“Why the devil, then,” said Pomfrett, “didn’t you say so before? It’s too late to begin croaking now.”
At which I showed him we had no choice; and, therefore, needed all the more to be wary.
“Well,” said Pomfrett, assuming a light and careless manner, “I believe the girl is honest. She’s on our side.”
I hoped so; but to Master Pomfrett, at that time of his ingenuous life, every wench was an angel of honesty and virtue.
Mr Murch received our decision without changing a line of his cobwebbed countenance or a note in his deep voice. “Very well. We must sail within the week,” was all he said.
VII
The Wheel of Fortune makes a Quick Run
To man, arm, and victual a ship of some sixty men and eight guns, though the ship herself were ready for sea, takes ordinarily three months or more; and so to fit out a privateer, in the guise of a merchant vessel, in six days would seem an incredible performance. Yet we did it in a week—and it took a week to create the world, with unlimited facilities. Mr Murch must have been secretly preparing for some such enterprise for a long time. True, he never said so; but how else should a fine snow (a two-masted, square-sailed vessel), new rigged and cleaned, be waiting at the quay-side for a purchaser? How else should sundry merchants have the indents of stores ready made out in the back office, and the ammunition packed? And how else should the men of the crew present themselves in batches with such remarkable celerity? And what a crew! ’Twas the rout of Comus putting to sea. Scarred, dangerous, foul-mouthed ruffians; little, bustling Frenchmen; thick, mahogany-faced English; oily, sullen Portuguese; huge brutes of negroes and half-castes, most villanous of all. Some came shaking with drink, from the crimps’ houses; some, lean and lusty from their last ship; some, fat with soft living ashore; and some, dreadful tallow-faced creatures, with unkempt hair falling over snakes’ eyes, and hands like claws, from I know not what dark places of iniquity. And they all knew Mr Jevon Murch. I was certain of this. Not a day passed, while they were signing-on in the little office on the quay at Bridgetown, but Murch’s name would recur in their mongrel dialect as they stood talking and waiting their turn. And, of course, the merchants we dealt with had a private understanding with Mr Murch. Sometimes they forgot the pretence, and, a point arising for settlement, it was, “Well, sir, Mr Murch will tell you;” or, “As Mr Murch pleases.” But all business documents were made out in the name of Brandon Pomfrett. And no one asked awkward questions; it was no one’s business to ask questions, unless it were the Governor’s. And, after all, what was it to that high official that a cock-a-hoop young gentleman from England should choose to sail in the snow Wheel of Fortune on a private trading venture?
All that week we worked day and night, ate when we could, and slept where we sat. Heat, dust, smell, cockroaches, a fever of hurry, a nightmare jumble of black people and white; the long road to Murch’s house, hastily traversed at all times of the day and night; Murch sitting at his table, with his unchangeable iron face, steadily transacting business and directing affairs, the week through; mounted men riding up at all hours, sitting awhile with the unchangeable iron face, and riding away; Brandon Pomfrett snatching five bitter-sweet minutes of Mistress Morgan’s company, coming away and pretending he hadn’t; the ship in a dreadful confusion of packages and bales; and always heat, dust, smell, cockroaches, a fever of hurry, and the nightmare jumble of faces black and white—these are the remembrances of that strenuous week. A beastly climate and a beastly place, though curious to see.
We were to sail with the morning tide, keep the offing until dark, then stand in, with two lights in the foremast, to pick up Mr Murch and Mistress Morgan Leroux, off a point below the plantation. All their effects were already aboard, and a cabin fitted up for the lady with every luxury Pomfrett could improvise. Mr Murch had not only got his ship during the week, but had sold his plantation—slaves, house, and all. It was sink or swim, then, for Mr Murch and his ward, as for our two selves, on this venture.
Mr Murch was to act both as captain and master when he came aboard; meanwhile, Pomfrett, who was nominal captain and master as well as nominal owner, was in command. We came aboard the evening before; and Brandon sat for a long time studying a Manual of Seamanship, which he had borrowed from Murch. He read and read, the sweat dropping upon the open page.