THE HUNGRY SHARK
"Hyar, sah! Please don' you go t'rowin' nuffin to de sharks, not 'roun'
dese waters, anyhow."
"Why?" asked Stuart in return, smiling at the grave face of the negro
steward on board the steamer taking him from Porto Rico to Jamaica. His
stay at Porto Rico had been brief, for he found a telegram awaiting him
from Fergus, bidding him hurry at once to Kingston.
"No, sah," repeated the negro, "dar witch-sharks in dese waters,
debbil-sharks, too. Folks do say dem ol' buccaneers, when dey died, was
so bad dat eben de Bad Place couldn't take 'em. Now, dey's sharks,
a-swimmin' to an' fro, an' lookin' for gol', like dem yar pirates used
ter do."
"Oh, come, Sam, you don't believe that!" protested the boy. "What could
a shark do with gold, if he had it?"
"Sho's you livin', Sah," came the response, "I done see two gol' rings
an' a purse taken out'n the inside of a shark. An' you know how, right
in dese hyar waters, a shark swallowed some papers, an' it was the
findin' o' dose papers what stopped a lot o' trouble between Great
Britain an' the United States, yes, Sah!"
The gift of silver crossing a palm has other powers besides that of
inspiring a fortune-teller. It can inspire a story-teller, as well.
Stuart, scenting a story which he could send to the paper from Kingston,
put half-a-crown where he thought it would do most good, namely, in the
steward's palm and heard the strange (and absolutely true and authentic)
story of the shark's papers.
"Yes, Sah," he began, "I know jes' how that was, 'cause my gran'pap, he
was a porter in de Jamaica Institute, an' when I was a small shaver I
used to go wid him in the mornin's when he was sweepin' up, and I used
to help him dust de cases. Yes, Sah. Bime by, when I got big enough to
read, I got a lot o' my eddication from dose cases, yes, Sah!
"This hyar story begins dis way. On July 3, 1799--I remember de dates
persackly--a brig, called de _Nancy_, lef' Baltimore for Curacao. Her
owners were Germans, but 'Merican citizens, yes, Sah. Her cargo was
s'posed to be dry goods, provisions an' lumber, but dere was a good deal
more aboard her, guns, powder an' what they call contraband, ef you know
jes' what that is. I don't rightly."
"I do," agreed Stuart. "Go ahead."
"Well, Sah, dis hyar brig _Nancy_, havin' stopped at Port-au-Prince,
started on down de coast, when, strikin' a heavy blow, she los' her
maintopmast. She was makin' for a little island, not far 'way, to make
some repairs, when she was captured by H.M.S. _Sparrow_, a cutter
belongin' to H.M.S. _Abergavenny_, de British flagship stationed at Port
Royal. De _Sparrow_ was commanded by Lieutenant Hugh Wylie, and dis hyar
Wylie sent her in with anoder prize, a Spanish one, to Port Royal. So,
naterally, Wylie brings a suit for salvage against de _Nancy_, bein' an
enemy vessel."
"But where does the shark come in?" queried Stuart, growing impatient.
"Jes' you wait a minute, Sah!" the negro responded, "I bring um in de
shark pretty quick. De owners of de _Nancy_, dey come to court an' show
papers that de _Nancy_ never was no 'Merican ship at all, an' dat
Lieutenant Wylie, he make one great big mistake in capturin' dis hyar
brig.
"But, what you t'ink, Sah? Right at dat moment, up steps in de
court-room, Lieutenant Fitton, of H.M.S. _Ferret_, another cutter
belongin' to the _Abergavenny_ an' hands the judge some papers.
"'Your Honor,' he says, 'these are the true papers of the brig _Nancy_.
Those you have before you are false.'
"'Where did you find these papers?' ask de judge.
"'In the belly of a shark, My Lord,' answers Lieutenant Fitton, clear
an' loud.
"For de sake, Sah, dem Germans must ha' turn green! In de belly ob a
shark, Yah, ha-ha!" And the steward roared in white-toothed laughter.
"But how were they found there?" came the boy's next question.
"Yes, Sah, I was jes' comin' to that. Dis hyar Fitton, wid one cutter,
was a-cruisin' together wid Wylie, in de other cutter, when Wylie broke
away to take de _Nancy_.
"Bein' nigh breakfast time, Fitton signals to Wylie to come to
breakfast. Wylie, he right busy wid _Nancy_ an' can't come right away.
Fitton, fishin' while he waitin' for Wylie, catch a small shark. Dey cut
him open, jes' to see what he got inside, an' dar, right smack in de
belly, dey see a bundle o' papers.
"'Hi!' says Fitton, 'dat somet'ing important!' and he keep de papers an'
tow de shark to Port Royal."
"I suppose," said Stuart, "the captain of the _Nancy_ must have thrown
the papers overboard. But why should the shark swallow them? I know
sharks will turn over and make ready to swallow most things, but they
don't take them in, as a rule, unless they're eatable."
"Yes, Sah, quite right, Sah, but dar was a reason. De papers, Sah, had
been hidden in a pork barrel on board de _Nancy_, an' de shark must ha'
t'ought dey smelt good. When Fitton showed dese hyar papers in court, de
experts what were called in on de case said dat dere was grease on 'em
what wouldn't come from no shark's stomach. No, Sah.
"Dey figured, right den an' dar, dat de grease must ha' been on de
papers, fust. So dey started lookin' on board de _Nancy_ an', for de
sake, dey found, right in a pork barrel, a lot more papers, all written
in German an' showin' a reg'lar plot for privateerin' against the United
States.
"Dose papers, Sah, dey're right thar in de Institute in Jamaica, wid a
letter from de official, who was in charge ob de case, ober a hundred
years ago. In de United Service Museum, in London, is de head of de
shark what swallowed de papers. I reckon, Sah, dat was de fust time dat
a shark ever was a witness in a court!"
And, with a loud laugh, the steward went to respond to the call of
another of the passengers.
Strange as was the story of the shark swallowing the papers and being
forced to give them up again, still stranger was the story that Stuart
heard from one of the passengers. This tale, equally authentic, was of
an occurrence that happened even earlier, in that famous town of Port
Royal, which, in the long ago days, was the English buccaneer center,
even as Tortugas was the center of the French sea-rovers.
This was the story of Lewis Galdy, a merchant of Port Royal, French-born
and a man of substance, who went through one of the most extraordinary
experiences that has ever happened to a human being.
He was walking down the narrow street of that buccaneer town, on June 7,
1692, when the whole city and countryside was shaken by a terrific
earthquake shock. The earth opened under the merchant's feet and he
dropped into the abyss. He lost consciousness, yet, in a semi-comatose
state, felt a second great wrenching of the earth, which heaved him
upwards. Water roared about his ears, and he was at the point of
drowning, when, suddenly, he found himself swimming in the sea,
half-a-mile from land.
As the place where he had been walking was fully three hundred yards
inland, he had been carried in the bowels of the earth three-quarters of
a mile before being thrown forth. A boat picked him up, and he lived for
forty-seven years after his extraordinary escape.
Jamaica, indeed, has been the prey of earthquakes, the most serious of
which wrecked the city of Kingston, in 1907. The shocks lasted ten
seconds, and the town of 46,000 inhabitants was a ruin. The death list
reached nearly a thousand. From this shock, however, as Stuart found,
the city has recovered bravely, largely due to the lighter system of
building common to British islands, and all places which have an
American impress, while in French, Dutch and Danish islands, buildings
are more solidly constructed. Frame houses, however, are less damaged by
earthquake than are stone structures.
There was, however, little opportunity for Stuart to make tours in
Jamaica or to work out any articles for his "Color Question" series. A
registered letter from the paper awaited the boy in Kingston, the
reading of which he concluded with a long, low whistle.
That night, without attracting attention, Stuart left the city on foot,
taking neither tramway nor railroad, and made a long night march. The
roads were steep, but the cool air compensated for that difficulty, and
having spent a long time on board ship the boy was glad to stretch his
legs. On the further side of Spanish Town he saw what he sought, a
rickety automobile under a lean-to-shed.
He hurried to the negro owner, who was lolling on the verandah.
"I want to go to Buff Bay," he said. "How soon can you get me there?"
"De road ain' none too good, Sah," the Jamaican answered, "your bes' way
is to take de train f'm Spanish Town. Dat'll land you right in Buff
Bay."
"I don't want to," answered Stuart, making up the first excuse that came
to mind, "I get train-sick. Can't your car make it?"
The boy knew that there is nothing in the world that so much touches a
man's pride as to have his car slighted, no matter whether it be the
craziest kettle on wheels or a powerful racer.
"Make it? Yes, Sah!" The exclamation was emphatic. "I can have you in
thar by noon."
Business arrangements were rapidly concluded, and in a few minutes they
started out, Stuart having borrowed an old straw hat from the driver, in
order, as he said, that he could take a good sleep under it, which
indeed, he did. But his main reason was disguise.
The negro looked back at his passenger once or twice, and muttered,
"Train-sick? Huh! Looks more like ter me he's in pickle wid de police!
Wonder if I didn't ought to say somet'ing?"
Then a remembrance of some of his own earlier days came to him, and he
chuckled.
"Fo' de sake!" he said. "I wouldn' want to tell all I ever did!"
And he drove on through Linfield, without summoning the guardians of the
law.
Stuart, unconscious how near he had been to an unpleasant delay, slept
on. Questioning would have been awkward, search would have been worse,
for, in the pocket of his jacket, was Fergus's letter he had received in
Kingston, which closed with the words,
"Get to the Mole St. Nicholas with utmost speed! Spare no expense, but
go secretly!"
That this bore some new development in the Great Plot, there was no
doubting, and the letter had told him to be sure to leave Kingston
without letting Cecil catch a glimpse of him. That meant that Cecil was
still in Kingston. In that case, what could the other conspirators be
doing without him?
Towards noon, a whiff of salt air wakened Stuart. He stirred, rubbed his
eyes and looked round.
"The north shore, eh!" he exclaimed on seeing the sea.
"Yes, Sah! Annotta Bay, Sah!"
"Do you know anyone around these parts?"
"Fo' de sake, yes, Sah! I was born in dese parts. I jes' went to Spanish
Town a few years ago, when my wife's folks died."
"Do you know anyone who has a motor boat?"
"You want to buy one?"
"Not unless I have to. Do you happen to know of any?"
"Well, Sah," said the negro cautiously, "thar's a preacher here what has
one, but--but--he's a mighty careful man is Brother Fliss, an'----"
Stuart, refreshed from his sleep, grasped the hitch at once.
"You think I'm in trouble and running from the police, eh? Not a bit of
it! Here, run up to this preacher's. I'll convince him, in a minute."
A little further on, the machine turned to the left, and just as it
turned off, a racing car flashed by. Something about one of the figures
was familiar.
"Whose car was that?"
The driver turned and stared at the cloud of dust.
"I didn't rightly see, it might ha' been----" He stopped. "I'll tell you
whar you can get a boat, Sah!" he suggested. "Mr. Cecil, he keeps one
down at his place a bit down de road."
"Cecil!" Stuart had to control himself to keep from shouting the name.
"Has he a place on this coast?"
"Yes, Sah; fine place, Sah, pretty place. Awful nice man, Mr. Cecil.
He'll lend you de boat, for nuffin', likely. Brother Fliss, good man,
you un'erstand, but he stick close to de money."
"Let's go there, just the same," said Stuart, "I don't want to be under
obligations. I'd rather pay my way."
The negro shrugged his shoulders and, in a few minutes, the car stopped
at the preacher's house.
As the driver had suggested, Brother Fliss "stick close to de money" and
his charge was high. He was an intensely loyal British subject, and an
even more loyal Jamaican, and when Stuart showed his card from the paper
and at the same suggested that he needed this help in order to trace up
a plot against Jamaica, the preacher was so willing that he would
almost--but not quite--have lent the boat free.
Being afraid that the automobile driver might talk, if he returned to
Spanish Town, and thus overset all the secrecy that Stuart flattered
himself he had so far maintained, the boy suggested that the negro come
along in the boat. This suggestion was at once accepted, for the mystery
of the affair had greatly excited the Jamaican's curiosity.
The preacher, himself, received the suggestion with approval.
Usually--for the craft, though, sturdy, was a small one--he was his own
steersman and engineer. Now, he could enjoy the luxury of a crew, and
the driver, who was a fairly good mechanic, was quite competent to
handle the small two-cylinder engine.
So far as the boy was concerned, he had another reason. The quest might
be dangerous. Undoubtedly Cesar Leborge and Manuel Polliovo would be
there. Equally certainly, Guy Cecil, who had protected him before, would
not. A companion would be of aid in a pinch.
And it was all so dark, so mysterious, so incomprehensible! He had
learned nothing new about the plot. He had no documents with which to
confront the conspirators. He had no protection against these two men,
one of whom, he knew, had vowed to kill him.
The motor boat glided out on the waters north of Jamaica, on her way to
that grim passage-way between Cuba and Haiti, that key to the Caribbean,
which is guarded by the Mole St. Nicholas.
Yet, withal, Stuart had one protector. Behind him stood the power of a
New York newspaper, and, with that, he felt he had the power of the
United States. There is no flinching, no desertion in the great army of
news-gatherers. There should be none in him.
With no support but that, with nothing to guide him but his faith in the
paper that sent him forth, Stuart set his face to the shore of that
semi-savage land, on the beach of which he expected to find his foes
awaiting him.