Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  Just as they disappeared behind the hill there was a sudden faint flash of light; and by-and-by, as Tom lay still listening to the counting, he heard, after a long interval, a far-away muffled rumble of distant thunder. He waited for a while, and then arose and stepped to the top of the sand-hummock behind which he had been lying. He looked all about him, but there was no one else to be seen. Then he stepped down from the hummock and followed in the direction which the pirate captain and the two men carrying the chest had gone. He crept along cautiously, stopping now and then to make sure that he still heard the counting voice, and when it ceased he lay down upon the sand and waited until it began again.

  Presently, so following the pirates, he saw the three figures again in the distance, and, skirting around back of a hill of sand covered with coarse sedge-grass, he came to where he overlooked a little open level space gleaming white in the moonlight.

  The three had been crossing the level of sand, and were now not more than twenty-five paces from him. They had again set down the chest, upon which the white man with the long queue and the gold ear-rings had seated to rest himself, the negro standing close beside him. The moon shone as bright as day and full upon his face. It was looking directly at Tom Chist, every line as keen cut with white lights and black shadows as though it had been carved in ivory and jet. He sat perfectly motionless, and Tom drew back with a start, almost thinking he had been discovered. He lay silent, his heart beating heavily in his throat; but there was no alarm, and presently he heard the counting begin again, and when he looked once more he saw they were going away straight across the little open. A soft, sliding hillock of sand lay directly in front of them. They did not turn aside, but went straight over it, the leader helping himself up the sandy slope with his cane, still counting and still keeping his eyes fixed upon that which he held in his hand. Then they disappeared again behind the white crest on the other side.

  So Tom followed them cautiously until they had gone almost half a mile inland. When next he saw them clearly it was from a little sandy rise which looked down like the crest of a bowl upon the floor of sand below. Upon this smooth, white floor the moon beat with almost dazzling brightness.

  The white man who had helped to carry the chest was now kneeling, busied at some work, though what it was Tom at first could not see. He was whittling the point of a stick into a long wooden peg, and when, by-and-by, he had finished what he was about, he arose and stepped to where he who seemed to be the captain had stuck his cane upright into the ground as though to mark some particular spot. He drew the cane out of the sand, thrusting the stick down in its stead. Then he drove the long peg down with a wooden mallet which the negro handed to him. The sharp rapping of the mallet upon the top of the peg sounded loud in the perfect stillness, and Tom lay watching and wondering what it all meant.

  The man, with quick-repeated blows, drove the peg farther and farther down into the sand until it showed only two or three inches above the surface. As he finished his work there was another faint flash of light, and by-and-by another smothered rumble of thunder, and Tom as he looked out towards the westward, saw the silver rim of the round and sharply outlined thundercloud rising slowly up into the sky and pushing the other and broken drifting clouds before it.

  The two white men were now stooping over the peg, the negro man watching them. Then presently the man with the cane started straight away from the peg, carrying the end of a measuring-line with him, the other end of which the man with the plaited queue held against the top of the peg. When the pirate captain had reached the end of the measuring-line he marked a cross upon the sand, and then again they measured out another stretch of space.

  So they measured a distance five times over, and then, from where Tom lay, he could see the man with the queue drive another peg just at the foot of a sloping rise of sand that swept up beyond into a tall white dune marked sharp and clear against the night sky behind. As soon as the man with the plaited queue had driven the second peg into the ground they began measuring again, and so, still measuring, disappeared in another direction which took them in behind the sand-dune, where Tom no longer could see what they were doing.

  The negro still sat by the chest where the two had left him, and so bright was the moonlight that from where he lay Tom could see the glint of it twinkling in the whites of his eyeballs.

  Presently from behind the hill there came, for the third time, the sharp rapping sound of the mallet driving still another peg, and then after a while the two pirates emerged from behind the sloping whiteness into the space of moonlight again.

  They came direct to where the chest lay, and the white man and the black man lifting it once more, they walked away across the level of open sand, and so on behind the edge of the hill and out of Tom’s sight.

  III

  Tom Chist could no longer see what the pirates were doing, neither did he dare to cross over the open space of sand that now lay between them and him. He lay there speculating as to what they were about, and meantime the storm cloud was rising higher and higher above the horizon, with louder and louder mutterings of thunder following each dull flash from out the cloudy, cavernous depths. In the silence he could hear an occasional click as of some iron implement, and he opined that the pirates were burying the chest, though just where they were at work he could neither see nor tell. Still he lay there watching and listening, and by-and-by a puff of warm air blew across the sand, and a thumping tumble of louder thunder leaped from out the belly of the storm cloud, which every minute was coming nearer and nearer. Still Tom Chist lay watching.

  Suddenly, almost unexpectedly, the three figures reappeared from behind the sand-hill, the pirate captain leading the way, and the negro and white man following close behind him. They had gone about half-way across the white, sandy level between the hill and the hummock behind which Tom Chist lay, when the white man stopped and bent over as though to tie his shoe.

  This brought the negro a few steps in front of his companion.

  That which then followed happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so swiftly, that Tom Chist had hardly time to realize what it all meant before it was over. As the negro passed him the white man arose suddenly and silently erect, and Tom Chist saw the white moonlight glint upon the blade of a great dirk-knife which he now held in his hand. He took one, two silent, catlike steps behind the unsuspecting negro. Then there was a sweeping flash of the blade in the pallid light, and a blow, the thump of which Tom could distinctly hear even from where he lay stretched out upon the sand. There was an instant echoing yell from the black man, who ran stumbling forward, who stopped, who regained his footing, and then stood for an instant as though rooted to the spot.

  Tom had distinctly seen the knife enter his back, and even thought that he had seen the glint of the point as it came out from the breast.

  Meantime the pirate captain had stopped, and now stood with his hand resting upon his cane looking impassively on.

  Then the black man started to run. The white man stood for a while glaring after him; then he too started after his victim upon the run. The black man was not very far from Tom when he staggered and fell. He tried to rise, then fell forward again, and lay at length. At that instant the first edge of the cloud cut across the moon, and there was a sudden darkness; but in the silence Tom heard the sound of another blow and a groan, and then presently a voice calling to the pirate captain that it was all over.

  He saw the dim form of the captain crossing the level sand, and then, as the moon sailed out from behind the cloud, he saw the white man standing over a black figure that lay motionless upon the sand.

  Then Tom Chist scrambled up and ran away, plunging down into the hollow of sand that lay in the shadows below. Over the next rise he ran, and down again into the next black hollow, and so on over the sliding, shifting ground, panting and gasping. It seemed to him that he could hear footsteps following, and in the terror that possessed him he almost expected every instant to feel the cold knife-blade slide between
his own ribs in such a thrust from behind as he had seen given to the poor black man.

  So he ran on like one in a nightmare. His feet grew heavy like lead, he panted and gasped, his breath came hot and dry in his throat. But still he ran and ran until at last he found himself in front of old Matt Abrahamson’s cabin, gasping, panting, and sobbing for breath, his knees relaxed and his thighs trembling with weakness.

  As he opened the door and dashed into the darkened cabin (for both Matt and Molly were long ago asleep in bed) there was a flash of light, and even as he slammed to the door behind him there was an instant peal of thunder, heavy as though a great weight had been dropped upon the roof of the sky, so that the doors and windows of the cabin rattled.

  IV

  Then Tom Chist crept to bed, trembling, shuddering, bathed in sweat, his heart beating like a trip-hammer, and his brain dizzy from that long, terror-inspired race through the soft sand in which he had striven to outstrip he knew not what pursuing horror.

  For a long, long time he lay awake, trembling and chattering with nervous chills, and when he did fall asleep it was only to drop into monstrous dreams in which he once again saw ever enacted, with various grotesque variations, the tragic drama which his waking eyes had beheld the night before.

  Then came the dawning of the broad, wet daylight, and before the rising of the sun Tom was up and out-of-doors to find the young day dripping with the rain of overnight.

  His first act was to climb the nearest sandhill and to gaze out towards the offing where the pirate ship had been the day before.

  It was no longer there.

  Soon afterwards Matt Abrahamson came out of the cabin and he called to Tom to go get a bite to eat, for it was time for them to be away fishing.

  All that morning the recollection of the night before hung over Tom Chist like a great cloud of boding trouble. It filled the confined area of the little boat and spread over the entire wide spaces of sky and sea that surrounded them. Not for a moment was it lifted. Even when he was hauling in his wet and dripping line with a struggling fish at the end of it a recurrent memory of what he had seen would suddenly come upon him, and he would groan in spirit at the recollection. He looked at Matt Abrahamson’s leathery face, at his lantern jaws cavernously and stolidly chewing at a tobacco leaf, and it seemed monstrous to him that the old man should be so unconscious of the black cloud that wrapped them all about.

  When the boat reached the shore again he leaped scrambling to the beach, and as soon as his dinner was eaten he hurried away to find the Dominie Jones.

  He ran all the way from Abrahamson’s hut to the Parson’s house, hardly stopping once, and when he knocked at the door he was panting and sobbing for breath.

  The good man was sitting on the back-kitchen door-step smoking his long pipe of tobacco out into the sunlight, while his wife within was rattling about among the pans and dishes in preparation of their supper, of which a strong, porky smell already filled the air.

  Then Tom Chist told his story, panting, hurrying, tumbling one word over another in his haste, and Parson Jones listened, breaking every now and then into an ejaculation of wonder. The light in his pipe went out and the bowl turned cold.

  “And I don’t see why they should have killed the poor black man,” said Tom, as he finished his narrative.

  “Why, that is very easy enough to understand,” said the good reverend man. “’Twas a treasure-box they buried!”

  In his agitation Mr. Jones had risen from his seat and was now stumping up and down, puffing at his empty tobacco-pipe as though it were still alight.

  “A treasure-box!” cried out Tom.

  “Aye, a treasure-box! And that was why they killed the poor black man. He was the only one, d’ye see, besides they two who knew the place where ’twas hid, and now that they’ve killed him out of the way, there’s nobody but themselves knows. The villains — Tut, tut, look at that now!” In his excitement the dominie had snapped the stem of his tobacco-pipe in two.

  “Why, then,” said Tom, “if that is so, ’tis indeed a wicked, bloody treasure, and fit to bring a curse upon anybody who finds it!”

  “’Tis more like to bring a curse upon the soul who buried it,” said Parson Jones, “and it may be a blessing to him who finds it. But tell me, Tom, do you think you could find the place again where ’twas hid?”

  “I can’t tell that,” said Tom, “’twas all in among the sand-humps, d’ye see, and it was at night into the bargain. Maybe we could find the marks of their feet in the sand,” he added.

  “’Tis not likely,” said the reverend gentleman, “for the storm last night would have washed all that away.”

  “I could find the place,” said Tom, “where the boat was drawn up on the beach.”

  “Why, then, that’s something to start from, Tom,” said his friend. “If we can find that, then maybe we can find whither they went from there.”

  “If I was certain it was a treasure-box,” cried out Tom Chist, “I would rake over every foot of sand betwixt here and Henlopen to find it.”

  “’Twould be like hunting for a pin in a haystack,” said the Rev. Hilary Jones.

  As Tom walked away home, it seemed as though a ton’s weight of gloom had been rolled away from his soul. The next day he and Parson Jones were to go treasure-hunting together; it seemed to Tom as though he could hardly wait for the time to come.

  V

  The next afternoon Parson Jones and Tom Chist started off together upon the expedition that made Tom’s fortune forever. Tom carried a spade over his shoulder and the reverend gentleman walked along beside him with his cane.

  As they jogged along up the beach they talked together about the only thing they could talk about — the treasure-box. “And how big did you say ’twas?” quoth the good gentleman.

  “About so long,” said Tom Chist, measuring off upon the spade, “and about so wide, and this deep.”

  “And what if it should be full of money, Tom?” said the reverend gentleman, swinging his cane around and around in wide circles in the excitement of the thought, as he strode along briskly. “Suppose it should be full of money, what then?”

  “By Moses!” said Tom Chist, hurrying to keep up with his friend, “I’d buy a ship for myself, I would, and I’d trade to Injy and to Chiny to my own boot, I would. Suppose the chist was all full of money, sir, and suppose we should find it; would there be enough in it, d’ye suppose, to buy a ship?”

  “To be sure there would be enough, Tom; enough and to spare, and a good big lump over.”

  “And if I find it ’tis mine to keep, is it, and no mistake?”

  “Why, to be sure it would be yours!” cried out the Parson, in a loud voice. “To be sure it would be yours!” He knew nothing of the law, but the doubt of the question began at once to ferment in his brain, and he strode along in silence for a while. “Whose else would it be but yours if you find it?” he burst out. “Can you tell me that?”

  “If ever I have a ship of my own,” said Tom Chist, “and if ever I sail to Injy in her, I’ll fetch ye back the best chist of tea, sir, that ever was fetched from Cochin Chiny.”

  Parson Jones burst out laughing. “Thankee, Tom,” he said; “and I’ll thankee again when I get my chist of tea. But tell me, Tom, didst thou ever hear of the farmer girl who counted her chickens before they were hatched?”

  It was thus they talked as they hurried along up the beach together, and so came to a place at last where Tom stopped short and stood looking about him. “’Twas just here,” he said, “I saw the boat last night. I know ’twas here, for I mind me of that bit of wreck yonder, and that there was a tall stake drove in the sand just where yon stake stands.”

  Parson Jones put on his barnacles and went over to the stake towards which Tom pointed. As soon as he had looked at it carefully, he called out: “Why, Tom, this hath been just drove down into the sand. ’Tis a brand-new stake of wood, and the pirates must have set it here themselves as a mark, just as they drove the pe
gs you spoke about down into the sand.”

  Tom came over and looked at the stake. It was a stout piece of oak nearly two inches thick; it had been shaped with some care, and the top of it had been painted red. He shook the stake and tried to move it, but it had been driven or planted so deeply into the sand that he could not stir it. “Aye, sir,” he said, “it must have been set here for a mark, for I’m sure ’twas not here yesterday or the day before.” He stood looking about him to see if there were other signs of the pirates’ presence. At some little distance there was the corner of something white sticking up out of the sand. He could see that it was a scrap of paper, and he pointed to it, calling out: “Yonder is a piece of paper, sir. I wonder if they left that behind them?”

  It was a miraculous chance that placed that paper there. There was only an inch of it showing, and if it had not been for Tom’s sharp eyes, it would certainly have been overlooked and passed by. The next wind-storm would have covered it up, and all that afterwards happened never would have occurred. “Look sir,” he said, as he struck the sand from it, “it hath writing on it.”

  “Let me see it,” said Parson Jones. He adjusted the spectacles a little more firmly astride of his nose as he took the paper in his hand and began conning it. “What’s all this?” he said; “a whole lot of figures and nothing else.” And then he read aloud, “‘Mark — S.S.W. by S.’ What d’ye suppose that means, Tom?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said Tom. “But maybe we can understand it better if you read on.”

  “Tis all a great lot of figures,” said Parson Jones, “without a grain of meaning in them so far as I can see, unless they be sailing directions.” And then he began reading again: “‘Mark — S.S.W. by S. 40, 72, 91, 130, 151, 177, 202, 232, 256, 271’ — d’ye see, it must be sailing directions—’299, 335, 362, 386, 415, 446, 469, 491, 522, 544, 571, 598’ — what a lot of them there be—’626, 652, 676, 695, 724, 851, 876, 905, 940, 967. Peg. S.E. by E. 269 foot. Peg. S.S.W. by S. 427 foot. Peg. Dig to the west of this six foot.’”