THE MAN WITH THE SECRET
This was the terrible story old Cap Nat, as he was commonly called, told
to Robert Wallace one night in a grog shop at San Francisco nearly forty
years after the events had taken place. Only one point he omitted--the
fact that Bucks had escaped from the long boat and witnessed the caching
of the plunder--and this only because he was not aware of it.
During all those forty years Quinn had kept it as a fixed purpose to
return to the scene of his crime and possess himself of the wealth he
had lost his soul to gain.
But to outfit an expedition of the necessary proportions took much
money. On this rock the man's purpose had always split. Periodically he
was a hard drinker. He would live hard and close for a year, saving
every cent he could, and then spend the whole amount in one grand
debauch.
Had he been willing to confide his story to some capitalist of
California it is likely he might have raised the needed funds, but the
nature of the man was both suspicious and secretive and he had guarded
his knowledge all these years with jealousy.
Wallace was acquainted with the owner and master of a tramp schooner
which had a doubtful reputation along the water front. Jim Slack had
been an opium smuggler and was watched so closely by the revenue
officers that he jumped at the chance of a trip to parts where no
government officials could reach him.
Cautiously Wallace broached the subject to him, hinting at treasure but
leaving the details dark. He drew a map which was a facsimile of the one
made by Quinn, except that the latitude and longitude were omitted, and
one or two details altered.
The result was that two weeks later the three men, together with a crew
of five, were beating their way along the coast of Lower California in
the notorious _Jennie Slack_. A bargain had been struck by which the
owner of the vessel was to get one-third of the gold, out of which share
he was to pay all the expenses of the cruise.
Each of the three leaders of the expedition was pledged to secrecy, but
before they had been a week out of the Golden Gate Wallace discovered by
accident not only that the crew knew the story, but that they were
implicated with the master of the boat in a plot to obtain the whole
treasure for themselves.
He told what he had learned to Quinn under cover of an evening smoke on
deck. The old pirate took it without winking an eyelash, for he could
see Slack and one of his men watching them.
"Six to two. Long odds, boy," he said, knocking the ashes from his pipe.
To keep up appearances Bob Wallace laughed.
"I'm to be got rid of just before we land. It is to be made to look like
an accident. You're safe until you have uncovered the treasure. Then
it's good-by Cap Nat, too."
Quinn's laugh rang loudly, for the old man could play the game with any
of them.
"We can't go back. If we suggested that the row would begin at once. No,
we must choose our time instead of letting them choose theirs. And we
can't wait too long, because they would see we were taking precautions
against being surprised. We'll strike to-night--and hard."
No doubt Cap Nat was right in his strategy, but the scruples of the
boy's conscience lost them the advantage of a sudden attack. He would
fight to save his life, but he would not take advantage of his enemies.
Perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that he could not.
Something stuck in his throat at the thought of falling upon men
unexpectedly and dealing murder broadcast. Nor could the arguments of
the old man shake him.
Dreadfully frightened though he was, the boy stuck doggedly to his
position. He would die before he would do such a thing. And indeed he
counted himself as no better than dead.
The two shared the same cabin, so that they were able to see each other
alone several times during the day. Neither of them went out without
being armed with a brace of pistols and a dirk, though these they kept
hidden under their rough coats.
During Slack's watch that evening Quinn and his friend made their final
preparation for defense. The captain's cabin was larger than theirs, and
offered better points of defense. Furthermore, here were kept the arms
and the ammunition of the ship. Quinn volunteered to get food and water
into it while Wallace held the cabin.
Three trips were made by the old salt to the cook's gallery. The first
time he brought back a keg of water, the second time a large tin into
which he had crammed a varied assortment of food. It was while he was
away on the third journey that a scream rang out in the stillness.
The boy heard a rush of feet, followed by a shot. Bob ran out of the
cabin toward the galley. Up the steps from the lower deck came Quinn,
blood streaming from his head. In one hand he carried a knife, in the
other a copper kettle full of beans still steaming.
"Back, lad, back! Hell's broke loose," the old man cried.
"What happened? Are you badly hurt?"
"I killed cookie. Caught me in the galley and I knifed him," panted the
old man.
A bullet whistled past. Wallace turned, caught sight of Slack's head
above the hatchway, and fired. The head disappeared. A few moments and
they were safe in the cabin.
"You are wounded," Bob cried.
Quinn shrugged.
"A bullet grazed my head. Get ready for them. Never mind me."
He tied a bandanna over the wound while the young man arranged on the
bunk cutlases, their spare pistol, and the musket.
Slack was the first of the enemy to appear. He carried with him a white
napkin for a flag. Ostensibly he had come to find out the cause of this
outbreak, really to learn how well prepared the defenders were.
Cap Nat sent him to the right about briskly. "Get out, traitor! Step
lively now, or I'll pepper you!"
From his breast Slack whipped a pistol and fired at the bald head of the
old buccaneer. A shot from Wallace rang-out in answer. Slack ran for
cover, but at the stairs waved a derisive gesture.
For half an hour everything was quiet. Then came the sound of stealthy
whispers and softly padding feet.
Quinn swung his cutlas to test it.
"Stand by for a rush. They're coming," he said.
Almost before he had finished speaking feet pattered swiftly along the
deck. The night was suddenly broken with shouts and curses. The stars
that had been shining through the window were blotted out with smoke.
The door crashed in and men poured pell-mell through the opening. The
details of what followed were always blurred into a medley of carnage in
the mind of Wallace. He knew that both he and Quinn fired, and that the
cabin filled with smoke.
Fierce arms gripped him. He hacked into the smoke with his knife. Twice
bodies thudded to the floor. A cutlas slashed his left arm. He was
dragged from the cabin to the open deck and found himself struggling
with a red-bearded giant who tossed him about as if he had been a child.
The fellow had a knife in his belt which he was trying to draw. Robert
fought to the last ounce of strength in him to prevent this. But the
sailor was too strong for him. Inch by inch he went down. The other's
knee drove into his chest, his sinewy hand closed on the lad's throat.
Wallace saw the knife flash and for the moment lost his senses.
When his eyes opened again the vise at his throat had withdrawn, the
knee on his chest was relaxing. The giant was dropping like a log. Above
him stood Quinn, a ghastly sight, in his hand a streaming cutlas.
Wallace rose and looked about him. Two men lay huddled in the cabin, a
third was staggering away with both hands clapped to his head. The giant
made four, the cook five. This left only Captain Slack against them.
"By Heaven, we've beat them," the boy cried.
"Yes, lad, we've beat them," grinned Quinn, leaning heavily against the
door. "But it's Nat's last fight. I've got a bellyful--more than I can
carry. The old man is bound for Davy Jones's locker."
Slowly he slid to the deck.
Robert carried him into the cabin, bleeding from a dozen wounds. He was
badly hacked, and from a gunshot wound in the vitals he was bleeding to
death.
His comrade forced liquor between his teeth and offered to examine his
wounds. Old Nat waved him aside.
"No use. I'm for hell." He smiled and began to sing in a quavering voice
the chorus of the grim old buccaneers' song.
It's bully boys, ho! and a deck splashed red--
The devil is paid, quo' he, quo' he,
A knife in the back and a mate swift sped!
Heave yo ho! and away with me.
It must have been weird to hear the man, after so wicked and turbulent a
life, troll from ashen lips the godless song of the old seadogs with
whom he had broken all the commandments.
Only once after this did his mind come back to the present. A few
minutes before the end the old pirate's eyes opened. He tried to whisper
something, but could not. Feebly his hand tapped at something hard above
his heart. Robert took from next the skin a package wrapped in oilcloth.
Quinn's eyes lit.
In this was the map of Doubloon Spit.
Imagine now the situation on this ship of death. Three men only were
left alive, and one of these so badly wounded that he leaped overboard
in madness before morning. Of the remaining two, neither could sleep
without the fear of murder in his heart.
Two days wore away, one holding the upper and the other the lower deck.
Meanwhile the ship drifted, a derelict on the face of the Pacific.
At length an agreement was patched up. Slack and Wallace sailed the ship
together, each with one eye on the other. It is certain that neither
slept without locked and bolted doors.
On the fourth day after truce had been declared, land was sighted. While
it was the boy's watch and the captain was asleep Wallace managed to
lower a boat and paddle to the shore. He had scarcely reached the beach
when a tropical storm swept across the waters. At daybreak the _Jennie
Slack_ was no longer in sight. Neither schooner nor owner was ever seen
again.
Robert Wallace was picked up several days later by a Mexican
sheepherder. In time he worked his way back to San Francisco. At the
completion of the Union Pacific Railroad he left California for the
South.
Here he engaged in business, forsook his vagabond habits, and in course
of time married. No doubt it was always in his mind to have another try
at the treasure, but time slipped away without his doing so. His happy
marriage fettered him. Before he realized it, he was an old man. The
most he could do was to leave the secret for his daughter.
The package was found by his executor sealed in a safety deposit box. He
left instruction that it was to be opened by his daughter upon her
twenty-first birthday.
A week before the events told in the first chapter she had reached her
majority. In the presence of Boris Bothwell, whom she had lately met for
the first time, the oilcloth package had been opened.
He had agreed to finance the expedition to Doubloon Spit and she had
come to San Francisco with her aunt to make the voyage with him.
Meanwhile, letters had reached her from Scotland which made clear the
true character of Bothwell.
He had attempted twice to get possession of the map. His personal
attention displeased her. They had quarreled, finally, on the morning of
the episode of the second-story window.