_Don Sanchez puts us in the way of robbing with an easy conscience._
Promising to make his story as short as he possibly could, Don Sanchez
began:
"On the coming of our present king to his throne, Sir Richard Godwin was
recalled from Italy, whither he had been sent as embassador by the
Protector. He sailed from Livorno with his wife and his daughter Judith,
a child of nine years old at that time, in the Seahawk."
"I remember her," says Evans, "as stout a ship as ever was put to sea."
"On the second night of her voyage the Seahawk became parted from her
convoy, and the next day she was pursued and overtaken by a pair of
Barbary pirates, to whom she gave battle."
"Aye, and I'd have done the same," cries Evans, "though they had been a
score."
"After a long and bloody fight," continues Don Sanchez, "the corsairs
succeeded in boarding the Seahawk and overcoming the remnant of her
company."
"Poor hearts! would I had been there to help 'em," says Evans.
"Exasperated by the obstinate resistance of these English and their own
losses, the pirates would grant no mercy, but tying the living to the
dead they cast all overboard save Mrs. Godwin and her daughter. Her lot
was even worse; for her wounded husband, Sir Richard, was snatched from
her arms and flung into the sea before her eyes, and he sank crying
farewell to her."
"These Turks have no hearts in their bellies, you must understand,"
explains Evans. "And nought but venom in their veins."
"The Seahawk was taken to Alger, and there Mrs. Godwin and her daughter
were sold for slaves in the public market-place."
"I have seen 'em sold by the score there," says Evans, "and fetch but an
onion a head."
"By good fortune the mother and daughter were bought by Sidi ben Moula,
a rich old merchant who was smitten by the pretty, delicate looks of
Judith, whom he thenceforth treated as if she had been his own child. In
this condition they lived with greater happiness than falls to the lot
of most slaves, until the beginning of last year, when Sidi died, and
his possessions fell to his brother, Bare ben Moula. Then Mrs. Godwin
appeals to Bare for her liberty and to be sent home to her country,
saying that what price (in reason) he chooses to set upon their heads
she will pay from her estate in England--a thing which she had proposed
before to Sidi, but he would not hear of it because of his love for
Judith and his needing no greater fortune than he had. But this Bare,
though he would be very well content, being also an old man, to have his
household managed by Mrs. Godwin and to adopt Judith as his child, being
of a more avaricious turn than his brother, at length consents to it, on
condition that her ransoms be paid before she quits Barbary. And so,
casting about how this may be done, Mrs. Godwin finds a captive whose
price has been paid, about to be taken to Palma in the Baleares, and to
him she entrusts two letters." Here Don Sanchez pulls two folded sheets
of vellum from his pocket, and presenting one to me, he says:
"Mayhap you recognise this hand, Mr. Knight."
And I, seeing the signature Elizabeth Godwin, answers quickly enough:
"Aye, 'tis my dear cousin Bess, her own hand."
"This," says the Don, handing the other to Evans, "you may understand."
"I can make out 'tis writ in the Moorish style," says Evans, "but the
meaning of it I know not, for I can't tell great A from a bull's foot
though it be in printed English."
"'Tis an undertaking on the part of Bare ben Moula," says the Don, "to
deliver up at Dellys in Barbary the persons of Mrs. Godwin and her
daughter against the payment of five thousand gold ducats within one
year. The other writing tells its own story."
Mr. Hopkins took the first sheet from me and read it aloud. It was
addressed to Mr. Richard Godwin, Hurst Court, Chislehurst in Kent, and
after giving such particulars of her past as we had already heard from
Don Sanchez, she writes thus: "And now, my dear nephew, as I doubt not
you (as the nearest of my kindred to my dear husband after us two poor
relicts) have taken possession of his estate in the belief we were all
lost in our voyage from Italy, I do pray you for the love of God and of
mercy to deliver us from our bondage by sending hither a ship with the
money for our ransoms forthwith, and be assured by this that I shall not
dispossess you of your fortune (more than my bitter circumstances do now
require), so that I but come home to die in a Christian country and have
my sweet Judith where she may be less exposed to harm than in this
infidel country. I count upon your love,--being ever a dear nephew,--and
am your most hopeful, trusting, and loving aunt, Elizabeth Godwin."
"Very well, sir," says Mr. Hopkins, returning the letter. "You have been
to Chislehurst."
"I have," answers the Don, "and there I find the estate in the hands of
a most curious Puritanical steward, whose honesty is rather in the
letter than the spirit. For though I have reason to believe that not one
penny's value of the estate has been misemployed since it has been in
his hands, yet will he give nothing--no, not a maravedi to the
redemption of his mistress, saying that the letter is addressed to
Richard Godwin and not to him, etc., and that he hath no power to pay
out monies for this purpose, even though he believed the facts I have
laid before him--which for his own ends doubtless he fains to misdoubt."
"As a trader, sir," says Mr. Hopkins, "I cannot blame his conduct in
that respect. For should the venture fall through, the next heir might
call upon him to repay out of his own pocket all that he had put into
this enterprise. But this Mr. Richard Godwin, what of him?"
"He is nowhere to be found. The only relatives I have been able to
discover are these two gentlemen."
"Who," remarks Mr. Hopkins, with a shrewd glance at our soiled clothes,
"are not, I venture to think, in a position to pay their cousin's
ransom."
"Alas, no, sir," says Jack. "We are but two poor shopkeepers of London
undone by the great fire."
"Well now, sir," says Mr. Hopkins, fetching an inkpot, a pen, and a
piece of paper from his pocket. "I may conclude that you wish me to
adventure upon the redemption of these two ladies in Barbary, upon the
hazard of being repaid by Mrs. Godwin when she recovers her estate." And
the Don making him a reverence, he continues, "We must first learn the
extent of our liabilities. What sum is to be paid to Bare ben Moula?"
"Five thousand gold ducats--about two thousand pounds English."
"Two thousand," says Mr. Hopkins, writing. "Then, Robert Evans, what
charge is yours for fetching the ladies from Dellys?"
"Master Hopkins, I have said fifteen hundred pounds," says he, "and I
won't go from my word though all laugh at me for a madman."
"That seems a great deal of money," says Mr. Hopkins.
"Well, if you think fifteen hundred pounds too much for my carcase and a
ship of twenty men, you can go seek a cheaper market elsewhere."
"You think there is very small likelihood of coming back alive?"
"Why, comrade, 'tis as if you should go into a den of lions and hope to
get out whole; for though I have the Duke's pass, these Moors are no
fitter to be trusted than a sackful of serpents. 'Tis ten to one our
ship be taken, and we fools all sold into slavery."
"Ten to one," says Mr. Hopkins; "that is to say, you would make this
voyage for the tenth part of what you ask were you sure of returning
safe."
"I would go as far anywhere outside the straits for an hundred pounds
with a lighter heart."
Mr. Hopkins nods his head, and setting down some figures on his paper,
says:
"The bare outlay in hard money amounts to thirty-five hundred pounds.
Reckoning the risk at Robert Evans' own valuation (which I take to be a
very low one), I must see reasonable prospect of winning thirty-five
thousand pounds by my hazard."
"Mrs. Godwin's estate I know to be worth double that amount."
"But who will promise me that return?" asks Mr. Hopkins. "Not you?" (The
Don shook his head.) "Not you?" (turning to us, with the same result).
"Not Mrs. Godwin, for we have no means of communicating with her. Not
the steward--you have shown me that. Who then remains but this Richard
Godwin who cannot be found? If," adds he, getting up from his seat, "you
can find Richard Godwin, put him in possession of the estate, and obtain
from him a reasonable promise that this sum shall be paid on the return
of Mrs. Godwin, I may feel disposed to consider your proposal more
seriously. But till then I can do nothing."
"Likewise, masters all," says Evans, fetching his hat and shawl from the
corner, "I can't wait for a blue moon; and if so be we don't sign
articles in a week, I'm off of my bargain, and mighty glad to get out of
it so cheap."
"You see," says Don Sanchez, when they were gone out of the room, "how
impossible it is that Mrs. Godwin and her daughter shall be redeemed
from captivity. To-morrow I shall show you what kind of a fellow the
steward is that he should have the handling of this fortune rather than
we."
Then presently, with an indifferent, careless air, as if 'twas nought,
he gives us a purse and bids us go out in the town to furnish ourselves
with what disguise was necessary to our purpose. Therewith Dawson gets
him some seaman's old clothes at a Jew's, and I a very neat, presentable
suit of cloth, etc., and the rest of the money we take back to Don
Sanchez without taking so much as a penny for our other uses; but he,
doing all things very magnificent, would have none of it, but bade us
keep it against our other necessities. And now having his money in our
pockets, we felt 'twould be more dishonest to go back from this business
than to go forward with it, lead us whither it might.
Next morning off we go betimes, Jack more like Robert Evans than his
mother's son, and I a most seeming substantial man (so that the very
stable lad took off his hat to me), and on very good horses a long ride
to Chislehurst And there coming to a monstrous fine park, Don Sanchez
stayed us before the gates, and bidding us look up a broad avenue of
great oaks to a most surprising brave house, he told us this was Hurst
Court, and we might have it for our own within a year if we were so
minded.
Hence, at no great distance we reach a square plain house, the windows
all barred with stout iron, and the most like a prison I did ever see.
Here Don Sanchez ringing a bell, a little grating in the door is opened,
and after some parley we are admitted by a sturdy fellow carrying a
cudgel in his hand. So we into a cold room, with not a spark of fire on
the hearth but a few ashes, no hangings to the windows, nor any ornament
or comfort at all, but only a table and half a dozen wooden stools, and
a number of shelves against the wall full of account books and papers
protected by a grating of stout wire secured with sundry padlocks. And
here, behind a tableful of papers, sat our steward, Simon
Stout-in-faith, a most withered, lean old man, clothed all in leather,
wearing no wig but his own rusty grey hair falling lank on his
shoulders, with a sour face of a very jaundiced complexion, and pale
eyes that seemed to swim in a yellowish rheum, which he was for ever
a-mopping with a rag.
"I am come, Mr. Steward," says Don Sanchez, "to conclude the business we
were upon last week."
"Aye," cries Dawson, for all the world in the manner of Evans, "but ere
we get to this dry matter let's have a bottle to ease the way, for this
riding of horseback has parched up my vitals confoundedly."
"If thou art athirst," says Simon, "Peter shall fetch thee a jug of
water from the well; but other liquor have we none in this house."
"Let Peter drown in your well," says Dawson, with an oath; "I'll have
none of it. Let's get this matter done and away, for I'd as lief sit in
a leaky hold as in this here place for comfort."
"Here," says Don Sanchez, "is a master mariner who is prepared to risk
his life, and here a merchant adventurer of London who will hazard his
money, to redeem your mistress and her daughter from slavery."
"Praise the Lord, Peter," says the steward. Whereupon the sturdy fellow
with the cudgel fell upon his knees, as likewise did Simon, and both in
a snuffling voice render thanks to Heaven in words which I do not think
it proper to write here. Then, being done, they get up, and the steward,
having dried his eyes, says:
"So far our prayers have been answered. Put me in mind, friend Peter,
that to-night we pray these worthy men prosper in their design."
"If they succeed," says Don Sanchez, "it will cost your mistress
five-and-thirty thousand pounds."
The steward clutched at the table as if at the fortune about to turn
from him; his jaw fell, and he stared at Don Sanchez in bewilderment,
then getting the face to speak, he gasps out, "Thirty-five thousand
pounds!" and still in a maze asks: "Art thou in thy right senses,
friend?"
The Don hunches his shoulders and turns to me. Whereupon I lay forth in
pretty much the same words as Mr. Hopkins used, the risk of the venture,
etc., to all which this Simon listened with starting eyes and gaping
mouth.
"Thirty-five thousand pounds!" he says again; "why, friend, 'tis half of
all I have made of the estate by a life of thrift and care and earnest
seeking."
"'Tis in your power, Simon," says Don Sanchez, "to spare your mistress
this terrible charge, for which your fine park must be felled, your
farms cut up, and your economies be scattered. The master here will
fetch your mistress home for fifteen hundred pounds."
"Why, even that is an extortion."
"Nay," says Jack, "if you think fifteen hundred pounds too much for my
carcase and a ship of twenty men, you may seek a cheaper market and
welcome, for I've no stomach to risk my life and property for less."
"To the fifteen hundred pounds you must add the ransom of two thousand
pounds. Thus Mrs. Godwin and her daughter may be redeemed for
thirty-five hundred pounds to her saving of thirty-one thousand five
hundred pounds," says the Don.
And here Dawson and I were secretly struck by his honesty in not seeking
to affright the steward from an honest course, but rather tempting him
to it by playing upon his parsimony and avarice.
"Three thousand five hundred," says Simon, putting it down in writing,
that he might the better realise his position. "But you say, friend
merchant, that the risk is as ten to one against seeing thy money
again."
"I will run the risk for thirty-one thousand pounds, and no less," says
I.
"But if it may be done for a tenth part, how then?"
"Why, 'tis your risk, sir, and not mine," says I.
"Yea, yea, my risk. And you tell me, friend sailor, that you stand in
danger of being plundered by these infidels."
"Aye, more like than not."
"Why, then we may count half the estate gone; and the peril is to be run
again, and thus all cast away for nought."
In this manner did Simon halt betwixt two ways like one distracted, but
only he did mingle a mass of sacred words with his arguments which
seemed to me nought but profanity, his sole concern being the gain of
money. Then he falls to the old excuses Don Sanchez had told us of,
saying he had no money of his own, and offering to show his books that
we might see he had taken not one penny beyond his bare expenses from
the estate, save his yearly wage, and that no more than Sir Richard had
given him in his lifetime. And on Don Sanchez showing Mrs. Godwin's
letter as a fitting authority to draw out this money for her use, he
first feigns to doubt her hand, and then says he: "If an accident
befalls these two women ere they return to justify me, how shall I
answer to the next heir for this outlay? Verily" (clasping his hands) "I
am as one standing in darkness, and I dare not move until I am better
enlightened; so prithee, friend, give me time to commune with my
conscience."
Don Sanchez hunches up his shoulders and turns to us.
"Why, look here, Master," says Dawson. "I can't see as you need much
enlightenment to answer yes or no to a fair offer, and as for me, I'm
not going to hang in a hedge for a blue moon. So if you won't clap hands
on the bargain without more ado, I throw this business overboard and
shall count I've done the best day's work of my life in getting out of
the affair."
Then I made as if I would willingly draw out of my share in the project.
"My friends," says Simon, "there can be scarce any hope at all if thou
wilt not hazard thy money for such a prodigious advantage." Then turning
to Peter as his last hope, he asks in despair, "What shall we do, my
brother?"
"We can keep on a-praying, friend Simon," replies Peter, in a snivelling
voice.
"A blessed thought!" exclaims the steward in glee. "Surely that is more
righteous than to lay faith in our own vain effort. So do thou, friend"
(turning to me), "put thy money to this use, for I will none."
"I cannot do that, sir," says I, "without an assurance that Mrs.
Godwin's estate will bear this charge."
With wondrous alacrity Simon fetches a book with a plan of the estate,
whereby he showed us that not a holding on the estate was untenanted,
not a single tenant in arrear with his rent, and that the value of the
property with all deductions made was sixty-five thousand pounds.
"Very good sir," says I. "Now you must give me a written note, stating
what you have shown, with your sanction to my making this venture on
Mrs. Godwin's behalf, that I may justify my claim hereafter."
But this Simon stoutly refused to do, saying his conscience would not
allow him to sign any bond (clearly with the hope that he might in the
end shuffle out of paying anything at all), until Don Sanchez, losing
patience, declared he would certainly hunt all London through to find
that Mr. Richard Godwin, who was the next of kin, hinting that he would
certainly give us such sanction as we required if only to prove his
right to the succession should our venture fail.
This put the steward to a new taking; but the Don holding firm, he at
length agreed to give us this note, upon Don Sanchez writing another
affirming that he had seen Mrs. Godwin and her daughter in Barbary, and
was going forth to fetch them, that should Mr. Richard Godwin come to
claim the estate he might be justly put off.
And so this business ended to our great satisfaction, we saying to
ourselves that we had done all that man could to redeem the captives,
and that it would be no harm at all to put a cheat upon the miserly
steward. Whether we were any way more honest than he in shaping our
conduct according to our inclinations is a question which troubled us
then very little.