Where Gold Lies

by Jacqueline George

  Men at sea live for long periods with only their own resources to fall back on. As a consequence, they rapidly become adept at a strange assortment of trades. They can sew, they can make and mend shoes, barbering holds no mystery and carpentry little more. All of these are in addition to the more normal parts of seamanship, so the setting up of our boat to venture on an ocean voyage worried us little. We had the sailcloth and sufficient rope for rigging. It was simply a matter of time before we would get the boat ready. But rather than get on with what we understood, we decided to recover the silver first. It seemed more interesting.

  Next day saw us carefully laying aside the mingled bones of Snowball and Kelly to get at the silver beneath. There were twenty-four kegs, all neatly bound in tarred canvas. Considering they had been buried for three years or more, the canvas was in remarkable condition. Only one keg was in any way damaged, the one we had hit on first. Setting the silver to one side, we reburied the bones of our old comrades. The grave lay as I have described it, at the foot of the grassy bank running down to the swamp. In case anyone should ever wish to find it, it is I would guess, about three furlongs from the beach, at a point where the ridge above draws away from the trees for a space. Our friends’ bones were laid in a grave that seemed far too large for the dry white sticks that used to be living sailors on the Walrus. They had the best burial we could give them, and surely better than they had received from Flint. The rest of the day we spent shaping a head-board with our hatchet, so their last resting place was marked for a short while at least. Decay is so rapid in the tropics that the monument will surely have been worn away only a few years after we set it in the ground.

  That night, sitting at our cooking fire, we felt the contentment that follows a good day’s work. For the morrow we had only to move the silver and bury it again. Then we could set about preparing for our long voyage.

  Carrying the silver to the beach would have been both long and arduous. The heavy kegs were worse than pigs to carry. Pigs at least have legs that you may grasp, even if they do wriggle. The kegs had nothing and their weight and roundness would soon force our grip apart and down they would go. We thought about constructing a stretcher so that we might carry them one at a time to the beach, but then we arrived at the idea of taking the boat up the stream into the swamp and carrying the kegs only the short distance to meet it. We found the way easier than we had expected. The gold must have been removed in the same fashion and the passage had been made simple by the clearing of fallen trees and hanging creepers. Nonetheless, man-handling the kegs down to the boat was hard labour and we did not reach the camp with our booty until late afternoon. The next day we buried it in the forest behind the near the point, taking a bearing on one of the rocky headlands to the north of the beach. Experience had already taught us how quickly the vigorous trees and creepers could change the appearance of the forest and that was the reason for selecting a more permanent bearing point. How could we know just when we would return?

  Fitting out the boat took us several days. First we pulled it up, cleaned it, and set about repairing and caulking it. We cut ourselves a stout mast green from the forest and using a crudely fashioned block of wood, stepped it onto the keel. Again using green spars, we rigged a small gaff mainsail. The sewing of the sail took us the most time, but it was pleasant work and we felt a rising excitement as we thought of our impending voyage. After adding a foresail, we had a neatly rigged vessel, fit to travel long distances. The new sails served very well as we tried them in the lagoon, and we were able to sail remarkably close to the wind. We would at least be able to choose the direction in which we escaped.

  To complete our preparations, we loaded all the provisions we had been left, but we were deeply troubled by our lack of vessels in which to carry water. We searched for empty bottles and deeply regretted the ones we had smashed previously. We had our rum keg and sadly poured the rum into the sand to fill it with water. But the keg was small, not much over a gallon and a half, too small to supply us for more than a few days. Then there were coconuts and we filled the boat with them as being both food and drink.

  To steer by we had Long John’s pocket compass and the directions in the Doctor’s letter. It is true that a tropical voyage is less demanding that a similar trip in the waters around England, for the weather is normally much kinder. Only occasionally is there a great storm, and you might sail a lifetime without falling in with one of them. Anyway, we were confident that our natural wits would nearly suffice and youthful confidence would make up the difference. Our preparations for departure were nearly complete.

  Our last duty on the island was to bury George and Johnny. We interred them in the pit where they had fallen, and at last gave the bones of Tom Allardyce a resting place with his old shipmates. Their grave is about two furlongs farther from the sea along the edge of the swamp. It was a large square hole and the three men lie there side by side. We felt sad as we took the path back to the beach for the last time. So many of the Walrus’s crew had been buried on this unfortunate island, all seeking their fortunes and finding only their deaths.

  As we rowed back to camp trailing a fishing line, we were lucky enough to catch several fat fish a little like herrings. We smoked them to take with us. As our tent cloth had already been used for sails, we spent our last night on the island under the stars. Neither of us slept well that night. We felt stirrings of nervousness in our stomachs. How would the journey turn out?

  A Stormy Voyage

  Next day dawned with a cloudless sky and a light breeze ruffling the sea. Impatient to be off we put our last belongings into the boat and set sail without eating. We would have time enough to eat the cold remains of last night’s dinner once we were on our way. Before the sun had risen far, we were out of the shelter of the island and feeling a gentle deep-sea swell.

  By the afternoon most of the island was out of sight; only the tip of the lookout hill remained above the horizon. There was something very unsettling in watching that familiar ground fall slowly behind. When you are at sea on a ship, with your friends beside you and a competent captain to take away the cares of navigation and sailing, there is a feeling of safety and normality. Matters were different with us. Our little boat was the only dry place in a very large and watery world. We did not know where we were and had only a vague idea of where we were going. Our first experience of the burdens of captaincy was not a comfortable one.

  The breeze which had been bearing us and our cargo of coconuts and food across the ocean, died away as the day ended and our sails hung limp. The setting sun saw us drifting, so we furled the sails and curled up to sleep.

  It must have been about the middle of the night when the movement of the boat woke us. The wind was getting up again and we hoisted sail to take advantage of it. Soon we were bowling along with a fine breeze on our quarter and the water slapping and hissing past the bottom of the boat. Even though we were making but a few knots (I could not guess how many), our nearness to the water gave us a feeling of great speed. This was not at all like watching the sea go past from the rail of a ship. It was an exciting way to travel.

  At night, with stars lighting the great bowl of the sky like a church full of candles, we felt at home and at one with the world. Caspar held the lively tiller and kept course by the star falling to the west. Sleep slowly engulfed me.

  How long I slept I do not know, but I was cruelly woken by being tipped into the bottom of the boat on top of the coconuts. I found I was lying in sea water. Caspar shouted at me to lower the mainsail and I hastened to obey, still groggy with sleep. In the dark and turmoil I cast off the halyard and, getting the boom on board, started to gather the folds of sail that filled the boat.

  We had almost capsized. Caspar had been caught dozing and had only just managed to luff up as the gunwale went under. I took a pan and, much hindered by the coconuts which were floating inside the boat, started to bail. While I had been sleeping, the wind had freshened. The sea had risen now and as I struggled to
empty the boat, spray from the bow splashed over us. For a while we drove on under the jib alone.

  It was, I suppose, three o’clock in the morning. The warm tropical sea to which we had become accustomed was now taking on an aspect much more like our home waters. The wind and spray had soaked us through and we shivered with cold. Clearly the weather was worsening and we decided to heave to. Caspar brought her head to the wind and I brought down the jib.

  After we had the sail safely stowed, we concentrated on bailing. The position was becoming very serious as the short seas slapped over the sides. The boat would not have much longer to live unless we could keep her head into the wind and lighten her load. I lashed our two oars together and dropped the over them side on the end of her painter as a sea-anchor. This helped. With her bows into the weather the inflow of water eased a little.

  Rain now added to our misery. A heavy cloud-burst poured water like a stream from the sky. The weight of falling water at least had the effect of flattening the choppy sea, but we still could not make much headway with our bailing. No sooner did we think we were gaining that a larger wave than usual would undo our work. I had already thrown some coconuts over the side. Now we set to dispose of them all. We threw our precious cargo away without thought other than the relief of ridding ourselves of a millstone.

  As suddenly as it had come the squall started to gentle. The rain petered out and the wind slackened. Slowly we dried the boat until it was riding easily to my makeshift sea-anchor. Now exhaustion set in. In our panic to stay afloat and alive, we had been spending more energy than we could afford. Now the bill must be paid. Trembling with cold we gathered our soaking clothes around us and lay down to sleep.

  However, the weather had not yet done with us. We were woken by a loud hissing and roused ourselves. Dawn was near, already a grey light was spreading to the east, and the air felt cold and fresh. We scanned the flat sea for the source of the noise that had woken us. Coming towards us from the western dark was a massive black pillar, reaching upwards and out of sight. It was a waterspout. The winds had gathered themselves into a roaring chimney and were sucking water up from the sea. Water, sea-weed and fish are consumed by these monsters, sucked into the sky and dropped again when the wind’s energy is dissipated. We would be destroyed if it touched us.

  In a frenzy, we hauled on the painter to get our oars back. A few seconds struggling unsuccessfully with the lashing, and I took my knife to it. We bent to the oars and urged our boat away from the waterspout’s course.

  The spout rolled ponderously on but as if it contained some malevolent spirit, its course slowly turned towards us. We were filled with horror and redoubled our efforts, but as we turned so the waterspout also altered course to meet us. All our rowing was having the effect of hastening our meeting with that dreadful pillar. We fought to turn away from and reverse our progress. For agonising seconds we struggled but again the waterspout turned towards us and became bigger as it approached. An instant later the faint daylight was blotted out and our boat bucked like a young horse as the forces of nature struck it from all sides. As if by a great invisible hand, we were seized and set spinning like a top.

  The roaring of the wind deafened us, and it tore at our clothes and hair. We clung to the boat as we were whirled round with increasing speed. I was clenched to the thwart, hugging myself close to its hardness. My oar had gone from my hand, but I did not recall dropping it. In the grip of such mighty forces we were helpless. My body was clinging to the boat and trying to breathe the water-laden air without choking. My spirit was elsewhere, but I can offer none of the thoughts I might have had in such a supreme moment.

  I do not know how long our ordeal lasted. Maybe it was minutes or perhaps only seconds. It was brought to an abrupt end by a deluge of water crashing down on us, beating the breath out of our bodies. And then all was quiet.

  By the Grace of God, we were alive. The sea lay flat and undisturbed around us in the growing dawn. The waterspout had gone, completely dissipated. Perhaps it had already been dying when its edge touched us. As it was, the water that had fallen around us had almost swamped the boat. The water inside our little vessel was almost at a level with the water outside. In a state of panic we started to bail by splashing the water out with our hands, which at least gave us time to collect our scattered wits and look about us. After the frenzy of the waterspout, the sea was completely calm. About us floated sea-weed and dead fish. Not even a swell disturbed the icy quietness of the sea’s surface. Apart from ourselves and the sea-water, our boat appeared to contain nothing. The sails and yards had disappeared. The oars too had gone, and so had all of our provisions. I took off my shirt and using it between us like a scoop, we began to lower the water level perceptibly.

  We had no time to consider our future. We considered only the task of the moment, which was to cast the water from the boat. As it dropped some blessings were slowly revealed. By some freak of fortune, our jib was still with us. Not in the boat, it was true, but by some lucky chance the sheet had become neatly wrapped around a thwart and it was now in the water alongside. A battered pan had been jammed into the stern, and that would help with the bailing. In the bow was a coconut, apparently wearing my old straw hat. Our axe and other tools were lying in the bottom of the boat. We had nothing else. Food and especially drink were going to be a problem.

  We hoisted the jib and waited for the fitful breeze to move us on but by mid-morning it had dwindled to nothing, leaving our little boat pinned to the flat calm of the sea by a fierce sun overhead. The heat of the sun became oppressive and it was borne in on us that, without water, we could not hope to survive many days in these conditions.

  We immediately started to take what steps we could. Caspar wished to fashion a spear and stood in the bows searching for a suitable shaft. In time he spotted a cane drifting a short way off, and we paddled using our hands and arms towards it. It was short and water-logged but by tying to it the blade of our bradawl, Caspar had a serviceable spear and hung over the bow looking for fish. I managed to pry a small nail from an old patch in the stern of the boat and fashioned from it a fishing hook. With a line made by unravelling my hat-band I dipped unsuccessfully for fish. The tranquillity that comes with fishing calmed us after the terror of the morning.

  The sun sank into a fiery sea after a dry and hungry day. We had had no luck at our fishing and we lay down to sleep wrapped in our own thoughts. The next day brought the same unforgiving calm. We rigged the jib to give a little shade, and again we looked for food from the deep, without success. The day passed very slowly and we welcomed the coolness of the night. Our third day dawned and the sun sprang from the sea to begin its slow torment.

  As the fierce heat of the day grew to its peak, we opened our coconut. What a blessed elixir it contained. True milk and honey slipped down our parched throats as we drank sip by sip, turn and turn about. We resolved not to break open the drained nut until the morrow. Caspar had given up trying to fish and sat in the bottom of the boat staring at nothing. His lowness bore me down too.

  Already, after only three days, we were in a very bad way and suffering acutely from the sun. Although we dashed water over our heads, we seemed to get no relief, and we knew the drinking of sea-water would be fatal. We were crusted with salt and our lips were dry and cracked. It may surprise you that we were in such an extreme case so quickly, but the lack of water can kill rapidly. And any depression of the spirit will only accelerate the process.

  The sun rose on a fourth day of misery. To celebrate it we opened the coconut and painfully ate our share of the flesh. Still no breath of wind brought relief. We were near to resigning ourselves to death, and Caspar had stretched out in the bottom of the boat, apparently unable to stay awake.

  During the afternoon he became restless in his sleep, muttering and sighing. I sat in the stern, crushed by the unfairness of Providence. Soon Caspar would die, and then I would surely follow. If I could have found tears, I would have wept. The bronze sun fell i
nto the sea, ending another day. In my extremity I prayed to God and then slept.

  I was woken by rain. The stars had clouded over, there was a breeze, and tropical rain storm had started to fall. Soon the downpour was hissing into the sea around us. The cold water stirred Caspar, but he was already too weak to assist in my efforts to channel water off the jib and into our pan. I wasted precious moments pouring a quart of water into Caspar, and went back to filling our pan and drinking as much as I could of the overflow. As the storm started to die away, I had a full pan and a full stomach. In fact the effect of so much water after the drought gave me a cramp in my innards and I could only curl up and suffer.

  It seemed, however, that other beings had been awakened by the rain. About us there were flurries in the water. Beneath its black surface, a struggle for life was taking place as silver prey fought to escape from their hunter. As I sat up to watch, something cold and alive struck me violently in the chest. A fish like a mullet fell from me into the bottom of the boat. For the space of two seconds we were under a silver arch as fish leapt from the water in a frenzy. Most flew over our boat in an arrow’s curve. Some were cut short by slapping against the side. I instinctively reached out to catch them but I might as well have reached to the moon in a village pond. My hands passed through them as if through an illusion and the silver shower had gone. The sea lay quiet again, but slapping in the bottom of our boat were seven fat and bountiful fish.