miles from the shore. I searched the coasts with a perspective glass,
with intent to discover the marks described in the writing contained in
Mr Dawkins’s bottle. “_At a point on nothe mainland Yucatan two leagues
due south from the hed of Catoche Bay having the red rocks where the
river flows out in line with the extreemest projection of cliffe on
west horn of bay_.” Thus, Captain Grammont, the old buccaneer, to
Captain de Graaf, his comrade. But I could see neither any red rock in
particular, nor river flowing out. Here was another perplexity of this
remarkable voyage.
The landing party was expected to return on the second day, but
the second day passed, and the third, and still the long beach lay
solitary, save for the myriad sea-birds, fishing and screaming. And
the deep forest, climbing upon the tall mountains, grilled, silent and
mysterious, in the sun, with no sign or sound of man. Morgan Leroux
began to grow restless; her careless gaiety died away; a shadow dwelt
upon her face. On the fifth day, in the morning watch, I was alone on
the quarterdeck, in that still hour of the dawn, when I was aware of
Morgan Leroux at my elbow. We both gazed shoreward for awhile, where
the beach and the woods were whelmed in shadow and the tops of the far
hills took the sunlight. Eastward, the dazzling half-circle of the sea
shone clear and desolate. Still, no sign of the adventurers; stranger
yet, no sign of Dawkins in the _Blessed Endeavour_.
“Mr Winter,” said Morgan, “I don’t like it. They went by a short way to
the place--shorter than the river journey; they should have been back
before this.”
“The river--what river?”
“Oh, I forgot,” says Morgan. “You don’t know, of course.”
“I don’t,” I said. “I’ve been looking for a river these four days, till
my eyes ached. Here is Catoche Bay; where’s the river? Can you see
one? I can’t.”
“Perhaps,” said Morgan, softly, “because it is not there? Come, Mr
Winter,” she added, in her serious manner, “we are passable friends,
are we not?”
“Surely.”
“Ah, well, you don’t like me--which matters little, Mr Harry Winter,
save to yourself--but you don’t trust me neither, and that matters
much, because,” says Morgan, “I am one to be trusted, did you but know
it. And in this posture of affairs, do you know, friend Harry, I think
you and me are to have dealings together, lest worse befall.”
I had not thought of it before--it was true. I neither liked her
overmuch, nor trusted her. But, so curious a thing is man, I began to
desire to do both, from that moment. Morgan looked at me and smiled
pleasantly.
“Come,” says she, “I am going to tell you a story.”
VIII
THE STORY OF THE INCOMPARABLE LADY AND THE ADMIRAL OF BUCCANEERS
This was the story told me by Morgan Leroux, as we leaned on the
taffrail of the _Wheel of Fortune_, in the still splendour of the dawn.
“Sir Henry Morgan was, as you know, my grandfather. He rose to
be Admiral of Buccaneers and Governor of Jamaica, from very low
beginnings. He shipped from Bristol in his youth, and as soon as he
came to the Indies he was sold as a slave--a thing,” says Morgan,
“which might happen to any gentleman. But he served his time, and
when it was out he joined the Brotherhood of the Sea. Jevon Murch was
ship’s boy in Mr Morgan’s ship, and he followed Mr Morgan all through.
He was at the capture of El Puerto del Principe, and the taking of
Porto-Bello. I have often heard him tell of the Spanish governor’s
stout resistance, and how he refused quarter--which was great
foolishness--and fought to the last, his wife and child clinging about
his knees.
“Murch was with Captain Morgan when he took Saint Catherine’s Isle by
stratagem, and so acquitted himself in the storming of the Castle of
Chagre that Morgan gave him a billet which kept him about his person.
So they went to the sack of Maracaibo, where they fought and quite
destroyed the Spanish fleet, and Murch was Morgan’s lieutenant at the
taking of Panama. I have heard the story of the burning of Panama from
Mr Murch, for my grandfather never spoke of his life. Some drunken
fool, it seems, set light to a house, and not the whole army of the
pirates could extinguish the conflagration. The houses were chiefly of
cedar-wood, and the fire burned for a month, with a stifling smell and
a great smoke rolling out to sea.
“Meanwhile, Morgan neglected nothing that might gain him sixpence.
That was his energetic way. The pirates raked and dug in the ruins
and searched the wells and cisterns for booty; search-parties ranged
the woods to fetch thence those who had fled, and brought them to be
tortured until they gave up their riches; and boats were despatched to
the near islands of Tavoga and Tavogilla to bring back others who had
fled thither on the first alarm.
“Now, I must tell you that Captain Morgan’s custom was--as Mr Murch
hath often described to me--his custom was, when the women were brought
in, to have them passed in review before him. He sat in his chair in
his lodging, which was the finest house he could find, as grand as the
Great Mogul. Now, upon a day, there came in one of the boats, among
the other women, a certain Spanish lady, wife to a wealthy merchant
of Panama. The merchant had gone to Peru, whereby, no doubt, he saved
his head, whatever else he lost. Well, this lady came before Captain
Morgan with her old tire-woman, a silly person. ‘Why, Jesus bless me!’
says the duenna, looking at Admiral Morgan, ‘these thieves are like us
Spaniards. They told us they had beasts’ faces, and oh, good little
Jesus,’ she cries out, shaking, ‘what have I said!’ But my grandfather
never marked her. He was looking at the Incomparable Lady--so they
called her, not only, Murch says, because of her beauty but, because
none other ever held Morgan at siege so long as she. The poor lady
began to beseech him with tears to let her go, offering him ransom.
‘Ransom?’ says Morgan. ‘’Tis for me to offer ransom, I think.’ And he
gave orders to lodge the lady with her woman in all sumptuousness, and
to set a guard upon them. ‘And as for the rest,’ says he, ‘you can take
it away. What have I to do with a gallimaufrey of kitchen grease?’
Well, Mr Murch was in charge of the guard that kept the Incomparable
Lady. ‘And I saw,’ says Murch to me, ‘I saw Morgan the Welsh werewolf
trapped and tamed.’
“I’ll make no pretence of delicacy in talking of my grandfather the
admiral. A wolf he was in his youth, bloody and treacherous. Murch says
he would never have believed his subjugation possible, but that ’twas
the same with all the men. They feared their admiral more than the
devil, yet had he offered the least indignity to the Incomparable Lady,
there were plenty would have tried to run him through. Morgan visited
the Incomparable Lady every day, suing with great gifts of pearl and
plate and jewels--suing in vain. Then came the time when Panama was
squeezed dry, and the pirates marched away across the Isthmus with
a huge booty, driving the prisoners, men, women, and children, like
a herd of cattle. The Incomparable Lady was carried in a litter by
herself, guarded by Mr Murch and his men. Captain Morgan would walk for
miles with his hand on the side of the litter, hoping she would speak
kindly to him, if but a single word.
“Now, it was, as we must believe, that Morgan the buccaneer made up his
mind there was one thing in the world for him, and that was the love of
the Incomparable Lady. Herself he might easily possess; it was her love
he wanted. He would never stick at the price. Never in his life had he
counted the cost of what he desired; never yet had he failed to get it,
soon or late. Her husband was alive? Then would Morgan kill him, or
wait until God took the worthy merchant. She would not deign to look
on a pirate? Then he would leave off that way of life. But to do that
he must have money. You cannot live ashore on nothing; none was less
likely to try than Morgan. Very well, money he would get. Did you never
hear how Captain Morgan was accused of embezzlement at the dividend of
booty, which was held beside the river of Chagre? The charge was true.
He took his own proper share; he took much more, and brought it away;
and he took more than that, and hid it by the river of Chagre.”
Mistress Morgan paused. A dim notion of what was coming was beginning
to dawn upon me.
“You’ll see, Harry Winter, that I trust you,” Morgan went on. “Now
listen. There are three persons alive who know where that treasure is
hid. The first,” said she, speaking very deliberately, “is Mr Murch,
because Sir Henry Morgan told him; the second is the old negro, our
servant, whom you know. You may have observed that he’s lost his
tongue. The third--now, who’s the third, Mr Winter?”
“Dawkins!” I said. “Dawkins, for a ducat!”
“Right,” said she. “How quick you are, to be sure! Dawkins was young
then, younger than Murch, rated ship’s boy at the time. He and the
negro, Morgan’s servant, helped Morgan to carry away the treasure
secretly from the camp by night. The guards were removed by drink, or
some other pretext, and Morgan took what he wanted. Afterwards, he
would have killed Dawkins for safety’s sake, but the child was wary,
and escaped. Morgan never saw him again. As for the negro, he cut
his tongue out. I have never quite understood,” says Morgan, “why my
grandfather kept him alive. But the man was a good servant, and it may
be that the Incomparable Lady had softened Mr Morgan. Dawkins, Murch
says, was a mutinous little thief, and deserved hanging twice over.
“Well, when the dividend was declared, on the morrow, Morgan had
everyone searched, he was so zealous to be just in his dealings!
He commanded them to search himself; and searched he was, to his
boot-soles, the men handling him, according to Mr Murch, like a
powder-barrel with the fuse burning, for he was easily ruffled. As
the dividend came out, Morgan was entitled to a good sum, besides
what he had hidden, yet the reckoning seemed fair enough. The rest
got two hundred pieces of eight each. Two hundred little pieces of
eight, out of all Panama! Small wonder the admiral was accused of
embezzlement. The men turned mutinous, but he kept them under till he
came to the coast, so great was his power over them. Then he sailed
away without so much as calling a council. And he gave the Incomparable
Lady her liberty, saying that his time would come, and he could wait.
While he was waiting, he bought a plantation in Jamaica, and became
Lieutenant-Governor, and afterwards Governor. Mr Murch bought a
plantation in Jamaica, also. He was Morgan’s man to the end. I believe
they had sworn blood-brotherhood, but of this I am not certain.
“In course of time, sure enough, Governor Sir Henry Morgan, by simple
force of persistence, I believe, prevailed upon the Incomparable Lady.
Her husband had died in Peru. She married Sir Henry. A daughter was
born to her before she died, who married Captain Leroux, and became my
mother. Captain Leroux, my father, was lost at sea, and my mother died
soon afterwards. So I was left to my grandfather. When he was summoned
to England, on some false accusation, he left poor little Morgan Leroux
to Murch, who moved to Barbadoes, for Jamaica was no place for Morgan’s
men after Morgan had gone. All those years the treasure was left to lie
untouched. For it would never do for the Governor of Jamaica, sworn to
put down piracy, and very ardent about the business, to come sailing in
with a cargo of plate. And he could send no one, you see, except Murch,
who was himself a marked man. Dawkins was thought to be dead. And if he
were alive, why, he was but a boy at the time, thirty-seven years ago,
the night dark, the place new and unknown--it was highly improbable
he could find the spot. Moreover, he could not lift the treasure from
a hostile country, unless he commanded a ship; and, even so, he would
hardly dare to take her into Sir Henry Morgan’s jurisdiction. No--the
two old men reckoned without Dawkins. But, why did he steal your ship?
Mr Murch took it that he was after the treasure. For, Murch says,
Dawkins is a desperate man. He’s getting old, ’tis his last cast.
He’s squandered money and liquor in every port this side o’ the line.
Now he’s got his last ship, by good luck; and supposing he misses the
booty, do you see, he can still privateer till his hold’s full, then
declare the dividend, pay off, and drink himself to death, as happy as
a king. I cannot but admire your friend Dawkins, Harry.”
“Then,” said I, after some cogitation, “we are not in Catoche Bay--this
is not Yucatan.”
“Dear child,” says Morgan, “not by a thousand leagues. Over there”--she
pointed westward, where the mists were rising from the forests and the
mountains shone in the blue--“is Panama. Over the horn of the bay”--she
flung her arm northward--“is the river of Chagre. Now, do you see?”
The mystery of our speedy arrival was explained. No wonder I could
not espy the red rock and the river of Catoche Bay, in a cove of the
Isthmus of Darien.
“But why,” I said, after digesting the information, “did Dawkins come
to Murch? Surely he was the last person in the world for Dawkins.”
“Dawkins knew little of Murch; he may have remembered his name, but
no more. Besides, Mr Murch has an agent in England, and what do you
suppose his name is? Why, John Gamaliel, of course--who else? He is
agent for many of the planters. And Gamaliel sent letters by Dawkins.”
The Jew again. I wondered if he were concerned in Mr Dawkins’s little
scheme.
“And what,” I asked, “about the glass bottle?”
“An old trick, that, but it never seems to stale!” says Morgan, with a
broad smile. “See, now--Dawkins gets his ship, and keeps his secret.
If he steers for the Isthmus, how are his officers to know it’s not
Yucatan, when they fetch up? Did you? And if Dawkins fell sick, or
died, or had a mutiny, the ship’s company might search the coasts till
the Indians shot them or the Spaniards drove them out--what would they
find?”
“As things are, they might find Mr Murch,” I remarked.
“That’s it,” says Morgan. “You are so quick, I declare ’tis a pleasure
to talk with you, Harry. If Dawkins has taken boats up the river of
Chagre, on the other side of the point yonder, those two old shipmates
will meet, I shouldn’t wonder--a little surprise for honest Mr Dawkins,
sure enough. Now, you see where we stand?”
“I see that my mate and I are as far from our object as ever, whatever
befall.”
“But no farther,” said Morgan. “For I’m your friend--like it or not,
I’m your friend, Harry Winter.”
I told her, I liked it very well. Not that I perceived much hope in the
young woman’s amity.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said she. “It would be a pity for you and me to
stand at loggerheads if Captain Dawkins was to come sailing round the
point, with his eighteen guns shotted. And if he’s got the better of Mr
Murch, why, look out for the tops’ls of the _Blessed Endeavour_. And if
he hasn’t, it’s a strange thing that Mr Murch is away so long. We must
have a plan ready, Harry.”
She patted my shoulder in a friendly way, did this singular lady, and
left me alone to stare upon that secret barrier of forest and mountain,
with plenty of matter for consideration.
IX
HOW THE SUPERCARGO ASSERTED HIS INDEPENDENCE
For seven days longer did we lie rolling in the sun, awaiting Mr
Murch’s return. Morgan Leroux discussed many a plan with me; but,
since they all depended for their fulfilment upon the issue of unknown
events, we naturally concluded upon nothing. We were extremely friendly
together, now; and though Mistress Morgan had a shrewd notion of her
own security, I do not know what might not have befallen the poor
schoolmaster-clerk, had he been left much longer with this engaging
young woman. The thing called love is, of course, much a matter of
propinquity, and of a protean aspect. I say no more. Time and chance
took us by the shoulders in due season; for, on the evening of the
twelfth day after Mr Murch’s departure, when the dark had fallen at a
stride, there came the red flash of an arquebus on the shore, then two
more, the noise of the discharges echoing among the rocks.
A boat was manned inside of a minute and pulling for the shore, with
Morgan Leroux and myself in the stern-sheets. Within shot of the beach,
I hailed; and Murch’s unmistakable bellow replied. So Murch was safe,
at least. They had set light to a handful of branches; we steered for
that solitary flame; and there, huddled together in the wavering red
light and vast shadow, were seven or eight figures. No sign of booty.
It was Murch that caught the rope and hauled in the boat, the rest
limping and stumbling behind him, two or three falling and lying where
they fell; and Murch, without a word to us, gave orders to carry them
into the boat. But where was Brandon Pomfrett? I was first ashore,
peering into each face of the survivors. No owners’ agent was there. I
demanded of Murch, where he was?
“Ah, Mr Winter, is that you?” says Murch. “We have met with accidents,
sir. Mr Pomfrett not with us? Where is Mr Pomfrett?” he called aloud.
“Fell out, sir,” said two or three voices.
“Why, there, now,” Murch went on, “he cannot be far behind. I saw him
but now. Climb the beach, and you will find him, Mr Winter. But make
haste.”
Climb the beach, quoth he--run my head into a solid wall of blackness.
There was no help for it, and on I went, stumbling over the rocks at
every step, and shouting my comrade’s name. Suddenly, out of the thick
darkness, a hand clutched my arm. I had a jolt of fright, but the voice
of Morgan Leroux brought me to my senses.
“Keep quiet,” said she, speaking low. “Stop where you are.”
At the same moment I heard Murch give the order to shove off. The
splash of the oars was inaudible in the thunder of the surf.
“Why, is he going to leave us?” I said.
“We are going to leave him, Harry,” said Morgan. “Keep quiet, I say, if
you value your life. As for me, he thinks I am on board. Now come.”
There was no disputing Morgan, any more than her grandsire. We stumbled
forward in the dark until we fetched up against a boulder. Looking
back, we saw the water all a-gleam with phosphorescent light, flakes
of fire dropping from the oar-blades, where the boat was ploughing a
channel of lambent flame. Far away the ship’s lights shone, swinging to
and fro in the dark. Overhead a thick curtain of cloud hid the stars;
landward the fire-flies glimmered and darted, and we knew we were close
to the forest.
“We must get forward,” said Morgan. “When Murch comes aboard and misses
me, he’ll send a search-party.”
We found a way round the boulder, plunged into the wood, and struggled
onward, striking against tree-trunks, lashed with branches, sinking
knee-deep in moss or rotting wood. The air was heavy and fragrant, and
whenever we halted, a thousand little wood-noises assailed our ears.
And presently we caught the cry of a man’s voice, calling for help. Now
here, in the pitch-dark wood, I was taken with a sudden revelation.
This Morgan Leroux, this strange volume written in an unknown tongue,
hardly deciphered here and there, whose hidden meaning both allured and
warned, was turned unaccountably to a human creature, quick and fierce
with some nameless emotion.
“That’s Brandon Pomfrett,” says Morgan, and answered him, high and
shrill. He replied, and we replied; and so back and forth, as we
floundered in the wood, this way and that. It is no easy matter to
track a voice in the dark. And they must have heard us on the ship,
for answering hails came, far and long-drawn, so that we confused
their cries with Brandon’s, and the fear of pursuit was added to our
confusion. But Morgan Leroux was brave as a man in the stress of that
passage, and we kept on, boring our way like rats in a faggot-stack,
until Brandon’s voice rang nearer and nearer, and we stumbled upon him
where he lay at the foot of a rock, bound hand and foot.
“God! I thought I was dead,” says he, rolling over, as we freed him.
“Have you any drink? I’ve touched nothing for two days.”
We had neither food nor drink with us; and if we were hungry, what
was the supercargo? Morgan explained the posture of affairs, but I
doubt if Pomfrett understood what she said. He hugged himself with his
arms, and seemed to sleep. Never was so unheroic a rescue. Since, in
all likelihood, Murch would delay sending to find us until the dawn,
we composed ourselves to watch for the light. There we sat, in that
discomfortable wilderness, while Pomfrett groaned and muttered in his
sleep, and the leaden minutes laboured by with incredible sluggishness,
until our faces showed dimly visible, each to the other, strange as
ghosts, as a flaky greyness began to mingle with the dark. Then we took
Pomfrett by the shoulders, dragged him protesting to his feet, and made
him stand between us.
“Now,” says Morgan, “can you walk? So! Then we’ll strike for
Porto-Bello. I can pass for a Spaniard anywhere.”
Pomfrett, coming to his senses, flatly refused to budge. “What are you
doing here?” says he. “You must go directly back to Murch. As for us,
we can shift for ourselves. Murch is quit of us--that’s all he wants.
He told me so when he tied me up, and I was too tired to prevent him.
Come, we’ll take you back to the beach.”
Thus was the first blow struck in the duel between these two. Pomfrett
might have remembered that Morgan had risked her life to find him; but
starving men cannot pick their words.
“Oh, is that the way of it?” said Morgan. “Is that how you talk to me?”
“Look you,” returned Brandon, laboriously, stopping at every other word
to find the next, “I’ve lost my ship and I’ve lost the silver--Dawkins
has it--he came with fifty men and beat us off. Well, then, we’ve lost
all, we’re marooned--cannot you see? We’re like to die. You go back to
your ship, and you’re safe.”
“All very noble and generous, Brandon Pomfrett. But let me tell you, my
friend, that you waste time. If Murch catches you, I’ll not answer for
what he’ll do this time. I can’t keep my petticoat over you for ever.
Murch has done with you, has he? Well, now, I’ve done with Murch, do
you see?”
“Do you mean,” said Brandon, stupidly, “that you’re coming with us?”
Sure, here was a laggard in love, if ever there was one. Morgan drew
a little apart and looked at him. There was an uncomfortable silence.
Here were we, lost, starving, in imminent danger of capture, and we
must needs stand and dally with fine feelings.
“You would be rid of me, Mr Pomfrett,” says Morgan, presently, with a
formidable quietude. “Is that what you would say? Out with it!”
Brandon clutched his chin. “I would not be unkind. I am thinking of
you----” he began.
“That’s enough,” said Morgan. She plunged into the thicket, and
was gone. In the deep stillness, we heard her crashing through the
underwood. So we stood for a long time, till the sounds died away. I
don’t know what were Brandon’s feelings; for myself, I own I felt a
certain relief. What we chiefly wanted was breakfast. As the light
broadened in the sky, we went a little forward, and presently found
a patch of sunlight in a glade, where Brandon sat down, while I went
to shoot something eatable with a pistol. Since the danger of pursuit
was gone with Morgan’s departure, one might, I supposed, shoot as one
pleased. I wasted a deal of ammunition on that breakfast. A pistol in
unskilful hands is a miserable weapon for the uses of the chase, but
I brought down a fat bird like a pheasant, a sitting shot, at last,
and we devoured it raw, and found it excellent good. Brandon drank the
warm blood like any heathen savage, and was wonderfully cheered. I told
him, then, where we were--not in Yucatan at all, but on the coast of
Darien; and I related Mistress Morgan’s story of her grandmother, the
Incomparable Lady.
“Oh, now I understand,” said Pomfrett. “But Murch has lost his chance.
We had found the plate, with the help of the old negro, when Dawkins
came up with double our numbers. There was a bloody fight, and we lost
nearly all our men. The rest escaped as best they could, and a fine
march we had of it, with neither bite nor sup for two days and two
nights. Well, if Dawkins has the plunder, it’s mine.”
“If it please you to think so,” I said.
“Where’s the ship, do you think?” asked Brandon, disregarding innuendo.
“At sea, where else?”
“And where’s the nearest port?”
“Porto-Bello, that Captain Morgan sacked, if he left any of it.”
“And where’s Porto-Bello?”
“Southward a day’s march.”
“Come along,” says Brandon, getting to his feet quite briskly.
“What do you think you’re going to do?”
“Ask me when we get to Porto-Bello,” says Pomfrett. “Up, you lazy
swab!”