“And next, there’s ourselves, the Two Gentlemen of Porto-Bello, or the Virtuous Pirates,” I remarked.
“We’re not pirates yet,” said Pomfrett, cocking an eye over the baulks of timber, and diving down again at the report of a gun.
“How about getting Murch a ship under false pretences?”
“That was necessary in the owners’ interests. Besides, we never knew he was going to play this game.” Brandon regarded me with great solemnity. “I see nothing to laugh at,” he added. “I tell you, I’ll stick at nothing to get my ship back. I’m not afraid of words. Call me a pirate, if it amuses you.”
“There’s nothing amusing about Execution Dock,” I said, “and that’s the course you’re shaping, as sure as you’re alive, my buccaneer.”
“I can’t help it,” said the valiant agent. “But there’s no reason why you should run the risk because I do. You’ve no responsibility, and I hold you free to go where you like,” he added, magnanimously.
I thanked him. But—the rules of morality having been stretched all ready for action—the question still remained, what to do next? We sat and contemplated the problem, while the fight went merrily forward in the harbour. Boats had been lowered from the Wheel of Fortune by this time, and a couple of ships had been boarded and, apparently, taken. Presently the firing ceased; the cannonading from the castle, too, had slackened, and the bells had stopped their clamour. We were reflecting that, if the Governor had by any chance discovered how small was Murch’s force, there was still time for him to reverse the fortunes of that astute general, when Morgan Leroux, wrapped in a fine cloak of crimson velvet, appeared upon the quay. Behind her marched William Crowby, the boatswain, and a party of seamen, none too steady on their feet. Neither Murch, nor the devil his master, could keep pirates ashore from liquor.
Morgan beckoning to us, we followed her into a shore-boat; the boatswain took the tiller and steered towards a fine French sloop lying out in the harbour. Not a man appeared on deck; she swung to her moorings, to all appearance deserted.
“Better jam the rudder, all the same,” said Crowby, and put the boat under the counter, where, above our heads, ran the legend, in gold letters, La Modeste.
They wedged up the rudder with thwarts and an oar or two; a precaution usually taken on these occasions, to render the ship unmanageable, supposing the crew tried to run. Then we climbed aboard, Morgan Leroux going first, as superior officer. There was never a soul of her crew aboard La Modeste. You are to consider us all this time as following meekly the current of events, with scarce a word spoken. The hand of Destiny was on our necks, and with an Oriental composure we beheld the anchors hoisted to the cat-heads, the sails set, and the quays of Porto-Bello sliding past us. And, as in a dream, we saw Morgan Leroux signal to the officer in command of the Wheel of Fortune as we passed her, heard her explain through the speaking-trumpet that she had Murch’s orders to carry the sloop outside; ducked our heads as the forts on either horn of the harbour fired at us, the balls moaning overhead between the masts; and felt the lift of the open sea.