“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.