Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
THE SPANISH GALLEON
THE
SPANISH GALLEON
BEING AN ACCOUNT
OF
_A SEARCH FOR SUNKEN TREASURE IN THE
CARIBBEAN SEA_
BY
CHARLES SUMNER SEELEY
[Illustration: colophon]
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY
1891
COPYRIGHT,
BY A. C. MCCLURG AND CO.
A. D. 1891.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ISLAND 7
II. THE FOOD SUPPLY 17
III. HOUSE-BUILDING 28
IV. PIG-HUNTING 41
V. BOAT-BUILDING 53
VI. “DUKE 2D, PROPERTY OF H. SENLIS” 67
VII. THE WATER-GLASS 80
VIII. BREAD-MAKING 93
IX. THE GALLEON FOUND 105
X. THE CASTAWAYS 116
XI. ALICE AND HER FATHER 129
XII. THE PROBLEM 143
XIII. THE ABANDONED PLANTATION 153
XIV. A REMARKABLE CURE 166
XV. LOST AND FOUND 180
XVI. A BAD PORT 192
XVII. THE WAVES IN HARNESS 204
XVIII. EMBAYED 218
XIX. THE PEARL-FISHERS 231
XX. THE CAPTAIN OF THE GANG 245
XXI. SELF-BETRAYED 259
XXII. THE CAPTAIN’S FATE 272
XXIII. TREASURE TROVE 283
THE SPANISH GALLEON.
CHAPTER I.
THE ISLAND.
My name is William Morgan, and I am a lineal descendant of that William
Morgan who was a brother of the famous Welsh buccaneer, Henry Morgan. I
mention this in no spirit of pride,--quite the contrary,--but because
some may choose to trace in these adventures evidence of hereditary
tendencies.
On the eighteenth day of August, 1886, as the sun was setting, I was
floating in the Caribbean Sea. You may mark the place on the map as
being approximately N. latitude 15°, and W. longitude 62° from
Greenwich; or in other words, between one hundred and two hundred miles
west of the French island of Martinique. A chest, well corded but partly
filled with water, was all that kept my head above the surface. Without
food or drink I had been floating thus since shortly after sunrise of
the previous morning. At that time the sloop in which I was voyaging,
capsized and sunk in a squall, drowning the negro captain and owner, and
his son, who constituted the crew. In this little vessel I was bound for
a small uninhabited island known as “Key Seven,” which was in plain
sight when the disaster occurred. For two days and a night, without
sleep or refreshment, I had been struggling to push the floating chest
toward this land.
Now as the sun was just about to sink exactly behind the trees on the
island, I was so near that the sound of the waves on the beach reached
my ear. The tide would soon turn, and I must gain a foothold on the sand
before the ebb got fairly under way, or continue the struggle another
night. My hands and arms were sore in places from chafing in the salt
water against the chest, every muscle ached, cramps and pains shot
incessantly through every limb, my eyes were on fire, the wolf of hunger
gnawed at my stomach, my lips and mouth and throat were parched and dry.
The fever of utter exhaustion and fatigue drove delirious dreams and
fancies through my aching brain. Still on, on, on, compelling the
unwilling and rebellious muscles to their automatic work, made sickening
to the very soul by long continued repetition, I fought until at last my
feet rested on the bottom. One final struggle and the wave left me with
the chest upon the beach. But it was not until the last ounce of energy
had been expended, that I staggered and fell on the dry sand among the
parched bladder-weed that streaked the shore. There I lay for half an
hour, completely exhausted.
When I rose to secure the chest by dragging it a little way--a very
little way--beyond the reach of the waves, the sun had just sunk, night
with tropical suddenness had fallen on the scene, and the stars burst
out in all their brilliancy in the clear dark vault of heaven.
Here then I was at last at the end of my voyage, but in what a plight.
Food and drink and sleep I must have, and that speedily, or death would
shortly claim me. It was starlight, but too dark to see more than the
dim outlines of things. I lay down again on the warm dry sand and tried
to think what was best to do; but I could not think, for my dry tongue
rattled in my mouth and my head ached as though it would burst with
every feeble throb of the heart.
As I lay with my face turned toward the sea, listening in despair to the
soft, monotonous lip-lipping of the waves, varied at regular intervals
by the long, foaming crash of the swell as it broke and swept up the
sands, there came presently in the eastern sky a faint silvery glow, and
the full moon stole up from out the glistening water until it shone full
and broad, making a burnished path down to the shore at my feet. No
doubt, this saved my life. In an hour it was almost as light as day. I
untied my shoes, which I had fastened to the chest while swimming, put
them on to guard my feet, and started in search of drinking-water.
Fortunately it was close at hand. A little brook flowed down to the sea
not more than forty rods to the north of my landing-place. Had I been in
condition to remember anything, I should have known this fact, because
while floating in the sea I noted this stream by the low foliage that
marked its course near the beach, and longed for a draught of the water
which I knew must be there. Stumbling along the sands, I reached the
stream, and lying down, buried my face in the clear, sweet water, and
drank until I could drink no more. This was possibly an imprudent thing
to do. Indeed it was followed by dreadful nausea. But this did not
hinder me from taking another draught, almost as deep as the first.
He who has not experienced real thirst can never know how delicious is
pure, sweet water, taken when every fibre and pore of the body is
suffering for it. Each capillary and duct seemed to expand, and the
heart soon began to beat stronger and fuller as though under the lash of
a stimulant. Though I had fancied food was what I needed most, it was
really the water that my system demanded, and I felt at once so much
stronger and better that a desire to sleep came upon me, the fever left
my veins, and I felt as though I could wait until morning before
breaking my fast.
On the way back to the chest I picked up half a dozen shell-fish of some
bivalve species, on the sands at the edge of the surf, and ate them.
They tasted sweet as a nut to me, but were probably of little nutritious
value, and possibly more or less indigestible. But they brought no harm,
and seemed partly to fill what void the water had left.
At the landing-place I drew and rolled the chest still farther up the
beach, took off my wet clothing, spread it out to dry, and buried my
body in the warm sand, putting the chest between me and the gentle wind
which was breathing steadily and softly in from the sea. Exhausted as I
was, the sense of bodily rest and warmth was delicious; but as is apt to
be the case when one is over-fatigued, sleep did not come to my eyelids.
I was free from pain with the exception of the smarting of the raw
wounds on my hands and arms, and lay listening to the rustling of the
breeze, the sound of the sea, and the lonesome call of a night bird or a
small animal of some sort that occasionally broke the stillness.
I thought over my desperate situation; of the disastrous ending of the
voyage, from which I had hoped so much; how and when, if ever, I could
get off the island and back to civilization to take a fresh start,--for
as to giving up the great object of the expedition, that thought was not
once entertained either then or at any other time. But now without a
boat or the many necessary appliances for carrying out my plans, I could
not hope to accomplish that object, though I was upon the very island
that I had travelled over a thousand miles to reach. It would be
necessary to go back at least to Martinique, if not to New York, to
obtain what I needed. Diving apparatus is not to be found everywhere.
Besides the assistance of at least one person seemed absolutely
necessary, and here I was alone. Yes, I must somehow go back and start
over again,--that seemed clear. But how, and when? These questions were
not easy to answer. Should I be able even to obtain food while a
prisoner here, waiting such deliverance as chance might bring?
These and a thousand other thoughts passed through my mind while I lay
looking at the stars as they paled before the silver shield of the moon.
I thought of my plans so carefully laid, and now, at least for the time
being, so utterly defeated. Thus I reviewed mentally the whole history
of the enterprise I had undertaken. And perhaps this is a proper place
to give the reader an account of what he will doubtless conceive to be
the wildest scheme that ever was seriously contemplated. Listen, that
you may judge.
On my twenty-first birthday, now only a few weeks past, I sailed from
New York in one of the steamers plying to the Windward Islands, bound
for Martinique and thence by country sloop to Key Seven, for the purpose
of finding a Spanish galleon that sank in the open sea near that island,
July 9, 1665, after a bloody battle with two vessels commanded by the
buccaneer Welshman, Captain Henry Morgan. This galleon contained pieces
of eight, gold and silver in bars and plate, and jewels, to the value of
over three hundred thousand dollars. It had lain thus at the bottom of
the sea, as I believed, for more than two hundred years. To find this
sunken wreck and secure the treasure was the object of my expedition.
How I succeeded in such a wild undertaking will appear hereafter.
Several years before, while I was at college, a desultory course of
reading had awakened in me a deep interest in the early printed
accounts of the lawless buccaneers and maroons who infested the waters
and coasts of the Caribbean Sea, besieged and sacked the Spanish forts
and cities, crossed the isthmus of Darien, and followed down the coast
of South America, capturing the vessels and laying waste the towns of
the Spaniards. Bartholomew Portuges, Brasiliano, John Davis, Francis
Lolonois, and Henry Morgan, the brother of my ancestor, were noted
leaders of these buccaneering crews and armies. Perhaps the last-named
adventurer, who led the desperate expedition across the isthmus and
captured the fortified city of Panama, was the most noted of all, as he
was also not the least cruel, blood-thirsty, and avaricious. Fragmentary
accounts by various authors, some of whom were actors in the scenes
described, have been published in Dutch, French, Spanish, and English.
So far as I could do so I had sought and studied these accounts. A
translation into English, made more than a hundred years ago, of the
most considerable Dutch and French accounts had enabled me to absorb
them, and the numerous original reports of Spanish officials made to
their government, and which are still preserved in the archives at
Madrid, were rendered accessible to me by a fortunate circumstance.
Many years ago most of the documents bearing upon the history of
America, from the time of Columbus down to the present century, had been
collected and transcribed through the efforts of an American author
whose charming histories have delighted all English readers. This mass
of material had since its transcription been made use of by many others,
and being in the charge of the college librarian, I obtained access to
it. My enthusiasm may be imagined, when I say that in order to consult
these transcriptions I actually learned to read Spanish. It was in one
of these papers that I found the report of Don Josef Isabel del Velo y
Campo, admiral of the Spanish fleet and at the time in command of the
Spanish galleon La Magdalen. The admiral gave a full account of the loss
of this galleon, of the desperate battle, of the tremendous bravery of
the Spaniards under his command, and of his own escape with two others
by swimming to the island of Trebucino near by. The vessel sank about a
mile from the northern extremity of the island, bearing a little east of
north from the point of rocks. The report was accompanied by an account
of the cargo on board, as nearly correct as his memory and knowledge
could serve him to give, and by a like statement of the money and
treasure lost, concluding with a pious congratulation that if lost to
Spain it at least had not fallen into the hands of Morgan and his
murderous _hereticos_.
At the time of reading this report, it was to me a matter of idle
wonder, to conjecture whether the noble galleon still held together at
the bottom of the sea, and if the treasure was still there; to picture
the many curious things that possibly lived and grew near the blackened
and corroded silver and the untarnishable gold, the monsters of the sea
that swam and crept over and about it, the seaweed, the sponge and the
coral, the tides and the currents which swept by it, and the drowned
sailors and cavaliers whose spirits possibly guarded it through the slow
ages of decay and change.
Although I had looked up the island of Trebucino on the old charts, and
had identified it as the bit of land now marked “Key Seven” on modern
maps, yet at that time I had no thought of the possibility of recovering
the treasure, much less of engaging in such a hair-brained enterprise
myself. It was not until long afterward that the idea entered my mind of
seeking the treasure, and then it was suggested by a serious misfortune
that befell me.
Both my parents were dead, and I had no living relatives nearer than an
uncle, my mother’s brother, who was my guardian, and who from time to
time sent me money as I needed it. When my father died he left his
estate, consisting of valuable farming lands in the beautiful Mohawk
valley, heavily encumbered with debt. The money sent me for expenses at
college came from a small property that had belonged to my mother. I had
always looked forward to the day when, free from school life, I could
undertake the management and control of my father’s farms, and return to
live at the home farm, where I was born and where my early boyhood days
were passed. The old Dutch-built brick house with its noble elms, the
brook that ran through the meadow, so near that its murmur could be
heard on still summer nights from my open bedroom window, the broad
fields stretching up and down the valley as far as the eye could reach,
the thousand acres under cultivation, and the thousand more of woodland
and pasture, the sleek herds, the dairy, and all the joys of a farmer’s
life, made up the picture which was ever in my mind. To live this life
had been my ambition, and I had tolerated school only because I was told
it would better fit me for the work.
But all my hopes were suddenly dashed by a letter from my uncle advising
me to be economical and saving with my money, as there was only seven
hundred dollars left of the fund devoted to my education, and the whole
of which he would in six months turn over to me in one sum. He told me I
was now old enough to be informed of my exact prospects. It was better,
he said, I should know that my father’s estate would not sell for nearly
enough to clear the mortgages on it, that it would require at least a
hundred thousand dollars to meet and pay a debt due in three years. He
offered to manage the property for me up to that time; but warned me
that I could hope to realize but little from it, and that it would then
have to go under the hammer. By this sad and unexpected news, my
prospects in life were wholly changed. The thought of losing my old home
and all the familiar surroundings was so dismal and distressing that I
had no heart left to finish my college work. Could I not somehow get the
necessary money to redeem the property? This thought came to me over and
over. To get a hundred thousand dollars in the short space of three
years! Alas! the accomplishment of such a feat must involve some
extraordinary circumstances as well as great good-fortune. It was while
thus cudgelling my brains in despair, that the idea of the Spanish
galleon recurred to me. After weighing the whole matter coolly, and
without any enthusiasm or prejudice, I concluded that there was a bare
chance of raising this sunken treasure from the sea. I resolved to take
that remote chance, and to spend my money and the three years, if
necessary, in the endeavor.
It would be six months before I could get the seven hundred dollars that
remained to me. This period I spent in planning and studying the
enterprise, and in such physical preparation as I was able to make.
Every day I visited the natatorium and gymnasium to practise swimming
and to train and develop the muscles; so that when the six months had
passed I was an expert swimmer and diver and my muscles were hard as
steel. The money came duly to hand, and I left college at once for New
York City.
There, after writing to my uncle that I was about to go on a voyage that
might last three years, and bidding him an affectionate farewell, I
bought such articles and appliances as I had determined would be
necessary, and took passage for Martinique with exactly two hundred
dollars in my pocket.
Then came, as we have seen, the wreck of the sloop, the drowning of my
negro assistants, and my long struggle in the sea.