by W E Johns
For seven days the tempest raged, and in that time nine men were killed. The rest were so exhausted that they could hardly stand, much less keep the ship clear of water.
On the fifth day a deputation, headed by the quartermaster, had staggered to the captain, imploring him to throw all the gold overboard that their lives might be spared. Dakeyne refused peremptorily to jettison what had cost so much blood and toil to get. The men grumbled, the quartermaster louder than the rest, and Dakeyne, seeing in him as the only other navigator a likely rival, had pistolled him on the spot.
On the eighth day the wind died away, and the galleon lay becalmed on a sea that was as flat as a sheet of glass. She was short of water and short of provisions. What little water she had left was foul, and the food, badly cured boucan* was rotten and full of maggots, due to the damp heat The muttering grew ominous.
By nightfall the crew had split into two parties, those who wished to jettison the treasure and those who sided with the captain. The latter were in the minority. Fighting broke out more than once, and several men were killed. Their bodies, after the custom of the pirates, were flung overboard. And all the time the ship lay like a log on the glassy sea while sharks gathered round to enjoy a grisly feast.
When the calm had lasted for six days Dakeyne lived up to the reputation that had earned for him his sinister nickname of Exterminator. While the larger party were together in the fo’castle, plotting, no doubt, Dakeyne and his adherents crept upon them with loaded muskets and delivered such a volley that half of them fell dead or dying. The rest were easily dispatched. More bodies were flung overboard, and the number of sharks increased. Eleven men only remained alive, not counting the captain. Having no water, they drank rum, and, rolling drunk, consoled themselves by roaring Morgan’s famous slogan, coined after the dreadful sacking of Porto Bello:
If there be few amongst us
Our hearts are very great;
And each will have more plunder,
And each will have more plate.
Their hearts were not very great on the morrow. Louis the Exterminator whistled for a wind. He whistled in vain.
A blood-red sun was sinking into a blood-red sea the following evening when the pirate captain, a scarlet bandanna tied about his head, called to one of the men who were lounging listlessly aft to bring him a drink of rum. His throat, he declared, was parched – as well it might be after the quantity of liquor he had already drunk that day. The man fetched the rum bottle and passed it to the captain. But he did not watch him drink it. His eyes were on the back of the captain’s hand as it rested on the rail, and had Dakeyne been sober he might have remarked the seaman’s expression. But he did not. It is doubtful even if he had noticed what the sailor had seen – a round patch of what looked like white dust on the back of his hand.
The sailor, a Frenchman who had sailed with L’Ollonois, returned swiftly to the others. With ashen face and staring eyes he told them what he had seen. ‘It is the plague,’ he muttered hoarsely.
Lorton, a one-armed gunner who had sailed many seas, sprang to his feet, an oath on his lips, hand groping for his knife; but the Frenchman restrained him, casting furtive glances over his shoulder in case the captain should be watching.
That night, while Dakeyne was heavy in drunken sleep, the remnant of the crew launched the one boat that had escaped damage by the storm, and stole away across a moonlit sea, not knowing that the sun had warped the planks and opened up the seams. For three days of purgatory they kept the boat afloat by constant bailing before they were picked up by a Spanish ship, whose commander, being a humane man, hanged them out of hand instead of subjecting them to the usual tortures.
Dakeyne awoke to find himself alone and all the rum gone. All that day he moped about; but during the night came another storm, as furious as the last For a time he tried to work the ship alone, but at length his strength gave out and he staggered to his cabin to rest.
When he awoke he was surprised to find that the rolling had ceased, and going up on deck, saw that a remarkable thing had happened, so remarkable that he could scarcely believe his good fortune. The ship was aground on an island the size of which he could not judge; more than that, she was high and dry where the tide had left her. What was still more surprising, she appeared to be in a land-locked harbour, an inlet so small that at first he could not understand how she had got there. Presently, exploring, the apparent miracle was explained.
The galleon had drifted into a narrow channel between grey rocks about the same height as herself, which opened out at the inner end into a sort of miniature lagoon. He could not see the sea, but he could hear it, a short distance away. The rocks on either side were so close that he could jump ashore, which presently he did, to make certain that no Indians were hidden in the jungle that crowded nearly to the water’s edge. From a comfortable seat on a rock he regarded the ship and her position with considerable satisfaction. Never were Morgan’s words more appropriate, he reflected, for now there was only one to share the treasure, and it was he. If the ship had come in it could be got out, he opined, not unreasonably. There was bound to be food and water on the island. He would fill the casks and lay in a store of provisions, and then sail the ship to a proper harbour. By thunder, so he would! He’d show them what one man could do. Dakeyne was no coward or he would not have been the captain of a pirate crew.
It would not take him long to work out his position, he thought, and he was about to put this plan into execution when he remembered something that caused a cold shiver to run down his spine. Bawn’s doubloon! The curse, the potency of which he could no longer ignore. It would be the act of a madman to set off on such a voyage as the one he proposed with that dreadful piece of gold on board. No matter. There was an easy way of getting over that difficulty. He would put the doubloons ashore, every jack one of ’em; hide ’em until such time as he could come back with a stout ship and a stout-hearted crew to retrieve them.
He set to work with commendable method and determination, but he had neither the time nor inclination to dig a hole; instead, he selected a depression in the rocks, a hole large enough to take perhaps two or three casks lying one on top of another, and into this he began to pour the coins. He did not like the idea of handling the gold, and he looked at the minted pieces suspiciously as he scooped them into the piece of canvas he was using as a carrier; but his heart grew lighter with each load he carried, hoping that the treacherous piece was already in the hole.
It took him a long time to transfer them all, for the gold was heavy and the sun was hot; but at last the job was done. Then, too wise to trust his memory, he sat down at the Spanish captain’s desk and began to make a note of the exact position of the hole in which the treasure lay, the note taking the form of a rough map to which bearings and measurements could afterwards be added.
While thus engaged it struck him suddenly that all was strangely quiet, unnaturally quiet; also, for no apparent reason, the temperature had dropped several degrees, causing the sweat on his face to turn cold and clammy. It sent a shiver running through him, leaving as an aftermath an apprehension of danger. But as we have already observed, Louis the Exterminator was no coward. His jaw set at an ugly angle as he primed and cocked his pistol; then, with a faint sneer curling the corners of his loose mouth, he crept quietly up the companion and looked around.
Not a soul was in sight. Not a movement could he see. Not a sound could he hear but the sullen murmur of the sea against the rocks outside the little inlet. Satisfied that all was well, he returned to the cabin, but before he could resume his task a sudden cry outside brought him round with a nervous start. Pistol in hand, he strode swiftly to one of the poop lights.
His face paled as a snow-white albatross sailed slowly past his field of vision. There seemed to be something familiar about it. Was it imagination or was it the same bird that had hovered round the ill-fated Rose of Bristol? He could not be sure, but a superstitious conscience tugged his heartstrings and the presentiment of
an unseen danger still persisted. For a moment or two he waited, pistol at the ready, hoping that the bird would come within range. Whether the ball struck it or not, he would derive some satisfaction from having alarmed it, he thought savagely. But no such opportunity presented itself. It was almost as if the great bird understood what was passing in his mind, for it banked slowly to and fro just out of range, turning its head all the while to watch him in a curiously human manner, from time to time uttering its mournful cry.
The Exterminator spat contemptuously, but he could not deceive himself. For the first time in his life he was afraid, afraid of he knew not what. He hurried back to the desk, propped the pistol against a heavy church candlestick that stood within easy reach, and picked up the quill to finish marking out his map. As he did so, something dropped heavily out of the gathered-in part of his silken doublet. Idly, he looked to see what it was. But as his eyes came to rest on the object he caught his breath sharply; the pupils of his eyes dilated and his face set in lines of unspeakable horror. The object was a gold doubloon.
For a few moments he continued to stare at it unbelievingly. Then, with an oath, he sprang to his feet. His eyes did not leave the coin. It seemed to fascinate him. He knew what it was. He did not know how he knew, but he knew. Knew that the one coin that had slipped out of the canvas carrier was the coin. The doubloon to which still clung the dying pirate’s curse. Somehow it had dropped into one of the many pleats of his doublet. To what purpose?
Had he been less enthralled by the crudely cut piece of gold he might have seen. He might have noticed that his trembling hand was resting on the desk, and the slight vibration was causing the muzzle of the pistol to slip. At first it moved very slowly, hesitatingly, but as it passed the point of balance it dropped sharply, with a thud. The weapon roared. A tongue of blood-red flame spurted from the gaping muzzle. For a fleeting instant it seemed to lick the pirate’s silken doublet Then it was gone. Silence fell. A sickly smell of scorching mingled with the acrid reek of powder-smoke.
For perhaps three seconds after his first convulsive spasm of agony the pirate did not move. Then, his staring eyes still fixed on the coin, his right hand crept down until it rested on the dreadful hole made by the pistol ball. Slowly, as if he feared what he might see, he looked down, and saw his life-blood pumping through his grimy fingers. At the sight, the horror on his ashen face gave way to hopeless resignation. He sank down in the chair and covered his face with his hands. No sound broke the silence except a sinister drip – drip – drip. A little crimson pool began to form at his feet.
Slowly, so slowly that the movement was hardly perceptible, his body began to sag forward until at length it lay asprawl the desk. A fly settled on the pallid, red-streaked face, but the pirate did not move. Others joined it. Still he did not move.
There was a flash of white as the albatross swept past the open port. Louis le Grande did not see it; nor did he hear the cry that seemed to swell to a note of triumph as it soared into the sun-drenched blue of heaven.
Inside the cabin settled the hush that comes with the presence of Death. A hush that was to remain unbroken for just two hundred and fifty years.
III. Time Marches On
The years rolled by, and with their passing, nature triumphed. Came sun and rain and wind and calm, but no man came to the island where Louis, once le Grande, kept lonely vigil with his fate.
Before a year was out the gruesome stains upon the galleon’s deck were hidden beneath a mantle of fallen leaves that died and rotted where they lay, and made a sure foundation for the ever-questing moss.
When James the Second ruled in England there came a storm that undermined the rocks which lay about the harbour’s narrow mouth, so that they fell, and falling, made a wall against the waves; and year by year the tireless sea cemented them with sand.
The years rolled on, each year contributing its little to the shrouding of the dying ship. While Queen Anne wore the crown came briers and vines to seek a foothold in the moss that blanketed the rotting timbers. In the reign of George the First the masts collapsed and struck a futile blow at the all-devouring jungle; but the briers and vines and weeds embraced them, and dragged them down to oblivion and decay.
The years rolled on. In the reign of George the Second a ship came watering at the island, and although the thirsty sailors came ashore they did not learn its secret. When George the Third was king came several ships, but a hundred years had passed and no sign remained to reveal what they could not suspect, and so they sailed away.
The years rolled on. When George the Fourth sat on the throne a shipwrecked mariner was cast away upon the island, and although he stayed there for a year, often in his lonely wanderings passing within a score of paces of the green-girt wreck, he did not find it. And so he went away in the next ship that called, and in due course died a pauper’s death, not knowing that once he had made a frugal meal within a yard of enough doubloons to pay a prince’s ransom.
The years rolled on. William the Fourth, Victoria, King Edward – the seventh of the name – King George the Fifth, the eighth King Edward, all ruled in turn, but still the island kept its secret.
And then one day, when George the Sixth upheld the British Empire, a man came running on the rocks, a sailor, judging by his clothes. And as he ran he gasped for breath, and looked behind as one who runs in fear. Reaching the rock on which Dakeyne once stood, he turned towards the briers and vines as if to seek a hiding place. A little dell of green moss beckoned, and bracing himself, he jumped. He landed fair and square, but stumbled as the rotting timbers which the moss concealed collapsed beneath his weight. A scream of mortal fear broke from his lips as he clutched at the air for support. But the effort was in vain, and he plunged headlong into the void.
Thus was the silence broken.
* Now Haiti.
* Spanish: ‘Dog! We’ll see about that.’
** ‘Woodling’ was a barbarous form of torture favoured by buccaneers to induce prisoners to divulge the hiding places of their valuables. (Naturally, in the sacking of a ship, or town, those who possessed gold or jewels hid them in the hope that they would not be found.) Woodling, the process employed to make them speak, consisted of tying a piece of cord round the prisoner’s brows, and then screwing it up with a piece of wood, like a tourniquet. WEJ
* ie hanged.
* French: sailors.
* Salted beef.
Chapter 1
An Ugly Customer
Through the fog-frosted glass of his attic window Dick Denver stared with unseeing eyes at the muddy water of the River Thames as it surged sullenly through the grey November murk towards the sea. Only fifteen years of life lay behind him; how many lay ahead he did not know, nor did he care, and the despondency of his mood was reflected in his thin, pale face.
In the years that were gone he had known at least a few happy hours, the all-too-brief spells when his sailor father had come home from the deep seas, but now there would be no more. A horror that had haunted him ever since he was old enough to know that ships were sometimes wrecked had come to pass. The Seadream had made her last voyage and his father would come home no more. There would be no more counting the days until his return; no more scanning the shipping columns of the papers he sold for a living, seeking the name of his father’s ship, and its position; no more watching for the Seadream’s blunt, rust-encrusted bows to come ploughing up the river; no more cheering at the wharf; no more long, after-supper talks about strange, foreign parts of the world. No more. Those days had gone, gone for good, and with them had gone the only thing that had made his life worth living – his father.
His mother he had never known. A hard-faced, bad-tempered woman had looked after him during his father’s long absences at sea until he was thirteen; then she, too, had died, and thereafter he had fended for himself, maintaining a tiny attic in Wapping, overlooking the river, which his father shared when he was home.
But the struggle for existence had been a hard one, an
d although his short fair hair was neatly brushed, and his clear blue eyes alert, his cheeks were pale and pinched from under-nourishment. His clothes were, as might be expected, threadbare, and did little either to protect his body, or improve his down-and-out appearance. Dick was, in fact, down – down in the depths of despondency; but he was far from out.
He had first read of the wreck of the Seadream in one of the papers he had been selling, and the memory of that dreadful moment still kept him awake at night. Then, weeks afterwards, had come the joyful news that his father had been one of the two or three survivors and was in hospital at Boston, in America. This had been followed by more weeks of silence and suspense that had only an hour before been ended by the arrival at his dingy room of an unknown sailor who had broken the terrible news that his father, exhausted by privations as a castaway after the wreck, had died. At least, that was the official story, but the sailor, whose name Dick had forgotten to ask, had told a different tale.
That it was true Dick had no reason to doubt, for the sailor had brought him a letter from his father, which now lay on the deal table in front of him. He had – so the sailor had said – handed it to him on his deathbed, charging him to give it to his son when he returned to London. These instructions the sailor had obeyed faithfully, as a service from one sailor to another, and thereafter departed, Dick knew not whither.
The circumstances of his father’s death were as painful as they were mysterious, for he had died, not in hospital as might have been supposed, but in a low dive on the waterfront. The sailor had told him how he also had spent the night in the dive while looking for a ship, but in the early hours of the morning he had been awakened by low moans coming from the next room. Upon investigation he had found a British sailor named Jack Denver, Dick’s father, bleeding to death from a knife thrust in the back; but before he had died he had handed him the letter, asking him as a favour to deliver it into the hands of his son, at Number I, Bride’s Alley, Wapping, on his return to the Port of London. The sailor, who had left Boston on the next tide, true to his word, had delivered the letter, which still lay unopened on the table.