by Andre Norton
"These boxes were used in the seventeenth century for writing-desks and later to keep the large family Bibles in. But this is the first one I've ever seen outside of a museum. What's this on the lid?" She traced a worn outline. Val studied the design.
"Why, it's Joe! You know, that grinning skull we have stuck up all over the place to bolster up our superiority complex. That proves that this is ours, all right."
"Perhaps—" Ricky's eyes were round with excitement, "perhaps it belonged to Pirate Dick himself!"
"Perhaps it did," her younger brother agreed.
"Lift the lid." She was almost hopping on one foot in her impatience. "Let's see what's inside."
"No gold or jewels, I'll wager. How do you get the thing undone?"
"Here, let me try." Rupert took it from Val's hands and put it down on one of the chests, squatting on the floor before it. With the smallest blade of his penknife he delicately probed the fastening sunken in the wood.
"I could do a faster job," he remarked, "if you didn't all breathe down the back of my neck." They retreated two inches or so and waited impatiently. With a satisfied grunt he dropped his knife and pulled the lid up.
"Why, there's nothing in it!" Ricky's cry of disappointment was almost a wail.
"Nothing but that old torn lining." Val was as disgusted as she.
Rupert closed it again. "I'll rub this up some and put in another lining. This is too good a piece to hide away up here," and he put it carefully aside at the end of the hall.
Their investigations yielded nothing more except great quantities of dust, a mummified rat which even Satan refused to sniff at, and a large collection of spider webs. Having swept out the room, they went to wash their hands before unpacking the well-wrapped boxes.
When their swathing canvas and sacking was thrown aside, the boxes stood revealed as stout chests banded with iron. Charity paused before one. "This is a marriage chest, late seventeenth century, I would judge. Look there, under that carved leaf—isn't that a date?"
"Sixteen hundred ninety-three," Rupert deciphered. "That crest above it looks familiar. I know, it belonged to that French lady who married our pirate ancestor."
"The first Lady Richanda!" Ricky touched the chest lovingly. "Then this is mine, Rupert. Can't it be mine?" she coaxed.
"Of course. But it's locked, and as we don't have any keys which would fit the lock, you'll have to wait until we can get a locksmith out to work on it before you will know what's inside."
"I don't care. No," she corrected herself, "that's wrong; I do care. But anyway its mine!" She caressed the stiff carving with her fingers.
"What's this one?" Val turned to the second box. It, too, was fashioned of wood, but it was plain where the other was carved, and the iron bands across it were pitted with rust.
"A sea chest, I would say." Rupert touched the top gingerly. "By the feel, it's locked too. And I don't care to play around with it. The men who made things like these were too fond of having little poisoned fangs run into your hand when you tried to force the chest without knowing the trick. We'll have to leave this for an expert, too."
"What about the third?"
Charity laughed. "After your two treasures I'm afraid that this will be a disappointment." She indicated a small humpbacked trunk covered with moth-eaten horsehair. "No romance here. But the key is tied to the clasp beside the lock."
"Then open it before I expire of pure unsatisfied curiosity," Ricky begged. "Go on, Rupert. Hurry."
"Oh," she said a moment later, "it's full of nothing but a lot of books."
"What did you expect," Val asked her, "a skeleton? Do you know, I think that Rick's ghost, or whatever influence presides over this house, has a sense of humor. You find a room, or a trunk, or something which makes you feel that you are on the verge of getting what you want, and then it all fades into just nothing again. Now, by rights, that writing-desk should have contained the secret message which would have told us where to find a hidden passage or something. But what is in it? A couple of pieces of lining almost completely torn from the bottom. I'll wager that when you open those chests you'll find nothing but a brick or 'April Fool' scrawled across the inside. This isn't true to any fiction I ever read," he ended plaintively.
"Good Heavens!" Charity was staring down at what lay within a portfolio she had opened.
"Don't tell me you have really found something!" Val exclaimed.
"It can't be true!" She still stared at what she held.
Ricky looked over her shoulder. "Why, it's nothing but a picture of a bird," she observed.
"It's a genuine Audubon," Charity corrected her.
"What!" With little regard for manners, Rupert snatched the portfolio from her hands. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. But you must take it in to the museum and get an expert opinion. It's wonderful!"
"Here's another." Reverently Rupert raised the first sketch and then the second. "Three, four, five, six," he counted.
"Was Audubon ever here?" Charity looked about the hall, a sort of awe coloring her voice.
"He might easily have been when he lived in New Orleans. Though we have no record of it," answered Rupert. "But these," he closed the portfolio carefully and knotted its strings, "speak for themselves. I'll take them to LeFleur tomorrow. We can't allow them to lie about here."
"I should hope not!" Charity eyed the portfolio wistfully. "Imagine actually owning six of those—"
"They won't pay our bills," said Ricky, practical for once in her life. Treasure to Ricky was not half a dozen sketches on yellowed paper but good old-fashioned gold with a few jewels thrown in for her own private satisfaction. The portfolio and its contents left her unmoved. Val admitted to himself that he, too, was disappointed. After all—well, treasure should be treasure.
Rupert carried the portfolio into his bedroom and locked it in one of his mysterious brief-cases which had somehow found its way upstairs.
The two chests they moved out farther into the hall and the trunk was placed back against the wall, ready for further investigation.
"Mistuh Ralestone, suh," Letty-Lou, standing half-way up the back stairs, addressed Rupert, "lunch am on de table. Effen yo'all doan come now, de eatments will be spiled."
"All right," he answered.
"Letty-Lou," called Ricky, "put on another plate. Miss Charity is staying to lunch."
"Dat's all ri', Miss 'Chanda. I'se done done dat. Yo'all comin' now?"
"You see how we are bullied," Ricky appealed to Charity. "Of course you're going to stay," she swept aside the other's protests. "What's food for, if not to feed your friends? Val, go wash up; your hands are frightful. I don't care if you did wash once; go and—"
"This is her little-mother-of-the-family mood," her younger brother explained to Charity. "It wears off after a while if you just don't notice it. But I will wash though," he looked at his hands, "I seem to need it."
"And don't use the guest towels," Ricky called after him. "You know that they're only to look at."
When Val emerged from the bathroom he found the hall deserted. Sounds from below suggested that his family had basely left him for food. He started along the passage. Not far from the stairs was the writing-desk where Rupert had left it. Val picked it up, thinking that he might as well take it along down with him.
CHAPTER VII
BY OUR LUCK!
Depositing the desk on the seat of one of the hall chairs, Val started toward the dining-room, a grim hole which Lucy had calmly forced the family to use but which they all cordially disliked. Its paneled walls, crystal-hung chandelier, marble-fronted fireplace, and inlaid floor gave it the appearance of one of the less cozy rooms in a small palace. There were also two tasteful portraits of dead ducks which had been added as a finishing touch by some tenant during the eighties and which still remained upon the walls to Ricky's unholy joy.
But the long table, the high-backed chairs, the side serving-table, and the two tall cabinets of china were fine enough pieces if one
cared for the massive. Ricky's table-cloth of violent-hued peasant linen was not in keeping with the china and glassware Letty-Lou had set out upon it. Charity was commenting upon this ensemble as Val entered.
"Doesn't this red and green plaid seem a bit—well, bright?" The corners of her mouth twitched betrayingly.
"No," Ricky returned firmly. "This cloth matches the ducks."
"Oh, yes, the ducks," Charity eyed them. "So you consider that the ducks are the note you wish to emphasize?"
"Certainly." Ricky surveyed the picture hanging opposite her. "I consider them unique. Not everyone can have ducks in the dining-room nowadays."
"For which they should be eternally thankful," observed Rupert. "They are rather gaudy, aren't they?"
"Oh, but I like the expression in this one's glassy eye," Ricky pointed out. "You might call this study 'Gone But Not Forgotten.'"
"Corn-bread, please," Val asked, thus attempting to put an end to the art-appreciation class.
"I think," continued Ricky, undisturbed as she passed him the plate heaped with golden squares, "that they are slightly surrealist. They distinctly resemble the sort of things one is often pursued by in one's brighter nightmares."
"Do you have any really good pictures?" asked Charity, resolutely averting her gaze from the ducks.
"Three, but they've been loaned to the museum," answered Rupert. "Not by well-known painters, but they're historically interesting. There's one of the first Lady Richanda, and one of the missing Rick. That's the best of the lot, according to LeFleur. I saw a photograph of it once. Come to think about it, Val looks a lot like the boy in the picture. He might have sat for it."
They all turned to eye Val. He arose and bowed. "I find these compliments too overwhelming," he murmured.
Rupert grinned. "And how do you know that that remark was intended as a compliment?"
"Naturally I assumed so," his brother retorted with a dignity which disappeared as the piece of corn-bread in his hand broke in two, the larger and more liberally buttered portion falling butter side down on the table. Ricky smiled in a pained sort of way as she attempted to judge from her side of the table just how much damage Val's awkwardness had done.
"If you were the graceful hostess," he informed her severely, "you would now throw your piece in the middle to show that anyone could suffer a like mishap."
Ricky changed the subject hurriedly by passing beans to Charity.
"So Val looks like the ghost," Charity said a moment later. "Now I will have to go to town and see that portrait. Just where is it?"
Rupert shook his head. "I don't know. But it's listed in the catalogue as 'Portrait of Roderick Ralestone, Aged Eighteen.'"
"Just Val's age, then." Ricky spooned some watermelon pickles onto her plate. "But he was older than that when he left here."
"Let's see. He was born in February, 1788, which would make him fourteen when his parents died in 1802. Then he disappeared in 1814, twelve years later. Just twenty-six when he went," computed Rupert.
"A year younger than you are now," observed Ricky.
"And nine years older than yourself at this present date," Val added pleasantly. "Why this sudden interest in mathematics?"
"Oh, I don't know. Only somehow I always thought Rick was younger when he went away. I've always felt sorry for him. Wonder what happened to him afterwards?"
"According to our rival," Rupert pulled his coffee-cup before him as Letty-Lou took away their plates, "he just went quietly away, married, lived soberly, and brought up a son, who in turn fathered a son, and so on to the present day. A tame enough ending for our wild privateersman."
"I'll bet it isn't true. Rick wouldn't end like that. He probably went off down south and got mixed up in some of the revolutions they were having at the time," suggested Ricky. "He couldn't just settle down and die in bed. I could imagine him scuttling a ship but not being a quiet business man."
"He was one of Lafitte's men, wasn't he?" asked Charity. At their answering nods, she went on: "Lafitte was a business man, you know. Oh, I don't mean that forge he ran in town, but his establishment at Grande Terre. He was more smuggler than pirate, that's why he lasted so long. Even the most respected tradesmen had dealings with him. Why, he used to post notices right in town when he held auctions at Barataria, listing what he had to sell, mostly smuggled Negroes and a few cargoes of luxuries from Europe. He was a privateer under the rules of war, but he was never a real pirate. At least, that's the belief held nowadays."
"We can't turn up our noses at pirates," laughed Ricky. "This house was built by pirate gold. We only wish—"
From the hall came a dull thump. Ricky's napkin dropped from her hand into her coffee-cup. Rupert laid down his spoon deliberately enough, but there was a certain tension in his movements. Val felt a sudden chill. For Letty-Lou was in the kitchen, the family were in the dining-room. There should be no one in the hall.
Rupert pushed back his chair. But Val was already half-way to the door when his brother joined him. And Ricky, suddenly sober, was at their heels.
Zzzzzrupp! The slitting sound was clear as they burst into the hall. On the fur rug by the couch lay the writing-desk. Its lid was thrown back and by it crouched Satan industriously ripping the remnants of lining from its interior. As Rupert came up, the cat drew back, his ears flattened and his lips a-snarl.
"Cinders! What has he done?" demanded Charity, swooping down upon her pet. At her coming, he fled under the couch out of reach.
Rupert picked up the desk. "Nothing much," he laughed. "Just torn all that lining loose, as I had planned to do."
"What is this?" Ricky disentangled a small slip of white from the torn and musty velvet. "Why, it's a piece of paper," she answered her own question. "It must have been under the lining and Satan pulled it out with the cloth."
"Here," Rupert took it from her, "let me see it."
He scanned the faded lines of writing. "Val! Ricky!" He looked up, his face flushed with excitement. "Listen!"
"Gatty has returned from the city. The raiders calling themselves the 'Buck Boys' are headed this way. Gatty tells me that Alexander is with them, having deserted the plantation a week ago. Since his malice towards us is well known, it is easy to believe that he means us open harm. I am making my preparations accordingly. The valuables now under this roof, together with the proceeds from the last voyage of the blockade runner, Red Bird, I am putting in that safe place discovered by me in childhood, of which I have sometimes spoken. Remember the hint I once gave you—By Our Luck. Having written this in haste, I shall intrust it to Gatty—"
"That's the end; the rest is gone." Rupert stared down at the scrap of paper in his hand as if he simply could not believe in its reality.
"Richard wrote that." Ricky touched the note in awe. "But why didn't Gatty give it to Miles when he came?"
"Gatty was probably a slave who ran when the raiders appeared," suggested Rupert. "He or she must have hidden this in here before leaving. We'll never know."
"But we've got our clue!" cried Ricky. "We knew that the hiding-place was in this hall, and now we have the clue."
"'By our Luck.'" Rupert looked about him thoughtfully. "That's not the most helpful—"
"Rupert!" Ricky seized him by the arm. "There's only one thing in this room that will answer that. Can't you see? The niche of the Luck!"
Their gaze followed her pointing finger to the mantel above their heads.
"I believe she's right! Wait until I get the step-ladder from the kitchen." Rupert was gone almost before he had finished speaking.
"Oh, if it's only true!" Ricky stared up like one hypnotized. "Then we'll be rich and—"
"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched," Val reminded her, but he didn't think that she heard him.
Then Rupert was back with the ladder. He climbed up, leaving the three of them clustered about its foot.
"Nothing here but two stone studs to hold the Luck in place," he said a moment later.
"Why
not try pressing those?" suggested Charity.
"All right, here goes." He placed his thumbs in the corners of the niche and threw his weight upon them.
"Nothing happened." Ricky's voice was deep with disappointment.
"Look!" Val pointed over her shoulder.
To the left of the fireplace were five panels of oak, to balance those on the other side about the door of the unused drawing-room. The center one of these now gaped open, showing a dark cavity.
"It worked!" Ricky was already heading for the opening.
There behind the paneling was a shallow closet which ran the full length of the five panels. It was filled with a collection of bags and small chests, a collection which appeared much larger when it lay in the gloom within than when they dragged it out. Then, when they had time to examine it carefully, they discovered that their booty consisted of two small wooden boxes or chests, one fancifully carved and evidently intended for jewels, the other plain but locked; a felt bag and another of canvas, and a package hurriedly done up in cloth. Rupert spread it all out on the floor.
"Well," he hesitated, "where shall we begin?"
"Charity thought about how to open it, and it was her cat that found us the clue—let her choose," Val suggested.
"Good," agreed Rupert. "And what's your choice, m'lady?"
"What woman could resist this?" She laid her hand upon the jewel box.
"Then that it is." He reached for it.
It opened readily enough to show a shallow tray divided into compartments, all of them empty.
"Sold again," Val commented dryly.
Carefully Rupert lifted out the top tray to disclose another on which rested three small leather bags. He loosened the draw-string of the nearest and shook out into his palm a pair of earrings of a quaint pattern in twisted gold set with dull red stones. Charity pronounced them garnets. Though they were not of great value, they were precious in Ricky's eyes, and even Charity exclaimed over them.
The second bag yielded a carnelian seal on a wide chain of gold mesh, the sort of ornament a dandy wore dangling from his watch pocket in the days of the Regency. And the third bag contained a cross of silver, blackened by time, set with amethysts. This was accompanied by a chain of the same dull metal.