It was true. For me, I could conceive of no more desperate enterprise. But, our case was desperate. And Brandon, who would have given his body to be burned to get his ship back, asked for a day to consider the matter.
“A day!” cried Mr Murch. “Why, I would undertake to think the sun out of the heavens in a day. Better spin a ducat and be done. But take your time, gentlemen, take your time. Meanwhile, I’ll take a walk to the harbour. No sense in losing time, and I might fall across something which would come in useful. Remember, gentlemen, you are to use this house as your own.”
With that, he was gone. There seemed in us, upon discussion, some fatal attraction to piracy. Dawkins comes to Bristol, and chance, which might have led us twenty other ways, takes us straight into his company. He has us safe in that accursed bottle of his the same day, and there we are fitting out a fine ship for him to steal. We come to Barbadoes, are cast straightway into Mr Murch’s clutches, and in a trice we are getting a ship for Mr Murch—for him to steal, for all we knew. A fate was upon us: we were born to be catspaws for pirates.
We debated the question of appealing to the Governor of Barbadoes. What little we knew of governors did not incline us to this course. If he sent a ship-of-war after Mr Dawkins—which was highly improbable—any booty there might be would be confiscate to the government. The ship might be confiscate, too, for all we knew to the contrary. Besides, Dawkins would assuredly fight, and the ship would be knocked to pieces, or sunk, very likely. And if she were taken without damage, what should we be doing with a shipload of pirates, in strange waters, without captain, pilot, or sailing-master? The enterprise did not promise much. True, it seemed the legal, proper procedure; but were we not bound to do the best for the owners, irrespective of legal considerations?
“Very well,” says Pomfrett, “shall we ship with Murch? He’s——”
The door opened, and there was Mistress Morgan.
“He’s our only chance,” Brandon ended, hastily.
“And pray, sir, who is your only chance?” asked Mistress Morgan, familiarly. She seated herself in Mr Murch’s chair. This lady did not at all resemble our English ladies at home. She looked you in the face; she spoke to you as to an equal; she had no tricks of attitude or manner; but walked or reclined with the graceful, languorous freedom of an animal. In England, they would have said she lacked breeding.
Pomfrett had a notion that it was improper to discuss affairs with ladies, as his countenance plainly showed. “We were talking of some business, madam,” said he.
“Oh, I know your story,” said Mistress Morgan. “Mr Murch told me. I begged him, when,” says she, without the faintest reticence, “he bought you, to give you to me. I seldom see gentlemen fresh from England. I hoped you would amuse me.”