“As things are, they might find Mr Murch,” I remarked.
“That’s it,” says Morgan. “You are so quick, I declare ’tis a pleasure to talk with you, Harry. If Dawkins has taken boats up the river of Chagre, on the other side of the point yonder, those two old shipmates will meet, I shouldn’t wonder—a little surprise for honest Mr Dawkins, sure enough. Now, you see where we stand?”
“I see that my mate and I are as far from our object as ever, whatever befall.”
“But no farther,” said Morgan. “For I’m your friend—like it or not, I’m your friend, Harry Winter.”
I told her, I liked it very well. Not that I perceived much hope in the young woman’s amity.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said she. “It would be a pity for you and me to stand at loggerheads if Captain Dawkins was to come sailing round the point, with his eighteen guns shotted. And if he’s got the better of Mr Murch, why, look out for the tops’ls of the Blessed Endeavour. And if he hasn’t, it’s a strange thing that Mr Murch is away so long. We must have a plan ready, Harry.”
She patted my shoulder in a friendly way, did this singular lady, and left me alone to stare upon that secret barrier of forest and mountain, with plenty of matter for consideration.
IX
How the Supercargo asserted his Independence
For seven days longer did we lie rolling in the sun, awaiting Mr Murch’s return. Morgan Leroux discussed many a plan with me; but, since they all depended for their fulfilment upon the issue of unknown events, we naturally concluded upon nothing. We were extremely friendly together, now; and though Mistress Morgan had a shrewd notion of her own security, I do not know what might not have befallen the poor schoolmaster-clerk, had he been left much longer with this engaging young woman. The thing called love is, of course, much a matter of propinquity, and of a protean aspect. I say no more. Time and chance took us by the shoulders in due season; for, on the evening of the twelfth day after Mr Murch’s departure, when the dark had fallen at a stride, there came the red flash of an arquebus on the shore, then two more, the noise of the discharges echoing among the rocks.
A boat was manned inside of a minute and pulling for the shore, with Morgan Leroux and myself in the stern-sheets. Within shot of the beach, I hailed; and Murch’s unmistakable bellow replied. So Murch was safe, at least. They had set light to a handful of branches; we steered for that solitary flame; and there, huddled together in the wavering red light and vast shadow, were seven or eight figures. No sign of booty. It was Murch that caught the rope and hauled in the boat, the rest limping and stumbling behind him, two or three falling and lying where they fell; and Murch, without a word to us, gave orders to carry them into the boat. But where was Brandon Pomfrett? I was first ashore, peering into each face of the survivors. No owners’ agent was there. I demanded of Murch, where he was?