“Well, when the dividend was declared, on the morrow, Morgan had everyone searched, he was so zealous to be just in his dealings! He commanded them to search himself; and searched he was, to his boot-soles, the men handling him, according to Mr Murch, like a powder-barrel with the fuse burning, for he was easily ruffled. As the dividend came out, Morgan was entitled to a good sum, besides what he had hidden, yet the reckoning seemed fair enough. The rest got two hundred pieces of eight each. Two hundred little pieces of eight, out of all Panama! Small wonder the admiral was accused of embezzlement. The men turned mutinous, but he kept them under till he came to the coast, so great was his power over them. Then he sailed away without so much as calling a council. And he gave the Incomparable Lady her liberty, saying that his time would come, and he could wait. While he was waiting, he bought a plantation in Jamaica, and became Lieutenant-Governor, and afterwards Governor. Mr Murch bought a plantation in Jamaica, also. He was Morgan’s man to the end. I believe they had sworn blood-brotherhood, but of this I am not certain.
“In course of time, sure enough, Governor Sir Henry Morgan, by simple force of persistence, I believe, prevailed upon the Incomparable Lady. Her husband had died in Peru. She married Sir Henry. A daughter was born to her before she died, who married Captain Leroux, and became my mother. Captain Leroux, my father, was lost at sea, and my mother died soon afterwards. So I was left to my grandfather. When he was summoned to England, on some false accusation, he left poor little Morgan Leroux to Murch, who moved to Barbadoes, for Jamaica was no place for Morgan’s men after Morgan had gone. All those years the treasure was left to lie untouched. For it would never do for the Governor of Jamaica, sworn to put down piracy, and very ardent about the business, to come sailing in with a cargo of plate. And he could send no one, you see, except Murch, who was himself a marked man. Dawkins was thought to be dead. And if he were alive, why, he was but a boy at the time, thirty-seven years ago, the night dark, the place new and unknown—it was highly improbable he could find the spot. Moreover, he could not lift the treasure from a hostile country, unless he commanded a ship; and, even so, he would hardly dare to take her into Sir Henry Morgan’s jurisdiction. No—the two old men reckoned without Dawkins. But, why did he steal your ship? Mr Murch took it that he was after the treasure. For, Murch says, Dawkins is a desperate man. He’s getting old, ’tis his last cast. He’s squandered money and liquor in every port this side o’ the line. Now he’s got his last ship, by good luck; and supposing he misses the booty, do you see, he can still privateer till his hold’s full, then declare the dividend, pay off, and drink himself to death, as happy as a king. I cannot but admire your friend Dawkins, Harry.”
“Then,” said I, after some cogitation, “we are not in Catoche Bay—this is not Yucatan.”
“Dear child,” says Morgan, “not by a thousand leagues. Over there”—she pointed westward, where the mists were rising from the forests and the mountains shone in the blue—“is Panama. Over the horn of the bay”—she flung her arm northward—“is the river of Chagre. Now, do you see?”
The mystery of our speedy arrival was explained. No wonder I could not espy the red rock and the river of Catoche Bay, in a cove of the Isthmus of Darien.
“But why,” I said, after digesting the information, “did Dawkins come to Murch? Surely he was the last person in the world for Dawkins.”
“Dawkins knew little of Murch; he may have remembered his name, but no more. Besides, Mr Murch has an agent in England, and what do you suppose his name is? Why, John Gamaliel, of course—who else? He is agent for many of the planters. And Gamaliel sent letters by Dawkins.”
The Jew again. I wondered if he were concerned in Mr Dawkins’s little scheme.
“And what,” I asked, “about the glass bottle?”
“An old trick, that, but it never seems to stale!” says Morgan, with a broad smile. “See, now—Dawkins gets his ship, and keeps his secret. If he steers for the Isthmus, how are his officers to know it’s not Yucatan, when they fetch up? Did you? And if Dawkins fell sick, or died, or had a mutiny, the ship’s company might search the coasts till the Indians shot them or the Spaniards drove them out—what would they find?”