take the _Blessed Endeavour_, and take Morgan Leroux’s marriage
portion, we two, all by our two selves. Then take Murch and the _Wheel
of Fortune_, and--what of Mistress Leroux? You’ll have her money, you
may as well have herself. Take Morgan Leroux. Is that all?”
“The money’s aboard my ship,” says Brandon, with unmoved solemnity.
“That’s enough for me. Come, now, march!”
And march we did, with intolerable labour, through that infernal
wilderness, keeping the eternal booming of the surf on our left
hand for a guide. Up and up we climbed in the fainting heat of the
forest until we came out upon a spur of the mountains, and beheld
the coast-line, jutting forth into many a rocky headland away to the
northward, and beneath our feet the huddled brown roofs and white
fortifications of Porto-Bello town, and its harbour thick with masts.
Far as eye could reach the great glistening plane of the sea was bare
of shipping. Where, then, was Mr Dawkins? and where Mr Murch? Down we
went, two hapless wights, knowing no more than our boot-soles what
should befall us.
It was dark by the time we gained the outskirts of the town, on the
inland side. Dark walls blotted upon the stars; we could hear the
sentries call and counter-call. Captain Morgan had battered Porto-Bello
to pieces; but the indomitable Spaniard had built it up again, it
seemed. Within was supper. We could see in our minds the spit turning,
and hear the hissing of the fat; we beheld the ruby sparkle of the wine
in the hospitable light of a tavern. The risk of capture was not great.
We might pass as common sailors; only, how to persuade the sentry?
Brandon would have been glad to kill him, I make no doubt; but Brandon
was spent nearly to death; and as for Henry Winter, he had never slain
a man, and had small stomach for the experiment.
We stood in the shadow of the trees by the road-side, bitterly
considering the matter; but we could think of nothing to serve, save
to wait until the country carts came in at sunrise, and pass in their
train, if, indeed, it were the custom of this country for carts to come
in. So we stayed, shivering in the heavy dew, until we were aware
of footsteps drawing near along the road, and three men came walking
softly. We followed them, keeping hidden, into the very shadow of the
wall, where the sentry stood or paced before the gate. Voices spoke low
in Spanish, there were a sudden stamping and a sound of hard breathing
as of men struggling together, and three men came back along the road,
closed about a fourth--the sentry, by the glimmer of his steel cap.
Now more and yet more men appeared softly out of the dark, talking low
together; and their words were English. Without more ado, we joined
ourselves to them, unnoticed in the dark, and immediately recognized
the men of the _Wheel of Fortune_. The redoubtable Murch was not there;
we looked in vain for his head and shoulders looming above the rest.
The whole body of some thirty men moved forward, and it was the sentry
(I knew he had a pistol at his ear and a knife in the small of his
back) who gave the countersign, and brought us under the deep arch of
the gateway into Porto-Bello town. Not to excite suspicion, we broke
up into groups of two or three, following each other at intervals of
twenty paces or so; and in this manner we traversed the principal
street, which was lighted by lamps here and there, turned to the right
hand, and ascended dark and narrow ways until we gathered about a door
in a high wall. Within, the garden was lighted as for a festival; the
leaves of the trees above the wall glimmered gold; there was a noise of
music and a gay sound of many voices.
“There’s victuals going inside,” says Brandon, hoarsely, in my ear. “In
we go, whoever stays out.” And we edged through the crowd towards the
door.
“You know your orders,” said one, and lo! it was the voice of Morgan
Leroux. Brandon started back, but I took him firmly by the arm. I was
hungry. “You two come with me,” went on Morgan.
“That we will,” said I, at her elbow. She turned as though she had been
stung, and scanned us sharply.
“’Twas you I meant,” said she, with wonderful readiness. “Crowby and
Harper, fall back.” And she knocked upon the door with the handle of
her walking-cane.
The door was opened at once by a servant in livery, to whom Morgan
spoke in Spanish. In the light of the garden we perceived that Mistress
Morgan was dressed like a great gentleman, in lace and velvet and
silk. Lamps of many colours gleamed and shone among the trees; within
the house fiddles were going to a merry measure, and we could see the
flitting figures of the dancers through the lighted windows. Many
ladies and gentlemen moved in the garden, passing from shadow to shine
with a gleam of finery and sparkle of jewels. There we stood, a crowd
of lackeys and negroes staring upon this pair of scarecrows with matted
hair, unshaven faces, tattered and miry clothes, while Morgan talked
with the man who opened the door. Presently he went away, with an
obeisance, and Morgan took us aside and spoke low.
“I have brought a letter for the Governor. I have told the servant you
brought it to me through the forest; this will account for your state;
he will bring you food. Eat and drink, and wait here by the door; if
you hear me call, open the door and bring in the crew. But there is
little danger. If you must speak, speak French--not a word of English,
mind!”
Here, one with a silver wand came up, and Morgan went away with
him--into the Governor’s presence, it was to be supposed. They brought
us food and wine, and we ate and drank, sitting with our backs against
the wall, hard by the door. We could hear the men on the other side
talking low among themselves, while in front of us the festival went
forward like a scene in a playhouse. But, before very long the music
stopped, the assembly in the garden streamed within-doors, there was
a great noise of talking, and presently the company began to depart
in haste. They all passed close to us, as we sat by the door--fine
ladies, hooded and cloaked, bearded Spanish gentlemen, some wearing
swords, some without, some dressed in full uniform, some habited like
merchants; the rout huddled past us in a hurry and out into the road,
and before we had finished the jug of wine the garden was deserted,
the house fallen silent, its lighted windows empty, and we were alone.
Pomfrett was asleep by this time; and as for me, I thought I was asleep
too, and dreaming. In my dream it seemed that Morgan Leroux came out of
the house and called the crew within, and disposed them as sentries
about the house; that two of them carried Pomfrett into the house and
laid him upon a bed in a high, dark chamber smelling of cedar, while
some draggled remains of one who was formerly known as Henry Winter,
but who must on no account be confused with the real owner of that
respectable name, staggered in to sink into a heap on the floor; that
Morgan Leroux held a taper to the dazzled eyes of the said heap, which
was then hove bodily upon a soft bed. Here the dream ended.
X
_DUX FEMINA FECIT_
A thundering of cannon, clanging of bells, and calling of trumpets
fetched me broad awake. Pomfrett, slumbering on the great bed, never
moved. I let him lie, and ran out to the verandah. There was Morgan
Leroux, sound asleep in a chair. Sleep is a tell-tale; some quality
of nature, hidden by day, looks stealthily forth from the unconscious
face. Morgan’s beauty had in a measure departed from her. The features
had relapsed into something of grossness: the nostril coarsened,
the mouth relaxed, the skin flushed a dull red. The spiritual had
evaporated; the animal was apparent. Yet it was no bad animal that lay
supine, I thought, but an honest creature of courage and tenacity--and
something more. But what that something was I could not decipher.
Morgan Leroux opened her eyes, and her face changed into its living
semblance, as her hands moved mechanically about the disarray of her
man’s attire.
“Where’s Brandon--where’s Mr Pomfrett?” were Morgan’s first words.
“Rouse him out--he must be gone before Murch comes, and you too, or
there’ll be the devil to pay.” The noise of firing was so loud, I could
hardly hear what she said. “I’m in charge of the Governor’s house,
while he’s away directing the defence,” Morgan went on, with a pleasant
smile. “Now, fetch Brandon, and I’ll get some victuals the while.
Smart’s the word, Harry.”
She blew upon a whistle, and a sentry, from the other side of the
house, answered the call, and began shouting to the crew, who were
quartered somewhere out of sight. Brandon Pomfrett lay as I had left
him. This face, at least, suffered little change in sleep; there was
the same simple, stubborn honesty which ever marked the owners’ agent.
Mark you now these two reflections of different souls; for the souls
themselves were already in conflict one with another, and the weakest
must lose the game.
A minute or two, and I had Brandon Pomfrett out on the verandah; but
Mistress Morgan had found time enough to arrange her hair, and so
forth, cares which were lost on Mr Pomfrett. The men brought relics
of last night’s sumptuous banquet; and it was Mr Pomfrett’s glass that
must be filled with wine, and his silver plate heaped with delicacies,
by Morgan’s hands--hands that shook at the noise of artillery and
tumult in the town below. As for Mr Winter, he was glad to shift for
himself. So we crammed our victuals, standing and looking upon the
empty garden, where the extinguished lamps were hanging in the trees
and a few withered flowers lay upon the trodden sands of the walks.
“I don’t like this firing,” said Morgan. “But it’s a comfort to think
there’ll be no one hurt--the dear Governor will care for that. You
don’t understand? It’s just Mr Murch’s way, you see. We enter the
town by the back door, all as you saw last night, while Mr Murch
lies-to outside the harbour. We visit the Governor, introduced by the
sentry--all as you saw.... His Excellency is giving a banquet. So much
the better--we get the chief burgesses and soldier people, wives and
all, in a bag. We secure the entrances, and there they are, prisoners
of war, everyone in his best clothes. I have four pistols in my sash
(only one is loaded, because I hate pistols, but how is his Excellency
to know that?), and I present myself with my best bow and my whitest
hand--a messenger of peace. I take his Excellency by his frill, and
lead him apart from the giddy throng. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘Admiral Jevon
Murch is lying off the harbour bar, with the Black Flag at the main,
and a dozen tall ships at his call----’”
“But has he?” asked Brandon, round-eyed.
“What a question!” Morgan returned. “Have you never heard of a _ruse de
guerre_? You forget I was employed in saving all those poor people’s
lives. Don’t interrupt--there’s no time. If Murch catches you here,
my pretty gentlemen--well, I can’t help you, as I said before.” She
glanced about, terror in her face. “To be brief, I told the Governor
that Murch would burn the town unless it was ransomed before ten
o’clock to-morrow--to-day, that is--for two hundred thousand pieces of
eight. Moreover, he and his friends would be hanged on the trees of the
garden at sunrise.”
As she talked, in a high voice of feverish rapidity, her eyes shone,
laughter passed upon her face like light and was gone, and all the time
she kept glancing about and stopping in her talk, as though to listen,
amid the noise of the firing, for the tramp of the pirates’ nearing
footsteps.
“You would never have done it,” said Brandon, stolidly.
“Not I,” said she, “but Murch would. I was play-acting. And the old
gentleman submitted. Perhaps he remembered the visit of Sir Henry
Morgan to Porto-Bello. He little knew whose granddaughter he was making
submission to. But he stood on a condition that he should be allowed to
set up a sham defence, to save his honour before the world. Bless the
man, of course he should! He’s making it now--hark to the Governor’s
cannon. And off he went to take the shot from all guns, with a guard of
honour from the _Wheel of Fortune_ to attend him, in case of accidents.
That’s all. Now, would you like a ship?”
She flashed the question at Pomfrett.
“A ship? what sort of a ship?” asked the slow-moving supercargo.
“A ship--don’t you hear me tell you--a ship with masts and sails. Oh,
Mother of God, how dull----”
“A ship--yes, I suppose so. But what for?” Brandon lacked the time to
appreciate the situation.
Morgan stamped her foot. “To carry you from here before Murch sees you.
Hark!” She stared across the garden at the great wooden gate in the
wall.
“There’s nothing,” said Brandon, unmoved. “And what ails us with Mr
Murch, pray? It’s I that have a quarrel with him, I think. I want to
ask your Mr Murch why he marooned me.”
“How long will you dilly-dally?” cried Morgan. “Come! There’s ships in
the harbour for the taking. I’ll give you ten men. What’s it to be?”
“Why,” says Brandon, “the ship I want is the _Blessed Endeavour_.”
“Get another and chase her, then,” returned Morgan.
Brandon stood quietly considering the matter, undisturbed by the
imminent jeopardy in which we stood. For Murch desired our removal,
that was clear; probably because we knew too much of his secret
affairs. For myself, I could see well enough that Morgan Leroux had
much of a mind towards the amiable Pomfrett; it was scarce extravagant
to suppose that Murch perceived as much, having more incentive to
observation; and I wondered if the old buccaneer objected to his ward’s
fancy. I had no time to pursue the speculation, for there, sure enough,
was the tramping of feet coming up the lane without. Then came an
imperious hammering on the garden gate, and Murch’s voice bellowing for
admission.
“There! I knew it!” cried Morgan, turning white as a napkin. “Go! Get
you out by the back, go down to the harbour, and I’ll send the men. Go!”
She laid hands on Brandon in her haste and fear, urging him into the
house. “What’s all this?” said he, holding back. “Why should I go? I’m
not afraid of Murch.”
Morgan pulled at his sleeve, the tears running down her face.
“Why, very well,” said Brandon, hastily, “let be, I’ll go. Good-bye.”
He looked at her as he spoke, but I think he never read the glance she
gave him. The next moment we were retreating through the house. One of
the _Wheel of Fortune’s_ crew stood sentry on a little door opening
from the back of the garden; seeing who we were, he let us pass, and we
went down towards the sea. The inhabitants, black, white, and brown,
were tumbling out of their houses, for fear of the pirates. They passed
us, singly and in groups, laden with cooking-pots and bundles, all
going to camp in the woods, the children running and crying at their
heels. All through the town it was the same; and all the while the
bells were hammering in the steeples and the big guns were booming in
the castle, and never a sign of a pirate to be seen until we came to
the quays; and there was the _Wheel of Fortune_ wreathed in smoke, the
great black flag flying at the main. She was firing at the moored ships
about her, a dozen or more merchant bottoms, and three or four were
firing in return, while puffs of smoke kept breaking from the walls
of the stone forts at the harbour mouth. A sea-fight is a confused
business--masts and sails appearing and disappearing in thickening
volumes of smoke, tongued with red flashes, to an intermittent roar
of cannon and crash of splintering wood--and the spectator can make
but little of it. But, it would appear that Mr Murch, in his bargain
with the Governor, had omitted to include the shipping in the harbour.
Here was no mock engagement. We could hear the shot strike and see the
splinters fly, and here and there a top-mast shut down sideways.
A convenient pile of timber made a shelter against the balls which came
ashore now and again, and there we had a little leisure to consider the
posture of affairs.
“I don’t understand this girl--this Morgan Leroux,” said Pomfrett.
“Why should you?”
“The girl worries me. Why should she want to come with us--when was it?
only yesterday, so it was--and then here she is at Porto-Bello; and now
she’ll get us a ship, by her way of it. But I don’t believe she can.”
“_Dux femina fecit_,” I said.
“Yes, but I don’t like it. Besides, the girl’s a pirate, and the
daughter of a pirate. Why is it we can never be rid of pirates,
whatever we do? All I want is to sail a straight course in the owners’
interests, and it can’t be done for this mess of pirates,” complained
the agent. “All we do is to purvey ships for them.”
“Well, here’s a pirate--a female pirate--offering to purvey a ship for
you in return.”
“And if she is,” says Brandon, with energy, “I’ll take it. I’ve got
to get the property back somehow. I tell you what, Harry, I’ve been
thinking that there’s cases where ordinary rules of morals don’t apply.”
“Do you say so? Continue, good supercargo.”
“Well, that’s all,” said Pomfrett, after a little consideration. “But
don’t you agree with me?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “But the question is, what are we to do next?”
“Let us look the situation fairly in the face,” said Pomfrett. “I wish
there was less noise, but it can’t be helped. First, there’s Dawkins,
sailing away with our ship, the _Blessed Endeavour_.”
“And Mr Murch’s silver. Or, rather, Mistress Morgan Leroux’s silver.”
“There again,” said the agent, wrinkling his brow. “How do I know whose
silver it is? It may be the very silver I set out to get. You can’t
believe these pirate people. Anyway, it’s aboard my ship.”
“Call it yours, then. What next?”
“Next, there’s Murch in his ship, the _Wheel of Fortune_, which he
owes to me, engaged in taking Porto-Bello. And next, there’s our ship
which we haven’t got, but which Morgan Leroux says she will get for us.”
“And next, there’s ourselves, the Two Gentlemen of Porto-Bello, or the
Virtuous Pirates,” I remarked.
“We’re not pirates yet,” said Pomfrett, cocking an eye over the baulks
of timber, and diving down again at the report of a gun.
“How about getting Murch a ship under false pretences?”
“That was necessary in the owners’ interests. Besides, we never knew he
was going to play this game.” Brandon regarded me with great solemnity.
“I see nothing to laugh at,” he added. “I tell you, I’ll stick at
nothing to get my ship back. I’m not afraid of words. Call me a pirate,
if it amuses you.”
“There’s nothing amusing about Execution Dock,” I said, “and that’s the
course you’re shaping, as sure as you’re alive, my buccaneer.”
“I can’t help it,” said the valiant agent. “But there’s no reason why
you should run the risk because I do. You’ve no responsibility, and I
hold you free to go where you like,” he added, magnanimously.
I thanked him. But--the rules of morality having been stretched all
ready for action--the question still remained, what to do next? We sat
and contemplated the problem, while the fight went merrily forward in
the harbour. Boats had been lowered from the _Wheel of Fortune_ by
this time, and a couple of ships had been boarded and, apparently,
taken. Presently the firing ceased; the cannonading from the castle,
too, had slackened, and the bells had stopped their clamour. We were
reflecting that, if the Governor had by any chance discovered how small
was Murch’s force, there was still time for him to reverse the fortunes
of that astute general, when Morgan Leroux, wrapped in a fine cloak
of crimson velvet, appeared upon the quay. Behind her marched William
Crowby, the boatswain, and a party of seamen, none too steady on their
feet. Neither Murch, nor the devil his master, could keep pirates
ashore from liquor.
Morgan beckoning to us, we followed her into a shore-boat; the
boatswain took the tiller and steered towards a fine French sloop lying
out in the harbour. Not a man appeared on deck; she swung to her
moorings, to all appearance deserted.
“Better jam the rudder, all the same,” said Crowby, and put the boat
under the counter, where, above our heads, ran the legend, in gold
letters, _La Modeste_.
They wedged up the rudder with thwarts and an oar or two; a precaution
usually taken on these occasions, to render the ship unmanageable,
supposing the crew tried to run. Then we climbed aboard, Morgan Leroux
going first, as superior officer. There was never a soul of her crew
aboard _La Modeste_. You are to consider us all this time as following
meekly the current of events, with scarce a word spoken. The hand of
Destiny was on our necks, and with an Oriental composure we beheld
the anchors hoisted to the cat-heads, the sails set, and the quays
of Porto-Bello sliding past us. And, as in a dream, we saw Morgan
Leroux signal to the officer in command of the _Wheel of Fortune_ as
we passed her, heard her explain through the speaking-trumpet that she
had Murch’s orders to carry the sloop outside; ducked our heads as the
forts on either horn of the harbour fired at us, the balls moaning
overhead between the masts; and felt the lift of the open sea.
Then Brandon Pomfrett found his voice. “Surely you’re not coming with
us?” he said to Captain Morgan.
Morgan turned and looked at him. Even Brandon might have understood her
glance. She turned away again without a word, and _La Modeste_, with
every stitch of canvas set and drawing, sprang forward, heading north.
XI
THE LITTLE CRUISE OF _LA MODESTE_
The situation was sufficiently delicate. Pomfrett drew me to the port
side of the little quarterdeck. Morgan Leroux leaned on the starboard
rail, having her back towards us.
“Look here,” said the owners’ agent, “this isn’t what I meant at all.
This will never do. It’s impossible. Why did she come?”
“Well, for one thing, you would never have passed Murch’s ship going
out of harbour, if it hadn’t been for Morgan Leroux,” I answered.
“Who commands this ship, do you suppose?” returned the supercargo.
“You must ask the lady.”
“But how can she sail with us--or we with her?”
“Too late to enquire, is it not?”
“We can put back.”
“Can we?”
“I’ll soon see,” said the agent, and marched across to Morgan Leroux.
“Well,” said she, “have you done discussing poor Morgan?”
“Will you tell us,” returned Brandon, wisely disregarding the question,
“what you--what we are to do?”
“It’s me that should ask you, I think,” said Morgan, placidly. “Here’s
your ship. What are you going to do with her?”
“My ship?”
“I said I was going to get you a ship; well, now I’ve done it, haven’t
I? You don’t seem weighed down with gratitude.”
“But I am grateful,” cried Pomfrett, eagerly. “I think you’re
wonderful. But what troubles me,” he added, in a burst, “is
what--where--how I can serve you,” he ended, lamely.
“Will you take me to England?”
“I would gladly,” said the harassed agent. “Only, how can I? Come,
Mistress Morgan, I put it to you fairly, can it be done?”
“Don’t speak so loud,” said Morgan, glancing aside at old Crowby, who
was handling the wheel. “I’ll answer you fairly. Yes, it can. What are
you afraid of? Don’t you know I can take care of myself? Now, then.
What’s the alternative?”
“I would put back into Porto-Bello, and give you to your guardian,”
answered Brandon, sturdily.
“You’re a brave young man, by your way of it,” said Morgan. “But it
would be quicker for you to clap a pistol to your head this minute, and
ask Mr Winter to pull the trigger for you. We shall be lucky to escape
Mr Murch, as it is. But put back if you want to--only, what about Mr
Dawkins and your owners?”
It was true. Behold the incorruptible agent torn in twain.
“I know you mean mighty well,” Morgan went on, with a sudden change of
manner, “but you don’t think of me. You think only of yourself; and yet
you credit me with pure unselfishness. I had an eye for poor Morgan
Leroux, let me tell you, on this little enterprise. You would have left
me to sail on the private account with that bloody pirate, Mr Murch,
without a thought. You never scrupled to leave me to defend my own good
name then--not you. No, no. But when I take the last chance of liberty
and honour, and come aboard here, on the same quarterdeck with your
worships, oh, then it’s a different tale! It’s ‘Is it right to sail
with a woman?’ And ‘Can we endanger our spotless reputation?’ And ‘Put
back to your guardian.’ God give you joy of your virtue, gentlemen. I
thank Him, mine is of a different kind.” She spoke low, a spot of red
on either cheek, an angry spark in her eye, and when she had done she
turned her back upon us and walked away.