THE LAST BUCCANEER

The
Last Buccaneer
Or
The Trustees of Mrs A

By L. Cope Cornford
Author of “Northborough Cross,”
“Captain Jacobus,” etc.

Philadelphia
J. B. Lippincott Company
1902

Copyright, 1902
By J. B. Lippincott Company

Published October, 1902
Electrotyped and Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A.

TO
RUDYARD KIPLING

CAPTAIN DAWKINS EXPLAINS

Some plunder large, some pilfer small,

Some takes it straight, some on the bend:

The same remark doth fit ’em all—

Of buccaneering there’s no end.

I seen a man I much admired

Ranging the seas of all the world,

Intent to take what he required,

Where’er the Bloody Flag’s unfurled.

He’s laid East Indiamen aboard

And King’s ships too, and—what seems odd—

From pillaging a fairy hoard

He turned to fill his hold with cod.

He’s Admiral o’ Buccaneers,

Chief o’ th’ trade that never slacks!

And borrel men like we, I fears,

May carry on till canvas cracks—

May steal the title—filch the stuff—

His tops’ls still is all we see:

The fac’ is, we ain’t good enough.

But there! You hearken unto me:—

Let him that stole now steal no more:

That signal’s hoist in Holy Writ.

Why, if you’ve wared your little store

And so don’t need no more of it,

You quit the trade—but not till then.

Or, not until the Picaroon

What only steals the life o’ men

Beats up alongside, late or soon.

Some plunder large, some pilfer small,

Some takes it straight, some on the bend:

The same remark doth fit ’em all—

Of buccaneering there’s no end.

CONTENTS

THE LAST BUCCANEER

I
Shows how a Simple Bait will serve to hook the willing Fish

One dark, moist winter afternoon, in the year of our Lord 1708, I chanced upon Brandon Pomfrett, as he was on his way to visit me. Brandon, who was my school-fellow, was now clerk in his uncle’s warehouse in Bristol. I was an humble schoolmaster in the same famous city; not discontented with my lot, and not contented, either. But Pomfrett chafed in his shackles; ’twas chiefly his dislike of tedium that drove him to seek my society—for want of a better—and that was presently to drive us both farther, perhaps, than we ever thought to go.

We turned down the narrow alley, with the ancient houses leaning foreheads across, that led to my lodging. A strong, hoarse voice arose out of the dusk, singing:

“All a-sailing to the stars,

Ye gentlemen Jack-tars;

We’ll meet again at Fiddler’s Green,

All up among the stars,”

bellowed the voice, and a burly man, with something of a seafaring air about him, came rolling up the causeway. We drew aside to let him pass, but he halted abruptly in front of us.

“Asking your pardon, gentlemen,” says he, “but could you tell me if I was shaping my course anyways near right for the Burning Bush, kept by a man of the curi’s name of Gamaliel? Not,” said the stranger, “that I ain’t been here before, nor that I don’t know the course—but if a man’s liquor runs from his legs to his head, what’s that poor seaman to do? I reckon I could fetch him in time, but time is—well, now, shipmates, you know what time is, no one better, by the looks of you,” ended the mariner, apparently with some obscure design of complimenting us. The stranger laying his thick, brown hand familiarly on Pomfrett’s arm as he spoke, we could not but remark a great ruby that glowed in a gold setting upon his little finger; a strange ornament for a merchant seaman.

“We’ll show you the way, sir,” says Pomfrett, whose curiosity was perhaps aroused by the sight of the ring.

Now, the Burning Bush had an ill repute as a crimp’s ken; Gamaliel’s was no place for the reputable; and it behooves a schoolmaster to make at least a pretence of piety; wherefore I hung back.

“Oh, be hanged!” said Pomfrett. “I know Gamaliel—he does business at the warehouse. Come along.”

“Ay, ay,” the mariner broke in, “heave ahead, shipmate; never spoil a merry meeting; a tot of rum will set you as brisk as a bee. Why,” says he, “you and me and you—I should say him, but meaning polite—we three, I reckon, will be as thick as thieves before the night’s out. Crack on, shipmates, for the port o’ call.”

And, turning sharp to the left, down a narrow passage, we came to the Burning Bush, a low-browed tavern with small latticed windows, that gave no hint of the great extent of the rambling premises behind them, and entered the sanded parlour, where Mr John Gamaliel was standing with his back to a bright fire. A little, thin, eager man was John Gamaliel; his nose was hooked, his fingers crooked inward like a sailor’s (a sailor he had been), his body had a forward droop, like a fish-hook.

“What! Mr Pomfrett?” said Gamaliel. “And Mr Winter, our notable instructor of youth? And Mr Dawkins, too—I had no notion you were acquainted, gentlemen.”

“Well, we are, ye see, Hookey,” returned Mr Dawkins, “so set glasses round, and smart, my lad.”

“Why, now,” said Hookey Gamaliel, bustling with glasses and bottles, “here’s a singular coincidence—you’re dropping in like this, Mr Pomfrett, and very friendly too, for only this morning I was saying to Mr Dawkins here, I must pay a visit to your good uncle, Mr Pomfrett, to show him a little curiosity of the sea. It might be worth his while to look at it.”

At these words, Mr Dawkins fixed a sudden, frowning gaze upon the speaker, who returned his look with a steady composure. It was as though Mr Dawkins were making a strenuous attempt to clear the fumes of liquor from his head, in order to enter into the conversation.

“And very curiously, too,” the Jew went on, with his eyes still upon the face of Mr Dawkins, upon which a light of understanding was beginning to dawn, “the article in question is the property of my friend, Mr James Dawkins, here, who——”

“I take it that you mean the bottle, in this here palaver, Hookey,” broke in Mr Dawkins, still staring upon the Jew. “Is that it?”

“The bottle, to be sure, Mr Dawkins. According to what you said, you know,” returned Gamaliel, “or I wouldn’t have taken the liberty.”

“Ay, ay,” said Dawkins. “According to what I said. Which was,” says he, turning to Pomfrett, “that I hadn’t no objections to one or two respectable merchants of this here city seeing the thing, but I wouldn’t make it generally public—not generally—for reasons good. But you shall see for yourselves, gentlemen, and give me your opinion, if you’ll be so good.—Fetch aft the bottle, Hookey.”

Gamaliel lit a lamp, and for the first time we saw plainly what manner of man was our mariner. His little eyes gleamed under a penthouse brow, tufted with grey hair, from a broad face tanned mahogany-colour, his mouth very wide, shutting with a square jaw. He was dressed in a fine blue coat with brass buttons and a brocaded waistcoat. But, the buttons were tarnished, the clothes were soiled, and fitted him ill, folding in deep creases upon his massive figure, as though they had been made for another man. His great hands, tattooed and knotted and scarred, loosely clasped together upon the table before him, would alone have marked him for a sailor. But, what kind of a sailor? Mariners were plentiful in Bristol; we should know the marks of them by heart; but this gentleman had something in addition—some latent, yet unmistakable quality which we could not name. It was not only the strong impression he disengaged that Mr Dawkins, mariner, would be a dangerous man to anger; there was more than that. As his little eyes, deep-set in the shadow, caught a sparkle of the lamplight and gleamed at us, and his wide mouth curved in a smile, wrinkling his brown chin, we knew very well that there lurked a whole secret history, and a kind of menace, behind that crafty, good-humoured visage. Yet we were not daunted; rather, we were attracted by Mr Dawkins.

“You see,” said Gamaliel, going to a corner cupboard, “I am what I may term a confidential agent in such little matters; this same curiosity being of some value, why, Mr Dawkins gives it to me to take care of when ashore. The beach is a more dangerous place to seamen, Mr Pomfrett, if you’ll believe me, than——”

“Here, stow that, Hookey,” interrupted Mr Dawkins. “Your tongue’s too long by half, my lad. Let’s see the booty.”

Gamaliel placed on the table a round-bellied Dutch flask, the mouth tied over with canvas. Inside was a brown and crumpled scrap of paper. Mr Dawkins cut the string with a clasp-knife, which he stuck beside him in the board, shook out the paper, spread it flat on the table, and bent over it with an eager attention.

“Well, now,” remarked Gamaliel, “a person might think as you’d never seen that curiosity afore, to look at you, and you bringing it thousands of leagues across the sea in your own chest.”

Dawkins, unheeding, continued to study the paper. “That’s it, sure enough,” said he, presently. “Here you are, sirs—a ven’rable relic of good old days.” He pushed the paper across the table. This is what we read:

“Capt. Grammont to Capt. de Graaf.

“Cozumel Is. August 7, 1686.

“Wee having taken the towne of Merida neare Campeachy and got much booty the barke being overladen burried silver pigges and the rest of the plate at a point on nothe mainland Yucatan two leagues due south from the hed of Catoche Bay having the red rocke where the stream flows out in line with the extreemest projection of cliffe on west horn of bay. You shall know the place by the felled tree bridging the stream above itt between two groves of acajou trees a cross-cut on two or three. Wee purpose to go to Tortuga there to meet you if God will.”

This singular communication ended with a totally illegible signature and a flourish in another hand.

“Where did you find this?” demanded Pomfrett.

“Where but on the island—island of—the island, as I were saying,” replied Mr Dawkins, with an uneasy glance at Gamaliel, whose watchful countenance turned from one to the other as the conversation went on. “Me and two more, what’s dead now, we found it, a-coming ashore for wood and water for Her Majesty’s ship Ranger. And so it happened,” he ended, abruptly.

“But I don’t understand. Why, the date’s 1686—twenty-two years ago. And who were Captain Grammont and Captain de Graaf? Spin the yarn, man,” cried the impatient Pomfrett.

“The captains was buccaneers both, I reckon,” returned Dawkins, with more assurance. “And we come ashore, all as I was saying, for”—with deliberation—“to wood and to water—Her—Majesty’s ship—Ranger. Me and a man called Ratsey, and another called Magnes. Both dead, now. And cruising about the island, if you understand, we comes upon one of them big crosses as the old buccaneers used to set up at a place of rendezvous, when they wished for to leave instructions to a sister ship, or what not. A spar and a yard lashed cross-wise, if you understand; and you march ten paces north and then you dig, and there’s the bottle. Ain’t that so, Hookey?”

Gamaliel nodded. “Well,” continued the adventurer, somewhat confirmed in his assurance, “we, happening to have heard of the custom, did so. And there’s the bottle. Stab me dead where I sit, if that ain’t the bottle.”

“And where was this, did you say?” Pomfrett was quite eager by this time.

“On the island—port of call for buccaneers, I reckon.”

“Yes, but what island?”

“Don’t it say?” demanded Mr Dawkins, irritably. “There, on the paper, where you’re a-looking?”

“Oh!—Cozumel Island,” said Pomfrett, referring to the script.

“That’s it—Cozumel. A man,” said Mr Dawkins, with a defiant glance at Gamaliel, “cannot carry in his head all the names of all the islands in the South Seas, which is thick as peas with ’em. Ain’t that so, Hookey?”

“To be sure,” assented Gamaliel, smoothly.

“And when did you find this, Mr Dawkins?”

Dawkins looked at Gamaliel.

“A matter of a year ago, wasn’t it?” said Gamaliel.

“Sure enough,” said Dawkins. “That were it—a year ago.”

“Why did you leave the Ranger?” I asked; for, at this time, when England was at war with both France and Spain, men were scarce aboard ships-of-war, and not lightly let go.

“She paid off in Jamaica,” answered Dawkins. “And I come home in the Gentle Susan, merchant ship. The other two, Ratsey and Magnes, as I was speaking of, they died on the v’yage.”

“Now, perhaps you can guess, Mr Pomfrett,” Gamaliel cut in, “why I was anxious to show this singular find to your good uncle. We all know there’s treasure scattered up and down the South American coasts—well, it seemed to me, here was a rare chance to pick some up. And why not your uncle, as well as another? Nothing in it, perhaps, but still, a chance. What do you think, Mr Pomfrett?”

“I should think that after twenty-two years there’d be mighty little left.”

Mr Gamaliel appeared to consider this proposition as something strikingly novel. “Dear me,” said he. “Well, I expect you’re right, sir. But I’ve been thinking over the matter and putting two and two together, as you may say, until I half thought there might be something in it after all. Captain Grammont and Captain de Graaf was brother-buccaneers—blood-brothers sworn. That’s history. Now, after taking Campeachy in Yucatan together, in 1686—same date, see you, as the writing—Grammont put to sea and never came back any more. And somewhere about that time, Captain de Graaf entered the service of the French government and helped to put down piracy—and none better for the job, I should reckon. That’s history, too. Well, I take it that after Grammont took Merida, as the writing says, and left that there message for de Graaf, he was cast away with all hands. For it’s history, likewise, that he was never heard of any more. He didn’t know, you see, when he wrote that letter, as how de Graaf had turned his coat. Which was why de Graaf never fetched up at the port o’ call on Cozumel Island, and so never got the letter. Consequently——” He paused. Dawkins was regarding him, I thought, with a certain admiration.

“You mean,” said Pomfrett, “that the silver’s there now?”

“I put it to you, is it likely to be found without the clue? I’ll wager a piece of eight to a penny it wouldn’t,” returned Gamaliel.

“Spoken like a printed book, Hookey, strike me dumb if it ain’t,” observed Mr Dawkins. “That’s the way of it, sure enough. The plunder’s there, I’ll warrant. On’y, where’s the ship to carry it away?”

“The ship? Ah, well, that’s another p’int altogether,” said Hookey Gamaliel, with a cunning grin. “At any rate, Mr Pomfrett, you’ll have something to tell your uncle. A little story and a relic of the old buccaneers, no less. ’Tis singular how things do fall out; but when a man’s been down to the sea in ships, as I have, why, he ceases to marvel at anything. There’s wondrous things in the deep.”

He was running on with his glib Jew’s tongue, when Pomfrett rose to go.

“A little sitting at the feet of Gamaliel is enough,” said he, when we were out in the foggy dark of the alley. “What a yarn, eh? Do you believe it? I’ve half a mind to. There’s something queer about Mr Dawkins; do you think he’s a pirate himself? I tell you what, come round to the back, and we’ll have another look at ’em without their knowing.”

Pomfrett was better acquainted with the byways of Bristol than I, who was born there. We plunged into the black alley that led behind the Burning Bush. It branched left and right, covert for the hunted of the press-gang. Into the tavern by the back door we crept, and into a side room to the right hand. A tall press and a scrutoire were dimly discernible; it was here, apparently, that Gamaliel sat at his accounts, with an eye upon his customers, for a breast-high partition separated the chamber from the front room we had just quitted. Red curtains were drawn between the ledge of the bulkhead and the ceiling, and we spied upon the pair through a rift in the drapery.

“No prey, no pay. Keep to the rules, you crimping swab.” Mr Dawkins filled the room with his bellowing.

“As you please, Jemmy,” returned Gamaliel’s reedy voice. “I know the rules as well as you, I reckon. You get no more, without you pay for what you got—nor you don’t get that, neither.”

“Now, I ask you fair and candid,” grumbled Dawkins, “have I got a guinea piece in the wide world? You know better than that, Hookey. Here! Hands off that bottle!”

Dawkins jumped to his feet, leaning forward upon the table, his open knife poised on his lifted palm, as Gamaliel caught up the bottle, replaced it swiftly in the cupboard, and turned the key.

“Put down that knife, Jemmy,” said Gamaliel, composedly. “No good ever come of quarrelling among shipmates. Come! Take another glass, and we’ll talk it over comfortable and polite, as gentlemen should.”

He poured out a tot of rum, and Mr Dawkins, with a very ugly look, sat down again.

“I’ve no objections to a amicable conference, not I,” said Dawkins. “But stakes on the table, I say.”

“Why, of course,” said Gamaliel. “Put down your pretty ring, then, and I put down the bottle.”

“You don’t want much, do you?” said Dawkins. Nevertheless, he moistened his finger and pulled off his ring.

It shone and winked like a star upon the rough board, a great ruby set in brilliants. Gamaliel set the bottle beside it.

“Now,” said Dawkins, “put a price on what you done, Hookey.”

“Oh, well, we shan’t quarrel over the price,” said Gamaliel, amiably. “We haven’t come to the dividend yet. Say a hundred pieces of eight, and I hold the ring as bond.”

“Why, you shark, the ring’s worth five times that,” cried Dawkins. “And I wouldn’t sell it, neither.”

“It’s only security, Jemmy—only a matter of form,” said the Jew.

“Well, you give me a receipt, and I hold the bottle,” said Dawkins.

“And mighty little use to you, by what I heard to-night,” returned Gamaliel. “But please yourself, Jemmy. I reckon you’ll do better next time.”

“All’s one for that,” said Dawkins. “Agreed. I take the bottle.”

He laid a hand on the bottle, and Gamaliel reached for the ring. But Dawkins was too quick for him. He snatched up the ring, clapped it into his mouth, and sprang back, his knife shining in his hand.

“Now stand quiet, Hookey,” said he, stowing the bottle inside his vest. “I could wipe the floor with two such as you, and never sweat over it. What! You wouldn’t take the word of a gentleman o’ fortune, wouldn’t you? And a Jew, too, was it! Mother of Moses! Well, now you got to, d’ye see? A hundred pieces of eight, was it?—how cheap you work, Hookey, to be sure.”

He made towards the door, and we crept out of the house, and winding in and out the net-work of alleys, we gained my lodging.

II
We set our Hands to a Christian Enterprise

Brandon Pomfrett and I discussed the story of the bottle; it seemed improbable enough; yet the letter of the old pirate captains ran in our minds like a song. I had read the history of the old buccaneers, as recounted by Mr John Esquemeling, the Dutchman, and translated into French and English—each translator causing the heroes of his own nationality to shine predominant over the others—and there was nothing in the records to contradict the sailor’s account. True, it seemed unlikely that the signal cross should remain unremarked for more than twenty years on a coast infested by pirates; but, on the vast and wild shores of Yucatan, the thing was still possible. Brandon swore he would persuade his uncle, the wealthy Brandon Pomfrett, of Bristol, to fit out a privateer, and send him in her to lift the treasure. The nephew had constantly urged the uncle to invest money in the privateering business, which, in those days, was no uncommon speculation; but Uncle Brandon had as constantly refused. The enterprise, said he, was too full of risk; there was no security; and, whereas you might fall across the right sort of merchant bottoms, conversely, you might not; while Frenchman or Spaniard might sink you in the deep sea, or a storm might cast you away. But now, argued Brandon the younger, whose one desire was to escape from his desk, there was something definite to put before the old man; the thing was as safe as going to church; out you went, dug up the silver, and brought it home, picking up any little ships that Providence might think fit to leave in your way. So Brandon, bubbling with expectation, went to tackle his uncle.

It was about a week later that one of those days befell when the schoolmaster flags at his post and the scholars seem possessed of the devil. He wrestles in vain; virtue, for the time, has gone out of him; he knows it, and the boys know it; and all is a steaming welter of cries, tears, gleeful disorder, and ineffectual onslaughts. Suddenly came an ominous hush; every eye was turned upon a burly figure, who stood by the door, hat in hand, surveying the youngsters with an amiable grin. It was Dawkins.

“Master Winter,” says he, in his thundering voice, with a salute, “they told me you was here, and I made so bold as to invade the sanctuary of learning, as you may say. I have the honour to bring you a letter, sir, from Mr Brandon Pomfrett.”

He rolled across the floor, in the dead silence, and handed me a packet.

“Now, if you’ll be so good as to read that there despatch, Master Winter, for I’ve promised to carry the answer to Mr Pomfrett, I’ll take command of the ship in the meanwhile, so’s you can fix your mind on the business, clear and easy.”

He picked up a battered college-cap from the floor where some rascal had flung it, and set it askew on his huge, grizzled head. The boys broke into a shout of laughter. Dawkins stepped up into the master’s desk and rapped it smartly with the cane.

“Si-lence in the ranks!” he roared. You might have heard him at the docks. He stood leaning forward, his hands on the desk, glaring upon them. They subsided on the instant, for the first time that day.

“Now,” said Mr Dawkins, standing upright. “Pay attention! Come! You done a gross dereliction of duty, but perhaps you don’t know that you done it. I’ll give you a chance. What’s the word when the captain steps on the quarterdeck? Not a answer? Well, I’ll tell you, this once. Stand to attention!” he bellowed. “Stand up!”

The roomful of bewildered youngsters stood up.

“Silence!” Mr Dawkins, with a formidable frown and shake of the head, stepped down from the master’s desk, and began to pace the floor in front of the attentive ranks, his big, tattooed hands thrust into his waistcoat pockets. What, I thought, if one of the school guardians were to come in, to find this outrageous mariner stalking to and fro, a broken mortar-board over one eye, my cane stuck under his arm, and Mr Henry Winter standing by, helpless?

To make an end of this silly business, I broke open the packet, which contained a letter from Brandon Pomfrett. “Glory be to God, my uncle hath consented!” he wrote. “Come to see him at once. As for your schoolmastering, fling it over the hedge. I have something better for you safe in hand.”

I scarce hesitated an instant. “Mr Dawkins,” I began. He turned short upon me.

“How now, shipmate?”

There was a laugh at the back of the room, checked as Dawkins faced about.

“Who laughed there?” he thundered. “What! Can’t two gentlemen talk on the quarterdeck, without disturbance by a mess of tallow-faced young swabtails like you! Let me see a smile, and I’ll cut a smile on that boy that’ll last a month!”

Shaking his head and grumbling, Dawkins turned again to me.

“I will come,” said I. “Tell Mr Pomfrett I will come!”

“And that’s good news, too, I’ll warrant,” cried Dawkins. “Why, we shall be shipmates yet, I’ll lay a dollar. Both masters, we are, too, and there’s a curi’s thing to reflect upon,—sailing-master and schoolmaster. We shall be a pair of brothers, I reckon, in less than no time. Now,” said Mr Dawkins, facing the boys with a formidable visage, “as to this here crew of yours, master. Would you consider it wisdom to flog the lot? Or would you, otherwise, consider a spree ashore, and a scramble for silver money”—he jingled the coins in his pockets, frowning horribly—“as doing good, in a general way of speaking?”

“Dismiss, boys. And a holiday to-morrow.”

Dawkins flung his college-cap to the ceiling, and the cane after it, and led the cheering. They crowded about him; and with a little boy astride of his shoulders, a big boy dragging at either sleeve, the whole crowd poured forth into the playground, where Dawkins began to toss coins among them by handfuls. The worthy mariner had found means to replenish his purse, it seemed, since last we met.

Upon the following evening I was seated at dinner with Mr Brandon Pomfrett, his nephew, and his sister Deborah. Pomfrett the elder was a square, stern old gentleman of sixty, with prominent nose and chin. His little grey eyes looked directly at you; his wide, thin lips never relaxed. A man, you would say, upright, dogmatic, severely kind, and pretty dull company withal. His sister Deborah was a straight-backed widow lady, with beautiful white hair. In her first youth she had espoused a wealthy old Greek, Constantine Adrianopoulo by name, who did not long survive the ordeal. You cannot go about saying Adrianopoulo; and the Greek’s respectable relict was never known otherwise than as Mrs A. With Brandon Pomfrett the elder I could converse, for a short time, with comparative comfort. But Mrs A. was extraordinarily repellent. She had the sallow skin that goes with dark eyes, high cheek-bones, and a club-nose; she spoke very gently; she was scrupulously courteous, rigidly pious, fervently Protestant; she gave much labour and money to the poor; and still contrived to infuse into all she said and did a spice of malice, an after-taste of venom. As for Brandon the younger, he hated his aunt. Between these portentous elders sat their nephew, with his amiable fair face and big blue eyes. His parents were dead; his Uncle Brandon had thought it his duty to adopt the boy, and, accordingly, he adopted him. Had his duty told him, instead, to drown young Pomfrett like a kitten, it is probable that he would have arranged the stone about his neck with precisely the same emotions, neither more nor less.

“Well, Mr Winter,” said Mr Pomfrett, with his wooden geniality, which suggested that Mr Pomfrett had said to himself, once for all, There are times when it is my duty to be genial, and I will, “I have, as I daresay Brandon has told you, agreed to accede to his wishes, and to send him to sea.”

“It is always a good thing, do you not think so, Mr Winter, to give a young man a fresh opportunity,” said Mrs A. “A change may work wonders.”

“So, sir,” Mr Pomfrett went on, “my nephew goes as owners’ agent in a privateer we are fitting out for the South Seas. To be more precise, Mrs A. is fitting out the bark. I shall put in but little of my own. And although there are a few other merchants interested in the venture, their shares are but small. The enterprise is really Mrs A.’s.”

“It is the bounden duty of a professing Christian—provided that God has blessed him with the means—to come to the help of his country, and especially of the Protestant Church, at such a time as this,” observed Mrs A., firmly.

I learned, afterwards, that Uncle Brandon had counselled his sister not to risk her money; but the old lady was greedy of riches, and obstinate as flint. She had taken a whim to pick up that silver—there was an end of discussion.

“Brandon, you see, Mr Winter, is become, virtually, his aunt’s trustee,” observed Mr Pomfrett. He had a way of enunciating the most commonplace sentiment with a sort of unctuous relish, which might have been pardoned him if he were ever witty. “Yes,” said Mr Pomfrett. “Yes. Trustee of Mrs A.”

“’Tis not the money,” said Mrs A., “but the idea; and that is a great trust for a young man.”

All this solemn talk was but leading up to the reason why I had been called into conference, which was, to offer me the berth of assistant, or clerk, to the owners’ agent. I fancy that Brandon had made me out to be his mentor, his unshaken pillar of morality. At all events, he was to be the first trustee; and Harry Winter, it appeared, was the second. I took the night to consider the matter. No need to tell of my doubts and hesitations—I accepted the berth. Books, I thought then—as, indeed, I think now—make the best half of life; nevertheless, a man should acquaint himself with the other. And the next day the agent and his clerk attended the meeting of the owners and officers of the enterprise.

In the high, sombre hall of the Guild to which Mr Pomfrett belonged we sat about a long table, covered with a dark-blue cloth, and set with pens, ink, paper, and sand. Mr Pomfrett sat in the great carved chair at the head of the table; Mrs A. sat next her brother, her negro boy, a silver collar about his neck, standing behind her; and a dozen or so of Bristol merchants were ranged on either side of the table. Below them were the captain and officers of the Blessed Endeavour. And among these was Mr Dawkins.

We were met together to draw up the Articles of Agreement. As soon as the company was assembled, Mr Pomfrett arose from his chair, and everyone disposed themselves to listen. There was a short pause. The yellow light, filtering through the small-paned windows, duskily illumined the neat powdered heads of the audience, all turned one way, and threw into strong relief the speaker’s rugged features. Mrs A.’s bony face, with the cavernous eyes, looked like the face of a corpse. From the deep shadow of the panelled walls dim old portraits of dead merchants contemplated their successors, playing the same game as themselves had fattened on.

“Is he going to open with a prayer?”

Brandon looked at me as though I had whispered blasphemy. There was nothing of levity about the owners’ agent.

“My friends,” began Mr Pomfrett, skilfully compromising between “Gentlemen,” a form of address which would have slighted Mrs A., and “Ladies and gentlemen,” which was inadmissible, since there was but one lady there, “my friends, it cannot but be a satisfaction to your minds, as it is to my own, to reflect upon the change—the great change—which has of late years passed upon the nature of such an enterprise as that which we are met together to inaugurate to-day. Before the Peace of Ryswick was concluded in the year of our Lord 1697, there was a singular and lamentable lack of distinction between privateering, which may be described as a legitimate form of trading under the conditions of necessity imposed by warfare, and buccaneering, or piracy, a brutal, detestable, and unlawful mode of aggrandisement practised by private persons. Doubtless the French, who were then leagued with us against the Spaniard, did very much to lead our English captains astray in the matter.” A murmur of applause, in which the voice of Mrs A. was fiercely audible. “Be that as it may, with the spread of true religion, and with the Frenchman as enemy instead of ally, a happier and more righteous state of things has come about. The privateer goes forth, with the sanction and under the approval of the crown, to repair, by her private exertions, those ravages inflicted by the papist on the commerce of this country. Though she goes armed, she goes not to shed blood. She does but go, sword in hand, to redress the balance of—the balance,” said the orator, after a moment’s consideration, “of the world’s justice.” More applause. “The taxes,” continued Mr Pomfrett, with some approach to animation, “imposed upon us in war-time are little short of ruinous. What is our remedy? It is an old maxim of economy to pay your expenses out of the enemy’s coffers. This, then, is the business of the privateer. She is to capture the merchant bottoms of the enemy, and to appropriate the cargo, and, if advisable, the ship. The crew and passengers are left unharmed.”

Here an old gentleman with a fat white face was understood to enquire, what happened if the enemy’s ship would not yield without fighting?

“In that case,” replied Mr Pomfrett, “force must be used. Any bloodshed that may occur is not to be taken as the fault of the assailant. But I believe the case is rare.”

“Sir,” said the old gentleman, “I rejoice to hear it.” He leaned back in his chair and stared fixedly at me, as if challenging me to find another meaning in his words. I glanced at Dawkins. That astute mariner sat with his hands folded on the table and his eyes cast down.

“I understand, sir,” said a very tall, stooping man, with a hanging underlip, “that the prisoners of the captured vessel are sometimes turned adrift. I would ask, sir, what becomes of these persons, who are perhaps far out at sea and deprived of victuals.”

“I refer you, sir, to Captain Shargeloes,” returned Mr Pomfrett. “He has sailed on the private account, and has experience.”

The captain, a lean, loose-jointed, swarthy man, with a lively dark eye, seemed a trifle embarrassed by the question; but it may have been that he was not a ready speaker. “How should I know, sir?” said he. “Becomes of them? I never saw what became of them. I never took it I had any concern with that—eh? They have their victuals—ship’s victuals, biscuit, fish—unless we happen—eh? to want them ourselves. Becomes? They go home, or they go to the bottom.”

There was a short silence. Mrs A. whispered something to her brother.

“I have to remind the company,” said Mr Pomfrett, aloud, “that we are dealing with papists—the worst foes of mankind. In setting them, if captured, adrift, we deliver them into the hands of the Almighty, to whom vengeance belongs. Every ship taken is thus a service done to the cause of true religion.”

“Speaking of religion, I would ask,” said a merchant with a purple nose, in a rich, thick voice, “is there a chaplain appointed?”

“A chaplain will be appointed, if a suitable clergyman can be found,” said Mr Pomfrett. “In any case, morning and evening prayer will be conducted on board.”

These important preliminaries concluded, we settled to discuss the constitution of the council for directing the affairs of the Blessed Endeavour. Briefly, the chief officers formed the council, with the captain as president, with casting vote, “to determine all matters and things whatsoever that may arise, or be necessary for the general good, during the whole voyage.” The constitution, framed on the customary lines, was speedily agreed to and signed by every shareholder in the venture. The names of the chief officers were then read out: John Shargeloes, captain; Brandon Pomfrett, Jr., owners’ agent; Henry Winter, his assistant; William Dawkins, master and pilot, being well acquainted with the South Seas. There were also a quartermaster, a chief mate and second mate, coxswain of the pinnace, gunner and eight men, called the gunner’s crew; carpenter, boatswain and his mate, cooper and his assistant, ship’s steward, sailmaker, smith and armourer, ship’s corporal, officer’s cook, and ship’s cook. All these, besides their salaries, had a right to certain shares, pro rata, in all plunder. Each man of the crew also had his proper share, with shares for disablement. In case of death, the dead man’s share went to his next of kin. A Book of Plunder was to be kept by the owners’ agent, and attested by the ship’s officers. Here it is necessary to distinguish. Technically speaking, the owners had no part in plunder, as such. Certain things were classed as plunder; these were divided among the ship’s company according to the proportion agreed upon. All the rest belonged to the owners absolutely. For example, bedding, clothes, gold rings, buckles, buttons, liquors, provisions, arms, ammunition, watches, wrought silver or gold crucifixes, prisoners’ movables generally, and wearing apparel were plunder; whereas, money, women’s ear-rings, loose diamonds, pearls and precious stones, bar gold or silver, called plate, were not plunder, but belonged to the owners. The regulations regarding plunder, with the penalties for concealment, were drawn up in an agreement, and signed by all the officers in council, on board the Blessed Endeavour. I make mention of the matter in this place for the sake of convenience. The definition of what was and what was not plunder was embodied in the officers’ agreement with the owners. As for the owners’ individual profits, they were, of course, determined by the proportion originally invested by each in the ship. By all accounts, Mrs A. stood to make a fortune.

When the signatures were affixed to the documents, Mr Pomfrett arose once more.

“My friends,” said he, “our business is now concluded. Speaking for the owners, I would say that they have willingly confided a considerable trust to the officers of the Blessed Endeavour, knowing that their office will be faithfully and truly discharged in all matters and things whatsoever. The enterprise is long and remote, and not devoid of danger; but you have a stout ship, well furnished with arms, both small and great, and well victualled. Captain Shargeloes is known to all of us as a competent and zealous officer. Mr Dawkins, master and pilot, has been twice round the world, and is well acquainted with the South Seas. It is to this gentleman, as I need hardly remind you, that we owe the news of the whereabouts of a large quantity of plate, whose acquisition is a main object of the voyage, and which takes off somewhat from the speculative character customable to such enterprises. It may be that the plate cannot be found—perhaps some voyager more fortunate than ourselves has already visited the spot. The matter is uncertain—to that we must make up our minds. But this is a world of uncertainty. Who knows,” said the orator, propounding the suggestion with his usual relish, as of one whose inner light burns uncommonly clear—“who knows how many of the owners, though we live peaceably at home, will meet around this board to welcome the officers of the Blessed Endeavour upon her return? These things are in the hand of the Almighty. To Him, officers of the Blessed Endeavour, we commend you.”

Captain Shargeloes stood up to reply. It was presently borne in upon my reluctant mind that the captain was somewhat in liquor. But it may have been, as I said before, that he was merely unready of speech. The captain was understood to remark that, in his experience, all things went very well, provided there were no mutiny. Mutiny. Mutiny, he felt bound to warn his owners, was the sunken rock which could not be avoided. There was a plot—you knew nothing of it—how could you know?—until the mine was sprung. Then, it was too late. The captain begged the owners to bear in mind that he could not be held responsible for plots; adding, with some obscurity, that he could always feel them in the air. I gathered that Captain Shargeloes had been peculiarly subject to plots (he spoke as though they were an illness) in his life. Not, he explained, that he expected a plot on this voyage—far from it; only, he thought it his duty to set plainly before the owners what, in his judgment, was the chief danger of the sea.

The company dispersing, some of us went down to the docks to look at our ship. The Blessed Endeavour lay at the wharf-side, amid a wilderness of shipping; a brigantine of two hundred and sixty tons burthen, carrying eighteen guns and two pateraroes, or mortars. Her complement was some ninety men, all told. The shipwrights had ceased work, and the Blessed Endeavour lay solitary, her decks littered with lumber, her yards swung all ways, her top-masts printed black upon the sky, where the fires of sunset were dying down. A lady of opulent figure was our brigantine, breasting the water like a swan, the long sweep of her sides scrolling up to the carved work of the taffrail, and the slanting windows and balustrades of the quarter-gallery. The glass of the windows shone like jewels in the coloured lights of the sky and the water, while spars and ropes and the swelling mass of the hull were black as ebony.

So it was that I saw for the first time the ship that was to chariot our fortunes. She lay there, very still in the thickening twilight, yet every leaping line of her was eloquent of strenuous action, of free movement upon great spaces. Here was no thing of rest, but a creature the nearest life man ever made—the life of wave and wind and star.

“And all along of an empty gin-bottle,” said a reedy voice, and there was John Gamaliel, drooping and smirking. “Wonderful how things come about, to be sure! But didn’t I say, now, as something might come of it? Why, Mr Dawkins has got his ship, so he has.”

III
In which the Blessed Endeavour is deprived of Direction both Spiritual and Temporal

There was no doubt that John Gamaliel had his profit out of the business. As Pomfrett’s assistant, the indents for stores and victuals passed through my hands; and Gamaliel’s signature became pretty familiar to me. The Jew, it presently appeared, supplied the most of the crew as well as the provisions. Tinkers, vagabonds, strolling fiddlers, country loobies, out-at-elbows clerks, negroes, and salted mariners: of such are the crews of ships; and all these did Gamaliel produce in due season. Going to and fro in Bristol, as I must in the first weeks of preparation, the Jew often accompanied me, beguiling me with endless stories of deep-sea voyagings. He told of the illimitable spaces of the sea, of a solitude inconceivable to the landsman, where the ship steals onward, day by day, for many weeks, until the faces of all on board are changed; “for they know,” said the Jew, “they are strangers in the secret places of the Almighty;” of the fated man in the ship’s company, the Jonah who brings bad luck, and who must be flung overboard, sooner or later; of the danger of having a clergyman aboard, for “God is jealous, he will have no priests on His sea;” of water-snakes, and sea-cows, and cannibal savages; of the casting away of vessels, beaten out of sight with a single wave, flung upon lee-shores, foundering on hidden rocks; of crews dying of thirst and scurvy, and eaten alive of worms; of derelict barks floating in mid-ocean, furnished with good water and provisions, and never a soul on board. He spoke with a kind of serious wonder, like a child; and I had to keep saying to myself that here was no untaught poet, but an agent-victualler of doubtful probity and a known crimp.

For convenience of transacting business, I lodged with Brandon Pomfrett at his uncle’s house; and to escape the tedium of Mr Pomfrett’s conversation, and the subtle irritation of Mrs A.’s dogmatism, we used to repair to the inn where Captain Shargeloes was lodging. I cannot say that I ever saw our skipper definitely drunk; on the other hand, I could not state, with any certainty, that he was ever sober. The captain was the easiest and most good-humoured of men; would drink and yarn with you for ever; but, at a certain point of intoxication, the word plot would invariably creep into his talk. Never, to be sure, was a poor seaman so plotted and caballed, by his account; owners, agents, officers, and crew—all were in a conspiracy, at one time or another. We learned to take leave of Captain Shargeloes at the word. I do not know how the notion became embedded in his mind; he had seen mutinies enough, and longshore conspiracies to cheat the guileless mariner of his own in plenty; but so had every skipper afloat. The truth was, I suppose, that he knew himself to be a simple man, destitute of natural cunning; so that he found himself, to his continual chagrin, no match for the sharks.

The notion of some plot a-foot began to stick in my own head, presently. Moreover, there was a certain unwholesome facility about the beginnings of our enterprise which I did not like. It was too easy to be altogether natural. A roystering mariner in a tavern, a glass bottle, a scrap of paper, a Jew fatally fluent of speech—and there were a tall ship fitting for sea, Mrs A.’s money shot into her, and Brandon and myself cut loose from our tedious, but safe, employments, and despatched to the ends of the earth. “Really, I am a lucky fellow,” says Brandon. “I know it, and am grateful for it. Everything’s in my favour, and there’s no doubt, as Mrs A. says—though I don’t care about her way of saying it—that it’s a great chance for a young man.” Well, I was uneasy; but I couldn’t for the life of me discover anything tangible to justify disquiet; unless it were the affair of the ship’s chaplain, which presently befell.

The clergyman was picked out from his native obscurity by the advice of Mrs A., who knew quite as much as was good for her about holy men. He was a thick, red-haired, hog of a man, was the Reverend Jeremiah Ramsbottom; a stupid, good-natured fellow, I thought him, when Brandon the younger brought him aboard the Blessed Endeavour, about three days before we sailed.

“What’s this?” says Mr Ramsbottom, catching up a handspike, and balancing the heavy bar like a walking-cane in his huge hand. “One could knock a man on the head with this,” says he, with a foolish grin. I saw Mr Dawkins eying the big man with unmistakable disfavour.

“Who’s that, then?” Dawkins asked me, when Brandon had taken the parson away. I told him, Mr Ramsbottom was appointed ship’s preacher.

“I’ll have no preachers aboard my ship,” says Dawkins, with an oath.

“You’ll have to talk to the captain about that,” I said.

“Ah, but it’s me that has to sail the ship,” returned Dawkins. “I’m sailing-master. I been shipmates with a clergyman before, and never again, says I to myself. Cross-currents, squalls, baffling winds, dead calms, water rotten—why, time and again, I would as lief as not a-run the blessed ship nose under, just to fetch up at the Golden Gates with my two hands on that there preachers’ neck-band. ‘Lord God,’ I’d say, humble on the quarterdeck, ‘I am but a sinful man, but grant me to take this Thy servant and toss him overboard off of a good lofty star, and I’ll go out of heaven quiet and orderly—ay, and glad to go.’”

“Well, why didn’t you, Mr Dawkins?”

“We keelhauled the holy man, and I reckon that was a surer way,” said Dawkins.

Now, to keelhaul a man is to lower him from the yard-arm on one side of the ship, haul him under the keel, and hoist him on the other side, several times. If he lose his senses, his executioners kindly wait until he recovers them, lest he should miss the full benefit of the discipline. After these expressions of animosity, I was surprised to remark Mr Dawkins consorting with the Reverend Jeremiah, apparently on the most friendly terms; and, with less astonishment, that upon several occasions the clergyman came aboard with a glazed eye and an uncertain footstep. But when, upon the day we were to sail, he was nowhere to be found, I understood. And Mr Dawkins kindly volunteered to take a search-party round the taverns, and if the parson were still undiscovered, the churches of Bristol city.

“What, and lose the tide?” quoth the captain. “And to-morrow Friday? No, sir. I’ve never cut sail on a Friday yet, and I wouldn’t do it for the Archbishop of Canterbury. With a Bible and a flag and the Church of England Prayer-Book, we’ll try to make out, Mr Dawkins.”

So that zealous officer had his way; we sailed without Mr Ramsbottom.

At eight o’clock of a fine summer evening the bells were chiming in the 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.”

We were come by this time to the entrance of an avenue of cedars, whose lofty aisle of dark green foliage framed, in a diminishing perspective, a squat white house with a wide verandah, crouched beneath a little hill of tropical foliage. Our negro stopped; his errand, he said, was done,—that was Mr Murch’s house. He stood shifting from one leg to the other, his white eyeballs glancing on every side, holding out his dingy paw for his fee, in a terrible hurry to be gone. As the money touched his palm he was off like an arrow.

“He doesn’t seem to relish the neighbourhood,” Pomfrett observed, staring after the fleeing figure. “It seems quiet enough.”

It was quiet, indeed. The breeze hummed in the vast, feathery tree-tops, the grasshoppers chirped, and the droning of the flies was like the turning of a wheel; but these monotonous sounds made but an undercurrent in the deep stillness. Not a soul was in sight. The low, secret-looking house with the green shutters stood to all appearance wholly deserted, as we approached. The whole place was noiseless as a dream. I had a fancy, indeed, that I was walking in a dream, as we came to the neatly raked sand in front of the verandah, upon which our footsteps made no sound, and noted the shuttered windows, and spied in vain for any sign of habitation. But Pomfrett had no such fancies.

“I suppose these people sleep in the day-time. We’ll make ’em rouse and bitt,” said he, and rapped smartly on the door.

It was opened with unexpected promptness by an old, white-haired negro. We asked him if Mr Jevon Murch were within. Instead of answering, the black opened his mouth and, gaping at us horribly, pointed down that red cavern. Our eyes following his gesture, we saw that his tongue had been cut out. Pomfrett had the letter of introduction in his hand. Still fearfully staring, he offered it mechanically to this nightmare of a negro, who took it, nodded, flashed a grin upon us, and shut the door in our faces.

We looked at one another, not without dismay.

“Oh, dear me!” said Pomfrett, with great gravity. “What next, I wonder?”

The hot silence settled thick about us, as we waited on the threshold.

V
Mr Murch’s Repentance

Presently the negro reappeared, motioned us within, and led us into a cool, gloomy room with a matted floor, sparely furnished with a table, a great carved settle, and a red earthenware water-jar, oozing a cold perspiration. The walls, of baked earth, or adobe, were two or three feet thick in the embrasure of the small window, which was fitted with an iron grille, curiously wrought. The square of the window framed a space of blinding sunshine, continually crossed and recrossed by darting, many-coloured flies. We had a few minutes in which to remark these things, before the heavy door opened, and there entered a tall old man, dressed in loose clothes of white linen. His complexion was of the colour of old mahogany, so that his eyes glinted light like steel, and his thick white hair and beard were as snow. With his strong projection of chin, line of forehead running sharply backward and upward, and upward slant of tufted eyebrow and long, narrow eye, there was at the first glance a certain viperine aspect about Mr Jevon Murch. The skin of his face was wrought into a net-work of fine lines, not only about the eyes, where the net was closest, but covering cheek and forehead.

“Mr Pomfrett,” said Mr Murch, bending his keen glance upon each of us in turn. He had a beautiful deep voice, like a bell.

Pomfrett signified that he was the person addressed.

“Ah! You are Brandon Pomfrett? And you, sir, are Henry Winter? Precisely. Well, gentlemen,” said Mr Murch, with stern deliberation, “I am sorry to see you here. But I have my duty to do, as you have yours.”

At this unexpected address, we stared in amazement.

“I surprise you,” said Mr Murch. “Or, rather, God surprises you. You shall never escape Him. He is ever in ambuscade. Did you think to avoid His arm by fleeing across the seas? Why, you witless boys, all the while ’twas His wind was blowing you to the place of repentance.”

We had no notion of what this extraordinary man might mean; but it seemed clear enough that the sooner we were out of his house the better.

“I fear,” said Brandon, politely, “there has been some mistake, sir. We have the honour to wish you good-day.” He made as if to go, but Mr Murch stood against the door, his hand upon the lock.

“As to a mistake, be sure, Mr Pomfrett, I will ascertain the rights of the business. Sir,” said Mr Murch, with great dignity, “I keep a clean ship here—no slaver. Meanwhile, sirs, I must ask you to accept my hospitality.” He slipped from the room, and we heard the bolt click. We were prisoners.