Part 6

Now, from Barbadoes to Catoche Bay, in Yucatan, is fifteen days’ sailing with a fair wind, and I had anticipated, as, no doubt, had Master Pomfrett, fifteen days’ pleasant wooing of Mistress Morgan by the enamoured agent. But, somehow or other, I failed to remark the operation. From the moment when the swain clapped eyes on the lady in man’s attire, methought there was a change in his demeanour. Had Morgan not assumed protection of the agent so cavalierly, the change might have passed, but I doubt Mr Pomfrett could not stomach that improper reversal of their relations, in his helpless condition. He was bound to her by gratitude, or conceived that he was, and he sulked accordingly. Morgan forced him to run races with her round the ship, up to the cross-trees and down again, and beat him; made him compete with her in shooting at a mark, and beat him again; persuaded him to dance with her, and reviled his clumsiness with great freedom. Young Brandon began to think small beer of himself under this discipline; he lost a deal of dignity in the process, and conceived an immoderate desire to perform some exploit which should set him even with his tormentor. Yet this Morgan had nothing of the shrew, nothing of the virago. She was simply herself; she had no care, as Murch would say, to make any pretence. What she wanted to do, that she did, openly and freely; what she thought, that she said. Now this behaviour differed so extremely from the conduct of the English girls of Brandon’s acquaintance, that at first he was shocked. He thought, though he never said it, that she must be a bad woman, and this, I think, rather tempted him into her company. Be sure that Mistress Morgan knew what was in his mind. So the duel went forward between these two. I used to remark the boy’s square, guileless face beside the girl’s straight-browed, vigorous beauty, and wonder which would win.

As for Mr Jevon Murch, he left us much to ourselves, being entirely occupied in commanding the ship. If Mr Dawkins could sail a ship the way she ought to be sailed, so could Mr Murch. Yet he never took the chances that the jovial Dawkins risked so gaily. And while Dawkins cared nothing for the looks of the ship, and let the filth accumulate in heaps, Murch would have the decks like snow, the brass-work dazzling bright, the masts and yards scraped and varnished, the guns polished daily. The crew grumbled bitterly among themselves, and presently broke into open complaint. Murch had six men tied to the gratings, and gave them twelve dozen apiece. Their backs were cut to pieces. And thereafter, by a look here, a word there, now and again a blow that shook the offender for a week, Murch established discipline among that wild crew. How long they would have stood the strain I know not; for, so marvellous was Murch’s seamanship that we made Catoche Bay on the evening of the tenth day out, five whole days, or four at the least, before we were due, by all calculation. This was mysterious. But Murch kept the chart in a lockfast place, so we had no notion of where we were until he told us we were come “to our destination.” We had spoken ships almost daily, but there was never a sign of the _Blessed Endeavour_. Had she come and gone? That was the question. Murch wasted no time in solving it. It was dark when we dropped anchor; nevertheless, the captain went immediately ashore, taking with him his negro slave, twenty men, and five officers fully armed, and Mr Brandon Pomfrett. The ship was left in charge of Morgan Leroux, who had her instructions how to deal with Mr Dawkins, should he appear. The boatswain was second in command. I suppose that Murch took the officers with him to neutralize the risk of mutiny in his absence. It is of no use to steal a ship unless you can navigate her, and in his knowledge of navigation lies much of the secret of the officer’s ascendancy in the ships that sail on the private account. As for the humble compiler of these memoirs, he was left aboard as a kind of tame watch-dog.

When the day broke we found ourselves lying in a rocky bay, some two miles from the shore. I searched the coasts with a perspective glass, with intent to discover the marks described in the writing contained in Mr Dawkins’s bottle. “_At a point on nothe mainland Yucatan two leagues due south from the hed of Catoche Bay having the red rocks where the river flows out in line with the extreemest projection of cliffe on west horn of bay_.” Thus, Captain Grammont, the old buccaneer, to Captain de Graaf, his comrade. But I could see neither any red rock in particular, nor river flowing out. Here was another perplexity of this remarkable voyage.

The landing party was expected to return on the second day, but the second day passed, and the third, and still the long beach lay solitary, save for the myriad sea-birds, fishing and screaming. And the deep forest, climbing upon the tall mountains, grilled, silent and mysterious, in the sun, with no sign or sound of man. Morgan Leroux began to grow restless; her careless gaiety died away; a shadow dwelt upon her face. On the fifth day, in the morning watch, I was alone on the quarterdeck, in that still hour of the dawn, when I was aware of Morgan Leroux at my elbow. We both gazed shoreward for awhile, where the beach and the woods were whelmed in shadow and the tops of the far hills took the sunlight. Eastward, the dazzling half-circle of the sea shone clear and desolate. Still, no sign of the adventurers; stranger yet, no sign of Dawkins in the _Blessed Endeavour_.

“Mr Winter,” said Morgan, “I don’t like it. They went by a short way to the place--shorter than the river journey; they should have been back before this.”

“The river--what river?”

“Oh, I forgot,” says Morgan. “You don’t know, of course.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I’ve been looking for a river these four days, till my eyes ached. Here is Catoche Bay; where’s the river? Can you see one? I can’t.”

“Perhaps,” said Morgan, softly, “because it is not there? Come, Mr Winter,” she added, in her serious manner, “we are passable friends, are we not?”

“Surely.”

“Ah, well, you don’t like me--which matters little, Mr Harry Winter, save to yourself--but you don’t trust me neither, and that matters much, because,” says Morgan, “I am one to be trusted, did you but know it. And in this posture of affairs, do you know, friend Harry, I think you and me are to have dealings together, lest worse befall.”

I had not thought of it before--it was true. I neither liked her overmuch, nor trusted her. But, so curious a thing is man, I began to desire to do both, from that moment. Morgan looked at me and smiled pleasantly.

“Come,” says she, “I am going to tell you a story.”

VIII

THE STORY OF THE INCOMPARABLE LADY AND THE ADMIRAL OF BUCCANEERS

This was the story told me by Morgan Leroux, as we leaned on the taffrail of the _Wheel of Fortune_, in the still splendour of the dawn.

“Sir Henry Morgan was, as you know, my grandfather. He rose to be Admiral of Buccaneers and Governor of Jamaica, from very low beginnings. He shipped from Bristol in his youth, and as soon as he came to the Indies he was sold as a slave--a thing,” says Morgan, “which might happen to any gentleman. But he served his time, and when it was out he joined the Brotherhood of the Sea. Jevon Murch was ship’s boy in Mr Morgan’s ship, and he followed Mr Morgan all through. He was at the capture of El Puerto del Principe, and the taking of Porto-Bello. I have often heard him tell of the Spanish governor’s stout resistance, and how he refused quarter--which was great foolishness--and fought to the last, his wife and child clinging about his knees.

“Murch was with Captain Morgan when he took Saint Catherine’s Isle by stratagem, and so acquitted himself in the storming of the Castle of Chagre that Morgan gave him a billet which kept him about his person. So they went to the sack of Maracaibo, where they fought and quite destroyed the Spanish fleet, and Murch was Morgan’s lieutenant at the taking of Panama. I have heard the story of the burning of Panama from Mr Murch, for my grandfather never spoke of his life. Some drunken fool, it seems, set light to a house, and not the whole army of the pirates could extinguish the conflagration. The houses were chiefly of cedar-wood, and the fire burned for a month, with a stifling smell and a great smoke rolling out to sea.

“Meanwhile, Morgan neglected nothing that might gain him sixpence. That was his energetic way. The pirates raked and dug in the ruins and searched the wells and cisterns for booty; search-parties ranged the woods to fetch thence those who had fled, and brought them to be tortured until they gave up their riches; and boats were despatched to the near islands of Tavoga and Tavogilla to bring back others who had fled thither on the first alarm.

“Now, I must tell you that Captain Morgan’s custom was--as Mr Murch hath often described to me--his custom was, when the women were brought in, to have them passed in review before him. He sat in his chair in his lodging, which was the finest house he could find, as grand as the Great Mogul. Now, upon a day, there came in one of the boats, among the other women, a certain Spanish lady, wife to a wealthy merchant of Panama. The merchant had gone to Peru, whereby, no doubt, he saved his head, whatever else he lost. Well, this lady came before Captain Morgan with her old tire-woman, a silly person. ‘Why, Jesus bless me!’ says the duenna, looking at Admiral Morgan, ‘these thieves are like us Spaniards. They told us they had beasts’ faces, and oh, good little Jesus,’ she cries out, shaking, ‘what have I said!’ But my grandfather never marked her. He was looking at the Incomparable Lady--so they called her, not only, Murch says, because of her beauty but, because none other ever held Morgan at siege so long as she. The poor lady began to beseech him with tears to let her go, offering him ransom. ‘Ransom?’ says Morgan. ‘’Tis for me to offer ransom, I think.’ And he gave orders to lodge the lady with her woman in all sumptuousness, and to set a guard upon them. ‘And as for the rest,’ says he, ‘you can take it away. What have I to do with a gallimaufrey of kitchen grease?’ Well, Mr Murch was in charge of the guard that kept the Incomparable Lady. ‘And I saw,’ says Murch to me, ‘I saw Morgan the Welsh werewolf trapped and tamed.’

“I’ll make no pretence of delicacy in talking of my grandfather the admiral. A wolf he was in his youth, bloody and treacherous. Murch says he would never have believed his subjugation possible, but that ’twas the same with all the men. They feared their admiral more than the devil, yet had he offered the least indignity to the Incomparable Lady, there were plenty would have tried to run him through. Morgan visited the Incomparable Lady every day, suing with great gifts of pearl and plate and jewels--suing in vain. Then came the time when Panama was squeezed dry, and the pirates marched away across the Isthmus with a huge booty, driving the prisoners, men, women, and children, like a herd of cattle. The Incomparable Lady was carried in a litter by herself, guarded by Mr Murch and his men. Captain Morgan would walk for miles with his hand on the side of the litter, hoping she would speak kindly to him, if but a single word.

“Now, it was, as we must believe, that Morgan the buccaneer made up his mind there was one thing in the world for him, and that was the love of the Incomparable Lady. Herself he might easily possess; it was her love he wanted. He would never stick at the price. Never in his life had he counted the cost of what he desired; never yet had he failed to get it, soon or late. Her husband was alive? Then would Morgan kill him, or wait until God took the worthy merchant. She would not deign to look on a pirate? Then he would leave off that way of life. But to do that he must have money. You cannot live ashore on nothing; none was less likely to try than Morgan. Very well, money he would get. Did you never hear how Captain Morgan was accused of embezzlement at the dividend of booty, which was held beside the river of Chagre? The charge was true. He took his own proper share; he took much more, and brought it away; and he took more than that, and hid it by the river of Chagre.”

Mistress Morgan paused. A dim notion of what was coming was beginning to dawn upon me.

“You’ll see, Harry Winter, that I trust you,” Morgan went on. “Now listen. There are three persons alive who know where that treasure is hid. The first,” said she, speaking very deliberately, “is Mr Murch, because Sir Henry Morgan told him; the second is the old negro, our servant, whom you know. You may have observed that he’s lost his tongue. The third--now, who’s the third, Mr Winter?”

“Dawkins!” I said. “Dawkins, for a ducat!”

“Right,” said she. “How quick you are, to be sure! Dawkins was young then, younger than Murch, rated ship’s boy at the time. He and the negro, Morgan’s servant, helped Morgan to carry away the treasure secretly from the camp by night. The guards were removed by drink, or some other pretext, and Morgan took what he wanted. Afterwards, he would have killed Dawkins for safety’s sake, but the child was wary, and escaped. Morgan never saw him again. As for the negro, he cut his tongue out. I have never quite understood,” says Morgan, “why my grandfather kept him alive. But the man was a good servant, and it may be that the Incomparable Lady had softened Mr Morgan. Dawkins, Murch says, was a mutinous little thief, and deserved hanging twice over.

“Well, when the dividend was declared, on the morrow, Morgan had everyone searched, he was so zealous to be just in his dealings! He commanded them to search himself; and searched he was, to his boot-soles, the men handling him, according to Mr Murch, like a powder-barrel with the fuse burning, for he was easily ruffled. As the dividend came out, Morgan was entitled to a good sum, besides what he had hidden, yet the reckoning seemed fair enough. The rest got two hundred pieces of eight each. Two hundred little pieces of eight, out of all Panama! Small wonder the admiral was accused of embezzlement. The men turned mutinous, but he kept them under till he came to the coast, so great was his power over them. Then he sailed away without so much as calling a council. And he gave the Incomparable Lady her liberty, saying that his time would come, and he could wait. While he was waiting, he bought a plantation in Jamaica, and became Lieutenant-Governor, and afterwards Governor. Mr Murch bought a plantation in Jamaica, also. He was Morgan’s man to the end. I believe they had sworn blood-brotherhood, but of this I am not certain.

“In course of time, sure enough, Governor Sir Henry Morgan, by simple force of persistence, I believe, prevailed upon the Incomparable Lady. Her husband had died in Peru. She married Sir Henry. A daughter was born to her before she died, who married Captain Leroux, and became my mother. Captain Leroux, my father, was lost at sea, and my mother died soon afterwards. So I was left to my grandfather. When he was summoned to England, on some false accusation, he left poor little Morgan Leroux to Murch, who moved to Barbadoes, for Jamaica was no place for Morgan’s men after Morgan had gone. All those years the treasure was left to lie untouched. For it would never do for the Governor of Jamaica, sworn to put down piracy, and very ardent about the business, to come sailing in with a cargo of plate. And he could send no one, you see, except Murch, who was himself a marked man. Dawkins was thought to be dead. And if he were alive, why, he was but a boy at the time, thirty-seven years ago, the night dark, the place new and unknown--it was highly improbable he could find the spot. Moreover, he could not lift the treasure from a hostile country, unless he commanded a ship; and, even so, he would hardly dare to take her into Sir Henry Morgan’s jurisdiction. No--the two old men reckoned without Dawkins. But, why did he steal your ship? Mr Murch took it that he was after the treasure. For, Murch says, Dawkins is a desperate man. He’s getting old, ’tis his last cast. He’s squandered money and liquor in every port this side o’ the line. Now he’s got his last ship, by good luck; and supposing he misses the booty, do you see, he can still privateer till his hold’s full, then declare the dividend, pay off, and drink himself to death, as happy as a king. I cannot but admire your friend Dawkins, Harry.”

“Then,” said I, after some cogitation, “we are not in Catoche Bay--this is not Yucatan.”

“Dear child,” says Morgan, “not by a thousand leagues. Over there”--she pointed westward, where the mists were rising from the forests and the mountains shone in the blue--“is Panama. Over the horn of the bay”--she flung her arm northward--“is the river of Chagre. Now, do you see?”

The mystery of our speedy arrival was explained. No wonder I could not espy the red rock and the river of Catoche Bay, in a cove of the Isthmus of Darien.

“But why,” I said, after digesting the information, “did Dawkins come to Murch? Surely he was the last person in the world for Dawkins.”

“Dawkins knew little of Murch; he may have remembered his name, but no more. Besides, Mr Murch has an agent in England, and what do you suppose his name is? Why, John Gamaliel, of course--who else? He is agent for many of the planters. And Gamaliel sent letters by Dawkins.”

The Jew again. I wondered if he were concerned in Mr Dawkins’s little scheme.

“And what,” I asked, “about the glass bottle?”

“An old trick, that, but it never seems to stale!” says Morgan, with a broad smile. “See, now--Dawkins gets his ship, and keeps his secret. If he steers for the Isthmus, how are his officers to know it’s not Yucatan, when they fetch up? Did you? And if Dawkins fell sick, or died, or had a mutiny, the ship’s company might search the coasts till the Indians shot them or the Spaniards drove them out--what would they find?”

“As things are, they might find Mr Murch,” I remarked.

“That’s it,” says Morgan. “You are so quick, I declare ’tis a pleasure to talk with you, Harry. If Dawkins has taken boats up the river of Chagre, on the other side of the point yonder, those two old shipmates will meet, I shouldn’t wonder--a little surprise for honest Mr Dawkins, sure enough. Now, you see where we stand?”

“I see that my mate and I are as far from our object as ever, whatever befall.”

“But no farther,” said Morgan. “For I’m your friend--like it or not, I’m your friend, Harry Winter.”

I told her, I liked it very well. Not that I perceived much hope in the young woman’s amity.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said she. “It would be a pity for you and me to stand at loggerheads if Captain Dawkins was to come sailing round the point, with his eighteen guns shotted. And if he’s got the better of Mr Murch, why, look out for the tops’ls of the _Blessed Endeavour_. And if he hasn’t, it’s a strange thing that Mr Murch is away so long. We must have a plan ready, Harry.”

She patted my shoulder in a friendly way, did this singular lady, and left me alone to stare upon that secret barrier of forest and mountain, with plenty of matter for consideration.

IX

HOW THE SUPERCARGO ASSERTED HIS INDEPENDENCE

For seven days longer did we lie rolling in the sun, awaiting Mr Murch’s return. Morgan Leroux discussed many a plan with me; but, since they all depended for their fulfilment upon the issue of unknown events, we naturally concluded upon nothing. We were extremely friendly together, now; and though Mistress Morgan had a shrewd notion of her own security, I do not know what might not have befallen the poor schoolmaster-clerk, had he been left much longer with this engaging young woman. The thing called love is, of course, much a matter of propinquity, and of a protean aspect. I say no more. Time and chance took us by the shoulders in due season; for, on the evening of the twelfth day after Mr Murch’s departure, when the dark had fallen at a stride, there came the red flash of an arquebus on the shore, then two more, the noise of the discharges echoing among the rocks.

A boat was manned inside of a minute and pulling for the shore, with Morgan Leroux and myself in the stern-sheets. Within shot of the beach, I hailed; and Murch’s unmistakable bellow replied. So Murch was safe, at least. They had set light to a handful of branches; we steered for that solitary flame; and there, huddled together in the wavering red light and vast shadow, were seven or eight figures. No sign of booty. It was Murch that caught the rope and hauled in the boat, the rest limping and stumbling behind him, two or three falling and lying where they fell; and Murch, without a word to us, gave orders to carry them into the boat. But where was Brandon Pomfrett? I was first ashore, peering into each face of the survivors. No owners’ agent was there. I demanded of Murch, where he was?

“Ah, Mr Winter, is that you?” says Murch. “We have met with accidents, sir. Mr Pomfrett not with us? Where is Mr Pomfrett?” he called aloud.

“Fell out, sir,” said two or three voices.

“Why, there, now,” Murch went on, “he cannot be far behind. I saw him but now. Climb the beach, and you will find him, Mr Winter. But make haste.”

Climb the beach, quoth he--run my head into a solid wall of blackness. There was no help for it, and on I went, stumbling over the rocks at every step, and shouting my comrade’s name. Suddenly, out of the thick darkness, a hand clutched my arm. I had a jolt of fright, but the voice of Morgan Leroux brought me to my senses.

“Keep quiet,” said she, speaking low. “Stop where you are.”

At the same moment I heard Murch give the order to shove off. The splash of the oars was inaudible in the thunder of the surf.

“Why, is he going to leave us?” I said.

“We are going to leave him, Harry,” said Morgan. “Keep quiet, I say, if you value your life. As for me, he thinks I am on board. Now come.”

There was no disputing Morgan, any more than her grandsire. We stumbled forward in the dark until we fetched up against a boulder. Looking back, we saw the water all a-gleam with phosphorescent light, flakes of fire dropping from the oar-blades, where the boat was ploughing a channel of lambent flame. Far away the ship’s lights shone, swinging to and fro in the dark. Overhead a thick curtain of cloud hid the stars; landward the fire-flies glimmered and darted, and we knew we were close to the forest.

“We must get forward,” said Morgan. “When Murch comes aboard and misses me, he’ll send a search-party.”

We found a way round the boulder, plunged into the wood, and struggled onward, striking against tree-trunks, lashed with branches, sinking knee-deep in moss or rotting wood. The air was heavy and fragrant, and whenever we halted, a thousand little wood-noises assailed our ears. And presently we caught the cry of a man’s voice, calling for help. Now here, in the pitch-dark wood, I was taken with a sudden revelation. This Morgan Leroux, this strange volume written in an unknown tongue, hardly deciphered here and there, whose hidden meaning both allured and warned, was turned unaccountably to a human creature, quick and fierce with some nameless emotion.

“That’s Brandon Pomfrett,” says Morgan, and answered him, high and shrill. He replied, and we replied; and so back and forth, as we floundered in the wood, this way and that. It is no easy matter to track a voice in the dark. And they must have heard us on the ship, for answering hails came, far and long-drawn, so that we confused their cries with Brandon’s, and the fear of pursuit was added to our confusion. But Morgan Leroux was brave as a man in the stress of that passage, and we kept on, boring our way like rats in a faggot-stack, until Brandon’s voice rang nearer and nearer, and we stumbled upon him where he lay at the foot of a rock, bound hand and foot.