TREASURE CAVE
“Is it little Billy?” thought Martin. “No, it can’t be. Little Billy is
on board, planning the uprising, directing Yip and Bosun.” The guess he
had made, born of hope and Ruth’s hurried whisper, that Little Billy
was at large on the ship, combated the evidence of his sight. He could
not believe it was Little Billy.
But then the voice came across from the other entrance. It was
unmistakably Billy’s voice.
“Martin, Martin! Are you all right?”
Martin found his own voice then. He shouted loudly, “Billy, Billy!” He
staggered to his feet, intent on joining the other. But Little Billy
was already on the ledge, sidling towards him.
An instant later he was pawing the hunchback, and gabbling gladly,
“Billy, Billy!” It really was Little Billy, a real flesh and blood
Billy. The mere feel of him was medicine to Martin’s sick soul;
it shoved back the horror of the last few minutes. He was almost
hysterical, so intense was his relief and joy at having Little Billy by
his side.
But the hunchback’s first words effectually checked this mood. “Ruth!”
he said. “My God, Martin—the ship—Ruth—what has happened!”
It was like a cold blast—these words. They shocked Martin sober, blew
the stupor from his mind. “Ruth—the ship!”
“Is she—is she—” stuttered Little Billy.
“All right. So far. Carew has the ship. But there is a plan—” Martin
stopped. The plan! Good Lord, what now of the plan? He had taken it for
granted that Little Billy was on the ship, directing a rescue. Why, Yip
had passed him a note from Little Billy——
That note! Martin clapped his hand to his hip pocket.
“What is it?” cried Little Billy. “Talk to me—tell me, Martin, about
the ship—Ruth!”
Martin bent over the lantern, and unfolded the paper he had drawn from
his pocket. It was a mere scrap of paper, hurriedly and irregularly
torn from a larger sheet; on it, in Ruth’s hand, was penciled a few
words.
“Grandfather has regained his sight—courage, dear—Yip has a plan. The
noon meal.”
Their eyes met above the papers, Martin’s kindling with understanding,
Little Billy’s bewildered.
“By George, she wrote it!” exclaimed Martin. “I know—she slipped it to
Yip in the cabin, and he slipped it to me. And all the time I thought I
had a note you had written. She wrote it—Ruth!”
All of a sudden Martin realized that the hunchback’s presence by his
side was a mystery. For the first time his eyes began to critically
inspect his companion. Revealed in the lantern light, Little Billy was
a truly pitiful figure, coatless, shoeless, clad only in sea-soiled
trousers and singlet. The twisted, meager frame slumped dejectedly, the
face was haggard with fatigue and worry, the eyes deep-sunken, distrait.
“What happened, Billy? You—how did you get ashore?” began Martin.
“Swam,” was the succinct reply. “Never mind me. Just now, you talk.
What are conditions aboard? How many of us are left? The note—the
plan—to retake the ship?”
“Yes, I think so. The crew—I’ll explain, Billy. But this place—” The
distant roar was audible again, and, despite himself, Martin fell to
trembling. “Let us get out of here,” he urged Little Billy. “Back to
the beach—where we can see the ship.”
“We can’t show ourselves on the beach,” said the Other. “Winters’
cave—did you discover it?”
Martin nodded. The dry cave overhead—that was the place. He did not
relish recrossing the ledge by the chasm edge at that moment; he did
not think he could do it without falling in. And Winters’ cave, if he
recalled aright the description, had an outlook over the bay.
He motioned Little Billy to hold the lantern, while he bent over to
inspect Ichi. A dim idea was at work in Martin’s mind; not yet clear
cut, not yet a reasoned plan. It concerned Ichi. If only the little
wretch were not dead, or badly injured, as he feared. The man had lain
there so motionless; he seemed such an inanimate lump as Martin rolled
him over on his back.
But the fear was groundless. There was blood on Ichi’s face from a
torn scalp, and a big lump on the side of his head. The hunchback felt
the lump, and cried, “Knocked out!” Immediately he added, “He’s coming
around—or playing ’possum. His eyes! He isn’t shot. I thought you shot
him; I saw the flash. But he’s just knocked out—and waking up. See his
eyes! Frisk him. Not even a knife.”
Ichi’s lids were fluttering. Presently they drew back slowly, and
the man stared up at them. At first it was a vague, wavering,
uncomprehending stare. But after a moment, intelligence—and fear—crept
into the beady black eyes, and the gaze fastened upon the two grim,
white faces above. Ichi tried to raise his head, his body. But Martin’s
hand was at his throat, and his knee upon his chest.
“He’s alive!” exclaimed Martin, triumphantly. “Don’t you see, Billy—we
can bargain——”
“Use him, or kill him,” cried the cripple, savagely, and he cursed
at the prostrate man’s face. “Drag him to his feet, Martin. Let’s be
going. The way to Winters’ cave—up here?”
With his clutch on Ichi’s collar, Martin dragged him to his feet and
propped him against the wall. Ichi was groggy, but he kept his feet;
and he was plainly conscious, though he did not open his mouth. The
handcuffs which had chafed Martin’s wrists for so many hours were still
dangling from his left arm. He slipped them off, and, with no gentle
hand, forced his prisoner’s wrists together behind him and ironed them
tightly. Tit for tat, thought Martin; and he made certain that Ichi
would not wriggle his wrists through the steel clasps.
“Look here!” called Little Billy. “I had a hunch that shot hit
somebody. Look—up here!”
He held the lantern over his head, and its rays lighted the shelf
beneath the hole in the ceiling. On it was sprawled the body of a man.
It was a gruesome sight; the form seemed oddly shrunken and twisted,
one leg hung over the edge of the rock, the face was towards them, eyes
and mouth wide open. Unmistakably dead.
“Hole in the forehead,” said Little Billy.
The nausea had Martin’s stomach again. But he fought it back. His mind
searched for and immediately found the answer.
“When Ichi bit my arm, and I jerked it up and the gun went off. Yes,
that’s it. And that—I’d forgotten about that fellow, Ichi sent him
aloft to explore. He must have been crawling back when I—when he was
struck.”
“Good riddance,” said Little Billy.
“Watch this bird a moment,” commanded Martin.
He stepped forward, and, conquering his repugnance, put his arms about
the corpse and lifted it to the floor. Then, on second thought, he
knelt and removed the leather belt and sheath knife from about the
man’s waist. He had remembered he was weaponless.
It was no easy task to boost the prisoner to the shelf, and thence
through the crack in the ceiling. Ichi was none too willing to proceed,
though he made no audible protest. But with Little Billy—who went
first—pulling from above, and Martin prodding and thumping from below,
the three finally negotiated the unhandy entrance.
They found themselves in a tunnel, much like the one below that
connected with the Elephant Head. But this shaft, when they got a
little ways into it, was dry, and the air was sweet. A cool, sweet
wind touched their faces, so they knew they were approaching blessed
daylight.
Little Billy went first, with the lantern. Martin brought up the rear,
and, with his hand on Ichi’s collar, directed the latter’s somewhat
faltering steps. Their way climbed sharply, then leveled; the tunnel
was as tortuous as the one below. They turned a corner and discerned a
bar of daylight cutting athwart the darkness of the passage. Another
turn, and they were on the threshold of a wide and lofty cavern, a
great room that was dimly lighted by a large, natural window in the
farther wall.
“Watch him!” Martin cried to Little Billy; and, deserting his prisoner,
he rushed forward to the opening.
He looked out over the beach and the sun-sparkled waters of the little
bay. This cave was a good forty feet above the beach. He looked down
on the vessel, which was but a few hundred yards distant; the flooding
tide had swung her stern to the shore, and her decks were plainly
visible.
At his first glance, Martin suffered a sharp stab of disappointment.
For nothing was changed. There, leaning over the taffrail, staring
shoreward, was the Japanese mate, Asoki, in the exact attitude in which
Martin had last seen him, when he entered the caves in Ichi’s wake. The
man seemed not to have budged since then. And forward, the guards were
still at the hatches. He saw Yip step out of the gallery, empty a pot
overside, and stand there by the rail, gazing aft.
Asoki suddenly came to life, walked over to the skylight and glanced
below, and then struck six bells’ on the bell that hung by the wheel.
Martin’s feeling of disappointment was changed to one of astonishment.
Six bells! It was unbelievable. Only thirty moments since he followed
Ichi through the Elephant Head! A half hour!
The swift tragedies by the chasm brink, the earth’s convulsions, and
the darkness, above all the darkness, all combined to lend error to his
time reckoning. He had felt he was immersed in the black bowels of the
mountain for hours. But now he looked into daylight, and reasoned about
it, he realized how short was the time spent in the cave of winds. It
was but a half hour since they landed. Thirty moments! Why, the bosun
and the boys must still be quiet in the hold, and Yip’s plot was still
a-borning. And now, he was not impotent; he could help, perhaps. With
Ichi.
He turned to call Little Billy and the prisoner forward. He discovered
the hunchback by his side, peering out at the ship. But Ichi was gone.
“My God, where is he?” exclaimed Martin.
“Eh? Damn! I forgot him!” was Billy’s answer. He glanced swiftly
around. “There he goes!”
Martin saw him the same instant—the squat figure streaking for the
dim recesses at the farther end of the cavern. He sprinted after the
vanishing form. Before he could overhaul it, Ichi rounded a spur
of rock; there was a crash, and a yelp of terror and pain. Martin,
rounding the corner, came into collision with a round rolling object,
and sprawled headlong over it.
He landed on a softer couch than the rock, on Ichi, himself; and
the Jap’s remaining wind was expelled from his body with a forcible
“_woof!_” Something made of wood fell on Martin’s back, and bounced
off; then a barrel rolled against him and stopped. He did not feel
either blow; he was too intent on making sure of the safety of the
captive. He flopped the limp and groaning Ichi over on his back, and
sat on him.
Just then Little Billy appeared around the jutting rock with the
lantern.
“Got him safe?” he exclaimed. “Oh, Martin, I was so anxious—the
ship—took my eyes off him just a second, and—” He stopped his excuses
suddenly, and held up the lantern, gazing about.
“Good heavens, do you know what this is?” he cried.
Martin knew. He had guessed it even before Billy spoke, even before the
lantern brought clear sight. The thing he had tumbled over: the other
things that bumped him; the reek of musk in the air. He knew it was the
treasure.
None the less, he was astonished when he followed Little Billy’s
gesture with his gaze. They were in a corner of the dry cave, and
the jutting rock which had spelled grief for Ichi formed a pocket or
alcove. This little chamber, in which they now were, was nearly filled
with kegs. They were stowed neatly, tier on tier, from floor to sloping
roof. They were about the size of pickle kegs, and there were dozens
of them. Ichi had evidently plumped headlong into the pile and sent
several kegs (and himself) rolling, one of which had tripped Martin.
Martin’s knowledge of ambergris was still very vague. He would not have
been surprised at the sight of a couple of barrels and an iron-bound
chest or two. But a regiment of kegs! Dozens of kegs! If they all
contained ambergris, he thought, there must be tons of the smelly stuff.
“See it, Martin?” cried the volatile hunchback, all else forgotten in
the excitement of the instant. “By Jove, the entire fifteen hundred
pounds, or I’ll eat this lantern! _Phew_—it hasn’t lost any of its
virtue.”
“But all those kegs can’t be filled with it,” said Martin. “Fifteen
hundred pounds—why, there must be fifty kegs there.”
“Fifty-five,” answered Little Billy, “counting the ones you knocked
over. Not as much as it looks. There is hardly any weight to ambergris;
it takes quite a lump to weigh even an ounce. Specific gravity
is—is—oh, I forget.”
“It is .09,” came a muffled voice from underneath Martin.
Martin started, and lifted his weight from the prostrate form.
“That is of betterness,” said Ichi, more clearly. “May I see, please?”
“The rat smells cheese,” observed Little Billy. It seemed so. Ichi
struggled into a sitting posture, and his little black eyes were bright
and greedy as he feasted them upon the kegs. He even sucked in the
burdened air greedily.
“Let’s get back where we can see the ship,” said Martin. He jerked the
Jap to his feet, and propelled him before. “That cursed stuff sickens
me,” he told Little Billy, as they rapidly retraced their way. “Think
of the ruin—the murder—all the trouble it has caused.”
“Aye, Sails,” responded Little Billy. “Poor Sails. And who else? For
God’s sake, who else, Martin? And the ship—Ruth—everything! I know
nothing.”
“Lend a hand while I truss him up, so he won’t lead us another chase,”
said Martin.
They had regained the window, and a glance had assured Martin the ship
had remained peaceful during their brief absence. And now he took the
strap belt he had salvaged from the dead sailor and with it tightly
bound Ichi’s ankles. It rendered him quite helpless. Martin deposited
him with his back to the wall, a few feet from the window.
“Sit there awhile and think over your sins,” he told him, when Ichi
tried to speak. “When I’m ready, I’ll talk with you.”