Leonard Lindsay ;

Preparations were now again made in order to discover a way out. My comrades would have me turn in and go to sleep, but I was too much excited to hear of it; and, accordingly, after breakfast I was in the shallop again, with four fresh men, including Nicky Hamstring and Bristol Tom. We carried with us fragments of light wood and great stones for sinkers, to buoy a passage for the schooner. There was no need of lead or line, for we could see to the bottom of the crystal water, even where it was many fathoms deep. We were thus engaged great part of the day, and being now working with something like method and regularity, we were making sensible progress in discovering a channel, when, just as I was setting one of our buoys, Nicky Hamstring grasped my arm, and whispered with a sort of gasp, ‘There—look there!’

I followed his eye, and started up with delight. A long bank of sand, with ridges of coral, along which we had been skirting for some time, terminated in one of the largest and highest rocks we had seen. Indeed, when the tide was out, it seemed rather a rocky islet than a rock; but what directed our attention to it was a deep cleft, into which the sea ran, and in which, as in a cistern of water, floated the bark canoe of the dwarf pilot. The shallop was close alongside the sand-bank when we made this discovery, and Nicky and I leaped out of her into the shallow water like a couple of madmen, and screaming to our comrades to row for the little creek, we both scampered along the dry hard sand towards the rock.

‘You secure the canoe,’ I called to Nicky; ‘the owner is not far from the nest; so, while Nicky went clambering along the steep shelves to the cove, I climbed up the ledges of the rock, slipping down now and then into cracks and hollows, which peeled my shins famously, but very soon arriving at the summit, from which I caught sight of the dwarf running with great speed round the base of the rock, and immediately gave chase, shouting out to our friend to surrender at discretion. But he took no notice, making as straight as he could for the cove, whence, doubtless, he expected to get clear off in his canoe. I seeing this, thought it unnecessary to risk my neck in order to intercept him, and so clambered leisurely down the rock laughing aloud, and calling to the dwarf that I had told him that our turn would come with daylight. Meantime, the little man went skipping over the rocks like a goat, never making a false step, until suddenly he came in sight of the cove, within which the shallop by this time lay alongside the canoe. Then he sent up a shrill cry of surprise, which my comrades answered with a cheer, and stopping short, appeared to pause for a moment, after which he made straight for a projecting shoulder of the rock, round which he speedily disappeared.

‘Never mind,’ quoth I; ‘take care of the canoe, and we shall soon find him.’ So saying, I called upon Nicky and Bristol Tom to land, which they did, making their way to the projection, round which the dwarf had run, while I, following a steep cleft or split in the rock, which ran from near the top of it, down to a white sandy beach on the opposite side from the cove, descended rapidly. All at once, about half-way down, my eye caught the flutter of canvas, and immediately I discerned something like a tent, very snugly pitched in a nook of rock, about a couple of fathoms above high water-mark, with a sort of fence of barrels and boxes round it.

‘Ho, ho!’ quoth I. ‘Here is the hermitage, at last.’

‘Stop!’ says the shrill voice I had so often heard, ‘stop there—as you value your life!’

And thereon I descried the dwarf, with a long-barrelled Spanish gun in his hand, which he was in the act of lifting to his shoulder.

‘Stop!’ quoth he again; and being unarmed, I had nothing for it, in prudence, but to obey.

‘My friend,’ says I, ‘you may as well uncock that gun. Your canoe is taken, as you saw. My comrades are upon the rock. The schooner is not a mile off, and if you are fool enough to fire at me, hit or miss, I warn you that it will be the last time you will ever pull a trigger.’

The little man paused a moment. ‘Let me alone, and I will let you alone,’ he said.

‘No, no,’ quoth I. ‘You paid us the first visit, and we must show our good breeding by returning it.’

The pilot considered for a brief space, made a passionate gesture with the air of a man deeply mortified, and then called out, at the same time grounding his musket—

‘Come on. I will do you no harm.’

So I descended and joined him, just as Nicky and Bristol Tom made their appearance on the beach below, having run round the islet. By this time we were close to the tent.

‘Come in,’ says the dwarf; ‘I shall be more hospitable than you.’ The habitation consisted simply of a dry cleft in the rocks, over which a roof of canvas had been stretched, supported in the centre by a pole. For furniture there was a hammock, not slung, but laid upon the sandy floor, and a sea-chest, upon which lay a very complete set of astronomical instruments, with paper, pens, and ink, and a half-finished chart, which, appearing to be a plan of the shoals, I laid violent hands on at once. There was some common household stuff, such as knives, plates, and pots in a corner, and near them a good-sized water barrel.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ says the dwarf, very politely, ‘behold you in my dwelling. What may be your pleasure?’

‘Our pleasure,’ said I, ‘is that you shift your dwelling for a brief space, and sling your hammock on board the schooner.’

‘I protest against being thus unlawfully carried away,’ says the little man.

‘You are at perfect liberty to protest,’ said I; ‘but you must go on board all the same.’

The pilot gave a curious sort of grin, but did not seem disposed to resist our power. Nicky Hamstring then went to the top of the rock, and hailed our comrades to bring the canoe and the shallop round, which presently they did. Meantime I was considering within myself, whether by a careful overhaul of the little man’s dwelling, I might not be able to light on some clue to the motive—and it could not be a common one—which seemed to bind him to these desolate shoals. Resolving to take my own time and my own way in the search, I directed my comrades to put the pilot into the shallop and row aboard of the schooner, telling Captain Jem that I would follow in the canoe, after a careful search of the tent. They started off accordingly; the dwarf, who appeared to be in tolerable good humour, notwithstanding his capture, taking my place in the stern-sheets, and managing the tiller.

As soon as they had disappeared, I commenced my inquisition. The chart of the shoals was very skilfully constructed, and neatly put upon paper, being very different, indeed, from the rude scrawls which seamen commonly trace, of coasts and islands. No indication, however, was to be observed of any harbour, or secure cove, the existence of which might make the reefs a place of refuge. I noticed, however, on the north-west corner of the shoals, a cross slightly traced with a pencil. Putting the chart in my pocket, I searched the hut thoroughly, raking up the sand which formed the floor; and also prying into the casks and boxes which surrounded the tent. These appeared to contain nothing save common coarse provisions. The contents of the sea-chest were clothes such as sailors wear, with one suit of a Spanish cut and fashion, in a pocket of which I felt something hard. Examining more closely, I found the object to be a small and old book, in the Spanish language, imprinted at Granada, in the year 1507, and purporting to be the ‘Voyages and Perilous Journeyings of one Vincente y Tormes, who sailed on board the Caravel, called the Pinta, with the great Admiral Christopher Colon, or Columbus, for the Discovery of the New World.’ Looking over the contents of this volume, I found them to be accounts of divers voyages made between Spain and the West Indies, written in very bad and cramped Spanish, and containing but dry details of little interest.

I was about to lay the volume down, when I noticed that it came very easily open towards the latter portion, as though that part had been peculiarly studied, and looking more closely, I saw that a leaf had been cut out. Towards the foot of the page preceding that which was missing, was a chapter with a title as follows—

Then followed the words of the narrative in this wise:—

‘Now all things being in readiness, there was a great mass held, with other needful ordinances and prayers to the saints; and so, on the 14th of June, we loosed from the city of Porto Bello, intending to touch at St. Domingo, in the great Isle of Hispaniola, to receive the tribute from the caciques, and so thence across the ocean to Spain. But, alas, it fell out otherwise!—for being but six days at sea, with contrary winds, which here do blow continually from the north-west point of the compass, we did unhappily——’

This was the last line of the page; the following leaf being, as I have said, torn out. The narrative recommenced upon the succeding page with these words:—

‘Thus—thus was I—all praise to the holy saints, particularly to my patron St. Geneviève, and to the Virgin—rescued from my hopeless and miserable condition, and carried home to Spain, I being very heavy and desponding in that voyage, on account of the loss of all my shipmates, so that I vowed never to tempt the seas again, but rather to live on crusts and water ashore.’

From the remaining chapters, which were few, it would seem that the author had kept to this resolution, for he narrated that he became a water-carrier and a servant to a priest, called Pedro Vronez, to whom he dictated the book. The perusal of what I have set down above, the reader will possibly guess, gave rise to a startling train of ideas in my mind, and putting the adventures of Vincente y Tormes in my pocket, I jumped into the canoe, the Mosquito-men having taught me the management of such cockle-shells, and was presently alongside the schooner.

Captain Jem was leaning over the side, fishing with a hook and line.

‘Well, what have you found?’ quoth he, as if he did not think that my search could have availed much.

‘Pound!’ I echoed, clambering on board. ‘I have found what may well make our fortunes.’

At these words, our comrades came running from all sides very eagerly.

‘Where is the dwarf?’ quoth I.

‘Oh, in the great cabin,’ replied the captain. ‘A sullen piece of goods, I warrant you. He refuses to speak a word.’

‘Have him out,’ answered I; ‘and we will try to make him find his tongue.’

And so, presently, Master Pilot was hustled forth upon the deck.

‘Will you tell us,’ quoth I, ‘why you choose to live alone amongst these grim rocks?’

The little man grinned, twisted his features, and answered never a word. The crew looked on curiously.

‘Once upon a time, there sailed a Spanish treasure-ship from Porto Bello.’

The dwarf pricked up his ears, and all the blood went away from his face.

‘In which ship,’ I continued, ‘there was a mariner named Vincente y Tormes. But the ship had not been six days at sea, going to Hispaniola to receive the tribute of the Caciques, when it was lost upon certain reefs, with the treasure on board, and Vincente y Tormes of all the crew was saved, and carried to Spain, where afterwards he became a water-carrier and servant to a priest, named——’

‘You need not trouble yourself to recite further,’ said the dwarf, with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘You guess my secret. I thought none of you had wit enough to pick the marrow out of that bone, but it was all my own fault. I came on board this schooner, and in doing so threw away, by one moment of folly, the fruits of years of labour and danger. Dolt that I was!—what could it matter to me whether you succeeded in blundering out, as you blundered in, or stayed here until the first heavy blow smashed your ship to powder on these coral reefs? It would have been all the same to me.’

Having made this speech with great bitterness, but in a perfectly composed fashion, the dwarf sat down upon a coil of rope, and shrugged his shoulders almost as high as the crown of his head.

The crew were now all in a hubbub, for they comprehended, more or leas, that there was the wreck of an ancient galleon upon the reef, and they knew that silver and gold are metals which brine rusts not.

‘I suppose,’ quoth the dwarf, ‘that you will give me a fair share of the booty when we get it?’

This they all proclaimed that they were very ready to do, and one or two of the more eager shook hands with the dwarf, who assumed a very sour smile.

‘Now, then,’ quoth the captain, when the tumult was a little abated, ‘tell us somewhat more about this, and rely upon it we will deal justly by you. Who and what are you?’

‘Why,’ quoth the dwarf, ‘my story is of the shortest; my name is Paul Bedloe, and I was born beneath the Peel of Douglas, in the Isle of Man; my father owning a small craft, which plied to Liverpool—a village on the Lancaster coast—I was brought up a sailor, but I liked better to write and cipher than to handle ropes and furl sails; and having, also, a great liking for geography and astronomy, I became a very good navigator, and going to London, settled at Limehouse, where I kept a school for teaching seamen the art of navigation. Growing somewhat tired of this business, however, I went several voyages to these seas with a captain who had been my scholar; and afterwards, returning to Europe, I wandered through many countries, taking great delight in Spain, where I found several interesting accounts left by the first discoverers of America of their voyages. One day, in the shop of a Jew in Cadiz, I discovered the book which you, sir’—turning to me—‘doubtless, found in my chest. One leaf of that work had a very particular interest for me, and from the time I first saw it, I have kept it carefully on my person.’

With that the Manxman produced the missing page from his bosom.

‘By the help of this,’ continued he, ‘I found out how the treasure-ship, Santa Fè, had been stranded upon an exceeding great shoal, and how a storm soon coming on, she had sunk in middling deep water, between two ledges of rock. The ship’s company having deserted her in boats, these were speedily swallowed up in the storm, save that one in which Vincente y Tormes sailed, and which survived the tempest, although it was driven far to leeward. The wind then taking off, a calm followed, during which all the seamen in the boat, with only the exception of Vincente y Tormes, perished miserably of hunger and thirst. He was himself nigh dead, when a caravel descried and picked him up; ultimately conveying him to Spain, where he settled, and went no more to sea. You may judge,’ continued Paul Bedloe, ‘whether I have not given a fair account of the missing page;’ and, handing the document to me, he continued as follows:—

‘On reading what I have now stated to you, it occurred to me that, in all the maps and charts which I had seen, no mention had ever been made of any such shoals as that upon which the “Santa Fè” was wrecked, and I concluded that no ship had ever fallen in with them, save those which, like the Porto Bello galleon, had never returned to tell the tale. Hence, I concluded, that it was very possible that some fragments of the wreck might yet remain undisturbed, containing boundless wealth. With much ado, and by spending nearly all which I possessed in bribes, I got access to the documents in the archives of the Minister of Marine of Spain, and there I found the loss of the “Santa Fè” fully confirmed. She had sailed from Porto Bello, and had never been heard of again. This entry, mark you, was before the date of Vincente’s publication, while he, not having appeared to contemplate the possibility of recovering the foundered wealth, took no steps, and communicated with no one on the subject. After this, I carefully examined Vincente’s narrative, and compared with it the records of many voyages from Porto Bello and Carthagena to Hispaniola and Porto Rico, so that, at length, I satisfied myself that the shoals in question must, if they existed at all, be within a circle of fifty miles in diameter. I next communicated with a brother of mine in Bristol, touching the matter, and informing him that I intended to proceed to the West Indies in search of the shoals, and the wreck of the “Santa Fè,” conjured him, in case he heard from me again, to have a ship ready fitted out, to sail for the longitude and latitude which I would send him. I embarked at Cadiz, and landed in Porto Rico, which island I suspected of being almost right to windward of the shoals. Here I made acquaintance with a Welsh seaman, to whom I partly communicated my projects; and with the help of a negro and two Indians, very faithful attached fellows, we constructed a great “Piragua,” victualled her very well, and put off to sea. We cruised for a month with no success, and then were forced to run for the Samballas Islands, off Darien, for more provisions. Putting to sea again, after a three weeks’ voyage, we hit upon the spot we sought for. The weather was then exceeding calm, and we could see the bottom in the very deepest parts of the reef, so that on the eighth day of our search, we actually descried the remains of a great ship, wedged between two rocks, about five fathoms under water. Our Indians were brave divers, and speedily brought up pieces of carved wood, and two or three old-fashioned swords, which satisfied me that we had hit upon the wreck of an ancient Spanish vessel; for when we scoured the blades, we could read on them the word “Bilboa.” At length, after tearing a great deal of the wreck to pieces, the divers reported that they had come to many large chests, with great clamps of rusted iron; and one of these being wrenched open, a small ingot was seen lying just beneath the lid, which we soon found to be virgin silver. On this, I stopped further proceedings, and wrote a letter to my brother in cipher, such as we had agreed upon to use. This letter, my comrades in the “Piragua” started away with, designing to make Jamaica, and send it home by an English ship; while I, having an ample amount of provisions, and having found great basins in the rocks, which the rain filled with fresh water, determined to remain, until the “Piragua” returned from Jamaica, to watch over my treasure, and to study the best means of recovering it. In case of accident to the “Piragua,” I had a canoe, with which, in moderate weather, I was not afraid of reaching the land. I had been here just two months and three days, when, on waking one morning, I saw your schooner. Such, gentlemen, is my story from first to last.’

You may be sure that there was great acclamation at these tidings of a ship-load of riches falling, as it were, into our mouths; but Captain Jem, who appeared to have his doubts of Mr. Bedloe, ordered his person, his chest, and hammock to be very strictly searched. Everything found, however, confirmed the story. There were several books upon navigation, and an old diary in which were entered divers sums in dollars, reals, and maravedis, which appeared to have been expended upon the Spanish officials at the office of marine. Besides this, the draught of a letter, addressed to Master Richard Bedloe, near the church of St. Mary, Redcliffe, in Bristol, corroborated a great portion of the dwarf-pilot’s story; so that, upon the whole, we began to believe him firmly. The ingot, he told us, the Welshman had taken to Jamaica to be assayed.

By the time that all these particulars had been ascertained, the day was almost at an end, and it was determined that, with the dawn next morning, both the boats should start to the wreck, provided with due tackle, and having the Indians, who are excellent divers, aboard. Paul Bedloe’s hammock was swung in the great cabin, and a watch placed over him all night: but he appeared to sleep soundly, and to be but little affected by the probable downfall of his golden hopes. Indeed, so much was I struck with this, and so composed was the dwarf in confessing the whole matter to us, part of which must at all events be true, that I came to the conclusion that, despite of all his pretended candour and frankness, the fellow intended to play us a slippery trick after all; so that, confiding my suspicions to my comrades, Mr. Bedloe was informed that, five minutes after he had given any symptom of treachery, he would be dangling from the sprit of the mainsail. To this intimation, the only answer he vouchsafed was the old shrug of the shoulders.

The night seemed long to many on board, and with the grey dawn the boats were manned, Bedloe sitting beside the captain in the launch, and directing the steersman. The dwarf told us that he would take the boats to the place where the wreck lay, which was near the open sea, by such a channel as the schooner could follow in. We therefore laid down buoys as we went along, it being determined that as soon as the launch reached the wreck, I should pull back in the shallop, and navigate the ship to the scene of action.

And now, behold us, with shout, and joke, and laugh, like men who are to be speedily and marvellously enriched, pulling gaily for the sunken El Dorado. The morning mist was rising slowly from the ocean; the surf-ridges sparkled in the first glances of the hot sunlight and the white and grey sea-birds wheeled and screamed joyously overhead. The very rocks and sands bore a changed aspect in our eyes; instead of forlorn and dreary shelves of crag and shingle lying desolately in a far-off sea, we gazed upon them as the mystic beds of incalculable wealth: ‘The sea,’ we said, joyfully, ‘may not give up her dead, but she keeps a feebler clutch upon her gold. Courage, comrades, courage! we shall divide the ingots which were melted for the treasury of Old Castile.’

‘Why may there not be more than one single castaway ship lying hereabouts?’ quoth our surgeon. And we echoed, ‘Why indeed?’

At this juncture I noticed Paul Bedloe start and turn pale, just as he did when I told him his secret the day before. He recovered himself, however, directly, and it was not until after events had made me connect that start with the topic of conversation at the moment, that I realized all its significance and meaning.

A pull of less than an hour brought us to the spot where Bedloe declared that the treasure of the Santa Fè lay hid. The shoal, to the southward extremity, where we now anchored the boats, split into two long branches or arms, having deep and sheltered water between them. It was on the weathermost or eastern of these banks, among spits of sand and jags of rock, that the remains of the ill-fated ship lay. Making fast a grapnel to a point of coral, we allowed the boats, under the pilot’s direction, to drift five or six fathoms to leeward, until they floated in a rather deep channel, or hole, well sheltered by the coral reefs from the motion of the sea.

‘Now then,’ quoth Bedloe, ‘look beneath you.’ Immediately, we were all bending over the gunwales of launch and shallop, and presently, shading off the light with one hand, we saw, some five fathoms down, wavering and quivering through the clear cold water, the mouldering form of a ship of size. There lay the once graceful hull, bulged and split by the rocks, the bows broken off altogether, the quarter and stern firmly jammed in a crevice of the reef, and so uninjured that we could distinguish the quarter galleries and the outlines of the sculptured figures and medallions and carving. The deck had been partially broken up, and two or three cannon lay half upon the bulwarks, half upon the rocks. All three masts had been broken off close by the board, and their stumps, like the rest of the wreck, were encrusted with masses of shell-fish, and heaped, here and there, with wavy bunches of slimy sea-weed. Fish of many sizes and forms glided tranquilly between us and the foundered ship, and once or twice we saw a great flat ray rise up from the dark recesses of the hold, and glide like a plate of burnished copper along the deck.

‘There, gentlemen,’ says Paul Bedloe, ‘you see I have dealt fairly by you. You look upon the Santa Fè, which, more than one hundred and sixty years ago, set sail from Porto Bello for Old Spain.’

So, rising up, we gave a great shout, which, in a minute, we heard echoed by our comrades, whom we had left behind in the Will-o’-the-Wisp.

‘Will Thistle,’ says the captain, ‘bring up the schooner directly, and for heaven’s sake, take care of her bottom against the reefs; we may have a freight of price to carry home in it.’

So presently, having returned to the Will-o’-the-Wisp, and satisfied the eager demands of those on board, we very soon cast off our moorings, and the trade wind blowing steadily, we set our forestay sail and mainsail and began to run down the channel towards the launch. The way being well buoyed, and all hands working very smartly, and keeping a bright look-out, there was no difficulty, and little danger in making the run, and in less than an hour from the time I had left the launch, the schooner glided into the fork of deep water between the two tails of the reef, and then forging near the edge of the weathermost bank we furled our canvas, and the anchor plunged down, twelve fathoms to the bottom, sinking well into the soft sand, which here formed good holding-ground.