Part 40 (1/2)

The warm sun was pouring over the hill when I reached the deck next morning. We were steaming slowly past the village of La Palma along a precipitous sh.o.r.e heavily timbered. One could not have asked a pleasanter trip than that to the head of the harbor, at which point the Rio Tuyra pours its waters into the bay. Between La Palma and the river mouth we did not see a sign of human life.

At the distance of a rifle shot from the head of the harbor we rounded a point and saw before us a long tongue of sand running into the water.

Blythe and I spoke almost together:

”Doubloon Spit.”

There could be no mistake about it. We had reached the place where Bully Evans and Nat Quinn had buried the gold ingots they had sold their souls to get. We came to anchor a couple of hundred yards from the end of the sand spit.

Neither Blythe nor I had said a word to any of the crew to indicate that we were near our journey's end, but all morning there had been an unusual excitement aboard. Now we could almost see the word run from man to man that the spot where the treasure was buried lay before us.

”You'll command the sh.o.r.e party to-day, Jack,” Blythe announced.

”Do I draw sh.o.r.e duty?” Yeager asked eagerly.

”You do. I'll stay with the s.h.i.+p. Jack, you'll have with you, too, Alderson, Smith, Gallagher, and one of the stokers.”

”Also James A. Garfield Welch,” I added.

”Also Jimmie,” he nodded.

We had no reason to expect any trouble, but we went ash.o.r.e armed, with the exception of Gallagher and Barbados, as we called our white-toothed, black-faced fireman.

I had our boat beached at the neck of the peninsula. While the men were drawing it up on the sand beyond reach of the tide I called to Jimmie.

”Yes, Mr. Sedgwick.”

”Take off your coat.”

”Are youse going to give me that licking now?” he asked, eyes big with surprise.

”How often have I told you not to ask questions? Shuck the coat.”

He twisted out of it like an eel. I took it from him, turned it inside out, and opened my pocket knife. Carefully I ripped the lining at the seams. From a kind of pocket I drew an envelope. Out of the envelope I took the map that had been so closely connected with the history of Doubloon Spit.

When I say the men were surprised, I do them less than justice. One could have knocked their eyes off with a stick.

”Crikey! I didn't know that was there,” Jimmie cried.

It had been Evelyn's idea to sew the map in Jimmie's coat, since that was the last place the mutineers would think of looking for it. While he had been peacefully sleeping Miss Wallace had done so neat a piece of tailoring that Jimmie did not suspect the garment had been tampered with.

We had, however, taken the precaution to take a copy of the map. During all the desperate fighting it had been lying in a sh.e.l.l snugly fitted into one of the chambers of a revolver in Yeager's room.

”Beg pardon, sir. Did the boy have the map with him while he was Mr.

Bothwell's prisoner?” asked Gallagher.

”He did; but he didn't know it.”

”Glad he didn't, sir, because if he had that devil would have got it out of him.”

”Which no doubt would have distressed you greatly,” I answered dryly.