CHAPTER XX. — FRANK’S STORY.
“After you left,” said Frank, “all went to confusion. Potts lorded it with a higher hand than ever, and my father was more than ever infatuated, and seemed to feel that it was necessary to justify his harshness toward you by publicly exhibiting a greater confidence in Potts. Like a thoroughly vulgar and base nature, this man could not be content with having the power, but loved to exhibit that power to us. Life to me for years became one long death; a hundred times I would have turned upon the scoundrel and taken vengeance for our wrongs, but the tears of my mother forced me to use self-control. You had been driven off; I alone was left, and she implored me by my love for her to stand by her. I wished her to take her own little property and go with me and Edith where we might all live in seclusion together; but this she would not do for fear of staining the proud Brandon name.
“Potts grew worse and worse every year. There was a loathsome son of his whom he used to bring with him, and my father was infatuated enough to treat the younger devil with the same civility which he showed to the elder one. Poor father! he really believed, as he afterward told me, that these men were putting millions of money into his hands, and that he would be the Beckford of his generation.
“After a while another scoundrel, called Clark, appeared, who was simply the counterpart of Potts. Of this man something very singular was soon made known to me.
“One day I was strolling through the grounds when suddenly, as I passed through a grove which stood by a fish-pond, I heard voices and saw the two men I hated most of all on earth standing near me. They were both naked. They had the audacity to go bathing in the fishpond. Clark had his back turned toward me, and I saw on it, below the neck, three marks, fiery red, as though they had been made by a brand. They were these:” and taking a pencil, Frank made the following marks:
{Illustration: ^ /|\ {three lines, forming short arrow}
Louis looked at this with intense excitement.
“You have been in New South Wales,” said Frank, “and perhaps know whether it is true or not that these are brands on convicts?”
“It is true, and on convicts of the very worst kind.”
“Do you know what they mean?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Only the worst are branded with a single mark, so you may imagine what a triple mark indicates. But I will tell you the meaning of each. The first (/|\) is the king’s mark put on those who are totally irreclaimable and insubordinate. The second (R) means runaway, and is put on those who have attempted to escape. The third (+) indicated a murderous attack on the guards. When they are not hung, they are branded with this mark; and those who are branded in this way are condemned to hard work, in chains, for life.”
“That’s about what I supposed,” said Frank, quietly, “only of course you are more particular. After seeing this I told my father. He refused to believe me. I determined to bring matters to a crisis, and charged Potts, in my father’s presence, with associating with a branded felon. Potts at once turned upon me and appealed to my father’s sense of justice. He accused me of being so far carried away by prejudice as not to hesitate to invent a foul slander against an honest man. He said that Clark would be willing to be put to any test; he could not, however, ask him to expose himself—it was too outrageous but would simply assert that my charge was false.
“My father as usual believed every word and gave me a stern reprimand. Louis, in the presence of my mother and sister I cursed my father on that day. Poor man! the blow soon fell. It was in 1845 that the crash came. I have not the heart to go into details now. I will tell you from time to time hereafter. It is enough to say that every penny was lost. We had to leave the Hall and took a little cottage in the village.
“All our friends and acquaintances stood aloof. My father’s oldest friends never came near him. Old Langhetti was dead. His son knew nothing about this. I will tell you more of him presently.
“Colonel Lionel Despard was dead. His son, Courtenay, was ignorant of all this, and was away in the North of England. There was Thornton, and I can’t account for his inaction. He married Langhetti’s daughter too. That is a mystery.”
“They are all false, Frank.”
Frank looked up with something like it smile.
“No, not all; wait till you hear me through.”
Frank drew a long breath. “We got sick there, and Potts had us taken to the alms-house. There we all prayed for death, but only my father’s prayer was heard. He died of a broken heart. The rest of us lived on.
“Scarcely had my father been buried when Potts came to take us away. He insisted that we should leave the country, and offered to pay our way to America. We were all indifferent: we were paralyzed by grief. The alms-house was not a place that we could cling to, so we let ourselves drift, and allowed Potts to send us wherever he wished. We did not even hope for any thing better. We only hoped that somewhere or other we might all die. What else could we do? What else could I do? There was no friend to whom I could look: and if I ever thought of any thing, it was that America might possibly afford us a chance to get a living till death came.
“So we allowed ourselves to be sent wherever Potts chose, since it could not possibly make things worse than they were. He availed himself of our stolid indifference, put us as passengers in the steerage on board of a crowded emigrant ship, the Tecumseh, and gave us for our provisions some mouldy bread.
“We simply lived and suffered, and were all waiting for death, till one day an angel appeared who gave us a short respite, and saved us for a while from misery. This angel, Louis, was Paolo, the son of Langhetti.
“You look amazed. It was certainly an amazing thing that he should be on board the same ship with us. He was in the cabin. He noticed our misery without knowing who we were. He came to give us pity and help us. When at last he found out our names he fell on our necks, kissed us, and wept aloud.
“He gave up his room in the cabin to my mother and sister, and slept and lived with me. Most of all he cheered us by the lofty, spiritual words with which he bade us look with contempt upon the troubles of life and aspire after immortal happiness. Yes, Louis; Langhetti gave us peace.
“There were six hundred passengers. The plague broke out among us. The deaths every day increased, and all were filled with despair. At last the sailors themselves began to die.
“I believe there was only one in all that ship who preserved calm reason and stood without fear during those awful weeks. That one was Langhetti. He found the officers of the ship panic-stricken, so he took charge of the steerage, organized nurses, watched over every thing, encouraged every body, and labored night and day. In the midst of all I fell sick, and he nursed me back to life. Most of all, that man inspired fortitude by the hope that beamed in his eyes, and by the radiancy of his smile. ‘Never mind, Brandon,’ said he as I lay, I thought doomed. ‘Death is nothing. Life goes on. You will leave this pest-ship for a realm of light. Keep up your heart, my brother immortal, and praise God with your latest breath.’
“I recovered, and then stood by his side as best I might. I found that he had never told my mother of my sickness. At last my mother and sister in the cabin fell sick. I heard of it some days after, and was prostrated again. I grew better after a time; but just as we reached quarantine, Langhetti, who had kept himself up thus far, gave out completely, and fell before the plague.”
“Did he die?” asked Louis, in a faltering voice.
“Not on ship-board. He was carried ashore senseless. My mother and sister were very low, and were also carried on shore. I, though weak, was able to nurse them all. My mother died first.”
There was a long pause. At last Frank resumed:
“My sister gradually recovered: and then, through grief and fatigue, I fell sick for the third time. I felt it coming on. My sister nursed me; for a time I thought I was going to die. ‘Oh, Edith,’ I said, ‘when I die, devote your life while it lasts to Langhetti, whom God sent to us in our despair. Save his life even if you give up your own.’
“After that I became delirious, and remained so for a long time. Weeks passed; and when at last I revived the plague was stayed, and but few sick were on the island. My case was a lingering one, for this was the third attack of the fever. Why I didn’t die I can’t understand. There was no attendance. All was confusion, horror, and death.
“When I revived the first question was after Langhetti and Edith. No one knew any thing about them. In the confusion we had been separated, and Edith had died alone.”
“Who told you that she died?” asked Louis, with a troubled look.
Frank looked at him with a face of horror.
“Can you bear what I am going to say?”
“Yes.”
“When I was able to move about I went to see if any one could tell me about Edith and Langhetti. I heard an awful story; that the superintendent had gone mad and had been found trying to dig open a grave, saying that some one was buried alive. Who do you think? oh, my brother!”
“Speak!”
“Edith Brandon was the name he named.”
“Be calm, Frank: I made inquiries myself at the island registry-office. The clerk told me this story, but said that the woman who had charge of the dead asserted that the grave was opened, and it was ascertained that absolute death had taken place.
“Alas!” said Frank, in a voice of despair, “I saw that woman—the keeper of the dead-house—the grave-digger’s wife. She told me this story, but it was with a troubled eye. I swore vengeance on her unless she told me the truth. She was alarmed, and said she would reveal all she knew if I swore to keep it to myself. I swore it. Can you bear to hear it, Louis?”
“Speak!”
“She said only this: ‘When the grave was opened it was found that Edith Brandon had not been dead when she was buried.’”
Louis groaned, and, falling forward, buried his head in both his hands.
It was a long time before either of them spoke. At last Louis, without lifting his head, said:
“Go on.”
“When I left the island I went to Quebec, but could not stay there. It was too near the place of horror. I went up the river, working my way as a laborer, to Montreal. I then sought for work, and obtained employment as porter in a warehouse. What mattered it? What was rank or station to me? I only wanted to keep myself from starvation and get a bed to sleep on at night.
“I had no hope or thought of any thing. The horrors through which I had passed were enough to fill my mind. Yet above them all one horror was predominant, and never through the days and nights that have since elapsed has my soul ceased to quiver at the echo of two terrible words which have never ceased to ring through my brain—‘Buried alive!’
“I lived on in Montreal, under an assumed name, as a common porter, and might have been living there yet; but one day as I came in I heard the name of ‘Brandon.’ Two of the clerks who were discussing the news in the morning paper happened to speak of an advertisement which had long been in the papers in all parts of Canada. It was for information about the Brandon family.
“I read the notice. It seemed to me at first that Potts was still trying to get control of us, but a moment’s reflection showed that to be improbable. Then the mention of ‘the friends of the family’ made me think of Langhetti. I concluded that he had escaped death and was trying to find me out.
“I went to Toronto, and found that you had gone to New York. I had saved much of my wages, and was able to come here. I expected Langhetti, but found you.”
“Why did you not think that it might be me?”
“Because I heard a threat of Potts about you, and took it for granted that he would succeed in carrying it out.”
“What was the threat?”
“He found out somehow that my father had written a letter to you. I suppose they told him so at the village post-office. One day when he was in the room he said, with a laugh, alluding to the letter, ‘I’ll uncork that young Brandy-flask before long.’”
“Well—the notice of my death appeared in the English papers.”
Frank looked earnestly at him.
“And I accept it, and go under an assumed name.”
“So do I. It is better.”
“You thought Langhetti alive. Do you think he is?”
“I do not think so now.”
“Why not?”
“The efforts which he made were enough to kill any man without the plague. He must have died.”
After hearing Frank’s story Louis gave a full account of his own adventures, omitting, however, all mention of Beatrice. That was something for his own heart, and not for another’s ear.
“Have you the letter and MS.?”
“Yes.”
“Let me read them.”
Louis took the treasures and handed them to Frank. He read them in silence.
“Is Cato with you yet?”
“Yes.”
“It is well.”
“And now, Frank,” said Louis, “you have something at last to live for.”
“What is that?”
“Vengeance!” cried Louis, with burning eyes.
“Vengeance!” repeated Frank, without emotion—“Vengeance! What is that to me? Do you hope to give peace to your own heart by inflicting suffering on our enemies? What can they possibly suffer that can atone for what they have inflicted? All that they can feel is as nothing compared with what we have felt. Vengeance!” he repeated, musingly; “and what sort of vengeance? Would you kill them? What would that effect? Would he be more miserable than he is? Or would you feel any greater happiness? Or do you mean something more far-reaching than death?”
“Death,” said Louis, “is nothing for such crimes as his.”
“You want to inflict suffering, then, and you ask me. Well, after all, do I want him to suffer? Do I care for this man’s sufferings? What are they or what can they be to me? He stands on his own plane, far beneath me; he is a coarse animal, who can, perhaps, suffer from nothing but physical pain. Should I inflict that on him, what good would it be to me? And yet there is none other that I can inflict.”
“Langhetti must have transformed you,” said Louis, “with his spiritual ideas.”
“Langhetti; or perhaps the fact that I three times gazed upon the face of death and stood upon the threshold of that place where dwells the Infinite Mystery. So when you speak of mere vengeance my heart does not respond. But there is still something which may make a purpose as strong as vengeance.”
“Name it.”
“The sense of intolerable wrong!” cried Frank, in vehement tones; “the presence of that foul pair in the home of our ancestors, our own exile, and all the sufferings of the past! Do you think that I can endure this?”
“No—you must have vengeance.”
“No; not vengeance.”
“What then?”
“Justice!” cried Frank, starting to his feet. “Justice—strict, stern, merciless; and that justice means to me all that you mean by vengeance. Let us make war against him from this time forth while life lasts; let us cast him out and get back our own; let us put him into the power of the law, and let that take satisfaction on him for his crimes; let us cast him out and fling him from us to that power which can fittingly condemn. I despise him, and despise his sufferings. His agony will give me no gratification. The anguish that a base nature can suffer is only disgusting to me—he suffers only out of his baseness. To me, and with a thing like that, vengeance is impossible, and justice is enough.”
“At any rate you will have a purpose, and your purpose points to the same result as mine.”
“But how is this possible?” said Frank. “He is strong, and we are weak. What can we do?”
“We can try,” said Louis. “You are ready to undertake any thing. You do not value your life. There is one thing which is before us. It is desperate—it is almost hopeless; but we are both ready to try it.”
“What is that?”
“The message from the dead,” said Louis, spreading before Frank that letter from the treasure-ship which he himself had so often read.
“And are you going to try this?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I must first find out the resources of science.”
“Have you Cato yet?”
“Yes.”
“Can he dive?”
“He was brought up on the Malabar coast, among the pearl-fishers, and can remain under water for an incredible space of time. But I hope to find means which will enable me myself to go down under the ocean depths. This will be our object now. If it succeeds, then we can gain our purpose; if not, we must think of something else.”
CHAPTER XXI. — THE DIVING BUSINESS.
In a little street that runs from Broadway, not far from Wall Street, there was a low doorway with dingy panes of glass, over which was a sign which bore the following letters, somewhat faded:
BROCKET & CO., CONTRACTORS
About a month after his arrival at New York Brandon entered this place and walked up to the desk, where a stout, thick-set man was sitting, with his chin on his hands and his elbows on the desk before him.
“Mr. Brocket?” said Brandon, inquiringly.
“Yes, Sir,” answered the other, descending from his stool and stepping forward toward Brandon, behind a low table which stood by the desk.
“I am told that you undertake contracts for raising sunken vessels?”
“We are in that line of business.”
“You have to make use of diving apparatus?”
“Yes.”
“I understand that you have gone into this business to a larger extent than any one in America?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Brocket, modestly. “I think we do the leading business in that line.”
“I will tell you frankly my object in calling upon you. I have just come from the East Indies for the purpose of organizing a systematic plan for the pearl fisheries. You are aware that out there they still cling to the old fashion of diving, which was begun three thousand years ago. I wish to see if I can not bring science to bear upon it, so as to raise the pearl-oysters in larger quantities.”
“That’s a good idea of yours,” remarked Mr. Brocket, thoughtfully.
“I came to you to see if you could inform me whether it would be practicable or not.”
“Perfectly so,” said Brocket.
“Do you work with the diving-bell in your business or with armor?”
“With both. We use the diving-bell for stationary purposes; but when it is necessary to move about we employ armor.”
“Is the armor adapted to give a man any freedom of movement?”
“The armor is far better than the bell. The armor is so perfect now that a practiced hand can move about under water with a freedom that is surprising. My men go down to examine sunken ships. They go in and out and all through them. Sometimes this is the most profitable part of our business.”
“Why so?”
“Why, because there is often money or valuable articles on board, and these always are ours. See,” said Brocket, opening a drawer and taking out some silver coin, “here is some money that we found in an old Dutch vessel that was sunk up the Hudson a hundred years ago. Our men walked about the bed of the river till they found her, and in her cabin they obtained a sum of money that would surprise you—all old coin.”
“An old Dutch vessel! Do you often find vessels that have been sunk so long ago?”
“Not often. But we are always on the lookout for them,” said Brocket, who had now grown quite communicative. “You see, those old ships always carried ready cash—they didn’t use bank-notes and bills of exchange. So if you can only find one you’re sure of money.”
“Then this would be a good thing to bear in mind in our pearl enterprise?”
“Of course. I should think that out there some reefs must be full of sunken ships. They’ve been sinking about those coasts ever since the first ship was built.”
“How far down can a diver go in armor?
“Oh, any reasonable depth, when the pressure of the water is not too great. Some pain in the ears is felt at first from the compressed air, but that is temporary. Men can easily go down as far as fifteen or sixteen fathoms.”
“How long can they stay down?”
“In the bells, you know, they go down and are pulled up only in the middle of the day and at evening, when their work is done.”
“How with the men in armor?”
“Oh, they can stand it almost as well. They come up oftener, though. There is one advantage in the armor: a man can fling off his weight and come up whenever he likes.”
“Have you ever been down yourself?”
“Oh yes—oftener than any of my men. I’m the oldest diver in the country, I think. But I don’t go down often now. It’s hard work, and I’m getting old.”
“Is it much harder than other work?”
“Well, you see, it’s unnatural sort of work, and is hard on the lungs. Still, I always was healthy. The real reason why I stopped was a circumstance that happened two years ago.”
“What was that?”
Brocket drew a long breath, looked for a moment meditatively at the floor, and then went on:
“Well, there happened to be a wreck of a steamer called the Saladin down off the North Carolina coast, and I thought I would try her as a speculation, for I supposed that there might be considerable money on board one way or another. It was a very singular affair. Only two men had escaped; it was so sudden. They said the vessel struck a rock at night when the water was perfectly still, and went down in a few minutes, before the passengers could even be awakened. It may seem horrid to you, but you must know that a ship-load of passengers is very profitable, for they all carry money. Besides, there are their trunks, and the clerk’s desk, and so on. So, this time, I went down myself. The ship lay on one side of the rock which had pierced her, having floated off just before sinking; and I had no difficulty in getting on board. After walking about the deck I went at once into the saloon. Sir,” said Brocket, with an awful look at Brandon, “if I should live for a hundred years I should never forget the sight that I saw. A hundred passengers or more had been on board, and most of them had rushed out of their state-rooms as the vessel began to sink. Very many of them lay on the floor, a frightful multitude of dead.
“But there were others,” continued Brocket, in a lower tone, “who had clutched at pieces of furniture, at the doors, and at the chairs, and many of these had held on with such a rigid clutch that death itself had not unlocked it. Some were still upright, with distorted features, and staring eyes, clinging, with frantic faces, to the nearest object that they had seen. Several of them stood around the table. The most frightful thing was this: that they were all staring at the door.
“But the worst one of all was a corpse that was on the saloon table. The wretch had leaped there in his first mad impulse, and his hands had clutched a brass bar that ran across. He was facing the door; his hands were still clinging, his eyes glared at me, his jaw had fallen, The hideous face seemed grimacing at and threatening me. As I entered the water was disturbed by my motion. An undulation set in movement by my entrance passed through the length of the saloon. All the corpses swayed for a moment. I stopped in horror. Scarcely had I stopped when the corpses, agitated by the motion of the water and swaying, lost their hold; their fingers slipped, and they fell forward simultaneously. Above all, that hideous figure on the table, as its fingers were loosened, in falling forward, seemed to take steps, with his demon face still staring at me. My blood ran cold. It seemed to me as though these devils were all rushing at me, led on by that fiend on the table. For the first time in my life, Sir, I felt fear under the sea. I started back, and rushed out quaking as though all hell was behind me. When I got up to the surface I could not speak. I instantly left the Saladin, came home with my men, and have never been down myself since.”
A long conversation followed about the general condition of sunken ships. Brocket had no fear of rivals in business, and as his interlocutor did not pretend to be one he was exceedingly communicative. He described to him the exact depth to which a diver in armor might safely go, the longest time that he could safely remain under water, the rate of travel in walking along a smooth bottom, and the distance which one could walk. He told him how to go on board of a wrecked ship with the least risk or difficulty, and the best mode by which to secure any valuables which he might find. At last he became so exceedingly friendly that Brandon asked him if he would be willing to give personal instructions to himself, hinting that money was no object, and that any price would be paid.
At this Brocket laughed. “My dear Sir, you take my fancy, for I think I see in you a man of the right sort. I should be very glad to show any one like you how to go to work. Don’t mention money; I have actually got more now than I know what to do with, and I’m thinking of founding an asylum for the poor. I’ll sell you any number of suits of armor, if you want them, merely in the way of business; but if I give you instructions it will be merely because I like to oblige a man like you.”
Brandon of course expressed all the gratitude that so generous an offer could excite.
“But there’s no use trying just yet; wait till the month of May, and then you can begin. You have nerve, and I have no doubt that you’ll learn fast.”
After this interview Brandon had many others. To give credibility to his pretended plan for the pearl fisheries, he bought a dozen suits of diving armor and various articles which Brocket assured him that he would need. He also brought Cato with him one day, and the Hindu described the plan which the pearl-divers pursued on the Malabar coast. According to Cato each diver had a stone which weighed about thirty pounds tied to his foot, and a sponge filled with oil fastened around his neck. On plunging into the water, the weight carried him down. When the diver reached the bottom the oiled sponge was used from time to time to enable him to breathe by inhaling the air through the sponge applied to his mouth. All this was new to Brocket. It excited his ardor.
The month of May at last came. Brocket showed them a place in the Hudson, about twenty miles above the city, where they could practice. Under his direction Brandon put on the armor and went down. Frank worked the pumps which supplied him with air, and Cato managed the boat. The two Brandons learned their parts rapidly, and Louis, who had the hardest task, improved so quickly, and caught the idea of the work so readily, that Brocket enthusiastically assured him that he was a natural-born diver.
All this time Brandon was quietly making arrangements for a voyage. He gradually obtained every thing which might by any possibility be required, and which he found out by long deliberations with Frank and by hints which he gained by well-managed questions to Brocket.
Thus the months of May and June passed until at length they were ready to start.
CHAPTER XXII. — THE ISLET OF SANTA CRUZ.
It was July when Brandon left New York for San Salvador.
He had purchased a beautiful little schooner, which he had fitted up like a gentleman’s yacht, and stored with all the articles which might be needed. In cruising about the Bahama Isles he intended to let it be supposed that he was traveling for pleasure. True, the month of July was not the time of the year which pleasure-seekers would choose for sailing in the West Indies, but of this he did not take much thought.
The way to the Bahama Isles was easy. They stopped for a while at Nassau, and then went to San Salvador.
The first part of the New World which Columbus discovered is now but seldom visited, and few inhabitants are found there. Only six hundred people dwell upon it, and these have in general but little intelligence. On reaching this place Brandon sailed to the harbor which Columbus entered, and made many inquiries about that immortal landing. Traditions still survived among the people, and all were glad to show the rich Englishman the lions of the place.
He was thus enabled to make inquiries without exciting suspicion about the islands lying to the north. He was informed that about four leagues north there was an island named Guahi, and as there was no island known in that direction named Santa Cruz, Brandon thought that this might be the one. He asked if there were any small islets or sand-banks near there, but no one could tell him. Having gained all the information that he could he pursued his voyage.
In that hot season there was but little wind. The seas were visited by profound calms which continued long and rendered navigation slow and tedious. Sometimes, to prevent themselves from being swept away by the currents, they had to cast anchor. At other times they were forced to keep in close by the shore. They waited till the night came on, and then, putting out the sweeps, they rowed the yacht slowly along.
It was the middle of July before they reached the island of Guahi, which Brandon thought might be Santa Cruz. If so, then one league due north of this there ought to be the islet of the Three Needles. Upon the discovery of that would depend their fate.
It was evening when they reached the southern shore of Guahi. Now was the time when all the future depended upon the fact of the existence of an islet to the north. That night on the south shore was passed in deep anxiety. They rowed the vessel on with their sweeps, but the island was too large to be passed in one night. Morning came, and still they rowed.
The morning passed, and the hot sun burned down upon them, yet they still toiled on, seeking to pass beyond a point which lay ahead, so as to see the open water to the north. Gradually they neared it, and the sea-view in front opened up more and more widely. There was nothing but water. More and more of the view exposed itself, until at last the whole horizon was visible. Yet there was no land there—no island—no sign of those three rocks which they longed so much to find.
A light wind arose which enabled them to sail over all the space that lay one league to the north. They sounded as they went, but found only deep water. They looked all around, but found not so much as the smallest point of land above the surface of the ocean.
That evening they cast anchor and went ashore at the island of Guahi to see if any one knew of other islands among which might be found one named Santa Cruz. Their disappointment was profound. Brandon for a while thought that perhaps some other San Salvador was meant in the letter. This very idea had occurred to him before, and he had made himself acquainted with all the places of that name that existed. None of them seemed, however, to answer the requirements of the writing. Some must have gained the name since; others were so situated that no island could be mentioned as lying to the north. On the whole, it seemed to him that this San Salvador of Columbus could alone be mentioned. It was alluded to as a well-known place, of which particular description was unnecessary, and no other place at that day had this character except the one on which he had decided.
One hope yet remained, a faint one, but still a hope, and this might yet be realized. It was that Guahi was not Santa Cruz; but that some other island lay about here, which might be considered as north from San Salvador. This could be ascertained here in Guahi better perhaps than any where else. With this faint hope he landed.
Guahi is only a small island, and there are but few inhabitants upon it, who support themselves partly by fishing. In this delightful climate their wants are not numerous, and the rich soil produces almost any thing which they desire. The fish about here are not plentiful, and what they catch have to be sought for at a long distance off.
“Are there any other islands near this?” asked Brandon of some people whom he met on landing.
“Not very near.”
“Which is the nearest?”
“San Salvador.”
“Are there any others in about this latitude?”
“Well, there is a small one about twelve leagues east. There are no people on it though.”
“What is its name?”
“Santa Cruz.”
Brandon’s heart beat fast at the sound of that name. It must be so. It must be the island which he sought. It lay to the north of San Salvador, and its name was Santa Cruz.
“It is not down on the charts?”
“No. It is only a small islet.”
Another confirmation, for the message said plainly an islet, whereas Guahi was an island.
“How large is it?”
“Oh, perhaps a mile or a mile and a half long.”
“Is there any other island near it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
Plainly no further information could be gathered here. It was enough to have hope strengthened and an additional chance for success. Brandon obtained as near as possible the exact direction of Santa Cruz, and, going back to the yacht, took advantage of the light breeze which still was blowing and set sail.
{Illustration: “AN ISLAND COVERED WITH PALM-TREES LAY THERE."}
Night came on very dark, but the breeze still continued to send its light breath, and before this the vessel gently glided on. Not a thing could be seen in that intense darkness. Toward morning Louis Brandon, who had remained up all night in his deep anxiety, tried to pierce through the gloom as he strained his eyes, and seemed as though he would force the darkness to reveal that which he sought. But the darkness gave no token.
Not Columbus himself, when looking out over these waters, gazed with greater eagerness nor did his heart beat with greater anxiety of suspense, than that which Brandon felt as his vessel glided slowly through the dark waters, the same over which Columbus had passed, and moved amidst the impenetrable gloom. But the long night of suspense glided by at last; the darkness faded, and the dawn came.
Frank Brandon, on waking about sunrise, came up and saw his brother looking with fixed intensity of gaze at something directly in front. He turned to see what it might be.
An island covered with palm-trees lay there. Its extent was small, but it was filled with the rich verdure of the tropics. The gentle breeze ruffled the waters, but did not altogether efface the reflection of that beautiful islet.
Louis pointed toward the northeast.
Frank looked.
It seemed to be about two miles away. It was a low sand island about a quarter of a mile long. From its surface projected three rocks thin and sharp. They were at unequal distances from each other, and in the middle of the islet. The tallest one might have been about twelve feet in height, the others eight and ten feet respectively.
Louis and Frank exchanged one long look, but said not a word. That look was an eloquent one.
This then was unmistakably the place of their search.
The islet with the three rocks like needles lying north of Santa Cruz. One league due north of this was the spot where now rested all their hopes.
The island of Santa Cruz was, as had been told them, not more than a mile and a half in length, the sand island with the needles lay about two miles north of it. On the side of Santa Cruz which lay nearest to them was a small cove just large enough for the yacht. Here, after some delay, they were able to enter and land.
The tall trees that covered the island rose over beautiful glades and grassy slopes. Too small and too remote to give support to any number of inhabitants, it had never been touched by the hand of man, but stood before them in all that pristine beauty with which nature had first endowed it. It reminded Brandon in some degree of that African island where he had passed some time with Beatrice. The recollection of this brought over him an intolerable melancholy, and made the very beauty of this island painful to him. Yet hope was now strong within his heart, and as he traversed its extent his eye wandered about in search of places where he might be able to conceal the treasure that lay under the sea, if he were ever able to recover it from its present place. The island afforded many spots which were well adapted to such a purpose.
In the centre of the island a rock jutted up, which was bald and flat on its summit. On the western side it showed a precipice of some forty or fifty feet in height, and on the eastern side it descended to the water in a steep slope. The tall trees which grew all around shrouded it from the view of those at sea, but allowed the sea to be visible on every side. Climbing to this place, they saw something which showed them that they could not hope to carry on any operations for that day.
On the other side of the island, about ten miles from the shore, there lay a large brig becalmed. It looked like one of those vessels that are in the trade between the United States and the West Indies. As long as that vessel was in the neighborhood it would not do even to make a beginning, nor did Brandon care about letting his yacht be seen. Whatever he did he wished to do secretly.
The brig continued in sight all day, and they remained on the island. Toward evening they took the small boat and rowed out to the sandbank which they called Needle Islet. It was merely a low spit of sand, with these three singularly-shaped rocks projecting upward. There was nothing else whatever to be seen upon it. The moon came up as they stood there, and their eyes wandered involuntarily to the north, to that place, a league away, where the treasure lay beneath the waters.