steeple of the great church, the town was wrapt in a golden haze, and
the quays were moving with people, as we dropped down the river with
the tide. Suddenly, the old city, changing its aspect and gesture as
we receded, put on an expression of home. It was as though a piece of
herself were detached and sent floating away--away to the inhospitable
wilderness of the sea. The little group on the wharf that watched our
departure dwindled to an indistinguishable blot, their waving kerchiefs
tiny specks of white; the sound of the bells fell fainter and farther,
rose and sank, and died away; the _Blessed Endeavour_ was forth to seek
her fate.
The second day out, a council of officers was held, to determine the
port of call on the way to Yucatan. Our instructions were to proceed
directly thither, leaving all attempt to take prizes until the question
of the hidden silver was settled. Dawkins broke out at once, in his
loud, domineering manner.
“I vote for Hispaniola,” says he. “For why? The provisions is rotten,
I reckon, and there we can get the boucan and ruff-dried beef from the
hunters.”
“I have had no complaint of the provisions, master,” says the captain,
in a sudden heat of anger.
“Ah, well, you will,” returned Dawkins, composedly. “And a mutiny too,
I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Where’s the agent?” shouted the captain. “Where’s Mr Pomfrett?”
“Sick in his berth,” said someone.
“Sick! I’ll have no officer sick aboard my ship,” fumed the captain.
“Fetch Mr Pomfrett.”
We were lifting and dipping over the long swell of the Channel mouth.
Brandon shot into the cabin on the back of a roller, and crumpled down
into his chair, white and dizzy.
“What’s this I hear of the provisions, Mr Agent?”
“I haven’t seen any provisions since I came aboard,” Brandon answered,
faintly.
The captain made a movement of impatience. “You said mutiny, I think,
Mr Dawkins,” said he. “Mutiny! Let me tell you, sir, I have a short way
with mutineers. I know how to deal with a plot.”
“That’s it,” said Dawkins. “On’y, if you feed the beasts with sound
victual and plenty of it, why, they don’t think of nothing but their
bellies. And so, d’ye see, they don’t mutiny. Therefore I says
Hispaniola.”
“It’s a French island,” said the captain. “We don’t want to make a
present of the ship to the enemy, sir.”
“I reckon,” said Dawkins, “the hunters would sooner sell beef than try
to take a ship which they couldn’t do nothing with if they had it. But
you know best, Mr Shargeloes, not a doubt about it.”
“Well, sir,” says the captain, mollified, “I vote for Barbadoes, as an
English island. What do you think, Mr Agent?”
Mr Agent, being incapable of thought, chanced to side with the captain.
When the votes were counted, it was Brandon’s vote that turned the
scale. We were to go to Barbadoes.
“And as to mutiny, Mr Dawkins,” said the captain, harping on his dread
aversion, “I should tell you that I do not like the word. It’s a
dangerous word--an unlucky word at sea--eh?”
“I don’t value the word a penny,” says Dawkins. “Any word will do for
me, Mr Shargeloes. I seen a many such”--thus did Mr Dawkins clear the
sunken rock--“maroonings, knives going, and what not, but I never see
much gained by it. It don’t frighten me. There’s things which frighten
a man, and things which don’t, d’ye see? I reckon what scares me most,”
said Mr Dawkins, simply, “is a poor old age a-drawing nigh with no
money and no rations.”
Whether the captain liked it or not, there was discontent in the
air. The salt pork was rotten, the stock-fish putrid, the biscuit
worm-infested, and--worst of all--the beer was sour. Pomfrett cursed
Gamaliel for a thief, as he was; but he might have discovered a fraud
so gross and palpable before the victuals were shipped. Mr Brandon
Pomfrett got his first lesson in the business of his office at the
expense of the crew. For, in the cabin, we had store of hams, beef,
tongues, cheese, and wine to last us nearly to the West Indies.
We had been a week at sea, when the boatswain came aft at the head of a
deputation of some dozen seamen. He carried a steaming pannikin, which
reeked like carrion.
“It ain’t our way,” said the boatswain, after presenting the mess
to the captain, “to complain of the ship’s rations. But as to this
here--well, there, we only asks you, sir, kindly to taste of it.”
The captain, holding the pannikin in his hand, continued to gaze
silently at the boatswain and the uneasy, sullen mob behind that
plaintive officer.
“Men,” said he, presently, “you know as well as I do that I have
nothing to do with the victualling. You know that while we’re at sea
we must eat what there is, good or bad, simply because there’s nothing
else to be got. When we fetch up in port, I can promise you fresh
provisions. Now go forward--and take this with you.” He would have
returned the stinking tin to the boatswain, but the boatswain put his
hands behind him and backed a step or two.
“Captain Shargeloes,” said he, “what you say is true and fair, when
the whole ship’s company goes on short allowance. But now it is not so.
Let the officers mess aft the same as what the seamen mess forward, is
what we says, and we’ll go back to our duty, and say no more about it.”
“You’ll go back now, and smart,” says the captain, darkening. “This is
a plot. I knew it. I see what you would be at, you----”
The boatswain made a rush forward, but Dawkins was too quick for him,
striking him heavily on the head with a pistol-butt, so that he tumbled
sideways. The rest of the mutineers hesitated a moment; the watch
on deck, their wavering minds decided, probably, by the fall of the
boatswain, came running aft; there was a scuffle, and the thing was
over, the deputation being hustled below into irons. The captain was
still holding the pannikin in his hand. He looked at it, hove it over
the rail, and spat after it. Then he invited the intrepid Dawkins to
drink with him, and the two, going below, stayed there a long time.
The boatswain and his following were flogged. They had six dozen
apiece, and were disabled for a fortnight afterwards. When their
backs were healed enough to bear their coats, they were had upon the
quarterdeck, where they made humble submission; and the captain forgave
them.
“I knew there was a plot brewing,” says he, “before ever we were clear
of the river. You can’t hide it from me, my men--don’t hope to do it.
I can smell it--smell it in the air, like a dashed thunderstorm. Now
all’s clear again--I know that without your telling me. I would have
every jack-rabbit of you swinging at the yard-arm else, as sure as
sunrise.”
The captain’s words were bold enough; but there was something about
the man that told another story. His long, lean neck, like a fowl’s,
twisted uneasily at every sound as he paced the quarterdeck; his
brown fingers were for ever hovering at his mouth; he was continually
drinking. I believe Captain Shargeloes to have been as brave a man
as ever stepped; but he was haunted by the ineradicable conviction
that the world was in a conspiracy against him, and weakened by the
suspicion that his wits were dull. I say that he was brave; I believe
he never ceased to combat this fatal prepossession; it was the real
Captain Shargeloes fighting the false. Liquor was his chief weapon--the
worst he could have chosen. And, lest he should want encouragement, Mr
Dawkins was ever at his elbow to suggest a tot of rum, a drop of French
brandy, a glass of Schiedam. Dawkins had a head like the bitts; he was
seldom the worse for liquor; but the captain grew as limp as a swab.
You could see that his burden grew heavier upon him; but he stuck to it
with a kind of hopeless patience.
“You young men should be happy,” he once said, addressing Pomfrett and
myself. Pomfrett looked at him with his serious blue eyes. Brandon was
asking himself, conscientiously, if he were happy, or not.
“You don’t command a water-logged ship,” continued Shargeloes,
gloomily. “I mean,” he explained, “you have no wife and no nine
children depending on you. Not that that would matter, if a man had a
chance. But what chance do these owners give their captains?--saving
your presence, Mr Agent. The ship stuffed with rotten provisions, the
crew a set of mutinous rake-hells, nothing square, nothing aboveboard,
the whole voyage a speculation, and the captain responsible for all.”
“What do you suspect, sir?”
“I? Nothing,” returned Shargeloes. “Who said I did? But I know what
stuff I have to deal with, and, I tell you, I’m tired of it, tired to
death. Well, I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again,” he maundered.
“And mark my words, five-and-twenty years I’ve been to sea, and this
voyage is all or nothing; it’s fortune or a lee-shore for life this
time.”
“How did Captain Shargeloes get the command?” I asked Brandon, when we
were alone.
“He put money in the venture--all his savings, so he told my uncle.
He has the name of a good sailor. I can’t think what’s wrong,” said
Brandon. “As to being happy, what about the owners’ agent? There’s
responsibility, if you like! The skipper’s only got to sail the ship,
and Dawkins does that for him. Dawkins is all taut and trim,” says the
agent, who was becoming nautical in his language. “_His_ cargo doesn’t
shift.”
Indeed, the master was a popular man aboard. The men said, openly,
that Mr Dawkins was the only officer who had spoken for them at the
council, advising the captain to put into port (at Hispaniola or
elsewhere) for fresh victuals. He was free with his tongue, and very
brisk with a handspike; but that was all in the way of business. The
captain might swear as he pleased; the crew had small respect for their
commander. “Dawkins, he’s a good bit o’ stuff. He oughter been captain,
Dawkins ought. As for Charley-goes, he’s no better than bilge.” So went
the talk in the forecastle.
When we reached the latitude of thirty-nine degrees and forty minutes,
the customary dreary and ridiculous baptismal ceremonies were observed.
The captain had fallen sick of a fever and taken to his bed. The
master’s mate had blackened his face with soot from the galley, attired
himself in a white gown made of an old sail patched upon with scarlet
blotches, and a tall red cap. With a sword of lath in his hand and a
pannikin of ink at his side, he called before him the green hands,
one by one. They kneeled before him, while he made the sign of the
cross upon their foreheads in ink, and struck them smartly over the
shoulders with his wooden sword. A bucket of water was then flung
over them, and the baptism was done. The regenerate must each give
a bottle of brandy--or the price of one--for the benefit of the old
seamen, standing the bottles round the mainmast. The rout was in full
swing--the red cap of the executioner burning like a flame in the
strong glare of the sun, amid the mob of glistening, grinning faces;
the decks awash, cries, oaths, and laughter sounding out upon the empty
sea--when, from my station on the poop, leaning on the rail, I saw a
figure stealthily emerge from the cabin doors immediately beneath. It
was the captain. Stripped to the waist, a naked cutlass in his hand, he
stood for a moment in the shadow of the poop, staring at the tumult.
Then he stole to the side, and before I could cry out to Dawkins, who
was standing by the wheel, he had sprung upon the rail, dropping his
cutlass, and dived overboard. The alarm was given, but in the disorder
it was several minutes before a boat was lowered. They pulled about for
an hour; but the captain was never seen again.
IV
A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION
It is to be supposed that poor Captain Shargeloes mistook, in his
fever, the noise and tumult of the merrymaking for the explosion of
that conspiracy which had haunted him so grievously; and rushing on
deck, intent to die sword in hand, the sight of the great cool plain
of heaving waters allured his heated senses beyond resistance. He
slipped over the side like a fish, and was gone in a moment. There was
no more fooling. A death aboard, to the seaman’s mind, is very likely
to bring ill luck; and the men, gathered forward, set quietly to drink
themselves full, in accordance with immemorial privilege. Had a storm
overtaken us, the whole ship’s company might have gone to join their
captain that night--wherever he was. But the sailor concludes a kind of
informal treaty with Providence. “I take my chance with your storms and
foul weather when I’m sober; I pay my respects morning and evening; but
I must be let to drink in peace on the days appointed.” On the whole,
the agreement seems to be reasonably well observed on both sides. We
ran all night before the favouring trade, beneath the velvet hollow of
the heavens and the million million flashing stars; and the seamen lay
snoring in heaps upon the deck.
At the council of officers held next day, Mr Dawkins was elected
captain, amid universal approval. Someone then opened again the
question of touching at Hispaniola instead of Barbadoes; for--it was
most unfortunate--there was no doubt but that the men were half-starved.
“If you’ll give a look at the ship’s books, you’ll observe that p’int
was settled once before,” said Dawkins. “And settled, in a council, is
settled, I reckon.”
It was remarked that Dawkins had himself suggested Hispaniola on the
former occasion.
“Yes, I did so. And for why? Because I reckoned it might save a mutiny.
Well, you knew better than me--what have sailed the South Seas for
twenty year--most on you, by your account of it, and a mutiny we had.
Now it’s over, and the course is set to Barbadoes, and to Barbadoes
this ship goes,” says Dawkins, stubbornly.
“Put it to the vote, captain,” said one.
Captain Dawkins arose from his seat, leaned forward on the table,
supporting himself on his hands, and glared upon us.
“Another word like that,” says he, “and I’ll clap you in the bilboes!
You elected me captain, all on you. I didn’t ask you for to do it, I
didn’t want it, nor I don’t; but you done it free and spontaneous. Now,
I reckon I know my duty, and, what’s more, I know your duty. Enough
said. Gentlemen, this council is dis--solved!”
There was an end of opposition; it was not worth risking a quarrel on
the point, with our formidable commander. At this time, Hispaniola lay
some six hundred miles out of our course; but neither Brandon nor I
understood at the time why Mr Dawkins put himself in such a heat. We
were presently to discover the reason.
Meanwhile, Captain Dawkins served double rations to the crew, and
crowded sail most extravagantly. As long as the trade-wind held we
walked along at full seven knots, day and night, in safety. But when it
dropped, we spread every stitch of canvas to catch the light airs; and
then a blot no bigger than a man’s hand would rise on the sky-line to
windward; the watch would be sent rushing aloft to shorten sail; and
before they had done, the squall would burst shrieking upon us with a
solid weight of wind and a blinding smother of water. Sails would be
torn from the bolt-ropes with a noise of cannon, and a man or two, very
likely, carried overboard. Then the storm would sweep away to leeward
and the sun shine out; and out would go the sails again, the ship
staggering and heeling through the surge. Those were dispiriting days
for the landsman. There was never an hour when he could lie down to
sleep without the dismal possibility of awaking in the next world. As
for Dawkins, he scarcely quitted the deck. “You ever seen a ship sailed
the way she ought?” he would say. “Well, I’ll show you, my son.”
But the exhibition roused no admiration in the conscientious breast of
the owners’ agent. Pomfrett had been deeply mortified by the failure
of the stores, for which he was responsible. He had put an innocent
confidence in the honesty of Mr Gamaliel; and I have little doubt that
the owners winked at the amiable Jew’s transactions, or they would
never have set a green hand like Brandon to overlook the business.
Gamaliel supplied the stores cheaper than anyone else, and that was all
the pious merchants of Bristol cared for. The crew might starve to the
bone and rot with scurvy,--crews did, as a rule--but the investors got
their percentage, and the ship would come into port somehow. Meanwhile,
the owners’ agent took upon himself to suffer along with the men.
After the mutiny, and the boatswain’s challenge, Brandon would have
no more of the cabin provisions. He had his rations brought from the
forward galley; what was fit for the crew, said he, was fit for him.
The officers called him a fool for his pains; they told him he was for
currying favour with the mariners, and that he would die. But he kept
his health by a miracle, for a dog would have turned from the putrid
concoctions he fed on. As for the men, they merely added contempt to
the dislike and suspicion in which they held the unfortunate agent.
And now, on the top of his miseries, came the persuasion that Captain
Dawkins was in danger of throwing away the ship by his reckless conduct
of her. It is probable that, in his ignorance of the sea, Pomfrett saw
more peril than there really was; and so I told him.
“Very likely,” said he. “I care nothing about that. I’m responsible,
and I won’t have this foolish risk. I shall speak to Dawkins.”
“He’ll put you in irons. He’s a born pirate, you know as well as I.”
“He will not,” said Brandon. “I would run him through if he gave the
order. It’s his business to sail the ship to the owners’ satisfaction.”
Mr Dawkins was pacing up and down the poop. Besides the pistol he
always carried stuck in his belt, he had worn a sword since his
election to the captaincy, and a double brace of pistols in a crimson
silk scarf. Saluting the quarterdeck, Pomfrett went up to this
formidable commander.
“I should be glad of a talk with you, sir,” said Brandon. “I have a
word to say to you that won’t keep.”
“All the samey the provisions?” says Dawkins.
“And as unsavoury, I fear,” said Brandon, unmoved.
“And what may it be, now, Mr Supercargo? Give it mouth. What’s the
complaints? I wouldn’t,” said Mr Dawkins, playfully, “give a fig for a
super what hadn’t a cargo of complaints.”
“I have to say, sir, on behalf of the owners, that I am dissatisfied
with your conduct of the ship, in one particular,” said Brandon,
roundly.
“Was you, indeed?” said Dawkins, with unexpected mildness. “Dear me!
And if I might make so bold, in what one particular, sir, do the cap’n
dis--satisfy Mr Supercargo?”
Brandon explained.
“Well, now, you surprise me, you do, indeed,” said Mr Dawkins, with
somewhat ominous levity. “I wasn’t aware of it, I do assure you. Why,
I must take a reef on the main-s’l, I see that. I been all wrong. I
reckoned the owners was wishful to get their ship into port as soon as
might be; that was my mistake, d’ye see. And I take it very kind of
you, Mr Pomfrett, to p’int it out. And on my own quarterdeck, too, by
the bones of the deep!”
“Mr Dawkins,” said Brandon, stiffly, “I must request you to take this
matter seriously. You will be good enough to understand that I am here
to see that the owners’ interests are properly served. I have no wish
to summon a council; but unless I find my wishes complied with, I
shall have no choice but to do so.”
“Very well, Mr Supercargo. Depose me, is it? Well, if it must be, it
must, I reckon. On’y, who’s to sail the ship?”
“Navigate her, do you mean? I will!” And Captain Dawkins looked a
little blank at the retort. “Come,” Brandon added, “don’t let us
quarrel, Mr Dawkins.”
“Quarrel!” said Dawkins, cheerily. “Not a mite of it. And I tell you
what, Mr Pomfrett, there’s very few agents, as I’ve ever seen, as
would have the marrow to do what you done. Why, they’d be afraid! But
you--you don’t give a penny piece for the captain, not you. Duty is
duty, says you, and you ups on the quarterdeck like a Queen’s admiral.
I admire you, sir, I do, indeed. And I’ll bear your words in mind,
don’t you fear. I shan’t forget, I shan’t.”
“You see,” said Brandon, afterwards, to me. “I told you so. Tackle
a man face to face, and he listens. I believe Dawkins is a good man
enough, only uneducated and a bit reckless. I thought I’d tell him I
could navigate the ship, because he presumes on his being the only man
aboard who can. I don’t think,” said the owners’ agent, “I shall have
much more trouble with Dawkins.”
I was not so sure. I had seen Mr Dawkins’s blue-red visage darken
to plum-colour, and his little eyes contract to pin-points, while
his teeth showed as he grinned--and I was not so sure. But I thought
it a pity further to harass the conscientious agent with my doubts.
And a few days of quiet sailing brought us in sight of the low green
island of Barbadoes. We dropped anchor in Carlisle Bay, and Pomfrett
went ashore to obtain, as the custom is, the Governor’s permission to
purchase provisions, leaving me on board, occupied with business. He
returned in the evening, having made all arrangements for the supplies
to be had aboard upon the following day.
“May I never ship with a worser supercargo than yourself, Mr Pomfrett,”
said Dawkins. “I never see a agent so smart with his duty, so help me!
But it never does to drive a clipper bark too hard--why, you taught me
that, so you did, Mr Pomfrett, now I come to think of it--and if you
and Mr Winter would care to take a run ashore, these parts being new
to you gentlemen, we would try to make out for a few hours without you.”
None who has not been to sea can comprehend the delight of getting
ashore, though the voyage has been never so pleasant. The smell of
the land, the firm earth underfoot, the sight of women-folk, and,
above all, the taste of fresh food--these common sensations become
extraordinary pleasures. We accepted the captain’s kindly offer with
joy. Mr Dawkins gave us a letter of introduction addressed to one Mr
Jevon Murch, who, said the captain, was a friend of his, and who lived
on his plantation some few miles inland.
The moment we set foot on the quay we were surrounded by a mob of
negroes, clamouring to be taken as guides.
“Take me, massa, take me,” shouted a huge buck negro, forcing his way
through the crowd. “Me white man; don’t hab dese dirty black men,
massa. Dirty black men, git ’way wid yer!”
The gentleman was as black as a boot; but I suppose he had a drop of
white blood somewhere in his ancestry. We took him on that valuation.
He brought us through the streets of white houses with green shutters,
where noisy crews of black men were haling sugar-barrels as big as
cottages down to the wharves, and out into the sugar-cane plantations.
We walked along the narrow lanes, cut through the green groves, and on
either side the slaves were hard at work in the fainting heat, the men
extinguished beneath wide, shallow hats as big as a cart-wheel, with
a little red button in the centre; the women clad in blue stuff, with
gaudy handkerchiefs bound about their heads.
Here were Christian serfs as well as heathen: white men brought from
England and sold like any black stuff from the Guinea coast, sweating
under the eye and the whip of the overseer.
“It’s a crime and a disgrace,” said Pomfrett, whose simple soul was
quickly aroused to indignation. “How can they bear it? Why don’t
they mutiny? Why don’t they kill the planter? Why don’t they kill
themselves? And what sort of persons are these planters, to make slaves
of white men?”
“The same sort of persons as the citizens at home, who make slaves of
black men,” I said. “The same as your respected relative, Mrs A., for
example.”
“Not at all--not in the least,” cried the ardent Pomfrett. “The blacks
are born to it. They’re never so happy as when they’re slaves.”
“Cap’n Morgan, he was slave on plantation,” put in the negro,
cheerfully. “Then he buccaneer. Afterwards he Governor Jamaica.”
“And afterwards he died in prison,” said Pomfrett.
“Po’ man,” said the black. “Massa Murch, he one of Morgan’s men,” he
added.
We were naturally eager, upon this information, to see one who had
sailed under that renowned admiral of the old buccaneers; who had
taken part, very likely, in the sack of Panama, and seen the cities of
Maracaibo and Gibraltar put to ransom in the teeth of the whole Spanish
fleet.
“Morgan was a Bristol man, too,” says Pomfrett. “That’s a coincidence.
But Murch must be an oldish man; it’s over thirty years since Morgan
took to honest courses. I wonder how Dawkins came to know him.”
“Dawkins is a pirate,” I said. “I always told you so.”
“Dawkins,” retorted Brandon, stoutly, “is a good man.”