The last buccaneer

The first thing to be done was to get a lodging for the lady at some place where I was myself unknown, so I steered her towards the best inn of the city. As we went Mistress Morgan told me something of what had befallen since the Modesty bark gave the slip to the Blessed Endeavour off Barbadoes. It was easy to see that Mr March was glad at our departing, though he said little enough on the subject, beyond a curt intimation that Mr Pomfrett was welcome to go and be damned in his own way for an ungrateful young idiot. Mr Murch being immovable, Morgan submitted in silence. After selling his own ship, the Wheel of Fortune, and taking her crew aboard our original ship, the Blessed Endeavour, whose complement was disbanded, Murch set sail for Catoche Bay, as we had surmised. Not that he believed in Mr Dawkins’s glass bottle, but it was a principle of March’s never to neglect a chance. And, sure enough, he found, and lifted, a considerable booty. Then he sailed for Port of London. Meanwhile, the wily thief had painted out the name of the Blessed Endeavour and painted in the Wheel of Fortune. For, he had retained the papers of the real Wheel of Fortune; and among them was the deed of gift, by which, as the patient reader may remember, Brandon Pomfrett had assigned that ship to Mr Murch. Thus, in case he were boarded by one of Her Majesty’s ships, Mr Murch would appear as simple captain and owner of the bark Wheel of Fortune, sailing on his own account. The position was a trifle ambiguous; but, so long as a gentleman avoided open piracy, no one, in those days, was superfluous to ask questions; and Murch had, on that score, as fair a prospect of a clear run into London as any picaroon could reasonably expect. But, although he escaped the hand of justice, the same tempest that wrought so hardly with us drove him far out of his course likewise; and although the Blessed Endeavour, alias Wheel of Fortune, never fell into the same extremities as the Modesty ship, her crew went on short rations and suffered much from sickness, so that many died; and when the same storm that drove the Modesty ship ashore in Berehaven struck the Blessed Endeavour in the chops of the Channel (so near upon her heels were we) there were scarce twenty men fit to work the ship. She drove before the wind, northwestward, and in the end Murch beached her in Morte Bay, on the coast of Devon, in an inlet under the lee of the rocky headland called Baggy Point. There she lay, firm fixed by the bows, chock-a-block with plunder. Had he a full ship’s company, Murch could have repaired the leak and towed her off at high tide; but, finding himself hopelessly short-handed, Mr Murch thought best to leave the ship in charge of the boatswain, while he sailed to Bristol in the yawl, to procure a fresh crew. Upon fetching up at Bristol he went straight to his agent, who, as we know, was Mr John Gamaliel; and, for the sake of convenience, took up his quarters in the house of that useful Israelite for the few days during which he was fitting out a schooner and collecting a crew for the salvage of the Blessed Endeavour, alias Wheel of Fortune. So it was that when we brought up at the house of Gamaliel Mr Murch was on the eve of sailing, a fortunate coincidence which, the writer freely admits, has a spice of the improbable. But so things fell out—and is that the writer’s fault? And I doubt if this turn of fortune would have availed the excellent Pomfrett had not Morgan Leroux, with the instant divination that belongs to some women, prompted the owners’ agent to seize Mr Murch’s schooner and to sail in her himself. Once aboard our old ship, he would be upsides with Mr Murch. It would be a simple matter to represent to the remnant of officers and men that Murch himself had despatched the supercargo on the business; and, in any case, the ship’s company would care for nothing in the world save to be paid off with a handsome dividend, as quick as might be. Even as we talked, Pomfrett should be putting to sea. The carpenters and shipwrights were already aboard; and as for the common seamen who were yet ashore, they might be replaced with the wild crew Mr Dawkins had let loose from Gamaliel’s dungeons; and if Mr Murch appeared in the meantime, why, he was but one against a dozen drunken desperadoes.

Nevertheless, the enterprise carried a thousand risks; March, we knew, would stick at nothing; and the lady under my arm, once so cool and undaunted, was twittering with anxiety.

“I ought to be there,” she kept saying. “I ought never to run away like this—it’s shameful. But he told me to, and I promised. And I’m sorry for Mr Murch. I cannot help it. He was never unkind to me. But what could I do? I had to sacrifice someone. And now, I don’t know what will happen.” And I had scarce settled her in her inn, than Mistress Morgan despatched me to spy out how matters were going. Pomfrett had enjoined me very strictly to stay beside his dear; but ’twas easier to disobey the commander than his lady; and back again I must trudge through the snow to that fatal tavern, the home of our misfortunes, fervently hoping that Mr Murch might not fall across the poor clerk and twist the news of the conspiracy out of him with his two hands. The streets were empty as the desert and dark as caves, save for the glimmer, here and there, of a lamp swinging in the wind. Murch might have had his will and left his victim for dead in perfect security. But I fetched up at Gamaliel’s without harm, and peered in at the open door. Murch had not arrived, that was evident, for there were Pomfrett and his faithful ally, Mr Dawkins, marshalling the crew to go down to the ship. The men were newly clothed—out of Gamaliel’s stores, it is to be supposed; and they were not so drunk but that they could obey orders. Pomfrett, catching sight of me, leaped aside and gripped me by the arm.

“What is it—is anything wrong?” says he, in great alarm. And when I told him how matters stood, he cursed me for infringing his solemn behest like a slaver captain. “But now you are here,” says he, “you can make yourself useful. There’s plenty to be done.”

There was. First, there were the men to be shepherded down to the ship, which would have been easier had we known whereabouts beside the quay she was moored. However, we started for the docks by the nearest way; it was not far, but for all the hurry we made, a sober man could have crawled there on his hands and knees in the time we took. For none of the men were sober, and two or three tumbled down at every few steps. But we were out of the house, at least, and in due time we came to the black water, lapping at the sides of the moored ships, whose masts and rigging glimmered white like a snow-wreathed forest. The men were drawn up in close order beneath the wind-blown flicker of a lamp, and while Pomfrett and Dawkins mounted guard over them, Harry Winter was trotted off in the blinding snow to pick the schooner the Willing Mind out of the maze of shipping. He might have groped till morning had it not been for Mr Murch’s habits of discipline, which kept a riding-light burning and a seaman on watch. So we got aboard, and roused the watch below; and Pomfrett took command in the potent name of Captain Murch; who, said he, having been detained by affairs, would pick up the ship from Portishead, at the mouth of the river, in the morning. The crew who were already aboard, had no reason for suspicion; and in a bitter bad temper they were driven aloft by Dawkins to unfurl the frozen sails.

Next, a pilot had to be found, to take the ship down the river; and Henry Winter must tramp on that errand also. There were pilots in plenty, lodging hard by; most of them were known to me, and a hard-bitten, hard-swearing set of autocrats they were. I had work enough to get the first man out of his bed to the window, and when he learned for what he was wanted he bade the messenger to warmer climes, and clapped-to the casement; the second did likewise; and the third yielded only to the exhibition of a double fee.

Day was breaking, in a leaden and bleak lightening of the sky, as I returned along the quays with the surly pilot at my heels. The snow had ceased; the chill wind, blowing dead up river, was crisping the grey water into little waves; the roofs of the houses and every rope and spar of the wilderness of shipping showed white upon the scowling heavens. Bulwarks were ridged with snow, ships’ sides were crusted with it to the overhang, snow powdered the still figure-heads, caked upon the carved work and lattices of the stern-galleries, and lay thick and level upon deck and hatchway. Here and there a ship’s lanthorn shone with a pallid gleam, a sign of life that set the point upon that scene of desolation. Only upon the little schooner, which carried the last forlorn hope of all our fortunes, were black figures clambering and busy, alow and aloft.

Brandon Pomfrett, captain once more, met us at the gangway and shook hands with the pilot, who rolled stolidly forward to his place. Pomfrett stayed but to hand me more money—more of Gamaliel’s usury, I suppose—and to bid me go directly back to my post, before he gave the order to cast off. So far, then, we had succeeded; Murch, for some inexplicable reason, had not appeared, and a part of the intolerable load under which we had been labouring was lifted.

But, as I entered a side street leading from the quay, I had near brushed against a big man, who stood in the shelter of a bow-window, gazing across the snowy breadth of the quay to where the Willing Mind was shaking out her sails. I caught the gleam of a little eye beneath a tufted eyebrow, white as the snow that powdered the great figure from head to foot, a patch of bronzed skin netted with fine lines, the bridge of a big nose—there was no mistake. Murch neither spoke nor moved, and you may guess that Henry Winter had no desire to tarry. The recognition passed in a moment; the next, I was ploughing up the street as fast as I could walk, and wishing that a foolish scruple did not forbid a headlong flight. I glanced about as I turned the corner. The figure was gone.

Then, it came into my mind that Mr Murch had even more cogent reasons for avoiding our company than we had for avoiding his. We had but to tell our history to Pomfrett’s uncle, the great Brandon Pomfrett, and Mr Murch would be laid by the heels as a common pirate—for his device of changing the ship’s name and papers would never have availed him here—with a fair prospect of Execution Dock to occupy his mind in gaol; while Mr Pomfrett sent to rescue the Blessed Endeavour; and although Murch might suppose that Pomfrett the younger would hesitate to follow this direct course, out of regard to Morgan Leroux, he could not reckon upon the youngster’s forbearance; especially as it was undoubtedly the way Murch would himself have taken, in his adversary’s place. Murch was a man of remarkable penetration; but, he could never understand the solemn young agent’s boyish and romantic vanity. He could never have believed that Pomfrett would risk all on the least chance of getting back his ship by his private enterprise, sailing her triumphantly into Bristol docks, and walking into his uncle’s office with an elaborate affectation of unconcern. “Good-day, sir, I hope you are well. Yes, we fetched up this morning; a bit of dirt in the Channel, but nothing to speak of,” etc., etc. If I read Brandon Pomfrett the younger aright, he clung with all his might to the hope of some such ending of all his troubles.

Morgan Leroux was awaiting me, at the cheek of a brisk fire, with something hot on the hob. She was as grateful to me for bringing her the news of the sailing of the Willing Mind, as though I had brought the thing to pass by myself. But when I told her of the apparition of Mr Murch, quietly watching his own schooner cast off, she looked very grave. “I don’t like that,” said she, shaking her head, her level brows drawn down. “Mr Murch is never so dangerous as when he’s quiet. And he let them put off without lifting a finger? This wears an ill look, it does, indeed.”

She sat frowning at the fire and biting her underlip, while I set forth the reasons which should undoubtedly influence Mr Murch to keep himself very private.

“All very true, Harry,” says she, “but hardly sufficient. At the same time, I am sure Murch must have come too late to find them at Gamaliel’s house—and he might have seen them from outside, you know—for if he had, there would have been a fight. Oh, yes,” says Morgan, shaking her head, “Brandon and Dawkins and all—you don’t know Murch. He had the name of the strongest man in all the Brotherhood of the Sea, and brave as a lion. No, no. Murch must have missed the party at the tavern, learned all from Gamaliel, and gone straightway to the water-side. And then, I suppose, he did not care to tackle the ship’s company, or risk a great disturbance—and they might have thrown him into the dock. But I don’t know.... The more I think of Mr Murch standing there with his cloak about his face, the less I like it. He’s got something else in his mind. Something else. Now, what can it be?”

We learned, later, that Morgan’s hypothesis was correct. And what was in Mr Murch’s mind, as he stood there watching the Willing Mind casting loose, we were to learn immediately. There came a loud ringing at the bell in the inn-yard, which was used to summon the ostler. The window of the room opened upon the yard, and, drawing aside the curtain, I beheld Mr Murch standing on the stones without. He was bawling for the ostler as though shouting on his quarterdeck in a gale of wind. When the man appeared, Murch ordered a horse to be saddled immediately. Hidden in the curtain, we watched Mr Murch pacing up and down the yard; saw the horse led forth, and Murch inspecting the animal minutely; saw him pay the ostler, mount, and clatter out of the yard; and turned to each other with the same thought in our faces, the same words on our lips.

“He’s riding down to Morte Bay.”

“Where’s the wind?” asks Morgan, quick as light.

“Dead ahead. The schooner must tack all down the Channel.”

“She won’t make four knots an hour.”

“And the distance is the same by sea and land.”

“If Murch gets there first——” Morgan broke off and stared at me in white dismay. “Harry,” says she, “you must follow him.”