IN THE TREASURE HOUSE
The canoes and tender kept husking up and down among the Shallows,
finding nothing. At last one morning they pushed out from the side of
the Bridgwater Merchant, more limp than ever. The stroke of the oars was
listless, but a Boston sailor of a merry sort came to a cheery song:
“I knows a town, an’ it’s a fine town,
And many a brig goes sailin’ to its quay;
I knows an inn, an’ it’s a fine inn,
An’ a lass that’s fair to see.
I knows a town, an’ it’s a fine town;
I knows an inn, an’ it’s a fine inn
But O my lass! an’ O the gay gown,
Which I have seen my pretty in!
“I knows a port, an’ it’s a good port,
An’ many a brig is ridin’ easy there;
I knows a home, an’ it’s a good home,
An’ a lass that’s sweet an’ fair.
I knows a port, an’ it’s a good port,
I knows a home, an’ it’s a good home
But O the pretty that is my sort,
That’s wearyin’ till I come!
“I knows a day, an’ it’s a fine day,
The day a sailor man comes back to town.
I knows a tide, an’ it’s a good tide,
The tide that gets you quick to anchors down.
I knows a day, an’ it’s a fine day,
I knows a tide, an’ its’ a good tide
And God help the lubber, I say,
That’s stole the sailor man’s bride!”
The song had its way with them and they joined in and lay to their oars
with almost too much goodwill. Gering, his arms upon the side of the
canoe, was looking into the water idly. It was clear far down, and
presently he saw what seemed a feather growing out of the side of a
rock. It struck him as strange, and he gave word to back water. They
were just outside the Boilers in deep water. Drawing back carefully, he
saw the feather again, and ordered one of the divers to go down. They
could see the man descend and gather the feather, then he plunged deeper
still and they lost sight of him. But soon he came up rapidly, and was
quickly inside the boat, to tell Gering that he had seen several great
guns. At this the crew peered over the boat-side eagerly. Gering’s
heart beat hard. He knew what it was to rouse wild hope and then to see
despair follow, but he kept an outward calm and told the diver to go
down again. Time seemed to stretch to hours before they saw the man
returning with something in his arm. He handed up his prize, and behold
it was a pig of silver!
The treasure was found; and there went up a great cheer. All was
activity, for, apart from the delight of discovery, Phips had promised
a share to every man. The place was instantly buoyed, and they hastened
back to the port with the grateful tidings to Phips. With his glass he
saw them coming and by their hard rowing he guessed that they had news.
When they came within hail they cheered, and when they saw the silver
the air rang with shouts.
As Gering stepped on board with the silver Captain Phips ran forwards,
clasped it in both hands, and cried: “We are all made, thanks be to
God!”
Then all hands were ordered on board, and because the treasure lay in a
safe anchorage they got the ships away towards it.
Bucklaw, in the surgeon’s cabin, was called out of delirium by the
noise. He was worn almost to a skeleton, his eyes were big and staring,
his face had the paleness of death. The return to consciousness was
sudden--perhaps nothing else could have called him back. He wriggled
out of bed and, supporting himself against the wall, made his way to the
door, and crawled away, mumbling to himself as he went.
A few minutes afterwards Phips and Gering were talking in the cabin.
Phips was weighing the silver up and down in his hands.
“At least three hundred good guineas here!” he said. There was a
shuffling behind them, and, as Phips turned, a figure lunged on him,
clutched and hugged the silver. It was Bucklaw.
“Mine! mine!” he called in a hoarse voice, with great gluttonous eyes.
“All mine!” he cried again. Then he gasped and came to the ground in a
heap, with the silver hugged in his arms. All at once he caught at his
throat; the bandage of his wound fell away and there was a rush of
blood over the silver. With a wild laugh he plunged face forward on the
metal--and the blood of the dead Bucklaw consecrated the first-fruits of
the treasure.
As the vessel rode up the harbour the body was dropped into the deep.
“Worse men--worse men, sir, bide with the king,” said Phips to Gering.
“A merry villain, that Bucklaw.” The ship came to anchor at the buoys,
and no time was lost. Divers were sent down, and by great good luck
found the room where the bullion was stored. The number of divers was
increased, and the work of raising the bullion went on all that day.
There is nothing like the lust for gold in the hearts of men. From stem
to stern of the Bridgwater Merchant and the Swallow, this wild will had
its way. Work went on until the last moment of sun. That night talk was
long and sleep short, and work was on again at sunrise. In three days
they took up thirty-two tons of bullion. In the afternoon of the third
day the store-room was cleared, and then they searched the hold. Here
they found, cunningly distributed among the ballast, a great many
bags of pieces-of-eight. These, having lain in the water so long, were
crusted with a strong substance, which they had to break with iron bars.
It was reserved for Phips himself to make the grand discovery. He donned
a diving-suit and went below to the sunken galleon. Silver and gold
had been found, but he was sure there were other treasures. After much
searching he found, in a secret place of the captain’s cabin, a chest
which, on being raised and broken open, was found stocked with pearls,
diamonds, and other precious stones.
And now the work was complete, and on board the Bridgwater Merchant was
treasure to the sum of three hundred thousand pounds, and more. Joyfully
did Phips raise anchor. But first he sent to the handful of people in
the port a liberal gift of money and wine and provisions from the ship’s
stores. With a favourable breeze he got away agreeably, and was clear of
the harbour and cleaving northwards before sunset--the Swallow leading
the treasure-ship like a pilot. All was joy and hilarity; but
there remained one small danger yet: they had raised their treasure
unmolested, but could they bring it to Boston and on to England? Phips
would have asked that question very seriously indeed had he known that
the Maid of Provence was bowling out of the nor’-east towards the port
which he had just left.
The Maid of Provence had had a perilous travel. Escaping the English
war-ships, she fell in with a pirate craft. She closed with it, plugged
it with cannon-shot, and drew off, then took the wind on her beam and
came drifting down on her, boarded her and, after a swift and desperate
fight, killed every pirate-rogue save one--the captain--whom for reasons
they made a prisoner. Then they sank the rover, and got away to Port de
la Planta as fast as they were able. But by reason of the storm and the
fighting, and drifting out of their course, they had lost ten days; and
thus it was they reached the harbour a few hours after the Bridgwater
Merchant and the Swallow had left.
They waited till morning and sailed cautiously in to face
disappointment. They quickly learned the truth from the natives. There
was but one thing to do and Iberville lost no time. A few hours to get
fresh water and fruit and to make some repairs, for the pirate had not
been idle in the fight--and then Berigord gave the nose of the good
little craft to the sea, and drove her on with an honest wind, like a
hound upon the scent. Iberville was vexed, but not unduly; he had the
temper of a warrior who is both artist and gamester. As he said to
Perrot: “Well, Nick, they’ve saved us the trouble of lifting the
treasure; we’ll see now who shall beach it.”
He guessed that the English ships would sail to Boston for better arming
ere they ventured to the English Channel. He knew the chances were
against him, but it was his cue to keep heart in his followers. For days
they sailed without seeing a single ship; then three showed upon the
horizon and faded away. They kept on, passing Florida and Carolina,
hoping to reach Boston before the treasure-ships, and to rob them at
their own door. Their chances were fair, for the Maid of Provence had
proved swift, good-tempered, and a sweet sailer in bad waters.
Iberville had reckoned well. One evening, after a sail northwards as
fine as the voyage down was dirty, they came up gently within forty
miles of Boston, and then, because there was nothing else to do, went
idling up and down all night, keeping watch. The next morning there was
a mist in the air, which might become fog. Iberville had dreaded this;
but he was to have his chance, for even when Berigord’s face lowered
most the look-out from the shrouds called down that he sighted two
ships. They were making for the coast. All sail was put on, they got
away to meet the newcomers, and they were not long in finding these to
be their quarry.
Phips did not think that any ship would venture against them so near
Boston, and could not believe the Maid of Provence an enemy. He thought
her an English ship eager to welcome them, but presently he saw the
white ensign of France at the mizzen, and a round shot rattled through
the rigging of the Bridgwater Merchant.
But he was two to one, and the game seemed with him. No time was wasted.
Phips’s ships came to and stood alongside, and the gunners got to work.
The Bridgwater Merchant was high in the water, and her shot at first did
little damage to the Maid of Provence, which, having the advantage of
the wind, came nearer and nearer. The Swallow, with her twenty-odd guns,
did better work, and carried away the foremast of the enemy, killing
several men. But Iberville came on slowly, and, anxious to dispose of
the Swallow first, gave her broadsides between wind and water, so that
soon her decks were spotted with dying men, her bulwarks broken in, and
her mainmast gone. The cannonade was heard in Boston, from which, a
few hours later, two merchantmen set out for the scene of action, each
carrying good guns.
But the wind suddenly sank, and as the Maid of Provence, eager to close
with the Bridgwater Merchant, edged slowly down, a fog came between,
and the firing ceased on both sides. Iberville let his ship drift on her
path, intent on a hand-to-hand fight aboard the Bridgwater Merchant; the
grappling-irons were ready, and as they drifted there was silence.
Every eye was strained. Suddenly a shape sprang out of the grey mist,
and the Maid of Provence struck. There was a crash of timbers as the
bows of the Swallow--it was she--were stove in, and then a wild cry.
Instantly she began to sink. The grappling-irons remained motionless on
the Maid of Provence. Iberville heard a commanding voice, a cheer, and
saw a dozen figures jump from the shattered bow towards the bow of his
own ship intent on fighting, but all fell short save one. It was a great
leap, but the Englishman made it, catching the chains, and scrambling on
deck. A cheer greeted him-the Frenchmen could not but admire so brave a
feat. The Englishman took no notice, but instantly turned to see his
own ship lurch forwards and, without a sound from her decks, sink gently
down to her grave. He stood looking at the place where she had been, but
there was only mist. He shook his head and a sob rattled in his throat;
his brave, taciturn crew had gone down without a cry. He turned and
faced his enemies. They had crowded forwards--Iberville, Sainte-Helene,
Perrot, Maurice Joval, and the staring sailors. He choked down his
emotion and faced them all like an animal at bay as Iberville stepped
forwards. Without a word Gering pointed to the empty scabbard at his
side.
“No, pardon me,” said Iberville drily, “not as our prisoner, monsieur.
You have us at advantage; you will remain our guest.”
“I want no quarter,” said Gering proudly and a little sullenly.
“There can be no question of quarter, monsieur. You are only one
against us all. You cannot fight; you saved your life by boarding us.
Hospitality is sacred; you may not be a prisoner of war, for there is no
war between our countries.”
“You came upon a private quarrel?” asked Gering.
“Truly; and for the treasure--fair bone of fight between us.”
There was a pause, in which Gering stood half turned from them,
listening. But the Bridgwater Merchant had drifted away in the mist.
Presently he turned again to Iberville with a smile defiant and
triumphant. Iberville understood, but showed nothing of what he felt,
and he asked Sainte-Helene to show Gering to the cabin.
When the fog cleared away there was no sign of the Bridgwater Merchant
and Iberville, sure that she had made the port of Boston, and knowing
that there must be English vessels searching for him, bore away to
Quebec with Gering on board.
He parted from his rival the day they arrived--Perrot was to escort him
a distance on his way to Boston. Gering thanked him for his courtesy.
“Indeed, then,” said Iberville, “this is a debt--if you choose to call
it so--for which I would have no thanks--no. For it would please me
better to render accounts all at once some day, and get return in
different form, monsieur.”
“Monsieur,” said Gering, a little grandly, “you have come to me three
times; next time I will come to you.”
“I trust that you will keep your word,” answered Iberville, smiling.
That day Iberville, protesting helplessly, was ordered away to France
on a man-of-war, which had rocked in the harbour of Quebec for a month
awaiting his return. Even Frontenac himself could not help him, for the
order had come from the French minister.