MAROONED
There were many separate papers in the package that Benton spread out
before the fascinated eyes of the boys. Only one or two larger sheets
seemed like a consecutive narrative. Others were mere scraps of paper
that looked as though they had been picked up in lieu of something
better for the writer to put his thoughts upon.
Bitter thoughts most of them were, thoughts of vengeance, imprecations
upon the authors of alleged wrongs from which the writer had suffered,
chants of hate that seemed as though they might have blistered the paper
on which they were written. As the boys handled carefully those yellowed
sheets of paper, so brittle from time that they were almost falling
apart, so yellowed that in many cases the writing was almost illegible,
the years rolled away and before them rose up the picture of that
solitary figure on an island in the Caribbean eating his heart out with
rage and hate and finding his only solace in setting down from day to
day his prayers for vengeance on the souls of those who had brought him
to that pass.
Benton had arranged them as nearly as might be in chronological order
and kept up a running series of comments and explanations as he went
along.
“You can see,” he said, “that the writing isn’t merely a scrawl. It was
the work of a man with considerable education. I’ve gathered from the
story as I went through it that he was the son of a well to do family in
one of the colonies that bordered on the Caribbean Sea about two
centuries ago. Those were wild and reckless days in that quarter of the
world, with the buccaneers roaming up and down the Spanish Main, sinking
ships and once in a while attacking the towns on the coast and robbing
them of their treasures. This fellow was probably the black sheep of
some respectable family who went to the bad and ran away and joined the
pirates. Probably he was just as bad as any of the rest of them, though
to read his story you’d think that he was a poor persecuted man and that
all the wrong was on the side of his shipmates.
“You know that in those days the pirates had a code of laws of their
own. They were some of the vilest wretches that ever went unhung and
flouted all the laws of the civilized nations of the world. They were
Ishmaels, their hands against every man’s and every man’s hands against
them. But even they had to have some laws of their own, or the
Brotherhood, as they called their choice collection of scoundrels, would
have gone to pieces.
“Now one of the laws that they laid most store by was that whenever a
ship or a town was looted, none of the pirates should hold out any
particular bit of treasure that he might come across. Everything was to
be brought and placed in a great pile at the foot of the mast on the
pirate ship and then a division was made, so much to the captain, so
much to the mates, so much to each member of the crew.
“The punishment for any member of the crew who was caught violating this
law was that he should be marooned. That meant that he was to be taken
to some one of the many little desolate islands that stud the Caribbean,
put ashore with about enough provisions to last him a month and then
left to shift for himself.
“In most cases that amounted to a sentence of death. Either the man
would starve after his provisions were exhausted, or even if he
succeeded for a time in dragging out a miserable existence he would go
mad from loneliness and hopelessness. It was one of the punishments most
dreaded by the pirates of the Brotherhood.
“Well, marooning was what happened to Santos, the pirate whose writing
is on these papers. Likely enough he deserved it, though he says he
didn’t. You can see what he says here.”
Benton picked up one of the sheets and read:
“I swear by the Holy Virgin that at the taking of the galleon Ciudad de
Rodrigo I rendered to the common mass every doubloon and jewel that I
had taken from the passengers before they were made to walk the plank.
But Cerillos the captain—may his soul be accursed—hated me because he
feared that I might some day supplant him, and brought it about that a
crucifix with gems upon it was found in my sea chest. But I swear that I
knew it not.”
“You see,” resumed Benton, as he laid down the paper, “he claims that he
was the victim of what in these days we would call a ‘frame-up.’ Maybe
he was and maybe he wasn’t. You know that most criminals when they go to
the electric chair proclaim that they are innocent.
“However that may be, they seemed to have the goods on the old boy, and
he was taken to this island, where he was put ashore and left to live or
die as fate might decree.
“Where that island was is a most important matter, and on that we
haven’t any too much information. There are scores, probably hundreds of
them in the Caribbean. Some of them are mere rocks a few acres in
extent. Others cover a good many square miles. This one where Santos was
marooned was one of the larger ones, and there was enough in the way of
fruits and cocoanuts together with what fish he could catch to keep him
alive.
“Now the only clue we have,” Benton continued, picking up a frayed piece
of paper, “to the location of the island is this rough sketch that
Santos drew. You can see for yourself that it’s like a rough quadrangle
in shape.”
The boys bent over and scanned with eyes shining with excitement the
rude outline. There were wavy lines to indicate the water, and a blacker
mass which was evidently intended for the island itself. On this were
peaks rising to a considerable height, and the effect of the skyline was
something like the teeth of a saw. There were figures on the map almost
illegible, but by the aid of a magnifying glass which Phil took from a
drawer they could make out what seemed to be the figures “14” and “81.”
“That’s probably the latitude and longitude,” exclaimed Dick, while Phil
made a dive for an atlas.
“So I figured it,” replied Benton. “Probably the old boy made more or
less of a guess at it, but in a rough way it’s likely to be correct. It
isn’t probable that he had any instruments with him, but if what he says
of the captain’s jealousy is correct it indicates that he was an
important figure in the crew and probably had some knowledge of
navigation. If he had had any ambition to supplant the captain, he’d
have to know something about latitude and longitude.”
By this time Phil had found the page in the atlas referring to the West
Indies, and was running his finger down it.
“Latitude 14, longitude 81,” he repeated. “Here it is in the Caribbean
somewhere on a line between Jamaica and Honduras.”
“That’s correct,” assented Benton. “And there’s one very important point
connected with that special location. You know that the Caribbean varies
greatly in depth. In places it’s thousands of feet deep. In others there
are hundreds of miles where the water is very shallow, where what seem
to be great plateaus rise from the bed of the sea to within a hundred or
two hundred feet of the surface. Now one of these shallow basins is that
which lies between Jamaica and Honduras. Then too, the old pirate
mentions in one part of this diary of his that when the vessel from
which he was marooned was approaching the island, soundings were taken
by the captain. That was because he knew he was in shallow waters and
feared he might run aground.
“Now bear this fact in mind,” Benton adjured them impressively, “for on
it hangs the whole story.”