“Did you ever happen to hear of Captain Kidd?”
“Captain Kidd?” repeated Bart, in innocent wonder, “Captain Kidd? Hear
of him? Of course I’ve heard of him. Everybody knows about him.”
“Well, if that man’s ghost don’t haunt this bay, then I’m a nigger.”
“Haunt this bay? What do you mean? What had Captain Kidd to do with this
bay? He was hanged at London.”
“He had a precious lot to do with this bay,” said the landlord,
positively.
“Why, I don’t see how that could be,” said Bart, trying to get the
landlord excited by contradiction. “I don’t see how he ever could have
been here. His story’s a simple enough one; soon told. I’ve heard it
often. How he went from New York to London well recommended, and got
a commission from the British government to command a ship, for the
purpose of putting down pirates in India and the East. But this didn’t
suit him quite; so he turned pirate himself. Most of his piracies took
place in the East, though. It’s true he returned to America, and made a
great panic; but he was captured and sent to England, where he was tried
and executed. That was in 1699. I remember the date very well. So I
don’t see how he could have done much about here.”
Bart spoke very volubly, and seemed to have the Life of Captain Kidd
at his tongue’s end. The landlord listened very attentively. But Bart’s
words, instead of shaking his own convictions, only served, as Bart had
hoped and intended, to strengthen and confirm them. As Bart spoke, he
raised himself up out of the lounging attitude in which he had been
sitting, looked full in Bart’s face, and as he ceased,--
“Very well. Grant all that,” said the landlord, with a comprehensive
sweep of his hand, which seemed to concede every single statement
that Bart had made, in the fullest and frankest manner.
“Grant--all--that--every word of it. I don’t doubt it at all--not
me. Very well. Now mark me. Captain Kidd did really, and truly, and
actually, flourish about here, in this here bay--for he’s left behind
him the most--un--mis--tak--able in--di--ca--tions. I’ve seen ’em
myself, with my own eyes. I’ve handled ‘em myself, and with my own
hands. And besides, that there pirate must have been about over the
coast of America a good deal more than you give him credit for, or he
wouldn’t have left a name behind, from one end of America to the other;
and, at any rate, he must have been here, or else he wouldn’t have left
behind what he has left, and what I’ve seen with my own eyes.”
“I didn’t know,” said Bart, “that he had left any traces of himself
here. What are they? What kind of traces?”
“What kind of traces?” said the landlord. “Traces that beat everything
in the way of traces that any pirate ever made. What do you say, for
instance, to a pit so deep that nobody’s ever been able to get to the
bottom of it?”
“A pit? What sort of a pit?” asked Bart, full of excitement.
“What do you say to his filling that pit with oaken chests, crammed
full of gold and silver ingots, and gold candlesticks, plundered from
Catholic churches, and precious stones, such as diamonds, rubies, and
emeralds--beyond all counting?”
“Gold! silver! precious stones!” repeated Bart, who was so overcome by
this astounding information, that he could only utter these words.
“What do you say to his taking the prisoners that had dug his hole, and
filled it, and killing them all, to keep his secret?”
“Killing his prisoners!”
“What do you say,” continued the landlord, enjoying with keenest relish
the evident excitement of Bart,--“what do you say to his contriving the
most extraordinary plans ever heard of to prevent anybody ever getting
at that treasure,--by making the hole, in the first place, far down
under the level of the sea,--by building a drain, so as to let in the
sea water; and then, after killing the prisoners, filling up the hole to
the very top? What do you say to all that?”.
“Why, I never heard of this in all my life! How do you know it? Tell me,
now. Tell me all about it. Where is the place? Is it here--in this bay?”
“Of course it is. I’ve said as much,” replied the landlord.
“But you didn’t mention it this morning.”
“No, because you only wanted to hear about fine scenery. This place
isn’t particularly remarkable for that. It’s a little island, not more
than three miles from here, up that way to the right. It’s called Oak
Island, because Captain Kidd planted it with acorns, so as to know it
when he came back. Well, since his day, the acorns have grown to be
oaks--some of them pretty big--though being near the sea, they haven’t
grown so big as they would have done if they had been planted farther
inland.”
“Oak Island!” repeated Bart, in a tone which expressed the most profound
interest,--“Oak Island!”
“That’s the place,” said the landlord. “I wonder you ain’t heard of Oak
Island before.”
“Never,” said Bart; “that is, I’ve heard the name mentioned; but never
knew that Captain Kidd had anything to do with it.”
“That’s just what he had,” said the landlord. “Everybody in these
parts can tell you all about it. People have been full of it ever since
Chester was settled. I’ve heard it all my life.”
“But if there’s money there, why don’t they get it?” asked Bart.
“Because they can’t!”
“Can’t?”
“No, can’t. Captain Kidd knowed what he was about, and he made his
arrangements so that, from that day to this, nobody’s ever been able to
get down to the bottom of that money-hole, and, in my humble opinion,
never will.”
“Why not? I don’t understand.”
“Well,” said the landlord, “it’s a long story; but as I’ve got nothing
to do just now, I don’t mind telling you about it.”
So saying, the landlord settled himself into an easy, lounging attitude,
and began the story of Oak Island.