CHAPTER XXII
REAL ADVENTURES
THEY left Trasket Rock far astern, and Hy Brasail rose on the weather bow. The wind, which had been blowing roundly, freshened and grew more squally. The blue of the sea outside darkened quickly.
"I think we'd better go about and get back to Trasket," said Joan; "I'm sorry we came so much further. You'd better give me the tiller, Garth."
He surrendered it to her, and she paid the boat off and went about with comparative ease. The Ailouros was now running free before the wind, diving into seas which grew larger every minute. The little skiff bobbed and twirled astern, frightened and unwilling. The expression of Joan's face was far from confident. Spray spattered over the weathercoaming of the boat, and broken water flew along her side as she heeled. She thrust her nose into a wave, and, as she was trying to struggle free, another caught her full on the quarter. She broached to, yawing wildly as the rudder was lifted clear of the water. Then the sail jibed. The boom struck Garth on the side of his head and sent him sprawling.
Joan had presence of mind enough to realize that she must attend to the boat even before she could find out whether or not Garth was killed. In a sort of numb frenzy she lowered away the sail and hauled up the center-board. It seemed to her that she moved with the dreadful slowness of a dream. Released, the Ailouros spun around in the seas, rolling as lightly as a cork. Garth was sitting up when Joan staggered back from the halyards.
"That hurt my knee, rather," he said, rubbing it cautiously.
"Your knee!" said Joan shakily. "Didn't it hurt your head?"
"It was rather buzzy and black for a minute," he said, "but the boom didn't come over very hard."
Fortunately it had not, nor had it struck him on the temple.
"What are you going to do,—double-reef and try again?" he asked, leaning back against the center-board case. He was rather pale under his tan.
"Do you think I'd better?" Joan asked.
"I don't know," he said; "you know heaps more about sailing than I do. But we can't stay here, ezackly. Dear knows when this'll blow over."
Joan soaked her handkerchief in sea-water and tied it around Garth's forehead. She also put a sweater behind his head.
"You'd better sit there for a while," she said. "I must think what to do."
She decided finally to try again, as the wind seemed to be slackening a little. She was not an expert in reefing a sail, and expended a great deal of time and strength on the process. She hoisted the sail and tied the reef-points as best she could; then set up the throat and peak, and lowered the center-board. She scrambled aft and seized the tiller, as the Ailouros gathered way and scudded off like a hound whose leash is slipped. All went merrily for a time, though Joan's face remained set in rather strained lines. Trasket Rock was drawing steadily nearer on the lee bow, when the Ailouros suddenly dove into a bigger sea than had come for some little while. She swung up as Joan eased the tiller, and then the sail tried to jibe again. Joan flung the helm over and checked it, but her action was a little too violent. The strain jerked one pintle out, and the rudder floated up on its side. Joan sprang for the halyards again and got the sail down, while Garth achieved a sort of flying leap to unship the rudder. But it was entirely too much for him; a big wave swept both it and the tiller out from under his hand and whirled them away. Joan secured the boom; then sat down silently. She felt utterly dismayed. Garth was struggling with an oar.
"You're not going to sit there, are you?" he said. "The first thing you know, we'll be drifted past Trasket, and then we'll never get her back."
"Wouldn't it be better to let her drift?" asked Joan. "In time she'd go almost home."
"But we don't want to go home!" Garth said; "we want to seek for the treasure. Help me get out this oar, Joan. We'll have to rig it up for a steering-paddle."
Joan reflected that, after all, it might be safer to land on Trasket Rock while they could and wait for the squall to blow itself entirely out. She rigged the oar and lashed it. Garth held it in position while she wearily hoisted the sail once more, and the Ailouros lurched off, the wind abeam. Trasket Rock was not far distant, and the tide was helping.
"We'll have to work around to the other side," Joan said; "we can't land here."
"Then we'd better go around this end," Garth said. "Oh! There's the rudder! Give her all she'll stand Joan! If we don't catch it now, it'll go past the end of Trasket, and then it will be gone!"
They leaned forward breathlessly, while the rudder bobbed contentedly ahead of them, creeping every moment nearer the outstanding rocks where the current swept past Trasket.
"Now!" shouted Garth.
"I'll get it!" cried Joan. "Don't, Garth—you'll go overboard! Hold the oar steady!"
She snatched at the rudder, caught the end of the tiller, and with a terrific effort pulled it in over the side. Her arms were wet to the shoulder, but there was a wild light of triumph in her eyes.
"At any rate," she said, "I feel a little happier about our getting home to-night!"
The current had taken the Ailouros around the end of Trasket Rock, and by dint of careful steering Joan brought her into moderately calm water and prepared to let go the anchor. She was uncertain how much scope to give the cable, but she judged the water to be not over two fathoms. Garth lowered away on the throat halyards, and when he released the peak, the sail got away from him and came down with a run, nearly smothering Joan, whom it enveloped. He was much ashamed of his poor seamandship although Joan assured him that it was lack of muscle, not of knowledge, that had caused it. He helped her contritely while she stowed the sail and lashed the boom. The transfer from the catboat to the skiff was attended by some anxiety, but Garth suddenly exhibited a surprising steadiness, and Joan landed him and the various supplies on Trasket Rock without mishap. Then she sat down upon the little strip of sand at the foot of the rocks and put her head in her hands. Garth, who was already consulting the compass, looked up and saw her; then came to where she sat.
"What's the matter?" he said. "Why, Joan! You weren't frightened, were you? Why, I've been out in lots worse ones with Fogger."
"Yes," said Joan weakly, "but being 'out with Fogger' is a very, very different thing from being out with me. I—I think I need to hug you awfully tight."
"And now for the treasure, mate!" said Garth blithely.
She raised her head and looked up at him, silhouetted against the sky. Her handkerchief was still bound about his forehead in a fashion truly piratical; an eager expectancy shone in his eyes. She pulled herself together and smiled.
"Stay you here, Captain," she advised in Ben Bobstay's peculiar voice, "whilst I scout ahead a bit. There's no telling the savages there may be here, nor the beasts. Stay you and stand guard over the camp till I come back."
She gathered up the steamer-rug, which seemed suspiciously bulky, and marched off up the beach.
"Is your cutlass loose in the scabbard?" Garth called after her.
"Ay, ay, sir, that it is!" cried Joan, as she vanished around the projecting rocks.
Trasket was even smaller than Hy Brasail, and no flowers brightened its rough coat of sod. The bluff did not rise straight from the beach, but sloped gently, the sand meeting the thick, ragged turf. The streak of white quartz, referred to by Felipe Astores' chart, was hidden from the place where Joan and Garth landed. It lay on the south end of the islet.
When Joan returned, Garth was stretched out upon the sand, resting from the hardships of the voyage.
"All's well, sir," Joan told him. "No sign of a living thing, and if I'm not mistook, I'll wenture I sighted the 'whyte scarre' wot the chart speaks of."
"Well done!" commended the Captain. "Give me a hand up, Ben, please."
She gave him two, and they set off over the shingle, till, sure enough, the white quartz streak gleamed around the jutting rock.
"I takes it they means twenty paces East by South from this yere rock that stands at highwater mark," Bobstay hazarded.
She drew a line on the sand in the direction indicated by the compass and proceeded to pace off the distance. Garth was measuring it methodically for himself, with very careful and sadly uneven strides. They brought him to a quite different place than Joan, but he stuck to his own course, and they both turned and headed off South South East.
"Fourteen—fifteen—sixteen," counted Joan, stopping in a place where the soft sand ran in between two rocks. "Here we are, sir."
"Fourteen—fif-teen—six-teen," said Garth, gazing earnestly at the ground and making his last careful step. He stood on a grassy hummock and looked across at Joan.
"Ben, I'm going to dig here," he said. "Like enough there's treasure."
"You'd best come over here, sir; I've measured it up dead right," the Bo'sun assured him.
"It depends on the kind of steps you take," the Captain contended. "You try there, too. Heave me the spade, matey. You can dig there easily with a clam-shell, but this earth is hard."
Bobstay hove him the spade, which was nothing more nor less than a garden-trowel. Silver Shoal, having no use for a shovel, possessed none. The trowel was used to cultivate the "informal garden," when not digging treasure. Silence fell, while Garth dug vigorously in the earth and Joan leisurely did the same in the sand.
"Jumping cuttle-fish!" she cried suddenly. "Come here, Cap'n Crosstrees, sir!"
Garth promptly dropped the trowel, rolled down the gentle bank, and sat up beside her.
"Wot would you say that wos, sir?" she inquired.
The Captain dove a sturdy arm into the hole.
"Blast my buttons!" he said vehemently. "'Tis the edge of a box!"
He really had not suspected the steamer-rug's curious proportions in the least, and his enthusiasm for Joan's inventive resources and for the treasure-hunt flamed even higher.
"Dig, man!" he cried, occupying the entire hole himself. "'Tis the doubloons!"
The sand flew violently, and in a short time the chest was so much uncovered that Joan could lift it out. It proved to be a small, stout box, salvaged from the beach, where it had become as much weathered as the most ancient of pirate chests. It had a hinged lid, whereon was inscribed in bold, black letters:
CARDIFFE: 1732: X.J.X.
In the corner a skull and cross-bones was blazoned, with "F. A." beneath it.
"Aha!" muttered Bobstay. "Felipe Astores! That's his black mark, right enough."
Garth fumbled at the hasp and flung open the lid.
"The dogs!" growled the Bo'sun, peering within. "Some'un's been here afore us and cleaned up the lot."
'No, they haven't!" the Captain cried. "Look'ee, here's something in the corner! Ben, our fortunes is made!"
In the depths of the box were quite a number of things—three silver buttons, a little brooch, a buckle, a Mexican peso (date, 1906), Joan's filigree watch-chain, and a most exciting heap of tin washers. Garth rattled them through his fingers.
"Pieces of eight!" he said dramatically, "and doubloons! Look'ee!"
Joan lifted the watch-chain.
"And like enough the black villain tore this from some lady's neck," she observed.
"Like enough!" the Captain agreed, with a twinkle.
When every detail of the chest had been inspected and admired, the doubloons were counted and stacked up again.
"Let's dig at my hole a little more," Garth suggested, "just for fun."
The crutches having remained at the top of the bank when Garth rolled down it, he made the short ascent on hands and knees and sprawled beside the hole. He attacked it again vigorously, and the trowel clinked against something which did not sound like a stone.
"And it isn't a stone!" Garth shouted, throwing the trowel down. "I can get my hand under it, and it's a queer shape! Was there anything here, Joan? Anything more?"
"On my honor, no," said Joan, running up.
"Dig it away with your fingers," he commanded. "I'm afraid of breaking it, if I pull."
They scooped the earth away from under the thing, coaxed and urged and pulled gently, until they got it out.
"What is it?" Joan wondered. Then, both at once, they saw what it was, or had been.
It was the hilt of a broad-sword, corroded frostily green. Six inches of blade remained, crumbling with rust. Garth gazed at it, his face lit with a sort of grave ecstasy.
"I'd much rather find that," he said soberly, "than boxes and boxes of real doubloons. It's—it's more exciting, somehow. I don't mean zackly that—I don't know how to say it. But—it might have done so many things. It—it might have belonged to a sea-captain!"
He grasped it suddenly in a brown fist and held it aloft exultantly.
He held it aloft exultantly