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THE VOODOO GOLD TRAIL
BY WALTER WALDEN
Author of The Hidden Islands, Etc.
BOSTON
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1922
BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
Printed in the United States of America
THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY
CAMBRIDGE, MASS.
CONTENTS
I WE GET INTERESTING NEWS
II WE MEET WITH A SERIOUS REVERSE
III WE SAIL ON A DIFFERENT QUEST
IV WE PICK UP THE TRAIL
V WE GAIN AN ALLY
VI WE BREAK UP THE VOODOO CEREMONIAL
VII A DISTRESS CALL GOES TO THE _PEARL_
VIII THE VOODOO STRONGHOLD
IX THE STAMPEDE
X THE GOLD TRAIL AGAIN
XI AT HIDE AND SEEK WITH THE ENEMY
XII IN CAPTIVITY--THE MESSAGE
XIII JULIAN'S NARRATIVE--THE SECRET MESSAGE
XIV JULIAN CONTINUES THE NARRATIVE--NORRIS'S BIG GUN
XV AN EXCHANGE OF PRISONS
XVI THE ESCAPE
XVII JULIAN'S STORY AGAIN--THE SEARCH FOR THE LOST COMRADES
XVIII OUR BOAT IS SCUTTLED
XIX WE STEAL A MARCH ON THE ENEMY
XX THE MYSTERIOUS TRAIL
XXI WE SEEK IN VAIN FOR A LOST TRAIL; AND DISCOVER A LONE MONKEY
XXII THE ISLE IN CROW BAY
XXIII WHAT THE WATER HID
XXIV IN THE HIDDEN VALE--A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
XXV WE CONSORT WITH A PICKPOCKET
XXVI DOINGS ON THE LITTLE ISLE AGAIN
XXVII THE GOLD-MINE
XXVIII WE ARE TRAPPED--THE BATTLE
XXIX HOW THE ENEMY PERISH, AND THE MONKEY DISCOVERS THE TREASURE
XXX THE CACHE ON THE ISLE
XXXI WE RUN THE GAUNTLET--HOME BOUND
THE VOODOO GOLD TRAIL
CHAPTER I
WE GET INTERESTING NEWS
It was on a tropic sea, and night, that I heard a little scrap of a tale
that had in it that which was destined to preserve my life. The waning
moon had not yet risen; the stars were all out, the Milky Way more than
commonly near. The schooner's sails were barely drawing, and flapped
idly at times. I leaned on the rail, listening to the purling of the sea
against the vessel's side, and watching the phosphorescence where the
water broke. The bell had just sounded a double stroke--two bells. Near
by, the taciturn black fellow--who was our guide, and who alone (as
shall appear) knew our course and destination--was in talk with Rufe,
our black cook.
Heretofore, this man--black he was, but having hair straight as an
Indian's--had been steadfastly mum on the subject of his past; this
manifestly being but part and parcel of his policy to avoid any hint of
the place to which he was piloting us. But now, I gathered, he was
reciting to Rufe an episode set in this far away land to the south; and
I cocked my ear. He was telling of something that had happened in his
grandfather's experience, who, as he said, was in the service of the
king of that land. It was one day when this king was set upon by his
enemies, who came thundering on the doors; and the king employed the
narrator's grandfather to assist him in his escape. The king collected
his jewels and much gold which he put in a bag, and set it on the back
of his servant. Then he led the way to a dungeon in the palace. Set in
the thick rock wall of this dark cell was a shrine, a carved
Calvary--Christ on the cross and figures at the foot.
"The king," the black narrator was saying, "horrify my gran'father, when
he put his hand right on the Virgin, and pull that piece out. Then the
sacrarium swing open, and there is one big hole, and the king push my
gran'father through, and come after."
And he went on to tell how the king had led on, groping down the steps
of this secret passage, and presently out into the forest; and how they
two finally came to a fortress, and found safety.
It is this circumstance that (for the very good reason indicated) stands
most forward, as I look back over the early days of that voyage. And you
are to hear more of that.
Sailing the seas in search of adventure was not altogether a new thing
for me. Nor was it to be quite a novelty--the drifting into mysterious
places, and the poking into hornets' nests. Indeed, my friend, Ray Reid,
declared that it seemed like I was picked out to drag poor, inoffensive
young innocents (meaning himself) into all kinds of scrapes--and that
every little while. But it was with neither a light heart nor an
indifferent purpose that I, for one, set forth on this new enterprise,
of which it has been given me to tell the tale. I had been orphaned of
my dear mother two years before, when I was barely sixteen; and recently
my father, who was a builder of houses, had variously suffered, in
pocket and in health, and had journeyed far to the west, in the hope to
recuperate both. And I lay awake nights, trying to hatch schemes for
earning money, and that in considerable amount. It was mortgages
harassed us; one on our home, and more on other property.
It was then there came the letter from Julian Lamartine, a good friend,
far south in New Orleans, and in whose company my comrades and I had
sailed in a former voyage. He now proposed--in fact he had long
planned--another adventure. This time it was to seek certain gold fields
in the tropics, his letter said, of which he had had some private news.
The real mainspring of his enterprise, I allege, was to seek to make
some return to my comrades and myself for certain services we had
rendered him on this former voyage. For it was on this occasion he came
into his wealth; and he maintained he owed it all to us. Thus, it was
Julian Lamartine, who was finding the ship and all the equipment--in
short paying the whole shot.
Most of our original crew were either scattered or hopelessly entangled
in some employment or other, so that there remained only three to make
that journey from Illinois to the point of departure in the southland:
Ray Reid, Robert Murtry, and myself (Wayne Scott, to give you my name).
Two old friends met us in the station in New Orleans. They were Julian
and our former sailing master, Jean Marat.
"I am so ver' glad to see you once again," said Jean Marat, as with his
beaming smile he took our hands. "We go some more an' fight thee
pirates, eh?" he continued.
"Say now!" broke in Ray, "I want you to let me get my full growth before
you steer me among any more of that crew." Ray often told how he had
been scared out of two years' growth in a minute, that he never would be
able to raise a moustache, and that the reason he hadn't lost his hair
was because he had had his hat on. I don't believe Ray ever knew what it
was to be really scared. An earthquake wouldn't disconcert him; he'd
make sport while the ground was shaking him off his feet.
When greetings were over, Julian spoke up, "Madame Marat has insisted
that we take supper with her. The carriage is outside, and it's time we
were going."
Madame Marat was the mother of Jean Marat. She was a handsome,
sympathetic, motherly soul, and we had all sampled her cookery. When we
were bowling along behind the horses, Julian put his hand on my knee.
"Wayne," he said, "You ought to have seen how she took on when I told
her you had lost your mother. If it hadn't been winter she would have
taken the train next day, and gone to you. But she declared she would
never have lived to reach there in the cold."
When we had climbed the stairs and gone into the little parlor, Madame
Marat held forth her hands to me, "_Ah, mon chere!_" she said. And she
had me in her motherly clasp--only a mother knows how.
Madame pushed us in, to a table steaming and savory with her French
things, dishes she knew so well how to concoct. And there was grinning
black Rufe, who had been all his life in the service of Julian
Lamartine's family. And then, when the meal was well under way, and we
had all had our fill of comparing notes, Julian opened the business of
our projected voyage.
"You probably noticed that I hadn't much to say in my letter regarding
details," he said, "where we're going and so on. The fact is, I don't
know."
We showed our interest.
"It was Rufe, here, that picked up the information," went on Julian.
"I'm going to let him tell you how it was. Rufe," he turned to the black
fellow, "tell the boys how you found the man."
"Well," began Rufe, "you sees I got some kin living up Tchoupetoulas
way, an' I hadn' been to see um fo' a right smart long time. So I goes.
An' dere I meets up wid a niggah I ain't seed befo', whose name is Amos.
He ben in town moh dan a week, an' he was low down sick--lef' by some
ship he been a' sailin' on. He's home way off some'ere, he don' say
where. Well, I dopes him up on calomel and quinine, like ol' Mistah
Lamartine use ter do, an' he soon gets well, an' he kinder tuck a shine
to me. An' after a while he tells me how he an' a brother of hisn has
got a gol' mine some'eres, an' as how his father discover dat gol' mine.
Amos was a little pickaninny then, an' his father tells him as how he is
goin' to show him dat gol' mine when he gits big 'nuff. But when he try
to sell the gol' wat he take fum de mine, a ornery debbil of a white man
gits in wid Amos' father in de mine, an' murder him. Amos say he know
dat, 'cause he's father nebber come back, and dat white man, he jis' is
swimmin' in gol' fum dat time on.
"Amos plumb refuse to tell whar dat place is, 'cept hit on an islan'
down South America way. But he say ef I got some sure 'nuff hones' folks
dat'll go, he take 'em to dat island and divide up fair an' square, w'en
de gol' mine is foun'. He say he an' his brother ain't nebber foun' de
mine, cause dat white man tol' 'em dat ef dey come nosin' roun' dey is
goin' to get shot. And Amos showed me in his leg where he once did git
shot."
"Well say," broke in Ray, "did this Amos ever show you what kind of
stuff he burns in his pipe?"
"Yes, perhaps he's just yarning," spoke up Robert, "so as to get
somebody to take him back home."
Julian shook his head.
"No," he said. "That's what I thought when Rufe first told me the story.
But I've talked with him enough times to feel satisfied he's in earnest.
He tells a straight story, so far as he will tell. And he refuses to say
where the island is, but agrees to take us there."
We all saw this black fellow, Amos, the next day, and we came to
Julian's conviction of the fellow's truthfulness; though I will not
avouch that our willingness to believe had not something to do with it.
He was rather a taciturn, sober-featured being. His hair was not crinkly
like the average negro, and his nose resembled an Indian's. Though
illiterate, he showed intelligence, and he would add nothing to the tale
he had told to Rufe, except that the islands of Cuba and Jamaica might
be considered to lie in the path to this island of his nativity and our
goal.