The Adventure Megapack: 25 Classic Adventure Stories

by Dorothy Quick

  A boat’s crew of four had rowed them ashore to one of the islands lying between Savannah and Charleston, and between Port Royal and Saint Helena Sound. The chest was carried ashore and set down while Swayne selected a place for the men to dig. Before they had finished, according to the measure he had given them, he and Hoyle, who had stepped away, reappeared and told them that they need dig no more, that the chest was already disposed of. Certain other precautions were taken and the boat returned with the crew somewhat chagrined, dimly perceiving that they had been cleverly prevented from ever divulging the place where the loot was buried. It was a shrewd move and Raxon, for one, appreciated it. It was as effective as if Swayne had followed the procedure of other commanders and killed the diggers on the spot lest they talk too much.

  “Cap’en,” said Skinner, trying to make his hoarse voice pleasant, to cajole his villainous features into a look of sympathy. “You’re goin’ fast. We’ve shook off the bloody corvette an’ give ’em a taste of hell when Tremaine, here, fixes the case-boxes. So, Skipper, we’ve saved the ship.”

  Swayne looked at him with eyes that fixed themselves on the quartermaster’s face questioningly. Raxon jabbed the questioner in the ribs.

  “Out with it,” he prompted. “He’ll not last long. Out with it. Fair means or foul. ’Tis a fortune.”

  “For all hands,” backed up Tremaine.

  Raxon darted him a look of scorn.

  “For three of us, anyway,” he corrected. “Let me at him, Skinner.”

  Skinner gave way, acknowledging the better brain.

  “Skipper,” said Raxon, his weasel face close down, “you’re bound for heaven or hell. In the first place they say there’s gold an’ jewels like sand and pebbles of the sea. You can’t take yours with ye to either one. Left behind in the sand, ’tis only a mockery of what we all fought for. Look you, tell us where ’tis hid, give us a fair share of it for our trouble, and we’ll see the rest conveyed to your wife.”

  Pleased with his own craft, his face half in shadow, Raxon winked at his comrades, who grinned back.

  “We’ll swear to that, Skipper, on anything ye like. Hoyle’s gone but we’ll do the like with him.” Swayne’s eyes held a light in them that made Raxon’s voice grow suddenly hard. It was an uncertain light, like the leaping flame of a candle that is guttering down, but it showed mockery and decision for all its fitfulness.

  “You can lie to your mates with your glib tongue, Raxon,” he said faintly, “but you can’t lie to me. Think you I swallow your cant?”

  “You wrong us, Skipper. Believe me, ’twill go better with you if you tell us.”

  “Only fools threaten dying men. The loot will not be lost. The corvette will report the fight and my mortal wound. When that news gets out, Raxon, you fox, I have friends who know its location and will unearth it for those to whom it belongs.”

  “They’ll never get it,” said Raxon fiercely. Then, as Swayne smiled at him, he broke into sudden fury. “Give me your dirk, Skinner,” he cried. “Tremaine, draw off his boots an’ set the lamp to his feet. I’ll give you a foretaste of hell, Swayne, if you don’t tell.”

  “So brave? And jumping to my word when I was whole. You dogs! Think you I would trust you? I’m going, Raxon, where you and these two scoundrels cannot follow—as yet. It is in my mind that you will not be long in coming. I’ll see to ’t—I’ll see to ’t—” he wheezed, the red froth bubbling about the slit in his chest—“that ye are well received.” And he grinned at them out of a face almost as white as his teeth.

  “We know the island,” muttered Raxon. “We’ll dig it over foot by foot but what we’ll find it.”

  “’Twill be a pleasant task. So, you’re willing to work for it? I’ll give you a cue to follow, lads, as my last words.”

  The syllables grew fainter, farther and farther apart. It might be that Swayne spoke against time to avoid torture, knowing how close he was to the end. His eyes still mocked them; his teeth gleamed, for he seemed unable to part them and his words hissed.

  “Here’s a lead for you, my bullies—and, on the word of a dying man, ’tis a good one—go, find your island, if Skinner there doesn’t cast you ashore, then ask the secret of the screaming skull!”

  He started to laugh; the mirth grew hideous as it changed into a rattle, then a gurgle, as blood broke through his relaxed jaw.

  The three looked at each other with eyes that rolled back to the corpse.

  “There was a skull,” said Skinner slowly. “The black said so—and he said it screamed. Give me that brandy. A murrain on him!”

  They drank deeply but hurriedly and they left the cabin. As the ship tossed, the shadows were flung wildly by the gimballed lamp. They flickered on the still features of the dead man, and Raxon, turning as they went out of the cuddy, could have sworn that Swayne, from the far side of the grave, was laughing at them, silently and mockingly.

  * * * *

  Skinner was voted captain, taking up his quarters in the great stern cabin, wearing boots and velvets, gold lace and a hat with a red plume in it as visible signs of his advancement. There were few of the rough crew who considered the matter of navigation or doubted that Skinner could take them anywhere. He himself believed that he would have slight difficulty in reaching the coast of the Carolinas and entering on the sea islands. As to finding the island of the treasure, he convinced himself that that was equally easy.

  Gibbs, the negro who had been in the boat that took the chest ashore, was not dead. Another black had been mistaken for him in the confusion after the fight. Gibbs was wounded badly and was astounded at the care he received until the three considered him able to get out of his fo’c’sle bunk and come aft for a talk, filled with gratitude.

  He was not overly bright, which suited their purpose, since they planned—or rather Raxon planned, and was clever enough to let Skinner think he advanced much of the scheme—to keep the loot for themselves.

  To that end Skinner used his influence to get Raxon appointed quartermaster. Tremaine remained gunner with his semi-official rating and his extra share. All of the crew had entry right to the cabin, but it was necessary for the three plotters to meet often and these ranks made their conferences seem a part of the barkentine’s routine.

  To the crafty scrivener’s clerk his quarter-mastership seemed a rare joke. He was supposed to look after the interest of the crew he was determined upon keeping out of all knowledge and share of the rich booty. There was one weak spot. Some of them might remember the treasure, especially when the barkentine again entered the sea island estuaries.

  But Skinner had not thought of it, or Tremaine; it had been Raxon’s wits that took him to the cabin in time to try to get some clue from the dying skipper. For that, he knew that Tremaine and Skinner both respected him, though Skinner’s recognition was underlaid with a temper that Raxon handled carefully. Skinner wanted to be the master and Raxon wanted the precious metals, the gems and jewelry that had gone aboard in the chest. So he pandered to the new skipper, flattered him, moulded him like putty.

  The condition of the barkentine gave them excuse for putting in somewhere to refit, and to lay low until the cruisers left those waters. Rum was served freely and the men went to bed drunk and arose “half seas over,” swearing that the cruise was the right sort and Skinner a proper commander. Thus Raxon calculated to keep any of them from thinking.

  He suggested that, since the Gauntlet had entered the maze of sea islands by Saint Helena Sound, it would be a good plan for them to go in this time by Port Royal, lest some memory be jogged and, with it the question of the loot brought up. To this Skinner assented. The liquor he swigged kept his confidence in his own powers well cocked, though he remembered the general similarity of the islands, with occasional broad reaches, with rivers flowing into them at one end and tortuous passages amongst them. There was a rude chart aboard, and they could impress a native Indian pilot and work their way to the island of the skull.

  For there was a skull,
fastened high to a dead pine, and Gibbs told in the cabin one night how it was placed there.

  “Cap’en an’ Hoyle go asho’ first,” he said. “Tell us to bring erlong dat ches’. Mighty heavy dat ches’. We couldn’ tote it wiv our hands so we put rope about it an’ sling two pole. Den we hoist it to shoulder. We row boat in I’ll crick an’ bye-by we come to bayou. Big ’gator in dat bayou. Time we go out, gittin’ dahk, an’ dose bull ’gator dey beller like thundeh.

  “Big ridge on dat islan’. Pine on ridge. Liveoak an’ moss all erlong dat bayou. Magnolia tree. Cactus an’ spike-plant plenty. Plenty brush. Plenty deer erlong dat way. An’ snake. White-mouf wateh-snake. Ef he bite you, you finish. Wil’ pig erlong dat place. Rabbit an’ pa’tridge. Win’ blow low an’ sad throo dem tree. Hants erlong dat place.”

  Tremaine started to curse at the negro’s tediousness, but Raxon checked him with a look and passed more rum to Gibbs. He wanted to get all the negro knew.

  “Pow’ful hahd time totin’ dat trunk. Cap’en he lead to top of hill. Look oveh otheh islan, an’ den one mo’ island out to sea. Den we neahly fall oveh something in bresh. Golly! Dat bad voodoo conjuh fo’ dose t’ree men erlong wid me. Dead man in de bresh. Ant take all flesh, long time. Davis an’ Poole in front. Dey step in rib, mighty nigh trip dem. Payson back wid me. He stumble too. I see white bone. No touch me.

  “Cap’en look an’ laugh. He pick up dat skull. He hand to Hoyle. I tell him it mighty bad voodoo. I tell him every one touch dose bone die mighty soon. Why fo’ I know? Becuse my mudder conjuh-woman. I see li’l snake glide out erlong dat skull befo’ cap’en take it up. Dat spirit of dat man.

  “Cap’en tuhn oveh dat skull plenty time an’ say something to Hoyle erbout makin’ dat hant watch oveh dat chest. ‘Nail it to tree,’ he say. Den I know they gwine to die. I mighty scared niggeh myse’lf. But I not tech any dat bone. Mighty careful how I walk.”

  Tremaine was listening now with dropped jaw. The negro told his tale so well with intonation and gesture that they could see the thing happening under their eyes and Raxon alone was untouched with superstition. Gibbs’s skin had grayed with the renewed terror of the affair; his eyes projected from their sockets and rolled with flashing whites under the cuddy lamp.

  “Ev’ry one tech dose bones die, ’cept me,” he said solemnly. “An’ me—I come mighty close.”

  Even Raxon got a touch of something weird and looked toward the stern window, fancying a cold draught had crossed and slightly lifted the hair on his scalp. He shoved the goblet at Gibbs and told him to go on. The negro drained it and his skin regained its glossy plum-blackness.

  “We git top of dat ridge,” he said. “Mighty glad to set down dat ches! Cap’en he tell us where to dig. We bring mattock an’ pick erlong, stuck in ropes. Ax too. Cap’en he take axe an’ cut sapling—so long. Tell us to dig dat deep. Den he an’ Hoyle go off in woods fo’ li’l while.”

  “Did he take a shovel?” Tremaine leaned forward, shooting out the question eagerly, screwing up his eyes at the others.

  “No, suh. Dey take ax erlong. Take fowling piece. Dey ’low to shoot pa’tridge. Take skull. We dig, easy at first through sand. Den come rock. Mighty ha’d work, but we know cap’en he ’sist on dat hole bein’ deep erlong dat sapling he cut. We sweat; sun staht to go down. All of us in hole so deep no one can see out. Throw up rocks. Bimeby wateh come in fas’ but now de sapling reach to bottom an’ we climb out.

  “Den cap’en shoot, two time. Bimeby shoot two mo’. Bull ’gator beller back in bayou. Bird fly. Buzzut fly erlong. Dat voodoo bird. Den I heah something go tap-tap—loud, like woodpeckeh on holler tree. I look up an’ I see cap’en climb way up dead pine, nail white t’ing to tree. Sun low an’ shine red. Shine on dat t’ing. By golly, dat de skull!

  “Win’ staht to blow. ’Gator beller. Buzzut wheel. Cap’en he come down. Come back wid Hoyle. We ’speck he tell us go git ches’ an’ put in hole, an’ I mighty glad to git troo, git off dat islan’. But he only laugh an’ say, ’Nem’mine, boys. Job’s all oveh. We fix ches’.’ Golly, we dig fo’ not’ing at all.”

  The three exchanged glances.

  “How far away was the hole from where you put down the chest,” Raxon asked.

  “I dunno. Mebbe ten rod, mebbe twenty. Mighty hahd to jedge in all dat bresh.”

  “You think you can find the place?”

  Gibbs did not know, but his life hung on the answer. The same thought was in all their minds; it needed but a look between them to leap and kill the man and silence his tongue for ever, to toss him through the stern window into the wake—once they had pumped him dry.

  “I don’ want to go on dat place agen,” he said.

  “Could you find it?”

  “I reckon so.”

  They relaxed. Now they would swear him to secrecy, make him a steward, keep him aft, watch him day and night until they got him ashore—drunk, if needs be. They would sober him up at the point of pistol and dirk and force him to bring them to where they would see the skull—or, if the winds had blown it down, at least point out the tree.

  “Win’ blow hahd when we tuhn back,” Gibbs continued. “Howl an’ cry. An’ den I hear terrible scream. I look back. It come from dat skull!

  “Two buzzut circle low oveh dat tree. An’ I say, ’Laig, save de body,’ an’ I run, wid de cap’en laughin’ behin’ me. ’Gator beller, snake rustle troo de bresh, but I come to de boat. Bimeby dey all come. We go back to ship. What happen? Hoyle die. Cap’en die. Payson, Poole, Davis, all die. How come, suppose dat not voodoo?”

  “The voodoo’s worked out now, Gibbs,” said Raxon. “Have some more rum. Captain Skinner’s goin’ to make you steward. You’ll sleep in the cuddy. You’ll have it soft, Gibbs, with good things to eat an’ drink. But, understand, don’t you tell that yarn any more. No sense in getting the crew scared. You keep your tongue quiet an’ we’ll see you get paid for it.”

  Gibbs showed his ivory teeth in a broad grin.

  “Cap’en,” he said. “I’m mighty ’bliged. Yes, suh. An’ I keep quiet as a winteh terrapin. Me, I don’t like talk ’bout dat t’ing.”

  They sent him forward for his dunnage and Raxon talked fast.

  “The skull’s a guide of some sort. They took no mattock. They must have found some sort of cave to hide the chest. We’ll find it. We’ve got to find it!”

  He saw Skinner’s green eyes watching him covertly and he read them, though he affected not to, translating Skinner’s thoughts by his own.

  “He thinks what’s big for three will be bigger for one, he told himself. He’s right. I’ll make trouble between him and Tremaine. Let one kill the other. Kill each other, if I’ve luck.”

  “What made the skull scream?” asked Tremaine.

  “It didn’t. It was a bird—owl likely. The black was scared stiff.”

  “Swayne said it screamed. He expected it to scream.”

  “Maybe he thinks he’ll haunt it. It’ll take more than a talking skull to keep me from that loot. Eh, Skinner?”

  Skinner grunted and knocked the neck off a fresh bottle of brandy.

  * * * *

  The Gauntlet arrived off the low land of Port Royal Sound in the afternoon, doing little more than drifting over a sea that showed hardly a ripple, rising and falling in deep heaves of round swell, the wind, in cats’ paws, ruffling the surface and sending the brigantine ahead with little more than steerageway. Her bottom was fouled with long tropical cruising; only the most imperative repairs had been made since the fight. Her water supply was low and foul, and she was in sore need of refitting, careening and the sailmaker’s art.

  It was fact that none of the crew had drawn a sober breath for days, and this afternoon they were roaring, singing drunk, the intoxication doubled by the Carolina heat that made the pitch show in little beads along the deck planking.

  They were all agreeable to entrance into Broad River, where Skinner promised them carousal with plenty of fish and fruit and game while they repai
red ship. But Skinner’s low brow was creased with care, and Raxon’s weasel features looked pinched and anxious.

  The same corvette that they had fought had sighted them that morning and had chased them all that day. Luck had been with them in the favor of the variable winds or the corvette, always the faster and the cleaner-bottomed of the two, would surely have overhauled them, at least have got within range of her superior cannon and pounded them to surrender. Thrice they reopened distance that had been gained and sailed on with a slant of favoring breeze while the corvette hung with slack canvas, gripped by the Gulf Current that set them to the north and leeward of what wind did blow.

  To the men, drinking mock healths to the King’s ship, yelling bawdy songs, the Gauntlet had outsailed the other, showed a fair pair of heels. Now, with the corvette hull down, her canvas, hung wide and high for every puff of the fickle wind, gleaming like a fragment of pearl against the misty horizon, they considered the chase fairly over and jeered at the enemy.

  “They’ll see us in through their glass,” said Skinner moodily. “They’ll either follow us or they’ll cruise on and off outside between here and Saint Helena Sound like a cat before two mouse-holes, knowing we’ve got to come out of one or the other.”

  “Why?” asked Tremaine. “Couldn’t we make our way inland, once we’ve got the loot?”

  “Yemassee Injuns revolted three years back,” said Skinner. “They got beaten but they ain’t forgotten it. Then there’s the Cherokees. It’s all salt marsh for God knows how many miles back. Swamps on swamps. The ’skeeters ’ud kill us if the Injuns didn’t.”

  “Or the fevers,” put in Raxon. “Carolina ague’s worse than the rack. Look you, this ship’s consort is like to be at Charles’ Town. She may send word. Leave one outside while the other follows us in. Or one come one way, t’other another. ’Tis what I’d do. The odds are too strong to risk against such treasure, to my mind. But—” his gaze traveled craftily from Skinner to Tremaine and back again—“if those drunken fools are of a mind to fight, let’s give them their belly’s full. Fight they must, for that cruiser is rather bull-dog than cat, to my mind. They’ll never quit and, by that token, we must be about the last buccaneer of the old fleet. The game’s dead and now is the time to quit.