Part 14

This, then, was the explanation of the fantastic decorations outside. Altars to the unknown God! The old man turned his head towards his visitor. "But don't you tell the parson. He wouldn't hold with it.... I tell you because you're in the Navy, an' p'r'aps you'd understand. I was in the Navy--Mr Tyelake's my name. Thirty year a Gunner; an' Navy beef----" For a while the old man rambled on, seemingly unconscious of his visitor's presence, of ships long passed through the breakers' yards, of forgotten commissions all up and down the world, of beef and rheumatism and Buddha, while Selby sat listening, half moved by pity, half amused at himself for staying on.

About noon a woman came in and fed the old man with a spoon out of a cup. Selby rose to go. "I'll come again," he said, touching the passive hands covered with faint blue tattooing. "I'll come and see you again this evening." The old man roused himself from his reveries. "Come again," he repeated, "that's right, come again--soon. When she's gone--she an' her fussin' about," and for the first time an expression came into his eyes, as he watched the woman with the cup, an expression of malevolence. "I don't hold with women ... fussin' round. An' I've got something to tell you: something pressin'. You must come soon; I'm slippin' my cable.... Navy beef _an'_ the rheumatics--an' it's to your advantage...."

The shadows of the alders by the river were lengthening when Selby again walked up the bricked path leading to the cottage. The old man was still lying in contemplation of his hands: the grandfather clock had stopped, and there was a great stillness in the little room.

His gaze was so vacant and the silence remained unbroken so long that Selby doubted if the old man recognised him.

"I've come back, you see. I've come to see you again." Still the figure in the bed said nothing, staring dully at his visitor. "I've come to see you again," Selby repeated.

"It's to your advantage," said the old man. His voice was weaker, and it was evident that he was, as he said, slipping his cable fast.

"Give me that there ditty-box," continued the thin, toneless voice. Selby looked round the room, and espied on a corner of the chest of drawers the scrubbed wooden "ditty-box" in which sailors keep their more intimate and personal possessions: he fetched it and placed it on the patchwork quilt; the old man fumbled ineffectually with the lid.

"Tip 'em out," he said at length, and Selby inverted the box to allow a heap of papers and odds and ends to slide on to the old man's hands. It was a pathetic collection, the flotsam and jetsam of a sailor's life: faded photographs, certificates from Captains scarcely memories with the present generation, a frayed parchment, letters tied up with an old knife-lanyard, a lock of hair from which the curl had not quite departed ... ghost of a day when perhaps the old man did "hold with" women. At length he found what he wanted, a soiled sheet of paper that had been folded and refolded many times.

"Here!" he said, and extended it to Selby. It was a printed form, discoloured with age, printed in old-fashioned type, and appeared to relate to details of prison routine and the number of prisoners victualled. Selby turned it over: on the back, drawn in ink that was now faded and rusty, was a clumsy arrow showing the points of the compass; beneath that a number of oblong figures arranged haphazard and enclosed by a line. One of the figures was marked with a cross.

"That's a cemetery," said the old man; "cemetery at a place called Port des Reines." He lay silent for a while, as if trying to arrange his scattered ideas; presently the weak voice started again.

"There's a prison at Trinidad, and my father was a warder there ... long time ago: time the old _Calypso_ was out on the station...." He talked slowly, with long pauses. "They was sent to catch a murderer who was hidin' among the islands--a half-breed: pirate he must ha' been ... murderer an' I don't know what not.... They caught him an' they brought him to Trinidad where my father was warder in the prison ... when I was little...." The old man broke off into disconnected, rambling whispers, and the shadows began gathering in the corners of the room. A thrush in the orchard outside sang a few long, sweet notes of its Angelus and was silent. Selby waited with his chin resting in his hand. The old man suddenly turned his head: "She ain't comin'----? She an' her fussin'...? I've got something important----"

"No, no," said Selby soothingly, "there's no one here but me. And you wanted to tell me about your father----"

"Warder in the prison at Trinidad," said the old man, "my father was, an' a kind-hearted man. There was a prisoner there, a pirate an' murderer he was, what the _Calypso_ caught ... an' father was kind to him before he was hanged ... I can't say what he did, but bein' kind-hearted naturally, it might have been anything ... not takin' into account of him being a pirate an' murderer. Jewels he had, an' rings an' such things hidden away somewhere; an' before he was hanged he told my father where they was buried, 'cos father was kind to him before he was hanged.... Port des Reines cemetery ... in the grave what's marked on that chart, he'd buried the whole lot. Seventy thousand pounds, he said...."

There was a long silence. "Father caught the prison fever an' died just afterwards. My mother, she gave me the paper ... joined the Navy: an' I never went to des Reines but the once ... then I went to the wrong cemetery to dig: ship was under sailin' orders--I hadn't time. Afterwards I heard there was two cemeteries: priest at Martinique told me. I was never there but the once.... Seventy thousand pounds: an' me slippin' me cable...."

Selby sat by the bed in the darkening room holding the soiled sheet of paper in his hand, piecing together bit by bit the fragments of this remarkable narrative, until he had a fairly connected story in his head.

Summed up, it appeared to amount to this: A pirate or murderer had been captured by a man-of-war, taken to Trinidad prison to be tried, and there sentenced to death. "Time the old _Calypso_ was out on the Station." ... That would be in the 'forties or thereabouts. The old man's father had been a warder in Trinidad prison at the time, and had performed some service or kindness to the prisoner, in exchange for which the condemned felon had given him a clue to the whereabouts of his plunder. It was apparently buried in a grave in Port des Reines cemetery, but the warder had died before he could verify this valuable piece of information. His son, the ex-Gunner, had actually been to a cemetery at Port des Reines, but had gone to the wrong one, and did not find out his mistake till after the ship had sailed. The plunder was valued at L70,000.

Selby turned the paper over and folded it up. "What do you wish me to do with this, Mr Tyelake? Have you any relations or next-of-kin? It seems to me----"

The old man shook his head faintly. "I've got no relatives alive--nor friends. They're all dead ... an' I'm dyin'. That's for you, that there bit of paper. Keep it, it's to your advantage.... Some day, maybe, you'll go to Port des Reines, an' it's the old cemetery furthest from the sea. I went to the wrong one time I was there."

"But," said Selby, half-amused, half-incredulous, "I--I'm a total stranger to you.... If all this was true----"

"You keep it," said the old man. His voice was very spent and scarcely raised above a whisper. "I meant it for the first Navy-man that came along. You came, an' you were kind to me. It's yours--an' to your advantage...."

There was silence again in the little room, and Selby sat on in the dusk, wondering how much of the story was true, or whether it was all the hallucination of a failing mind; but the old man had given him the paper, and he would keep it as a memento, ... and the fact of its being a prison-form seemed to bear out some of the details; anyhow, the story was very interesting. He rose and lit the lamp; the old man had slipped off into an easy doze, with his pathetic collection of treasures still lying in a heap on the quilt; Selby replaced them in the ditty-box, and put the box back where he had found it; the piece of paper that had been a prison-form he put in his pocket-book. As he was leaving, the woman who had been there earlier in the day made her appearance.

Selby wished her good evening, told her the old man was dozing, and passed down the path. "I'll come again to-morrow," he added at the gate. But that night the old man died, and the next morning, having ascertained from the vicar that there was nothing he could do to help, Selby shouldered his knapsack and struck out once more along the road that led up on to the moor.

*II.*

It was tea-time, and the Mess had gathered round the Wardroom table; a signalman came down from the upper deck and pinned a signal on the baize-covered notice-board.

"Hullo," said some one, "signal from the Flagship! What's the news?"

The Assistant Paymaster, who was sitting with his back to the notice-board, relinquished the jam-pot, and tilting up his chair, scrutinised the paper over his shoulder. "Flag-General: Let fires die out. Usual leave may be granted to Officers."

The Major of Marines, who had finished his tea, rose from the table and tucked the novel he had been reading under his arm. "Thanks very much," he said, "now we're all happy." He stared out through the rain-smeared scuttle at an angry grey sea and lowering sky. "I can see a faint blur on the horizon--would that be the delectable beach we're invited to repair to?"

"That's it," said the First Lieutenant, stirring the leaves in his tea-pot with the spoon. He had just spent three-quarters of an hour on the forecastle, mooring ship in a cold, driving rain. "It's not more than three miles away, and it's only blowing about half a gale--there's a cutter to go ashore in; time some of you young bloods were climbing into your 'civvy'[#] suits."

[#] Lowerdeckese = Civilian.

"So much for the joys of a big Fleet in the North Sea. I'd like to bring some of these fellows, who are always writing to the papers about it, for a little yachting trip," grumbled the Fleet Surgeon, who had just returned from two successively placid commissions in the West Indies. "Never anchor in sight of land--always blowing, always raining; never get ashore, and when you do, you wish you were on board again.... It's the limit."

"Well, thank Heaven for a fire and an arm-chair, anyway," said the Paymaster, and drifted towards the smoking-room, filling his pipe as he went.

"Who'll make a four at Bridge?" asked the Major. "Come on, Number One," and so the Mess dispersed, some to arm-chairs round the fire, others to the Bridge-table, others again to write letters in their cabins.

About half an hour before dinner, as was his wont, the Captain came down from his cabin and joined the group round the smoking-room fire. The occupants of the arm-chairs made room and smiled greetings.

"Hullo," said the Captain, "none of you ashore! Thought you all came into the Navy to see life!"

The Commander laughed. "We're beginning to forget there is such a thing as the beach."

The Captain lit a cigarette. "Not a bad principle either--saves your plain-clothes from wearing out." He settled down in an arm-chair somebody had vacated. "Like an old Gunner of a small ship I was in once in the West Indies; he only went ashore three times during the commission--once at Trinidad, and once at Bermuda, and each time when he returned he had to be hoisted on board in a bowline." There was a general laugh. "What about the third time, sir?" asked the Engineer Commander.

"Third time--ah, that was rather mysterious. We never discovered why he did go ashore that day. I don't know now." The Mess scented a yarn; thrice-blessed was their Captain in that he could tell a yarn.

"We were cruising round that fringe of islands, part of the Windward Group, showing the Flag, and the Skipper decided to look in at a place called ... h'm'm. Can't remember what it's called--Port des something ... Port des Reines, that's it,--what did you say, Selby?"

"Nothing, sir, go on..."

"The last place ever made, this Port des Reines, and it's not finished yet--just a mountain and the remains of an old French settlement. Well, we anchored off this God-forsaken hole, and as soon as the Skipper had had a look at it he decided to up killick and out of it; as far as I can remember he had to go and lunch with the Consul, but he was to come off in a couple of hours' time; so we banked fires, and off went the Captain in the galley.

"No sooner had he gone than the Gunner--this funny old boy I've been telling you about--came to my cabin (I was by way of being First Lieutenant of that ship--we'd no Commander) and asked for leave to go ashore.

"I was rather startled: couldn't imagine what on earth he wanted to do. I told him we were under sailing orders, and only staying a couple of hours, and that it was an awful hole: had he any friends staying there, I asked him. No, he said, he had no friends there, but he particularly wanted to land there for an hour or so on urgent private affairs, as he called it.

"Well, he seemed in rather a stew about something, so I gave him leave and lowered a boat. Off he went in his old bowler hat (he always went ashore in a bowler hat and a blue suit) armed with something wrapped up in paper; this turned out afterwards to be a sort of pick or jemmy he had got the blacksmith to make for him a couple of days before; that must have been when he heard the ship was going to Port des Reines; it was the only clue we ever had.

"Two hours later, at the expiration of his leave, he returned, looking very dusty and dejected, and reported himself. I chaffed him a bit about going ashore, but nothing could I get out of him, and he never volunteered an explanation to any one, as far as I know."

A Lieutenant who had finished playing Bridge and had joined the group of listeners round the fire leaned forward suddenly.

"D'you remember his name, sir?"

"No," said the Captain, "can't say I do. Never can remember names."

"Not a Mr Tyelake by any chance, sir?"

The Captain threw away the end of his cigarette and turned towards the speaker. "Good Lord! Yes, that was it--Tyelake. But look here, Selby,----"

The Lieutenant rose and walked towards the door. "If you'll wait a second, sir, I'll show you why he went ashore." He left the mess and returned with a soiled sheet of paper in his hand; it was creased by much folding and discoloured with age.

The Captain turned it over and examined it. "But this doesn't explain much, does it? And how do you come to know old Tyelake? All this happened twelve--fifteen--nearly twenty years ago, and he was pensioned soon after. And anyhow, what's this got to do with it?"

"That," Selby turned the paper over, "that's the cemetery at Port des Reines, sir,"--and then he told them of a walking tour in the West Country (omitting the reason for it and other superfluous details) some two years before, and of the old man who had since solved, it is to be hoped to his satisfaction, his religious perplexities.

The Assistant Paymaster removed his glasses and blinked excitedly, as was his habit when much moved. "But ... why couldn't he find it when he went ashore? And why didn't----"

"Because he went to the wrong cemetery; there were two, d'you see, and he dug up the wrong one and didn't find out there was another one till after they'd sailed. He never went there again."

"No," said the Captain. "That's right, we didn't."

The First Lieutenant laughed. "But just imagine him in that climate, tearing off the tombstones in his bowler hat and serge suit, with one eye on his watch all the time, and only finding coffins...!"

"And then hearing when it was too late that he'd backed the wrong horse," added the Major of Marines.

"But...." began the A.P. again, "_How_ much did you say? Seventy thousand pounds! My Aunt! Selby, have _you_ been there yet?"

Selby smiled and shook his head. "I? No, I've been 'Channel-groping' ever since; in fact, I'd forgotten all about it until the Captain mentioned Port des Reines. He was a very old man, and his wits were failing----"

The Engineer Commander examined the plan. "But there may be something in the yarn, Selby. It seems almost worth while----"

"A treasure hunt!" broke in the A.P. "Let's all put in for a couple of months' half-pay, and go out there! Hire a schooner, like they do in books."

"Schooner!" ejaculated the Major. "I can see myself setting sail for the Antilles in a schooner! Ugh! It makes me feel queer to think of it!"

"You'd look fine in a red smuggler's cap and thigh-boots, Major," said the First Lieutenant. "That's what treasure-hunters always wear."

"With a black patch over one eye, and the skull and cross-bones embroidered on your brisket," supplemented an imaginative Watch-keeper. "'Yo! ho! and a bottle of rum!'--can't you see yourself, Major? Only you ought to have a wooden leg."

"Has anybody in the Mess ever been there?" inquired the Commander.

"Why, the P.M.O.'s just come home from the West Indies; where is he?"

At that moment the Fleet Surgeon entered, to be assailed by a volley of questions.

"P.M.O.! You're just the man! Where's Porte des Reines?"

"We're all going treasure-hunting in a schooner with the Major!"

"With the Jolly Roger at the fore!"

"P.M.O., have you ever been to Porte des Reines?"

"How many cemeteries are there there?"

"What's the law about digging up graves in the West Indies?"

"----And treasure trove?"

The Fleet Surgeon looked a little bewildered. "What are you all talking about? Porte des Reines? Yes, I've been there. I don't know about the cemeteries, but I've got some photographs of the place, if you're all so anxious to see it--they're in my cabin."

He left the Mess, and the storm of conjecture and speculation broke out afresh.

"I shall chuck the Service and buy a farm," said the First Lieutenant, "with my share."

"S-sh! Don't make such a row! One of the Servants will hear, and we don't want it to get all over the ship! These things are much better kept quiet. If there's anything in it, the fewer----"

The A.P.'s voice rose above the turmoil: "An' I shall buy a cycle-car ... and a split-cane, steel-centred grilse-rod ... _and_ go to Switzerland next winter--I----"

The Fleet Surgeon reappeared with a bulky album under his arm; he laid it on the card-table and turned the pages. "Now--there's Port des Reines: what's left of it after the earthquake."

"Earthquake!" The Mess gathered round and leaned breathlessly over the table.

"Yes; two years ago they had that awful earthquake, and the mountain shifted almost bodily; there's a million tons of rock on top of--well, you can see!"

They scanned the scene of desolation in silence. "It swallowed the whole town," said some one in awestruck tones. The magnitude of a calamity had somehow never come home to them before quite so forcibly.

"Yes," replied the Fleet Surgeon calmly. "Town, such as it was, and church and cemeteries, mountain toppled down on top of them!"

There was a long, tense silence. "But----" began the A.P., still clinging to his dreams of a split-cane grilse-rod with a steel centre.

"_Dry_ up!" snapped the First Lieutenant irritably.

"Oh Death, where is thy sting!" murmured the Major of Marines. "Seventy thousand pounds buried under a mountain!"

The Captain rang the bell and ordered a sherry and bitters. "Well," he said, "thank Heaven I know at last why the Gunner went ashore!"

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.

* * * * * * * *

*BLACKWOODS' POPULAR SHILLING NOVELS.*

*Bound in Cloth. With Coloured Illustration on Wrapper.*

A SAFETY MATCH. IAN HAY A MAN'S MAN. IAN HAY "PIP": A ROMANCE OF YOUTH. IAN HAY THE RIGHT STUFF. IAN HAY HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. IAN HAY THE MOON OF BATH. BETH ELLIS FANCY FARM. NEIL MUNRO THE DAFT DAYS. NEIL MUNRO CAPTAIN DESMOND, V.C. (_Revised Edition._) MAUD DIVER THE GREAT AMULET. MAUD DIVER CANDLES IN THE WIND. MAUD DIVER THE GREEN CURVE. OLE LUK-OIE PARA HANDY. HUGH FOULIS THE VITAL SPARK. (_Illustrated. Paper Cover._) HUGH FOULIS THE RED NEIGHBOUR. W. J. ECCOTT THE WATCHER BY THE THRESHOLD. JOHN BUCHAN THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS. JOHN BUCHAN NAVAL OCCASIONS. "BARTIMEUS" JOHN CHILCOTE, M.P. MRS THURSTON LORD JIM. JOSEPH CONRAD "No. 101." WYMOND CAREY THE POWER OF THE KEYS. SYDNEY C. GRIER THE ADVANCED-GUARD. SYDNEY C. GRIER THE PATH TO HONOUR. SYDNEY C. GRIER THE LUNATIC AT LARGE. J. STORER CLOUSTON SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. BEATRICE HARRADEN THE ALIAS. ALEXANDER CRAWFORD SARACINESCA. F. MARION CRAWFORD PRIVATE SPUD TAMSON. CAPT. R. W. CAMPBELL HOCKEN AND HUNKEN. "Q" (Sir A. T. QUILLER-COUCH)

WM. BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH AND LONDON.