. You shall know the place by the felled tree bridging the
stream above itt between two groves of acajou trees a cross-cut on
two or three. Wee purpose to go to Tortuga there to meet you if God
will.”
This singular communication ended with a totally illegible signature
and a flourish in another hand.
“Where did you find this?” demanded Pomfrett.
“Where but on the island--island of--the island, as I were saying,”
replied Mr Dawkins, with an uneasy glance at Gamaliel, whose watchful
countenance turned from one to the other as the conversation went on.
“Me and two more, what’s dead now, we found it, a-coming ashore for
wood and water for Her Majesty’s ship _Ranger_. And so it happened,” he
ended, abruptly.
“But I don’t understand. Why, the date’s 1686--twenty-two years ago.
And who were Captain Grammont and Captain de Graaf? Spin the yarn,
man,” cried the impatient Pomfrett.
“The captains was buccaneers both, I reckon,” returned Dawkins, with
more assurance. “And we come ashore, all as I was saying, for”--with
deliberation--“to wood and to water--Her--Majesty’s ship--_Ranger_.
Me and a man called Ratsey, and another called Magnes. Both dead,
now. And cruising about the island, if you understand, we comes upon
one of them big crosses as the old buccaneers used to set up at a
place of rendezvous, when they wished for to leave instructions to a
sister ship, or what not. A spar and a yard lashed cross-wise, if you
understand; and you march ten paces north and then you dig, and there’s
the bottle. Ain’t that so, Hookey?”
Gamaliel nodded. “Well,” continued the adventurer, somewhat confirmed
in his assurance, “we, happening to have heard of the custom, did so.
And there’s the bottle. Stab me dead where I sit, if that ain’t the
bottle.”
“And where was this, did you say?” Pomfrett was quite eager by this
time.
“On the island--port of call for buccaneers, I reckon.”
“Yes, but _what_ island?”
“Don’t it say?” demanded Mr Dawkins, irritably. “There, on the paper,
where you’re a-looking?”
“Oh!--Cozumel Island,” said Pomfrett, referring to the script.
“That’s it--Cozumel. A man,” said Mr Dawkins, with a defiant glance at
Gamaliel, “cannot carry in his head all the names of all the islands in
the South Seas, which is thick as peas with ’em. Ain’t that so, Hookey?”
“To be sure,” assented Gamaliel, smoothly.
“And when did you find this, Mr Dawkins?”
Dawkins looked at Gamaliel.
“A matter of a year ago, wasn’t it?” said Gamaliel.
“Sure enough,” said Dawkins. “That were it--a year ago.”
“Why did you leave the _Ranger_?” I asked; for, at this time, when
England was at war with both France and Spain, men were scarce aboard
ships-of-war, and not lightly let go.
“She paid off in Jamaica,” answered Dawkins. “And I come home in the
_Gentle Susan_, merchant ship. The other two, Ratsey and Magnes, as I
was speaking of, they died on the v’yage.”
“Now, perhaps you can guess, Mr Pomfrett,” Gamaliel cut in, “why I was
anxious to show this singular find to your good uncle. We all know
there’s treasure scattered up and down the South American coasts--well,
it seemed to me, here was a rare chance to pick some up. And why not
your uncle, as well as another? Nothing in it, perhaps, but still, a
chance. What do you think, Mr Pomfrett?”
“I should think that after twenty-two years there’d be mighty little
left.”
Mr Gamaliel appeared to consider this proposition as something
strikingly novel. “Dear me,” said he. “Well, I expect you’re right,
sir. But I’ve been thinking over the matter and putting two and
two together, as you may say, until I half thought there might be
something in it after all. Captain Grammont and Captain de Graaf was
brother-buccaneers--blood-brothers sworn. That’s history. Now, after
taking Campeachy in Yucatan together, in 1686--same date, see you, as
the writing--Grammont put to sea and never came back any more. And
somewhere about that time, Captain de Graaf entered the service of
the French government and helped to put down piracy--and none better
for the job, I should reckon. That’s history, too. Well, I take it
that after Grammont took Merida, as the writing says, and left that
there message for de Graaf, he was cast away with all hands. For it’s
history, likewise, that he was never heard of any more. He didn’t
know, you see, when he wrote that letter, as how de Graaf had turned
his coat. Which was why de Graaf never fetched up at the port o’ call
on Cozumel Island, and so never got the letter. Consequently----” He
paused. Dawkins was regarding him, I thought, with a certain admiration.
“You mean,” said Pomfrett, “that the silver’s there now?”
“I put it to you, is it likely to be found without the clue? I’ll
wager a piece of eight to a penny it wouldn’t,” returned Gamaliel.
“Spoken like a printed book, Hookey, strike me dumb if it ain’t,”
observed Mr Dawkins. “That’s the way of it, sure enough. The plunder’s
there, I’ll warrant. On’y, where’s the ship to carry it away?”
“The ship? Ah, well, that’s another p’int altogether,” said Hookey
Gamaliel, with a cunning grin. “At any rate, Mr Pomfrett, you’ll have
something to tell your uncle. A little story and a relic of the old
buccaneers, no less. ’Tis singular how things do fall out; but when
a man’s been down to the sea in ships, as I have, why, he ceases to
marvel at anything. There’s wondrous things in the deep.”
He was running on with his glib Jew’s tongue, when Pomfrett rose to go.
“A little sitting at the feet of Gamaliel is enough,” said he, when
we were out in the foggy dark of the alley. “What a yarn, eh? Do you
believe it? I’ve half a mind to. There’s something queer about Mr
Dawkins; do you think he’s a pirate himself? I tell you what, come
round to the back, and we’ll have another look at ’em without their
knowing.”
Pomfrett was better acquainted with the byways of Bristol than I, who
was born there. We plunged into the black alley that led behind the
_Burning Bush_. It branched left and right, covert for the hunted of
the press-gang. Into the tavern by the back door we crept, and into
a side room to the right hand. A tall press and a scrutoire were
dimly discernible; it was here, apparently, that Gamaliel sat at his
accounts, with an eye upon his customers, for a breast-high partition
separated the chamber from the front room we had just quitted. Red
curtains were drawn between the ledge of the bulkhead and the ceiling,
and we spied upon the pair through a rift in the drapery.
“No prey, no pay. Keep to the rules, you crimping swab.” Mr Dawkins
filled the room with his bellowing.
“As you please, Jemmy,” returned Gamaliel’s reedy voice. “I know the
rules as well as you, I reckon. You get no more, without you pay for
what you got--nor you don’t get that, neither.”
“Now, I ask you fair and candid,” grumbled Dawkins, “have I got a
guinea piece in the wide world? You know better than that, Hookey.
Here! Hands off that bottle!”
Dawkins jumped to his feet, leaning forward upon the table, his open
knife poised on his lifted palm, as Gamaliel caught up the bottle,
replaced it swiftly in the cupboard, and turned the key.
“Put down that knife, Jemmy,” said Gamaliel, composedly. “No good ever
come of quarrelling among shipmates. Come! Take another glass, and
we’ll talk it over comfortable and polite, as gentlemen should.”
He poured out a tot of rum, and Mr Dawkins, with a very ugly look, sat
down again.
“I’ve no objections to a amicable conference, not I,” said Dawkins.
“But stakes on the table, I say.”
“Why, of course,” said Gamaliel. “Put down your pretty ring, then, and
I put down the bottle.”
“You don’t want much, do you?” said Dawkins. Nevertheless, he moistened
his finger and pulled off his ring.
It shone and winked like a star upon the rough board, a great ruby set
in brilliants. Gamaliel set the bottle beside it.
“Now,” said Dawkins, “put a price on what you done, Hookey.”
“Oh, well, we shan’t quarrel over the price,” said Gamaliel, amiably.
“We haven’t come to the dividend yet. Say a hundred pieces of eight,
and I hold the ring as bond.”
“Why, you shark, the ring’s worth five times that,” cried Dawkins. “And
I wouldn’t sell it, neither.”
“It’s only security, Jemmy--only a matter of form,” said the Jew.
“Well, you give me a receipt, and I hold the bottle,” said Dawkins.
“And mighty little use to you, by what I heard to-night,” returned
Gamaliel. “But please yourself, Jemmy. I reckon you’ll do better next
time.”
“All’s one for that,” said Dawkins. “Agreed. I take the bottle.”
He laid a hand on the bottle, and Gamaliel reached for the ring. But
Dawkins was too quick for him. He snatched up the ring, clapped it
into his mouth, and sprang back, his knife shining in his hand.
“Now stand quiet, Hookey,” said he, stowing the bottle inside his vest.
“I could wipe the floor with two such as you, and never sweat over it.
What! You wouldn’t take the word of a gentleman o’ fortune, wouldn’t
you? And a Jew, too, was it! Mother of Moses! Well, now you got to,
d’ye see? A hundred pieces of eight, was it?--how cheap you work,
Hookey, to be sure.”
He made towards the door, and we crept out of the house, and winding in
and out the net-work of alleys, we gained my lodging.
II
WE SET OUR HANDS TO A CHRISTIAN ENTERPRISE
Brandon Pomfrett and I discussed the story of the bottle; it seemed
improbable enough; yet the letter of the old pirate captains ran in
our minds like a song. I had read the history of the old buccaneers,
as recounted by Mr John Esquemeling, the Dutchman, and translated into
French and English--each translator causing the heroes of his own
nationality to shine predominant over the others--and there was nothing
in the records to contradict the sailor’s account. True, it seemed
unlikely that the signal cross should remain unremarked for more than
twenty years on a coast infested by pirates; but, on the vast and wild
shores of Yucatan, the thing was still possible. Brandon swore he would
persuade his uncle, the wealthy Brandon Pomfrett, of Bristol, to fit
out a privateer, and send him in her to lift the treasure. The nephew
had constantly urged the uncle to invest money in the privateering
business, which, in those days, was no uncommon speculation; but
Uncle Brandon had as constantly refused. The enterprise, said he, was
too full of risk; there was no security; and, whereas you might fall
across the right sort of merchant bottoms, conversely, you might not;
while Frenchman or Spaniard might sink you in the deep sea, or a storm
might cast you away. But now, argued Brandon the younger, whose one
desire was to escape from his desk, there was something definite to put
before the old man; the thing was as safe as going to church; out you
went, dug up the silver, and brought it home, picking up any little
ships that Providence might think fit to leave in your way. So Brandon,
bubbling with expectation, went to tackle his uncle.
It was about a week later that one of those days befell when the
schoolmaster flags at his post and the scholars seem possessed of the
devil. He wrestles in vain; virtue, for the time, has gone out of him;
he knows it, and the boys know it; and all is a steaming welter of
cries, tears, gleeful disorder, and ineffectual onslaughts. Suddenly
came an ominous hush; every eye was turned upon a burly figure, who
stood by the door, hat in hand, surveying the youngsters with an
amiable grin. It was Dawkins.
“Master Winter,” says he, in his thundering voice, with a salute, “they
told me you was here, and I made so bold as to invade the sanctuary of
learning, as you may say. I have the honour to bring you a letter, sir,
from Mr Brandon Pomfrett.”
He rolled across the floor, in the dead silence, and handed me a packet.
“Now, if you’ll be so good as to read that there despatch, Master
Winter, for I’ve promised to carry the answer to Mr Pomfrett, I’ll take
command of the ship in the meanwhile, so’s you can fix your mind on the
business, clear and easy.”
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.
The notion of some plot a-foot began to stick in my own head,
presently. Moreover, there was a certain unwholesome facility about
the beginnings of our enterprise which I did not like. It was too easy
to be altogether natural. A roystering mariner in a tavern, a glass
bottle, a scrap of paper, a Jew fatally fluent of speech--and there
were a tall ship fitting for sea, Mrs A.’s money shot into her, and
Brandon and myself cut loose from our tedious, but safe, employments,
and despatched to the ends of the earth. “Really, I am a lucky fellow,”
says Brandon. “I know it, and am grateful for it. Everything’s in my
favour, and there’s no doubt, as Mrs A. says--though I don’t care about
her way of saying it--that it’s a great chance for a young man.” Well,
I was uneasy; but I couldn’t for the life of me discover anything
tangible to justify disquiet; unless it were the affair of the ship’s
chaplain, which presently befell.
The clergyman was picked out from his native obscurity by the advice
of Mrs A., who knew quite as much as was good for her about holy men.
He was a thick, red-haired, hog of a man, was the Reverend Jeremiah
Ramsbottom; a stupid, good-natured fellow, I thought him, when Brandon
the younger brought him aboard the _Blessed Endeavour_, about three
days before we sailed.
“What’s this?” says Mr Ramsbottom, catching up a handspike, and
balancing the heavy bar like a walking-cane in his huge hand. “One
could knock a man on the head with this,” says he, with a foolish grin.
I saw Mr Dawkins eying the big man with unmistakable disfavour.
“Who’s that, then?” Dawkins asked me, when Brandon had taken the parson
away. I told him, Mr Ramsbottom was appointed ship’s preacher.
“I’ll have no preachers aboard my ship,” says Dawkins, with an oath.
“You’ll have to talk to the captain about that,” I said.
“Ah, but it’s me that has to sail the ship,” returned Dawkins. “I’m
sailing-master. I been shipmates with a clergyman before, and never
again, says I to myself. Cross-currents, squalls, baffling winds, dead
calms, water rotten--why, time and again, I would as lief as not a-run
the blessed ship nose under, just to fetch up at the Golden Gates with
my two hands on that there preachers’ neck-band. ‘Lord God,’ I’d say,
humble on the quarterdeck, ‘I am but a sinful man, but grant me to take
this Thy servant and toss him overboard off of a good lofty star, and
I’ll go out of heaven quiet and orderly--ay, and glad to go.’”
“Well, why didn’t you, Mr Dawkins?”
“We keelhauled the holy man, and I reckon that was a surer way,” said
Dawkins.
Now, to keelhaul a man is to lower him from the yard-arm on one side
of the ship, haul him under the keel, and hoist him on the other side,
several times. If he lose his senses, his executioners kindly wait
until he recovers them, lest he should miss the full benefit of the
discipline. After these expressions of animosity, I was surprised to
remark Mr Dawkins consorting with the Reverend Jeremiah, apparently
on the most friendly terms; and, with less astonishment, that upon
several occasions the clergyman came aboard with a glazed eye and an
uncertain footstep. But when, upon the day we were to sail, he was
nowhere to be found, I understood. And Mr Dawkins kindly volunteered
to take a search-party round the taverns, and if the parson were still
undiscovered, the churches of Bristol city.
“What, and lose the tide?” quoth the captain. “And to-morrow Friday?
No, sir. I’ve never cut sail on a Friday yet, and I wouldn’t do it for
the Archbishop of Canterbury. With a Bible and a flag and the Church
of England Prayer-Book, we’ll try to make out, Mr Dawkins.”
So that zealous officer had his way; we sailed without Mr Ramsbottom.