CHAPTER XIX
The voice of Señor Ramon Bazán cracked with excitement as he cried out, from the bridge of theValkyrie:
“Behold our Cocos Island, my Ricardo! You have steered the ship as straight as an arrow.”
They were gazing at a lofty, rounded hill that lifted from the sea like the cone of a dead volcano. For the most part its slopes were green, with bare cliffs here and there or yellow gullies washed by the rains. In the top of this hill was a bowl or crater which seemed to brim over with water like a tiny lake, spilling many streams that leaped and flowed to the strip of level land, close to the sea, which was luxuriant with cocoanut palms. A pleasant island to visit, as the buccaneers had found it when first their topsails had gleamed in the South Sea.
It was no longer a secret to theValkyrie’s crew that they were bound in search of pirates’ treasure. Captain Richard Cary had told them so, soon after the departure from Balboa. He had pledged them his word that if they played fair with him they should receive a share of the booty. They believed him. The Colombian sailors and firemen yelled with enthusiasm. They had completely forgotten the conspiracy to take the ship back to Cartagena and claim the reward offered forEl Tigre Amarillo Grande, dead or alive. It had been a foolish dream of very stupid men, they admitted among themselves. Their huge captain had saved the wretched steamer from perishing in the storm on the Caribbean coast. After that, he had enforced such a discipline and mastery as they had never known in their lives, the rule of a sea-lord who was both stern and kind. He held them under his thumb. It was even a pleasure to obey him for the sake of the sunny smile and the word of praise that followed duty well done.
With chart and sounding lead, theValkyrieslowly approached Cocos Island to find the small bay which was indicated as an anchorage. As the bay opened to view between its rock-bound headlands, the masts of a schooner became visible. Señor Ramon Bazán was greatly disturbed. He snatched up the binocular and squinted until the hull of the schooner was disclosed.
“By my soul, it is another treasure party!” he wildly shouted. “They will find out my secret of the place where it is hidden.”
“We can’t very well stick up no trespass signs on Cocos Island,” said Cary, in his easy fashion. “It doesn’t belong to us.”
Chief Officer Bradley Duff broke in to say: “No sense in borrowing trouble, Señor Bazán. Of course you were all wrapped up in your own pet scheme, but it is no great surprise to me to find another party here. They have been at it on and off, all kinds of expeditions, as long as I’ve known this coast. If you have the real information, then the rest of ’em are out of luck. We won’t let this other outfit crowd us.”
“We will make them mind their own business,” grumbled Señor Bazán, in a very fretful humor. “I bought those rifles in Panama, Ricardo, to guard the treasure after we find it, but nobody must interfere with us at all. Do you understand that?”
“Wait and look it over,” placidly advised Ricardo. “There seems to be plenty of elbow room on the island. The schooner may have touched here out of curiosity.”
TheValkyrienosed her way inside the bay and let an anchor splash a few hundred feet from the three-masted schooner which flew no colors. Several South Americans lounged beneath an awning. They looked like seamen left in charge while the rest of the company went ashore. One of them flourished his big straw hat in a friendly gesture.
“Better send the second mate over with a couple of men, Mr. Duff,” suggested Captain Cary. “Mr. Panchito is a sociable cuss and perhaps he can find out something.”
The rotund, vivacious Mr. Panchito was delighted to oblige. As a former officer of the Colombian navy, he flattered himself that he possessed the aplomb, the diplomatic approach. He assured Mr. Duff that he would turn those strangers inside out. They could conceal nothing from him. Into a skiff he bounded and was rowed over to the schooner which displayed no symptoms of excitement.
Señor Ramon Bazán, on the contrary, was in a stew of impatience to be set ashore. It was the noon hour, and the sun was insufferably hot for a rickety old gentleman to explore the jungle and the rocky ravines. Richard Cary advised waiting, but was met with sputtering obstinacy. They were to take the precious chart drawn by the own hand of the infamous Captain Thompson of the brigMary Dear, also a compass and a surveyor’s chain to measure the distances in rods and feet. After finding the lay of the land they could rest much easier. At their convenience they could unload the equipment and make a camp.
Richard Cary kept his own misgivings to himself. It had strained his credulity to accept the secret chart as authentic. Granted this, however, the face of the island must have been considerably changed in a hundred years. Naked scars showed where the rock and gravel had slid from the steep hillsides. The water overflowing the crater-like bowl fed by living springs had been eating the soil away and depositing it elsewhere. The cliffs, however, might have resisted this erosion. If there were natural caves in them, and these had not been buried too deep in débris, possibly the treasure chart of Señor Bazán might be used as a guide.
The blurred notations and rude symbols had been inscribed on the chart by the hand of a man familiar with Cocos Island. The safe channel for a vessel entering the bay was correctly indicated. And in these first glimpses of the rugged landscape, it was mightily persuasive to study such detailed directions as “N.N.E. 5 rds. to water-course. . . thence 9 rds. 7 ft. E. by W. ½ W. to face of cliff. . . thence follow ravine to big boulder bearing S.S.W. from hump of Hill & due South from Stone on beach which Stone is carved with letters H.M.S. Jason 1789:. . .”
There was some delay in getting the exploring party ashore. Señor Bazán had to be humored. A pitiable agitation muddled his wits. He had to pore over the chart again. Compass and surveyor’s chain were not enough, he suddenly decided. They ought to carry axes, picks, and shovels, on the chance of stumbling across the place where the treasure was unmistakably concealed. Some of the crew must go with them and carry rifles. There were strangers on the island. They might be lawless men. It was for Ricardo to be prepared to drive them away if they came near enough even to spy on the party from theValkyrie.
By this time Mr. Panchito was returning from his diplomatic mission to the schooner. He was all animation and importance. Yes, he had found out everything. It was a treasure expedition, from Guayaquil. They had been three months on the island, and the sailors were very tired of it. Now they felt in better spirits because their leader had been overheard to say that he had given up hopes of finding any gold and silver. He would soon be sailing back to Guayaquil. He was a most extraordinary man, this leader. He had attacked Cocos Island as if he intended to tear it to pieces, with powerful machinery that tossed the great rocks about like pebbles and moved thousands of tons of gravel. He was a mining engineer well known in Ecuador.
“Did they tell you his name?” interrupted Chief Officer Bradley Duff.
“Don Miguel O’Donnell, but he is not Irish,” replied Mr. Panchito.
“Huh, I know that,” grunted Mr. Duff. “It’s like the O’Reilleys in Cuba and the O’Higgins in Chile. They were Irish some ways back. And it still crops out in their blood. And so we’ve run afoul of this O’Donnell highbinder from Ecuador! Now what do you think of that! He calls himself a mining engineer, does he? Maybe he is. All I know is that he has been mixed up in trouble enough to please any Mike O’Donnell. Concessions and politics and high-class devilment in Ecuador for years and years. I was captain of a dredge in Guayaquil harbor one time. From the stories I heard, it was Don Miguel O’Donnell that really backed General Eloy Alfara in the revolution of 1905 that bumped President Cordero off his perch. How about it, Señor Bazán? You may have the straight dope.”
Ramon Bazán was more troubled than ever. He took hold of the ship’s rail for support. Wearing a great cork helmet and leather gaiters, a canteen slung over his shoulder, he looked like a queer little caricature of a tropical explorer.
“Don Miguel O’Donnell on Cocos Island?” he wheezed, in a gusty flare of passion. “May he suffer ten million torments! Colombia knows him as well as Ecuador, Mr. Duff. He is very wise and very bold, a man of brains. I tell you, we must sleep with both eyes open. Bad luck has come to us. If Don Miguel O’Donnell suspects us of knowing where the treasure is, he will stop at nothing at all. A soldier of fortune, Ricardo? This one is apiraticoof the most up-to-date pattern.”
“He sounds entertaining,” hopefully suggested Ricardo. “He does things in the grand manner. Just now he is tearing Cocos Island to pieces, or pulling it up by the roots, according to Mr. Panchito. I like his style.”
“The grand manner is right,” grumbled Bradley Duff. “Somebody staked him on this proposition. A syndicate, perhaps. He always talks big and gets away with it.”
It was apparent to Richard Cary that old Ramon Bazán had been shaken by enough excitement for one day. Don Miguel O’Donnell was the last straw. It was therefore sensible to suggest:
“Why not sit tight aboard ship for a day or two and see if this other outfit really intends to weigh anchor? Mr. Panchito has a notion that they are about through. Unless we show our hand, this enterprising gentleman from Ecuador won’t think of interfering with us.”
“Right you are, Captain Cary,” agreed Bradley Duff. “Let’s wait him out. It may avoid getting in a jam. Why not keep our business to ourselves?”
This rational advice infuriated Señor Bazán. Wait in idleness on the deck of a ship and look at the cliffs of Cocos Island with its fabulous riches almost within his grasp? Why had he placed this giant of a Captain Ricardo in command of the expedition? To smash through all obstacles, to use his wonderful strength and courage. Was the Yellow Tiger of Cartagena afraid of matching himself against this Don Miguel O’Donnell? He, Ramon Bazán, was an aged man with one foot in the grave, but he was eager to go ashore and begin operations. There were men and rifles enough. . .
The tirade was quelled by Ricardo, who thrust his employer into a deck-chair, fanned him with the cork helmet, and announced:
“If you rave any more, Papa Bazán, your heart will go funny, and then where are you? Unless you take care of yourself, I can’t let you go ashore at all. You are not fit to leave the ship to-day. Now please stay in the shade and keep cool and collected.”
This high-handed behavior dumbfounded poor Papa Bazán. He dashed the cork helmet to the deck and kicked it like a football. Ricardo pleasantly suggested tucking him in and locking the door. This ended the tantrum. The owner of theValkyriecurled up in the chair and disconsolately talked to himself.
The boyish chief engineer, Charlie Burnham, came strolling along, bright-eyed and eager to insert himself into whatever ructions might show above the horizon.
“Come along with me, Charlie,” said Captain Cary. “Let’s take a look at this Cocos Island. I may pay Don Miguel O’Donnell a social call. Keep a sharp watch, Mr. Duff, and let nobody aboard from the schooner.”
“Atta boy!” blithely exclaimed Charlie Burnham. “Why not take the whole crew and run these Ecuador outlaws plumb off the island? They have had a fair crack at it, haven’t they? Three months is enough. Time’s up.”
Woefully forlorn, Señor Bazán watched them set out for the beach in the skiff. Before striking inland they paused to examine the boulders strewn above high-water mark. On this one and that were roughly chiseled the names of ships which had visited Cocos Island at various times. It had become a custom singularly interesting. Richard Cary felt a thrill when he discovered a massive stone on which the weather had almost obliterated the lettering, but it was possible to decipher this much:
“H . . J . . . N-1-7-9—”
“Here we are, Charlie,” cried Richard Cary. “We couldn’t ask anything better than this. This must be ‘H.M.S. Jason 1789.’ Now we head due north to what the chart calls ‘the hump of the hill.’ We are going at the thing backward, but this is good enough for to-day. I want to work out a rough position and select a place for a camp. We may have to cut a trail and so on.”
To their surprise and uneasiness, a trail already led due north from the stone on the beach. The trees and undergrowth had been chopped out, holes filled with broken stone, two or three small water-courses bridged with logs and plank. Wheeled vehicles had worn deep ruts in the soil. The crew of the schooner must have dragged heavy burdens over this pathway through the cocoanut groves and jungle. Observant Charlie Burnham picked up an iron bolt and a pipe coupling of large dimensions. He remarked that it knocked the romance out of treasure hunting when you made an engineering job of it.
Curiosity urged them along at a breathless gait. They emerged into the wide bed of a dry ravine and followed the path until it climbed to a small plateau or level area barricaded on one side by crumbling cliffs. They could hear the noise of rushing water. It was as loud as a cataract. They halted to reconnoiter. Charlie Burnham craned his neck to stare up at the broken slope of the great hill that towered far above the cliffs, the hill that loomed so conspicuously from seaward like a dead crater.
“Do you see that rusty streak that runs down the hill, Captain Cary? I’ve guessed it. This Don Miguel O’Donnell has tapped the little lake way up yonder. That streak is a line of pipe. He has a dandy head of pressure for hydraulic mining. Tearing the island to pieces? I’ll say he is. He’s trying to wash the treasure out. Some stunt!”
They followed the noise of rushing water and came to chaotic banks of gravel and a wooden sluice-box that poured its muddy torrent into a brook. A little way beyond it was a tent, and several huts built of boards. What fascinated them was a heavy steel nozzle at the end of the iron pipe leading down the hillside. A solid stream of water leaped from the nozzle. One man easily guided and turned it as a gunner lays his piece on the mark.
The water was like a projectile. It bored into the looser soil of the hill where it had slid down to pile up at the base of the cliff. Gravel and broken rock were swept down to the sluice or flung aside.
“And to think we have got to break our backs with the old pick and shovel, or drilling holes for blasting charges,” lamented Charlie Burnham.
“But this bright scheme hasn’t found any treasure for him,” replied Cary.
They advanced toward the tent. A hammock was swung near it. In it reclined a man who smoked a cigar and read a book. He glanced up, was quickly on his feet, and walked to meet the visitors. Don Miguel O’Donnell was much nearer sixty than fifty years old, but physically he appeared to be in his prime. He was well-knit, vigorous, and taller than the average. His cheek was ruddy. At the corners of his eyes, however, the wrinkles spread in a network of fine lines. He looked more like an O’Donnell than a native of Ecuador.
It seemed odd to hear his courteous greeting in Spanish. Richard Cary fumbled a few phrases in response. Don Miguel apologized and his smile was engaging as he said in fluent English:
“I saw the Colombian flag on your steamer, my dear sir. But there is not a man in all Colombia like you. You are—”
“I am Captain Cary of theValkyrie, and this is the chief engineer, Mr. Burnham.”
“An excursion for pleasure to Cocos Island?” observed Don Miguel, watching them closely. “You are interested in my mining operations? There is nothing to hide. I have been disappointed.”
“And you are going home soon, sir?”
“Perhaps. It may amuse me to stay and look at you. One of my men reports that you sent an officer to the schooner. The second mate? A fat young man with curly hair who chatters like a parrot.”
“Quite correct. That was Mr. Panchito,” replied Cary. “I wanted to find out.”
“And you found out? My men asked some questions of your Mr. Panchito. He was delighted to tell them. Señor Ramon Bazán has come to camp on Cocos Island for his health?”
The manner was genial, but the voice conveyed a certain amusement, ironical and patronizing. Thus might the wandering Ulysses, crafty and vastly experienced, have addressed beguiling words to his own simple-minded sailormen on some other desert island of a blue sea.
Young Charlie Burnham was nothing if not direct. He broke in to say: “Quit your kidding. You know exactly what we came for, and we expect to get it. Mr. Panchito is as leaky as a basket. I’ll bet he told your men all he knew and then some. But there’s no harm done.”
“I will be frank with you, gentlemen,” cordially exclaimed Don Miguel O’Donnell, who showed no resentment. “My own chart of this pirates’ treasure was made by the boatswain of Benito Bonito’s ship. The rascal died in prison in Guayaquil. The chart was found by accident, a few years ago, in a pile of old prison records and papers. As you say, Señor Burnham, I knew exactly what I came for and I expected to get it. May you have more success. My Cocos Island Exploration Company has wasted its money.”
The visitors from theValkyrieeyed each other dubiously. If the chart of Benito Bonito’s boatswain had failed to locate the treasure, what about the chart of Captain Thompson of the brigMary Dear? This was poor news for Señor Ramon Bazán. They would say nothing about it.
“If you decide to stay longer, Don Miguel,” said Cary, “I see no reason why we should get in each other’s way. We shall be digging a good many rods from here.”
The adventurer from Ecuador had been shrewdly appraising the massive candor of the Yankee shipmaster. Plausibly he suggested:
“Why not a partnership, Captain Cary? You have your own secret information. I have the machinery, with more iron pipe in the hold of my schooner if we need a longer line.”
“Señor Bazán will not agree to that,” said Cary, rather curtly. “He prefers to go it alone.”
“Ah, old Ramon has a long memory and a short temper,” chuckled Don Miguel O’Donnell. “I was a young man then, when he had an ambition to be the president of Colombia. To some extent I helped his enemies. It hurt him to spend money. He might have had my support, but no matter—I know your Ramon Bazán, as it happens. If he comes to Cocos Island he bets on a sure thing. But you will find it enormous labor, so much rock and gravel have tumbled from the hill since the pirates buried the treasure of Lima. My bargain is a good one, Captain Cary. I beg you to consider it.”
“Señor Bazán wouldn’t trust you, sir,” frankly declared Cary. “His dislikes are very violent.”
“Is it necessary to obey his orders?” suavely returned Don Miguel O’Donnell. “Why not arrange this business without him? I include your chief engineer, Mr. Burnham. He will be most useful. To let a greedy old man expect most of this treasure for himself, to let him stand in the way of a partnership with me, is absurd, Captain Cary. Your Colombian sailors will soon be tired of digging in this gravel. Even a man like you will fail unless you let me help you. You see my equipment. Think of the money it has cost me.”
“Do you intend to take it with you?” asked Charlie Burnham.
“A bright young man,” smiled Don Miguel. “You can use it for yourself? Wait a minute. What do you say, Captain Cary?”
“My owner will have no dealings with you, and that goes for his officers,” was the brusque response. “I should say that he has you sized up about right. You ask me to be disloyal to him, do you, to make a private dicker and throw him over? Then how do I know you would be on the level with me? Nothing doing. We play our own game and I warn you to keep clear of it.”
“Most big, strong men are stupid,” amiably observed Don Miguel. “You have no objections if I stay and guard my property?”
“Not as long as you leave ours alone,” declared Cary.
His voice had a deeper note. The blue eye had a frosty glint. Charlie Burnham nudged him. It was time for them to put their heads together. They bade Don Miguel O’Donnell good-day. He was affable, polite, and apparently entertained by the crassness of youth. Until the arrival of these ingenuous Americans, one could see that he had been bored to extinction.
As they scrambled down to the dry ravine, Charlie Burnham remarked, with some heat:
“One smooth guy, Captain Cary. He would double-cross his own grandmother. What’s the answer? It don’t look much like waiting him out. Shall we go ahead?”
“It looks that way, Charlie. I don’t know how many men he has. After we begin work, is he liable to jump us? I can’t put our whole crew in camp. It would be foolish to leave the steamer without protection.”
“Sure it would. And I mustn’t let the fires go dead. If it came on to blow hard, we might have to steam out of the bay. And you’ll need an anchor watch, of course.”
“Well, we can get organized by to-morrow. Now let’s see what we can do with this next bearing, from the hump of the hill and along the ravine.”
They floundered through dense growth and over gullied ground until they had traversed the estimated distance in rods. No attempt was made to measure it accurately. This brought them to a lower rampart of cliff, crumbled and rotten, in which bushes and creepers had found root. There were wide fissures, as though an earthquake had shaken the limestone formation. Richard Cary made a hasty calculation. There was no other “face of cliff” nearby. They could not be very many rods from the spot. Here was an agreeable camp site in a grove of cocoanut palms, with a spring of clear water just beyond it.
“We shall have to make our own trail to the bay,” said Cary, “but it’s not as rough as I expected. We don’t want to pack our stuff in over Don Miguel’s road.”
“Leave him alone,” agreed Charlie Burnham. “I don’t feel neighborly. He’ll have me sitting up nights.”
“Why, there would be no fun in it without him,” cheerfully protested Richard Cary. “It would be a chore, like digging post-holes back on those New Hampshire farms of ours. I didn’t dare expect anything as good as this Don Miguel O’Donnell. This may turn out to be livelier than Cartagena.”
CHAPTER XX
Twenty-four hours sufficed to cut a trail with machetes, and pitch the tents in the cocoanut grove. One of them was promptly occupied by Señor Bazán, who was elated at seeing things move in such brisk and orderly fashion. His faith in his yellow-haired captain was restored. There had been no waiting upon the movements of the interlopers from Ecuador. If Don Miguel O’Donnell should presume to interfere, so much the worse for him. Ricardo was the man to conquer him.
Privately Ricardo was not so certain of this. He had his moments of serious apprehension. He could not quite imagine the resourceful Don Miguel as sailing away empty-handed if there was the smallest chance of finding hints or clues more promising than his own. Might was right on Cocos Island. And the bold O’Donnell had never been hampered by scruples or lack of wit.
It was difficult to ascertain how many men were in his party. They were scattered, a few on the schooner, others carrying supplies, the rest in camp or working on the hydraulic pipe-line along the hillside. They kept away from theValkyrie’s company, nor did Don Miguel himself display a neighborly spirit. The inference was that he considered himself too much the gentleman to intrude. It had been conveyed to him that he was unpopular with Señor Bazán.
After painstaking measurements, Captain Cary felt satisfied that he had chosen the likeliest spot to begin digging. To a certain extent it was guesswork. The “great tree” noted on the chart had disappeared. There was more than one “big boulder” in the ravine. Three of the bearings, however, were accurately established, the H.M.S.Jasonstone on the beach, the “hump of the hill,” and the face of the cliff. The compass and chain helped to fill the gaps. Stakes were driven. Señor Bazán turned the first shovelful of gravel. Not content with this, he furiously plied the shovel until he wilted with a touch of fever.
Captain Cary took command of this party, leaving Mr. Duff in charge of the ship. A dozen men were picked for the hard labor at the camp. No more could be spared at one time. They were willing and industrious. Why not? It meant filling their pockets with pirates’ gold. The treasure would soon be uncovered.El CapitanRicardo had shown them where to dig. He knew all things.
With the prevailing breeze the camp was in the sultry lee of the cliff. This made the days intensely hot and the nights breathless. Señor Bazán complained of his asthma. Mosquitoes tormented him when he moved out of his tent. Ricardo urged him to spend a night or two on the ship where the air had some life. He consented without much argument. A hammock was slung from a pole, and two stout Colombian sailors bore the old gentleman over the trail to the beach.
Captain Cary went with him, planning to return in an hour or so. He wished to find out from Mr. Duff how things were going on board the ship. Charlie Burnham was left in camp with orders to post a couple of sentries now that dusk was coming on. Mr. Panchito had appeared for supper and was delighting the weary sailors with songs and stories of the raciest description. He was excellent for their morale. He made them forget aching backs and blistered palms.
There was nothing to cause anxiety. Don Miguel O’Donnell had committed himself to a policy of watchful waiting. For the present no trouble was anticipated. The discovery of the treasure might provoke a crisis. Meanwhile it was prudent to be vigilant.
Mr. Duff was eager for gossip, having been low in his mind for lack of company. Cary found it refreshing to sit down for a chat with him on the breezy deck of theValkyrie. There had been no stir on the schooner, he reported, a few men coming and going, but nothing to indicate an early departure. A gray-haired, soldierly man had come off in the afternoon for a brief visit, presumably Don Miguel himself.
Richard Cary was relating the news of the camp when the sound of a rifle shot made him jump to his feet. It came from the interior of the island. Another shot, then the staccato reports of a magazine emptied as fast as a man could pull trigger. They reëchoed from the cliffs like a fusillade. A rocket soared from the jungle and traced a scarlet line against the evening sky.
Captain Cary roared a command and two men popped into the boat at the gangway. He delayed to say to the chief officer:
“Stand by, Mr. Duff. If you need me, blow the whistle. We don’t know what mischief the schooner may be hatching. We have to divide our forces. Charlie Burnham is in a mess. Watch out for my signal from the beach. We may want to shove off in a hurry.”
“You will find the old hooker right here, sir,” hoarsely rumbled Mr. Duff. “I wish I could go with you.”
The two seamen tugged madly at the oars while Richard Cary, standing in the stern, listened to the renewed rat-tat-tat of rifle fire. It subsided before he leaped to the beach and dashed into the narrow trail. Soon he heard a man cry out with pain, and the ferocious hubbub of fighting at close quarters. He upbraided himself for his folly in leaving the camp. He had been caught napping and tricked into a false sense of security.
Stumbling over roots and stones, he ran with the thin beam of a little flash-light to reveal the path cut through the undergrowth. He shouted mightily as he ran. He thought he heard answering voices. There was no more rifle fire. He was some distance from the camp when he saw a figure coming toward him. It swayed like a drunken man and fell to the ground. The fugitive was found to be a Colombian sailor whose sweat-soaked shirt bore darker stains of blood. Two others came staggering along the trail. Between them they carried a comrade whose head wagged grotesquely. Cary flashed his light on the round, pallid features of Mr. Panchito who dangled a useless arm and was gashed in the thigh. His gayety was eclipsed.
Behind them came the rest of theValkyrieparty, in tragic disorder. Charlie Burnharn was limping with the rear guard, using his rifle as a crutch. He blubbered at sight of Captain Cary and was ashamed to meet him.
“The b-bastards jumped us, and it’s all my fault,” he sobbed. “They crept up on us just after dark. One sentry got his, with a machete, before he could squeak. We put up the best scrap we could, sir, but we had to beat it. For God’s sake, Captain Cary, get the men from the ship and we’ll go back and clean up.”
“Steady, Charlie. You couldn’t help it,” said Cary, putting an arm around him. “Did you leave any men behind?”
“One, sir. We started to lug the sentry, but he croaked a little ways back yonder and we hid his body in the bushes. I don’t know how many are hit. They caught us from three sides and rushed us. We couldn’t hold the camp. These Colombian ginks of ours put up a dandy scrap. You can’t tellmea South American revolution is vaudeville stuff. I know better.”
Cary had stripped off his shirt and was tearing it into strips. The able-bodied men were quick to imitate him. As best they could they bandaged the wounded who laughed and swore and begged cigarettes. For those unable to walk or faint from loss of blood, litters were contrived from boughs and saplings, using their leather belts for lashings. Cary slung Charlie Burnham over his shoulder and strode ahead of the others. He was sad and silent. It was for him to square the account with Don Miguel O’Donnell. Now that the thing had happened, he comprehended the motive. As soon as theValkyrieparty had begun digging, the place where they expected to find the treasure was clearly indicated. It told the secret of their own pirates’ chart. Don Miguel had concluded not to wait, perhaps for weeks and weeks. He preferred to do his own excavating and make speedy work of it. There was no law on Cocos Island. A little bloodshed? It was of no great consequence.
Richard Cary spoke his thoughts aloud to the hapless chief engineer who could not help groaning now and then.
“He out-guessed me, Charlie. He was marking time until we showed him where to set up that hydraulic squirt-gun of his and get busy again. He thinks Señor Bazán has a sure thing. He told us so.”
“That’s my notion, Captain Cary. Ouch, I got a hole drilled clean through my leg. Chasing us into the bushes didn’t bother that suddenhombreone little bit. He bats ’em high, wide, and lively.”
“I wish I had stopped those bullets myself,” sighed the master of theValkyrie.
He came out on the open beach well ahead of his forlorn company. Carefully he laid Charlie Burnham on the sand and flashed a signal to the steamer. Chief Officer Duff answered with a blast of the whistle. He must have had the yawl manned and ready. The refugees heard the rattle of oars. Presently the wounded were lifted in over the bow and stowed against the thwarts. Mr. Duff handled the boat himself. Efficiently he transferred this sorry freightage to the deck of theValkyrie. Richard Cary fairly rocked with exhaustion, a man sick in mind and body. Doggedly he pulled himself together to act the amateur surgeon. The colored steward displayed a competency unexpected. Between them they set about sterilizing and dressing the bullet wounds and machete cuts. One sailor’s chest had been ripped by a blade and required a dozen stitches. Poor Mr. Panchito had an ugly fracture to set. A coal-black fireman was moaning with the torture of a bullet embedded in his back. Captain Cary had to probe and extract it. He did these things as well as he could, slowly, carefully, with fingers singularly deft. He had seen them done by other shipmasters with no surgeon on board. Including those less seriously hurt, seven men bore testimony that it had been a furious affray in camp.
Richard Cary dreaded an interview with Ramon Bazán, who was a trifle flighty with fever. He had emerged from his room and was flitting about in pajamas, very much in the way, and sputtering questions to which no one paid the slightest attention. At length, Cary found time to say, rather roughly:
“Why not thrash this out to-morrow? No use crying over spilt milk. You ought to be in bed.”
“But I am not blaming you for anything, my son,” was the surprising answer. It was a chastened, frightened Papa Bazán who, for once, had forgotten his greed of phantom gold. “It may be true, Ricardo, that the pirates put a curse on their treasure. It poisons men and makes them kill each other. You would have been killed in the camp to-night. You are too big for bullets to miss. And these wounded men—they suffer and are so brave—and I am the one that brought them to this wicked Cocos Island.”
The accents were mournful. Señor Bazán was lamenting for his children of the sea. He was the sinner that repenteth at the eleventh hour.
“You certainly do not seem like yourself, Papa Bazán,” gravely returned Ricardo. The symptoms were as alarming as one of those sudden heart seizures. “I’m glad you appreciate the loyalty of your ship’s company. And it is very decent of you to make it easy for me. What it amounts to, though, is that Don Miguel O’Donnell was too wise and bold for me. You were afraid of it, remember?”
“You will try to make him pay for it, Ricardo. I see it in your eyes. More men will be bleeding with bullets. You yourself may be dead. I made you come on this voyage when you wished to get out of Cartagena and find your sweetheart, that girl of mine, Teresa Fernandez.”
“I shall find my girl. The world isn’t big enough to keep us apart,” said Ricardo, his scowl fading. “But I am not ready to quit Cocos Island. The only curse on the treasure is Don Miguel O’Donnell. You must let me work it out, sir. You don’t have to strike your colors yet.”
“Promise me you will not get yourself killed, Ricardo,” implored the affectionate Papa Bazán. “I would not leave you buried on Cocos Island, not for the riches of Captain Thompson and Benito Bonito.”
“My own funeral is not on the programme,” replied Ricardo to whom this was an unfamiliar Papa Bazán. “Please don’t interfere with my orders. I shall have a good deal on my hands. Don Miguel rubbed me the wrong way. I don’t like the way he did it.”
The old gentleman consented to go to bed. Captain Cary made a tour of his patients. With luck he expected to pull them all through. He found the steward faithfully on duty as nurse. Climbing to the bridge, he stood gazing at the shadowy outline of the hostile schooner, only a few hundred feet away. His solid composure of mind had returned. He was putting his shattered self-confidence together again. It made him wince to know that Don Miguel was laughing at him. It was his first humiliating defeat. His men deserved better of him than this.
While he stood musing in the starlit night, he seemed to hear the voice of Teresa Fernandez as she had told him the tale of the great galleonNuestra Señora del Rosarioand her ancestor Don Diego Fernandez—the tale of the two little English ships that had throttled the galleon like bulldogs.
The little ships of Devon, lubberly, as round as an apple, gaudy pennants floating from their stumpy masts, wallowing off to leeward, daring the devil and the deep sea!
The blood coursed through Richard Cary’s veins. He paced to and fro, head erect, heart beating high. Was he to be balked of Spanish treasure? He was a Cary of Devon.
This Don Miguel O’Donnell was a worthy foeman. How many of his men were aboard the schooner? To-night was the time to carry her by boarding, before Don Miguel could entrench the camp and send more men to his vessel to hold her against surprise.
TheValkyriehad no Devon lads with hearts of oak, experienced at this game of swarming over a ship’s side and clearing her decks. The Colombians had been demoralized by wounds and disaster. A respite was necessary, to inspire the rest of the crew, to drill them, to show what was expected of them. They were bewildered, fatigued, and ignorant of the tactics of such an adventure as this. Another day, and they could be led against the schooner. Reluctantly the attack was postponed.
Mr. Duff tramped to the bridge and urged his skipper to turn in until daylight. The ship didn’t need him. The wounded men were quiet.
“All right, Mr. Duff. I’ll go below soon. I am not worried about the ship. You will look after her, but I feel like a daddy to those poor fellows that got hurt. It sort of cheers them up if they happen to be awake when I go the rounds.”
“You take it too hard, Captain Cary,” bluffly replied the battered veteran of a chief officer. “The men might have been stove up as bad as this in a shindy ashore in some port. I had a ship in Valparaiso one time—Lord love you, the police and the sailors fought it to a fare-ye-well.”
“That wasn’t Cocos Island, Mr. Duff. Now keep this to yourself. If things break wrong for me, you understand, you are to take this steamer back to Cartagena, subject to the owner’s orders. And you can keep the command of her, I have no doubt, if she can be made to earn her way in coastwise trade. You have made good with me and with Señor Bazán.”
“Thank you, sir. What’s the oration about? Going to run some fool risk, are you? It isn’t worth it, let me tell you. You are young and husky, and there’s a fine life and a long life ahead of you. Why get bumped off in a tuppenny rumpus like this? Hell’s bells, why don’t you let me do the dirty work? Give me a chance to pay you back, Captain Cary. You fished me out of the garbage can and put me on my feet. I’ll go up against this Don Miguel O’Donnell the minute you say the word.”
Richard Cary shook his head. He had said all he had to say. Daylight found him again on the bridge, intently studying the schooner. He was astonished and chagrined. Outwitted for the second time! Forestalled and beaten! During the night two machine guns had been mounted on the schooner’s deck, one well forward, the other near the after cabin. No boats could hope to approach the vessel and throw men on board. To attempt it even by night would be bloody suicide. Richard Cary’s intentions were snuffed out. The stout lads of Devon never had to reckon with streams of bullets sprayed from machine guns.
The day passed uneventfully. Men were always loafing near the schooner’s machine guns. Another midnight hour came. The tide was flooding into the bay. The sky was slightly overcast. The stars were mistily veiled. The bay slept in a soft obscurity.
Captain Cary called Mr. Duff aside to confide: “This seems to be up to me. Please keep the ship quiet. Look and listen. If you hear me yell for you, bring your men over in the yawl.”
“Blast my picture, sir, what do you mean? Are you going to tackle that armed vessel alone?”
“You do as I say. Watch me swim for it.”
“The sharks’ll get you. I wish I was big enough to put you in irons.”
“Come along aft and see me off, Mr. Duff.”
They halted at the taffrail. Cary took off his canvas shoes and stripped himself to the waist. All he had on was a pair of thin khaki trousers. At his belt was a holster. The flap covered a Colt’s revolver of the old navy pattern. It was long-barreled, with a heavy butt. The two men shook hands. Mr. Duff whispered a blessing almost tearful.
Cary footed it down a rope ladder. Mr. Duff peered over and heard a small splash. For the first time in many years he piously, genuinely invoked his Maker. He saw Cary come to the surface and swim steadily to make a wide détour and approach the schooner bows on. Very soon the swimmer vanished from view. Mr. Duff hurried forward and awoke his men with orders to bealerta, and to jump for the yawl when he said so.
Richard Cary was swimming at a leisurely pace, saving his strength, taking advantage of the favorable drift of the tide. He held the same course until he was well inshore and the schooner’s masts were in line. Then he moved directly toward her, paddling gently and almost submerged, as silent as a bit of flotsam.
Thus he floated until high above him loomed the bowsprit. He was screened from discovery. Catching hold of the anchor chain, he steadied himself and rested for several minutes. He could hear two men talking somewhere forward.
Hand over hand he hauled himself up the cable until he could grasp a bowsprit stay. Another effort and he found a foothold, crouching between the stays directly beneath the heavy timber upon which the folds of a headsail had been loosely secured.
Again he paused and listened. He had at least two men to deal with up here near the forecastle. Their conversation still flowed in drowsy murmurings. They were not far from the forward machine gun, he surmised. He knew how to operate machine guns. During the war he had been a chief petty officer of the American Navy.
He took it for granted that the two machine guns were loaded and ready for instant action. Don Miguel O’Donnell was not a man to be careless in matters of this sort. To get his hands on one of them, long enough to sweep the schooner’s deck with it, this was the hazard upon which Richard Cary was gambling his life.
Clambering over the bowsprit, he crept as far as the anchor winch. Between him and the two men on watch near the forward machine gun was the deck-house in which the sailors were quartered. It was his assumption that most of them were ashore in the camp to hold it against a possible sortie from theValkyrie. He had first to surprise the two men just beyond the deck-house. They were standing close to the starboard bulwark. From where they were, the deck ran flush to the after cabin and the raised quarterdeck upon which the other machine gun was mounted.
The intruder was silent and invisible. He took the heavy revolver by the barrel but, on second thought, shoved it back into the holster. It might be better to have both hands free.
Like a yellow tiger he leaped from his ambush behind a corner of the deck-house. His bare feet slapped the deck in three great strides. The two sailors of Ecuador had no more than time to whirl and face him. He stooped as he ran and grasped one of them around the legs. The fellow seemed to rise in the air as if he had wings. He soared over the bulwark in a graceful parabola. Into the placid waters of the bay he shot as prettily as a man diving. He was yelling when he went under, and he yelled when he came to the surface. He made as much noise as a riot.
Meanwhile the active Ricardo had lunged to get a grip on the other seaman and toss him overboard in the same fashion. This one had a moment’s warning, however, and he was wonderfully nimble. He dodged like a rabbit and fled around the machine gun. At this game of tag there was no catching him. He scudded under Ricardo’s outstretched arm and flew like mad to seek refuge with his friends in the after part of the vessel. A bullet might have stopped him, but the yellow tiger had business more urgent. Every second of time was precious.
He dropped to his knees behind the machine gun. His questing fingers told him that the belt was filled with cartridges. He swung the weapon to rake the quarterdeck and drive the enemy from that other machine gun before they could open fire on him.
He pulled the trigger. Brrrr-r-r—prut—prut—prut—prut, the mechanism responded in a ferocious tattoo amazingly sharp and loud as the headlands of the bay flung the reports to and fro. Checking the fusillade, he looked and listened. He heard shrill shouts, the scamper of feet, a man wailing that he was killed. The other machine gun was dumb. In this brief burst of fire he had driven Don Miguel’s men to cover, but he could not hope to hold them there long. They could snipe at him with pistols and rifles from the cabin windows, from behind the mizzenmast, from the rigging.
He was in the open, kneeling at his machine gun, his body naked to the waist as a target discernible in the darkness. There was this to be said for him, that the schooner was his, from the bow all the way aft to the quarterdeck. He glanced behind him at the open doors of the forecastle. If any seamen were in there, they had too much respect for a machine gun to poke their heads out.
The voice of Richard Cary rolled out in a tremendous shout of: “Ahoy theValkyrie! Boarders away! Shake a leg. I can’t hold ’em long. Come over the bowsprit. Do you understand?”
The jubilant bellow of Chief Officer Duff announced that he understood. His men were in leash, awaiting the summons to cast off. They had an account of their own to square. Richard Cary heard their oars bang against the pins as they shoved clear and put their backs into it while Mr. Duff hurled profane exhortations at their devoted heads. Captain Cary saw the shadow of the boat as it surged toward the schooner. It was for him to maintain the mastery a few minutes longer. What he dreaded and expected was a swift rally to snatch the after machine gun, find shelter for it, and sweep theValkyrie’s boat. The possibility of such a disaster made him desperate. His hands would be stained with the blood of his own comrades if he should lead them into such a wicked trap as this.
Now he recognized the voice of Don Miguel O’Donnell who was driving his men up from the cabin into which they must have piled helter-skelter. This made the situation more critical than ever. The reckless soldier of fortune would not hesitate to pistol his own ship’s officers or men if they refused to do his bidding. They would try to make quick work of it, reflected Cary.
A rifle flashed and then another. He threw himself flat. A bullet kicked a splinter from a plank beside his head. Several whined over him. He watched the flashes. Don Miguel had shrewdly scattered his men in various hiding-places. Without fatally exposing himself, Ricardo was unable to look over the bulwark and gauge the progress of theValkyrie’s boat. He dared withhold his machine gun fire not another minute. It was the card he held in reserve, but if a rifle bullet should kill or cripple him, Mr. Duff and his shipmates would be exposed to slaughter.
He knelt behind the gun and carefully marked the flashes of the rifles. A bullet grazed his left arm. Another chipped an ear. Then he let drive with all the cartridges remaining in the belt. It was a sustained, furious chatter of explosions. He sprayed the quarterdeck from starboard to port and back again. It silenced the enemy’s fire and granted him a fleeting opportunity.
Jumping to his feet, he lifted the machine gun in his arms and tossed it overboard. This one, at least, could not be reloaded and turned against his own crew. Then he ran aft, jerking out the heavy revolver.
For an instant he halted behind the mainmast, in the middle of the ship, to reconnoiter. It was as he expected. Don Miguel’s men knew he had blown away all his ammunition. They were coming out from cover, but not eagerly. Don Miguel was roaring at them from the cabin roof where he had been trying to pot Cary with a rifle. It was he himself who leaped down to aim the after machine gun. He was guilty of a blunder. His intention was to rake theValkyrie’s boat before it passed from sight under the schooner’s bows, leaving his men to dispose of Richard Cary.
Instead of this, he saw a tall, glimmering figure dart from behind the mainmast and come charging aft. His attention was diverted. He hesitated. Then he opened fire at the swiftly moving wraith of a man, expecting to crumple him in his tracks. Ricardo was too canny to make himself an easy target. He ran a zigzag course, on a headlong slant toward one side of the deck and veering toward the other side. It was a disconcerting, bewildering onset even to an experienced campaigner like Don Miguel O’Donnell.
Cary was running like the wind, and as he ran he blazed away with the revolver which barked like a small cannon. A machine gun on a deck deeply shadowed was a clumsy weapon with which to stop a man determined to capture a ship single-handed or perish in the attempt. Don Miguel stood stoutly at his post, loudly swearing at the men who were ducking the bullets from that infernal revolver. The yellow tiger swerved again and bounded to the quarterdeck. He hurled the empty revolver at the man behind the machine gun. It was a missile propelled by an uncommonly powerful arm.
Unseen by Don Miguel, it struck him in the face. He reeled and fell. One of his men stumbled over him. Another lurched into them. In this moment of confusion, Richard Cary laid hands on the machine gun and wrenched it around to command the quarterdeck. A touch of the finger and he could have riddled the nearest group of three, huddled as they were, but the deed was abhorrent. Don Miguel had shown no mercy for the lucklessValkyrieparty at the treasure camp, but this modern Richard Cary felt inclined to offer quarter. A machine gun was a detestable weapon for men who loved good fighting.
“Get below, you swine,” he shouted, “before I turn loose on you!Pronto, now, and drop your rifles.”
The two sailors with Don Miguel dragged him to the companionway, and he went bumping down into the cabin. Others were still skulking in the dark. Two or three came forward with hands upraised. They were glad to surrender. Cary called out a final summons. From the other side of the deck, a die-hard took a futile snap-shot at him with a pistol. Picking up the machine gun, Cary climbed to the cabin roof and deliberately swept the quarterdeck with a hurricane of fire. It smashed through woodwork and searched out the dark corners. It was the blast of death.
A wounded man came whimpering from his hiding-place. Another sprang up with a scream and hung limp over the rail. It was enough. Richard Cary shouldered the machine gun and ran forward with it. He had achieved the vital purpose. His comrades had been saved from destruction. With a thankful heart he shouted to them:
“All clear. Come along and take the schooner.”
The first man from theValkyrie’s yawl was just coming over the bow. Wound about his waist was a rope ladder which he made fast and dropped. Up they swarmed, so fast that they were treading upon one another’s shoulders.
Rifles slung on their backs, pistols in their fists, they crowded around their captain and clamored to be led against the thieves and assassins from Ecuador. Mr. Duff crawled over the bowsprit, the last man aboard. His years and his girth had hampered him. The others had rudely shoved him aside. He was puffing and blowing, and his temper was ruined.
“The scoundrels, they pranced all over me, Captain Cary. Where’s this scrimmage of yours? Here we stand like a bunch of idiots at a tea party. What’s that you’re lugging on your shoulder? A machine gun?”
“One of them,” laughed Richard Cary, affectionately thumping his chief officer. “I had to chuck the other one over the side. You might have got hurt with it. Hop along aft and finish it up. If you find any loosehombres, throw them into a hatch.”
“Then you didn’t scupper the lot?” eagerly exclaimed Mr. Duff.
“I had no chance to count noses,” answered Captain Cary. “Take a look in the forecastle first.”
“Let’s go, boys,” thundered Mr. Duff. “Viva Colombia!”