by W E Johns
The place seems like at some time or other it had been a narrow channel, running up from the sea about a hundred yards from the shore. How the ship got in I can’t make out, because there certainly ain’t no way out. And when you’re out you can’t see the ship because she’s all overgrown with weeds and things. But there she is, as large as life, with rocks on each side of her. Anyway, I thinks to myself, Deutch shan’t know anything about this, I’ll share it with Charlie, so I covers up the hole I’d fallen in with some bits of palm so that it couldn’t be seen by no one outside, which I reckoned was pretty smart. And then, thinking that Deutch might have quieted down by now, back I goes to the place where we lived, under a piece of overhanging rock by a little lagoon.
Deutch was sitting there as quiet as a lamb, but he gives me a dirty look when I comes up and says I’d better see about the water in future, which I promises to do. And just as I was going to sit down, would you believe it, the golden medal I’d picked up in the ship slips through a hole in my pocket what I’d forgot, and there it lays on the sand as plain as daylight for Deutch to see. ‘Where the blazes did you get that?’ he cries out, with his eyes fairly popping out of his head, in a manner of speaking. ‘That’s my business,’ I sez boldly, as Charlie picks up the medal to have a look at it. At this Deutch changes his tune. ‘Come on, old shipmate,’ he sez in a weedling voice. ‘We’ve shared everything up to now. Let bygones be bygones and share and share alike, like good companions everyone.’ ‘No, Mr Deutch,’ I sez. ‘Findings keepings. You ain’t never shared anything with me, and I ain’t parting.’ ‘Ho, ain’t you, you old fool,’ he snarls, and before I knew what he was going to be at he comes at me with his knife, which he always kept handy. Charlie, like a good shipmate, jumps in to stop him, and the blade catches him fair in the throat. There he stood, still holding the medal in his hand, making a horrible gurgling noise, with the blood spurting out on the sand. Made me feel fair sick, it did. Then he gives a loud cry, lets go the medal and drops down dead. Like lightning I snatches up the medal and backs away from Deutch, who goes all white and frightened when he sees the dreadful thing he’s done. ‘That’s murder, Mr Deutch,’ I hollers, hardly knowing what I was saying. ‘I’ll report this to the owners when we get back.’
Deutch didn’t wait for no more, no more did I. After me he comes and off we go, him cursing, which don’t do no man any good. Any fool can curse, but it takes a still tongue to make a wise head, as an old captain of mine used to say. But I was telling you. Somehow I managed to get away, and hid in the woods, where I stayed for the rest of the time I was on the island. Many a time I saw Deutch hunting for the place where I’d found the gold piece, but he never found it and he never found me. And that’s how things were when one day the Portsdown, an American schooner, puts in for water. I sees her first and went running down to the beach, and then Deutch comes too, only he daren’t do anything to me in case the sailors were looking. So when the Portsdown sailed we went with her. What a trip it was, too. Everything going wrong all the time. We lost our rudder and a spar fell, killing two men. I haven’t time to tell you all about the things that happened on the Portsdown while we were aboard her, but at last we comes to Boston where I am now, in fear of my life from Deutch, who told me on the Portsdown that unless I told him where I’d found the gold he’d knife me. I shan’t tell him, you may be sure.
I’m hoping I shall be lucky enough to work a passage home, so tonight when I leave the hospital I’m going down to the docks. If I can’t find a ship I shall give this letter to a sailor homeward bound; then no matter what happens Deutch won’t get the gold.
In case anything should happen to me, you try and find the island when you get old enough because I think there is a lot of money hidden there. If not, the things in the old ship should be worth a fair bit. Steer a course for Providence, then swing to the south-west for maybe forty or fifty miles. You can tell the island by high rocky hills on the east side. You’ll find the wreck I’ve marked on the map at the north end, near an islet, which is as near as I can fix it.
You can’t tell how much I am looking forward to seeing you again after all this time. Trusting this finds you in better health than I am.
Your affectionate Father
* Sailor’s slang for the Captain of a ship.
Chapter 4
Biggles Makes a Proposition
There was a full minute’s silence after Biggles stopped reading, a silence broken only by the faint rustle as he unfolded a little yellowish slip of paper that had been enclosed in the letter. He gazed at it for some seconds without speaking; then, looking up, he smiled faintly at the intent expressions on the faces of the others. ‘Well, so now we know,’ he observed quietly.
‘You mean – why that sailor was after my letter?’ said Dick, quickly.
‘Of course.’
‘Because he knew that piece of gold was in it?’
Biggles shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think that was what he was after. What he wanted to know was where your father found it.’
‘So that he could go and get the rest, if there was any?’
‘That’s more like it.’
‘What do you make of it, sir? Do you think that my father really did stumble on to one of these old treasures?’
‘I don’t think there is any doubt about it. Your father wasn’t the sort of man to sit down and make up a tale like that, was he?’
‘No, he wasn’t, and that’s a fact,’ declared Dick emphatically. ‘He wouldn’t do a thing like that’
‘That’s what I thought. There is a tone about this letter that makes every word ring true, and there’s the coin to prove it.’
‘And what’s your opinion of it all, sir?’ inquired Dick eagerly.
‘There’s no need to keep calling me “sir”,’ Biggles told him quietly. ‘It looks to me, Dick, as if your father discovered one of the several secret hoards that undoubtedly exist in that part of the world where the pirates did their hunting. There were no banks available, and they had either to carry their ill-gotten gains about with them, or hide them. Inevitably, their ships were often wrecked and all hands drowned, so their secrets died with them – either that, or the money went to the bottom of the sea when their ship foundered. I should say that your father found an old wreck which, through the centuries, has become covered with vegetation; the jungle grows very quickly in the tropics, you know. Wait a minute.’ Biggles walked over to the bookcase and took down a heavy encyclopedia. ‘Listen to this,’ he went on, after he had run quickly through the pages.
‘For those who may be sceptical about the vast wealth carried by galleons of this period, the following well-authenticated instance is given. In 1680, a sailor in this country told of a Spanish galleon he had seen lying wrecked on the north-east coast of Hispaniola. Lord Albemarle persuaded Charles the Second to lend him a frigate and he financed an expedition to recover the treasure. It failed. Five years later, another sailor, this time in Jamaica, reported that he had found the wreck with gold and silver lying all around her. Lord Albemarle formed a company and sent out another expedition under a Captain Phips. It returned laden with as much gold as it could carry. Some silver had perforce been left behind. The King received ten per cent of the treasure trove, the value of which exceeded £300,000. Lord Albemarle received £90,000 for his share, and investors of one hundred pounds in the company received £8,000 each.’
‘That will give you an idea of the sort of money-boxes that used to float about the high seas in the old days,’ observed Biggles. ‘When Deutch spotted that doubloon he was cute enough to guess what it might lead to, but your father was too clever for him. Or maybe he wasn’t so clever after all, since he did not manage to get back to England, whereas Deutch did.’
Dick started. ‘What makes you think that Deutch got back?’
‘I imagine it was Mr Deutch who called upon you this afternoon, and with whom we afterwards had a few sharp words. Your father describes just such a scar as was worn by your
unpleasant visitor. Surely that can’t be coincidence?’
There was another short silence.
‘You think he might have killed my dad?’ said Dick in a low voice.
‘I think it is highly probable. We saw for ourselves how handy he was with his knife, and with such an incentive to murder as treasure, he wouldn’t make any bones about using it. I’m sorry, laddie, but it’s no use shutting our eyes to the facts, and that’s how they look to me.’
‘My father was dying in a low dive from a knife wound, so the sailor who brought the letter told me,’ muttered Dick chokingly.
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘Which all goes to confirm our deductions. Deutch thought probably your father had a map, or something of the sort, and he hoped to get it. To a great extent he was right, because quite apart from the fact that your father may have already drawn the map of the island which he sent home, there was the piece of paper found on the desk on the old ship. But either Deutch was too late, or your father had it too well hidden. Perhaps he had already given it to the sailor to bring home.’ A puzzled look came suddenly into Biggles’s eyes, and he glanced again at the letter. ‘When did you say the sailor brought the letter to you?’ he asked sharply.
‘This afternoon.’
‘Then he was the dickens of a long time delivering it. This letter is dated nearly three months ago. I wonder why he was so long.’
‘He told me about that,’ answered Dick quickly. They had an awful voyage. At first they ran into gales, then they cast a propeller blade, and then, to finish up with, they had a collision with a trawler coming up the Channel and had to go into a French port for repairs.’
Biggles whistled softly. ‘I shall begin to think there is something fishy about this business if these tales of trouble go on,’ he said half jokingly. ‘Well, there it is, Dick. I’m afraid you’ll never learn the details of what happened in America after your father wrote this letter. The point is, it has reached you. What are you going to do about it?’
‘Hadn’t I better go to the police?’
‘With what object?’
‘To get Deutch run in for murdering my dad.’
‘What evidence have you got for making such an accusation? My dear boy, it’s one thing to suspect somebody of committing a crime, but quite another matter to prove it. Besides, the affair happened in America.’
‘What can I do about it, then?’
Biggles stared thoughtfully into the fire. ‘It’s a bit hard to know what to advise,’ he said slowly. ‘Far from looking for Deutch, you’d better keep out of his way. He’s far more likely to hurt you than you him. He’s still on the trail of the treasure. Somehow, we don’t know how, he knows about you. Your father may have mentioned you to him before the trouble started. He might even have discovered that your father wrote a letter to you, in which case he might have sent you the secret. Indeed, I think his actions rather go to prove that. But it is really guesswork. Let us stick to facts. What we do know is this. First, somewhere in the West Indies there is an old hulk, with articles of value, possibly treasure, on board; secondly, there is a nasty piece of work named Deutch prowling about who also knows it; thirdly, he knows you’ve had a letter because he has held it in his hand; and lastly, but by no means least, he has shown you that he is going to leave no stone unturned to get hold of it. That’s all, but it should be enough to convince you that it isn’t safe for you to wander about the East End of London by yourself. If you do, as sure as fate Deutch will get hold of that letter and you will come to a sticky end trying to defend it.’
Dick moved uneasily. ‘What the dickens can I do?’ he asked. ‘It looks to me as if I’m in a nice fix. For two pins I’d burn the blessed thing, and tell Deutch what I’d done if he came after me.’
‘You don’t suppose he’d believe that, do you?’
Dick made a gesture of helplessness. ‘No, I don’t suppose he would, now I come to think about it. I don’t want a knife in my ribs.’
‘You haven’t said anything about trying to find the treasure,’ pointed out Biggles helpfully.
‘It wouldn’t be much use, would it?’ muttered Dick despondently. ‘I mean, tuppence wouldn’t get me much further than Gillingham, even on a workman’s ticket,* much less the West Indies.’
Biggles turned to the others. ‘Do you think we might help him?’ he suggested.
‘Help me!’ Dick sprang to his feet, face radiant. ‘You mean–’
‘We might all go on this treasure hunt.’
Dick turned pale with excitement. ‘Gosh! That would be grand,’ he cried. ‘When could we start?’
Biggles laughed softly. ‘Wait a minute! Wait a minute!’ he said lightly. ‘You can’t just put on your hat and coat and dash off on a trip of this sort. There are a lot of things to be thought of. We’ve done a bit of travelling in our time, and we know. First of all, there is the question of money; we should need rather a lot.’
‘Ah! I was afraid of that!’ exclaimed Dick miserably.
‘I didn’t say that we hadn’t got enough,’ went on Biggles quickly. ‘Look here, Dick. Here’s a proposition. Suppose I found the money for this show and we all went with you to collect the doubloons; would you agree to divide the profits into two, you taking one half and we the other, after deducting the cost of the expedition, whatever it may be? That sounds fair to me.’
‘It sounds more than fair,’ declared Dick promptly. ‘I reckon the treasure is as much yours as it is mine. But for you I should have lost the letter and known nothing about it.’
‘All right. That’s fine. I can see that we shan’t fall out over the division of the doubloons – if there are any – in which case all that remains is to make the necessary arrangements for getting hold of them as soon as possible, before Mr Deutch starts any monkey business. But we’ve got to go to work carefully. Well begun is half done on a job like this. First of all, we’ve got to locate the island, which may not be as easy as it sounds.’
‘What about the map?’ put in Algy quickly.
‘It only gives the general configuration of the island,’ answered Biggles. It doesn’t give its position. All we know about it is what Dick’s father says in his letter, that it is about fifty miles south-west of Providence. There may be several islands. In fact, there are pretty certain to be, because the Caribbean fairly bristles with islands, large and small.’
‘What about the paper Dick’s father found in the cabin – the one that was lying in front of the skeleton?’ put in Algy.
Biggles pursed his lips. ‘I’m afraid that isn’t going to be much use,’ he answered dubiously. ‘It looks more like a jigsaw puzzle than a map, although it may take on some sort of meaning when we get to the actual spot. What we’ve got to do for a start is to find the island; after that, the chart will give us the approximate position of the galleon. I say approximate because I’ve had some experience of sketch-maps. When the thing that is drawn on this sheet of paper—’ Biggles touched the map drawn by Dick’s father ‘—becomes a mass of rock and undergrowth, perhaps a mile or two square, it becomes a different proposition. Take the case of Cocos Island, in the Pacific. It is known for certain that there is at least one treasure there. It isn’t a very big island, yet any number of men have searched for years without finding anything more interesting than sand and pebbles. One fellow, a German, lived on the spot for, I think, eighteen years, during which time he dug enough trenches to make a fair-sized battlefield, but all he got for his pains were calloused palms and malaria. But that’s by the way. Let’s concentrate on getting to the island; we can start looking for the bullion bags when we get there.’
That suits me,’ agreed Dick, optimistically.
‘Then we’ll have a look at the big atlas in a minute,’ resumed Biggles. “The obvious course seems to be to choose a base as near as possible to the general locality, and then see about getting an aircraft out to it.’
‘Did you say aircraft? asked Dick breathlessly.
‘I did,’ an
swered Biggles. ‘I suppose you were thinking about a ship?’
‘Of course; I didn’t think of anything else,’ admitted Dick.
‘I think we can do better than that,’ returned Biggles. ‘You see, Dick, we all happen to be pilots, so, naturally, when we go anywhere, we fly.’
‘That makes it all the better,’ cried Dick enthusiastically. ‘I’ve never been in an aeroplane in my life, but I’ve always wanted to fly.’
‘You’ll have plenty of flying by the time this business is over, if I know anything about it,’ smiled Biggles. ‘Get down the atlas, Ginger, and let’s have a look at the Caribbean.’
In a moment or two the heavy tome was on the table, open at a double page entitled ‘The West Indies and the Caribbean Sea’.
‘Now then! Here we are,’ murmured Biggles, drawing a rough oval on the map with a lead pencil. ‘Here is Providence, the island Dick’s father and Deutch saw when they were in the open boat, but on which they could not effect a landing. Instead, they drifted away to the south-west, like this—’ Biggles followed a south-westerly course with his pencil ‘—and here we come to a whole lot of little islands. As you can see, most of them are such mere specks that they wouldn’t be shown on an ordinary atlas. Some of them are probably nothing more than cays, which are really only glorified sandbanks. On the other hand, some of them will probably turn out to be a good deal larger than you might suspect from looking at the map. Don’t forget that an island of twenty or thirty square miles can only be shown as a dot on a map of this size. But that’s by the way. This is the area we have got to explore. I don’t think it’s any use thinking of trying to make a base among the islands themselves because it would not be possible to get petrol there, or stores. Kingston, Jamaica, is too far away; so is Port of Spain.* But we needn’t worry about that. The nearest island isn’t more than a couple of hundred miles from the mainland, a matter of two hour’s flight at the very outside, so there should be no particular hardship in flying to and fro. So what we’ve got to do is choose a town on the mainland where we can get fuel and food.’