“See, now, how simple stands the matter,” Murch went on, with his weighty deliberation. “We sail in this ship, this very Blessed Endeavour, that has cost us so much endeavour, blessed or not; transfer the cargo from the Wheel of Fortune, take her to Barbadoes, and sell her there; the Governor will be glad to have her back again, for I may tell you, Mr Pomfrett, to show how fenced by the law is an enterprise, that his Excellency hath a share in the adventure. We will take your little bark as a tender, and sell her or not, as we find convenient. After Barbadoes, we cut sail for England, sir.”
Pomfrett sat silent, with his eyes on the floor. Morgan was steadfastly regarding him, with a distressed, appealing look that I could never have withstood for a moment, myself.
“Perhaps you think it strange in me to propose this arrangement,” continued Murch. “But if you will so consider the matter, ’tis entirely natural. My motive is pure self-interest—the mainspring of man’s actions here below. There is no other worth mentioning that influences any one; therefore, why deny it? I want to see my ward settled in marriage; the single estate is dangerous for females. I want to settle myself, in a manner which shall enable me to move in the society of my equals—a society,” says Murch, with dignity, “from which I have been too long estranged. I see in you, Mr Pomfrett, a respectable gentleman who shall serve me to both these ends. I need not, I think, say more.”
Still the owners’ agent sat silent, frowning at the floor. He was inly writhing on the horns of a most savage dilemma. All he valued in life drew him to close with Murch. On the one hand, he could see his owners satisfied and himself married and wealthy, all his troubles done. And on the other, only poor old Dawkins and a famine-stricken crew struggling down the river-banks, through the forest, with nothing in the world to hope for save the agent’s word of honour—the good faith of the supercargo with whom Mr Dawkins had dealt so crookedly. And why should a man keep faith with that treacherous old person, Dawkins? Perhaps in this painful crisis Mr Pomfrett recalled his own proud words: “What does it matter whom you swore to, if you did swear?” And, again, what use to Dawkins in refusing to take advantage of Murch’s offer. Murch, with his men and guns, had us all in the hollow of his hand. Still, the fact remained, that Mr Dawkins was rightful captain of the Blessed Endeavour, ostensibly commanding her for the owners; and for the owners’ agent to acquiesce in Murch’s suggestion were nothing less than to make terms with a thief and a robber. In some such guise must the problem have framed itself in the agent’s mind while he sat with his face averted from Morgan’s burning eyes. He broke silence at last, raising his head and turning to Murch, without looking towards Morgan.
“It seems to me, Mr Murch, I’ve no more choice in the matter than any skipper of an unarmed merchant ship you choose to lay aboard.”
“Why, there’s always the beach, Mr Pomfrett,” Murch returned. “I shall be glad to have you with me, sir, but God knows I’ll force my kindness on no man living, and there you have it, once for all. Now, I would not hurry you, sir, but time presses. Which is it to be?”
“I’ll sail under you, Mr Murch,” said Pomfrett, and the face of Morgan Leroux lightened like a breaking sky. Murch never altered a line of his countenance—that great dark face, which began to oppress me, like some monstrous visage seen in a dream.
“And really, Mr Pomfrett, I think you are well advised,” said Murch; and for my part, I agreed with the old buccaneer. I did not guess, as you will see, the extent of the supercargo’s mental reservations.
And that evening, before sunset, three ships sailed from Caratasca Cays. Mr Murch and his ward sailed in his ship, the Wheel of Fortune, Murch’s first mate had charge of ours, the Blessed Endeavour, while the owners’ agent, all forsworn, and his accomplice, Harry Winter, had command of his Modesty ship, with her original crew. But, before these arrangements were complete, I have a little episode to relate, of a nature so tender that it demands a chapter to itself.