Brandon Pomfrett, captain once more, met us at the gangway and shook hands with the pilot, who rolled stolidly forward to his place. Pomfrett stayed but to hand me more money—more of Gamaliel’s usury, I suppose—and to bid me go directly back to my post, before he gave the order to cast off. So far, then, we had succeeded; Murch, for some inexplicable reason, had not appeared, and a part of the intolerable load under which we had been labouring was lifted.
But, as I entered a side street leading from the quay, I had near brushed against a big man, who stood in the shelter of a bow-window, gazing across the snowy breadth of the quay to where the Willing Mind was shaking out her sails. I caught the gleam of a little eye beneath a tufted eyebrow, white as the snow that powdered the great figure from head to foot, a patch of bronzed skin netted with fine lines, the bridge of a big nose—there was no mistake. Murch neither spoke nor moved, and you may guess that Henry Winter had no desire to tarry. The recognition passed in a moment; the next, I was ploughing up the street as fast as I could walk, and wishing that a foolish scruple did not forbid a headlong flight. I glanced about as I turned the corner. The figure was gone.
Then, it came into my mind that Mr Murch had even more cogent reasons for avoiding our company than we had for avoiding his. We had but to tell our history to Pomfrett’s uncle, the great Brandon Pomfrett, and Mr Murch would be laid by the heels as a common pirate—for his device of changing the ship’s name and papers would never have availed him here—with a fair prospect of Execution Dock to occupy his mind in gaol; while Mr Pomfrett sent to rescue the Blessed Endeavour; and although Murch might suppose that Pomfrett the younger would hesitate to follow this direct course, out of regard to Morgan Leroux, he could not reckon upon the youngster’s forbearance; especially as it was undoubtedly the way Murch would himself have taken, in his adversary’s place. Murch was a man of remarkable penetration; but, he could never understand the solemn young agent’s boyish and romantic vanity. He could never have believed that Pomfrett would risk all on the least chance of getting back his ship by his private enterprise, sailing her triumphantly into Bristol docks, and walking into his uncle’s office with an elaborate affectation of unconcern. “Good-day, sir, I hope you are well. Yes, we fetched up this morning; a bit of dirt in the Channel, but nothing to speak of,” etc., etc. If I read Brandon Pomfrett the younger aright, he clung with all his might to the hope of some such ending of all his troubles.
Morgan Leroux was awaiting me, at the cheek of a brisk fire, with something hot on the hob. She was as grateful to me for bringing her the news of the sailing of the Willing Mind, as though I had brought the thing to pass by myself. But when I told her of the apparition of Mr Murch, quietly watching his own schooner cast off, she looked very grave. “I don’t like that,” said she, shaking her head, her level brows drawn down. “Mr Murch is never so dangerous as when he’s quiet. And he let them put off without lifting a finger? This wears an ill look, it does, indeed.”
She sat frowning at the fire and biting her underlip, while I set forth the reasons which should undoubtedly influence Mr Murch to keep himself very private.
“All very true, Harry,” says she, “but hardly sufficient. At the same time, I am sure Murch must have come too late to find them at Gamaliel’s house—and he might have seen them from outside, you know—for if he had, there would have been a fight. Oh, yes,” says Morgan, shaking her head, “Brandon and Dawkins and all—you don’t know Murch. He had the name of the strongest man in all the Brotherhood of the Sea, and brave as a lion. No, no. Murch must have missed the party at the tavern, learned all from Gamaliel, and gone straightway to the water-side. And then, I suppose, he did not care to tackle the ship’s company, or risk a great disturbance—and they might have thrown him into the dock. But I don’t know.... The more I think of Mr Murch standing there with his cloak about his face, the less I like it. He’s got something else in his mind. Something else. Now, what can it be?”
We learned, later, that Morgan’s hypothesis was correct. And what was in Mr Murch’s mind, as he stood there watching the Willing Mind casting loose, we were to learn immediately. There came a loud ringing at the bell in the inn-yard, which was used to summon the ostler. The window of the room opened upon the yard, and, drawing aside the curtain, I beheld Mr Murch standing on the stones without. He was bawling for the ostler as though shouting on his quarterdeck in a gale of wind. When the man appeared, Murch ordered a horse to be saddled immediately. Hidden in the curtain, we watched Mr Murch pacing up and down the yard; saw the horse led forth, and Murch inspecting the animal minutely; saw him pay the ostler, mount, and clatter out of the yard; and turned to each other with the same thought in our faces, the same words on our lips.
“He’s riding down to Morte Bay.”
“Where’s the wind?” asks Morgan, quick as light.
“Dead ahead. The schooner must tack all down the Channel.”