Cocos Gold

by Ralph Hammond Innes

  The others began to trek on across the scree. But the man who had suggested carrying Sax hesitated. “Give him your water bottle,” The Rigger suggested. The man looked down at his injured comrade and then turned abruptly and followed the others. The Rigger laughed.

  “Get down to Chatham Bay, Sax,” he said. “We’ll pick you up there. And don’t get eaten by the land crabs.” And still laughing, he followed the others. I watched them as they wound like a white snake in single file across the sun-brittle shale. I was right above them and behind me was piled up the remaining mass of the landslide. If I could have pulled it down over myself and them, I think I would have, for the sight of them had scared me badly. Twice the poor wretch they had left tried to follow them, but each time his leg collapsed under his weight. Finally he crawled into a patch of shade and lay still.

  I waited for what seemed hours, listening to the progress of The Rigger and his party as they worked their way round the landslide and up the jungle-covered hillside. At last all sound of them was lost in the hum of insect life. I crawled along the perilous creeper ledge. It was a frightful place. At times I was suspended right over the edge of the precipice, the creeper bending under my weight. But finally sheer rock gave place to a steep slope. I scree-walked part of this and then fell into a palm tree that had been buried in the landslide and now grew with its top just above the surface of the ground. I reached the bottom of the scree and turned left, skirting the edge of the jungle till I came to the spot where Sax was lying, a canvas bag at his side and his leg twisted under him, a heavy swollen mass of red flesh.

  He was in the shade of a laurel, moaning softly to himself. Large white ants crawled over his face. He didn’t notice me until I was standing right over him. Then he started up. “Keverne!” he said. He was very white and covered with sweat. The ants were sucking the blood from a cut on his hand. “Where’s the captain? I was crazy. I should never have gone with them. I didn’t know what I was doing, honest I didn’t. And now they’ve left me here to rot in the heat.” It all came out in a rush of fear and anger. “Where’s the captain?” he asked again.

  “Somewhere up there,” I answered, nodding to the hillside. “What happened on board the ship?” I asked him. “Has the mate joined the mutiny?”

  “I don’t think so.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes. “He’s doing what they tell him, that’s all I know. But I didn’t realize what they were up to.” His eyes narrowed. “Will the captain take me back, do you think? Will he forget I went back to the ship with ’em? They’re nothing but gangsters,” he added savagely. “Killers, too.”

  “Killers?” I looked at him closely. His unshaven face was white under the sweat. “What happened when you took the ship?”

  “They killed the chief engineer. Danner worked the engines and the mate steered. That’s how we came round into Chatham Bay. The Rigger—and if ever there was a coldblooded devil, it’s him—The Rigger said the map was in the captain’s safe. But it wasn’t. And it wasn’t in his cabin either. We spent all last night searching for the damned thing. And in the morning he issues arms and we come ashore to get hold of you. Funny thing. Here am I left to die in the sun while they go on up to The Lookout to get you. And you come to me. That’s funny, that is.” And he began to laugh, a high-pitched, hysterical croak.

  But I wasn’t really listening. Something about the formation of the ground round me had caught my attention and I stared at the cliff of rock over which I had so nearly fallen. It was cement-white in the sun and rose like a dazzling wall from the scree at the foot of which I was standing. Above it, and in places almost overhanging it, was the upper slope of the landslide, lipping the top as though ready at a sound to thunder down upon us. I was thinking of Irwin’s directions: “Landslide below and above—Cave door in the face of cliff. Here you will find the treasure.” Was it possible that the mutineers had actually paused right in front of the entrance to the treasure cave? I could have burst out laughing had I not been so exhausted with the heat. The more I looked at the place, the more convinced I became that I had stumbled by chance on the very spot Irwin had described. There surely couldn’t be two such places on Cocos Island. I looked about me at the desolation of torn rock and scree over which the jungle was slowly creeping and I knew I was right.

  I looked down at Sax. He was staring up at me, his eyes fever-bright. Something in my own eyes must have communicated itself to him. He suddenly lunged forward and grabbed me by the foot. In an instant he had pulled me down and had my arm twisted behind my back. “This is the spot, ain’t it?” he hissed. “Come on, tell me the truth. Where is it?”

  He was bearing on my arm with all his weight and I squirmed with the pain. “Where is it?” he repeated. “Where is it?” A white rime of dried-up saliva showed at the corners of his cracked lips. His eyes gleamed with that excited lust I had come to fear. “A door, up there in the cliff—is that it?”

  I nodded dumbly. The pain in my arm was unbearable. I cried out and his rough hand clamped down on my mouth. “Shut up, d’you hear? Shut up! The captain’s up there on The Lookout, is he?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “And you’re alone?”

  I nodded.

  He laughed. It was a crazy, exultant sound. He peered quickly round, eyes squinting against the dazzle of the light. “Scree’s quite new here. Like a landslide covered the whole rock face. That would explain why no one’s been able to find the treasure since Boag and Keating were here. And now the lower part of the landslide’s settled and exposed the rock face again.” He suddenly let me go and scrambled to his feet. “By God, boy, we’ve got the whole lot of ’em licked. Come on! I’d like to see The Rigger’s face if he knew where it was he left me.” He was breathing heavily, excitedly. He started forward up the scree. But his leg crumpled under him. He was still laughing as he fell. He was up again at once, staggering, fighting, clawing his way up the treacherous slope. His eyes glittered like two diamonds in the flattening sunlight. His head shone with the sweat that clung to each shortcut hair. Twice he fell and each time he fought his way on. The third time he did not get up, but crawled forward, dragging his injured leg after him. He was babbling to himself, crazy with heat and pain and the lust for gold.

  I looked up at the blank, shining surface of the cliff. It was as smooth as a sheet of burnished steel. If this were the spot, somewhere along the face of it would be the cracks of a door and a hole large enough to insert a crowbar. Sax, if he found the spot, had no crowbar—nothing with which to open the rock door. Even if he had, I doubted whether he’d have the strength. Certainly I hadn’t, and that thought sobered the infectious excitement that had gripped me. It was replaced by a sudden feeling of disgust and I turned back into the jungle. I had to get to the ship. I had to send that SOS.

  As I fought my way into the jungle, I gave one glance back. I can see it now—that blank wall of white rock, the landslide beetling over its crest, and poor, crazy, treasure-mad Sax clawing his way up the scree on his hands and knees. The whole picture was framed in thick, green jungle fronds and trailing strands of liana, and the air buzzed and swam and stank of rotten vegetation in the torrid heat.

  Sickened and dazed, I plunged on. Quite soon I came out on the top of a rocky eminence that looked down on Chatham Bay. It was all rather like an advertisement in a shipping office for Pacific cruises—the little bay fringed with white surf, rocks, and the green of the jungle and the “Sally McGrew” lying there, quite still and silent. But there was a difference. The blue waters were a transparent veil through which I looked down on dark shelves of rock and stretches of white sand, and I could see the sharks moving like lazy shadows beneath the surface of the long, flat swell.

  It was past midday when I pushed my way through a screen of foliage that hid a disused creek and stepped out at last on to the firm, white sand of the bay. The slight breeze had backed to the West. The tide was on the ebb and the whole bay was loud with the monotonous murmur of the surf as the waves broke
against the big rocks that dotted the foreshore and ran hissing up the sands. Big, ugly land crabs scuttled into their holes as I explored along the beach. As at Wafer Bay, there was a main creek, but smaller and not so beautiful. In fact, I thought it was a grim spot. Perhaps this was because I was on my own. But there were rocks here, many with the names of ships and the thoughts of marooned men scratched rudely on them. It was much more open to the sea than Wafer Bay, and the surf had an ominous, grumbling sound as though it were only sleeping. Wreckage had been carried high up the beach and the jungle was burned brown by the spray. I saw the famous carving—“Look Y as you goe for ye I. Coco”—and scratched on another big boulder was what looked like a sombrero. I stared a long time at that, wondering whether it could be “Benito’s Hat,” under which Kean had buried the body of Irwin. And as I explored the beach, I kept glancing up at The Lookout. There was no sign of life on its jungle-green and rock-brown slopes, but the single palm still stood serenely on the summit.

  What I wanted was some means of getting out to the “Sally McGrew.” Heaven knows how I had thought I would be able to reach her. But then, of course, from The Lookout it had seemed such a short distance from ship to shore. Now that I was actually at Chatham Bay, I realized that the ship was a good half mile out, and every time I looked at her I saw the triangular fins of the sharks cutting slowly through the water.

  In the end I became dispirited and exhausted. I could find nothing that would serve as a boat. Driftwood and the broken trunks of trees might have done, but not in that surf and with all those sharks. Sometimes the ugly brutes came in to within a few feet of the steep beach. In the end I had a dip in the creek and then lay down in the shade of a palm tree.

  It was a foolish thing to do. In an instant I was asleep. And it was a bad sleep, full of nightmare dreams and sharks and the tormenting sting of insects.

  Then suddenly I was awake. Something heavy pressed down upon my chest, needle-sharp points pricking my skin. I sat up with a shout. A hideously large land crab scuttled away. The murmur of insects rose to an angry buzz as I moved. I blinked the sleep out of my eyes. I must have lain there several hours. The sun was behind The Lookout now and shadows were lengthening across the bay. I glanced toward the “Sally McGrew” and a sudden cold sweat broke over me. A boat was running in through the surf. There were two men in it. The nearer was looking over his shoulder and I saw that it was Mike. I leaped up and I heard him shout to me as I plunged into the jungle.

  I struck a branch of the creek and turned left along a green tunnel. The creek came to an end and I fought my way on through a loose tangle of liana that was stifling the cocoanut trees. Then I was in a clearing that looked out on Chatham Bay. I heard the crash of my pursuer entering the jungle behind me. Across the clearing I dived into the jungle again. There was a startled snort and then a crashing in the undergrowth. I had a brief glimpse of the dark, bristled back of a wild pig. Then I stopped. The pig was crashing its way back the way I had come. I heard Mike shout my name. Then the sounds of pig and man died away inland.

  I stepped out on to the beach in the shelter of a large rock. I had a wild idea that the other occupant of the boat might have followed Mike. It was only a dinghy and if I could get to it, there was just the chance that I might be able to pull it through the surf and clear the beach while they were still searching for me in the jungle. But when I peered out from behind the rock, the other man was standing in the water maneuvering the boat so that its bows faced seaward. I scuttled to another rock nearer the sea. I heard Mike still calling my name. His voice was faint against the heavy murmur of the surf.

  The man had got the boat round now. He straightened up and glanced furtively toward the jungle fringe. Then, very quickly, he jumped into the boat, seized the oars and began to pull. As he put his weight on the oars his face was turned to me and I saw it was the cook. In the instant of realizing that he was pulling off the beach, I called to him and dashed out from the shelter of the rock. He hesitated, oars poised, his head turned in my direction. I called again and plunged headlong down the slope of the beach and into the sea.

  As I splashed toward him through the warm, seething water I saw that he was scared. “Wait!” I called. “Please wait for me.”

  He glanced quickly at the jungle. Then he straightened up and with a quick thrust of his arms, backstroked the boat in on a wave so that I was able to grasp hold of the stern. “Quick, sonny,” he said hoarsely. I flung myself over the gunn’l. And at the same instant a dark, sleek shape rose, jarring the boat and making the water boil. I saw the triangular fin and the smooth back of the shark as it rolled under the boat. There was a scraping sound and then the cook’s weight on the oars thrust the boat in a flurry of spray through the first step of the surf.

  I rolled over and got myself on the afterthwart. The boat pitched violently as we crashed through the next ridge of surf. I gave a quick glance at the cook. His face was as glum and sorrowful as ever. His huge blue nose seemed to flame in the sun. “You only just made it,” he said accusingly as though I had done something wrong in his galley. I reached for the oars, but he said, “Just ship them, will you now. Too many cooks—Don’t fancy being bait for them sharks.” I shipped the oars as the dinghy bucked and another line of surf went seething under our keel. There was a shout from the shore. I looked round to see Mike running down the beach. At the edge of the sea he stopped and shouted again. Then he raised his arm. There was a pistol shot, a thin, puny sound in the roar of the water foaming past us. “Get down, sonny,” the cook said. But before I could move, one of the oars I’d shipped jumped in the air and the blade split with a crack that was louder than the sound of the pistol shot across the water. I dived for the bottom of the boat and lay still. We rose to another ridge of surf and I felt the thrust of the oars driving us through the slack water that followed. Another shot—another and another. Where they went I don’t know. Then we were clear of the surf and the water chattered as the dinghy drove through the flat, smooth swell.

  “All right,” said the cook. “You can sit up now.”

  I twisted round and sat down in the stern. Straight ahead lay the “Sally McGrew.” Her blunt bows and squat funnel looked strangely commonplace in the blue circle of the bay. But back on the white strand, Mike hailed and waved to the ship. Old Walrus glanced over his shoulder. “That’s Gault,” he said. “Up there on the bridge. O’Flaherty and Gault—they just left those two to guard the ship.”

  “He’ll come after us in one of the boats,” I said. “Are you armed?”

  “Course I ain’t. But let him come. The other two boats is heavy. Sweating never did a scoundrel any harm.” And he almost chuckled. “Where’s the captain, sonny?”

  “Somewhere up on The Lookout,” I replied.

  “And The Rigger?”

  “He’s up there, too.”

  He grunted. “Nice friends you got. Didn’t you have no idea who Sparks was?”

  “No,” I said. “Not till I saw his hand.” And I explained how I’d only just discovered the truth in time.

  “You bin lucky, young feller,” was his comment. “They murdered the chief and threw his body to the sharks.

  Roberts got upset at that, so The Rigger shot him, too. The rest of us would have been pushed overboard only they needed Danner to work the engines and the mate to navigate. Me, I said I’d cook for ’em.”

  “Did Mr. Danner and Mr. Andrews join the mutiny?” I asked.

  “Join the mutiny! Course not. Soon as the ‘Sally McGrew’ was anchored in Chatham Bay they tied ’em down in their bunks, same as they did me when I wasn’t cooking for them. Only reason I come ashore with O’Flaherty was because he didn’t like to leave the ship without a guard. You must’ve bin crazy, going to sleep on that beach the way you did. Lucky you woke up in time.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Ain’t no business of mine, but what were you doing on that beach by yourself?”

  “I wanted to get on board the ‘Sally Mc
Grew,’ ” I said. “If I could get to the wireless room, I think I know enough to send out an S 0 S.” He didn’t make any comment, so I said, “If we could slip aboard when they were all asleep—”

  “I had enough excitement for one day,” he answered sourly. Then he glanced over his shoulder. “Gault’s coming now. Better give a hand with those oars.”

  One of the lifeboats had detached itself from the ship’s side. It moved slowly, one man pulling at the oars. The two blades flashed in the sunlight. “Come on, sonny. Look lively now.” I twisted round on to the afterthwart and picked up the oars. He gave me the time and in a moment we had the dinghy fairly humming through the water, heading for the gap between Point Colnett and Breakfast Island.

  For a while it seemed as though the heavy lifeboat would cut us off. But gradually it fell away and soon the gap of blue water that cut between the precipitous slopes of the island and the mainland opened out before us. Sea birds flew around us in clouds, their wings almost touching our heads as they dived curiously over the boat. Four vicious shark fins trailed astern of us. At last Old Walrus lay back on his oars. “You can take it easy now. He’s given up.” I saw he was right. The lifeboat was broadside on to us, headed for the shore. The oars dipped slowly in the thinning sunlight.

  “What do we do now?” I asked, twisting round in my seat.

  “Dunno,” the cook answered. He was drooped over the oars, panting with the heat. Sweat shone on his veined face. His shirt was open to his middle, showing a white chest covered with damp, gray hairs and the first crease of his belly. I realized suddenly that he was an old man.

  “It will be dark soon,” I said. “If we could slip on board—”

  He looked up at me then and brushed the sweat from his eyes. “I ain’t goin’ near that blasted ship again until Captain Legett’s walking his own bridge. That clear, me lad? I had enough trouble for one voyage without going looking for more. The chief wasn’t dead when he hit the water. He was screaming and then the sharks got him. And that damned cat tramping round my galley as though she owned the place. Ought to have had more sense than to sail in a ship with a couple of cats aboard.” He straightened up slowly and began to row. “What we got to do is link up with the captain and his party.”