Where Gold Lies

by Jacqueline George

  This was Mr. Bewley, a severe and apparently upright man of business. He wasted no time before questioning me. “What’s your name, boy? And where are the others?”

  I gave my name and told of Caspar waiting with the boat. “And Mr. Morgan? Where would he be?” Bewley obviously had our full story.

  “Dead. He died of a poisoned leg. He didn’t come.”

  “No. I suppose he didn’t. And now you want me to give you a shirt before you go and visit Mr. and Mrs. Gold, is that right?”

  I looked down at the remnants of my shirt, scarcely enough to cover my back. There was something about Mr. Bewley’s assumption of superiority that annoyed me. “Yes. I want a shirt. Do you have a good cotton one?”

  Aware that he had pricked me, he laughed. “Certainly we do, a good cotton shirt, and cheap enough too.” He opened the window and called for Clem.

  “Clem will get you fitted up, and Mr. Gold’s credit is good. Now, I’ll have him show you the boatyard to leave your boat. Then he’ll drive you to Mr. Gold’s place, but you’ll have to walk the last mile or so.”

  I left Bewley’s wearing a new shirt and carrying another for Caspar, both paid for with my silver. I stood on the quayside looking down in surprise, for our little boat was empty. Clem, the bent little old man who would convey us to Long John, soon heard from one of the loafers on the wharf that Caspar had gone off in the Naval launch but that he had “written something on the seat,”. I jumped down to the boat and found in charcoal the following note.

  Dear Dick,

  I have gone to join the big ship. I do not want to go back to the old trade, and I hope you will come too,

  Your Friend Caspar

  Caspar must have been tired of wandering and I believe he was hankering for a home. I looked across the water at the frigate, deadly but beautiful. Men were working all over her—in the rigging, on the deck, on stages over her sides. Caspar would certainly not be short of companions. Pretty as she looked, she was not the ship for me. I could get along very well without a bo’sun’s cane to start me. It was a sad thing to lose my last comrade, but I would not join him.

  Clem seated himself at the tiller and I rowed him round to the boatyard, one of Mr. Bewley’s enterprises that built and repaired small coasters. Here we left the trusty little boat that had brought me so far, and set off for Mr. Bewley’s stables. Clem turned out to be a very dashing whip and soon spun me off through the town and into the gardens beyond. The dusty road dived into the shadows of the coconut plantations interspersed with patches of forest and occasional villages of grass houses. Clem let the horses walk and we had a very comfortable journey. After some miles the road climbed a little way off the coastal flats and started to wind this way and then that through fields of giant grass. This was sugar cane, the gold mine of the rich planters. Sugar cane is indeed a grass, but with a heavy fibrous stem where the plant stores its sugar. This stem, or cane, is an inch or more in thickness and will grow higher than a man. We cut a ripe one and chewed the sugary sap out of short lengths as we went along.

  The road wound gently down through more coconuts as we again approached the sea. Clem drew the horses up. “Here, now. Take the path there, all the way down to the beach. Keep the sea on your right hand and walk along the beach. You’ll pass some rocks and then there’ll be a long, long strand with a big house set back a bit. That’s where you’re going. You can’t mistake it. It’s alone and the gardens come right down to the sea.” As I started down the path I heard him touch the horses into a trot.

  It was easy to feel light-hearted that day, notwithstanding Caspar’s sudden departure. The sea gently beat on the strand beside me, and the light afternoon breeze kept any biting insects away. From the coconut plantation I had shade and there was an easy path of beaten earth to guide me. Believe me, those islands beaches must be the prettiest, pleasantest places on earth, a fore-taste of Paradise.

  My path led to a low, rocky headland two miles or more away. I hurried on, eager to see Long John again and give him my news. I was imagining how I would string my tale together when the most remarkable thing occurred, the most remarkable in my life before or since. My path drew near to the rocks and turned inland to pass behind them. As it returned towards the sea, I walked through dense natural undergrowth, in the deep shadow of the forest. I could hear the sea, and above it childish voices at play. The shadow was dispelled at the edge of the beach and there, alone on the sand, a picture framed by the trees and with the blue sea beyond, sat the most beautiful girl in the world.

  She was watching some children in the water, Creole children, and combing her long black hair that fell in waves almost to the sand. She wore a piece of brightly coloured material wrapped around her, leaving her arms and shoulders bare. Somehow conscious that she was being watched, she turned and far from starting up in fright, she smiled. How shall I describe her? Delicate features, mantled by the waves of her black hair. Sharp, sparkling eyes drawn tight by her wide smile. White, white teeth. No, it is no good. My pen will not carry the picture onto the paper.

  I found myself reaching to remove a hat I was not wearing and mumbling “Good morning,” like a shepherd suddenly brought before the Queen of England. She giggled at me, and I sidled rapidly off along the path feeling I had been struck by lightning.

  Another corner, and a long white beach opened up before me. A fair distance along it there was a break in the trees and, as Clem had described it, a large house set back from the beach. There were lawns of short grass leading up to it, and very old, very tall palms stood scattered around. The house was built of wooden boards painted white, and carried on short stumps to aid in the circulation of the breeze and to discourage creeping pests. It was large and low, one storey high, with a steep thatched roof. A deep shaded verandah ran all around and on it sat the Lord of the Manor, Long John Silver himself.

  I ran up the steps to a joyful greeting. Long John was a study in relaxed elegance—fawn breeches with silver buckles, silk stocking, and a loose muslin shirt. He was far removed from anyone’s picture of a pirate captain. He sat me down and laughed off my questions about the grandeur of his surroundings. “Just a little place I was keeping up for when I’m done with the sea.” That was all the explanation he would give. He had heard of our finding the silver from Doctor Livesey and wanted to know more. He was also keen to hear about my journey, and about Chips and Caspar.

  Chips he dismissed as a bit old and a little unlucky, no help for it. Caspar was another matter. “There’s only two of you know about the silver,” he said, “and who’s to say that Caspar won’t let out the story? He’s got silver about him and they’ll be asking him where it came from, sure as daylight. His mates will have the story out of him eventually, then that old Captain’ll hear, and I’ll lay to it that he’ll find some excuse to put in and water or something-like, and stumble over it all accidental. We’d better ship out smartish or we shall be too late.” He laughed. “Here you are, hardly set foot on dry land and I’m shipping you off again. No. That won’t do. You’ll stop here for maybe a week while I get everything ready.”

  Just at that moment, Sally came onto the verandah bearing a tray with glasses of lime juice. “Welcome, Dick, welcome!” She drew up a chair and waved me back into mine. “Did you have a good trip?” I was taken aback. Not only Long John fitted into these opulent surroundings but Sally too was every inch a lady. These were her natural surroundings and she was at home.

  “Why did you walk along the beach? You would have saved yourself a long walk if you had come on with Clem.”

  Long John coughed and looked embarrassed. “That’s just Bewley’s way, my dear. Clem came on ahead to make sure everything was ready.”

  “Stupid man!” Sally muttered and sipped her lime juice. “Will you be staying long?”

  Long John answered for me. “I think we’ll be taking a little trip, my dear. About a week or two, starting next week.”

  “Oh, no!” Sally was cross. “You’ve only been back a we
ek! And it’s so boring when you’re not here.” She flung herself back in her chair and stared at the ceiling in silence.

  “Come on, Sally. Don’t take on so. We’ll only be gone for a few days. You’ll hardly notice it.”

  But Sally would not be mollified. “Well, if you must go, I suppose I shall just have to be patient.” She strutted off into the house, showing very little likelihood of being so.

  Long John looked flustered. “Well now. I shall just have to talk her round to it. She’ll like the idea better when she hears of the silver. Tell me about it. How much was there?”

  He listened carefully to my story, asking questions here and there. He approved of our burying our old shipmates and wished them well. He congratulated me on our voyage and especially on our lucky escape from the waterspout. “You were almost done for there, my lad. Almost joined the fishes. Now what did Caspar go running off like that for? After being so lucky, an’ all.”

  I explained I thought it had more to do with finding a new ship and a home than anything else. “Oh, well. He’ll have that, surely. The Royal Navy will take good care of him, when they aren’t flogging him or letting the Spaniards blow him up.

  “Now then, we shall have to find you a place to sleep. And some clothes, I suppose. Clem left your spare shirt that you’d forgotten. I don’t suppose you have anything else, no? No matter, we don’t shift our clothes for dinner here. I don’t hold with that sort of foolishness. Better to be what you are than to pretend to be something else, that’s what I say.”

  I returned to the verandah as the sun was falling into the sea. I was freshly washed, and wearing my clean shirt and borrowed breeches. “Well, now! Ain’t you a sight!” Long John was stretched back in his chair. “Here, sit down and have some punch.” The punch was made of fruit juice and rum, and slipped down very sweetly.

  We watched in silence as the last rim of the sun slipped away. As the tropic night fell, Long John sighed. “This is the life for me, Dick my lad. I’m home for keeps. Hanging up my oil-skins and turning into a farmer. I’ve no call to go running around the sea at my age.”

  I laughed at him. “You’ll never leave the sea. What are you going to do with yourself? You’ve already said we’ll be sailing again next week.”

  “Now that’s true. And so we shall. But it’s the last time. Look, I don’t have so much as a jolly boat, not even to do a spot of fishing. I’ll have to borrow one for this trip. No, when I get back, I’m staying on land. This wooden leg of mine will sprout leaves before I go to sea again.”

  I could hear a female voice approaching singing a hymn familiar in words but strangely sung. “Dinner will be ready soon, Mr. John.” called the owner of the voice from the doorway, presumably a Creole servant from her sing-song accent. “I’m just going to light the candles.”

  “Well enough, Mary. We’ll come along now. Come on, Dick, and bring your punch with you. Sally will have me sit down and eat properly at least once a day.”

  The dining room was small, with windows opening onto the verandah. The white tablecloth and the candlelight glinting off the service made for a regal appearance. The elegance of the setting was torn apart by the entry of the food, borne by Sally and the cook. It was a pepper-pot with rice, typical of Sally’s cooking. Diced meat in a fiery red sauce ladled onto a bed of rice, it had a smell of exquisite richness.

  “Sit down, Dick,” she said, her recent upset apparently forgotten. “Sit down and I’ll serve you. Where’s Isabel? Maria, go and call Isabel.”

  No sooner had the cook left the room than there appeared standing in the doorway—the girl from the beach! I stopped with my glass halfway to my lips. Gone was the wild beauty from the sea-shore and in her place was a fashionable young lady in a dress of white lace. Her hair was done up into a top-knot, making her elegant neck seem even longer. She had no jewellery save small gold earrings, and needed none. She glided into the room in silence until her mother caught sight of her.

  “Look at the fine lady!” said Sally with approval.

  “Oh, Mother!” Isabel’s facade vanished like smoke, and she was a girl again.

  “Come on, girl, sit down. There, next to Dick. Dick, this is Isabel. Do you remember her? Dick is one of your father’s friends.”

  “I’ve seen you before,” I blundered. “You were on the American Providence when we all sailed to Bristol. But you were only a girl then.”

  Long John laughed at me. “That was not so much over a year ago, Dick. Not so much at all. Hasn’t she come on well? She’s a proper woman now, just like her mother.”

  It takes a great deal of patience to put up with comments like that from your parents, but Isabel managed to keep her balance then and throughout the meal.

  Treasure Hunting Again

  There now started a very happy period in my life. Long John’s sugar plantation lay free for me to roam in, and Isabel was the most delightful guide. While Long John went to town to make the arrangements for our trip, she (with a servant for propriety’s sake) led me to every corner of the estate, and showed me every local beauty spot. We visited the field workers in their gangs and accompanied their children to the beach. We rode up the coast to visit friends or we paddled a canoe over the glass world of the reefs. Sally seemed happy to leave Isabel in my hands and made sure only that we returned early enough for dinner.

  Isabel made a lively companion and seemed to enjoy her position as my guide. She was completely charming when she chose to be, and I suppose she led me around by the nose. After all, I was only a helpless youth and her hold over me increased daily. In her careless racing way, she seemed to accept that as normal. However, she made no gesture of affection towards me.

  I suppose it was some four or five days after I had arrived that we attended the wedding celebrations of one of the chambermaids. At Sally’s insistence, an Irish priest came from town and the service took place in the open near the workers’ cabins. It was a good service that every living thing on the estate attended, right down to the scrawny chickens. The workers, mostly Negroes, were enthusiastic choristers and their singing was a real, joyful celebration before God. Isabel and I stood in the congregation watching the bride and groom being joined together. I do not know what she was thinking about, but to my surprise, I found my thoughts about her had advanced very far indeed. I had fallen in love for the first and only time in my life.

  A dinner followed the wedding, and then dancing to the wild, wild beat of the Negro drums. Everybody danced and even Long John stood at the edge of the circle tapping his toes and clapping out the rhythm. I was induced to dance with a line of field hands making movements that had to do (I think) with warriors fighting in their native continent.

  As I stood enjoying the spectacle, Isabel brought a leg of chicken and offered it to me with a smile. She looked so beautiful that my heart turned upside down, and turned again when she whispered, “Go down to the beach and wait for me.”

  Suddenly I felt as out of place as a bull in a church. I am sure my efforts to dissimulate were laughable, and it was fortunate that everyone was so occupied. I strolled to the edge of the firelight and paused to see if anyone was watching. Nobody seemed to have noticed so I slipped away and hurried to the beach.

  On the short grass behind the beach I sat looking out over the sea. The night was still, and the sparkling silver road to the full moon stretched smooth away from me. The party behind the house sounded as if from the far distance.

  With the slightest rustle Isabel appeared at my side, giving me her hand. “Come over here.” Her hand felt small, warm and dry. We moved to the shadows of a young palm where we stood out of sight of the house, still holding hands. My heart raced within me and I did not what to do, or what to expect.

  She turned to face me. “Dick, do you like me?” I am sure I mumbled something about my feelings for her, for she smiled and squeezed my hand. “Wait here a while before you go back,” she said, and raced off.

  I was storm-tossed and in a turmoil. I did go b
ack to the party and wandered around the dancers without joining in, but all the time my spirit flew elsewhere. I could still feel the pressure of her hand as she left, and I was racked with uncertainty as to what her behaviour signified. Was she fond of me or not? You may be sure I slept little that night.

  Next morning early Sally took her daughter to town, and I was left to mope about the estate by myself. Long John did not return that day and I dined alone. He appeared about noon of the next day. He strode into the dining room and shouted for luncheon. “I’ve got something for you, Dick my lad. Just let me get some vittles and we’ll go and have a look at her.”

  Long John had brought the boat in which we would travel back to the island. It was tied up in the small creek that served the estate as a port, and field hands were busy getting water and other essentials aboard. I suppose the boat was of the type known as a ketch because it had two masts as a ketch should. However she looked very small, not over thirty feet in length, and the mizzen mast looked a very stumpy affair. She had obviously been built for work rather than speed.

  “So, Dick. I’ll be captain and you’ll be mate. What do you think of that?”

  I was thinking that even a little boat would sail more smoothly with a bit of a crew on board and asked if we might take a couple of boys with us. They would come in handy to help with the silver if nothing else. But Long John would have nothing of it. “I don’t want no one from round here knowing what’s afoot, Dick. Or we might wake up one fine morning with our throats cut. We sail tomorrow and maybe we’ll pick up a couple of hands from Domingo.”

  The boat had been borrowed or hired from Bewley, and had previously been used as a coaster. The hold was in ballast only, though the smell made it evident that the last cargo had been dried fish. I set about a real mate’s duties of rousing out the sails, knotting and splicing, stowing the victuals and generally getting to know where everything was. Dark had come before I felt anything like ready to sail. Isabel had not returned, and it seemed I would sail without seeing her. I comforted myself that we would not be away long.