The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

The water was still calm; but Sable Island is a place where no one can stay long. The governor therefore hurried up the venerable Corbet,—who, on this as on other occasions, seemed to give indications of a dilatory disposition,—and furnished him with some sails, which, with a little alteration, would suit the Antelope very well. Upon this Corbet returned in his boat to the schooner, carrying the sails with him, and one of the Sable Islanders to help him rig the sails. The boys were to be put aboard by the governor later in the day.

  They then went off with their genial host to other parts of the island. This journey was made on ponies which had been broken, yet not so much but that they retained a very fair share of their original wildness. The riding was not very conducive to speed. All of the boys were thrown, but none of them were hurt on the sandy soil, and the governor made himself merry over their horsemanship. As to scenery, there was nothing different from what they had already encountered, except numerous wild fowl that frequented the lake.

  By the time that they returned they saw the Antelope with her sails filled, and a boat drawn up on the beach to convey them aboard. The governor shook hands with them all most heartily on bidding them good by.

  “Good by, my lads,” said he. “I’m the most unhappy of men in one way. Although I keep shipwrecked guests an immense time, I dare not be hospitable to visitors. I would press you to stay all night, but I’m afraid to. If you had a better craft, and a better captain, I might venture to do it; but even then, it wouldn’t be safe. As it is, it would be madness, and my only parting word to you is, to hurry away as fast as you can, and get away as for as possible from Sable Island.”

  The boys got on board; the sturdy Sable Islanders bent to their oars, and soon their vigorous strokes drove the boat far out to sea. But all the way the boys could see the little group on the shore watching them. On reaching the Antelope, they found all ready for a start. The Sable Islander who had accompanied Captain Corbet returned with his companions; and as the Antelope moved away, the flag of the B. O. W. C. went up and down rapidly, and three ringing cheers burst forth from the boys.

  So ended their very remarkable and eventful visit to the most fearful and dangerous of all the islands of the sea. Few, indeed, are the vessels which, having drifted upon this perilous coast, are able to leave it so safely, and so pleasantly. For Sable Island generally surrounds itself with destroying terrors for those who chance upon it; and more than Anticosti, more, indeed, than any other place, deserves the dread name of—”the graveyard of ships and sailors.”

  In turning away, there was now but one thought in the minds of all the boys, and that was, of course, Mahone Bay. In any case they would sail straight for the coast of Nova Scotia; and Mahone Bay was the only place at which they were willing to land. There was now no further difficulty about making their way, for the governor, in addition to the sails, had furnished a compass also.

  “The Nova Scotia coast,” said Captain Corbet, “air doo north by west, an it ain’t more’n a hundred mile. The wind’s fair, an we ought to sight it before—well, before three days.”

  “O, we’ll do it long before that,” said Bart, “if this wind lasts. But why can’t you head due west for Mahone Bay?”

  “Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “there air severial reasons why: fust an furmost, because, ef I sail west, I’ll have to coast along this here shore, which is the very thing I don’t want to do. I want to get as far away as I kin, an as quick as I kin. Second, I don’t want to go in the dark no longer. I want to sight the Nova Scotia coast, and then to keep it in sight till I die. Never agin do I want to git out o’ sight o’ Nova Scotia. Then, third, I don’t want to stop at no more places, but to contennew along my windin way, till I git to Minas. An, fourthly, I don’t want to go to Mahone Bay at all.”

  “Not go to Mahone Bay!” cried Bruce. “Why not? Why, we want to hunt up that island that the buccaneers buried the treasure in.”

  Captain Corbet looked at all the boys with an expression of solemn regret, mingled with mild reproach upon his venerable face. Then shaking his head mournfully, he slowly ejaculated,—

  “O, boys, boys!”

  “Well, why not?” asked Tom.

  “O, boys! O, boys!” continued the captain, in a dismal tone. “An has it come to this? Air this the end an the melankilly result of the bitter teachins that you’ve ben an had by sea an land?”

  “Bitter teachings?” said Bart; “what bitter teachings?”

  “The teachins, an the warnins, an the experiences,” said Captain Corbet, “that’s ben a heaped upon you’s all. Why this thirst for perishable treasures? Why this yearnin for money-holes? Hain’t you had enough of treasures, and dreams of wealth? Look at me, boys. Behold this wretched victuim of Avarice. Think how the demon of Avarice got possession of me in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, an drawed me away captive to his chariot wheels. Think how he tempted me to desert you, an leave you in tremenjous danger. Bar all this in mind, I humbly beg, and then desist. Say no more. Temp me not. Leave the aged Corbet be. Don’t inflame this beaten heart. Be wise in time. You’ll only suffer for it ef you don’t. That thar treasure is onhallowed. Didn’t we try diggin for buried treasures once afore? Answer me that. We did. An what was the result? I pause for a reply.”

  “O, but this is different,” said Bart. “That money-hole on the hill was all nonsense; and, besides, what was it then frightened us, except a miserable little donkey? This is a different matter. There ought to be something there, out of all the plunder of the Spanish Main.

  “Don’t talk about plunder, and the Spanish Main,” said the captain. “The way that that governor had of rollin out them words of his was somethin that made a man feel a tinglin all over. It’s the thirst for gold, boys; don’t kindle it up to a flame; don’t temp me agin my better natur; don’t, don’t.”

  “O, see here now, captain,” said Bart; “don’t look at things in that way. When you left us on the ship, it wasn’t Avarice; it was because you hadn’t any idea that we were in danger.”

  Captain Corbet shook his head. “No,” said he, “It was Avarice, the Demon of Gold—nothing else. It blinded my eye, an hardened my heart. It’s the way it allus does.”

  “Well, I don’t see how you can call it Avarice. You only wanted money for your baby—you know.”

  At the mention of his tender offspring, Captain Corbet’s face changed; a mild and mellow light beamed in his aged eye, and a tender parental fondness was visible in the expression of his venerable face.

  “Terew!” said he; “terew—as gospel!”

  “Well, then, you must feel as anxious about him now as you were then. You failed that time; perhaps this time you’ll succeed. And only think how jolly it would be, if you could make his fortune, and give him a college education.”

  At this crafty allusion to Captain Corbet’s fondest hope, the aged navigator was overcome. His eyes became moistened with tears; a gentle sigh escaped him; he said no more, and all the boys saw that his silence meant consent.

  The Antelope was heading towards the nearest point on the Nova Scotia shore. That shore lay almost north, or north by west, and it was about a hundred miles distant. The wind was fair; there was no prospect whatever of a change for the worse; and so the Antelope walked the waters, as usual, like a thing of life, while the boys amused themselves with recalling the strange story of the governor of Sable Island, and in speculating about the probable appearance of that island of the buccaneers, which, according to him, had been the deposit and the burial-place of the plunder of the Spanish Main.

  The Antelope did her best. The wind was not very strong, yet it bore her along as fast as she was capable of going; no very great rate of speed, to be sure, yet fast enough to assure them, by sunset, that they were already far enough away from Sable Island to be out of the reach of danger; out of the grasp of its far-reaching arms, and in a pathway which brought them every moment nearer to a friendly shore.

  CHAPTER V.

  The wind continued fair, and during the f
ollowing night the Antelope kept on her course. On the following day, by noon, they came within sight of land, and the distant coast-line running along the horizon showed them now what course they should take. Captain Corbet now headed her a few points farther to the west.

  “I’m all right now,” said he. “Jest you let me see the Nova Scotia coast, and I’ll foller it. Here we go now, an our motter air, On’ard an up’ard.”

  “Downward, rather than upward, is my motto,” said Bart; “for I’m bound to get to the bottom of the treasure of the buccaneers. At any rate we ought to find out the truth about it; for the saying is, that truth lies at the bottom of a well, and a money-hole isn’t very far different.”

  “Do you think you can manage to find Mahone Bay, captain?” asked Bruce, with a very natural doubt about Captain Corbet’s capacity to find his way to a strange place.

  “Wal,” said he, “’pears to me easy enough, with this here coast-line to guide us. You see all we’ve got to do is, to keep on along this here coast till we come to Halifax harbor. Wal, we don’t go in thar, but keep straight on. Wal, the next place is Margaret’s Bay. That’s easy enough; and then the next place is Mahone Bay. So you see it’s so plain that a child might guide his tender canoe in safety to such a place as that.”

  “O, I dare say we’ll work our way sooner or later to Mahone Bay,” said Phil; “but what we are to do after we get there is a thing which, I confess, puzzles me a little.”

  “O, we’ll hunt about for the island,” said Bart.

  “Hunt about?” said Phil. “But how can we find it? Shall we ask people?”

  “O, no,” said Bruce; “that would never do. It wouldn’t do at all to let a single soul know what we are after. They’d all follow us, and interfere with us. No; we’ve got to be very cautious.”

  “That’s a fact,” said Tom; “we must keep dark.”

  “O, I dare say,” said Phil; “but how can we find the island?”

  “O, we’ll hunt it up,” said Bart.

  “But how can we tell it from Adam, or from any other island?”

  “Sure an that’s aisy enough,” said Pat. “We’re lookin for an island that’s got a hole inside of it; an if there’s a hole, sure we’ll know it by the heap it makes.”

  “At any rate,” said Arthur, “we can look about, and if we can’t find any marks to guide us, why, then we can make inquiries among the people.”

  With such vague plans as these, then, the boys looked forward to Mahone Bay, feeling that it was necessary to keep their purpose a profound secret, and yet not knowing how to find the island. They were unwilling to betray their errand by asking questions, and yet without asking how could they hope to learn anything? This was a difficulty which they all felt, and in the presence of it they could only conclude to be guided by circumstances.

  A few days passed and the Antelope reached the entrance to Halifax harbor, which the bold captain recognized, not by any knowledge of his own, for he had never been here before; not by any chart or observation, for he did not own the former, and had not made the latter; but simply from seeing a steamer go up into the land towards a place where the sky was black with the smoke of bituminous coal. When he saw that, he said, “This is Halifax;” and, saying this, he felt secure of his position, and kept the vessel on due west.

  It was morning when they passed Halifax. By noon they passed a broad bay, which they decided to be Margaret’s Bay. By evening they had reached another broad bay. At its mouth, and well out in the ocean, lay an island, with black and rocky sides, and wooded top. On sailing inside of this, they noticed that it was inhabited, and from this point of view showed houses and farms. A few miles farther on was another island, which was cultivated from one end to the other, and appeared to be thickly populated. Farther on there appeared other islands, and wooded shores, and cultivated fields, and high hills.

  This, they felt sure, was their destination—Mahone Bay. The Antelope passed inside of the second island, and here dropped anchor.

  It was yet more than an hour before sundown, and the boys went ashore upon the island nearest to make inquiries, not about the plunder of the Spanish Main, but merely of a general nature. The island was thickly inhabited, and on walking a short distance from the beach where they had left their boat, they found a road which seemed well travelled, and appeared to run from one end of the island to the other. In a little while an old man came along on an ox-cart, who bowed with a good-natured smile, and remarked that it was a fine evening. To this they assented.

  “What’s the name of this island?” asked Bruce.

  Upon being thus questioned, the old man stopped his oxen, and, looking around upon the young faces before him, he said,—

  “What?”

  “What’s the name of this island?”

  “Tancook,” said the old man.

  “Tancook?” repeated Bruce; “and what’s the name of that other one?”—pointing to the outer island, which they had first encountered.

  “That thar?” said the old man, looking where Bruce pointed,—”that thar? Why, we call that thar island by the name of Ironbound.”,

  It was a fine name, a sonorous and at the same time an appropriate name, and deeply impressed the boys.

  “Fine farming country this,” said Bruce, once more plunging into the conversation.

  “Wal, pooty so so,” said the old man. “We ain’t got no reason to complain; though, what with diphthery, an sich, it’s mighty hard on children.”

  “A good many people here, apparently,” continued Bruce, in a lively key.

  “Wal, pooty tol’ble,” said the old man; “’bout a hundred families on this here.”

  “Farmers or fishermen?” asked Bruce.

  “Wal, a leetle of the one, an a leetle of the tother.”

  “You’ve got a church here too,” continued Bruce.

  “Yas—a meetin-house.”

  “What persuasion is that meeting-house?” asked Bruce, in an anxious tone of voice, as though the fortunes of the whole party depended on the answer.

  “Wal, mostly Baptist,” said the old man, “though not all. Were kine o’ cut off, an live mostly to ourselves. But Tancook ain’t sich a bad place, arter all, and we manage to grub along.”

  “It’s a fine bay around here,” said Bruce, with a grand, patronizing sweep of his right arm, which seemed meant to include all creation.

  “Yas,” said the old man; “there ain’t nothin like it nowhar. We’ve got three hundred and sixty-five islands, of all shapes an sizes, in this here bay—one for every day in the year. This here’s the biggest, an the smallest isn’t more than a yard long. Yas, it’s a fine bay, an a great harbor.”

  “Three hundred and sixty-five islands!” exclaimed Bruce, in a tone of surprise. “Is it possible? And one for every day in the year! How extraordinary! But is there really that exact number, or is it only fancy?”

  “Really an truly,” said the old man, with whom this was evidently the deepest conviction of his mind. “O, yas, thar’s no mistake or doubt about it. They’ve all been counted, over an over; yas, over an over—over an over.”

  “It’s very strange,” said Bruce. “It’s most extraordinary; and now I dare say,” he continued, in an insinuating way, “I dare say that, among so many islands, some of them are well worth a visit. This island of yours is a perfect wonder—so fertile, so beautiful! Are there any others that are like this?”

  “Wal, not to say jest like this; but they’re fine islands, many of them, an curous, too. Thar’s some that’s only islands at high tide, bein connected with the main land by narrer beaches an shoals at low tide; an then, agin, thar’s others that’s only islands at low tide, bein completely kivered up by the water at high tide; and so it goes; an some’s cleared an inhabited, like this; an some’s wild, an kivered with woods; an some has only one family on it; an some’s cultivated, but has no one livin on them; an so we’ve got all sorts, you see, an they’re all well wuth visitin. Thar’s Dead Man’s Island
, an Quaker Island, an Oak Island, an Maple Island, an Ironbound;” and the old man went on to enumerate dozens of names in addition to these, out of which no individual one made any impression on the minds of his hearers.

  Thus far Bruce had been questioning the old man chiefly with the hope that he might drop some remark which might be of use to them in their search after the treasure island. But no such remark was forthcoming, and the string of names which was enumerated conveyed no information whatever. So Bruce made one more effort, and ventured to come a little more to the point.

  “This bay,” said he, “has been a great place for buccaneers—so I’ve heard. Do you know anything about them? Can you tell me of any island in particular that people talk of as being visited by them? There’s one, I think, that the buccaneers used to visit. Perhaps you’ve heard about them, and can tell us the name of the island, and where it is.”

  Now, this was pretty direct; indeed, all the other boys thought that it was altogether too direct, especially since they had all concluded that it was best not to ask any questions, except those of a general character. Bart and Tom both nudged Bruce very violently, to rebuke his rashness; but their nudges had no effect.

  The old man stared, then frowned, then looked blank, and then frowned again. Then he looked at Bruce, and said, in an uncertain, hesitating way,—

  “Bucker nears?”

  “Yes,” said Bruce. “Buccaneers. They used to come here, you know. Lots of them.”

  The old man wagged his old head up and down several times.

  “O, yas; I dar say. Buccar nears—an lots of other fish, that’s left us. They used to come here in shoals—likewise mackerel; but them days is over. Sometimes shad an her’n comes here now; but things ain’t as they used to be, an it’s gittin harder an harder every year for us fishermen. It’s as much as a man can do, with farmin and fishin together, to find bread an butter for himself an his children. As to them—buck—buck—buckfish, I don’t know. I don’t mind ever hearin of them, leastways not under that thar name. P’raps they’re a kine’ o’ mackerel; an I only wish they’d come now, as they used to when I was young.”