Where Gold Lies
Page 13
With our little expedition divided into two, we rowed slowly around the point. We had two or three miles to cover to reach the landing where Flint and his three companions had gone ashore, and short-handed as we were, we made a slow trip. The heat of the sun had dried the boats out more than a little, and Long John and the boy kept busy bailing and splashing water over the woodwork.
We ran the boats up onto the beach where a small creek ran out of the swampy forest. The trees grew dense and tangled on the flat ground to our left but hilly ground lay behind them and round to the end of the beach just over the creek. This is where Flint and his men had landed the treasure. The beach was unmarked, of course, but there still seemed to be an old trail running through the edge of the trees to the high ground. Perhaps the wild pigs kept it open, or perhaps someone else. Certainly it had not stayed like that since Flint’s visit. The forest would have closed over it long ago.
With our hands full of tools, cutlasses, muskets, and water skins, we cheerfully abandoned the boats and pushed inland. There were but six of us and the boy. First of all walked George Merry and Caspar, with the chart. Then Jim, still tied to my belt. Long John puffed along behind me, and Chips Morgan was helping Johnny in the rear. Johnny had refused to be left behind alone no matter what pain it would cost him. He looked very pale and close to collapse.
Our first object was to gain the height of a grass-covered rib that ran inland, eventually climbing up to the lookout with the two fig trees at the summit of the island. From the rib we might be able to survey our path onwards. So through the sharp-edged giant grass we pushed upwards, cursing the heat, the insects (of which there were many) and our own clumsiness. At least we were blessed with some kind of a path, which made our progress much easier. On reaching the crest of the rib, we found the grass a little sparser and shorter. Here we stopped to get our breath and take our bearings.
The map was of little help now, and we followed the written directions around the edge of the chart. They directed us to a prominent tree about a mile south-south-west of our landing. This was to be our starting point. As we regained our breath we looked south over a waving expanse of green-brown grass. For some reason there were no trees on this hillside. It was as if less rain fell here than farther north, if two different climates could exist on such a small island. I say no trees but there were stunted trees and straggling palms in the small valleys that ran down to the sea. And also isolated stalwarts that somehow managed to scratch an existence amongst the grass. One of them stood south of us, not far away. Not an impressive tree, a twisted thorn-like bush no bigger than a cider apple. There were no others, so this must be the one for which we were looking.
Long John reached for the chart. “Let’s see what we’re about. East-by-north. That puts it over there somewhere. But we won’t find it in this cover without we follow the directions. Dick, you stay here and help me keep hold of the boy. The rest of you get over to that tree there. Caspar, take this.” He brought out from his coat a brass pocket compass larger than a watch. “Three hundred and seventy paces east-by-north from the tree. Now all of you count them out separately, because we have to find ‘the pointer’, whatever that may be. Do your three hundred and seventy paces, and stop where you are. Then I’ll come up and we’ll start searching.”
As Long John settled himself down beside the path, the rest took to the grass. Off the path, movement was a struggle. It required considerable force to thrust through the waist-high tangle of grass. Slashing at it with a cutlass proved useless. No matter how sharp the cutlass, the force of a cut was spent on only a fraction of the stubborn grass. Dick Caspar returned for a shovel and found that a way could be forged by holding it horizontally across his body and using the handle to press the grass down step by step. A very slow and tiring way to break a path and we could see the three fit men taking turns at the work while Johnny followed in their wake.
Without shade and without the benefit of a breeze, the sun beat down harshly on us. Long John pulled his hat forward the better to shade his eyes, and I blessed the old straw hat I wore. He cleared his throat. “Dick, listen here. Now the others are away, I’ve got something to say to you by way of a warning.”
His tone surprised me. Although he was always polite enough when addressing his men, he never confided in them. He kept growth of his plans private, and we just concerned ourselves only with the orders that resulted. I was surprised, and shocked too, for his manner suddenly suggested a lack of confidence in our doings. His eye caught little Jim watching intently and he spoke to him directly. “Jim lad, clap your hands over your ears and don’t hear a word of what I’m going to say. Not a word, mark you, or I shall have to put you where you won’t tell no tales. Sit over there where I can see you.” Jim promptly pressed his hands to his ears and he sat uncomfortably, looking like one of the wise monkeys.
Keeping a close eye on Jim, Long John began to unburden himself. “Dick, I don’t know for sure, but I believe we’re in deep trouble. That Doctor had a bit of a talk with me, and there’s a couple of things. First he’s got someone helping him. I don’t know who but I’d guess it would be whoever built that cottage. Second, when we find the nest, I’ll lay it’s empty, for he didn’t seem like he’d be missing anything. ‘Watch out for squalls’ is what he said, no more. Watch out for squalls.
“Now, Dick. Your friends there—our friends—they be good enough men, all of them, but they might turn vicious if we was to find an empty nest. There’s no telling what they might do, and I shall need someone to watch my back. And then there’s the Captain and his men. I don’t like being here, for this is just where they might expect to find us. If you’ve got an enemy, don’t go strolling in his garden, that’s what I say. But we’ve as good as invited them along to take potshots at us.” He looked searchingly around us, peering at the long grass and I thought how things would be if the Squire were to get a clear shot at us.
Long John went on. “Truth is, Dick, I’ve halfway done a deal with the Doctor. The boy’s life for mine. If I make sure the boy’s alive, they’ll set me ashore somewhere safe. It ain’t much of a return, to be sure, but it’s a deal better than leaving my bones on this cursed island.
“Now I won’t be doing that deal if I can help it. There’s not much in it for me, and it’s even poorer for you lot. But it may fall out that way, so watch out for it.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked, my head in a whirl.
“Just watch out, that’s all. You take care of old John and I shall take care of you. If we get separated and we get out alive, go you to Port Domingo. Go to Bewley’s, the chandler on the seafront—you’ll soon find him— and ask for Mr. and Mrs. Gold. He’ll set you right and you’ll find old Sally if you don’t find me. And if I do turn up my toes here, pass on my love.” He looked away from me, obviously in the grip of emotions that a young bachelor could not understand. The signs of his human weakness hit me like a blow to the stomach. We sat in silence.
After a few minutes, Long John came back from his reverie. Jim still had his hands pressed to his ears but his face was showing distress at his uncomfortable position. John laughed and motioned for him to relax. “Well done, Jim. I likes to see a boy who does what he’s ordered. You’ll go a long way, if you live long enough to leave this island.”
Looking over at the others, he stood in indignation. “Look at those lubbers! What’s Chips about now?” Our friends had reached the tree and were now involved in the business of counting paces. Not an easy job, fighting their way through the grass, keeping on a bearing and counting all at once. Morgan had obviously lost count and gone back to start again. We started along the path to meet them as they emerged from the grass.
Johnny, Caspar and George came up slowly, pacing careful and faces closed from concentrating on their counts. George stopped a few yards from the path. Caspar came on and crossed it by a few yards. Johnny came to a halt near George, but Chips Morgan was thirty or forty yards short.
“You can’t
count,” called Long John laughing richly. “Come over here. Dick, give me the boy and cut along and bring back the rest of the tools. Stay where you are, you three.”
After marking the stopping places, we started to search in the long grass, looking for ‘the pointer’ mentioned on the chart. It was not long before George found it. “Bones,” he called out. “There’s bones here.”
“Don’t touch nothing,” ordered Long John. “Let me have a look.”
In the grass two long bones could be seen. “Don’t touch nothing,” repeated Long John, “Cut this grass back.” We hacked at the grass with our cutlasses and soon a pattern of bones made itself clear. It was the skeleton of a man.
“Where’s his arms? Clear away over there.” Long John pointed above the eyeless skull. The skeleton was complete. A man lying on his back with his arms high above his head. The bones had been whitened by the sun and were dry and porous. Scraps of clothing lay about the bones and a dry cracked leather belt circled the segments of spine below the collapsed ribs.
Long John stirred the faded rags with his crutch. “Blue. What were they wearing? Do you remember? Snowball didn’t have no shirt. Allardyce. Tom. He had a blue sailcloth guernsey. Am I right?”
We said nothing, thinking of the four figures rowing ashore in the heavily laden boat long ago. And of Tom Allardyce, whose last remains lay at our feet. And of Flint, rowing back with his bandaged head, alone.
“Where’s his belt buckle?” asked George curiously. “He had a big buckle with a girl on it.” He rooted in the grass. “No knife neither. Someone’s been here, poking about.”
Long John was more interested in the way the skeleton lay. “Why’s he lying like that? It ain’t natural. What was he about?” We considered the puzzle. Suddenly Long John pounded his hand on my shoulder and laughed. “The pointer! Flint’s pointer. That poisonous buzzard used poor Tom as his pointer. So it’s forty-four paces down there. He pointed down the sharp slope that fell away to the tree-covered swamp below. The way was pretty much in the same direction we had been following from the tree.
“We’ve got to bury poor Tom,” said Chips Morgan. “It ain’t right he should lie like that.”
“Later, after the treasure,” said George, already moving down the slope. We rushed on, forgetting to count our paces in our haste to reach the end of our long voyage. Fortunately, I remembered Long John’s warning and held back a little.
The rush led down to the line where the giant grass gave way to the swamp forest. Here we found what Long John had feared, an empty nest. A pit had been dug out, perhaps six feet square and three deep. The yellow stony soil from the pit had been piled all around it, and some had fallen back in. Grass had started to grow through the edges of the spoil and no doubt would overwhelm it completely in a couple of years. A piece of broken board and dried leaves were all the pit contained.
Try and imagine our feelings at that moment. All our dreams of wealth lay destroyed. Our striving, suffering, travelling was all for naught. Our blood had been drained to no account. We were left with nothing.
At this critical moment, I was standing above the pit beside Long John. Johnny had gone to the edge of the pit, but the others had jumped down into it hoping that whoever had rifled the treasure might have overlooked something. Of course they found nothing.
Frustration turned to fury as George looked up at us. “You knew about this, Long John, you swab! You and that Doctor, I knew you was up to no good.” Shaking with anger he whipped out his knife and started to climb from the pit. He hesitated as he found himself looking straight up at Long John’s double-barrelled pistol only a few feet away.
“George, I’ve—” Long John’s words were torn away by a volley of musket shots from the slope above. Johnny pitched head-first into the pit, knocking down Caspar and Chips. George seemed not to hear the muskets but when he saw Long John was distracted, he resumed his murderous climb out of the hole. Turning back, Long John fired one shot, catching George square in the forehead. He fell forward, half in and half out of the pit.
Long John clasped the boy to him, holding the pistol to his head, and shouted “Run, boys, run! Into the trees before they re-load.” I hesitated but Long John thought faster. “Run, you fool. I’ll be alright. God bless you, but run and I’ll see you in Domingo. Go!”
Searching for the Silver
In our panic we thought nothing of the thorny tangle through which we crashed, seeking concealment from the Squire’s long musket. Barbed vines tore at our flesh and clothes, toothed palm leaves rakes our arms and faces. The darkness of the swamp swallowed us up.
Only three of us were left now, a minor remnant of the Walrus’s crew. Caspar was there, old Chips Morgan panting harshly and looking very scared, and myself.
“What do we do now?” moaned Chips.
“The boats!” said Caspar. “Quick, before they get to them!”
We hurried on, trying to shape a course to the sea but passing only where the forest permitted. After only a short run we found ourselves standing in a dry water-course that crossed our path. Without consultation, and not withstanding that it would carry us to our right rather than straight towards the sea, we followed it deeper into the forest. We soon passed into the depths of the swamp and our pathway filled with water.
The water-course ended abruptly where it joined a sluggish brown stream. We plunged waist-deep into the warm water and started to follow the flow down towards the sea. The vegetation on the banks was an impenetrable tangle so we had little choice. The bottom was surprisingly firm considering the swampy nature of our surrounding, and the vicious vines did not obstruct our way. On we rushed, the water sometimes below our knees, sometimes up to our chests. The stream wound this way and that but its ultimate outfall would be the sea. If we had had our wits and the leisure, we might have noted that our easy passage was no accident. The trees had been cut back, and fallen branches removed to the banks.
After an age of struggling we finally burst out of the darkness into the scalding sunlight of the seashore. The sea’s mirror doubled the blaze of light up at our faces, half blinding us as we sought to get our bearings. For once fortune seemed to have shone on us. The stream by which we had left the swamp was the very one near which we had come ashore. And there were the boats, at our feet. With the last of our strength we heaved first one and then the other into the water. Caspar and I took the oars of the leading boat, Old Morgan being useless by now. He slumped in the stern gasping, and without comprehension of what was happening. He had picked up a nasty wound below his knee and was bleeding freely, but if there was any pain he had yet to feel it.
As we pulled, Caspar and I scanned the grassy ridge up which we had been walking such a short time before. We could see no sign of life, although we thought we were sure of the position. We had moved far enough already for the lone tree to come into view, and we imagined we could see the trampled grass about Tom Allardyce’s last resting place. But no people, not until our eyes wandered upwards towards the lookout at the summit of the island.
Creeping slowly upwards across the grassy flank of the hill was a small procession. Instantly a feeling of safety swept over us, and we rested on our oars. We could make out five figures. The boy was the clearest as being smaller than the others, hurrying on ahead. And by his gait we could also make out Long John, who must have been labouring like Hercules to force himself up that hill. I said nothing to the others about Long John’s arrangement with the Doctor.
“Where to now?” asked Caspar. “We can’t hold the cottage, just the three of us.”
“I don’t suppose they’ll be thinking of attacking us,” I said. “They’ll have other fish to fry. They’ve got to get the ship ready to sail.”
“Have they got the gold?” Caspar wondered aloud, “If they have, they’ll only hurry the more to get away with it. You’re right. No matter what, they’ll not be interested in coming across for us. What’d be their gain? I still don’t fancy that cottage, though.”
So it was. With Chips minding the boats, we hurried up to the cottage, coming back with two small biscuit barrels, some salt pork, a large bag of oats and a small but very welcome one of coffee. At least we should be able to survive for a while. We pulled the boats up at the point and while Chips made a fire, I climbed one of the coconut palms. Still keeping a weather-eye open, we made ourselves comfortable and rested from the cares and scares of the day.
We kept a watch that night, but saw nothing.
Next morning were surprised to see something on the beach at the point where the path to the cottage emerged from the trees. It looked like a small cairn of rocks with a white flag flying above it. Scarcely taking our eyes from this apparition, we slowly ate our breakfast. We tossed from one to the other ideas on what it might be, and why it should be there. I believed it might mark a message, possibly an invitation from the Captain to re-join the Hispaniola. He must be desperately short-handed and might have decided to be magnanimous.
Caspar was more inclined to suspect it as a trap and to guard ourselves we decided to approach by sea. As a double assurance, Chips and I dropped Caspar off on the beach some distance from the cairn. If it was a trap, the thought of Caspar and his musket behind the ambush might serve to protect us. He disappeared into the trees and we rowed slowly on.
We need not have feared. The top rock of the cairn held a down a letter for us. Written on the folded paper was the following:
To the Mutineers.