“Porto-Bello, that Captain Morgan sacked, if he left any of it.”
“And where’s Porto-Bello?”
“Southward a day’s march.”
“Come along,” says Brandon, getting to his feet quite briskly.
“What do you think you’re going to do?”
“Ask me when we get to Porto-Bello,” says Pomfrett. “Up, you lazy swab!”
“Oh, very well,” I said. “Take the town of Porto-Bello, take Dawkins, take the Blessed Endeavour, and take Morgan Leroux’s marriage portion, we two, all by our two selves. Then take Murch and the Wheel of Fortune, and—what of Mistress Leroux? You’ll have her money, you may as well have herself. Take Morgan Leroux. Is that all?”
“The money’s aboard my ship,” says Brandon, with unmoved solemnity. “That’s enough for me. Come, now, march!”
And march we did, with intolerable labour, through that infernal wilderness, keeping the eternal booming of the surf on our left hand for a guide. Up and up we climbed in the fainting heat of the forest until we came out upon a spur of the mountains, and beheld the coast-line, jutting forth into many a rocky headland away to the northward, and beneath our feet the huddled brown roofs and white fortifications of Porto-Bello town, and its harbour thick with masts. Far as eye could reach the great glistening plane of the sea was bare of shipping. Where, then, was Mr Dawkins? and where Mr Murch? Down we went, two hapless wights, knowing no more than our boot-soles what should befall us.
It was dark by the time we gained the outskirts of the town, on the inland side. Dark walls blotted upon the stars; we could hear the sentries call and counter-call. Captain Morgan had battered Porto-Bello to pieces; but the indomitable Spaniard had built it up again, it seemed. Within was supper. We could see in our minds the spit turning, and hear the hissing of the fat; we beheld the ruby sparkle of the wine in the hospitable light of a tavern. The risk of capture was not great. We might pass as common sailors; only, how to persuade the sentry? Brandon would have been glad to kill him, I make no doubt; but Brandon was spent nearly to death; and as for Henry Winter, he had never slain a man, and had small stomach for the experiment.