by W E Johns
‘Wind rising again and no-one to take in sail. Murder, mutiny, storm, calm, and out of drink, and now the wind again. The devil himself must be aboard us, and all through Bawn’s doubloon, may he rot in his chains at Port Royal. Blast him for a false rogue. The rest have gone to Davy Jones, some by the plank, some by the knife, but I’ll…’
Biggles broke off breathlessly.
‘Is that all?’ asked Algy.
‘That’s all.’
‘What was he going to do, I wonder?’
‘I’m afraid that is something we will never know. But mark well what he says about Bawn’s doubloon. Bawn’s cursed doubloon. It brought confusion upon them – at least, so he declares. Who Bawn was we do not know, although we may one day find out from the old records that are still kept in Jamaica, but I’ll warrant that it was Bawn’s doubloon that lay on this desk—’
‘The doubloon my father took,’ interrupted Dick. ‘My doubloon.’
That’s it. I’m not superstitious, but I’ve felt all along that there was something funny about that coin. It has left a trail of death and disaster behind it. We had no luck while we had it. The only normal luck we’ve had on this trip was when it was out of our possession. Mallichore took it off us at Marabina. You saw what happened to him. We got it back, and you saw what nearly happened to us, and, I honestly believe, would have happened had not Dick discarded his coat, with the doubloon in the pocket, at the last minute. The coat was washed up. Algy and Ginger found it. Within half an hour they were face to face with death. At the crucial moment Pedro took the coin, and the evil influence went with it. I shot him within the hour. To the long list of casualties I think we can now add the names of Louis le Grande and his crew.’
‘He talks of other doubloons,’ reminded Algy.
‘I know, and what happened here is now as clear as daylight,’ returned Biggles swiftly. ‘Dakeyne’s crew knew the cursed doubloon was aboard, and wanted to get rid of it. He says so in his log. But somehow it had got mixed up with the others, and Louis wouldn’t jettison the lot.’
‘He must have done at the finish – or else they’re still aboard,’ asserted Algy.
‘Aboard or ashore, I should say they’re not far away from us at this moment,’ declared Biggles.
‘Where could they be?’ cried Dick.
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. That’s what we’ve got to find out. I believe Dakeyne was in the act of making a map of the hiding-place when he was killed. Dick’s father found the paper on his desk. I’ve got it in my pocket. I haven’t been able to make head nor tail of it, but now we are actually on the spot I will have another look at it.’ He picked up the quill that still lay on the desk. ‘Here is the pen he used,’ he said, glancing up at the sky, just visible through the breach in the deck. ‘We shall have to be getting back,’ he went on quickly. ‘It will be dark in another quarter of an hour, so we’ve no time for doubloon-hunting today, unless they happen to be handy, which seems doubtful. We’ve just time for a quick look round.’
The other drawers in the desk yielded three items of interest. In one lay what appeared to be a black tablecloth, neatly folded. Biggles was about to pass it over, and had half closed the drawer when a thought seemed to strike him. He reopened the drawer, took out the black material and, with a quick movement, shook it open. At once it became a flag, complete with loops for a lanyard – a black flag; a field of black with a white device, the device being a skeleton, holding, upraised, in its right hand, a dart; in the other, an hour-glass. Each foot rested on an initial letter. They read L D.
‘By the red beard of Barbarossa!’ exclaimed Biggles, ‘fate has played a grim jest here. On the flag is Death, standing on the initials of the man who flew it; and here in the chair is death itself – the mortal remains of the same man. What a pity he can’t return from the shades, if only for a moment, to see the joke.’ Biggles tossed the flag to Dick. ‘Bring it along,’ he said. ‘It’s a unique trophy.’
In another drawer was a magnificent ruby ring, which Biggles slipped into his pocket with the casual observation that it seemed a pity to leave it lying about. In another were about a hundred silver coins. ‘Pieces of eight,’ he said laconically, picking one up and examining it. ‘Find a bag or something to carry them in, Ginger. We had better take them with us in case Deutch happens to find the ship, which is by no means improbable if he starts crashing about in the bushes up above, looking for us.’
They made a quick examination of the chests, but they were all full of bolts of silks, satins, and other fine materials in which moths or other insects had played havoc, destroying their value. Afterwards they looked into the hold, but they found nothing more interesting than a number of barrels more or less full of mouldering sugar, coffee, and flour.
They would have liked to stay longer, for there were still many places to explore, but Biggles pointed to the darkening sky and ordered a retreat. ‘Without any sort of illumination it isn’t much use staying here,’ he remarked. ‘Moreover, I’ve no desire to spend the night with Louis. Let’s get back to the islet; all being well, we can return first thing in the morning.’
But this was easier said than done, for they could find no means of regaining the hole through which they had fallen. Algy tried standing on Biggles’s shoulders, but the rotten timber crumbled under his hands as soon as he put his weight on it, and they had to abandon the project. They began to understand the difficulty that Dick’s father had experienced. In the end they found the hole he had made in the bows, and picking up their trophies, they crawled one by one out of the dim past into the twilit world of the present.
The boat was as they had left it, so, putting it on the water, they paddled back to the islet, and the fort which they had made their home.
‘We’ll make an early start in the morning,’ declared Biggles as they enjoyed a frugal meal from their fast dwindling stores, helped by the remaining coconuts which provided both food and drink. ‘But before we do any serious treasure-hunting,’ he went on, ‘I think it would be a wise move if we put this place in a better state to stand a siege. Sooner or later, whether Harvey comes back or not, Deutch and ‘Frisco are bound to locate us, and if they decide to move their camp to the rocks opposite, ‘Frisco, with his gun, would make it very awkward for us to get to and fro. We’ll lay in a supply of coconuts, and bring some more gunpowder over. We may need it if it comes to a showdown. If ‘Frisco starts any rough stuff we could give him a dose of grape-shot,* which should make him think a bit. Another thing we shall have to do is mount guards. In fact, we had better start now; we should look a lot of fools if we let them catch us napping. A two-hour shift for everyone will see us through until morning. I think I’ll just have another look at Dakeyne’s map – if it is a map.’
He went over to one of the loopholes and spread the piece of yellow paper flat against a stone, where they all looked at it for a long time. At last Biggles shook his head. ‘It must mean something,’ he said. ‘But if you can tell me what it is you’re cleverer than I am.’
The others agreed that they could make nothing of it, so Biggles folded the paper and put it back into his pocket. ‘I think we can do without those two unpleasant-looking fellows,’ he said, pointing to the skeletons. ‘It’s time they went to Davy Jones, where they belong. Bear a hand everybody, to heave them overboard.’
The gruesome job was soon done, and Biggles turned to Dick. ‘You’d better take the first watch,’ he said. ‘It’s the easiest. Wake Ginger when the moon shows clear above the palms; that will be roughly in two hours’ time.’
‘Ay, ay, sir,’ replied Dick briskly, and made his way up to the roof.
* Small metal balls put together in a bag and fired from a cannon, often with devastating effect
Chapter 14
Dick Goes Ashore
For what seemed a long time Dick sat alone on the roof. At first he could hear the others talking down below, but after a while their conversation became intermittent, and then finally stopped a
ltogether, so he assumed that they were sleeping. Silence fell, the breathless hush of a tropic night. The quivering of the palm fronds ceased, and even the gentle lap, lap, lap, of the ripples at the foot of the rock died away. The stars shone in the heavens with unbelievable luminosity, like lamps suspended from a purple ceiling. The moon crept over the horizon and began its upward journey, turning the sea into a lake of shimmering quicksilver, and the island into a mysterious world of vague black shadows. Across the deserted beach the black rocks crouched like monsters emerging from the ocean bed.
Dick leaned his musket against the rampart wall and regarded the scene with questioning, brooding eyes. It produced a queer sensation to think that on the very spot, wearing the same clothes and armed with the same weapons, an Elizabethan sentinel may have stood, doing sentry just as he was doing it now. Perhaps the gallant Drake himself had been there! Afterwards had come the buccaneers – the pirates. They must have known of the little fort, and used the creek, perhaps careened their ships on the coral strand inside the shelter of the headland. With all their lust and cruelty, they must have been romantic days in which to live; vaguely, he was sorry that they had gone. Treasure or no treasure, he would, he knew, rather have been a member of Drake’s stalwart crew, or even Dakeyne’s, than sell papers in a London street. Louis le Grande! He whispered the words, rolling them off his tongue with relish. What days they were, when new lands remained to be discovered! What men they bred! What ships they built! Dimly, he perceived that although the days were gone the men remained, and many there were in town and city who would go back to them if they could.
A feeling of intense depression swept over him, for he knew that the gallant days of sail had gone for ever. Men themselves had done it; condemned themselves for ever to be slaves of iron and steel. What fools they were! To satisfy their longing, they messed about with little ships, around the harbours, at weekends. There was no romance in smoking funnels; his father had often told him so, and he realized it now. The voice of the throbbing screw had silenced for ever the creak of blocks, and the song of the breeze through straining sheets. The risks had gone, and with them, the joy of victory over them. Yes, it was a great pity, he reflected sadly.
Yet life was not so bad, after all, for he was luckier than most. Was it not true that within a short distance of where he stood a pirate’s hoard remained? Doubloons! He said the word aloud. How much more satisfying it sounded than ‘pound notes’. Paper money. Pah! What inspiration was there in paper? Thank goodness they weren’t looking for a parcel of paper notes. Gold! That was the stuff. Solid metal with a healthy ring to it, not a feeble crackle, like notes. No wonder men went a-pirating when they used such money as that. Dakeyne must have collected quantities. Where was it now? Where had he put the doubloons? If he had buried them, how could they hope to find them? As Biggles had said, it would need an army of men to turn over all the rock and sand within a quarter of a mile of the galleon. It was a pity that Louis le Grande had not been more concise, had not finished the map he was making. He could still visualize the paper, but he could not associate it with anything he had seen. Were they on the wrong track after all? Suppose the lines on the slip of paper were just meaningless marks made by a dying man? It might well be so. In that case the secret of the treasure might still remain where he had hidden it. There was nothing in the candlestick, for Biggles had looked to see. What else was there an the desk? The pistol. There was nothing in that. The quill offered little hope. The doubloon! Louis might have scratched a message on the coin. They had not examined it very closely. That was the sort of thing a pirate might do, he reflected. What a pity Biggles had kicked it into the hole.
The more he thought about it the more he wished he had examined it more closely. In view of what he now knew, he would look at it through different eyes. What a triumph it would be if he solved the mystery where the others had failed! It would be a feather in his cap. How foolish it had been of Biggles to throw the coin away. He shouldn’t have done it. After all, it was his coin.
The desire to examine it again for the marks he had now almost convinced himself were on it, became a mania, and he began to look towards the spot where it had been discarded. Another thought struck him. After all, it wasn’t very far away. He might fetch it. There was nothing to prevent him. He could get into the boat and be there and back in ten minutes at the very outside. Nothing could happen in that time, he persuaded himself, although in his heart of hearts he knew that he had no right to leave his post. But everything was very quiet, and it was hard to believe that anything could happen before he got back.
At the end be made up his mind quickly, although somewhat guiltily. He crept to the top of the stairs that led down to the room where the others slept. All was quiet. He tiptoed back to the wall. Then, leaving his musket, but examining his pistol to make sure it was primed, he went quickly down the outside steps that led to the sea. In another minute he was in the canoe, paddling swiftly but silently towards the point.
He landed where they had gone ashore a few hours earlier, and tying the boat to a convenient crag, made his way swiftly up the rock. Reaching the top, he paused to look round. All was silent – rather too silent for his liking. In some queer way it reminded him of the silence in the galleon. Louis le Grande! He hoped his spirit did not walk. He shook himself angrily. What made him think about these things now? He had come to fetch the doubloon, but it was not so easy as he had thought it would be when he was standing on the islet with the others only a few yards away. He braced himself suddenly, annoyed by his nervousness. ‘Dead men don’t bite,’ he muttered angrily, and set off towards the hole into which Biggles had kicked the coin, the hole in which he had nearly lost his life at the hands of the dreadful Pedro. He sped on, throwing furtive glances at the unexpected shadows cast by the moonlight. Some of them looked very human.
With his heart beating faster than usual he reached the hole. A swift glance around and he had dropped into it, palms feeling lightly for the metal disk. He found it almost at once; with a gasp of relief his hand closed over it; and then, and not before, did he remember the superstition of the curse. Half fearfully, as though he could not bear to touch it more than he could help, he stood upright, and pushed the coin on to a flat piece of rock in order to free his hands while he climbed out.
Resting them on the ledge, he vaulted up, but his pistol caught on a jagged piece of rock and threw him back. More annoying still, for he was anxious to be gone, the weapon was pulled clean out of his belt and clattered to the bottom of the hole. With a muttered imprecation, for he dare not go without it, he dropped on to his hands and knees, groping swiftly, for the moonbeams fell aslant, and did not penetrate to where the pistol lay.
His questing hand closed over something, and as he felt its shape he stiffened, rigid, tense. Surely it was the doubloon! It felt just like it. But he had already put it outside! There could not be two. Could it have fallen back inside? Swiftly he stood up and looked over the ledge of rock on which he had put the coin. It was still there, gleaming softly in the moonlight. There could be no mistake. Then what was it he held in his hand? He opened it to see. It was a doubloon. Then there were two! But that was impossible! How… ? He began to tremble, and perspiration broke out on his forehead as his superstitious fears returned in force. The thing must be bewitched. What a fool he had been ever to touch it again – unless?
He caught his breath as another thought flashed into his brain. Quickly he stooped again, fingers scooping at the bottom of the hole. They closed over a handful of small round objects, and his mouth went dry as he felt their shape. Hardly able to breathe, he leaned against the side of the rock, and opening his trembling hand, stared wide-eyed at what it held! Doubloons! A dozen or more of them. He scraped with his foot, and heard the metallic ring of others. He was standing on doubloons! He had found Dakeyne’s doubloons… The doubloons! The words seemed to ring in his ears. He forgot his pistol. He even forgot where he was and what he was doing. Breathing fast, aga
in he dropped to his knees, fingers clawed. They sank into the golden pile. Were they really there, or was it all a dream? He felt again. No, it was no dream; they were real enough. He must tell the others about it at once.
Leaving the coins where they were, for without pockets he had no means of carrying them, he was about to leap joyfully out of the hole when a sound reached his ears that sent him cowering to the bottom again, his heart beating as though it would choke him, while his body turned as cold as the stones by which he crouched. It was the sound of a human voice, and there was no mistaking the guttural tones. The speaker was Deutch.
‘I tell you they’re round this headland somewhere,’ he said in a surly voice.
‘Aw shucks! What does it matter, anyway?’ replied the voice of ‘Frisco Jack. ‘What’s the hurry? There ain’t no call to get nervy. We’ll round the lot of ’em up tomorrow and bump ’em off.’
‘I’d like to know what they’re up to,’ replied Deutch with an oath. Then he spoke again, in a voice charged with interest. ‘What’s that over there?’
Dick nearly swooned as rapid footsteps approached the hole; they seemed to stop on the very edge, and he braced himself for the blow which he felt was coming. But he did not move – possibly because it was beyond his physical strength to do so.
‘Why, if it ain’t the gold buck,’ came ‘Frisco’s voice, tense with surprise. ‘Now what do you make ‘o that?’
‘Blister their hides! They must have found the doubloons, and dropped one, or how else did this one git here?’
‘Beats me!’ murmured ‘Frisco. ‘Hold hard,’ he went on quickly. ‘I’ve got it. This is where Pedro got plugged. He had the doubloon, you recollect. He must ‘a dropped it when he fell. That’s it. This is where I found ‘im. Look, there’s his blood marks. Well, he’s gone where doubloons won’t be no use to ‘im, so I might as well have it.’