With that he pocketed his pipe and went below, leaving me with plenty to think about. You may believe that I had no difficulty staying awake for the rest of that watch.
Long John said nothing more when he came on deck to relieve me, or next morning. I noted that Sally and he seemed to be spending the day below decks, leaving us young people to talk. How difficult it was to bring the conversation round to what I had in mind! Isabel would talk about the flying fish, the clouds, the sails, trying to steer, anything but the future. It was not until the afternoon that I managed to reach the question. I told her I was going to Bristol to work for her father and asked if she would come with me. She did not say yes, but she did not say no either. Instead she asked me where I would be living and would I keep a horse. She even wished that I might enjoy my new position. In the end I had to ask her again, this time making sure I did not omit to tell her I loved her and wanted her for my wife. That seemed to do the trick for she kissed me and ran off to tell her mother.
In no time at all, Sally and Long John came on deck, smiling and congratulating us. The ladies went below to cook a special meal and us men sat down for a serious talk.
I am not sure how Long John contrived to land the silver safely. We put him ashore near Port Domingo one evening and then stood off-shore, so we lay out of sight all the next day. When we returned for him that evening, he met me on the strand and ordered us to Bewley’s boat yard as fast as we could go. He went off to supervise the arrangements. When we pulled up to the yard we were met by Bewley himself and a couple of Negroes with a wagon. Our cargo was soon unloaded and Long John went off with Bewley into the dark. The rest of us slept on board.
I did not return to the house at that time. Instead, I had to take up the office of clerk in Bewley’s chandlery. To my surprise, I liked the work although I felt very green, and I am sure my mistakes were a sorry trial to my tutors. Every Sunday after church (attended with the rest of the Bewley household), I was free to take a pony to visit Isabel and stay for supper.
It was a happy way to live. Plenty to do and good things on the horizon. We were to be married in church by Pastor Bruno who lived on one of the largest plantations. Pastor Bruno was a silver-haired old man who had come to the islands many years before from Switzerland. People said that an unfortunate love affair had driven the young Bruno away but, whatever the reason, he had fetched up there and stayed. He did what he could to make sure we approached marriage in the correct spirit, but he was wise enough not to fight too hard against the tide.
Never in my life had I been so happy. Isabel filled my waking thoughts almost to the exclusion of my work. We walked together on the grass in front of her house watching the sun set and her beauty seemed to rival it. We were both very young and lived life at the gallop.
Everything I have told you in the past of your mother and our wedding is true. It was a very brilliant affair, not too grand but grand enough for the governor and his wife to attend. All classes of person came and we had a feast in the open air in front of the house. We had presents and best wishes from everyone, and the music and dancing went on long after midnight.
Mr. Bewley eventually released me from his office able to count and figure fairly well. I was at least conversant with the ledgers and files that accountants love to hide behind. Now we had two weeks before we sailed for England, a time that passed like the wind. The last time we saw your grandparents, they were waving to us from a small boat as our ship gathered way and put Port Domingo astern. Their separation put a heavy grief on us, for they were both people I loved, in spite of your grandfather’s sinful past. If we had only known what waited for us, we would surely have stayed with them.
We were passengers on the merchant ship Saint George, laden with sugar, tobacco and rum, and bound for Bristol. Tobias Poynter was the captain of her and proud to be so, for she was a tidy ship and well cared for. Captain Poynter was not an outgoing man—few captains are when they are aboard their ships—but he was polite enough to us. He was also to be a great support in our hour of need.
We were not the only passengers. There was a naval clerk called Mercer with his wife; Mrs. Hopkins, a widow with two children; and to our surprise and delight, Pastor Bruno. What had drawn him out of his little cottage by the church? He was getting old, he explained, too old to be riding around his extensive parish. True, Mr. Bonnington (who owned his church) had provided a trap and a groom to get him about, but what the congregation really needed was a younger man. One had come from England, and Pastor Bruno had decided to leave for a while to give the people a chance to get used to him. He wanted to return to Switzerland, and maybe he would stay there if his brother still lived.
The Pastor was in a talkative mood that afternoon. He was full of the mountains of his home, and the foods to be found there, the special scents of the meadows and the friendliness of the people. It all seemed very foreign to us.
He did not dine with the rest of the passengers. Perhaps the motion of the ship had upset him. Isabel and I changed our clothes and went to the galley to eat. She looked very beautiful in her new clothes, and was light of heart and laughing. We pushed open the door. Here started the trail of disaster that was to overtake us. I was immediately aware from the looks that we received that we were not welcome. Mrs. Hopkins stole a glance at us and then looked down, gathering her children to her. Mr. Mercer was looking at nothing, trying to dissociate himself from the impending storm. Mrs. Mercer was the foreman.
I am still unable to forgive that woman, even after all these years. She had a fat pork-pie face with a round red nose. Hard eyes stared at us. “I’m not going to sit here and eat my food with any coloured pirate’s brat. Take her away!”
I was thunderstruck. What had we done to deserve such hatred? Before I could frame a reply, Isabel ran from the room. I found her in our cabin weeping bitterly. Although the cook’s boy brought our meal after us, she refused to eat or be comforted. I sat by her as she cried herself to sleep.
Later that evening Captain Poynter called me to his cabin. He looked ill at ease, troubled by what he had to say. “I have a problem with you, Mr. Brown. Come and sit down.”
We sat side by side on his cot and he lowered his voice to a whisper (there is no more public place than a ship). “The passengers want you put in irons. But this is my ship, d--- the woman, and I’ll do things my way.” He contemplated the backs of his hands. “You understand that I have to do something. We’re going to Bristol, my lad, and if we arrive with all these tales about, you’ll be lodging in prison. There’s nothing I can do about that. I’ll help any way I can, mind. No, don’t thank me. It’s only right and anyway, Long John Silver would have me strung up if I did any less.”
My stomach had fallen to my boots. I had become so accustomed to the thought of our wealth, and of living well in fine houses, that I had ceased to think about how I had come by my money. Captain Poynter was reminding me that pirates are not well loved in England. What were we to do? We could not leave the ship now, and it was clear that Mrs. Mercer would not let us land in Bristol unharmed. It might have been different if we had had anyone in England to speak for us, but as things stood, the very best I could hope for was a long stay in prison while the authorities sought for information against us. And the worst possibility I dared not contemplate.
“Tell me, boy, what have you got on board with you? Do you have any gold? Tell me straight now, for I’m trying to help you. If the Excise open your boxes and find them stuffed full of treasure, you’ll be past saving and that’s for certain.”
“No. We’ve nothing at all like that. Just Isabel’s clothes and our presents.”
“Good. That’s one thing for you. Now here’s the best I can do for you both. Before we get out of the islands, I’m going to maroon you. No, hear me out before you speak. I’ll put you ashore on some island or other, give you plenty of supplies and some tools. As soon as I get into Bristol I’ll send word to Long John, so all you’ll have to do is survive for maybe half a
year or so before he comes for you. Once we’re on our way, I’ll have the crew rouse up your boxes and we’ll open them on deck. When that old vulture sees there’s nothing untoward in them, I’ll seal them up again and leave them in Bristol. You’ve got an agent there, I suppose. Mrs. Skinflint won’t be saying a word about you because I shall be telling everyone that we made a mistake putting you off. Then you can turn up in Bristol later and claim your things.
“There. How does that all sound to you?”
It sounded very well to me. Anything that would get Isabel off the Saint George sounded good, and I thanked him.
“I shall have to say some harsh words to you as you go, but that’ll just be for show. You’ll have to put me square with your wife. It’s for her own good.” He shook my hand and I hastened back to our cabin.
Marooned Again
We followed the bo’sun into the sunlight and found the deck crowded with crew and passengers. Everyone had come to see us marooned. Isabel struggled with her skirts as she clambered over the rail and down the ship’s side into the waiting boat. Our baggage was passed down after her and then I too mounted the rail. As I dropped out of sight the last person I saw was Mrs. Mercer, arms folded and a satisfied, self-righteous expression on her fleshy face.
Just as we went to push off, the sounds of a commotion on deck reached us. Voices were raised in an argument that was finally cut short by the Captain.
“Let us go!” hissed Isabel, eager to put behind her the ship and the people who had rejected us. “Please, let us go now.”
But the bo’sun had stood up and was calling out. Then the hubbub died down and we heard the Captain’s voice giving orders. A sailor passed a brown leather bag down to us and then Pastor Bruno appeared, helped by strong arms over the rail and down the side. He was red-faced and panting from exertion.
“Good morning to you both.” He beamed at us. “I’ve come to share your kingdom, if you will permit me.”
“You can’t sit there, Your Reverence,” explained the bo’sun, “That’s my place. You sit in the bow there to level us out and I shall row very careful.” He handed the old man and his bag over the thwarts into the bow and gently pushed off.
It was only now, with the unpleasantness of the ship behind us, that Isabel and I looked ahead to island on which we would be deserted. There, behind the bo’sun’s straining back, lay The Island. The Treasure Island — again.
I was stunned. Of all the islands we might have been brought to, we were to be stranded back at the site of the bloody crimes I have described to you. Divine Providence had ensured that I would not escape from my deeds, and I would have time in plenty to contemplate my sins. I squeezed Isabel’s hand and whispered to her to say nothing.
The bo’sun and I unloaded our luggage onto the beach. The Captain had ensured we would be well provided for. Food, tools, fishing line, even a musket and powder had been added to our things. We would at least survive but we felt very down-hearted as we watched the little boat hauled aboard the Saint George. Soon she spread her sails, and we were rapidly left alone.
Pastor Bruno was sitting on his case, poking at the sand with his stick. “I believe I shall like your little kingdom. What will you call it?”
“Pastor, why did you come? They are right, you know. Long John and I are not good men.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Who is a good man? Of course, I know he’s an old sinner. And you too, I’ve no doubt. But I don’t like to see people setting themselves up as judge and jury. Especially when they are going to be cruel to my Isabel. So when they would not listen, I took my bag from my cabin and came to join you.”
Isabel flew to him and embraced him, tears flowing down her cheeks. “What are we going to do? What will we live on?”
The old man patted her shoulder. “There, there, my dear. Don’t upset yourself. You’ve got a fine young husband, and he is going to tell us where we shall sleep tonight. After that, why, we shall take things as they come, day by day.”
He was right, of course. The great necessity in a situation like that is to stop moping and get to work. Things are never quite as bad as they seem, and once you are busy doing something, you start to see the good points too.
We picked up what we could and headed for the cottage. The path, being in the shade of the trees, was still open, but the cottage and its garden had suffered badly for the lack of a regular tenant. The garden ran wild and the fence had been broken by wild pigs coming to root in the vegetable patch. The cottage itself needed a good clean, and probably new thatch as well. It did not look a suitable home for a young bride.
Isabel told me later how low she had felt at the sight of the cottage. The full weight of our loneliness pressed her down but, rather than cry, she dropped her bag outside the door and went looking for palm fronds to make a temporary brush. The Pastor stayed with her and I returned to the beach for more of our possessions.
By the time I had returned with the first load, a fire had been lit on the hearth and Isabel had fetched a tin of water to boil. By my second return she had swept the floor out and a meal of coffee and ship’s biscuits waited for me in the shadow of the verandah. We ate in silence for the most part, overwhelmed by our surroundings and with the list of things to be done immediately piling up in our heads.
The very first requirement was to patch the roof. The heavy thunderstorms of those parts come at any time of year and on very short notice. In truth the roof needed to be completely recovered with palm fronds but for the moment I made miniature sheaves by stripping fronds with my knife and tucked the sheaves into the damaged areas. While I worked alone, Isabel took the Pastor to the beach to fish for supper, something she declared she knew how to do.
The fish she caught tasted good, and our stomachs at least felt content that night. As we sat in the fire’s glow, the pastor fell to questioning gently until I surrendered the whole history of my doings with the treasure, much as I have set it down for you. He seemed interested in the tale rather than disapproving of it and gave no word of censure.
Next morning we threw ourselves into the tasks our difficult situation demanded of us. Isabel and I being youthful and resilient had slept well, but the Pastor rose stiff and groaning. A more comfortable pallet would be a necessity for him. I must urgently repair the garden fence so the vegetable patch could be set to rights. We needed to secure a regular supply of vegetables for the future, so I set myself to this task first.
Ben Gunn had not been a rich man during his sojourn on the island. It is true that he had been left some supplies but he had little in the way of seeds, so his vegetable garden looked very limited. Neglect and the ravages of the pigs had left little to cultivate but we did find some small tapioca plants and a clump of seedlings that promised to develop into pumpkins or melons. We also had from the ship two different classes of beans.
It was now that the Pastor produced a remarkable gift from his brown bag. He had been taking to his home country a collection of seeds from his favourite plants. He had little envelopes containing the seeds of several flowers that we set aside for the future when we might have leisure for such things. He also had seeds of vegetables rare in Europe. He had Indian corn, tomatoes, peppers and tobacco. These were worth far more than gold to us. We used only a small part of his supply, and that with great care. Our labours in the garden lasted until the fourth day when I had freedom to start improving our house.
On the fifth day we were prevented from working, not by any natural event but by the Pastor. It was the Sabbath and he not only insisted on our resting but also held a short service. We got down on our knees and thanked God for his gifts. I admit my rebellious heart found time to wish that He had not found it necessary to bring us to such a pass. However, in difficult times it is easy to turn to the Almighty and I prayed fervently for help.
So commenced our long period of captivity. After the first rush of repairing and providing, life was not so hard. At least we were warm and dry, and with very little effort
the sea provided sustenance. We spent a great deal of our time standing up to our knees in the warm sea fishing for supper. I also spent long periods on the peak of the island, beside a beacon I had built. I was waiting for a passing ship, but I suffered many fruitless days before I saw even a distant passing sail. Eventually, after firing my beacon twice to no effect, this vigil became too disheartening and I became more and more reluctant to make to long climb up to my lonely station. Other duties seemed more urgent and much more interesting.
As time passed on, life began to seem more acceptable to us. It was not so much that things had changed or that our work had made us more comfortable in our little home, but rather that we felt more secure in our island kingdom. Our efforts in the garden had begun to bear fruit surprisingly quickly and we found we increasingly had time to spare. We spent it exploring the island or making small items which were not necessities but which made life more civilised.
We had little to exercise our intellects, so the Pastor took to reading to us from his Bible in the late afternoon before the light went. Every day he would read a little from the Old Testament. After giving us some familiar old tale, he would turn to the New Testament that he was working through chapter by chapter. We all grew to value these quiet interludes.
I do not think your mother studied what was being read in the literal sense. She would continue quietly working at the evening meal, chopping vegetables or stirring the pot, her mind drifting with the flow of glorious words. For my part, I was surprised how much had remained of what I had heard in church as a boy. Now as an adult and with the Pastor’s discussions after the light had failed, it was inevitable that I should fall to thinking deeply of what I heard, and compare its gentle message with the violent and ignorant life I had led.
Where Gold Lies Page 19