The last buccaneer

by L. Cope Cornford

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.”