Howard Pyle's Book of pirates : fiction, fact & fancy concerning the buccaneers & marooners of the Spanish Main
behind the sand hill, the pirate captain leading the way, and the
negro and white man following close behind him. They had gone about
halfway across the white, sandy level between the hill and the hummock
behind which Tom Chist lay, when the white man stopped and bent over
as though to tie his shoe.
This brought the negro a few steps in front of his companion.
That which then followed happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so
swiftly, that Tom Chist had hardly time to realize what it all meant
before it was over. As the negro passed him the white man arose
suddenly and silently erect, and Tom Chist saw the white moonlight
glint upon the blade of a great dirk knife which he now held in his
hand. He took one, two silent, catlike steps behind the unsuspecting
negro. Then there was a sweeping flash of the blade in the pallid
light, and a blow, the thump of which Tom could distinctly hear even
from where he lay stretched out upon the sand. There was an instant
echoing yell from the black man, who ran stumbling forward, who
stopped, who regained his footing, and then stood for an instant as
though rooted to the spot.
Tom had distinctly seen the knife enter his back, and even thought
that he had seen the glint of the point as it came out from the
breast.
Meantime the pirate captain had stopped, and now stood with his hand
resting upon his cane looking impassively on.
Then the black man started to run. The white man stood for a while
glaring after him; then he, too, started after his victim upon the
run. The black man was not very far from Tom when he staggered and
fell. He tried to rise, then fell forward again, and lay at length. At
that instant the first edge of the cloud cut across the moon, and
there was a sudden darkness; but in the silence Tom heard the sound of
another blow and a groan, and then presently a voice calling to the
pirate captain that it was all over.
He saw the dim form of the captain crossing the level sand, and then,
as the moon sailed out from behind the cloud, he saw the white man
standing over a black figure that lay motionless upon the sand.
Then Tom Chist scrambled up and ran away, plunging down into the
hollow of sand that lay in the shadows below. Over the next rise he
ran, and down again into the next black hollow, and so on over the
sliding, shifting ground, panting and gasping. It seemed to him that
he could hear footsteps following, and in the terror that possessed
him he almost expected every instant to feel the cold knife blade
slide between his own ribs in such a thrust from behind as he had seen
given to the poor black man.
So he ran on like one in a nightmare. His feet grew heavy like lead,
he panted and gasped, his breath came hot and dry in his throat. But
still he ran and ran until at last he found himself in front of old
Matt Abrahamson's cabin, gasping, panting, and sobbing for breath, his
knees relaxed and his thighs trembling with weakness.
As he opened the door and dashed into the darkened cabin (for both
Matt and Molly were long ago asleep in bed) there was a flash of
light, and even as he slammed to the door behind him there was an
instant peal of thunder, heavy as though a great weight had been
dropped upon the roof of the sky, so that the doors and windows of the
cabin rattled.
IV
Then Tom Chist crept to bed, trembling, shuddering, bathed in sweat,
his heart beating like a trip hammer, and his brain dizzy from that
long, terror-inspired race through the soft sand in which he had
striven to outstrip he knew not what pursuing horror.
For a long, long time he lay awake, trembling and chattering with
nervous chills, and when he did fall asleep it was only to drop into
monstrous dreams in which he once again saw ever enacted, with various
grotesque variations, the tragic drama which his waking eyes had
beheld the night before.
Then came the dawning of the broad, wet daylight, and before the
rising of the sun Tom was up and out of doors to find the young day
dripping with the rain of overnight.
His first act was to climb the nearest sand hill and to gaze out
toward the offing where the pirate ship had been the day before.
It was no longer there.
Soon afterward Matt Abrahamson came out of the cabin and he called to
Tom to go get a bite to eat, for it was time for them to be away
fishing.
All that morning the recollection of the night before hung over Tom
Chist like a great cloud of boding trouble. It filled the confined
area of the little boat and spread over the entire wide spaces of sky
and sea that surrounded them. Not for a moment was it lifted. Even
when he was hauling in his wet and dripping line with a struggling
fish at the end of it a recurrent memory of what he had seen would
suddenly come upon him, and he would groan in spirit at the
recollection. He looked at Matt Abrahamson's leathery face, at his
lantern jaws cavernously and stolidly chewing at a tobacco leaf, and
it seemed monstrous to him that the old man should be so unconscious
of the black cloud that wrapped them all about.
When the boat reached the shore again he leaped scrambling to the
beach, and as soon as his dinner was eaten he hurried away to find the
Dominie Jones.
He ran all the way from Abrahamson's hut to the parson's house, hardly
stopping once, and when he knocked at the door he was panting and
sobbing for breath.
The good man was sitting on the back-kitchen doorstep smoking his long
pipe of tobacco out into the sunlight, while his wife within was
rattling about among the pans and dishes in preparation of their
supper, of which a strong, porky smell already filled the air.
Then Tom Chist told his story, panting, hurrying, tumbling one word
over another in his haste, and Parson Jones listened, breaking every
now and then into an ejaculation of wonder. The light in his pipe went
out and the bowl turned cold.
"And I don't see why they should have killed the poor black man," said
Tom, as he finished his narrative.
"Why, that is very easy enough to understand," said the good reverend
man. "'Twas a treasure box they buried!"
In his agitation Mr. Jones had risen from his seat and was now
stumping up and down, puffing at his empty tobacco pipe as though it
were still alight.
"A treasure box!" cried out Tom.
"Aye, a treasure box! And that was why they killed the poor black man.
He was the only one, d'ye see, besides they two who knew the place
where 'twas hid, and now that they've killed him out of the way,
there's nobody but themselves knows. The villains--Tut, tut, look at
that now!" In his excitement the dominie had snapped the stem of his
tobacco pipe in two.
"Why, then," said Tom, "if that is so, 'tis indeed a wicked, bloody
treasure, and fit to bring a curse upon anybody who finds it!"
"'Tis more like to bring a curse upon the soul who buried it," said
Parson Jones, "and it may be a blessing to him who finds it. But tell
me, Tom, do you think you could find the place again where 'twas hid?"
"I can't tell that," said Tom, "'twas all in among the sand humps,
d'ye see, and it was at night into the bargain. Maybe we could find
the marks of their feet in the sand," he added.
"'Tis not likely," said the reverend gentleman, "for the storm last
night would have washed all that away."
"I could find the place," said Tom, "where the boat was drawn up on
the beach."
"Why, then, that's something to start from, Tom," said his friend. "If
we can find that, then maybe we can find whither they went from
there."
"If I was certain it was a treasure box," cried out Tom Chist, "I
would rake over every foot of sand betwixt here and Henlopen to find
it."
"'Twould be like hunting for a pin in a haystack," said the Rev.
Hilary Jones.
As Tom walked away home, it seemed as though a ton's weight of gloom
had been rolled away from his soul. The next day he and Parson Jones
were to go treasure-hunting together; it seemed to Tom as though he
could hardly wait for the time to come.
V
The next afternoon Parson Jones and Tom Chist started off together
upon the expedition that made Tom's fortune forever. Tom carried a
spade over his shoulder and the reverend gentleman walked along beside
him with his cane.
As they jogged along up the beach they talked together about the only
thing they could talk about--the treasure box. "And how big did you
say 'twas?" quoth the good gentleman.
"About so long," said Tom Chist, measuring off upon the spade, "and
about so wide, and this deep."
"And what if it should be full of money, Tom?" said the reverend
gentleman, swinging his cane around and around in wide circles in the
excitement of the thought, as he strode along briskly. "Suppose it
should be full of money, what then?"
"By Moses!" said Tom Chist, hurrying to keep up with his friend, "I'd
buy a ship for myself, I would, and I'd trade to Injy and to Chiny to
my own boot, I would. Suppose the chist was all full of money, sir,
and suppose we should find it; would there be enough in it, d'ye
suppose, to buy a ship?"
"To be sure there would be enough, Tom; enough and to spare, and a
good big lump over."
"And if I find it 'tis mine to keep, is it, and no mistake?"
"Why, to be sure it would be yours!" cried out the parson, in a loud
voice. "To be sure it would be yours!" He knew nothing of the law, but
the doubt of the question began at once to ferment in his brain, and
he strode along in silence for a while. "Whose else would it be but
yours if you find it?" he burst out. "Can you tell me that?"
"If ever I have a ship of my own," said Tom Chist, "and if ever I sail
to Injy in her, I'll fetch ye back the best chist of tea, sir, that
ever was fetched from Cochin Chiny."
Parson Jones burst out laughing. "Thankee, Tom," he said; "and I'll
thankee again when I get my chist of tea. But tell me, Tom, didst thou
ever hear of the farmer girl who counted her chickens before they were
hatched?"
It was thus they talked as they hurried along up the beach together,
and so came to a place at last where Tom stopped short and stood
looking about him. "'Twas just here," he said, "I saw the boat last
night. I know 'twas here, for I mind me of that bit of wreck yonder,
and that there was a tall stake drove in the sand just where yon stake
stands."
Parson Jones put on his spectacles and went over to the stake toward
which Tom pointed. As soon as he had looked at it carefully he called
out: "Why, Tom, this hath been just drove down into the sand. 'Tis a
brand-new stake of wood, and the pirates must have set it here
themselves as a mark, just as they drove the pegs you spoke about down
into the sand."
Tom came over and looked at the stake. It was a stout piece of oak
nearly two inches thick; it had been shaped with some care, and the
top of it had been painted red. He shook the stake and tried to move
it, but it had been driven or planted so deeply into the sand that he
could not stir it. "Aye, sir," he said, "it must have been set here
for a mark, for I'm sure 'twas not here yesterday or the day before."
He stood looking about him to see if there were other signs of the
pirates' presence. At some little distance there was the corner of
something white sticking up out of the sand. He could see that it was
a scrap of paper, and he pointed to it, calling out: "Yonder is a
piece of paper, sir. I wonder if they left that behind them?"
It was a miraculous chance that placed that paper there. There was
only an inch of it showing, and if it had not been for Tom's sharp
eyes, it would certainly have been overlooked and passed by. The next
windstorm would have covered it up, and all that afterward happened