Cocos Gold

by Ralph Hammond Innes

  We forced our way through the grass and, sliding and scrambling, we went down the steep, creeper-covered slope on to the old gun platform. There we waited, watching the mist redden and listening to the roar of the flames that seemed to grow and grow until it was so loud I couldn’t hear the voices of the men around me. An eddy coming up a gully to the north brought a tongue of flame creeping round the hillside toward us…

  At first it was just a yellow finger, crooked and pointed toward the platform. But suddenly the direct breeze from Wafer Bay caught it, fanning it out in a shower of sparks and sending it racing up to the top of The Lookout. Now it was a line of flame, eating its way slowly toward us. The mutineers began arguing among themselves. They didn’t know whether to run or stay. In their fear they cursed me, and The Rigger, too. “Ye got us into this. Now get us out.” Bugs’s eyes were wild and his loose face was white in the fire glow.

  “For God’s sake, Nat,” the Irishman said, “let’s get outa here. We’ll be roasted alive.”

  “We’re safer where we are,” answered The Rigger.

  “Nat’s right,” Taffy cut in. “But if we get out of this alive, I’ll wring the little swine’s neck myself.” And he thrust his face close to mine.

  “I’m getting out.” Bugs was staring at the advancing flames. “I’m getting out, I tell ye.” His voice was rising in a whine of fear.

  The Rigger turned and cursed him. “You wouldn’t have a chance in the jungle down there if the flames should spread back from the other side.” He turned. “Our only hope is to clear the dry grass from the platform here.”

  “What with, man?” Taffy demanded.

  And the Irishman stood and stared at The Rigger and repeated what Bugs had said, “You got us into this, now get us out.”

  The Rigger took command then, ordering the clearing of the grass, and working at it himself with his good hand and the mutilated one till they were bleeding. Suddenly Bugs straightened up. Sparks were falling all round us now and the heat was becoming intense. “I’m not staying,” he squealed in a violent, unnatural voice. “I’m going down to the bay.” And he turned and plunged down into the misty depths of the jungle-covered slope.

  The Rigger straightened up with a jerk. “Bugs!” he shouted. “Come hack, you fool!” He started after him but then thought better of it. We could hear the man stumbling and crashing through the jungle below, rocks clattering from under his frightened feet. Then all sound of him was swallowed up in the roar of the flames. The fire was very close now. The updraft from the heat blew in our faces as we pulled frantically at the grasses. It was like standing on the edge of some hellish platform with an unending, red-hot train thundering past.

  Suddenly Taffy turned and stared behind us. “Look!” he said and gripped The Rigger’s arm. “Look at that, man!

  We all turned. A great hurricane of fire was pouring down the Wafer Bay side of The Lookout. It was like a molten cataract glowing through the mist.

  The Rigger turned his face toward Wafer Bay, sniffing at the acrid air. “The wind’s changed,” he said in a hollow voice.

  And I knew he was right. Nothing else could account for the staggering speed of those roaring flames tumbling down the precipitous slopes to Wafer Bay. I thought of the poor wretch who had left us, tearing his way frantically through the jungle right in the path of that flaming flood with not a hope of safety. And then I looked up and saw above us the whole mist reddened like a vivid, velvet canopy as the fire raged back over the top of The Lookout. Suddenly I was gripped in the panic that had sent Bugs slithering down the jungle slopes.

  9. TREASURE-CRAZED

  The roar of the flames piled up like the sound of a hurricane. The heat became scorching. Sparks flew all round us. We were driven back from our work of clearing the jungle grass. A tongue of flame licked over the top of The Lookout, flapped for an instant like a flag and then darted toward us as though to pick us off the platform and flick us back into the furnace that glowed behind it. It fell short of us and died away. But a moment later a dozen tentacles were groping toward us. And then, in an instant, a great, roaring curtain of fire spread over our heads.

  We pressed ourselves against the boulders that formed a rampart at the back of the platform. My body felt hot and dry. My throat was choked with the parching heat. Sparks fell on my shirt, patterning it with brown burn marks. Taffy suddenly shouted. I could just hear him, and in the hellish furnace glow I saw him tearing at the rocks, his eyes staring with fear so that the whites showed all round the burning coals of the pupils. Boulder after boulder he tore away and sent rolling across the platform and down the precipitous slope beyond, crashing into the flames and sending up a blaze of sparks. First Mike, then The Rigger joined him at the work. I followed with the cook. They were tearing at the opening of a narrow cavern. Gault stood watching for a moment, his loose lower lip trembling.

  I got hold of a boulder and pulled it clear. The rock was hot to the touch, like a cinder. But as we burrowed our way in it was cooler. We worked with our faces turned to the wall, and I could feel my shirt being burned off my back. We were entirely covered by an arch of fire and every now and then sparks pricked at our skin so that soon the smell of burning flesh was added to the acrid fumes that seared our eyes. Lizards and ants and huge spiders were crawling out of the crevices in the rocks, burned out with the heat. The thunder of the fire was right over us now, burning up the jungle all round the platform. But at last we had a narrow grotto into which we huddled, our sweating bodies close against each other for protection, united in that moment by the common bond of fear.

  Perhaps it was the little clearing we had torn out with our hands, perhaps the cave we had made; at all events, as we huddled there in that red hell of fire, the roar of the flames seemed to reach their peak and pass on. I was sandwiched between The Rigger and Mike. The right side of the Irishman’s bullethead was outlined against the flames. I could see every detail of his mutilated ear in the lurid light. I remember noticing how the tuft of hair growing out of the earhole had been singed so that there was a minute blob at the end of each hair. I could feel the hot panting of the men’s bodies; and the smell of sweat mingled with the more pungent smell of burning and the sharp odor of singed hair.

  Then, quite suddenly it seemed, we were looking at the back of the fire. In front of the mouth of the cave, the platform was all blackened and charred. Beyond, the flames roared, sparking into the night. But as the fire plunged down the slope, the flames seemed to shrink until no more than the wavering tips showed. Then there were no flames at all, only the horrid glow in a clear sky. The mist had been literally burned away. The sound of the fire grew less and we crawled out of the cave and stretched our cramped legs.

  I felt weak and ill. I was parched like a desert; burned as though I had been in an oven. There was no saliva in my mouth and my tongue felt twice its normal size and as dry as the branch of a dead tree. The Rigger spoke, but the sound he made was unintelligible. Gault began to dance.

  For a moment I thought he had gone mad. It was a strange, jerky dance, from one foot to the other, and his face was contorted with pain. Then suddenly I realized why. There was a smell of rubber from my boots. The soles of my feet began to irritate, then to burn. I shifted from one foot to the other. Then I, too, was dancing in an agony of pain.

  The Rigger waved his arm toward the top of The Lookout and began to ascend the steep, sloping ramp, jerking himself from one foot to the other like a puppet on a string. We followed. And at the top the moonlight shone, pale and serene, on a scene of black desolation. The single palm tree was a charred pole rising from a bare hilltop of burnt earth. The slope toward Chatham Bay was dotted with fires that leaped like dancing dervishes against the shadowed background of jungle and rock. But to the west, the whole hillside blazed like a volcano. Columns of smoke and showers of sparks hid the sea.

  “Water,” Mike croaked. “We gotta find water.”

  The Welshman laughed. It was a horrible, dried-up sou
nd that was scarcely human. “If it’s water you want, man, try some of this.” And he pulled a large flask out of his pocket. “Firewater,” he breathed in a cracked whisper.

  The flask was passed round. The Rigger insisted that I have a sip. “Waste of good rum,” Mike said. But The Rigger only croaked back: “The boy’s got to march with us.” The spirit burned my throat like fire. It was a scorching trickle down my gullet. Then I was sick. But for all that, it gave me strength.

  The flask passed rapidly round the four of them again.

  They offered none to the cook. I could hear them gulping greedily at the fiery spirit. I stared down the blackened slopes toward Chatham Bay, wondering whether Sir Brian’s party had got safely out of it or whether their charred remains lay out there in the burnt grass.

  A fire that had been flickering lazily halfway down the slope suddenly died. As the smoke drifted away I saw the tiny toy shape of the “Sally McGrew” lying in the moon-white waters of Chatham Bay. The Rigger produced a torch and began flashing its beam toward the ship. “What’s the game, Nat?” Mike asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Shorty,” The Rigger replied. “He must take the other boat into Wafer Bay and get the one we came ashore in off the beach.”

  “Don’t be daft, man. He’d never pull two boats out through the surf.”

  “It’s half tide in an hour,” The Rigger answered. “The surf won’t be so bad then. If he drops an anchor in deep water he can haul off the two boats.”

  A tiny pinpoint of light showed against the dark shape of the ship. The Rigger began to flash his message. When he had finished, it was acknowledged. Then the ship was black and lifeless again in the beautiful silver sweep of the bay. The Rigger turned to me. “Now, Johnny,” he said, “it’s time you gave us directions.” The other three gazed at me hungrily. I could see the rum was beginning to work in their dried-up veins. Their eyes glittered feverishly in the moonlight.

  I hesitated. The Irishman took a step forward. “I’ll get it out of the little runt.”

  “Leave this to me, Mike,” The Rigger cut in sharply. His fingerless hand gripped my arm. The rounded knuckles were like red-hot pokers against my burnt skin. “Now, Johnny,” he said, “be sensible, won’t you?” His blue eyes shone with startling brilliance in his smoke-blackened face. They reminded me of the cat. I squirmed with sudden fear. Pain shot up my arm as his grip tightened. Panic seized me. “Let me go!” I screamed. “Let me go!”

  Mike’s big hand closed on my other shoulder. “We ain’t ever letting you go, kid. Not until you locate the cave for us.”

  “You’ll kill me,” I cried. “You’ll kill me as soon as you’ve got the treasure.”

  The Rigger took hold of me and shook me violently. “Pull yourself together, now,” he said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. Understand? We take the treasure and leave you on Cocos Island with food and stores.”

  “Oh no we don’t,” snarled Mike. “We ain’t leaving nobody.”

  “Shut up!”

  “We ain’t leaving nobody, Nat.” His voice was sullen and ugly. “Ain’t that right, Taffy? We don’t leave nobody.”

  “Indeed it is.” The black eyes of the little Welshman glowed hotly.

  “But—you ain’t going to kill the kid?” It was Gault who spoke. His eyes were wide with fear. “You can’t do that.”

  Mike swung round on him. “Who says we can’t?” He gave an ugly grin. “An’ you’re the tough from out of the East End! Hell of a tough guy, you are. I seen tougher wearing skirts in the Gorbals.”

  “Shut up—all of you!” The Rigger’s voice was hard. “He’ll stay on Cocos Island with the rest of the ship’s company. That’ll give us plenty of time to get clear. Kean was a year on the island before he was picked up. In any case, you don’t imagine you can conceal a thing like this forever, do you? What about the ‘Sally McGrew’?”

  “I like to tidy things up, that’s all,” Mike said morosely.

  “If we get away with the treasure, you can spend the rest of your life tidying things up.” The Rigger turned back to me. “Johnny,” he said. “I’m offering your life and the lives of the cook here and all the rest of the crew that’s with the captain if you lead us straight to the treasure. If you don’t—well, we’ll get it out of the captain or Sir Brian, if they’re still alive. And you’ll have a lot of blood on your hands.” He paused, looking at me slowly. “Well now, which is it to be?”

  “How—how do I know you’ll keep to your promise?” I could hardly get the words out, I was trembling so with fear.

  “You’ll have to trust me, that’s all.”

  For a moment I had a wild idea of making up directions as I had done for Hughes and Stevens. But The Rigger seemed to read my thoughts, for he said, “And remember now. You’ll be coming with us. So don’t give us any false scents.”

  I looked quickly at the others. They were crowding round me. Their faces were black in the moonlight, like ghastly black masks, the whites of their eyes gleaming in the reddened sockets. “Do you agree to what he says?” I asked them. I had difficulty in controlling my voice. I could not dispel the fear that once I’d given them the information they wanted, they’d kill me. “Do you agree to leave me and all the captain’s party on the island and land enough stores?”

  They nodded. But it meant nothing. They’d have agreed to anything to discover the whereabouts of the treasure. I could see the thought of it reflected in the gleam of their eyes. Forgotten in an instant was the fire and how narrowly we had escaped being burned alive. The treasure bug was working in their brains. All they thought about now was the gold.

  I turned to The Rigger. He was the only one who was not maddened by greed. “You’ll keep your word?” I asked him.

  “I’ve already said so,” he answered. “So long as I’m alive you’ll have the freedom of Cocos Island and stores.” But as he spoke his eyes were on the other three. I felt he was wondering what effect the discovery of the treasure would have on them.

  “Come on, now,” Mike said. His hoarse, croaking voice trembled with excitement. “You gonna tell us, kid? Or do we have to get it out of you?”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Well, see it’s the truth, or by the Lord it’s breaking your blasted neck I’ll be doing.” The ugly tone of his voice made my scalp prick.

  “I’ll tell you the truth,” I answered. I turned to The Rigger. “The directions are from Wafer Bay,” I said.

  “Go on, man,” Taffy whispered hoarsely. His mean face was so close to me that I could feel his breath hot on my cheek.

  “Very well,” I said. “Wafer Bay—East—Dry watercourse—Top—Lookout due north—Proceed due east— Chatham Bay in view from big rock with tree—Bearing east twenty-seven north landslide—Landslide below and above—Cave door in face of cliff. Here you will find the treasure.” I repeated it all like a lesson learned long, long ago.

  The Rigger had me say it all again. Then he made me draw the map on the flat surface of a rock with the end of a charred stick.

  “How do you know he’s telling the truth?” the Irishman demanded as he peered over my shoulder, breathing heavily the sickly sweet odor of rum.

  “Don’t worry,” The Rigger answered. “He didn’t make that up.”

  “It’ll be the worse for him if he did,” Mike replied viciously. Then he swung round. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get going.”

  “Just a minute,” Taffy said in a breathless tone. “ ‘Landslide below and above.’ That description fits the place we were at yesterday—where we left Sax.”

  “That’s right, Taffy,” Mike cried excitedly. “Sure an’ it must be the very spot.” He suddenly laughed, a wild bray like a hyena. “And to think we walked right by it!”

  “And Sax lying there staring at it, man, without knowing what he was looking at.” Taffy seized the Irishman’s arm in his excitement. “Do you remember the way?”

  “Sure, I remember the way.”

  “So do I,
” put in Gault.

  “Then come on.”

  Mike was halfway across the charred remains of the clearing, the others shambling after him, when The Rigger said quietly, “Better stick to the directions, Mike.” Mike swung round. “What d’you mean? Ain’t we got the vital clue?” His little, piglike eyes narrowed. “What you up to, Nat?” he demanded. “You figure you’re gonna lose us in the jungle. ’Cause if that’s your game—” His hand went to his gun.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, man!” Taffy cried. “Think Nat and the boy could shift it themselves?” He turned to The Rigger. “Why not go direct, Nat?”

  “Because there are dozens of landslides on the island.”

  “That’s right,” Gault said. “We passed four yesterday.”

  “But only one where a cliff face separated the two parts of a landslide. Don’t you see, man, that’s why the treasure hasn’t been found all these years. It was covered by the landslide. Then the lower half settled and now the entrance to the cave is exposed again.”

  “Taffy’s right,” Mike said. “I’m going direct. Who’s coming?”

  Taffy and Gault glanced at each other and then at The Rigger. The Welshman’s eyes gleamed like black coals. “I’ll go with Mike,” he said. “You take Gault and the boy and follow the directions. If we meet up at the cave, that’s fine. But if it isn’t the spot then we’ll sing out and join up with you.”