“I don’t know,” says Pomfrett, with great composure. “I left him off Barbadoes. I thought you’d want the ship, captain.”
Dawkins dropped his pistol hand and glowered at him, shaking his head. “You’re right there, shipmate,” he growled. “We do want a ship—a little. Ah, but I ain’t satisfied yet, Mr Supercargo, not by a long reckoning. Nor yet these here poor gentlemen o’ fortune—what’s left of ’em—they ain’t satisfied, if I don’t mistake.”
They were not, to judge by their furious looks and questions, as they crowded about us; and Pomfrett there and then called a council. He had taken his resolution; they should sail to England if they chose to come aboard; or—in Mistress Morgan’s phrase—they could stay where they were and be damned. This was no occasion, you see, for circumlocution; everyone spoke their mind roundly, except Mr Dawkins, who held an unaccountable silence. As for gratitude to us for having rescued them, these gentlemen, whatever they felt, were careful to conceal any spark of that uncomfortable emotion.
“You talk very big, Mr Supercargo,” said one. “What! Go to England and rot in the streets, after all what we’ve done? A pleasant thing, to be sure! A proper way to talk to gentlemen of fortune! Just cast your eye round you. Now where would you be if we up and took the blessed ship, what belongs to us as much as you, I reckon?” And the observation was much applauded.
“Just cast your eye over there,” returned Pomfrett, jerking his thumb to where the little Modesty ship sat like a butterfly on the water, “and you’ll see a couple of guns trained on you.” They looked, and, sure enough, there was the red glimmer of the lighted matches, as we had taken care there should be. “Sit still, shipmates,” says Pomfrett. “My gunner isn’t a patient man; and if any of you was to give way to his feelings, there might be an accident.”
Pomfrett was master of the situation for the time; he had but to lift his hand, and a couple of rounds of grape would be whistling about the ears of the unfortunate pirates. So he gained himself a hearing; and when he set before them the posture of affairs, and told them he had sacrificed all to keep faith with Captain Dawkins, they believed him. Landsmen would still have suspected the agent of some secret duplicity; but sailors are a folk both cunning and simple; and they will accept plain dealing with the confidence of children. Pomfrett dictated his terms, implacable as a slaver captain: it was England or the beach; and, since no better might be, they sulkily elected for England. After all, every man had his little gleanings out of Cartagena, though Murch had reaped the harvest; and we might pick up a ship or two on the voyage. Dawkins gave his vote with the others; for, in all questions of policy, save the questions of chasing and fighting, the captain ranks with the rest of the council. He made no remark at the time, but while the men were preparing to embark he drew Pomfrett aside.
“Mr Pomfrett,” says he, “you’ve dealt fair by me—no man couldn’t deal fairer—and I’ll deal fair by you, so help me God! Now, to show you,” Dawkins screwed up an eye, with his head on one side. “You remember that little business of the glass bottle, maybe?”
“An old trick; lucky for you, ’twas new to me,” says the agent, shortly. He did not enjoy these reminiscences.
“An old trick, was it? Why, now, I reckon Murch put you up to that—eh?” returned Dawkins, with a cunning leer. “He don’t believe in no messages in no glass bottles from no Captains de Graaf and Captains Grammont—not he. Eh?”
“Not very likely, Mr Dawkins.”