The last buccaneer

by L. Cope Cornford

Of course, we tried to get out; and, of course, we failed. The door was of some dark, hard, foreign wood, inches thick; the window-bars were immovable. We discussed the situation. At first we were ready to conclude that Mr Jevon Murch was mad, since he was evidently sober; but the explanation seemed inadequate. Such were the hurry and disorder of our spirits, that it took us a long time to arrive at the conclusion which, to the reader, must appear fairly obvious. Mr Dawkins had sold us to his friend, Mr Murch, who would either keep us captive until the ship had sailed, or, what in those days was the more likely supposition, would enslave us to work on his plantation. Either way, the prospect did not smile. Either way, as the supercargo remarked, we were in a clove hitch. But, why should Mr Dawkins desire to be rid of the owners’ agent and, by consequence, his assistant? Here, again, we were long in debate before we came to a plausible theory. The owners’ representatives out of the way, Mr Dawkins would lift the plate and skip with the profits—this was our brilliant solution.

“Why, the man’s a common pirate,” cried Brandon. “However could we have engaged him? But it was the bottle did it; we had to, you see. It was all my fault, but it seemed such plain sailing at the time. I can never go back to England now, whatever this Murch does with us. We’re done—the game’s up. And I’ve dragged you into it, too, Harry,” says Brandon, with a very proper expression of remorse.

But regrets were unavailing, as I told him; this world is unsusceptible of refinements. It was to be supposed that Dawkins’s letter to Murch had described us as two young gallows-birds whose ingenuous faces our relatives were not anxious to behold again. Everyone is aware that the plantations used to relieve of their failures who knows how many excellent families? There was nothing strange in that. Dawkins had probably garlanded our necks for the sacrifice with the fragments of all the Ten Commandments; or, rather, it was to be supposed, Gamaliel’s fertile wit had done so for him, since Dawkins was no hand with a pen. Mr Murch, in all likelihood, was even now gone to see Captain Dawkins on our account; Dawkins would confirm his letter with damning detail; the bonds would be signed, and Mr Dawkins would pouch two hundred pieces of eight, or so. He would be at no loss to explain to the officers the continued absence of two dissolute young men; would make great pretence of delaying his departure; and would finally cut sail, swearing that he declined to lose another half-hour for the Angel Gabriel himself. We could see him at it. As for Mr Jevon Murch, he would return with Dawkins’s sign-manual for value received in his pocket, and—what then? We should be his property, as much as his ass, or his ox, or anything that was his. We should have lost everything in the world, and ourselves into the bargain. And yet, Mr Murch seemed possessed of piety, a strange quality in a friend of Mr Dawkins’s and one of Captain Morgan’s men.

“If there’s anything I hate,” says Brandon, with great energy, “’tis hypocrisy.”

I was beginning to explain to him how rare was this vice, so fluently imputed, so difficult to learn, when there came a knock at the door, a little barred wicket opened in the panel, and the face of the dumb negro appeared in the opening. He handed in a bottle of wine, a couple of cold roasted fowls, a branch of bananas, some good white bread, and various small delicacies. These I received and set out on the table, for Pomfrett refused to touch them.

“I will not break bread in the house of this canting scoundrel of a crimp and buccaneer,” said he, nobly, with a ravenous eye on the victuals, the like of which he had not smelt for weeks.

And all hungry and thirsty as I was, I had to persuade the virtuous supercargo that here were no hospitalities of an equal, but rations for prisoners, before I could begin.

“Do you really think so?” said Brandon.

I understood him. “My dear man,” said I, “do you take my feelings to be less delicate than your own?”

This was all he wanted; and, honour being satisfied, we made a heavenly meal. The negro kept in attendance and brought us cigarros, and we lay on the floor and smoked. We were not nearly so sad as we thought we were. I think, secretly, we began to conceive a sneaking kindness towards Mr Jevon Murch.