# Cup of Gold (1929)/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V
I
A MULTIFARIOUS population was crowded A on the beach at Port Royal. They had come to see the Captain Morgan who had plundered Panama. Great ladies, dressed in the silken stuffs of China, were there because, after all, Henry Morgan came of a good family—the nephew of the poor dear Lieutenant-Governor who was killed. Sailors were there because he was a sailor; little boys because he was a pirate; young girls because he was a hero; business men because he was rich; gangs of slaves because they had a holiday. There were prostitutes with berry juice squeezed on their lips, and with restless eyes searching the faces of unaccompanied men; and there were girl children whose hearts mothered the scared little hope that the great man might just possibly look in their direction and find the understanding he must crave.
In the crowd were sailors whose pride lay in the fact that they had heard Captain Morgan curse; tailors who had fitted breeches to his legs. Each man who had seen Henry Morgan and had heard him speak, collected a group of admirers. These lucky ones had taken a bit of greatness from the contact.
The negro slaves, freed from their field work on ​this day of interest and rejoicing, gazed with huge, vacuous eyes at the galleon riding in the harbor. Plantation owners strode about among the people, talking loudly of what they would say to Henry Morgan when they had him out to dinner, and what they would advise him. They spoke lightly and carelessly of him, as though it were their constant practice to entertain plunderers of Panama. Certain tavern keepers had broached casks of wine on the beach from which they gave freely to all who asked. Their gain would come later, with the thirst they only whetted.
On a small pier waited the party of the Governor; handsome young men in laces and silver buckles, with a squad of pikemen to give them an official appearance. The sea fanned delicate, unbreaking waves on the beach. It was late morning, and the sun a glaring crucible in the sky, but no one felt the heat; the people had eyes and feelings for nothing but the tall galleon riding in the harbor.
Noon had come when Henry Morgan, who had been watching the beach through a glass, decided to enter the city. His stagecraft was not merely vanity. In the night a small boat had come alongside with the news that he might be arrested for fighting the enemies of the King. Henry thought the approval of the people would weigh in his favor. All morning he had watched the approval grow as the crowd became more and more excited.
But now his long boat was lowered and the sailors took their places. As it approached the ​shore, the gathered mob broke into yells, and then a concerted roaring cheer. The people threw their hats, leaped, danced, grimaced, tried to shriek conversation at one another. At the pier, hands were extended to grasp Henry’s before he was out of the boat. And immediately he had stepped up, the pikemen formed about the official party and with weapons lowered forced a rough passage among the fighting, craning spectators.
Henry glanced with apprehension at the soldiers who surrounded him. “Am I under arrest?” he asked of the cavalier who walked beside him.
“Under arrest!” The man laughed. “No! We couldn’t arrest you if we would. The mob would tear us to pieces. And if we did succeed in the arrest, they would rip out the stones of the jail with their fingers to free you. You do not realize what you are to these people, sir. For days they have talked of nothing save your coming. But the Governor wants to see you immediately, sir. He couldn’t come here himself for obvious reasons.”
They arrived at the mansion of the Governor.
“Captain Morgan,” said Governor Moddyford, when they were alone, “I don’t know whether my news is good or bad. Word of your conquest has come to the ears of the King. Both of us are ordered to England.”
“But I had a commission—” Henry began.
The fat head and shoulders of the Governor shook a sad negative. “Now I wouldn’t mention the commission, Captain, if I were you, even ​though I myself did issue it. There are clauses in your commission which might get us both criticized. As it is, we may be hanged; but I don't know—I don't know. Of course, there is peace between Spain and England—but no good feeling, none at all. The King is angry with us, but I think a few thousand pounds distributed in the right quarters might placate him were he mad with rage. The English people is filled with joy over the conquest. Don't worry about it, Captain; certainly I do not.” He looked keenly into Henry's eyes. `I hope, sir, that you can spare those few thousands when the time comes.”
Said Henry, officially, “I have tried to serve the spirit of my sovereign's wish, not the outward play of his politics.” And then, “Surely, Sir Charles; I have enough to buy the King's favor though it cost half a million. They say the King is a good man and a judge of fine women, and I never knew one such not to need money.”
“There is another thing, Captain,” said the Governor uneasily. “Your uncle was killed some time ago. His daughter is here in my house. Sir Edward was nearly penniless when he died. Of course, you understand, we would like to have her stay here with us always, but I do not think she is quite happy. I think she chafes under what she thinks is charity. You will look to her welfare, of course. Sir Edward died nobly and was commended by the King, but after all the commendation of the Crown cannot be spent.”
Henry smiled. “My uncle would have died ​nobly. I am sure this uncle of mine made every move in his life—yes, even to the paring of his nails—as though the complete peerage were looking on, ready to make critical comments. How did he die? Making a short, fitting oration? Or with the damned thin lips of him pressed together as though he disapproved of death for social reasons? Ah, that man! His life was a fine, simple part, and he was very true to it.” Henry spoke laughingly. “I hated my uncle. I think he frightened me. He was one of the few people I feared. But tell me how he died.”
“It is whispered that he groaned once. I traced the rumor and found that some servant had been hiding behind a curtain. He doubtless told of it.”
“Too bad! Too bad! What a cruel shame it is to ruin a perfect life with an exhalation. But now I am not afraid of him any more. If he groaned, there was humanity in him, and weakness. I despise him, but I love him for it. As to my cousin, I shall take her off your hands, you may be sure. I dimly remember her as a tall little girl with yellow hair—a little girl who played abominably on the harp; at least it sounded abominable to me, though it may have been quite good.”
Moddyford came to a subject he had been wanting to broach.
“I have heard that you met the Red Saint in Panama and released her for a ransom. How did that happen? She was said to be the pearl of the earth.”
Henry reddened.
​“Oh, well,” he said, “it seemed to me that the legend flattered her. She was nice looking, surely; and I don't say some men would not have been struck with her. But she was not the kind of woman I admire for myself. She was rather free in her speech, you know—spoke of things unfeminine, in my opinion. Besides, she rode horses astride, and fenced. In short, she was without that modesty we have come to look for in well-bred women.”
“But as a mistress— Surely, as a mistress?”
“Well, you see, I received seventy-five thousand pieces of eight for her. To my mind that is worth more than any woman who was ever born.”
“That much ransom? How did she happen to bring so much?”
“Why, on investigation, I found that she was an heiress. And as I say, she was nice looking, but still—the legend flattered her.”
Meanwhile, in another room, Lady Moddyford was earnestly talking to Elizabeth.
“I find I must speak to you as a mother, my dear, a mother who is looking to your future. There is absolutely no doubt that your cousin will look out for you; but would you be happy that way?—just hanging to his purse-strings, I mean? Look at him in another light. He is rich, well-favored. You understand, my dear, that it is impossible to be delicate about this, and I do not know that it would be desirable even if it were possible. Why don't you marry your cousin? If nothing else ​came of it, you would be the one woman on earth who could not criticize her husband's relatives.”
“But what are you suggesting, Lady Moddyford?” Elizabeth put in meekly. “Isn't it some kind of crime to marry one's cousin?”
“Not a bit of it, my dear. There is nothing in church or state to forbid it, and I, myself, would favor such a marriage. Sir Charles and your cousin have been ordered to England. Sir Charles thinks a knighthood might be arranged. Then you would be Lady Morgan, and you would be rich.”
Elizabeth mused: “I only saw him once, for a moment, and then I don't think I quite liked him. He was excited and red. But he was very respectful and gentle. I think he wanted to be friends with me, but my father—you know how Papa was. Perhaps he would make a good husband,” she said.
“My dear, any man makes a good husband if he is properly looked after.”
“Yes, it might be the best way out. I am tired of being pitied for my poverty. But with this new popularity, do you think he would notice me? He might be too proud to marry a penniless cousin.”
“Dear Elizabeth,” Lady Moddyford said firmly, “don't you know by now that almost any woman can marry almost any man as long as some other woman doesn't interfere? And I shall arrange matters so that no one will get in your way. You may trust me for that.”
Elizabeth had made up her mind, ”I know; I shall play for him. I have heard how music affects ​these fierce men. I shall play him my new pieces—The Elves' Concourse, and God Bears the Weary Soul to Rest.”
“No,” broke in Lady Moddyford. “No, I wouldn't do that if I were you. He might not like fine music. There are better ways.”
“But you said those pieces were very pretty; you said it yourself. And haven't I read how music soothes men until they can hardly bear it?”
“Very well, my dear; play for him, then, if you will. Perhaps he— But play for him. Such things may run in the family—the love of music, I mean. Of course, you know, you must admire him and at the same time be a little afraid of him. Make him feel that you are a poor, helpless little creature completely hemmed in with tigers. But you must arrange it in your own way. You have a good start, for you may appeal to him for protection from the beginning.” She sighed, “I don't know what we should do without protection. I don't know when Sir Charles would have proposed to me. The dear was frightened out of his life to begin. One afternoon we sat on a bench and I positively searched the landscape for something to frighten me. We must have been there three hours before a little water-snake ambled along the path and terrified me into his arms. No, I can't think what we should do without protection. Sir Charles has a man in the garden all the time looking for snakes. And do you know, I have always liked snakes. I had three of them for pets when I was a little girl.”
​The next morning Lady Moddyford brought them together, and, as soon as she gracefully could, left them alone.
Elizabeth looked fearfully at her cousin.
“You have done great, terrible things on the ocean, Captain Morgan—enough to freeze one thinking about them,” she said falteringly.
“The deeds were not great, nor very dreadful. Nothing is as good or as bad as the telling of it.”
And he thought, “I was wrong about her—very wrong. She is not supercilious at all. It must have been her father—the devil—who gave me a wrong impression of her. She is quite nice.”
“I am sure yours were great, if your modesty would let you admit it,” she was saying demurely.
“Do you know, I used to tremble at the tales they told of you, and hope that you were not in need or trouble.”
“Did you? Why did you? I didn't think you ever noticed me.”
Her eyes had filled with tears. “I have had trouble, too.”
“I know. They told me about your trouble, and I was sorry for you, little cousin Elizabeth. I hope you will let me help you in your trouble. Won't you sit here beside me, Elizabeth?”
She looked shyly at him. “I'll play for you, if you like,” she said.
“Ye-es—yes, do.”
“Now this is the Elves' Concourse. Listen! You can hear their little feet pattering on the grass. ​Everybody says it is very sweet and pretty.” Her fingers methodically worked at the strings.
Henry thought her hands lovely as they flew about. He forgot about the music in watching her hands. They were like little white moths, so delicate and restless. One would hesitate in touching them because handling might ruin them, and yet one wanted to stroke them. The piece was ending with loud bass notes. Now it was finished. When the last string had ceased its vibration, he observed:
“You play very—precisely, Elizabeth.”
“Oh, I play the notes as they come,” she said. “I always think the composer knew his business better than I do.”
“I know, and it is a comfort to hear you. It is nice to know that everything is to be in its place—even notes. You have eradicated a certain obnoxious freedom I have noticed in the playing of some young women. That kind is very lovable and spontaneous and human, of course, but given to carelessness in the interest of passion. Yes, as I become older, I grow to be taking satisfaction in seeing the thing I expected come about. Unsure things are distracting. Chance has not the tug on me it once had. I was a fool, Elizabeth. I went sailing and sailing looking for something—well, something that did not exist, perhaps. And now that I have lost my unnamable desires, I may not be happier, but there is more content on me.”
“That sounds wise and worldly, and a little bit cynical,” she observed.
​“But if it is wisdom, then wisdom is experience beating about in an orderly brain, kicking over the files. And how could I be otherwise than worldly. And cynicism is the moss which collects on a rolling stone.”
“That is clever, anyway,” she agreed. “I suppose you have known a great many of those young women you spoke of.”
“What young women, Elizabeth?”
“The ones who played badly.”
“Oh! Yes, I have met a few.”
“And did you—did you—like them?”
“I tolerated them because they were friends of my friends.”
“Did any of them fall in love with you? I know I am not delicate, but you are my cousin, and almost my—my brother.”
“Oh, some said they did—but I suspect they wanted my money.”
“Surely not! But I shall play for you again. This will be a sad piece—God Bears the Weary Soul to Rest. I always think it is better to have seriousness with the lighter musics.”
Again her fingers worked over the strings.
“It is very beautiful, and sad,” said Henry, when it was finished. “I liked it wonderfully well, but don't you think, Elizabeth—don't you think that sixth string from the end might be a little—tighter?”
“Oh, I wouldn't have it touched for the world!” she cried. “Before we came out from England, ​Papa had a man—a harp man—go over the whole thing thoroughly. I wouldn't feel just right with Papa if it were tampered with. He hated people who fiddled with things.”
They sat silently after her outburst, but at length she looked pleadingly into his eyes. “You aren't angry with me about the string, are you, Cousin Henry? I just have deep feelings like that. I can't help it.”
“No, of course I am not angry.” She was so little and so helpless, he thought.
“Where will you be going, now that you are rich and famous and covered with honors?”
“I don't know. I want to live in an atmosphere of sure things.”
“Why, that's just the way I think,” she exclaimed. “We must be somewhat alike. Things come to you if you do not go looking for them, I say. And nearly always I know what is going to happen to me, because I hope for it and then sit still.”
“Yes,” said Henry.
“Papa's death was a great shock,” she said, and again the tears were in her eyes. “It's a terrible thing to be left alone and nearly no—no relatives or friends. Of course, the Moddyfords have been lovely to me, but they couldn't be like my own people. Oh, dear! I have been so lonely. I was glad when you came, Cousin Henry, if only because we are of one blood.” Her eyes were glistening with tears, and her underlip trembled violently.
“But you must not cry,” Henry said soothingly. ​“You will not need to worry any more, Elizabeth. I am here to take your trouble from your shoulders. I will help you and care for you, Elizabeth. I wonder how you bore the grief that fell on you. You have been brave to hold your head so high when misery was tugging at your spirit.”
“I had my music,” she said. “I could retire into my music when the grief was too bitter.”
“But now, Elizabeth, you need not even do that. You will come with me to England when I go, and you will be comfortable and safe with me for always.”
She had sprung away from him.
“But what are you suggesting? What is this thing you are proposing to me?” she cried. “Isn't it some sin—some crime—for cousins to marry?”
“Marry?”
“Oh!” She blushed, and her eyes glittered again with her quick tears. “Oh! I am ashamed. You did mean marry, didn't you? I am ashamed.” Her agitation was pitiful.
“After all, why not?” thought Henry. “She is pretty; I am sure of her family; and besides, she is rather a symbol of this security I have been preaching. I could be sure of never doing anything very radical if she were my wife. I really think I do want security. And besides,” his thought finished, “I really cannot let her suffer so.”
“Oh, surely I meant marry. What else could you have thought I meant? I am only clumsy and crude about it. I have startled you and hurt you. ​But, dear Elizabeth, there is no crime or sin about it. Many cousins marry. And we know all about each other, and our family is one. You must marry me, Elizabeth. Truly I love you, Elizabeth.”
“Oh!” she stammered. “O-oh! I cannot think of it. I mean, I am—ill; I mean—my head whirls. You act so suddenly, Henry—so unexpectedly. Oh, please let me go. I must talk about it to Lady Moddyford. She will know what to say.”
ii
King Charles the Second and John Evelyn were sitting in a tiny library. A bright fire crackled on the hearth, throwing its flickerings on the books which lined the walls. On a table beside the two men were bottles and glasses.
“I knighted him this afternoon,” the King was saying. “He got pardon and a knighthood for two thousand pounds.”
“Well, two thousand pounds—” murmured John Evelyn, “Certain tradesmen will, perhaps, bless his knighthood.”
“But that’s not it, John. I could have got twenty. He took about a million out of Panama.”
“Ah, well; two thousand pounds—”
“I ordered him to come in here to-night,” said the King. “These sailors and pirates sometimes have a tale or two worth repeating. You'll be disappointed in him. He is—lumpish, I think is the word. You get the impression that a great ​mass is planted before you; and he moves as though he pushed his own invisible cage ahead of him.”
“You might create a title,” John Evelyn suggested. “It seems wasteful to let a million get away without even trying.”
Sir Henry Morgan was announced.
“Step in, Sir. Step in!” The King saw that he had a glass of wine in his hands, Henry seemed frightened. He gulped the wine.
“Good job of yours in Panama,” the King observed. “It was better to burn it now than later, and I have no doubt we should have had to do it later.”
“I thought of that when I set the torch, Sire. These hoggish Spaniards want to over-run the world.”
“You know, Captain, piracy—or, to be delicate, freebooting—has been a good thing for us, and a bad thing for Spain. But the institution grows to be a nuisance. I spend half of my time making excuses to the Spanish Ambassador. I am going to commission you Lieutenant-Governor of Jamaica.”
“Sire!”
“No thanks! I am acting on the advice of an adage. Piracy must be stopped now. These men have played at little wars long enough.”
“But, Sire, I myself was a buccaneer. Do you want me to hang my own men?”
“That is what I inferred, Sir. Who can track them down better than you who know all their haunts?”
​“They fought with me, Sire.”
“Ah; conscience? I had heard that you were able to do about as you pleased with your conscience.”
“Not conscience, Sire, but pity.”
“Pity is misplaced in a public servant or a robber. A man may do what it is profitable to do. You yourself have demonstrated two of these premises. Let us see you labor with the third,” the King said acidly.
“I wonder if I can.”
“If you wonder, then you can,” John Evelyn put in.
The King's manner changed.
“Come! drink!” he said. “We must have life, and perhaps later, song. Tell us a tale, Captain, and drink while you tell it. Wine adds capitals and asterisks to a good tale—a true story.”
“A tale, Sire?”
“Surely. Some story of the colonial wenches; some little interlude in piracy—for I am sure you did not steal only gold.” He motioned a servant to keep Henry's glass filled. “I have heard of a certain woman in Panama. Tell us about her.”
Henry drained his glass. His face was becoming flushed.
“There is a tale about her,” he said. “She was pretty, but also she was an heiress. I confess, I favored her. She would inherit silver mines. Her husband offered one hundred thousand pieces of eight for her. He wanted to get his hands on the mines, Here was the question, Sire, and I wonder ​how many men have been confronted with one like it? Should I get the woman or the hundred thousand?”
The King leaned forward in his chair. “Which did you take? Tell me quickly.”
“I remained in Panama for a while,” said Henry. “What would Your Majesty have done in my place? I got both. Perhaps I got even more than that. Who knows but my son will inherit the silver mines eventually.”
“I would have done that,” cried the King. “You are right. I would have done just that. It was clever, sir. A toast, Captain—to foresight. Your generalship, sir, runs to other matters than warfare, I see. You have never been defeated in battle, they say; but tell me, Captain, were you ever defeated in love? It is a good scene—an unusual scene—when a man admits himself bested in love. The admission is so utterly contrary to every masculine instinct. Another glass, Sir, and tell us about your defeat.”
“Not by a woman, Sire— But once I was defeated by Death. There are things which so sear the soul that the pain of it follows through life. You asked for the story. Your health, Sire.
“I was born in Wales, among the mountains. My father was a gentleman. One summer, while I was a lad, a little princess of France came to our mountains for the air. She had a small retinue, and being lively and restless and clever, she achieved some freedom. One morning I came upon her where she bathed alone in the river. She was ​naked and unashamed. In an hour—such is the passionate blood of her race—she was lying in my arms. Sire, in all my wanderings, in the lovely women I have seen and the towns I have taken, there has been no pleasure like the days of that joyous summer. When she could escape, we played together in the hills like little gods. But this was not enough. We wanted to be married. She would give up her rank and we would go to live somewhere in America.
“Then the Autumn came. One day she said, `They are ready to take me away, but I will not go.’ The next day she did not come to me. In the night I went to her window and she threw a little note to me, `I am imprisoned. They have whipped me.'
“I went home. What else could I do? I could not fight them, the stout soldiers who guarded her. Very late that night there was a pounding on the door and cries, `Where is a doctor to be had? Quick! The little princess has poisoned herself.’”
Henry lifted his eyes. The King was smiling ironically. John Evelyn drummed the table with his fingers.
“Yes?” said the King. “Yes?” He chuckled.
“Ah, I am old—old,” Henry moaned. “It is a lie. She was a peasant child, the daughter of a cottager.”
He staggered to his feet and moved toward the door. Shame was burning in his face.
“Captain Morgan, you forget yourself.”
“I—forget—myself?”
​“There are certain little courtesies. Custom demands that you render them to our person.”
“I plead pardon, Sire. I plead your permission to leave. I—I am ill.” He bowed himself from the room.
The King was smiling through his wine.
“How is it, John, that such a great soldier can be such a great fool?”
Said John Evelyn, “How could it be otherwise? If great men were not fools, the world would have been destroyed long ago. How could it be otherwise? Folly and distorted vision are the foundations of greatness.”
“You mean that my vision is distorted?”
“No, I do not mean that.”
“Then you imply—”
“I wish to go on with Henry Morgan. He has a knack for piracy which makes him great. Immediately you imagine him as a great ruler. You make him Lieutenant-Governor. In this you are like the multitude. You believe that if a man do one thing magnificently, he should be able to do all things equally well. If a man be eminently successful in creating an endless line of mechanical dew-dads of some excellence, you conceive him capable of leading armies or maintaining governments. You think that because you are a good king you should be as good a lover—or vice-versa.”
“Vice-versa?”
“That is a humorous alternative, Sire. It is a conversational trick to gain a smile—no more.”
“I see. But Morgan and his folly—”
​“Of course he is a fool, Sire, else he would be turning soil in Wales or burrowing in the mines. He wanted something, and he was idiot enough to think he could get it. Because of his idiocy he did get it—part of it. You remember the princess.”
The King was smiling again.
“I have never known any man to tell the truth to or about a woman. Why is that, John?”
“Perhaps, Sire, if you would explain the tiny scratch I see under your right eye, you could understand. Now the scratch was not there last night, and it has the distinct look of—”
“Yes—yes—a clumsy servant. Let us speak of Morgan. You have a way, John, of being secretly insulting. Sometimes you are not even conscious of your insults. It is a thing to put down if you are to be around courts for any length of time.”
III
Sir Henry Morgan sat on the Judge’s Bench at Port Royal. Before him, on the floor, lay a slab of white sunlight like a blinding tomb. Throughout the room an orchestra of flies sang their symphony of boredom. The droning voices of counsel were only louder instruments against the humming obbligato. Court officials went about sleepily, and the cases moved on.
“It was the fifteenth of the month, my lord. Williamson went to the Cartwright property for the purpose of determining—determining to his ​own satisfaction, my lord, whether the tree stood as described. It was while he was there—”
The case sang to its monotonous conclusion, Sir Henry, behind his broad table, stirred sleepily. Now the guards brought in a sullen vagrant, clothed in rags of old sail.
“Charged with stealing four biscuits and a mirror from So-and-So, my lord.”
“The proof?”
“He was detected, my lord.”
“Did you, or did you not, steal four biscuits and a mirror?”
The prisoner’s face became even more sullen.
“I told ’em.”
“My lord,” the guard prompted.
“My lord.”
“Why did you steal these articles?”
“I wan’ed ’em.”
“Say my lord.”
“My lord.”
“What did you want with them?”
“I wan’ed the biscuits for to eat.”
“My lord.”
“My lord.”
“And the mirror?”
“I wan’ed the mirror for to look at myself in.”
“My lord.”
“My lord.”
They led the man to his imprisonment.
Now the guards brought in a thin, pasty woman.
“Charged with harlotry and incontinence, my lord.”
​“Incontinence is illegal,” said Sir Henry irritatedly, “but since when have we been punishing people for harlotry?”
“My lord, the nature of this woman— The public health demands— We thought the case would be understood.”
“Ah! I see. She must be locked up. Take her away quickly.”
The woman began to cry sulkily.
Sir Henry rested his forehead on his hands, He did not look up at the next prisoners.
“Charged with piracy on the high seas, my lord; with disturbing the King's peace; with an act of war against a friendly nation.”
Sir Henry glanced quickly at the prisoners. One was a rotund little man with eyes of terror, and the other a lean, grizzled fellow whose one arm was gone.
“What is the proof against the prisoners?”
“Five witnesses, my lord.”
“So? Make your plea!”
The tall man had put his good arm about the shoulders of his companion.
“We plead guilty, my lord.”
“You plead guilty?” Sir Henry cried in amazement. “But no pirate pleads guilty. It is a case unprecedented.”
“We plead guilty, my lord.”
“But why?”
“Fifty people saw us in action, my lord. Why should we take up your time in denying what fifty people will swear to? No, we are resigned, my ​lord. We are content, both with the recent action and with our lives.” The wiry arm squeezed about the small round tub of a buccaneer.
Henry sat very silently for a time. But finally he raised his tired eyes. “I sentence you to be hanged.”
“Hanged, my lord?”
“Hanged by the neck until you are dead.”
“You are changed, Sir.”
Sir Henry started forward and closely scrutinized the prisoners. Then his lips smiled. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I am changed. The Henry Morgan you knew is not the Sir Henry Morgan who sentences you to death. I do not kill ferociously any more, but coldly, and because I have to.” Sir Henry raised his voice. “Let the court be cleared, but guard the doors! I wish to speak privately with the prisoners.”
When they were alone he began:
“I know well that I am changed, but tell me what is the change you see.”
The Burgundians looked at each other. “You speak, Emil.”
“You are changed, Sir, in this way. Once you knew what you were doing. You were sure of yourself.”
“That is so,” broke in the other. “You do not know—-you are not sure of yourself any more. Once you were one man. It is possible to trust one man. But now you are several men. If we should trust one of you, we should be in fear of the others.”
​Sir Henry laughed. “That is more or less true It is not my fault, but it is true. Civilization will split up a character, and he who refuses to split goes under.”
“We have forgotten about civilization, thanks to our Mother,” Antoine muttered fiercely.
“What a pity to hang you.”
“But is it so necessary to hang us, sir? Could we not escape or be pardoned?”
“No, you must be hanged. I am sorry, but it must be so. Such is my duty.”
“But duty to your friends, sir—to the men who bore arms with you, who mixed their blood with yours—”
“Listen, Other Burgundian; there are two kinds of duty, and you would know that if you remembered your France. You mentioned one species, and it is the weaker kind. The other, the giant duty—that which will not be overlooked—might be called the duty of appearances. I do not hang you because you are pirates, but because I am expected to hang pirates. I am sorry for you. I would like to send you to your cells with saws in your pockets, but I cannot. As long as I do what is expected of me, I shall remain the Judge. When I change, for whatever motive, I may myself be hanged.”
“That is so, Sir. I remember.” He turned to his friend who stood shaking in the grip of horror. “You see, such is the case, Emil. He does not like to tell us this thing because it hurts him. Perhaps he punishes himself in this manner for something ​he had done or failed to do, Perhaps he remembers Chagres, Emil.”
“Chagres!” Sir Henry bent forward with excitement, “What happened after I sailed away? Tell me!”
“You were cursed, sir, as it is given to few men to be cursed. You were tortured in men's minds. They feasted on your heart and sent your soul to hell. I enjoyed the scene rarely, because I knew that every man there envied you while he reviled you. I was proud of you, sir.”
“And they scattered?”
“They scattered and died, poor little children.”
“Anyway, I should have hated to fall in with those poor little children! Tell me,” Sir Henry's voice had become wistful, “tell me about Panama. We did go there, didn't we? We really captured Panama, didn't we, and looted it? It was I who led you, wasn't it?”
“It was so. It was a grand fight and an ocean of plunder—but, after all, you know more about that last than we do.”
“Sometimes I doubt whether this body ever went to Panama. I am sure this brain did not. I would like to stay and talk to you of that old time, but my wife expects me. She is apt to fuss if I am late for luncheon.” He spoke jocosely. “When would you like to be hanged?”
The Burgundians were whispering together.
“Ah, there is that `hanged' again. When would we like to be hanged? Any time, sir. We do not wish to put you to the trouble, but if you insist ​—any time there is a man and a rope idle.” Antoine approached the table. “Emil wishes to offer one last compliment. It is a gift for your wife—a gift the history of which alone would make it valuable. Emil has treasured this gift to the end, and of this talisman he has reaped a harvest—for talismanic it is, in truth, sir. But Emil thinks its period of duty should end, sir. He believes that by taking this means he can stop the series of events which has flowed out from his treasure. And Emil, unfortunately, will have no farther use for it. Emil kisses the hand of Lady Morgan—presents his respects and dignified compliments.” He dropped a rose pearl on the table and turned quickly away.
After they had been led out, Sir Henry sat at his bench and stared at the pearl. Then he put it in his pocket and walked into the street.
He came to the squat, white Palace of the Lieutenant-Governor. It was exactly as Sir Edward had left it. Lady Morgan would not have felt right if a detail had been changed. She met Henry at the door.
“We are to have dinner with the Vaughns. And what am I to do about the coachman? He's drunk. I've told you and told you to lock your closet, but you will not pay attention to me. He sneaked into the house and got a bottle off your shelf. He must have done that.”
“Open your hand, my dear. I have a gift for you.”
He dropped the rose pearl into her palm.
​For a moment she looked at the rosy sphere and her face flushed with pleasure, but then she searched his face suspiciously.
“What have you been up to?”
“Up to? Why, I have been holding court.”
“I suppose you got this in court!” Her face lighted up. “I know! You suspected my displeasure at your actions last night. You were practically intoxicated, if you must know the truth; and all the people were staring at you and whispering. Don’t say a word. I saw them and I saw you. And now you want to bribe my feeling—my decency.”
“Suspected your displeasure! My dear, I suspected it all the way home with you, and nearly all night after I got here. You are right. I strongly suspected your displeasure. In fact, I was certain of it. But I will tell you the truth about the pearl.”
“You will tell the truth only because you know you cannot deceive me, Henry. When will you give up the idea that I don’t know every little thought you possess?”
“But I didn’t try to deceive you. You didn’t give me time.”
“It takes no more time to tell the truth than—”
“Listen to me, Elizabeth, please. I tried two pirates this morning and they gave it to me.”
She smiled a superior smile. “They gave it to you? Why? Did you release them? It would be like you to release them. Sometimes I think you would still be one of them if it weren’t for me. You never seem to realize, Henry, that it is really ​I who have made you what you are—a knight and a gentleman. You made yourself a buccaneer. But tell me, did you release these pirates?”
“No; I sentenced them to death.”
“Ah! Then why did they give you the pearl?”
“My dear, they gave it to me because they had nothing else to do with it. They might have presented it to the hangman, but one would feel a trifle diffident about giving pearls to the man who put a rope about one’s neck. Friendship isn’t possible with one’s hangman, I should imagine. Thus, they gave it to me, and I—” he smiled broadly and innocently, “I am giving it to you because I love you.”
“Well, I can easily find out about the pirates, and as to your affection—you love me as long as I have my eye on you, and no longer. I know you thoroughly. But I am glad they are hanged. Lord Vaughn says they are a positive danger even to ourselves. He says they may stop fighting Spain at any moment and start on us. He says they are like vicious dogs, to be exterminated as soon as possible. I feel a little safer every time one of them is out of the way.”
“But, my dear, Lord Vaughn knows nothing about buccaneers, while I—”
“Henry, why do you keep me here with your talking, when you know I have a thousand things to attend to. You think, because you have all the time in the world, that I can afford to help you idle. Now do see to the coachman, because I should be terribly embarrassed if he were not fit. ​His livery will not suit Jacob by any pinching. Did I tell you he is drunk? Get him sober for to-night if you must drown him to do it. Now hurry along. I won't feel right until I know he can sit up straight.” She turned to reënter the house, then came back and kissed him on the cheek.
“It's really a nice pearl. Thank you, dear,” she said. “Of course, I am going to have Monsieur Banzet value it. After what Lord Vaughn said, I have very little faith in pirates. They might have been trying to bribe you with paste, and you would never know the difference.”
Sir Henry walked toward the stables. Now, as on other occasions, he was gently moved by uneasiness. Now and then there came a vagrant feeling that, in spite of all Elizabeth's declamation to the effect that she knew him thoroughly, perhaps she really did. It was disquieting.
iv
Sir Henry Morgan lay in an enormous bed; a bed so wide that his body, under the coverlid, seemed a snow-covered mountain range dividing two great plains. From the walls about the room the shiny eyes of his ancestors regarded him. On their faces were smirks which said, “Ah, yes! A knight, to be sure—but we know how you bought your knighthood.” The air in the room was heavy and thick and hot. So always the air seems in a room where a man is about to die.
Sir Henry was staring at the ceiling. For an ​hour he had been puzzled with this mysterious ceiling. Nothing supported it in the middle. Why did it not fall? It was late. Every one about him was silent; they went sneaking about pretending to be ghosts, he thought. They were trying to convince him that he was dead already. He closed his eyes. He was too tired or too indifferent to keep them open. He heard the doctor come in, and felt him reading the pulse. Then the big, confident voice boomed:
“I am sorry, Lady Morgan. There is nothing to do now. I do not even know what is the matter with him. Some old jungle fever, perhaps. I could bleed him again, I suppose, but we have taken a great deal of blood already, and it seems to do no good. However, if he begins to sink, I shall try it again.”
“Then he will die” Lady Morgan asked. Henry thought she showed more curiosity than sorrow.
“Yes, he will die unless God intervenes. Only God can be sure of his patients.”
And then the room was cleared of people. Henry knew that his wife was sitting near the bed. He could hear her crying softly beside him. “What a pity it is,” he thought, “that I cannot go to death in a ship so she might pack my bag for me. It would give her so much satisfaction to know that I was entering heaven with a decent supply of clean linen.”
“Oh, my husband— Oh, Henry, my husband.”
He turned his head and looked at her curiously, ​and his gaze went deep into her eyes. Suddenly he was seized with despair.
“This woman loves me,” he said to himself. “This woman loves me, and I have never known it. I cannot know this kind of love. Her eyes—her eyes—this is something far beyond my comprehension. Can she have loved me always?” He looked again. “She is very near to God. I think women are nearer to God than men. They cannot talk about it, but, Christ! how it shines in their eyes. And she loves me. During all her hectoring and badgering and brow-beating, she has loved me—and I have never known it. But what would I have done if I had known it?” He turned away. This sorrow was too great, too burning and awful to regard. It is terrifying to see a woman's soul shining through her eyes.
So he was to die. It was rather pleasant if death was like this. He was warm and very tired. Presently he would fall asleep, and that would be death—Brother Death.
He knew that some other person had come into the room. His wife leaned over until she came within his upstaring vision. She would be annoyed if she knew he could turn his head if he wished.
“The Vicar, dear,” his wife said. “Do be nice to him. Oh, do listen to him! It may help you—afterwards.” Ah, she was practical! She was going to see that some compact was made with the Almighty if she could. Her affection was an efficient thing, but her love—that which glittered in her wet eyes—was frightful.
​Henry felt a warm, soft hand take his. A soothing voice was talking to him. But it was difficult to listen. The ceiling was swaying dangerously.
“God is Love,” the voice was saying. “You must put your faith in God.”
“God is Love,” Henry repeated mechanically.
“Let us pray,” said the voice.
Suddenly Henry remembered a moment of his childhood. He was being tortured with an ear-ache, and his mother was holding him in her arms. She stroked his wrist with her fingertips. “This is all nonsense,” she was saying. He remembered how she said it. “This is all nonsense. God is Love. He will not let little boys suffer. Now repeat after me—‘The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.’” It was as though she administered a medicine. In the same tone she would have commanded, “Come, take this oil!”
Henry felt the warm fingers of the Vicar creep to his wrist and begin a stroking movement.
“The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want,” Henry droned sleepily. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures—” The stroking continued, but more harshly. The Vicar’s voice became more loud and authoritative. It was as though, after years of patient waiting, the Church had at last got Henry Morgan within its power. There was something almost gloating about the voice.
“Have you repented your sins, Sir Henry?”
“My sins? No, I had not thought of them. Shall I repent Panama?”
​The Vicar was embarrassed. “Well, Panama was a patriotic conquest. The King approved. Besides, the people were Papists.”
“But what are my sins, then?” Henry went on. “I remember only the most pleasant and the most painful among them. Somehow I do not wish to repent the pleasant ones. It would be like breaking faith with them; they were charming. And the painful sins carried atonement with them like concealed knives. How may I repent, sir? I might go over my whole life, naming and repenting every act from the shattering of my first teething ring to my last visit to a brothel. I might repent everything I could remember, but if I forgot one single sin, the whole process would be wasted.”
“Have you repented your sins, Sir Henry?”
He realized, then, that he had not been talking at all. It was difficult to talk. His tongue had become lazy and sluggish. “No,” he said. “I can't remember them very well.”
“You must search in your heart for greed and lust and spite. You must drive wickedness from your heart.”
“But, sir, I don't remember ever having been consciously wicked. I have done things which seemed wicked afterwards, but while I was doing them I always had some rather good end in view.” Again he was conscious that he wasn't really speaking.
“Let us pray,” the voice said.
Henry made a violent effort with his tongue. “No!” he cried.
​“But you prayed before.”
“Yes, I prayed before—because my mother would have liked it. She would have wanted me to pray at least once, more as a proof of her training than for any other reason, a reassurance to her that she had done her duty by me.”
“Would you die heretic, Sir Henry? Aren't you afraid of death?”
“I am too tired, sir, or too lazy, to consider problems of heresy. And I am not afraid of death. I have seen much violence, and no man whom I have admired was afraid of death, but only of dying. You see, sir, death is an intellectual matter, but dying is pure pain. And this death of mine is very pleasant so far. No, sir; I am not afraid even of dying. It is comfortable, and it would be quiet if I could only be left alone. It is as though I were about to sleep after a great effort.”
He heard the Vicar's voice again; but, though the warm hand still stroked his wrist, the voice came from a mighty distance.
“He will not answer me,” the Vicar was saying. “I am perplexed for his soul.”
Then he heard his wife speaking to him. “You must pray, dear. Every one does. How can you get to heaven if you do not pray?”
There she was again, intent on making a contract with God. But Henry did not want to look at her. Naive though her philosophy was, her eyes were as deep and as sad as the limitless sky. He wanted to say, “I won't want to get to heaven once I am dead. I won't want them to disturb ​me.” They made such a commotion about this death.
The doctor had come back into the room. “He is unconscious,” the booming voice proclaimed. “I think I will bleed him again.”
Henry felt the scalpel cut into his arm. It was pleasant. He hoped they would cut him again and again. But the illusion was contradictory. Rather than feeling the blood leaving him, he sensed a curious warmth slipping through his body. His breast and arms tingled as though some robust, ancient wine were singing in his veins.
Now a queer change began to take place. He found that he could see through his eyelids, could see all about him without moving his head. The doctor and his wife and the Vicar and even the room were sliding away from him.
“They are moving,” he thought. “I am not moving. I am fixed. I am the center of all things and cannot move. I am as heavy as the universe. Perhaps I am the universe.”
A low, sweet tone was flowing into his consciousness; a vibrant, rich organ tone, which filled him, seemed to emanate from his brain, to flood his body, and from it to surge out over the world. He saw with a little surprise that the room had gone. He was lying in an immeasurable dark grotto along the sides of which were rows of thick, squat columns made of some green, glittering crystal. He was still in a reclining position, and the long grotto was sliding past him. Of a sudden, the movement stopped. He was surrounded by ​strange beings, having the bodies of children, and bulbous, heavy heads, but no faces. The flesh where their faces should have been was solid and unbroken. These beings were talking and chattering in dry, raucous voices. Henry was puzzled that they could talk without mouths.
Slowly the knowledge grew in him that these were his deeds and his thoughts which were living with Brother Death. Each one had gone immediately to live with Brother Death as soon as it was born. When he knew their identity, the faceless little creatures turned on him and clustered thickly about his couch.
“Why did you do me?” one cried.
“I do not know; I do not remember you.”
“Why did you think me?”
“I do not know. I must have known, but I have forgotten. My memory is slipping away from me here in this grotto.”
Still insistently they questioned him, and their voices were becoming more and more strident and harsh, so that they overwhelmed the great Tone.
“Me! answer me!”
“No; me!”
“Oh, leave me! Let me rest,” Henry said wearily. “I am tired, and I cannot tell you anything anyway.”
Then he saw that the little beings were crouching before an approaching form. They turned toward the form and cowered, and at length fell on their knees before it and raised trembling arms in gestures of supplication.
​Henry strained his attention toward the figure. Why, it was Elizabeth coming toward him—little Elizabeth, with golden hair and a wise young look on her face. She was girdled with cornflowers, and her eyes were strangely puzzled and bright. With a little start of surprise she noticed Henry.
“I am Elizabeth,” she said. “You did not come to see me before you went away.”
“I know. I think I was afraid to talk with you. But I stood in the darkness before your window, and I whistled.”
“Did you?” She smiled at him gladly. “That was nice of you. I cannot see, though, why you should have been afraid of me—of such a little girl. It was silly of you.”
“I do not know why,” he said. “I ran away. I was motivated by a power that is slipping out of all the worlds. My memories are leaving me one by one like a colony of aged swans flying off to some lonely island in the sea to die. But you became a princess, did you not?” he questioned anxiously.
“Yes, perhaps I did. I hope I did. I, too, forget. Tell me, did you really stand there in the dark?”
Henry had noticed a peculiar thing. If he looked steadily at one of the crouched, faceless beings, it disappeared. He amused himself by staring first at one and then at another until all of them were gone.
“Did you really stand there in the dark?”
“I do not know. Perhaps I only thought I did.” He looked for Elizabeth, but she, too, had dis​appeared. In her place there was a red smoldering ember, and the light was dying out of it.
“Wait, Elizabeth— Wait. Tell me where my father is. I want to see my father.”
The dying ember answered him.
“Your father is happily dead. He was afraid to test even death.”
“But Merlin, then— Where is Merlin? If I could only find him.”
“Merlin? You should know of him. Merlin is herding dreams in Avalon.”
The fire went out of the ember with a dry, hard snap. There was no light anywhere. For a moment, Henry was conscious of the deep, mellow pulsation of the Tone.
the end