Pieces of Eight | Page 4

at it."
"Seriously?" I asked.
"Certainly. Why not? When you come to think of it, it stands to reason. Weren't these islands for nearly three centuries the stamping ground of all the pirates of the Spanish Main? Morgan was here. Blackbeard was here. The very governors themselves were little better than pirates. This room we are sitting in was the den of one of the biggest rogues of them all--John Tinker--the governor when Bruce was here building Fort Montague, at the east end yonder; building it against pirates, and little else but pirates at the Government House all the time. A great old time Tinker gave the poor fellow. You can read all about it in his 'Memoirs.' You should read them. Great stuff. There they are," pointing to an old quarto on some well lined shelves, for John is something of a scholar too; "borrow them some time."
"Yes, but I want to hear more about the treasure," interrupted I, bringing him back to the point.
"Well, as I was saying, Nassau was the rendezvous for all the cut-throats of the Caribbean Sea. Here they came in with their loot, their doubloons and pieces of eight"; and John's eyes twinkled with enjoyment of the rich old romantic words, as though they were old port.
"Here they squandered much of it, no doubt, but they couldn't squander it all. Some of them were thrifty knaves too, and these, looking around for some place of safety, would naturally think of the bush. The niggers keep their little hoards there to this day. Fawcett, over at Andros, was saying the other night, that he estimates that they have something like a quarter of a million dollars buried in tin cans among the brush over there now--"
"It is their form of stocking," put in Charlie Webster.
"Precisely. Well, as I was saying, those old fellows would bury their hoards in some cave or other, and then go off--and get hanged. Their ghosts perhaps came back. The darkies have lots of ghost-tales about them. But their money is still here, lots of it, you bet your life."
"Do they ever make any finds?" I asked.
"Nothing big that I know of. A jug full of old coins now and then. I found one a year or two ago in my garden here--buried down among the roots of that old fig tree."
"Then," put in Charlie, "there was that mysterious stranger over at North Cay. He's supposed to have got away with quite a pile."
"Tell me about him," said I.
"Well, there used to be an old eccentric character in the town here--a half-breed by the name of Andrews. John will remember him--"
John nodded.
"He used to go around all the time with a big umbrella, and muttering to himself. We used to think him half crazy. Gone so brooding over this very subject of buried treasure. Better look out, young man!"--smiling at me. "He used to be always grubbing about in the bush, and they said that he carried the umbrella, so that he could hide a machete in it--a sort of heavy cutlass, you know, for cutting down the brush. Well, several years ago, there came a visitor from New York, and he got thick with the old fellow. They used to go about a lot together, and were often off on so-called fishing trips for days on end. Actually, it is believed, they were after something on North Cay. At all events, some months afterward, the New Yorker disappeared as he had come, and has not been heard from since. But since then, they have found a sort of brick vault over there which has evidently been excavated. I have seen it myself. A sort of walled chamber. There, it's supposed, the New Yorker found something or other--"
"An old tomb, most likely," interrupted John, sceptically. "There are some like that over at Spanish Wells."
"Maybe," said Charlie, "but that's the story for what it's worth."
As Charlie finished, John slapped his knee.
"The very thing for you!" he said, "why have I never thought of it before?"
"What do you mean, John?" we both asked.
"Why, down at the office, I've got the very thing. A pity I haven't got it here. You must come in and see it to-morrow."
And he took a tantalising sip of his port.
"What on earth is it? Why do you keep us guessing?"
"Why, it's an old manuscript."
"An old manuscript!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, an old document that came into my hands a short time ago. Charlie, you remember old Wicks--old Billy Wicks--'Wrecker' Wicks, they called him--"
"I should say I do. A wonderful old villain--"
"One of the greatest characters that ever lived. Oh, and shrewd as the devil. Do you remember the story about his--"
"But the document, for heaven's sake," I said. "The document first; the story will keep."
"Well, they were pulling down Wicks's own house