Part 11

Still the owners’ agent sat silent, frowning at the floor. He was inly writhing on the horns of a most savage dilemma. All he valued in life drew him to close with Murch. On the one hand, he could see his owners satisfied and himself married and wealthy, all his troubles done. And on the other, only poor old Dawkins and a famine-stricken crew struggling down the river-banks, through the forest, with nothing in the world to hope for save the agent’s word of honour--the good faith of the supercargo with whom Mr Dawkins had dealt so crookedly. And why should a man keep faith with that treacherous old person, Dawkins? Perhaps in this painful crisis Mr Pomfrett recalled his own proud words: “What does it matter whom you swore to, if you did swear?” And, again, what use to Dawkins in refusing to take advantage of Murch’s offer. Murch, with his men and guns, had us all in the hollow of his hand. Still, the fact remained, that Mr Dawkins was rightful captain of the _Blessed Endeavour_, ostensibly commanding her for the owners; and for the owners’ agent to acquiesce in Murch’s suggestion were nothing less than to make terms with a thief and a robber. In some such guise must the problem have framed itself in the agent’s mind while he sat with his face averted from Morgan’s burning eyes. He broke silence at last, raising his head and turning to Murch, without looking towards Morgan.

“It seems to me, Mr Murch, I’ve no more choice in the matter than any skipper of an unarmed merchant ship you choose to lay aboard.”

“Why, there’s always the beach, Mr Pomfrett,” Murch returned. “I shall be glad to have you with me, sir, but God knows I’ll force my kindness on no man living, and there you have it, once for all. Now, I would not hurry you, sir, but time presses. Which is it to be?”

“I’ll sail under you, Mr Murch,” said Pomfrett, and the face of Morgan Leroux lightened like a breaking sky. Murch never altered a line of his countenance--that great dark face, which began to oppress me, like some monstrous visage seen in a dream.

“And really, Mr Pomfrett, I think you are well advised,” said Murch; and for my part, I agreed with the old buccaneer. I did not guess, as you will see, the extent of the supercargo’s mental reservations.

And that evening, before sunset, three ships sailed from Caratasca Cays. Mr Murch and his ward sailed in his ship, the _Wheel of Fortune_, Murch’s first mate had charge of ours, the _Blessed Endeavour_, while the owners’ agent, all forsworn, and his accomplice, Harry Winter, had command of his _Modesty_ ship, with her original crew. But, before these arrangements were complete, I have a little episode to relate, of a nature so tender that it demands a chapter to itself.

XV

WHICH CONTAINS THE ONLY OSTENSIBLE LOVE-SCENE IN THE BOOK

The conversation of lovers, as related by poet and romancer, is apt to raise a serious doubt in the mind of the reader. For, it is the very nature and rule of such intercourse that it be not carried on in presence of a witness, and that nothing concerning it be divulged by the parties themselves. How, then, did the chronicler gain the information he is so incontinent to impart, if not by hearing and observation? He might, indeed, write of his own experience, disguisedly; but, he should be ashamed to do that, and we can place little faith in the records of a gentleman so unscrupulous. He may, of course, paint from imagination, but, obviously, in that case, we are as far from the truth as ever. So difficult is this problem that some have even averred that the passion of love, as depicted by the said poet and romancer, is nothing but an invention of the ingenious artist--an unsubstantial paradise created by them for their pleasure. The mark of the true lover, say the precisians, is a contented silence. For my own part, I would not be taken to possess an opinion on the subject. But I have to record what did actually fall under my own observation; and if it be a rare distinction to have listened to a pair of lovers conversing, that distinction is mine. I did not seek the occasion; I could not avoid it; it came to me.

When the conversation related in the last chapter was ended, Mr Murch left the cabin and went on deck. We could hear his great voice booming out a string of peremptory orders. Now, you must understand that the declining sun, shooting a brilliant beam through the porthole, divided the cabin into dusky halves, so that, from where I sat humbly in the background, Pomfrett’s face, seen through the shaft of misty radiance, appeared as though floating bodiless in the brown shadow. He was staring at Morgan Leroux with a most tragical expression. Of the lady I could see no more than a shadowy apparition. So they sat, silent, for a long minute. Then Morgan spoke.

“Well, are you happy now?” she said. It was a new voice; the masculine tone had given place to an accent of such a caressing endearment that I behooved to remind them of the presence of a third party. But neither took any heed.

Pomfrett made no reply, gazing upon the lady with a look of such despair you would think he was under sentence of hanging, instead of promotion to matrimony. Then Morgan arose and came to him, and it was a woman, and no wild hoyden playing the gallant, who kneeled down beside him.

“Well, are you happy now?” she said, again.

Still Pomfrett answered nothing, nor did he lift his hand to touch the pretty head that was bowed upon his knee, but the muscles of his cheek twitched a little, and his mouth set hard. Poor owners’ agent! he was sore beset.

“Why don’t you speak to me?” said Morgan, lifting a face all melted and broken, as the thin ice on still water breaks and melts in the winter sun.

“My dear, my dear,” said Pomfrett, “I don’t know what to say.” He stopped.

“Say nothing, then,” quoth Morgan, contentedly.

“Ah, but I must,” groaned Pomfrett. “I must keep faith with my owners, and I must keep faith with you, and how to do both?”

“We’ll find a way, somehow,” Morgan answered, soothing him as though he were a child.

“But will you trust me, whatever I do--whatever I have to do?” he cried.

“That means you are going to do something foolish,” said Morgan. “What are you planning, my dear?”

“Ay, but will you?” said he, with what seemed to the listener a superfluous anxiety.

“You are but a foolish boy,” Morgan answered, and reached forth her hands to draw down his stubborn head. I rose and stole from the cabin.

And a little later, as I have said, the three ships stood out from Caratasca, and those lovers were parted. Murch would have his ward aboard with him, and very right. We found the _Modesty_ ship but a dismal craft without the gentleman-adventurer. But the two had had their time, the time and chance that come to all, they say; and never again were we three shipmates to sail in company.

XVI

MR DAWKINS GIVES US A LITTLE SURPRISE

Now, from Caratasca Cays to the island of Barbadoes is near eight hundred sea-miles; say a week’s voyage with a fair wind; and in about that time we entered the muddy water that for several leagues surrounds the island of Barbadoes. That evening Admiral Murch signalled to us to lay-to, since he would not make the harbour in the dark. Night came at a stride, and ere the other two ships had their riding-lights displayed Pomfrett had set sail, had gone about, and the _Modesty_ ship was heading back again for Caratasca.

All the way we had been discussing plans, but where was the use of plans when we could see no further than the ship’s bolt-sprit? Had we slipped away before, Murch would have chased us; now that he lay in sight of harbour, he would very likely let us go, and say no more about it. Pomfrett was going to keep faith with Dawkins after all; his owners must take their chance; and as to the third obligation to which he stood committed, that must wait likewise. The little blind boy with the bow and arrows must wait his turn; an exercise, after all, to which he should be well accustomed. Poor Morgan Leroux must even suffer; but I’ll wager that her sufferings were lighter than her lover’s. During the voyage to Barbadoes he would spend hours beside the taffrail staring at the _Blessed Endeavour_, where she leaned and rose and dipped, a cable’s length to starboard; and if he caught but a glimpse of Morgan, and a wave of her kerchief, I suppose he thought himself lucky. Now, as he held the wheel himself, his face was set like a death’s head, dim in the gleaming dark; and when the boatswain came aft, to enquire delicately, as a gentleman of fortune should, the meaning of this right-about-face, Pomfrett struck the man on the mouth, consigning him to perdition. Our friend went grumbling to the waist; and thereafter we had much ado to stay the men from breaking into open mutiny. A gay voyage we had of it; but, what with fair words and hard blows, we made Caratasca Cays at last, and dropped anchor in the great lagoon once more. Never were two mariners gladder to see the beach; yet there at the water’s edge, huddled about the camp-fire, was the fount and origin of all our troubles. Not sixty men, by what we could make out from the deck; perhaps twenty, or less; but there was Dawkins, whom no disaster seemed to quell. We saw him standing apart, and heard him roaring orders, while the men ran hither and thither, apparently putting themselves in a posture of defence; and the brown Indians came out upon the top of the beach, and stood looking on, in the shadow of the forest. We had a boat lowered, and rowed ashore with a white shirt hoisted on an oar, in case these desperate gentlemen should think fit to fire on their best friends. Dawkins suffered us to land in silence; then he broke out in a voice that scared the sea-birds, brandishing a great pistol.

“What now, Mr Pomfrett? Where’s Mr Murch? Lying-to round the point, I reckon. I might ’a’ known it from the first, but I believed in you, God curse me for a fool. Where’s Murch, I say?”

“I don’t know,” says Pomfrett, with great composure. “I left him off Barbadoes. I thought you’d want the ship, captain.”

Dawkins dropped his pistol hand and glowered at him, shaking his head. “You’re right there, shipmate,” he growled. “We do want a ship--a little. Ah, but I ain’t satisfied yet, Mr Supercargo, not by a long reckoning. Nor yet these here poor gentlemen o’ fortune--what’s left of ’em--_they_ ain’t satisfied, if I don’t mistake.”

They were not, to judge by their furious looks and questions, as they crowded about us; and Pomfrett there and then called a council. He had taken his resolution; they should sail to England if they chose to come aboard; or--in Mistress Morgan’s phrase--they could stay where they were and be damned. This was no occasion, you see, for circumlocution; everyone spoke their mind roundly, except Mr Dawkins, who held an unaccountable silence. As for gratitude to us for having rescued them, these gentlemen, whatever they felt, were careful to conceal any spark of that uncomfortable emotion.

“You talk very big, Mr Supercargo,” said one. “What! Go to England and rot in the streets, after all what we’ve done? A pleasant thing, to be sure! A proper way to talk to gentlemen of fortune! Just cast your eye round you. Now where would you be if we up and took the blessed ship, what belongs to us as much as you, I reckon?” And the observation was much applauded.

“Just cast your eye over there,” returned Pomfrett, jerking his thumb to where the little _Modesty_ ship sat like a butterfly on the water, “and you’ll see a couple of guns trained on you.” They looked, and, sure enough, there was the red glimmer of the lighted matches, as we had taken care there should be. “Sit still, shipmates,” says Pomfrett. “My gunner isn’t a patient man; and if any of you was to give way to his feelings, there might be an accident.”

Pomfrett was master of the situation for the time; he had but to lift his hand, and a couple of rounds of grape would be whistling about the ears of the unfortunate pirates. So he gained himself a hearing; and when he set before them the posture of affairs, and told them he had sacrificed all to keep faith with Captain Dawkins, they believed him. Landsmen would still have suspected the agent of some secret duplicity; but sailors are a folk both cunning and simple; and they will accept plain dealing with the confidence of children. Pomfrett dictated his terms, implacable as a slaver captain: it was England or the beach; and, since no better might be, they sulkily elected for England. After all, every man had his little gleanings out of Cartagena, though Murch had reaped the harvest; and we might pick up a ship or two on the voyage. Dawkins gave his vote with the others; for, in all questions of policy, save the questions of chasing and fighting, the captain ranks with the rest of the council. He made no remark at the time, but while the men were preparing to embark he drew Pomfrett aside.

“Mr Pomfrett,” says he, “you’ve dealt fair by me--no man couldn’t deal fairer--and I’ll deal fair by you, so help me God! Now, to show you,” Dawkins screwed up an eye, with his head on one side. “You remember that little business of the glass bottle, maybe?”

“An old trick; lucky for you, ’twas new to me,” says the agent, shortly. He did not enjoy these reminiscences.

“An old trick, was it? Why, now, I reckon Murch put you up to that--eh?” returned Dawkins, with a cunning leer. “He don’t believe in no messages in no glass bottles from no Captains de Graaf and Captains Grammont--not he. Eh?”

“Not very likely, Mr Dawkins.”

“Not very likely, as you say, shipmate. No, not likely. Jevon Murch would never be bammed by a simple little dodge like that, would he? So he don’t believe in it?”

“No, he don’t,” answered Pomfrett, wondering what the old rogue might mean by this persistency.

“Why, then, if he don’t--and I reckon he don’t--that’s a good thing for you and me, shipmate,” Dawkins went on, with great deliberation. “And why, says you? Why is this same old Dawkins, this poor old broken-down forsaken buccaneer on his beam-ends, a-talking like this here? That’s what you’re a-thinking, shipmate, at this blessed minute. Has he took leave of his senses, owing to hunger and disapp’intment, and the blessed sun, or what not, you’re asking of yourself.” Dawkins paused in this singular adjuration, his little eyes glowing under his penthouse brows, took a step forward, laid his hand on Pomfrett’s breast, and spoke low. “It’s true,” says he. “The bottle’s true. So far as I know, mind ye, that is. So far as I know, and I’ll swear it on the Book. I didn’t find that there same bottle, nor that message, mind ye, but I found another bottle and another message, and then I lost ’em ashore in a island port. Drunk, I reckon. But not before I’d a-learned the writing by heart. Gamaliel wrote it out from what I rec’lected, so he did, and Gamaliel, he supplied the bottle. And Gamaliel, he thought it was all a bam. But,” said Mr Dawkins, with indescribable emphasis, “_it ain’t!_”

He fell back a step, and Pomfrett stood regarding him with amazement.

“Now, by your leave, commander, we’ll lay that pretty little ship o’ yours for Catoche Bay on the coast of Yucatan--all as we was, commander, all as we was at the start, and on the way home, too,” Dawkins ended.

And so we did. But the ship had to be provisioned for the long voyage to England; and, taking advantage of the safe anchorage and the traffic of the friendly Indians, we spent a week in Caratasca Lagoon, getting wood, water, and victuals. After all, there was no hurry. Murch had sailed for England by this time, in all likelihood; his course lay north and east of the islands, while ours lay west and north of them; and we might consider ourselves secure from Murch, who, moreover, was doubtless glad to be rid of us. But, with him went Morgan Leroux; and although the agent, in reward of his fidelity, saw a chance of retrieving a great part of his owners’ losses, he went about heavy-eyed and silent. He was never quiet, working doggedly all day at this and that; nor did he sleep much. He would walk about the camp, along the shore and back again, or, if he were on shipboard, up and down the deck at night; then he would sit down where he was and fall asleep for a little while; and then he would wake again, and again take to his restless wandering. But when we were fairly at sea his melancholy lightened a little, and when we dropped anchor in Catoche Bay, on a fine night of moonlight, he nearly forgot his woes. The glimmering surf ran about us in a half-circle, thundering upon a zone of silver beach; on either hand rose tall cliffs, all black and silver in the moonlight, and beyond, the familiar dark barrier of forest, rising upon dim hills. Here, then, was the haven we had come so far to find. On one side of the bay the forest was cleft in a black notch; a few pines straggled thence upon the beach, bordering a gleam of running water. “_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._” Dawkins had the marks by heart, as he had said. Now, the crew had been told nothing of the matter; no one aboard knew of the treasure save Dawkins and Pomfrett and I; so that, if by any evil chance we found ourselves deceived, there would be the less discontent.

We three, then, had a boat ashore at dawn, with a cargo of empty water-barrels, which were to be filled. This made the ostensible object of our landing. There were the marks, sure enough,--a square lump of red, glistening rock standing alone on the stony beach; and, aligning the rock with the extreme point of the west horn of the bay, we took bearings, and found the line to run nearly due south. Leaving the men to fill the barrels, the three explorers struck through the forest. Dawkins trotted forward like a hound on the trail, panting and pounding, his big face shining with sweat, a humming cloud of flies hovering about him and clustering unheeded in patches upon his skin. There was a curious fixed purpose in his face; he kept glancing at us, where we ran on either side of him, with little, quick, ugly glances; and I could not but remember that, were we out of the way, the whole of the prize would fall to Mr Dawkins. He carried a brace of pistols and a sword; but so did we, though it’s true we were no great hands at the use of these weapons. We had travelled thus, with scarce a word spoken, for about a couple of leagues, when the little river, running in a deep gorge, curved to meet us; and there we were, in a grove of acajou trees, as the message had described.

“‘_The felled tree_,’” quoted Dawkins, “‘_bridging the stream between two groves of acajou trees_.’” And there it was; we could see a piece of the trunk, as we hurried forward through the trees. I’ll not deny that, in the few moments during which we traversed the grove, the agent, and I suppose myself, betrayed as much excitement as Dawkins. This elusive hoard of silver, this will-o’-the-wisp treasure, for which we had come so far and suffered so much--did it lie under our hand at last? The next moment we pulled up short, as though struck by a bullet, and stood staring and dismayed.

XVII

THE LUCK IS FAIRLY OUT

It was not much we saw: only a litter of white, fresh chips, pieces of bark, and the new-cut butt end of the felled tree, facing us; but a thunderbolt crashing at our feet would not have stunned the party more effectually. That tree had been felled by white men’s axes but a few days since; so much we perceived at the first glance; the next, showed us a small object standing upright on the middle of the great trunk, giving back the strong sunlight with a glitter that dazzled the eye. Dawkins, with an incoherent mutter of speech, in which we could distinguish the word “Murch,” pointed towards it. The hand he lifted held a pistol, whose muzzle wavered in the air. What was Mr Dawkins doing with a pistol? The other hand held a pistol, too; he had drawn them from his sash as he ran. His eyes were fixed in his head, his jaw was a little dropped, the veins in his neck stood out like cords, and his face was of a purplish colour. The next moment he fell forward on his face and lay motionless. The poor old buccaneer was stricken with a fit. We opened a vein in his huge arm with the point of a clasp-knife, and presently his eyelids fluttered and he seemed to revive. So, having bound up the wound, we took away his pistols--for fear of accidents--propped him up, and turned to business.

Pomfrett walked along the felled tree, the open knife shining in his hand, stooped, cut the lashings that held the little and bright object, and returned with a Dutch flask in his hand. It was securely corked, and within was a scrap of paper. Mr Dawkins, with a haggard eye upon our proceedings, and speaking with a thick utterance, was understood to claim the bottle as his own. It may have been, since the origin of our misfortunes had been left in the great cabin of the _Blessed Endeavour_, which ship, if the reader hath had patience to follow our bewildering exchanges in the matter of ships, was now displaying the flag of Captain Jevon Murch. For this was the message written upon the paper which was contained in that accursed flask:

“_Captain Murch to Captain Dawkins or Captain Pomfrett. As the case may be._

_The prey shall be to him that finds It and the Longest Liver takes All._”

Captain Dawkins merely gaped when he heard these words. But perhaps he was not in a condition to be stirred by any emotion, for it may be that we had taken more blood from him than was absolutely requisite to ease his distemper. He might not have entertained the notion of shooting his partners in the back; but, then, what was he doing with the pistol? Now he could neither shoot nor walk; and, as we had no mind to carry a couple of hundredweight of limp buccaneer through the forest, Captain Pomfrett sent me for a bearer party. When I returned with the men the two captains were sound asleep in the shade, the empty bottle standing between them, a sarcastic little monument of futility. The men naturally concluded that their officers were sleeping the sleep of the drunken. Down in the gorge, on the other side of the stream, a cave opened in the rocky bank, loose boulders and fresh earth strewn about its mouth. Pomfrett had, he said, made a careful exploration, but had not found so much as a ducat. Every particle of the treasure, if treasure there had been, was gone.

The next day we put to sea, and laid the course for England. Since all was lost, we had but the one thought--to seek Mr Murch until we found him. Now, Murch must have sailed directly from Barbadoes to Catoche Bay, gaining a few days’ start of us the while we were victualling ship in Caratasca Lagoon, on the bare chance of Dawkins’s yarn being true after all; and, to all appearance, he had secured the booty. His ship was crammed with plunder; he had nothing to fear from the pursuit of the little _Modesty_ ship, even supposing she had ever come to Catoche Bay, which to Mr Murch must have seemed an event by no means certain; and so, we had little doubt, Mr Murch had borne away from Catoche Bay for England. If so, we were following on his track; if so, barring accidents, soon or late we should come up with him; and then--why, then, the longest liver should take all. And of all the hopeless enterprises that ever a shipload of poor ruined adventurers embarked upon, I thought, as we cut sail from Catoche Bay, that ours was the most desperate. True, we might have gone a-privateering again, but Brandon Pomfrett was immovably fixed to sail for England. It remained to be seen how long he could keep his resolution in the face of a mutinous crew.