A dipsy-chanty, if you please; of sailormen in jerseys and tarry caps,
of rolling gaits, strong tobacco and diverse profanity; of cutters, and
blunt-nosed schooners, and tramps, canvas and steam, some of them
honest, some of them shady, and some of them pirates of the first water
who did not find it necessary to hoist aloft the skull and bones. The
seas are dotted with them. They remind you of the once prosperous
merchant, run down at the heel, who slinks along the side streets,
ashamed to meet those he knew in the past. You never hear them
mentioned in the maritime news, which is the society column of the
ships; you know of their existence only by the bleached bones of them,
strewn along the coast.
You who crave adventures on high seas, you purchase a ticket, a steamer
chair, and a couple of popular novels, go on board to the blare of a
very indifferent brass band, and believe you are adventuring; when, as
a matter of fact, you are about to spend a dull week or a fortnight on
a water hotel, where the most exciting thing is the bugle's call to
meals or the discovery of a card sharp in the smoking-room. Take a
real ship, go as supercargo, to the South Seas; take the side streets
of the ocean, and learn what it can do with hurricanes, typhoons,
blistering calms, and men's souls. There will be adventure enough
then. If you are a weakling, either you are made strong, or you die.
An honest ship, but run down at the heel, rode at anchor in the sound,
a fourth-rater of the hooker breed; that is, her principal line of
business was hauling barges up and down the coast. When she could not
pick up enough barges to make it pay, why she'd go gallivanting down to
Cuba for bales of tobacco or even to the Bermudas for the
heaven-smelling onion. To-day she was an onion ship; which precludes
any idea of adventure. She was about four thousand tons, and her
engines were sternward and not amidship. She carried two masts and a
half-dozen hoist booms, and the only visible sign of anything new on
her was her bowsprit. This was new doubtless because she had poked her
nose too far into her last slip.
Her crew was orderly and tractable. There were shore drunks, to be
sure, because they were sailors; but they were at work. They moved
about briskly, for they were on the point of sailing for the
Bahamas--perhaps for more onions. Presently the windlass creaked and
shrilled, and the blobby links, much in need of tar paint, red as fish
gills, clattered down into the bow. Sometimes they painted the chain
as it came over; but paint was costly, and this was done only when the
anchor threatened to stay on the bottom.
There was a sailor among this crew, and he went by the name of Steve
Blossom; and he was one of his kind. A grimy dime novel protruded
rakishly from his hip pocket, and his right cheek was swollen as with
the toothache, due, probably, to a generous "chaw" of Seaman's Delight.
He was a real tobacco chewer, for he rarely spat. He was as peaceful
as a backwater bay in summer; non-argumentative and passive, he stood
his watch in fair weather and foul.
No one gave the anchor any more attention after it came to rest. The
great city over the way was fairy-like in its haziness and softened
lines. It was the poetry of angles, of shafts and spars of stone; and
Steve Blossom, having a moment to himself, leaned against the rail and
stared regretfully. He had been generously drunk the night before, and
it was a pleasant recollection. Chance led his glance to trail down
the cutwater. His neck stretched from his collar like a turtle's from
its shell.
"Well, I'll be hornswoggled!" he murmured, shifting his cud from
starboard to port.
Caught on the fluke of the anchor was the strangest looking box he had
ever laid eyes on. There were leather and steel bands and
diamond-shaped ivory and mother of pearl, and it hung jauntily on the
point of the rusty fluke. Anybody would be hornswoggled to glimpse
such a droll jest of fate. On the fluke of the old mudhook, by a hair,
you might say. In all the wild sea yarns he had ever read or heard
there was nothing to match this.
Treasure!
And Steve was destined never to be passive again. His first impulse
was to call his companions; his second impulse was to say nothing at
all, and wait for an opportunity to get the box to his bunk without
being detected. Treasure! Diamonds and rubies and pearls and old
Spanish gold; and all hanging to the fluke of the anchor.
"Hornswoggled!" in a kind of awesome whisper this time. "An' we
a-headin' for th' Bahamas!" For under his feet he could hear the
rhythm of engines. "What'll I do? If I leave it, some one else'll see
it." He scratched his chin perplexedly; and the cud went back to
starboard. "I got it!"
He took off his coat and carefully dropped it down over the mysterious
box. It was growing darker and darker all the time, and shortly
neither coat nor anchor would be visible without close scrutiny.
Treasure: greed, cupidity, crime. Steve saw only the treasure and not
its camp followers. What did they call them?--doubloons and
pieces-of-eight?
He ate his supper with his messmates, and he ate heartily as usual. It
would have taken something more vital than mere treasure to disturb
Steve Blossom's appetite. He was one of those enviable individuals
whose imagination and gastric juices work at the same time. And while
he ate he planned. In the first place, he would buy that home at
Bedford; then he would take over the Gilson House and live like a lord.
If he wanted a drink, all he would have to do would be to turn the
spigot or tip a bottle; and more than that, he'd have a bartender to do
it. Onions! He swore he would not have an onion within a mile of the
Gilson House. "Onions!" Quite unconsciously he spoke the words aloud.
"Huh? Well, if ye don't like onions, find a hooker that packs violets
in her hold," was the cheerful advice of the man at Steve's elbow.
"Who's talkin' t' you?" grunted Steve. "Wha' did I say?"
"Onions, ye lubber! Don't we know whut onions is? Ain't we smelt 'em
so long that ye could stick yer nose in th' starboard light an' never
smell no kerosene? Onions! Pass th' cawffy."
Steve helped himself first. The man who spoke bunked over him, and
they were not on the best of terms. There was no real reason for this
frank antagonism; simply, they did not splice any more effectually than
cotton rope and hemp splice. Sailors are moody and superstitious; at
least they generally are on hookers of the _Captain Manners_ breed.
Steve was superstitious and Jim Dunkers was moody and had no thumb on
his left hand. Steve hated the sight of that red nubbin. He was quite
certain that it had been a whole thumb once, on the way to gouge out
somebody's eye, and had inadvertently connected with somebody's teeth.
Spanish doubloons and pearls and diamonds and rubies! It was mighty
hard not to say these words out loud, too; blare them into the sullen
faces grouped around the table. He was off watch till midnight; and he
was wondering if he could get the box without attracting the attention
of the lookout, who had a devilish keen eye for everything that stirred
on deck or on water. Well, he would have to risk it; but he would wait
till full darkness had fallen over the sea and the lookout would be
compelled to keep his eyes off the deck. The boys wanted him to play
cards.
"Not for me. Busted. How long d' y' think forty dollars 'll last in
New York, anyhow?" And he stalked out of the forecastle and went down
into the waist to enjoy his evening pipe, all the while keeping a
weather eye forward, at the ratty old pilot house.
It was ten o'clock, land time, when he rammed his cutty into a pocket
and resolutely walked forward. If any one watched him they would think
he was only looking down the cutwater. The thought of money and the
pleasures it will buy makes cunning the stupidest of dolts; and Steve
was ordinarily a dolt. But to-night his brain was keen enough for all
purposes. It was a hazardous job to get the box off the fluke without
letting it slip back into the sea. Steve, however, accomplished the
feat, climbed back on the rail and sat down, waiting. A quarter of an
hour passed. No one had seen him. With his coat securely wrapped
about his precious find he made for the forecastle. His mates, save
those who were doing their watch, were all in their bunks. An oil lamp
dimly illuminated the forward partition. Steve's bunk was almost in
darkness. Very deftly he rolled back the bedding and secreted the box
under his pillows, and then stretched himself out with the pretense of
snoozing till the bell called him to duty.
He was rich; and the moment a man has money he has troubles; there is
always some one who wants to take it away from you. His bunk was on
the port side, and there was plenty of hiding space between the iron
plates and the wooden partition. He intended to loosen three or four
planks, and then when the time came, slip the box behind them. Some
time during the morning the forecastle would be empty, and then would
be his time.
But he suffered the agonies of damnation during the four-hours' watch.
Supposing some fool should go rummaging about his bunk and discover the
box? Suppose ... But he dared not suppose. There was nothing to do
but wait. If he created any curiosity on the part of his mates he was
lost. He would have to divide with them all, from the captain down to
the cook's boy. It was a heart-rending thought. From being the most
open and frank man aboard, he became the most cunning. From being a
man without enemies, he saw an enemy even in his shadow.
At four o'clock he turned in and slept like a log.
In the morning he found his opportunity. For half an hour the
forecastle was empty of all save himself. Feverishly he pried back the
boards, found the brace beam, and gently laid the box there. It was a
mighty curious-looking box. Once he had stoked up the Chinese coast
from the Philippines, and he judged it to be Chinese in origin. He
tried to pry open the cover and feast his eyes upon the treasure; but
under the leather and ivory and mother of pearl was impervious steel.
It would take an ax or a crowbar to stir that lid. He sighed. He
replaced the boards, and became to all appearances his stolid self
again.
But all the way down to the Bahamas he was moody, and when he answered
any questions it was with words spoken testily and jerkily.
"I know whut's th' matter," said Dunkers. "He's in love."
"Shut your mouth!"
"Didn't I tell yuh?" laughed the tantalizer, dancing toward the
companion way. "Steve's in love, 'r he didn't git drunk enough on
shore t' satisfy his whale's belly!"
A boot thudded spitefully against the door jamb.
"You fellahs let me alone, 'r I'll bash in a couple o' heads!"
"Oh, yuh will, will yuh?" cried Dunkers from the deck. "If yuh want a
little exercise, yuh can begin on me, yuh moonsick swab! Whut's th'
matter with yuh, anyhow? Where'd yuh git this grouch? Whut've we done
t' yuh? Huh?"
"You keep out o' my way, that's all. I'm mindin' my watches, an' don't
ask no odds of you duffers. What if I have a grouch? Is it any o'
your business? All right. When we step ashore at th' Bahamas, Mister
Jim Dunkers, I'll tear the ropes out o' your pulley blocks. But till
we git there, you t' th' upper bunk an' me t' mine."
"Leave th' ol' grouch alone, Jim. Th' mate won't stand for no
scrappin' aboard. We'll have th' thing done right in th' custom sheds.
We'll have a finish fight, Queensberry rules, an' may th' best man win."
"I'm willin'," said Jim.
"So'm I," agreed Steve. But his intentions were not honorable. He
proposed to desert before any fight took place. Not that he was
physically afraid; no; he wanted to dig his hands deep into those
doubloons and pieces-of-eight.
So the four days down passed otherwise uneventfully, amid paint pots
and iron rust and three meals a day of pork, onion soup, potatoes, and
strong, bitter coffee. The winds became light and balmy and the sea
blue and gentle. The men went about in their undershirts and
dungarees, barefooted. Of course the coming fight was the main topic
of conversation. It promised to be a rattling good scrap, for both men
were evenly matched, and both had a "kick" in either hand. Even the
captain took a mild interest in the affair. He was an old sailor. He
knew that there was no such word as arbitration in a sailor's
vocabulary; his disputes could be settled only in one manner, by his
calloused fists.
When the old mudhook (and some day Steve was going to buy it and hang
it over the entrance to the Gilson House) slithered down into the
smiling waters of the bay, Steve concluded that discretion was the
better part of valor. He would steal ashore on the quarantine tug
which lay alongside. He was willing to fight under ordinary
circumstances, but he must get his treasure in safety first. They
could call him a welcher if they wanted to; devil a bit did he care.
So he pried back the boards of his bunk wall, took out the box, eyed it
fondly, and noted for the first time the lettering on it:
STANLEY HARGREAVE.
He wrinkled his brow in the effort to recall a pirate by this name, but
was unsuccessful. No matter. He hugged the box under his coat and
made for the gangway, and inadvertently ran into his enemy.
Dunkers caught a bit of the box peeping from under the coat.
"What 'a' yuh got there?" he demanded truculently.
"None o' your dam business! You lemme by; hear me?"
"Ain't none o' my business, huh? Where'd yuh git a box like that?
Steal it? By cripes, I'm goin' t' have a look at that box, my hearty.
It don't smell like honest onions."
"You lemme by!" breathed Steve, with murder in his heart.
Suddenly the two men closed, surged back and forth, one determined to
take and the other to hold this mysterious box. Dunkers struggled to
uphold his word: not that he really wanted the box but to prove that he
was strong enough to take it if he wanted to. The name on the box
flashed and disappeared. It was a kind of shock to him. He and
Blossom went battering against the rail. Dunker's grip slipped and so
did Blossom's. The result was that the box was catapulted into the
sea. With an agonizing cry, Blossom leaned far over. He saw the box
oscillate for a moment, then sink gracefully in a zigzag course, down
through the blue waters. Fainter and fainter it grew, and at last
vanished.
"I'm sorry, Steve; but yuh wouldn't let me look at it," said Dunkers,
contritely.
"Damn you; I'm goin' t' kill y' for that!"
It became a real fight this time, fist and foot, tooth and nail; one
mad with the lust to kill and the other desperately intent on living.
It was one of those contests in which honor and fair play have no part.
But for the timely arrival of the captain and some of the crew Dunkers
would have been badly injured, perhaps fatally. They hauled back
Blossom, roaring out his oaths at the top of his lungs. It took half
an hour's arguing to calm him down. Then the captain demanded to know
what it was all about. And blubbering, Steve told him.
"Six hundred feet of water, if I've got my reckoning right. The anchor
lies in sixty feet, but the starboard side drops sheer six hundred.
You swab! Why didn't you bring the box to me? A man has a right to
what he finds. I'd have taken care of it for you till we got back to
port. I know; you were greedy; you thought I might want to stick my
fist into your treasure. And you'll never find it in six hundred feet
of water and tangled, porous coral. That's what, you get for being a
blamed hog. As for you," and the captain turned to Dunkers, "get your
dunnage and your pay and hunt for another boat back. I won't have no
murder on board _Captain Manners_. And the sooner you go, the better."
"I'll go, sir," said Dunkers, readily enough. Had the misfortune
happened to him and had Blossom been the aggressor, he would want his
life. He understood. Like the valet in _Olivette_, it was the time
for disappearing.
"An' keep out o' my way. I'll git y' yet," growled Blossom.
"Keep your mouth shut," said the mate, "or I'll have you put in irons,
you pig!"
"All right, sir. I've said all I'm goin't' say t'day;" and Blossom
strode off.
"What was the box like?" asked the captain of Dunkers.
"Chinese contraption, sir; leastwise it looked that way to me. Didn't
look as if it'd been in th' water long, sir. Somethin' lost overboard
by some private yacht, t' my thinkin'. I'll keep out o' Steve's way.
I'll lay low on shore, sir."
And though Steve made a perfect range of the spot, he never came back
to find the mysterious box, never saw the Gilson House back home, nor
did he ever see Dunkers again. On the voyage home he brooded
continually, and was frequently found blubbering; and one night he
skipped his watch and went to Davy Jones' locker.
Dunkers had not told about the name he had seen on the box; and Blossom
had not thought to. The name Hargreave had instantly brought back to
Dunkers' mind the newspaper stories he had recently read. There was no
doubt in the world that this box belonged to the missing millionaire,
who had drawn a million from his banks and vanished; and, moreover,
there was no doubt in Dunkers' mind that this million lay in the
Bahaman waters. It had been drawn up from the bottom of the sound,
under the path of the balloon. He proceeded, then, to take a most
minute range. It would require money and partners; but half a loaf
would be far better than no loaf at all; and he was determined to
return to New York to find backing. Finding is keeping, on land or sea.
Now it happened that his favorite grog shop was a cheap saloon across
the way from the headquarters of the Black Hundred; and Vroon
occasionally dropped in, for he often picked up a valuable bit of
maritime news. Bunkers was an old friend of the barkeeper, and he
proceeded to pour and guzzle down his throat a very poor substitute for
whisky. He became communicative. He bragged. He knew where there was
a million, and all he needed was a first-class diving bell. A year
from now he would not be drinking cheap whisky; he'd be steering a
course up and down Broadway and buying wine when he was thirsty. He
was no miser. But he had to have a diving bell; and where the blue
devil could he get one with twelve dollars and an Ingersoll watch in
his pocket?
From his table Vroon made a sign which the bartender understood. Then
he rose and approached Bunkers.
"I own a pretty good diving apparatus," he said. "If you've got the
goods, I'll take a chance on a fifty-fifty basis." Vroon did not
believe there was anything back of his talk; but it always paid to dig
deep enough to find out. "Have a drink; and, Bill, give us a real
whisky and none of your soap-lye. Now, let's hear your yarn."
"I don't know yuh," said Bunkers, with drunken caution. "How is it,
Bill?" turning to the bartender.
"He's the goods, Jim. You've heard of Wyant & Co.?"
"Sure I've heard o' them. Best divin' app'ratus they is."
"Well, this gent here is Mr. Brooks, general manager for Wyant & Co. I
can O.K. him."
Vroon threw an appreciative glance at the bartender. He was not
affiliated with the Black Hundred, but he had often aided Vroon in
minor affairs.
"All right, if yuh say so, Bill. Well, here's th' yarn."
And when he had done, Vroon smoked quietly without speaking.
"Don't yuh believe it?" demanded Bunkers, truculently.
"But six hundred feet of water, in a coral bottom, and no way of
telling just where it fell overboard. That's a tough proposition."
"Oh, it is, is it? I'm a sailor. I can lay my hand right over th'
spot. Do yuh think I'd be fool enough t' hunt for it without a perfect
range?" Bunkers tapped his coat pocket suggestively.
And Vroon knew that the one thing he wanted was there, a plan or a
drawing of the range. So there was another man shanghaied that night,
and his destination was Cape Town, twenty-two days' voyage by the
calendar.
Vroon carried his information to the organization that same night.
They would start the expedition at once, and till this was
accomplished, Hargreave's daughter was to be immune from attacks.
Besides, it would give Hargreave (wherever he was) and the others the
idea that the Black Hundred had concluded to give up the chase.
Above, with his ear to a small hole, skilfully bored through the
ceiling without permitting the plaster to fall, knelt a man with a
bandaged arm. He could never see any faces; no one ever took off a
mask in this sinister chamber. But there were voices, and he was going
to forget some of them. After the meeting came to an end, he waited an
hour, and then stole down into the street by the aid of the
fire-escape. Later, he entered a telephone booth and called up Jones.
Then, one leathern and steel box, dotted with bits of ivory and
mother-of-pearl, became two; and the second one was soaked in mud and
salt water for two weeks till you could not have told it from the
original. And that is why Jones was able, some weeks later, to hide
once more the original box. As for the substitute, just as Braine was
about to use a mallet and chisel upon it, the lights went out. There
was a wild scramble, a chair or two was overturned.
"The door, the door!" shouted Braine, furious.
It slammed the moment the words left his lips. And as suddenly as they
had gone out the lights sprang up. The box was gone. There were
evidently traitors among the Black Hundred.