of Panama. Ah, the cap’n had all the luck there was on that v’yage, by
all accounts.”
“I’ve heard,” said Morgan Leroux, “that Captain Morgan was accused of
embezzling the plunder.”
“I never see the end of the exp’dition,” Dawkins answered, shortly. “So
I can’t say as to that, you see.” And Brandon nudged me.
“You don’t know, then, what became of the bar silver?” said Morgan.
“The cache of bar silver, eh, Mr Dawkins?”
Dawkins stared at the speaker with an expression of amazement that
changed to suspicion. His shaggy, rusty brows shut down over his little
eyes, his nostrils dilated, he glanced swiftly to left and right, and
back again to Morgan’s placid countenance. She was not even looking at
him, but was gazing at the lighted candle that stood between them on
the table. So they rested a minute or more, the little yellow flame of
the candle swaying gently back and forth with the motion of the vessel,
lighting Morgan’s high-coloured, straight-browed face of abstraction,
and the hairy, lined, mahogany visage, with the little glinting eyes,
opposite. Dawkins was labouring with his muddled intelligence, trying
hard to think.
“Now, I wonder, just as a matter of curiosity, what made you ask that
there question, shipmate,” said Mr Dawkins, with an elaborate show of
indifference, evidently desiring to gain time. Mr Dawkins’s interval of
reflection had perhaps suggested to him that Morgan’s question might be
merely an innocent enquiry suggested by some old, vague story. There
were plenty of wild yarns afloat concerning buried treasure and the
like.
“Because,” Morgan replied, with a reckless audacity that made us jump,
“that silver belongs to me.”
“Ho, it does, does it,” said Dawkins, after a little uneasy silence.
“And how might that be, shipmate, make so humbly bold?” he added, with
the ominous politeness we knew.
“Ah, well, you know the saying, Mr Dawkins, ‘the longest liver takes
all.’”
“Seems to me, shipmate,” said Dawkins, with laboured sweetness, “you’re
a-talking in riddles. Now, I was never no hand at riddles.”
Without removing his eyes from Morgan, he was stealthily fingering one
of the pistols he wore in his cross-belt of silk, after the manner of
the pirates. The persuasion that he had been trepanned was working
itself clear in his mind.
“No riddle at all, Mr Dawkins,” said Morgan, pleasantly. “Your old
commander, Sir Henry Morgan, was my grandfather----”
Dawkins, in his amazement, dropped his hands upon the table and leaned
forward with fallen jaw.
“----And he left his wealth to me. You’ll find it hard to bam your old
commander, Mr Dawkins, _dead or alive_!”
We were in the room on the instant, covering Mr Dawkins with our
pistols, like a scene in a playhouse. He gave up his arms quite
peaceably, in a dazed, helpless way; and sat all shrunken together
and staring upon us. Then he turned upon Morgan Leroux, and delivered
himself of some pungent observations. Pomfrett stopped him sharply.
“Avast there, Mr Dawkins. I’ll have no swearing aboard my ship.”
“Your ship, was it? ’Twas this pretty little monkey was skipper
just now,” growled Dawkins. “Come,” he went on, “I know when I’m
beaten, I do. I had some opportunities to learn, you see. Now you
got the weather-gauge of poor old Dawkins, not a doubt of it. Let’s
know the worst. ’Tis Jevon Murch as put you up to this here little
game--enticing a man with a invitation to dinner, and what not, and
call yourselves gentlemen. I’d make better gentlemen out of a pope’s
head and a slush-bucket, split _me_!” said Dawkins, his choler getting
the better of him.
“No,” said Pomfrett, quietly, “Mr Murch knows nothing of the matter.
It’s you and I that have to settle accounts, Mr Dawkins.”
We were seated at the table, opposite the old buccaneer, each with a
couple of pistols lying under his hand, the candle-flames streaming
this way and then that way, with the motion of the ship. Morgan Leroux
had retired into a corner and sat in the shadow, with her chin in her
hand, watching us under her level, black brows. We could hear the noise
of Dawkins’s men carousing with the crew in the waist.
“Settle away, then, Mr Supercargo,” said Dawkins, who appeared a little
more at ease upon learning that Murch was not at hand. “There’s no man
alive what’s more open to fair discussion than me, though I say it.”
“Very well,” says Brandon. “First, then, you sold Mr Winter and myself
for slaves.”
“It looks like as if I did at this present moment, don’t it?” growled
Dawkins. “But I won’t quarrel over details, cap’n. Heave ahead.”
“Second, you stole the _Blessed Endeavour_.”
“Who says so?”
“Well, you did, you know,” returned Brandon, a little set back. “What’s
the use of talking?”
“Not much, by the look of it,” retorted Mr Dawkins. “You say I stole
the ship. I say I didn’t, nor I haven’t. I was elected captain--you
helped elect me, you two, ’long of the others. I’m captain still. What
are you? Deserters, I reckon. If you was to come aboard, I’d clap you
in irons, and no mistake about it. Now, then! What next? You’ll tell me
I stole a cargo of silver, I shouldn’t wonder, like young jackanapes in
the corner there, what’s grandson to Cap’n Morgan. Grandson, says he!
Ho, ho!”
At this, Brandon advised Mr Dawkins, in forcible terms, to keep a civil
tongue in his head.
“Why, what now?” cried the injured Dawkins. “A man may speak, I should
hope! One would think Cap’n Morgan’s grandson was a young lady what
couldn’t defend herself, to hear you. But there, Mr Pomfrett, you got
the weather-gauge, as I say, and you can give your orders. Go on, sir.
I’ll give my best attention.”
But Pomfrett was somewhat at a loss. Perceiving, for the first time,
how strong a case Dawkins could make out in his own defence, Pomfrett
sat uncomfortably silent. Old Dawkins grinned at him.
“You got me here by treach’ry, Mr Pomfrett,” says he, “and I reckon
’tis no use asking for a fair hearing in full council aboard the
_Blessed Endeavour_. I ain’t a fool. I know what you want--you want to
see me a-drying in the sun at Execution Dock, while you takes all the
cash and all the credit too. And very natural, I’m sure. On’y, how are
you a-going to do it?”
Still Brandon sat silent. Morgan Leroux gazed at him intently,
anxiously. He was contending with his scruples; the civilised
conventions which would prevent his fighting a man like Dawkins with
his own weapons. Was he, at the dictates of scrupulosity, to let
the thief go free, because he was his guest, and so forfeit all
his owners’ fortune, and the fortune of Morgan Leroux likewise? For
a minute or two, I believe the notion presented itself to Brandon
Pomfrett in the alluring light of an heroical sacrifice, such as you
read of in books. But common men in common life must act as they can,
not as they would, and the truth that Dawkins had taken to his heart in
infancy Brandon was to recognise now--just in time.
“Dawkins,” says he, in a hard, sharp voice, that caused the old pirate
to look up with a start, “I’ve just two words to say to you. Give me
sixfold compensation for having sold us as slaves--that’s six hundred
pieces of eight for each, you know; give me back the ship and all
that’s in her, resign command in my favour in full council of officers,
and you shall go free.”
Morgan Leroux, sitting silent in the corner, clapped her hands.
Dawkins’s tufted eyebrows climbed his forehead, and he looked at the
young captain with a queer expression of mingled dismay and admiration.
“Spoken like a gentleman o’ fortune, by the bones of the deep!” says
he. “Blest if I thought you had it in you, Mr Supercargo. Very good,
commander. And what if I refuse this here modest proposal?”
“You’ll hang at the yard-arm at sunrise.”
“Dear me! At sunrise, too--quite poetical, ain’t it?” said Dawkins;
but for all his bold front, he was visibly shaken. “But just a moment,
commander, just one little question. What would you gain, now, by
hanging poor old Dawkins--at sunrise?”
“Well, you see, it’s not so much what I should gain as what you would
lose, Mr Dawkins,” says Pomfrett.
“Ah, I reckon you’re too clever for me, too deep altogether,” retorted
Dawkins. “But I ain’t scared, not me, so don’t think it. I’ve lived
cheek by jowl with goodman death for a matter of fifty year, you see.
What do I lose, says you? Why now, I’ll tell you. I’ll lose a little
cottage by the water-side, with a bit of a flagstaff in the garden, and
flowers and a seat in it, and what not. I’ll lose a few quiet years of
steady rations, which enables a man to fix his attention on repentance,
ready for kingdom come, with a Holy Joe a-taking his Sunday tea in the
parlour, very likely. Not much by the sound of it, is it? But it’s all
poor old Dawkins has in store, for fifty year of hard service--just
enough to make the difference of hell on the one side of the great
gulf, and a golden crown and harps and such on t’other, for a poor old
seaman.”
“Accept my terms, and I’ll give you a chance of the cottage and heaven
and all,” said Brandon.
“Would you, now?” cried Dawkins, with a cunning leer. “Why, that’s
mortal kind of you, commander, to be sure! You’re a man to be
trusted--we all knows that--and I’ll take your word on it, Mr Pomfrett.
I know when I’m beaten, I reckon. How much now, would you----”
“All in good time,” said Brandon. “We’ll have the dividend declared
before the _Blessed Endeavour_ sails.”
“Now that’s what I call talking!” says Dawkins. “The dividend
declared--that’s real business. And then she sails for England, does
she? That’s good news, too. And who’ll command the barky, cap’n, if I
might ask?”
“I will,” said Brandon.
“Ho!” said Dawkins, with an appearance of deep thought. “Yes, of
course. I might a knowed that much, says you. But now you and me is
friends again, commander, you’ll not take a friendly hint amiss, I’m
sure. The crew I got together, Mr Pomfrett, ain’t exactly Mary’s little
lambs, as you might say--eh?”
He cocked his eye at Pomfrett with an expression of extraordinary
significance.
“I’ll take my chance of that,” says the valiant skipper.
“Now you listen to me for a brace of shakes,” returned Dawkins, with
a sudden change of manner. “This is straight talk, this is. I know
where I stand. I’m a-going to play the square game. You can see for
yourself I’ve naught to gain by telling you. But as sure as sunrise,
if anyone but Dawkins--or Cap’n Murch, maybe, but he ain’t about, you
say?--as sure as death, I say, if you takes command of that there ship,
there’ll be mutiny, hot mutiny, damned hot. By the bones of the deep,
Mr Pomfrett, there’ll be a bloody throat-cutting, gospel truth there
will.”
Pomfrett glanced uneasily at Morgan Leroux. The probability of the
statement was undeniable. Love and war are excellent pursuits, but
they should be carried on separately. Dawkins dropped the lids over his
little, twinkling eyes, and seemed to study the table.
“Under favour, commander,” he resumed, presently, “I would humbly
suggest another way--me what has a rope round his neck and feels the
hemp rough on his skin a’ready.”
“Well?”
“Declare the dividend as you say, all well and good. The officers,
they don’t know--any more than you do, come to that, Mr Pomfrett--they
don’t know, not being told, d’ye see, that the ship ain’t being sailed
on the private account for the owners’ satisfaction, all the samey as
we started, so there won’t be no trouble about the dividend of the
plunder. You and me can settle that, private. Then there’s pickings
for the crew, for we ain’t been altogether idle while you was a
holiday-making in Barbadoes, so there won’t be no trouble about _that_,
neither. And then--well, I hardly like to mention it, commander, I
don’t indeed.”
“Speak up,” says Brandon.
“Why,” Dawkins went on, with a sort of deprecating suggestion that he
was laying himself open to a painful misunderstanding, and knew it, and
could bear it--“why, it come into my mind that bygones being bygones,
and you and Mr Winter aboard again, all shipshape and comfortable,
and the dividend being declared, and all, d’ye see,”--Mr Dawkins’s
laborious insinuation of extraordinary sincerity was a thing to
behold--“I thought to myself, d’ye see, why not let things be as they
was afore, commander?”
“You mean, you propose to retain the command of the _Blessed Endeavour_
yourself--is that it?”
“Well, you see, commander, I was elected in full council. There’s no
getting away from that. And the officers, they wouldn’t understand a
new arrangement, d’ye see; they’d want a explanation. And then, d’ye
see, if you was to give ’em what you might call _your_ explanation,
they mightn’t--I don’t say they wouldn’t--but they _mightn’t_ believe
you, captain. It ain’t,” said Mr Dawkins, piously, “that I want to put
myself forward--you see that, don’t you, commander?--it’s on’y what’s
best to be done for all parties consarned.”
We looked at each other in silence. There was no doubt about
it--Dawkins dead was more dangerous than Dawkins living; since, if he
lived, we had but to reckon with himself alone; but if he were removed,
perils multiplied at every step. The old rascal had the weather-gauge
of us, after all. We looked at each other. It was Morgan Leroux who
broke into a peal of laughter, and suddenly we were all laughing; we
laughed until the tears came, all except Mr Dawkins, who sat with his
big, scarred hands loosely clasped on the table in front of him, gazing
at us with a face of wood. His gravity was like a reproof. We turned
serious again as suddenly as we had broken into mirth.
“Well, gentlemen, what’s it to be?” said Dawkins. “Hang me and put
your heads in a hornets’ nest, or call me Captain Dawkins and sail
to England as safe and easy as the Lord High Admiral in a blessed
ship-o’-the-line?”
“Why, really, Mr Dawkins,” began Pomfrett, “I think you should offer
some sort of security, just as a matter of form, you know, that we
shan’t be hove overboard, or marooned on the next island.”
“Security? Why, I’ll do what I can. I’ll give you what I got. I can’t
do no more,” said Dawkins. “Gratitude, now, gratitude for saving me
a hanging, what d’ye say to that, commander, for a sheet-anchor to
wind’ard?”
“No; won’t do,” said Brandon. “I’ve got to set twice six hundred pieces
of eight, a cargo of silver, and a tall ship against that item. Try
again.”
“Fear of committing sin?” suggested Dawkins.
“No.”
“Fear of the law, then?”
“No; there’s not enough of that commodity south of the Line, Mr
Dawkins.”
“Fear of the ship’s company? There’s some of ’em would be almost called
honest.”
“Pass again,” said Brandon.
“Well, you’re hard to please, commander, so help me. What,” said Mr
Dawkins, “if I were to swear a oath on the Book, now?”
“That’s better,” said Brandon, “and the least you can do.”
“Oh, that’s better, is it?” said Dawkins, evidently discomfited. “Well
what must be, must, I reckon. Fetch aft the Book, commander.”
Brandon took a Testament from the locker where his kit was stowed, and
there and then administered a terrific oath to Mr Dawkins, binding
him, under the most blasting penalties in this world and the next,
to perform his share of our mutual agreement. A pirate has a certain
respect for an oath taken on the Bible; and although it is always
doubtful how far it will bind him when the pinch comes, this thin
strand of superstitious faith was all we had to trust in.
“Well an’ good,” said Dawkins, drawing the back of his hand across his
lips. “Now it’s my turn, commander. Take the Book in your right hand
and say after me.”
And he launched into an apocalyptic imprecation beside which Brandon’s
attempt at a sacrament paled its ineffectual fire. To Morgan Leroux,
and to me, did Mr Dawkins, not sparing us a single jot, then administer
this tremendous compact.
“And now,” said Mr Dawkins, filling his glass for the first time since
we had entered the cabin, “a glass all round to wet the agreement,
shipmates, and then--as there ain’t to be no hanging at sunrise--why,
I’ll turn in for a stretch off-shore on this here locker, commander, by
your kind leave.”
He lay down, wrapped in his boat-cloak, and slept instantly. A sentry
was stationed at the door of the cabin, and we three went on deck. As
we emerged into the dusky glimmer of moonlight shining diffused behind
clouds, the watch challenged loudly. “Boat ahoy!” But there was no boat
to be seen. “I could ’a’ sworn there was a boat, too,” said the man.
“Yonder, out by the headland.”
The crag stood forth black upon the dim glow of the sky, and the
sparkling heave of the empty sea. There might be a whole fleet behind
the rock, for all we knew. This second mysterious visitation, false
alarm though it might be, affected us disagreeably. Was it not enough,
we complained, to be finally committed to a hazardous adventure, a
voyage whose every hour brought peril, but we must have a new terror
thrust upon us out of the night?
XIII
SHOWING WHAT BEFELL IN CARATASCA
The next morning we weighed anchor and sailed round Cape Gracias à
Dios to the Caratasca Lagoon, and there was the _Blessed Endeavour_,
high and dry on the sandy beach, having her bottom scrubbed. You would
think, now, that Brandon Pomfrett was rising on the crest of fortune’s
wave: his ship recovered, with her hold full of treasure, the girl he
admired in his company, and fixed to remain there. And yet, one look
at Dawkins’s burly figure and old, sly visage was enough to poison
expectation. You could no more put your trust in him than in a wild
boar of the woods. You might try to imagine yourself doing so, and you
would always fail. And it was a far cry to England from Caratasca Cays.
But, what choice had we? None. We must even run the gauntlet. I think
Brandon Pomfrett would have given his right hand, or, at least, his
left, to carry off Morgan Leroux in the _Modesty_ ship and pitch his
owners’ interests overboard. Indeed, I suggested that he should do so,
offering to remain aboard the _Blessed Endeavour_ in his place. But he
would not have it--such is the force of early training in the service
of Madam Duty.
“No, no,” says he. “Where there’s three of us, Dawkins may play fair.
With one alone--why, I leave you to guess the sequel. As it is, I don’t
see how we’re to sleep of nights. We three--or at least the two of
us--must keep watch and watch about and pistols primed.” And so we did.
So long as we were shipmates with Captain Dawkins he never caught the
trio napping; two waked while one slept, that was the arrangement; and
Morgan Leroux took her spell fairly. I would not have married that wild
wench for a king’s ransom; such desperate adventures were not for the
quiet clerk; but he gave her full meed of admiration.
“And supposing Mistress Morgan Leroux is--is _found out_?” I said.
“Because, you know, it’s sure to happen, sooner or later. And what
then?”
“Ay, ay,” said the unhappy agent. “I tell you, the thought rides me
like a nightmare. Well, you’ll see. I’ll contrive to cheat the devil
there, too.”
“It’s not one devil, it’s ninety fiends of the pit you’ve to deal with,
my son. Well, we’ll hope for the best--the longest liver takes all.”
You see, our supercargo had a weighty burden for green shoulders to
carry. A man may bear almost any weight of his proper work, and never
be the worse of it; but when a woman comes and gaily perches herself
a-top, ’tis then his sinews begin to crack.
To the general council of officers, held that evening, Captain Dawkins
in these words genially introduced the agent and his clerk.
“Gentlemen, here’s Mr Pomfrett and Mr Winter returned among us after
their turn ashore, which I’m sure neither you nor I begrudge them.
We’ve managed to carry on, by hook or by crook, and even done a
little business on our own account, in the mean time. Now, here’s the
supercargo, come to overhaul the Book of Plunder, as it’s only right he
should, d’ye see, and he demands a dividend.”
Mr Dawkins’s insinuation had instant effect. One of the mates arose and
requested some explanation of our absence from the ship. Was it to
be understood, he desired to know, that we were to come and go as we
pleased, while the rest of the ship’s company kept to their job, and
then we were to return at our pleasure and overhaul their takings?
“Easy, my lad, easy,” said Dawkins. “What you’re a saying is
disrespectful to me”--Mr Dawkins winked shamelessly--“and don’t
you forget it, my son. If I’ve consented to accept Mr Pomfrett’s
explanation, why, that’s enough, I should think. So let’s hear no more
of it. Let bygones----”
“Stop!” cried Pomfrett. “Mr Dawkins, you know as well as I do, that I
have to account to my owners in this matter, and not to you, nor to any
man aboard.--Quartermaster!”
“Sir.” The grizzled old quartermaster jumped to his feet with an
expectant alacrity.
“Take notice of what I say. Now, gentlemen! I’ll fight any man aboard
this ship who calls my conduct in question.” He glanced about the ring
of hostile faces. There was a dead silence.
“Come now,” said the quartermaster, rubbing his hands, “ain’t there
any gentleman anxious for to oblige? Why, we ain’t had a spell ashore
with the small-arms all the v’yage.”
It is the quartermaster’s business, by pirates’ law, to stand umpire in
all quarrels involving a duel, which must always be fought on shore.
But our friend was not to exercise his office on this occasion. No one
took up the challenge.
“Very well,” said Brandon. “Then since we are not to fight, let us be
friends. Now, I’ll tell you, we’ve not quitted the ship for our own
pleasure, of that you may take your oath. We’ve been about the owners’
business; and if you want proof, there’s the little _Modesty_ lying off
the beach. That ship joins the expedition, gentlemen, and she’s not
empty, either.”
Thus did the agent turn the tide in his favour; and everyone clamoured
to hear the story of our adventures. But Dawkins, who had his own
reasons for checking indiscriminate curiosity, hastily called the
meeting to order. The dividend was duly declared; and, reserving the
plate for the owners, there remained about an hundred pieces of eight,
either in money or money’s worth, per share, the men taking a single
share each, the officers more, in proportion to their rank. All Captain
Dawkins’s winnings he handed to Pomfrett. This payment left him still
in debt to us, on account of the compensation we demanded for the
slave-dealing transaction.
“You had better remit the rest,” I said. “I would sooner have Dawkins
in a good temper than the money, any day. You saw in the council how
dangerous he is.”
“Ah, but I had the dog in hand,” said Pomfrett. “And I’ll pouch every
penny, though Dawkins sweat blood for it.”
This had a fine sound, no doubt; but I thought it highly improbable
that Mr Dawkins would indulge in any such painful exercise. And,
indeed, so soon as the dividend had been declared, Mr Dawkins went
about on another tack. He called another council to settle on our plan
of action, and opened proceedings by roundly stating that the owners’
agent, after his secret transactions ashore--whatever they might have
been--considered that enough had been done for the owners; that, as for
the ship’s company, an hundred pieces of eight should surely content
them; and that, in fine, we should sail for England. This was a
method of stating the case which left Pomfrett nothing which he could
openly challenge, since the statement was substantially true. He had
to sit still under the implication, biting his nails, his face dark
with passion, amid a clamour of protest. They would put to sea and
cruise for the Spanish plate-ships; they would go southward, through
Magellan’s Straits, and plunder the towns of the Pacific coast; they
would do anything, in fact, and go anywhere; but they would never go
home till they were glutted to the brim.
“Your proposition don’t seem what you might call popular, Mr Pomfrett,”
says Dawkins, with a grin. “I reckon we’ll have to beat up for plunder
yet, sir.”
“Lay your course, then,” says Pomfrett. “You’ll find me follow you, Mr
Dawkins.”
So Dawkins laid his course, and the council agreed to follow it. Mr
Dawkins would take boats up the river Coco, which flows out under Cape
Gracias à Dios, and attempt the town of Cartagena. “It’s a rich town,”
says he, “and never been taken before, that I know of. A virgin city,
is Cartagena, and, by what I’ve heard, there’s diamonds in it, too.”