Captain Flint came out of the deckhouse, followed by Peter Duck, with a handful of scraps of bandage and bits of wood, which he threw over the side.
Susan came out with her First Aid box, which had been very useful, after all. “All right, Bill, I’ll tell them,” she was saying over her shoulder. And as soon as she was through the door she told them.
“Bill grinned all the time, except just one moment when they were getting the bones to fit.”
Titty felt sick and so did Nancy, but Roger changed the subject, and, for once, nobody minded.
“Captain Flint,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“When are you going to look at Mr Duck’s treasure?”
Captain Flint glanced round and looked up at the sky. The wind was steadier now, but not strong, not nearly enough for the Wild Cat’s storm canvas. Stars were showing in patches of clear, deep blue. That overhanging roof of black cloud had broken up at last.
“It looks better,” he said.
“Aye,” said Peter Duck. “Quick up. Quick down. We’ve had what was coming. We’ll maybe get fine weather in the morning.”
“Yes, but when are you going to look at the treasure?” Roger was not to be put off once he had made up his mind to ask.
“Well,” said Captain Flint, “as we’ve got it aboard, we may as well look at it. We can’t leave it in my bunk for ever. We may as well look at it now.”
“Uncle Jim,” cried Nancy indignantly. “Don’t talk as if you wished we hadn’t found it.”
“I’m taking the wheel,” said Mr Duck, and took it as he spoke.
Captain Flint went back into the deckhouse, and the others crowded after him.
*
Bill lay propped up on a pillow and a roll of coats in Peter Duck’s bunk, his left arm, a monstrous bundle of white bandages, resting in a sling across his chest. The others hung on where they could, and were thankful that the motion of the ship was so much easier than it had been. Under the light of the cabin lamp, on the chart-table, resting, indeed, in the middle of that big chart of the Atlantic on which the trail of red crosses had marked their progress on the outward voyage, was the small teak box that had brought them so far. Captain Flint had set his heart on finding it, and yet, during these last dreadful days, he had wished a thousand times that he had never come to look for it. Now he was going to know what it was that all those years ago Peter Duck, the little boy hiding from the crabs, had seen buried in the sandy earth at the foot of his bedroom tree.
“Of course, there may be nothing in it after all,” he said. “Nothing worth anything.”
“But there is,” said Nancy.
“Bags with labels,” said Roger.
“Bonies and Mallies,” said Titty.
Just as John had done on the beach, Captain Flint took the rusty padlock from the clasp. It was on the point of falling to bits, and, gently though he moved it, a trail of rusty brown powder fell from it on the chart. Susan was just going to blow the dust away when Captain Flint tried to flick it off with his hand, and smudged the broad Atlantic.
“Indiarubber’ll take it out,” said Susan.
A lurch of the little ship tilted the deckhouse, and half a dozen hands were put out to save the treasure-box from sliding across the Atlantic into Europe or even off the table. But it did not stir. Captain Flint’s hand had been the nearest, and rested firmly on the lid. He waited a moment in case another lurch was coming, and then opened it. There, untouched, just as they had been when first the diggers brought the box up from under the roots of the fallen tree, were the wallet and the four leather bags, each with its label.
“Whalebone, those labels,” said Captain Flint, and read, just as the children had read: “Mallies,” “Bonies,” “Roses,” “Niggers.”
“But what do they mean?” asked Nancy. “Why couldn’t those galoots write sense, whoever they were?”
Captain Flint picked up the little bag labelled “Mallies.” It was the best filled of the four. He felt it between his fingers.
“It might be dried peas,” he said, “but it might not.”
He unfastened the leather lace that closed the mouth of the bag. Inside the bag was a little parcel of soft leather.
“It isn’t peas,” said Roger.
“Not likely,” said Bill, from his place on Peter Duck’s bunk.
“Don’t try to sit up, Bill,” said Susan.
Captain Flint opened the little parcel, and from it poured into the palm of his open hand a stream of little white beads, or things like beads, only that they had no holes in them. They were not very white, and there was a sort of faint glow in them as they trickled out of the little leather packet into the pile in his hand. He knew at once what they were.
“Pearls,” he said, “and a pretty poor lot. ‘Mallies,’” he said to himself thoughtfully. “Let’s see if the ‘Bonies’ are better. There’s no fortune for anybody in that lot.”
“They’re very pretty,” said Peggy.
But Captain Flint had poured the little dull pearls back into their parcel, and put it in its bag, and propped the bag in a corner of the box. He now opened the bag that was labelled “Bonies.” There was not so large a packet in this bag, but the moment its contents rolled out into his hand everybody knew they were something altogether better. Clear, glimmering things, as big as peas some of them, and not dried peas at that.
“Of course, it’s easy to guess what he meant with his ‘Mallies’ and ‘Bonies,’” said Captain Flint. “The chap that wrote those labels had had the things from a Portuguese pearl-fisher. Or a Brazilian, perhaps. One of these South Americans with a lot of Latin at the back of their own lingo. Mallies … yes. Malus. Bad. And a rotten lot they are. Bonus … Good. I remember that much. And sure enough the ‘Bonies’ are a lot worth looking at. I only wish there were more of them.”
“What about the ‘Niggers’?” asked Titty.
“‘Niggers.’ Negritoes. Niger … Black. If they had black pearls in there there’s no wonder they took some trouble over them. And the ‘Roses”ll be pink pearls, worth a tremendous chunk if they’ve got the real colour in them.”
With quick, eager fingers he undid the “Niggers.” There were very few of them. Not more than a score or so of the sooty little things. But three or four of them he seemed to think very good indeed. There were a good lot of the ‘Roses.’ There was just the faintest glimmer of pink about them, and Captain Flint said that maybe sixty years ago they had been fine pearls enough, but faded now beyond recovery.
In the leather wallet that was in the box with the little bags of pearls there was nothing except two old, stained, folded pieces of parchment. They almost fell to pieces as Captain Flint opened them out. He spread the first on the chart-table, close under the light of the lamp. In the top left-hand corner was a crown, and the emblem of the Board of Trade beneath it. Captain Flint began reading aloud:
“By the Lords of the Committee of Privy Council for Trade. Certificate of competency as First Mate. To Robert Charles Bowline. Whereas it has been reported to us that you have been found duly qualified to fulfil the duties of First Mate in the Merchant Service we grant you this certificate of competency. Given under the seal of the Board of Trade, this Thirteenth day of February 1859. By order of the Board, etc.”
Captain Flint went to the door of the deckhouse, and spoke to the man at the wheel. He had a good excuse.
“Mr Duck, what was the name of the captain of the Mary Cahoun who took you off Crab Island and piled his ship on Ushant?”
“Jonas Fielder,” came Mr Duck’s voice, prompt and sharp out of the darkness.
“And what did you say were the letters he had tattoed on his wrist?”
“R.C.B.”
“I thought so. Well, Mr Duck, we’ve something here well worth taking a look at.”
“We’re not likely to meet any shipping,” came the voice of Mr Duck from outside, quiet and businesslike, “but there’d be no harm in having all shipshape and rig
ging our sidelights, if you’d tell one of my watch to get them lit.”
“That’s one for me,” said Captain Flint, coming back into the deckhouse. “You, John, just light those lamps for him … No … I’ll do it myself.” And Captain Flint left the crew to look after the treasure while he lit the two big sidelights, and went out to set them in their places on the shrouds.
The others read through the certificates. The second parchment was like the first, but had a different name in it.
“But why did they leave the certificates with the pearls?” John was saying when Captain Flint came hurrying in again. He answered the question at once.
“That’s a bit more of Mr Duck’s yarn,” he said, “a bit we can’t be sure about. But I wouldn’t mind betting that Jonas Fielder was out of this life and in Davy Jones’s locker before Mr First Mate Robert Charles Bowline made so free with his name, took command of his ship, and sailed her across to wreck her on Ushant. I suppose he thought a time might come when he’d want his own name again. Well, they’re all dead now and a long time ago, and we shall never know if First Mate Bowline and his friend took the pearls from Captain Fielder or from someone else unlucky enough to come in their way. I wonder how many lives that boxful of beads has cost already.”
“And broken arms and teeth,” said Bill, grinning from the bunk where he lay propped up.
“You’ve certainly earned your share,” said Captain Flint.
“Are they worth an awful lot?” asked Roger.
“I don’t know about that,” said Captain Flint. “Anyhow, it’s the first time in all my life that I’ve ever gone anywhere to look for treasure and laid my hands on it to bring it home. And of course I’m jolly glad you found it. But even with that box lying safe in this deckhouse, I’ll tell you now there’ve been a dozen times in the last twelve hours that I was wishing I’d never heard of it. Bringing the lot of you right over here. You just don’t know what might have happened.”
“But we’d have wanted to come anyway,” said Titty.
“You ought to be jolly pleased now,” said Nancy. “Think of the chapter you can put in the next edition of Mixed Moss.”
“It’s much more of a treasure than just an old book,” said Roger, “and you were very pleased about that.”
“It’s what you’ve always wanted to do,” said Peggy, “and now you’ve done it.”
“And we had a grand voyage,” said John. “We’ll remember it all our lives.”
“And it isn’t over yet,” said Nancy.
“And nothing’s really gone wrong that can’t be mended,” said Susan. “Not even Bill’s arm. Of course, there’s his teeth. Were they second ones or first ones, Bill?”
“They ain’t wasted,” said Bill. “Not they.”
“Well,” said Captain Flint, “tomorrow we’ll have to begin regular watches again. And the sooner we get some sleep the better.”
“And supper,” said Roger.
“I’ll boil up some water right away,” said Peggy.
“Get along out, all of you,” said Captain Flint. “And I have a word or two to say to Mr Duck.”
But of all the crew of the Wild Cat, Peter Duck took least interest in the treasure. He would not leave the wheel to go into the deckhouse to have a look at the pearls. It was not until after supper, when most of the others were going to bed, and Captain Flint took the wheel for the first watch from eight o’clock till twelve, that Peter Duck just glanced through those old certificates, reading them word by word under the lamp on the chart-table.
“Yes,” he said, for Captain Flint had told him what he guessed. “Yes. I reckon there was no Jonas Fielder aboard the Mary Cahoun. I wonder what happened to him. Scuppered, likely as not, and his mate, too. There’s been a heap of trouble about these pearls.”
“Ain’t you going to look at ’em?” asked Bill.
“Pearls,” said the old man. “Pearls. Pearls’ll keep till morning. What I wants now is sleep.”
CHAPTER XXXVI
“SPANISH LADIES”
Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies,
Adieu and farewell to you ladies of Spain,
For we’re under orders for to sail to old England
And we may never see you fair ladies again.
So we’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors,
We’ll range and we’ll roam over all the salt seas,
Until we strike soundings in the Channel of Old England:
From Ushant to Scilly ’tis thirty-five leagues.
The first land we made, it is callèd the Dodman,
Next Rame Head off Plymouth, Start, Portland and Wight:
And we sailèd by Beachy, by Fairlight and Dungeness,
Until we brought to by the South Foreland Light.
SEA CHANTY
WITH THE PASSING of the waterspout the strange, violent weather had come to an end. A breeze from the east smoothed out the aimless tossing of that disturbed sea, and ploughed it with the long, even furrows of a steady wind. There is little more to tell.
Peter Duck put right the damage that had been done by storm and enemy. Up at the mainmast head he rove a new peak halyard to replace the one that had been cut through by that lucky shot from the pursuing Viper. At dawn next day he was at work with needle and palm, patching and mending the sails that had suffered in the storm, and John, Susan, and Nancy gathered round to watch him, learning the stitches that are best for canvas, and how many there should be to the inch when putting a rope into the luff of a flying jib. There was more than one day’s work to be done before he began to be ready to think of other things. Day after day he sat stitching in the sunshine, and all day long he kept singing quietly to himself the old songs of the homeward bound.
“You sound almost as if you were in a hurry to be back,” said Captain Flint one morning, after hearing for the hundredth time that it was time for Johnny to leave her.
“It’s a poor seaman as don’t wish a good passage home,” said Peter Duck, looking up aloft, where once more topsails were helping her along, patched, grey, second-best topsails, unlike the clean, creamy canvas of the voyage out, but still topsails, drawing well, doing their full share, as the Wild Cat, with a bone in her teeth,1 swayed on her way in the sunshine.
A good passage they had, too: one of those passages that come once in a hundred, and make up for the other ninety-nine. They kept the trade wind well up into the Sargasso Sea, where they found a flat calm, and this time were able to get the engine to do some work, much to the delight of Roger, who had learnt by now that a bundle of cotton-waste to wipe the oil away is sometimes much more useful than an oil-can. Gibber, copying Roger in wiping and cleaning, did far less harm than once he had done by slopping oil all over the place. But in the end the trailing green weed, stretching like tracks of green foam across that smooth sea, wound itself round the propeller and clogged it. Captain Flint went overboard with a rope round his middle, while Peter Duck and the rest of the crew stood by ready to scare sharks and to haul the skipper out of harm’s way if necessary. He cleared the propeller, but it soon got clogged again, and this time, after clearing it, Captain Flint said they would keep it clear and use it no more until they needed it for coming into harbour. After all, he said, a few hours more or less would make no difference now. At this Peter Duck was very pleased, and nobody bothered with the little donkey again. Instead, they fished and collected some of the green sargasso weed, and found small crabs in it, just as Columbus had found them more than four hundred years before. And Peter Duck showed them the way the old-time sailors used to put some of the weed with a crab or two in a narrow-necked bottle, and cork it up with a well-greased cork, and seal it if they had any sealing-wax, and take it home for a curiosity to give their wives and sweethearts, or to swop for a drink or two in a longshore tavern where they liked to have such things hanging up to show that theirs was a proper port of call for sailormen.
And soon after that the wind came again, out of the south-east, st
irring the long lines of green grass across that oily sea, and the Wild Cat held on her way, heading north and a little east, but not too much, for Captain Flint was looking for the real westerly winds that he would find farther north, to give them a good passage. And then, one evening, between sunset and dawn, the southerly wind dropped, and there came a steady breeze out of the west and the Wild Cat squared away for home.
From the first they had been keeping regular watches, and the days slipped by fast and easy, as days do when everything goes by the clock. Long before they were half-way home across the Atlantic they were beginning almost to forget the wild turmoil of those last two days on the island, earthquake, and hurricane, and landslide, and the coming of the Viper, and the horrible hours when they knew that Captain Flint and the pirates were on the island together. Even the horror of that last day of all, when the Viper had crept up on them, and the pirates had brought down their mainsail, and they had thought that all was up, until the waterspout that they had feared themselves had suddenly made an end of their enemies, seemed now like a dream or something that had happened not to them but to somebody else.
One day, when the whole lot of them were on deck together, all sitting about in the sunshine while Peter Duck was steering, and Captain Flint was reading aloud to them out of one of the volumes of Hakluyt that made part of the little library in the deckhouse bookshelf, he came upon a passage about another homeward voyage in a little ship. It is printed in the report of Master Thomas Masham, who sailed with Sir Walter Raleigh to Guiana, in a pinnace called The Watte, in the year 1596. Here is what Captain Flint read:
“Between the Isle of Barbadoes in the West Indies and England we had three mighty stormes, many calmes and some contrary windes. And upon the foureteenth day of June, 1597, there being divers whales playing about our pinnesse, one of them crossed our stemme, and going under, rubbed her backe against our keele …”
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