“Of course,” says Captain Pomfrett, with perfect seriousness.
I had a premonitory vision of the Wheel of Fortune, staggering to and fro in the harbour, running down a boat here, carrying away bow-sprits and jib-booms there, the derision of Bridgetown; and I privately sought the boatswain. Since it was that officer’s duty to repeat the captain’s orders to the crew, he might yet save us. Our boatswain was a fat, good-humoured person, with a very long body, very short legs, and a tiny grey eye shining in the crease of his red cheek. I approached him with delicacy—so much delicacy that the worthy man, who was three parts drunk, had a difficulty in apprehending my drift.
“Ho,” says he, expostulating, “you’re a pleasant gentleman, Mr Winter, and no mistake. What harm have I ever done to you, Mr Winter, that you should wish to see me triced up to the gratings, a-biting on a cork, and the corporal a-laying on his twelve dozen for mutiny? And before we’re out o’ harbour too!”
I explained laboriously that my meaning was quite otherwise. I put it, that the captain’s long spell of work, combined with unusual potations, might cause him to give somewhat uncertain directions; that, in fact, the boatswain was to be responsible for taking out the ship.
“Taking out the ship? Why, now I understand you, Mr Winter. Don’t you fret yourself on that score, sir. I got my orders from Mr Murch. And Mr Pompion” (tompion, I suppose he was thinking of) “three sheets in the wind, is he? Ah, well, my advice to you, Mr Winter, is to go and do thou likewise. There ain’t no better way for to start a v’yage, nor to continue in the same, nor to end it. Rum’s the word, mate—rum!”
His voice dying away, he continued to regard me with a broad smile, apparently under the delusion that he was still speaking. I took his advice—not that I meant to do so. But I had an easy mind, since the wonderful Murch, who forgot nothing, had provided for our safety. We drank not much, that I remember. The rest of the night I forget. The ship was moving when we awoke. We scrambled on deck into the splendid sunshine, to see the quays and houses and green hills sliding behind us as the boats towed the Wheel of Fortune into mid-stream. A light air ruffled the shining water. Captain Pomfrett cocked a haggard eye aloft. The sails were furled, the yards squared by the lifts—that is, at right angles to the ship’s length. The faithful boatswain, bellowing orders from the forecastle, had the tow-rope cast off, the boats hoisted inboard, the men to their stations by the ropes, alow and aloft. Then he walked aft and reported all clear, with a solemn countenance. Captain Pomfrett stood as still as a statue, his legs wide apart, his face blue and white, his hat over one eye. There was a minute’s silence, the ship yawing slowly to the tide-rip.
Suddenly he exploded into life. “Slack away!” he shouted, arms waving. “Slack away!”
The boatswain’s whistle caught the words, the boatswain’s great voice bawled a string of commands, the yards were rounded, the sails let fall, and the ship, a tower of pearl-white canvas, began to travel with a noise of talking water. What Captain Pomfrett meant by his order, neither he nor I nor the boatswain ever knew. “It came upon me,” said Brandon, afterwards, “like an inspiration. It seemed to cover everything, and yet do no harm.”
We stood south-west until Barbadoes dropped beyond the sea-line; went about as the dark fell, and lay-to a couple of miles off-shore, with two lights on the foremast, the signal agreed upon. The moon rose beyond the black hulk of the island; and out of the shadow, down its silver pathway of light, came the boat, rowing with muffled oars.
We were rolling heavily, with much banging and creaking of tackle; but Mr Murch came briskly up the side, followed by a slim and pretty young gentleman. Slings with a chair attached were dropped into the rocking boat, and a white-haired old negress was hoisted inboard, and then the old negro without a tongue. Mr Murch took command, and we stood away again into the night.