CHAPTER XXIII.

THE WRITING IN THE BOOK.

Gilbert saw the sudden change that had come into Timothy's countenance, but he paid little heed to it, for his own attention had been attracted by something else, something that the light of dawn had disclosed upon the sea not a cable's length away from where he and his two companions were floating about on that log of the lost galleon's mast.

Gripping Timothy's shoulders with his two hands, he cried aloud:

"Look you, Tim! Look! A ship!"

And at that instant Philip Oglander's eyes rested also upon the object which had attracted Gilbert.

Timothy craned his head round, and saw the ship's huge bulk heaving lazily upon the sea, with a glint of light upon a piece of brass that edged her forecastle rail. Her bow was towards them. Her masts were all gone, and there was no sign of life upon her decks. As she rose lazily upon the waves the lower planks of her hull were seen to be thickly encrusted with barnacles.

But Timothy was for the time being very little concerned with the ship. There was now a hope of safety, and with that hope he was satisfied. But his discovery that Philip Oglander was now a companion of their strange position filled him with a feeling of dismay, for he knew that Philip was no friend to Gilbert any more than to himself, and there was something about the lad that made him uncomfortable, while yet there was of course no reason to fear him. Touching Gilbert on the shoulder Tim signed to him to turn his head. Gilbert obeyed, and saw his cousin, and wondered how it had come to pass that he was here. His wonderment continued throughout the whole morning, for it was still impossible to carry on any conversation, on account not only of the noise of the storm, but also of the danger of moving and of being thrown off the spar into the sea.

At mid-day the wind fell and the sun came out. They were no nearer to the ship than they had been in the early morning. All through the afternoon the lads watched the labouring hulk, but even when the sun had set they could not be sure whether the distance between her and themselves had increased or diminished. That next night seemed to be a full year's time of endurance and cold and hunger, and their only comfort was in the consciousness that the waves were gradually becoming less in size and that the wind's force had abated.

On the next morning it was seen that the ship was a little nearer; she was indeed so close that every detail of her structure could be distinguished. She was still bow on, as the mariners say, and her towering after-castle could be seen high above the level of her forward bulwarks. Something about her--the tangle of green and brown sea-weed clinging to her bulging bows, the thick crust of barnacles below her water-line, and a white mess of guano along the edge of her bulwarks and about the lips of her chase-guns--seemed to indicate that she had been drifting for a long time unattended. It was clear that she had been deserted. It was equally clear that she had not formed one of either Don Alonzo's fleet from Spain or of the fleet of treasure-ships from the West Indies.

"Dost think we might get some food in her, Tim, if so be we could win our way aboard?" asked Gilbert.

Timothy shook his head.

"Haply we might," said he gravely; "but haply we might not. Yet even to be upon her decks would be some comfort; for at the least we might then stretch our legs and run about until some warmth came into us."

Philip Oglander drew himself close behind Gilbert, and leaning over him called out to Timothy Trollope:

"Canst swim, Master Trollope?" he questioned.

Timothy nodded. "Why?" he asked.

"Because," returned Philip, "there is some rope here, which one might bind about one's body, and so, swimming to the ship, haul this mast alongside."

"I have already bethought me of that," said Timothy; "but the rope is not long enough. A better plan were for you and me to lay ourselves in the water at the mast's side, and so, clinging to it, paddle with our feet until we bring it near. Then, when we be close enough, I would indeed swim with the rope."

This suggestion was agreed upon, and Timothy and Philip put themselves one at either side of the mast and propelled it along; not very quickly, it is true, for with all their efforts it was but small way that they could get into the heavy log. Yet if it was only inch by inch that they moved it, this was something. They laboured all through the morning, and at mid-day they had the satisfaction of knowing that they had lessened the distance between them and the ship by at least half a dozen yards. Meanwhile Gilbert gathered all the pieces of rope that were wound about the mast and spliced them together; and when this was done his two companions converted it into a hawser, and binding an end of it about their bodies swam towards the ship, towing the mast behind them. Thus they made better progress, and in the evening, while the sun was setting in a rack of clouds, they had brought themselves under the vessel's larboard bow.

Gilbert Oglander, waiting until a wave should lift him within reach, caught at a line of rope that hung from the ship's broken bowsprit. By this he swarmed up. Timothy and Philip followed, and at last, after great difficulty, all three of them stood upon her deck.

It was covered with the refuse of sea-birds. The deck guns were white with guano. Looking aft to the incline of her poop-deck they saw the companion hatch of the cabin, and this suggested that in the cabin itself they might find something that would serve as food. Timothy led the way down to the main-deck. In a coil of rope on one of the closed hatchways he caught sight of two white eggs. He leapt to them, and took one of them in his hand, giving it to Gilbert; the other he gave to Philip.

"God grant that they be fresh," said he.

Philip tapped his egg on one of the stanchions, chipping off a little piece of the shell. With a muttered Spanish curse he dropped the egg upon the deck, and stamped his foot upon the shrivelled, half-formed little sea-gull that the shell had enclosed.

Gilbert bent down to break the other egg on a corner of the hatch covering. As he did so he caught sight of something that glittered on the deck--a small square of yellow metal about the size of his hand. He picked it up and examined it.

"Why, 'tis gold!" said he.

"Ay," agreed Timothy, "and there be other pieces the same as it. Look!" he added, pointing to the scuppers. And there Gilbert saw at least a dozen other little bars of gold.

Philip saw them also, and darted towards them, gathering them together with miserly avarice.

"Come," said Timothy, "let us go below and seek for food. I fear me there is little hope of our finding any, but it may be that we can come upon a few grains of corn or else a crust of old bread."

He led the way aft to a door under the quarter-deck, and pushed it open. A dry, mouldy smell met him as he entered into the darkness. He felt about with his hands, and stepped cautiously until he found himself at the head of a narrow staircase. Step by step he went down. The stairs creaked under him.

"'Tis all well," he said, looking back at Gilbert, who had hesitated to follow. "There is another door here, if I could but find the handle. Ah, 'tis here!"

He turned the handle, and a ray of light fell upon him. Gilbert was soon at his heels, and they entered together into a spacious cabin, which, in spite of its dank and mouldy atmosphere, bore still some signs of past luxury. At its farther end was a row of square port-holes, at each of which there was a small brass cannon, richly chased and ornamented. The panels around the cabin were of finely carved oak, with figures of saints and quaint devices and Latin legends. There were curtains of crimson velvet, and in the corners were little shelves of carved oak upon which stood goblets of silver and gold. Facing the port-holes there was a large mirror, black now, and dulled by the damp atmosphere. Around the sides stood large oak chests, which seemed to have served as seats; and in the middle of the floor, which was covered with the remains of what had once been a handsome Turkey carpet, there was a large oak table.

It was this table upon which Timothy Trollope's eyes first rested as he entered. It was strewn with jars and candlesticks, cups and dishes, all of them made of solid gold, and in their midst, scattered about like corn on a barn floor, were hundreds of many-coloured precious stones that sparkled in the light.

"Food! food!" cried Timothy, casting his hungry eyes about him.

"Haply there will be some in here," said Gilbert; and he strode towards one of the chests whose lid was partly open. He looked within. "Alas!" he cried, "it is only gold!"

Timothy passed to one of the others. It was locked. He passed to the next and opened it. "No," said he, "'tis only money!" At the farther end of the cabin one of the chests had fallen asunder like a rotten sack of grain, and the floor was strewn with gold coins.

"Here is a cupboard," cried Gilbert, turning the rusty key which was still in the lock. But the shelves were filled with daggers, their hafts studded with gems, and with pistols of many design.

Under the table a square of the carpet was turned back, revealing a trap-door. Gilbert caught hold of the ring-bolt and pulled it up and looked down into the darkness. As the ship rolled, he thought he heard the rushing of water. Taking up a handful of doubloons, he dropped them through the opening. They splashed into water.

"Prithee, where is Philip?" asked Timothy. "Wherefore hath he not come with us?"

"I left him on the deck," answered Gilbert.

"Then I pray you let us return to him," said Timothy, "for I have found some four tallow candles, and we must share them with him. They are but a sorry sort of food to feed upon withal, but I have oft times heard of hungry men staving off starvation with no better fare. Nay, I am in earnest," he added, seeing the look of disgust in Gilbert's face. "Sure they are made out of good tallow-fat." He smiled grimly as he offered one of the candles to Gilbert, saying with much gravity, "I pray you, good my lord, wilt join me in a banquet of candles?"

Gilbert took the proffered food, yet hesitated to begin.

They quitted the cabin and mounted the stairs. When they regained the deck Philip Oglander was not to be seen. They called him, but he did not answer. Already the dusk was falling and they became anxious. But Timothy felt well assured that Philip was still on board, and surmised that he had found his way below into some one of the cabins. Nevertheless a further search was made for him, and it was only the growing darkness that urged them once more to return to what they believed to be the captain's room. Here Timothy made a beginning upon one of the candles, and, finding it not altogether disagreeable, he recommended Gilbert to make a similar meal. So hungry were they both that they would fain have finished the whole of their store, but they remembered Philip, and in fairness they put aside for him his due share.

It was, as Timothy had remarked, a sorry sort of food, but in the absence of any better it served for the time, and having partaken of it they cleared the table of the things that were upon it, stretched themselves out upon its hard substance, and, committing themselves to God's keeping, fell asleep. A gnawing thirst disturbed their slumbers, but the rest was welcome after all their troubles and dangers, and when a beam of morning sunlight pouring in through the stern-ports awakened them they arose, conscious that they had been refreshed.

Timothy's first act was to go to one of the open port-holes to look at the weather. The sea was now much calmer than when he had last looked upon it, and instead of the great broken waves with their caps of foam and showery spray, there was a long, regular rolling swell, only slightly rippled by the fresh morning breeze. That breeze was so refreshing that Timothy lingered at the port-hole, breathing it with joy. He crept outward, too, and tried to make out some of the devices that were carved upon the vessel's stern. Suddenly he hastened back into the cabin. His face was ghastly, and a strange agitation shone in his eyes.

"Master Gilbert!" he cried, "Master Gilbert--my lord, my lord!"

Gilbert stared at him in amazement, thinking for the moment that he had lost his senses.

"What hath come over thee, Timothy?" he asked. "Hast seen a ghost?"

"Haply I have," answered Timothy, his limbs shaking under him. "Dost know what ship we are in?"

"Nay, how should I know?" returned Gilbert, still in doubt as to Timothy's sanity.

Timothy grasped Gilbert by his two shoulders and said in a hollow, awe-stricken voice:

"'Tis _The Golden Galleon_!"

Gilbert started back in astonishment.

"How know you?" he cried.

"By the devices I have now seen carven upon her stern," said Timothy. "I knew them again. They are the same that we saw in the midst of that weird green light on the Sargasso Sea, and 'tis the self-same ship, as I'm a living son of a barber. 'Tis Jacob Hartop's Golden Galleon--or else her ghost, as Jacob averred."

"Her ghost!" echoed Gilbert; and he put his hand upon the table as if to assure himself that it was a solid substance. "Nay, Tim, 'tis no ghost," said he, "although I will not deny that she may be Jacob's galleon." He paused for many moments reflecting. At last he went on: "Prithee, Tim, didst ever hear from Jacob how long it was since he deserted that same golden galleon of his?"

"Three years at the least," answered Timothy; "for 'tis not to be forgotten that when he had left her he voyaged yet again to the Spanish Main, where he fell in with your uncle Jasper and the good ship _Pearl_."

Now, in preparing the table as a bed on the night before, Timothy had left only one thing lying there, and that thing was a large book which he had placed as a pillow for Gilbert. The book lay still upon the table close to Gilbert's hand. Gilbert idly turned back its first page. His eyes rested upon a line of cramped and almost illegible writing. He looked at it closer and then started back.

"Tim!" he cried. "'Tis true--'tis true what you say, for here is his very name writ in this book!" He put his finger on the page while Timothy drew nearer. "There, where I point," he added. "'Tis his own hand, see--'JACOB HARTOP, BUCCANEER, HYS LOGG BOOKE'."

"Nay, I must e'en take thy word for't, my master," said Tim; "for thou knowest that although I can make shift to read a line of print, yet writing done with a quill is beyond me. So," he mused, "this is poor Jacob's treasure-ship--the same that he hath so oft spoken of. Ay, and I'll engage 'tis, as he hath reported, loaded full deep with gold. Such wealth might make us great and glorious did we but have it in England, Master Gilbert. But of what avail is it now? 'Tis of no use under the sun. For my own part, I'd exchange it all for a barrel of good Devon apples or a loaf of my mother's home-made bread."

"And I also," added Gilbert.

They were silent for some minutes. Timothy was the first to speak.

"'Tis passing strange where thy cousin Philip hath got to," said he. "Methinks 'twere well that we now made another search for him."

Gilbert agreed, and together they went and searched the ship. During their search they discovered that the galleon was indeed laden with gold. But they cared not for this while their vitals were being gnawed with hunger and their lips were blue and parched with thirst.

Philip Oglander, it would seem, was more familiar with the structure of a galleon than were either Timothy or Gilbert. For instead of going at once to the poop-cabins he had found his way down to the rooms amidships, where it was customary to keep the stores. What little food he had found was either saturated with salt-water or rotten with decay, or else so hard and dried up that it would have required a pickaxe to break it, much less human teeth. In his quest, however, he had discovered what Gilbert and Timothy had not even dreamt of, namely, some huge bins of Spanish wine. Into one of these he had managed to bore a hole with the point of his dagger. Unlike Timothy, he had not for an instant thought of sharing his discovery. He had taken his fill of the wine, leaving a stream running from the bin, and finding some stale and mildewed bread, he had cleaned it and put it to soak and soften in a bath of the red liquid.

When Timothy and Gilbert at last came upon him he was lying on the floor in an intoxicated sleep, with a flood of wine about him. Timothy regarded him in horror and disgust.

"It seemeth to me that Master Philip might almost have acquainted us of such a discovery as this," said he, and picking up a little golden cup from the floor he held it to catch the drippings from the bin. He presently passed the cup to Gilbert.

"Drink, my master," said he; "'twill do thee good. But take not much at the first, for there is naught so bad upon an empty stomach as strong liquor. Thy cousin hath seemingly been so unwise as to drink his fill."

"'Tis naught to marvel at," said Gilbert, having taken a mouthful, "for of a surety it doth put new life into one. Ay, even to wet one's lips with it doth send the blood racing through the body like the water in a mill-dam."

Timothy espied Philip's bread soaking in its silver dish of wine, and he took some out, sharing it with Gilbert, and they ate it and were refreshed.

Suddenly as they were leaving Philip to finish his sleep, they were startled by hearing from across the sea the report of a cannon-shot. Timothy bounded forward, and was speedily upon the deck. Gilbert followed at his heels. Looking over to the eastward they saw a gallant little ship in full sail bearing down towards them. A faint mist of smoke was being wafted by the wind from one of her forward guns. From her sprit-topmast there waved the glorious flag of St. George.

"'Tis an English ship!" cried Timothy with joy.

"Ay," added Gilbert; "and what is more, 'tis one that is no stranger to me. Thou shouldst know her even better than I, Tim; for, if I mistake not, 'tis none other than Jacob Whiddon's _Pilgrim_. I know her by the token that her fore-topsail hath got a round patch of lighter canvas in it. And, mark you, 'tis Master Whiddon's ancient that flieth from her mainyard. Ay, 'tis the _Pilgrim_. And of that I have now no manner of doubt."

"Then are we saved!" murmured Timothy. "Prithee, Master Gilbert, hie thee below and bid thy cousin Philip come up, while that I climb to the top of the poop-deck and make a signal."

And so saying Timothy sought about for some flag or rag which he might wave to the ship as a sign that there were people on board the galleon. No flag could he find, but taking a strip of red silk that he had discovered in Hartop's cabin, he tied it by the corners to the end of a pike, and this he waved to and fro from the highest part of the galleon's hull. His signal was answered from the _Pilgrim_, and the ship bore down before the wind with a belt of white foam streaming off from her round bows, and her white sails glimmering in the bright sunlight.

Meanwhile Gilbert Oglander had gone below to arouse his cousin. Philip was very sound asleep; but after many efforts Gilbert awakened him, and he staggered to his feet. Glaring at Gilbert with bloodshot eyes he did not speak for many minutes. Gilbert told him of the approaching ship, and added that now they might hope to be taken home to England.

This mention of England seemed to have aroused strange thoughts in Philip's brain, and without warning he closed the cabin door and planted himself with his back against it.

"Thou, at least, shalt never see England again!" he cried. "By the Holy Mother thou shalt not! Dost think that I will brook the thought of thee being Baron Champernoun, while I, who am a better man than thee, am plain Philip Oglander? No! This ship hath wealth enough aboard her to serve me in plenty for the rest of my days. And thou shalt not share it; neither shalt thou ever live to hear thyself addressed by the great title of Champernoun!"

He spoke the words in a thick drunken voice, his eyes fixing themselves upon his cousin in terrible menace.

Gilbert could not repress the smile that came to his lips.

"Hush, good my cousin!" said he. "Thou hast taken overmuch of this strong wine, methinks, and thy tongue doth say things which thy heart cannot mean."

"What?" cried Philip. And whipping his dagger from his belt he made a lunge at Gilbert, aiming a blow at his heart.

Gilbert drew aside and avoided the blow, and Philip's head struck with a resounding knock against the bulkhead. The pain enraged him, and swearing a great Spanish oath he renewed the attack, rushing at his cousin with wild fury. This time his foot slipped on the slimy, wine-flooded floor. He fell with a heavy thud; his weapon hand was under him, and the dagger, which he had held sword-wise, with the point upward, buried the full length of its blade in his chest.

Gilbert turned to the door and opened it. As he looked round at Philip he saw a stream of blood issuing from under him. Philip tried to rise, but rolled over on his back. Only the handle of his dagger could be seen. Gilbert bent down to withdraw it, but it was tightly wedged between the ribs.

"The Saints protect me!" groaned Philip. "I am done for!"

"Much do I fear that thou art indeed. God forgive thee," said Gilbert, and quitting the store-room he returned to the deck to summon Timothy. It was at this moment that Timothy had seen the answering signal from the _Pilgrim_. He went below with Gilbert and when they entered the store-room they found that Philip Oglander was dead.