Spanish Doubloons
Page 10
X
WHAT CRUSOE AND I FOUND
When after those poignant moments in the boat I met Dugald Shaw incommonplace fashion at the table, a sudden, queer, altogetherunprecedented shyness seized me. I sat looking down at my platewith the gaucherie of a silly child.
The episode of the afternoon provided Mr. Tubbs with ammunition fora perfect fusillade of wit. He warned Mr. Shaw that hereafter hemight expect Neptune to have a grudge against him for having robbedthe sea-god of his beauteous prey. I said I thought most likely itwas not Neptune that was robbed but sharks, but sharks not beingclassic, Mr. Tubbs would have none of them. He said he believedthat if Mr. Shaw had not inopportunely arrived, Neptune with histripod would soon have up-reared upon the wave.
"Oh--_tripod_, Mr. Tubbs?" I said inquiringly.
"Yes, sure," he returned undaunted. "Them camera supports is namedfor it, you know. But of course this gay gink of a Sandy had tocome buttin' in. Too bad the Honorable Bertie had partook so free.He'd have looked the part all right when it come to rescuin' beautyin distress. But Fortune bein' a lady and naturally capricious,she hands the stunt over to old Sobersides here."
Just then old Sobersides cut across the flow of Mr. Tubbs'ssprightly conversation and with a certain harshness of tone askedCaptain Magnus if he had had good sport on the other side of theisland. Captain Magnus, as usual, had seemed to feel that timeconsecrated to eating was wasted in conversation. At thispoint-blank question he started confusedly, stuttered, and finallyexplained that though he had taken a rifle he had carried alongpistol cartridges, so had come home with an empty bag.
At this moment I happened to be looking at Cookie, who was settingdown a dish before Mr. Tubbs. The negro started visibly, androlled his eyes at Captain Magnus with astonishment depicted inevery dusky feature. He said nothing, although wont to take partin our conversation as it suited him, but I saw him shake his greatgrizzled head in a disturbed and puzzled fashion as he turned away.
After this a chill settled on the table. You felt a disturbance inthe air, as though wireless currents were crossing and recrossingin general confusion. Mr. Tubbs began again on the topic of myrescue, and said it was too bad Mr. Shaw's name wasn't Paul,because then we'd be Paul and Virginia, he, he! My aunt saidencouragingly, how true! because they had lived on an island,hadn't they? She had read the book many years ago, and had mostlyforgotten it, not having Mr. Tubbs's marvelous memory, but shebelieved there was something quite sad about the end, though verysweet. She agreed with Mr. Tubbs that Mr. Vane would have lookedmost picturesque going to the rescue on account of his sash, and itwas too bad he had not been able, but never mind, it was most kindof Mr. Shaw, and she was sure her niece appreciated it though shewas afraid she hadn't thanked Mr. Shaw properly.
By this time it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shaw had been mostinconsiderate in dashing out after me in that thoughtless manner.He should have waked Cuthbert Vane and helped him to array himselfbecomingly in the sash and then sent for a moving-picture man to goout in another boat and immortalize the touching scene. All thiscame seething to my lips, but I managed to suppress it. It wasonly on Cuthbert Vane's account. As for my aunt and Mr. Tubbs, Icould have bumped their heads together as remorselessly as twococoanuts. I understood Aunt Jane, of course. In spite of theHonorable Cuthbert's recent lapse, her imagination still playedabout certain little cards which should announce to an enviousworld my engagement to the Honorable Cuthbert Patrick RuthmoreVane, of High Staunton Manor, Kent. So such a _faux pas_ as myrescue from drowning by a penniless Scotch seaman couldn't butfigure in her mind as a grievance.
I stole a glance at the recipient of these sorry thanks. His facewas set and--once I should have called it grim, but I knew betternow. There was nothing I could say or do. Any words of mine wouldhave sounded forced and puerile. What he had done was so farbeyond thanks that spoken gratitude belittled it. And yet, supposehe thought that like the rest I had wished another in his place?Did he think that--could he, with the memory of my arms about hisneck?
I only knew that because of the foolish hateful words that had beensaid, the gulf between us was wider than before.
I sat dumb, consumed with misery and hoping that perhaps I mightmeet his glance and so tell him silently all that words would onlymar. But he never looked at me. And then the first bitterness,which had made even Cuthbert seem disloyal in wishing himself inhis friend's place, passed, and gave way to dreary doubt. Cuthbertknew, of course, that he himself would have prized--what to DugaldShaw was a matter of indifference. Yes, that was it, and the worstthat Dugald Shaw was suffering now was boredom at hearing theaffair so everlastingly discussed.
So I began talking very fast to Mr. Vane and we were very gay andhe tied his own necktie on Crusoe on consideration that he be heldhereafter jointly. And--because I saw that Dugald Shaw was lookingnow--I smiled lingeringly into the eyes of the beautiful youth andsaid all right, perhaps we needn't quarrel over our mutual dog, andthen skipped off lightsomely, feeling exactly like a scorpion thathas been wounding itself with its own sting.
As I passed Cookie at his dishpan a sudden thought struck me.
"Cookie," I remarked, "you had a frightfully queer look just nowwhen Captain Magnus told about having taken the wrong cartridges.What was the matter?"
Cookie took his hands out of the water and wiped off the suds,casting about stealthy and mysterious glances. Then he rolled adubious eye at me.
"What was it, Cookie?" I urged.
"War am Cap'n now?"
"Down on the beach; he can't possibly hear you."
"You won't say nothin' to git Cookie in a rumpus?"
"Cross my heart to die, Cookie."
"Well, den"--Cookie spoke in a hoarse whisper--"Cap'n say he forgitto take his gun ca'tridges. Miss Jinny, when he come back, I seehim empty his gun ca'tridges out'n his belt and put back his pistolcartridges. So dere now!"
I turned from Cookie, too surprised to speak. Why had CaptainMagnus been at pains to invent a lie about so trivial a matter? Irecalled, too, that Mr. Shaw's question had confused him, that hehad hesitated and stammered before answering it. Why? Was he abad shot and ashamed of it? Had he preferred to say that he hadtaken the wrong ammunition rather than admit that he could get nobag? That must be the explanation, because there was no other.Certainly no imaginable errand but the one assigned could havetaken the captain to the other side of the island.
Several days went by, and still the treasure was unfound. Ofcourse, as the unexplored space in the cave contracted, so dailythe probability grew stronger that Fortune would shed her goldensmile upon us before night. Nevertheless, it seemed to me that theoptimistic spirits of most were beginning to flag a little. OnlyMr. Shaw, though banned as a confirmed doubter and pessimist,now by the exercise of will kept the others to their task. Ittook all Cuthbert Vane's loyalty, plus an indisposition to becalled a slacker, to strive against the temptation to renouncetreasure-hunting in favor of roaming with Crusoe and me. As forCaptain Magnus, his restlessness was manifest. Several times hehad suggested blowing the lid off the island with dynamite, as theshortest method of getting at the gold. He was always vanishing onsolitary excursions inland.
Mr. Tubbs remarked, scornfully, that a man with a nose for moneyought to have smelted out the chest before this, but if his ownnasal powers were of that character he did not offer to employ themin the service of the expedition. Miss Higglesby-Browne, however,had taken to retiring to the hut for long private sessions withherself. My aunt reverentially explained their purpose. Thehiding-place of the chest being of course known to the UniversalWisdom, all Violet had to do was to put herself in harmony and theknowledge would be hers. The difficulty was that you had first toovercome your Mundane Consciousness. To accomplish this Violet wasstruggling in the solitude of the hut.
Meanwhile Mr. Tubbs sat at the feet of Aunt Jane, reading aloudfrom a volume entitled _Paeans of Passion_, by a celebrated ladylyric poet of our own land.
The descent of the gully proved an easy matter, and soon I was onthe sand beside the derelict. Sand had heaped up around her hull,and filled her cockpit level with the rail, and drifted down thecompanion, stuffing the little cabin nearly to the roof, Only thebow rose free from the white smother of sand. Whatever woundsthere were in her buried sides were hidden. You felt that somewild caprice of the storm had lifted her and set her down here, nottoo roughly, then whirled away and left her to the sand.
Crusoe slipped into the narrow space under the roof of the cabin,and I leaned idly down to watch him through a warped seam betweenthe planks. Then I found that I was looking, not at Crusoe, butinto a little dim enclosure like a locker, in which some smallobject faintly caught the light. With a revived hope of findingrelics I got out my knife--a present from Cuthbert Vane--and setbriskly to work widening the seam.
I penetrated finally into a small locker or cubby-hole, set in theangle under the roof of the cabin, and, as subsequent investigationshowed, so placed as to attract no notice from the casual eye. Iascertained this by lying down and wriggling my head and shouldersinto the cabin. In other words, I had happened on a little privatedepository, in which the owner of the sloop might stow away certainsmall matters that concerned him intimately. Yet the contents ofthe locker at first seemed trifling. They were an old-fashionedchased silver shoe-buckle, and a brown-covered manuscript book.
The book had suffered much from dampness, whether of rains or thewash of the sea. The imitation leather cover was flaking off, andthe leaves were stuck together. I seated myself on the cabin roof,extracted a hairpin, and began carefully separating theclose-written pages. The first three or four were quite illegible,the ink having run. Then the writing became clearer. I made out aword here and there:
. . . . directions vague . . . . my grandfather . . . . man a ruffian but . . . . no motive . . . . police of Havana . . . . frightful den . . . . grandfather made sure . . . . registry . . . . _Bonny Lass_ . . . .
And at that I gave a small excited shriek which brought Crusoe tome in a hurry. What had he to do, the writer of this journal, whathad he to do with the _Bonny Lass_?
Breathlessly I read on:
. . . . thought captain still living but not sure . . . . lost . . . . Benito Bon . . . .
I closed the book. Now, while the coast was clear, I must get backto camp. It would take hours, perhaps days, to decipher thejournal which had suddenly become of such supreme importance. Imust smuggle it unobserved into my own quarters, where I could readat my leisure. As I set out I dropped the silver shoe-buckle intomy pocket, smiling to think that it was I who had discovered thefirst bit of precious metal on the island. Yet the book in myhand, I felt instinctively, was of more value than manyshoe-buckles.
Safely in my hammock, with a pillow under which I could slip thebook in case of interruption, I resumed the reading. From thispoint on, although the writing was somewhat faded, it was all, witha little effort, legible.
THE DIARY
If Sampson did live to tell his secret, then any day there may be asail in the offing. And still I can not find it! Oh, if mygrandfather had been more worldly wise! If he hadn't been toointent on the eternal welfare of the man he rescued from the Havanatavern brawl to question him about his story. A cave on LeewardIsland--near by a stone marked with the letters B. H. and across-bones--_I told the captain_, said the poor dying wretch, _wewouldn't have no luck after playing it that low down on Bill_! SoI presume Bill lies under the stone.
Well, all I have is in this venture. The old farm paid for the_Island Queen_--or will, if I don't get back in time to preventforeclosure. All my staid New England relatives think me mad. Acopra gatherer! A fine career for a minister's son! Think howyour father scrimped to send you to college--Aunt Sarah reproachedme. Well, when I get home with my Spanish doubloons there will beanother story to tell. I won't be poor crazy Peter then. AndHelen--oh, how often I wish I had told her everything! It was toomuch to ask her to trust me blindly as I did. But from the momentI came across the story in grandfather's old, half-forgottendiary--by the way, the diary habit seems to run in the family--avery passion of secrecy has possessed me. If I had told Helen, Ishould have had to dread that even in her sweet sleep she mightwhisper something to put that ferret, her stepmother, on the scent.Oh, Helen, trust me, trust me!
December 25. I have a calendar with me, so I am not reduced tonotching a stick to keep track of the days. I mark each offcarefully in the calendar. If I were to forget to do this, evenfor a day or two, I believe I should quite lose track. The daysare so terribly alike!
My predecessor here in the copra-gathering business, old Heintz,really left me a very snug establishment. It was odd that I shouldhave run across him at Panama that way. I sounded him on thequestion of treasure. He said placidly that of course the islandhad been the resort of Edward Davis and Benito Bonito and others ofthe black flag gentry, and he thought it very likely they had leftsome of their spoils behind them, but though he had done a littleinvestigating as he had time he had come on nothing but a ship'slantern, a large iron kettle, and the golden setting of a braceletfrom which the jewels had been removed. He had already disposed ofthe bracelet. The kettle I found here, and sank in the spring tokeep the water clear. (Where it still is. V. H.) Evidently oldHeintz knew nothing of the _Bonny Lass_. This was an immensesatisfaction, as it proves that the story can not have been noisedabout.
Christmas Day! I wonder what they are all doing at home? December28. Of course the cave under the point is the logical place. Ihave been unable to find any stone marked B. H. on the ground aboveit, but I fear that a search after Bill's tombstone would behopeless. Although the formation of the island is of the sort tocontain numerous caves, still they must be considerably lessplentiful than possible tombstones. Under circumstances suchas those of the mate's story, it seems to me that all theprobabilities point to their concealing the chest in the cave withan opening on the bay. It must have been necessary for them to actas quickly as possible, that their absence from the ship might gounnoticed--though I believe the three conspirators had made thecrew drunk. Then to get the boat, laden with the heavy chest,through the surf to any of the other caves--if the various cracksand fissures I have seen are indeed properly to be calledcaves--would be stiff work for three men. Yes, everythingindicates the cavern under the point. The only question is, isn'tit indicated too clearly? Would a smooth old scoundrel such asthis Captain Sampson must have been have hidden his treasure in thevery place certain to be ransacked if the secret ever got out?Unless it was deeply buried, which it could have been only atcertain stages of the tide, even old Heintz would have been apt tocome across it in the course of his desultory researches for theriches of the buccaneers. And I am certain placid old Heintz didnot mislead me. Besides, at Panama, he was making arrangements togo with some other Germans on a small business venture to Samoa,which he would not have been likely to do if he had just uneartheda vast fortune in buried treasure. Still, I shall explore the cavethoroughly, though with little hope.
Oh, Helen, if I could watch these tropic stars with you to-night!
January 6. I think I am through with the cave under the point--theCavern of the Two Arches, I have named it. It is a dangerous placeto work in alone, and my little skiff has been badly batteredseveral times. But I peered into every crevice in the walls, andsounded the sands with a drill. I suppose I would have made a morethor
ough job of it if I had not been convinced from the first thatthe chest was not there. It was not reason that told me so--I knowI may well be attributing too much subtlety of mind to CaptainSampson--but that strange guiding instinct--to put it in its lowestterms--which I know in my heart I must follow if I would succeed.Shall I ever forget the feeling that stirred me when first I turnedthe pages of my grandfather's diary and saw there, in his fadedwriting, the story of the mate of the _Bonny Lass_, who died inHavana in my grandfather's arms? My grandfather had gone assupercargo in his own ship, and while he did a good stroke ofbusiness in Havana--trust his shrewd Yankee instincts for that--hemanaged to combine the service of God with that of Mammon. Many apoor drunken sailor, taking his fling ashore in the bright,treacherous, plague-ridden city, found in him a friend, as did themate of the _Bonny Lass_ in his dying hour. Oh, if my goodgrandfather had but made sure from the man's own lips exactly wherethe treasure lay! It is enough to make one fancy that the unknownBill, who paid for too much knowledge with his life, has his ownfashion of guarding the hoard. But I ramble. I was going to say,that from the moment when I learned from my grandfather's diary ofthe existence of the treasure, I have been driven by an impulsemore overmastering than anything I have ever experienced in mylife. It was, I believe, what old-fashioned pious folk would calla _leading_. The impetus seemed somehow to come from outside myown organism. All my life I had been irresolute, the sport ofcircumstances, trifling with this and that, unable to set my facesteadfastly toward any goal. Yet never, since I have trodden thispath, have I looked to right or left. I have defied both humanopinion and the obstacles which an unfriendly fate has thrown in myway. All alone, I, a sailor hitherto of pleasure-craft among thebays and islands of the New England coast, put forth in my littlesloop for a voyage of three hundred miles on the loneliest wastesof the Pacific. All alone, did I say? No, there was Benjy thefaithful. His head is at my knee as I write. He knows, I think,that his master's mood is sad to-night. Oh, Helen, if you ever seethese lines, will you realize how I have longed for you--how itsometimes seems that my soul must tear itself loose from my bodyand speed to you across half a world?
February 1. Since my last record my time has been well filled. Inthe _Island Queen_ I have been surveying the coasts of my domain,sailing as close in as I dared, and taking note of every crevicethat might be the mouth of a cave. Then, either in the rowboat orby scrambling down the cliffs, I visit the indicated point. It isbitterly hard labor, but it has its compensations. I am growinghale and strong, brown and muscular. Aunt Sarah won't offer me anymore of her miserable decoctions when I go home. Heading firsttoward the north, I am systematically making the rounds of theisland, for, after all, how do I know for certain that CaptainSampson buried his treasure near the east anchorage? For greatersecurity he may have chosen the other side, where there is anotherbay, I should judge deeper and freer of rocks than this one, thoughmore open to storms.
So far I have discovered half a dozen caves, most of them quitesmall. Any one of them seemed such a likely place that at first Iwas quite hopeful. But I have found nothing. Usually, the floorof the cave beneath a few inches of sand is rock. Only in thegreat cave under the point have I found sand to any depth. Theformation in some cases is little more than a hardened clay, but toexcavate it would require long toil, probably blasting--and I haveno explosives. And I go always on the principle that CaptainSampson and his two assistants had not time for any elaborate workof concealment. Most likely they laid the chest in some naturalniche. Sailors are unskilled in the use of such implements asspades, and besides, the very heart of the undertaking was hasteand secrecy. They must have worked at night and between two tides,for few of the caves can be reached except at the ebb. And I takeit as certain that the cave must have opened directly on the sea.For three men to transport such a weight and bulk by land would besheer impossibility.
February 10. To-day a strange, strange thing happened--so strange,so wonderful and glorious that it ought to be recorded in luminousink. And I owe it all to Benjy! Little dog, you shall go in agolden collar and eat lamb-chops every day! This morning--
Across my absorption in the diary cut the unwelcome clangor ofCookie's gong. Right on the breathless edge of discovery I wassummoned, with my thrilling secret in my breast, to join myunsuspecting companions. I hid the book carefully in my cot. Notuntil the light of to-morrow morning could I return to its perusal.How I was to survive the interval I did not know. But on one pointmy mind was made up--no one should dream of the existence of thediary until I knew all that it had to impart.