by L K Harcourt
The sea was a foaming mass of dark grey, tossed about by a rattling wind. They shivered a little at the sight and realised that there would be no boat trips that day, not while the weather remained so bad.
But if the atmosphere outside was stormy, inside the lighthouse the tension had vanished. John’s hopes with Louise, and Dan’s with Emma appeared dashed and that was all there was to it. The four of them could go back to being friends and what went on behind the girls’ bedroom door at night was their business.
John got the kettle on and put out four mugs in a row. ‘Cup of tea, girls?’ he asked as Louise and Emma walked into the kitchen. ‘Did you have a good night’s sleep?,’ he enquired, with a wink.
They giggled nervously, guessing their lovemaking had been overheard but relieved that John and Dan weren’t going to judge them for it or sulk about it.
They all took their mugs of steaming tea into the lounge and pulled rugs around them while Louise got the fire going. Even though it was summer, the lighthouse was a chilly place in conditions like this.
‘Well, I think we are officially grounded today,’ declared Emma, stating the obvious. ‘But you know what, I don’t mind the odd day like this when I’m on holiday, it’s such a good excuse to relax and chill and catch up on reading.’
The others agreed. Although different in their own ways, they were all intelligent, thoughtful people who had got to Oxford University for a very good reason – they were studious and highly talented. They were the sort who rarely got bored because they always found something interesting to do with their time.
‘Let’s just chill out playing cards, reading our Kindles, drinking hot chocolate, eating some of those muffins we bought yesterday and enjoying the glorious view of the stormy sea,’ continued Emma rather whimsically, her pale blue eyes looking bright, and a cheerful lilt in her voice.
She was visibly happy and Dan guessed that her relationship with Louise was a large part of the reason for it. If only he had asked her out sooner, but there was no point thinking like that, if it was meant to be, it was meant to be. As for him, being a similar type to her, a day ‘indoors’, feet up, hot drink and a good book, plus a stunning sea view sounded just perfect.
By mid-morning the storm was raging overhead and the sea looked dark and angry. The sight from the lighthouse was breathtaking.
‘You can imagine, can’t you, what it must have been like to be in a creaking old galleon centuries ago and coming to grief on the terrible rocks around here in weather like this,’ mused John, staring through the window.
‘Oh yes, and from what I know many did – the wreckers caused some ships to founder, but others were simply lost due to the storms and strong currents,’ said Louise. ‘But whatever the reason, the outcome was always the same, when ships broke up, the smugglers and looters would be down on the shore within minutes, waiting for valuables to wash up and pinching whatever they could.
‘I would love to know more about the history of smuggling and wrecking along the Cornish coast,’ said Dan. ‘I don’t suppose there are any books on it in the lighthouse, are there, Louise?’
‘Hmmm, not books as such I don’t think. There are modern books about the shipwrecks round here and some of the treasures they contained, but I don’t think we have any in the lighthouse.’
She paused, thinking hard. ‘Oh but I tell you what there is, in the cellar there are some old legal documents relating to the lighthouse and a box of papers and some old record books and ledgers of various kinds. So my parents said anyway. Apparently some of them are in Spanish or something in a spidery copper-plate handwriting and my parents couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’
‘Oh that sounds interesting,’ said Dan. ‘I know some Spanish, I might be able to translate it.’
‘Also,’ said John, ‘I’ve been rather wanting a chance to explore this lighthouse more and go down that cellar, if that’s ok Louise.’
‘Of course it is,’ she replied, ‘it’s just a bit musty down there and not terribly interesting. But let’s go and have a look if you like.’
John, Dan and Emma followed Louise as she flicked a lever on the wall and a hole opened in the floor beneath the spiral staircase. They could see steps leading below. Louise lit an oil lamp to take as there was no natural light.
The cellar had that musty, salty, fish and oilskins smell that you get on ships and it felt almost as if they were going down into a ship’s hold. And under the flickering light of the oil lamp, not a modern one either.
There were a couple of old trunks scattered about, covered in cobwebs. The first they opened contained rusting tools which looked around a century old. In the other were the documents and notebooks to which Louise had referred. She lifted a handful out. There were parchments, stamped with red sealing wax, which appeared to be legal particulars relating to the construction of the lighthouse and its sale. Underneath were a couple of ledgers and a leather-bound notebook filled with elegant, looping copperplate script on yellowed, fox-marked pages. It was impossible to decipher in such low light.
‘I tell you what,’ said Dan. ‘Why don’t we take this box back up with us, we’ll have a better chance of making out its contents in daylight.’
The others agreed but while they were down there, they looked about for any crevices and nooks and crannies they could find. ‘You never know,’ said John, ‘there just might be a secret passageway or something.’
If there was, it was extremely well hidden. Nor were there any iron rings or levers embedded into the wall for them to pull down. They came across a few old curiosities – bric-a-brac, old lamp wicks and tins of what appeared to be ancient lamp oil – no doubt dating back to the days when it powered the great lighthouse lamp.
A little disappointed, but nonetheless excited about the documents in the chest, the four of them climbed up the steep stone stairs back to the ground floor, blinking in the bright daylight. The weather had not improved. If anything it had got worse. The sky looked purple-black and the sea was a heaving, swirling mass of grey and white foam, angrily hurling itself over the rocks of Wreckers Island.
‘Why don’t we take the box up to the lamp room and look at its contents there?’ suggested Louise. ‘That’s the best place for natural light. And we could take a nice mug of coffee or hot chocolate up and enjoy the amazing storm at the same time.’
The others agreed. After all, what better place to enjoy such a savage tempest than from the top of the lighthouse! John and Dan lugged the box up the winding staircase while the girls followed with mugs of hot drinks and biscuits. There were no chairs up there so they took up some rugs and cushions.
‘Isn’t this magical,’ said Louise, ‘it’s like being kids again in our own little den – and in a lighthouse of all places!’
‘You know,’ said Dan, ‘I still have to pinch myself that you weren’t fibbing when you invited us on holiday to a place like this, but I’m so glad I did believe you in the end. Isn’t it simply awesome, especially with this gale blowing? You can actually feel it buffeting the lighthouse. I hope it won’t blow over!’
For a few minutes, the leather-bound trunk was forgotten as the four of them sat on the rugs, gazing through the glass, marvelling at the sight all around, clutching their hot drinks and nibbling their biscuits.
‘Right,’ said Dan, eventually. ‘Let’s spread out the contents of the box carefully on the floor and see what we can make of it.’
The parchments relating to the island and construction of the lighthouse were written in obscure 19th century legal jargon. There was a scale map of the lighthouse and, interestingly, the island itself prior to its construction. The year the lighthouse was built was given in Roman numerals – MDCCCLXXVII.
‘I wonder what that would be,’ mused Louise. ‘I wish I was better at things like this.’
‘1877,’ said Dan within seconds.
The others looked at him, impressed.
‘It’s easy,’ he said. ‘People never seem to learn Roman nu
merals properly these days – M is 1,000, D is 500, three Cs gives you 300, so that’s 1800. Then L is 50, add the two Xs which is 20 and VII which is seven – 1877. You never know when it will come in useful.’
‘Ah, you’re not just a pretty face, are you!’ said Emma, playfully pinching his cheek.
‘Ok, what’s the year 1644 in Roman numerals,’ teased Louise.
‘MDCXLIV,’ replied Dan within a second. ‘Ok, come on, it isn’t Latin we need but Spanish, I want to try and work out the writing in that notebook if I can. It doesn’t seem to bear any relation to the legal documents belonging to the lighthouse.’
He picked it up carefully. As they noticed down in the cellar, it was filled with rather spidery writing in proper ink on thick parchment-type pages.
‘Oh look, there is a date on the inside cover – can you see, el 30 de Octubre, MDCCLXXX. That’s the 30th October, 1780.’
‘1780!’ exclaimed the others. So this was an incredibly old book which pre-dated the lighthouse by more than a century.
‘What do you think Dan?’ asked Emma. ‘Can you make any of the words out?’
Dan took the notebook over to the huge window to get as much natural light on it as possible. Not only was the writing spidery and in Spanish with numerous flourishes, curls and loops, but in places the ink was faded and smudged. Even for a native Spaniard it would be no easy task to decipher.
‘It looks to me like a sort of diary,’ said Dan, slowly. ‘I think perhaps it has been written by a ship’s captain, there are dates and places mentioned and little maps but most of it appears to be just flowing description of some kind.’
‘What does it say?’ asked John, eagerly.
‘Look, don’t crowd round me please!’ replied Dan, not enjoying being put on the spot. ‘I could do with putting this notebook on a table and I’ll need to get some writing paper, a pen and my Spanish dictionary and have a few minutes’ peace while I try to work it out.’
Dan went off to get some stationery and his dictionary while Louise fetched him a fold-up table from the store room. Emma went downstairs and got him another coffee and more biscuits to keep him supplied.
He returned with what he called his small Spanish dictionary. ‘I didn’t bring my big one,’ he said, ‘because I wasn’t really anticipating needing to translate a centuries-old Spanish diary while we were on holiday.’
‘Well,’ said John, grinning, ‘it just shows you should never assume anything. I’m glad we didn’t jet off anywhere in the end, you’d have had us all paying a fortune going over the weight limits for the flight.’
“That’s true,’ agreed Dan. ‘I suppose I have brought rather a few dictionaries with me – French, Cornish, Welsh – and Spanish of course.’
Emma ruffled his hair affectionately. 'That’s our Dan,’ she said. ‘Right, come on everybody, let’s go back downstairs and give Dan some peace while he tries to work out some of that strange old journal.’
That was tactful of Emma – she knew Dan would not want an audience and be pressured into any kind of instant translation. Dan glanced up gratefully as he saw the others troop downstairs. Emma was right, he needed peace and quiet to tackle it.
At first he stared at the graceful handwriting with some dismay, bordering on panic. His Spanish wasn’t anywhere near the standard of his French and trying to read this was very different from crystal clear typewritten text. He took a sip of coffee and began on page one. Rather than worrying about all the words he didn’t know, he decided to simply try to attune himself to the patterns and cadences of the sentences and the handwriting style. Once he was sure which letters were which, it would become easier.
Slowly, with the mind focussed and the only distraction the roar of the sea and the mewing of gulls, Dan found himself transported back in time to 1780. It was clearly a diary of some sort because there were regular dated entries. There were plenty of references to the weather and sea conditions. It was likely to belong to a captain or senior officer on a Spanish vessel but where was it sailing and who and what was on board?
Dan discovered, to his excitement, references to places along the Devon and Cornish coasts. It occurred to him that he would be better off reading some of the journal entries towards the end, as well as the beginning, since that would give him some clue as to what ultimately happened. One place name caught his eye in the final, dramatic entry – Gunwalloe Cove – that was the bay here, surely! He began to read.
Ayer por la noche, ocurrió el desastre – Last night disaster struck.
Una terrible tormenta estalló y se lanzó contra las rocas feroces. Se oyó el ruido más horrible de la división de madera. Todos los hombres a bordo fueron arrojados al mar agitado – A terrible storm blew up and we were hurled onto fierce rocks. There was the most horrendous sound of wood splitting. All men on board were thrown into the raging sea.
Dan’s heart began to beat faster as he came upon references to ‘el tesoro’ – treasure. And further on, cientos de lingotes de oro y incontables cientos de monedas de oro y plata - hundreds of ingots of gold and countless hundreds of gold and silver coins – se perdió por la borda – were lost overboard.
With the occasional help of his dictionary, Dan continued reading, his fingers trembling as he wrote down the English translation.
‘I managed to scramble to safety in Gunwalloe Cove and there I sheltered until dawn broke.
‘I can only assume that all my seafaring colleagues were lost, for I saw no sign of life the following morning, only corpses floating in the water and thrown onto the shore. I had nothing save a few personal possessions. A few things I managed to salvage from the water, including one chest only of the gold ingots and a few handfuls of coins washed up by the tide.
‘For fear that the local people would seize them, I resolved to hide them as best I could. I found a passageway seemingly leading beneath the sea bed and hauled all I could carry down there until I came upon two great caves, the one furthest off was possessed of a natural rock shelf near its roof and there did I deposit the gold bullion and all that was of most value. And the other items I deposited in the other cave, nearer to the shore, in the hope that anyone finding it would have no cognizance that the real treasure lay beyond.
‘My mission to protect what I can is complete, and I will now return to the shore and await my fate at the hands of the local habitants. I can but pray to Almighty God that they will show mercy. Signed this day, October 25, in the year of our Lord, 1780.
Felipe Sanchez Vargas
Captain
Providencia
Dan stared at what he had just translated in disbelief. He read it back to himself and then re-read it. It was hard to take in. How utterly astonishing. That was the last entry – it looked as if the captain knew it would be the last. What then had become of Captain Felipe Sanchez Vargas? Had the local people, possibly the ancestors of many of the villagers they strolled past only yesterday, shown him mercy as he had hoped?
Dan pondered his fate and, gazing down in awe at this historic document in front of him, the fate of the salvaged treasure. There could be little doubt that much of it lay scattered across the ocean floor. But clearly Felipe had been able to save some of it, prior to the inevitable arrival of the opportunistic hordes of locals, no doubt rubbing their coarse hands with glee at having another wreck to pick over.
Almost certainly, the hidden treasure had been spirited away long ago, possibly by Felipe himself, since he clearly planned to return for it. And had he been unable to, then surely the locals would have discovered it. And these days, no doubt, that tunnel under the sea bed would undoubtedly have been blocked up, probably many years ago.
Dan took another slurp of his coffee – it had gone cold. He glanced at his watch. He had been up in the lamp room for 45 minutes. It was time to report back to the others. Dan went over to the window facing the shore and looked down at the rocks below. The storm still raged and huge foaming grey breakers pounded furiously against the island, attacking it
from all directions, as if willing it to sink. What must it have been like on board the Providencia? Where was Providence then, when those poor sailors needed divine help?
Right at that moment, in Dan’s mind, it was 1780 once again, and the screeching of gulls all around sounded to him almost like the anguished cries of drowning sailors.
A hand rubbed his shoulder, making him spin round in fright. It was Emma. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump,’ she said. ‘I thought you could do with another coffee. I’ve put it down for you on the table.’
‘I was miles away,’ replied Dan, ‘thinking about that poor ship which went down and all the men who must have drowned on her.’
‘Which ship?’ asked Emma. ‘Oh you mean the one from the old diary. Is that what it is then, did you manage to read some of it?’
‘Yes,’ replied Dan. ‘I have only read bits and the last few entries. It looks like nearly all on board perished. The captain, who wrote this diary, survived the initial sinking but heaven only knows what happened to him. It’s very exciting what I read, but sad too.’
‘You’re a sensitive thing aren’t you?’ said Emma, rubbing his shoulder. ‘I like that in you, that you can care about what happened to those sailors even though it was so long ago.’
‘It doesn’t make it any less tragic, does it?’ said Dan. ‘Somehow it brings it home to you when you read something like this written by one of the sailors who was actually on board ship in his own handwriting and his own language. It’s no longer history but real.’
Emma nodded and spotted what looked like tears in his eyes and a quavering note in his throat. She gave him a hug and said, spontaneously, ‘I do like you, you know and I’m glad you like me, it was good that you told me last night.’
