Chapter 1

MY BURIED TREASURE

by Richard Harding Davis

This is a true story of a search for buried treasure. The only part that is not true is the name of the man with whom I searched for the treasure. Unless I keep his name out of it he will not let me write the story, and, as it was his expedition and as my share of the treasure is only what I can make by writing the story, I must write as he dictates. I think the story should be told, because our experience was unique, and might be of benefit to others. And, besides, I need the money.

There is, however, no agreement preventing me from describing him as I think he is, or reporting, as accurately as I can, what he said and did as he said and did it.

For purposes of identification I shall call him Edgar Powell. The last name has no significance; but the first name is not chosen at random. The leader of our expedition, the head and brains of it, was and is the sort of man one would address as Edgar. No one would think of calling him “Ed,” or “Eddie,” any more than he would consider slapping him on the back.

We were together at college; but, as six hundred other boys were there at the same time, that gives no clew to his identity. Since those days, until he came to see me about the treasure, we had not met. All I knew of him was that he had succeeded his father in manufacturing unshrinkable flannels. Of course, the reader understands that is not the article of commerce he manufactures; but it is near enough, and it suggests the line of business to which he gives his life’s blood. It is not similar to my own line of work, and in consequence, when he wrote me, on the unshrinkable flannels official writing-paper, that he wished to see me in reference to a matter of business of “mutual benefit,” I was considerably puzzled.

A few days later, at nine in the morning, an hour of his own choosing, he came to my rooms in New York City.

Except that he had grown a beard, he was as I remembered him, thin and tall, but with no chest, and stooping shoulders. He wore eye-glasses, and as of old through these he regarded you disapprovingly and warily as though he suspected you might try to borrow money, or even joke with him. As with Edgar I had never felt any temptation to do either, this was irritating.

But from force of former habit we greeted each other by our first names, and he suspiciously accepted a cigar. Then, after fixing me both with his eyes and with his eye-glasses and swearing me to secrecy, he began abruptly.

“Our mills,” he said, “are in New Bedford; and I own several small cottages there and in Fairhaven. I rent them out at a moderate rate. The other day one of my tenants, a Portuguese sailor, was taken suddenly ill and sent for me. He had made many voyages in and out of Bedford to the South Seas, whaling, and he told me on his last voyage he had touched at his former home at Teneriffe. There his grandfather had given him a document that had been left him by _his_ father. His grandfather said it contained an important secret, but one that was of value only in America, and that when he returned to that continent he must be very careful to whom he showed it. He told me it was written in a kind of English he could not understand, and that he had been afraid to let any one see it. He wanted me to accept the document in payment of the rent he owed me, with the understanding that I was not to look at it, and that if he got well I was to give it back. If he pulled through, he was to pay me in some other way; but if he died I was to keep the document. About a month ago he died, and I examined the paper. It purports to tell where there is buried a pirate’s treasure. And,” added Edgar, gazing at me severely and as though he challenged me to contradict him, “I intend to dig for it!”

Had he told me he contemplated crossing the Rocky Mountains in a Baby Wright, or leading a cotillon, I could not have been more astonished. I am afraid I laughed aloud.

“You!” I exclaimed. “Search for buried treasure?”

My tone visibly annoyed him. Even the eye-glasses radiated disapproval.

“I see nothing amusing in the idea,” Edgar protested coldly. “It is a plain business proposition. I find the outlay will be small, and if I am successful the returns should be large; at a rough estimate about one million dollars.”

Even to-day, no true American, at the thought of one million dollars, can remain covered. His letter to me had said, “for our mutual benefit.” I became respectful and polite, I might even say abject. After all, the ties that bind us in those dear old college days are not lightly to be disregarded.

“If I can be of any service to you, Edgar, old man,” I assured him heartily, “if I can help you find it, you know I shall be only too happy.” With regret I observed that my generous offer did not seem to deeply move him.

“I came to you in this matter,” he continued stiffly, “because you seemed to be the sort of person who would be interested in a search for buried treasure.”

“I am,” I exclaimed. “Always have been.”

“Have you,” he demanded searchingly, “any practical experience?”

I tried to appear at ease; but I knew then just how the man who applies to look after your furnace feels, when you ask him if he can also run a sixty horse-power dynamo.

“I have never actually _found_ any buried treasure,” I admitted; “but I know where lots of it is, and I know just how to go after it.” I endeavored to dazzle him with expert knowledge.

“Of course,” I went on airily, “I am familiar with all the expeditions that have tried for the one on Cocos Island, and I know all about the Peruvian treasure on Trinidad, and the lost treasures of Jalisco near Guadalajara, and the sunken galleon on the Grand Cayman, and when I was on the Isle of Pines I had several very tempting offers to search there. And the late Captain Boynton invited me——”

“But,” interrupted Edgar in a tone that would tolerate no trifling, “you yourself have never financed or organized an expedition with the object in view of——”

“Oh, that part’s easy!” I assured him. “The fitting-out part you can safely leave to me.” I assumed a confidence that I hoped he might believe was real. “There’s always a tramp steamer in the Erie Basin,” I said, “that one can charter for any kind of adventure, and I have the addresses of enough soldiers of fortune, filibusters, and professional revolutionists to man a battle-ship, all fine fellows in a tight corner. And I’ll promise you they’ll follow us to hell, and back——”

“That!” exclaimed Edgar, “is exactly what I feared!”

“I beg your pardon!” I exclaimed.

“That’s exactly what I _don’t_ want,” said Edgar sternly. “I don’t _intend_ to get into any tight corners. I don’t _want_ to go to hell!”

I saw that in my enthusiasm I had perhaps alarmed him. I continued more temperately.

“Any expedition after treasure,” I pointed out, “is never without risk. You must have discipline, and you must have picked men. Suppose there’s a mutiny? Suppose they try to rob us of the treasure on our way home? We must have men we can rely on, and men who know how to pump a Winchester. I can get you both. And Bannerman will furnish me with anything from a pair of leggins to a quick firing gun, and on Clark Street they’ll quote me a special rate on ship stores, hydraulic pumps, divers’ helmets——”

Edgar’s eye-glasses became frosted with cold, condemnatory scorn. He shook his head disgustedly.

“I was afraid of this!” he murmured.

I endeavored to reassure him.

“A little danger,” I laughed, “only adds to the fun.”

“I want you to understand,” exclaimed Edgar indignantly, “there isn’t going to be any danger. There isn’t going to be any fun. This is a plain business proposition. I asked you those questions just to test you. And you approached the matter exactly as I feared you would. I was prepared for it. In fact,” he explained shamefacedly, “I’ve read several of your little stories, and I find they run to adventure and blood and thunder; they are not of the analytical school of fiction. Judging from them,” he added accusingly, “you have a tendency to the romantic.” He spoke reluctantly as though saying I had a tendency to epileptic fits or the morphine habit.

“I am afraid,” I was forced to admit, “that to me pirates and buried treasure always suggest adventure. And your criticism of my writings is well observed. Others have discovered the same fatal weakness. We cannot all,” I pointed out, “manufacture unshrinkable flannels.”

At this compliment to his more fortunate condition, Edgar seemed to soften.

“I grant you,” he said, “that the subject has almost invariably been approached from the point of view you take. And what,” he demanded triumphantly, “has been the result? Failure, or at least, before success was attained, a most unnecessary and regrettable loss of blood and life. Now, on my expedition, I do not intend that any blood shall be shed, or that anybody shall lose his life. I have not entered into this matter hastily. I have taken out information, and mean to benefit by other people’s mistakes. When I decided to go on with this,” he explained, “I read all the books that bear on searches for buried treasure, and I found that in each case the same mistakes were made, and that then, in order to remedy the mistakes, it was invariably necessary to kill somebody. Now, by not making those mistakes, it will not be necessary for me to kill any one, and nobody is going to have a chance to kill me.

“You propose that we fit out a schooner and sign on a crew. What will happen? A man with a sabre cut across his forehead, or with a black patch over one eye, will inevitably be one of that crew. And, as soon as we sail, he will at once begin to plot against us. A cabin boy who the conspirators think is asleep in his bunk will overhear their plot and will run to the quarter-deck to give warning; but a pistol shot rings out, and the cabin boy falls at the foot of the companion ladder. The cabin boy is always the first one to go. After that the mutineers kill the first mate, and lock us in our cabin, and take over the ship. They will then broach a cask of rum, and all through the night we will listen to their drunken howlings, and from the cabin airport watch the body of the first mate rolling in the lee scuppers.”

“But you forget,” I protested eagerly, “there is always _one_ faithful member of the crew, who——”

Edgar interrupted me impatiently.

“I have not overlooked him,” he said. “He is a Jamaica negro of gigantic proportions, or the ship’s cook; but he always gets his too, and he gets it good. They throw _him_ to the sharks! Then we all camp out on a desert island inhabited only by goats, and we build a stockade, and the mutineers come to treat with us under a white flag, and we, trusting entirely to their honor, are fools enough to go out and talk with them. At which they shoot us up, and withdraw laughing scornfully.” Edgar fixed his eye-glasses upon me accusingly.

“Am I right, or am I wrong?” he demanded. I was unable to answer.

“The only man,” continued Edgar warmly, “who ever showed the slightest intelligence in the matter was the fellow in the ‘Gold Bug’. _He_ kept his mouth shut. He never let any one know that he was after buried treasure, until he found it. That’s me! Now I know _exactly_ where this treasure is, and——”

I suppose, involuntarily, I must have given a start of interest; for Edgar paused and shook his head, slyly and cunningly. “And if you think I have the map on my person now,” he declared in triumph, “you’ll have to guess again!”

“Really,” I protested, “I had no intention——”

“Not you, perhaps,” said Edgar grudgingly; “but your Japanese valet conceals himself behind those curtains, follows me home, and at night——”

“I haven’t got a valet,” I objected.

Edgar merely smiled with the most aggravating self-sufficiency. “It makes no difference,” he declared. “_No one_ will ever find that map, or see that map, or know where that treasure is, until _I_ point to the spot.”

“Your caution is admirable,” I said; “but what,” I jeered, “makes you think you can point to the spot, because your map says something like, ‘Through the Sunken Valley to Witch’s Caldron, four points N. by N. E. to Gallows Hill where the shadow falls at sunrise, fifty fathoms west, fifty paces north as the crow flies, to the Seven Wells’? How the deuce,” I demanded, “is any one going to point to _that_ spot?”

“It isn’t that kind of map,” shouted Edgar triumphantly. “If it had been, I wouldn’t have gone on with it. It’s a map anybody can read except a half-caste Portuguese sailor. It’s as plain as a laundry bill. It says,” he paused apprehensively, and then continued with caution, “it says at such and such a place there is a something. So many somethings from that something are three what-you-may-call-’ems, and in the centre of these three what-you-may-call-’ems is buried the treasure. It’s as plain as that!”

“Even with the few details you have let escape you,” I said, “I could find _that_ spot in my sleep.”

“I don’t think you could,” said Edgar uncomfortably; but I could see that he had mentally warned himself to be less communicative. “And,” he went on, “I am willing to lead you to it, if you subscribe to certain conditions.”

Edgar’s insulting caution had ruffled my spirit.

“Why do you think you can trust ME?” I asked haughtily. And then, remembering my share of the million dollars, I added in haste, “I accept the conditions.”

“Of course, as you say, one has got to take _some_ risk,” Edgar continued; “but I feel sure,” he said, regarding me doubtfully, “you would not stoop to open robbery.” I thanked him.

“Well, until one is tempted,” said Edgar, “one never knows _what_ he might do. And I’ve simply _got_ to have one other man, and I picked on you because I thought you could write about it.”

“I see,” I said, “I am to act as the historian of the expedition.”

“That will be arranged later,” said Edgar. “What I chiefly want you for is to dig. _Can_ you dig?” he asked eagerly. I told him I could; but that I would rather do almost anything else.

“I _must_ have one other man,” repeated Edgar, “a man who is strong enough to dig, and strong enough to resist the temptation to murder me.” The retort was so easy that I let it pass. Besides, on Edgar, it would have been wasted.

“I _think_ you will do,” he said with reluctance. “And now the conditions!”

I smiled agreeably.

“You are already sworn to secrecy,” said Edgar. “And you now agree in every detail to obey me implicitly, and to accompany me to a certain place, where you will dig. If I find the treasure, you agree, to help me guard it, and convey it to wherever I decide it is safe to leave it. Your responsibility is then at an end. One year after the treasure is discovered, you will be free to write the account of the expedition. For what you write, some magazine may pay you. What it pays you will be your share of the treasure.”

Of my part of the million dollars, which I had hastily calculated could not be less than one-fifth, I had already spent over one hundred thousand dollars and was living far beyond my means. I had bought a farm with a waterfront on the Sound, a motor-boat, and, as I was not sure which make I preferred, three automobiles. I had at my own, expense produced a play of mine that no manager had appreciated, and its name in electric lights was already blinding Broadway. I had purchased a Hollander express rifle, a _real_ amber cigar holder, a private secretary who could play both rag-time and tennis, and a fur coat. So Edgar’s generous offer left me naked. When I had again accustomed myself to the narrow confines of my flat, and the jolt of the surface cars, I asked humbly:

“Is that _all_ I get?”

“Why should you expect any more?” demanded Edgar. “It isn’t _your_ treasure. You wouldn’t expect me to make you a present of an interest in my mills; why should you get a share of my treasure?” He gazed at me reproachfully. “I thought you’d be pleased,” he said. “It must be hard to think of things to write about, and I’m giving you a subject for nothing. I thought,” he remonstrated, “you’d jump at the chance. It isn’t every day a man can dig for buried treasure.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “Perhaps I appreciate that quite as well as you do. But my time has a certain small value, and I can’t leave my work just for excitement. We may be weeks, months—— How long do you think we——”

Behind his eye-glasses Edgar winked reprovingly.

“That is a leading question,” he said. “I will pay all your legitimate expenses—transportation, food, lodging. It won’t cost you a cent. And you write the story—with my name left out,” he added hastily; “it would hurt my standing in the trade,” he explained—“and get paid for it.”

I saw a sea voyage at Edgar’s expense. I saw palm leaves, coral reefs. I felt my muscles aching and the sweat run from my neck and shoulders as I drove my pick into the chest of gold.

“I’ll go with you!” I said. We shook hands on it. “When do we start?” I asked.

“Now!” said Edgar. I thought he wished to test me; he had touched upon one of my pet vanities.

“You can’t do that with me!” I said. “My bags are packed and ready for any place in the wide world, except the cold places. I can start this minute. Where is it, the Gold Coast, the Ivory Coast, the Spanish Main——”

Edgar frowned inscrutably. “Have you an empty suit-case?” he asked.

“Why EMPTY?” I demanded.

“To carry the treasure,” said Edgar. “I left mine in the hall. We will need two.”

“And your trunks?” I said.

“There aren’t going to be any trunks,” said Edgar. From his pocket he had taken a folder of the New Jersey Central Railroad. “If we hurry,” he exclaimed, “we can catch the ten-thirty express, and return to New York in time for dinner.”

“And what about the treasure?” I roared.

“We’ll’ bring it with us,” said Edgar.

I asked for information. I demanded confidences. Edgar refused both. I insisted that I might be allowed at least to carry my automatic pistol. “Suppose some one tries to take the treasure from us?” I pointed out.

“No one,” said Edgar severely, “would be such an ass as to imagine we are carrying buried treasure in a suit-case. He will think it contains pajamas.”

“For local color, then,” I begged, “I want to say in my story that I went heavily armed.”

“Say it, then,” snapped Edgar. “But you can’t _do_ it! Not with me, you can’t! How do I know you mightn’t——” He shook his head warily.

It was a day in early October, the haze of Indian summer was in the air, and as we crossed the North River by the Twenty-third Street Ferry the sun flashed upon the white clouds overhead and the tumbling waters below. On each side of us great vessels with the Blue Peter at the fore lay at the wharfs ready to cast off, or were already nosing their way down the channel toward strange and beautiful ports. Lamport and Holt were rolling down to Rio; the Royal Mail’s _Magdalena_, no longer “white and gold,” was off to Kingston, where once seven pirates swung in chains; the _Clyde_ was on her way to Hayti where the buccaneers came from; the _Morro Castle_ was bound for Havana, which Morgan, king of all the pirates, had once made his own; and the _Red D_ was steaming to Porto Cabello where Sir Francis Drake, as big a buccaneer as any of them, lies entombed in her harbor. And _I_ was setting forth on a buried-treasure expedition on a snub-nosed, flat-bellied, fresh-water ferry-boat, bound for Jersey City! No one will ever know my sense of humiliation. And, when the Italian boy insulted my immaculate tan shoes by pointing at them and saying, “Shine?” I could have slain him. Fancy digging for buried treasure in freshly varnished boots! But Edgar did not mind. To him there was nothing lacking; it was just as it should be. He was deeply engrossed in calculating how many offices were for rent in the Singer Building!

When we reached the other side, he refused to answer any of my eager questions. He would not let me know even for what place on the line he had purchased our tickets, and, as a hint that I should not disturb him, he stuffed into my hands the latest magazines. “At least tell me this,” I demanded. “Have you ever been to this place before to-day?”

“Once,” said Edgar shortly, “last week. That’s when I found out I would need some one with me who could dig.”

“How do you know it’s the _right_ place?” I whispered.

The summer season was over, and of the chair car we were the only occupants; but, before he answered, Edgar looked cautiously round him and out of the window. We had just passed Red Bank.

“Because the map told me,” he answered. “Suppose,” he continued fretfully, “you had a map of New York City with the streets marked on it plainly? Suppose the map said that if you walked to where Broadway and Fifth Avenue meet, you would find the Flatiron Building. Do you think you could find it?”

“Was it as easy as _that?_” I gasped.

“It was as easy as _that!_” said Edgar.

I sank back into my chair and let the magazines slide to the floor. What fiction story was there in any one of them so enthralling as the actual possibilities that lay before me? In two hours I might be bending over a pot of gold, a sea chest stuffed with pearls and rubies!

I began to recall all the stories I had heard as a boy of treasure buried along the coast by Kidd on his return voyage from the Indies. Where along the Jersey sea-line were there safe harbors? The train on which we were racing south had its rail head at Barnegat Bay. And between Barnegat and Red Bank there now was but one other inlet, that of the Manasquan River. It might be Barnegat; it might be Manasquan. It could not be a great distance from either; for sailors would not have carried their burden far from the ship. I glanced appealingly at Edgar. He was smiling happily over “Pickings from Puck.” We passed Asbury Park and Ocean Grove, halted at Sea Girt, and again at Manasquan; but Egdar did not move. The next station was Point Pleasant, and as the train drew to a stop, Edgar rose calmly and grasped his suit-case.

“We get out here,” he said.

Drawn up at the station were three open-work hacks with fringe around the top. From each a small boy waved at us with his whip.

“Curtis House? The Gladstone? The Cottage in the Pines?” they chanted invitingly.

“Take me to a hardware store,” said Edgar, “where one can buy a spade.” When we stopped I made a move to get down; but Edgar stopped me.

I protested indignantly, “I haven’t _much_ to say about this expedition;” I exclaimed, “but, as _I_ have to do the digging, I intend to choose my own spade.”

Edgar’s eye-glasses flashed defiance. “You have given your word to obey me,” he said sternly. “If you do not intend to obey me, you can return in ten minutes by the next train.”

I sank into my seat. In a moment the mutiny had been crushed. Not even a cabin boy had fallen! Edgar returned with a spade, an axe, and a pick. He placed them in the seat beside the boy driver.

“What is your name, boy?” he asked.

“Rupert,” said the boy.

“Rupert,” continued Edgar, “drive us to the beach. When you get to the bathing pavilions keep on along the shore toward Manasquan Inlet.” He touched the spade with his hand. “I have bought a building lot on the beach,” he explained, “and am going to dig a hole, and plant a flagpole.”

I was choked with indignation. As a writer of fiction my self-respect was insulted.

“If there are any more lies to be told,” I whispered, “please let _me_ tell them. Your invention is crude, ridiculous! Why,” I demanded, “should anybody want to plant a flagpole on a wind-swept beach in October? It’s not the season for flagpoles. Besides,” I jeered, “where is your flagpole? Is it concealed in the suit-case?”

Edgar frowned uneasily, and touched the boy on the shoulder.

“The flagpole itself,” he explained, “is coming down to-morrow by express.”

The boy yawned, and slapped the flanks of his horse with the reins. “Gat up!” he said.