Cursed Be the Treasure 30 – Drake · Library Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Cursed Be the Treasure 30Part III · Drift-Wood Cavern
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Cursed Be the Treasure 30
Part III · Drift-Wood Cavern
DrakeEnglish
The sight of the familiar scene where I had spent so many happy summers, and where I had received one desolating blow, seemed to clear and steady my mind. Sometimes I would remember only the passionate hours of climbing and swimming I had known there, and would revert to the delighted boy I had been not so very long ago. But always the shadow would fall about me again; yet, although it toned down my joy at being back in the country of my heart, it didn't cloud me from a steady pursuing of the purpose I had set myself to accomplish.
First of all I re-explored every nook and cranny I had ever visited; and that alone was the work of some days. I reserved Drift-Wood Cavern for the last, intending to devote all my energies to tracing it to its source when once I had satisfied myself that there was nothing else to learn from the coast to either side of it. In the evenings I sat up by the open window, or, when darkness had fallen, by the light of my lamp, studying the papers my father had left behind him. The priest's manuscript was of little use to me. Its drenching in the sea hadn't increased its clarity, and as I understood little Latin the text was of no help. I turned to the map, and tried to wrest the secret from it; but you can't get the secret from a thing which isn't there. The fragment that held the clue simply didn't exist, and it was impossible to reconstruct it except with baseless imaginings.
My father's papers didn't help me much. They were mostly fragments of stories and poems. It was a sad thing to sit by my lamp night after night as my father had done before me, and read over those scraps of broken literature, feeling in every line the marvellous promise and powers that had been frittered so idly away. Young as I was, I was judge enough to recognize the work of a master story-teller, and even the authentic ring of poetry, in the unfinished sketches before me. Though I tried to remain loyal to my father's memory I couldn't prevent the cry from rising to my heart, "Oh dad, dad, why did you waste your days hunting for that accursed treasure when you might have been among the greatest writers of the land?"
Of the stories I sorted out those which seemed to be based in any way on the one great story of the hidden gold. Yet even so I couldn't learn much, for my father modified his facts for dramatic effect, heightening the colours here and omitting the lesser links of the narrative elsewhere, so that I couldn't piece together anything consecutive. Indeed my father's purpose, so I judged, hadn't been to write a connected history. Elements of the affair appealed to him first in this light and then in that, and he had transmuted them into imaginative sketches, suggesting an underlying basis in fact, but misleading in detail.
There was one story which appealed to me particularly, and it was the only one which could be called complete. It appealed to me because it reminded me of the night at Sunset Towers when my father had told the story of the cursing of the treasure and the terrible fulfilment of the curse. Here was a tale evidently based on the priest's confession. The setting was much the same as that of the story I knew, yet there were details which showed that my father had in mind not only the valley of the tombs but the coast-line round the Dolphin, and so the incidents were brought more vividly home to me than they would otherwise have been. First there was an account of the discovery of the treasure by a party of adventurers; but when half of it had been safely brought to the light a quarrel broke out, and the Captain of the band found himself standing almost alone against a mutinous crew. But he was a wily man, and succeeded in tricking his enemies; and having trapped them in the cave where the treasure lay he rolled a huge boulder to the cave's mouth and imprisoned them alive. So far the story was only a variant of the one I had heard so thrillingly told on that memorable night; and the account of the frenzy which overwhelmed the Captain with terror and remorse was much the same as in the account I knew so well of the Mad Captain and which now, with my own hands stained with blood, I could appreciate to the full. But after this the story changed. For a stranger had somehow stolen the plans and learnt of the hidden gold, though he didn't know the secret of the entrance to the cave. When the Captain learnt there was some one on the track of the treasure a terrible fear seized him lest his crime should be discovered. Whipped on by a fearful fury of madness, he ruthlessly hunted down the meddlesome interloper, and eventually capturing the wretch chained him living in a dungeon and sealed the door up against him, having hung the stolen plans about his neck for a warning to any who might find him and be so bold as to follow in his steps.
The tale gripped me chiefly because of the intensity of the atmosphere of terror and madness which prevaded it, till the reading of it seemed like the very tones of my father's voice as he had used to speak in the old times when the night hung black outside the pane, and only the firelight leapt and sank in the shadowy chamber where we sat together, he leaning back in his chair, and I huddled at his knees. I knew I was reading a piece of great literature; and again that regretful reproach sounded in my heart against my father: Why had he neglected such talents to squander his life away in a stupid hunt for gold?
But another reason which made the story of interest to me was the picture of the wretched victim chained into the dungeon with the plans about his neck, for I thought I had come upon a further link in the strange series of crimes which had made one tale of horror of the searching for that evil gold. Here was the explanation of the skeleton I had found at Sunset Towers. Worthing's uncle had said that the story of its coming there was interesting enough in its own way. Doubtless he was referring to this yarn of my father's. But when I began to put things together I found that after all I had learnt little. The yarn was probably no more than a yarn, springing from my father's fertile imagination. And even if it were true it only told me of something so distant as to be of no value. Yet the story clung to my memory. I kept turning to it as though somehow it contained the clue to the mystery I was seeking to unravel.
Reading my father's papers sent me frequently to his grave, which now was nothing but a grass-grown mound in the woods, nameless and dateless. I set to work to carve a rough cross with his name upon it. I had thought to have added something to tell of my love for him, and the blank which his death had made in my life. But words were so stupidly inadequate that I merely carved his name and locked my wounded and inarticulate love in my own heart.
Besides my father's papers there were the papers which Worthing's clerk had given me. I studied these carefully, but they contained nothing but a clear and precise account of the investments he had made with my money. So clear indeed was the statement that even I could understand it, and I knew I should have no difficulty in conducting my own affairs when occasion called. I felt a gush of gratitude to my dead friend who had taken such care of my concerns. I thought of how he had sacrificed pride and principle to rescue me from Rancey Bridge, and how he had sustained and guided me in the days that had followed that dreadful first of May. And in return I had killed him!
Well, I knew it was useless brooding over things which couldn't be amended, yet my heart was heavy with the weight of sorrows it had to bear.
Meanwhile by day I was searching the countryside for traces of the mysterious passage which should reveal to me the secret of the treasure. Again I enquired of the obstinate Dragon's Mouth; but the great tongue remained foolishly thrust out at me, and the wide jagged lips were dumb. I sounded up and down through the Smugglers' Tunnel, and knocked at the fallen doors of Ebb-Tide Gate; but nothing opened to my knocking. So at last I set myself to explore Drift-Wood Cavern.
I think I delayed the exploration as long as possible because I still remembered the strange fear which had possessed me when I first entered those green and evil waters. There was a dread holding me away from the place. But I knew I must face the ordeal, so at length I took my courage in my hands and dived into the darkness. I was gratified to find that the old fear didn't return, only a sense of faint disgust at the furtive clinging weeds and the slow smooth drifts of refuse which had gathered there through the years.
I provided myself with clothes and lantern, and such tools as I thought might be necessary, also a tin of ship's biscuits, thrusting them into the crevice from the Smugglers' Tunnel so that I merely had to reach for them when in the cavern. And so I was sheltered from the cold of wetness and nakedness, and had a light to search by and tools to probe with. I was determined that if the place really held a secret I would wrest it away before I had done.
My first entrance was at high tide, and I soon found I could do little. The tunnel penetrated far into the land, but sank downwards, so I found myself held back by the deepening water. Accordingly the next time I went at low tide, and made an interesting discovery: the roof of the tunnel sank and rose and sank again, forming pockets, as it were. All the way beyond the first pocket the roof was slippery with weed, telling me that at high tide the tunnel was full of water. It was an unpleasant discovery, for I knew that if I weren't careful I might be caught in one of the pockets and trapped by the rising tide. At the first feel of the stealing water about my ankles I beat a hurried retreat, in alarm at being snared and drowned like a rat in a trap. But I found my fear was premature. I could have continued my search for a long time yet without danger.
At my third attempt I started with the tide at half ebb, so as to give myself the maximum time for exploring. I waded knee-deep up the long and winding tunnel, thrusting my lantern into every nook and cranny, and digging with my hands into the thick weeds which dripped from the walls. And so I passed pocket after pocket, and knew that the tide must soon be on the turn. I was afraid to stay much longer, but ducked under one last arch. The tunnel rose up steeply before me. I gazed above; and the swinging light of my lantern fell full upon the white bones of a skeleton.
For a moment I stood motionless, gazing, while the crabs scuttled out of the light. My thought was, "Poor wretch, he must have been caught in the tide." At that moment there came a little slap of water at my feet. It was like some evil serpent of the sea thrusting out a cold, lean throat towards me, flickering about me with a cruel forked tongue, gathering itself to strike. So unnerving was the swift impression that with a cold panic at my heart I turned and fled, splashing down the tunnel to safety; and for a couple of days or more I dared not venture back, though again and again I dived into the cavern intending to pursue my search, and unravel the meaning of that skeleton.
But for a while I couldn't bring my courage to the necessary pitch. The thought of being trapped there like that drowned wretch, of having my flesh eaten off me by those loathsome, hurrying creatures I had startled with my lantern, was too dreadful a prospect. I told myself that in a day or two I should regain my nerve. Meanwhile to erase the impression I set myself to accomplish a feat I had long vowed to attempt: the scaling of that great bulging rock that overbrowed Ebb-Tide Pool.
My various efforts would be of little interest even if I could describe them in detail. It is enough to record that at the third or fourth attempt I found a way up. There on the top was the level space I had often climbed down to from above, but had never before scaled from below. Beneath me lay the pool of smooth water, so tempting with the sun blazing upon it, that, although I had never dived from such a height, without a thought I flung out my arms and shot downwards through a thrilling rush of air, while the blue pool seemed to leap up at me from below and engulf me with its closing waters.
I rose to the surface panting and glowing and wonderfully excited. For the second time I climbed to the level platform to hurl myself once more into the pool beneath.
I think my success in climbing the great jutting rock heartened me for my real task. The next day I set forth in great spirit. I clambered down to the platform, stripped off my clothes, but as always, belted my knife about me, and plunged into the pool and under the arch. I was soon at the surface, puffing and treading water, closed about by the darkness of Drift-Wood Cavern. The tide was almost at full ebb; so not wasting a moment I was out of the water and had lit my lantern; for I kept a store of oil in the cavern with my food and other necessaries, so that I could resume work whenever convenient. I had soon roughly dried myself and pulled on some clothes, and stuffing some biscuits in my pocket I set off with all speed down the tunnel, not wasting time by feeling to left and right, but making straight ahead, intent on finding the skeleton. It wasn't very long before I was once more standing at the foot of the slope with the light of my lantern gleaming whitely on the clean-picked bones above.
I had to climb to reach the thing, for the tunnel rose sharply. Reaching it I stooped to examine it. There was an earthenware bottle about its neck, and this immediately caught my eyes. It was tightly corked, I found; so tightly that when I had pulled the bottle away from the rotten string that held it, I had some difficulty in digging out the cork with my knife. But at last I had cut it away. Inside there was a folded slip of paper. Trembling with excitement I thrust my finger in, and eventually succeeded in working out the paper. But it was inconceivably old and yellow; and although the water had been kept away from it, it was sadly the worse for age, not to mention the damage caused by my excited fingering as I had worked it free. So it was only after a careful and close perusal that I began to understand something of the faded writing. But what I did understand set my blood madly beating at my ears and temples. The man hadn't been trapped, as I had thought, having penetrated over-boldly into the tunnel; he had been working from the other direction, from somewhere deep under the earth, and had never reached the sea.
Little by little as I studied the paper I began to piece out a story of crime and horror which struck strangely familiar to my mind. Here was one who had been searching for that gold; another victim of the curse, I told myself, darkly wondering how many had been the victims of the outraged gods if the whole tale of them were numbered. He too had been one of a party who had found and handled the gold; but as usual--and the recurrence of the thing seemed absurd in its inevitability--there had been strife and disagreement. As in the old story of the manuscript, and also in the fanciful yarn of my father's, there had been treachery and betrayal. The stone that guarded the cave-mouth had been rolled back upon a party of wretches imprisoning them alive. History had repeated itself, I thought. The original crime of the Mad Captain and his followers had been perpetrated a second time, not only in imagination, as in my father's yarn, but in reality. But there was a difference. As I examined the script, making out here and there another word, and another, I began to find myself on a clue worth all the rest of the story. When once removed the boulder that had guarded the cave-mouth had been so delicately poised that a couple of men could roll it back into place, though it had needed twenty with ropes and levers to heave it up from the hole it covered. But the thing that arrested me was that the boulder had originally been at the end of a short but steep passage rising up from the sea into the land, and the entrance it had sealed was a large hole in the floor of the tunnel. When the great stone was released, instead of merely falling back into place, its impetus as it fell had carried it over the pit it had first covered, and it had rushed to the mouth of the tunnel itself where it had stuck, jammed immovably in the narrow opening. I didn't need to cast about in my mind for a possible locality to suit the description; I knew at once it was the Dragon's Mouth. I had been right in my surmise that if that tongue were drawn back into the throat the mystery would be laid bare. No wonder the priest's map had failed to give my father the clue he had needed. By the rolling of that stone the trace of the pit-mouth had been destroyed.
But I wasn't satisfied yet. Again I bent to the withered paper. However, I learnt little more, for a great deal was illegible, though I determined when out in the daylight to scan it letter by letter till all lay clear. But I did learn the personal tragedy of the wretch whose bones lay before me. When his party had been trapped, and had wasted their energies making futile efforts to escape, futile appeals to their enemies, clamouring at the great sealed door as though their voices could penetrate it, he had set himself to search for some other way of breaking from his prison. He noticed that in the cave there was a wide pool of water which rose and sank with the tide, and so he had argued that it must communicate with the sea. In a desperate resolve he had written out his story, and corking the paper securely in a bottle he had tied it round his neck, so that if he perished his body might be found at sea, and his friends at least be rescued. Then diving into the pool he had trusted to good fortune to see him out to safety. I could reconstruct the sequel without much difficulty. He had groped his way through the water and had found the mouth of a tunnel, where, risking all, he had entered and swum for dear life. But the fates had been against him; he had been trapped in this pocket having risen and plunged again how many times I couldn't say. But I knew he had made his bid for freedom with the tide well in, for at low water having reached so far he would have won to safety unless overtaken by sheer physical exhaustion. I felt the tragedy of the thing; so near and yet so far. And the old story of the manuscript became vividly real to me with this witness at my feet of a victim trapped to death. I glanced at the end of the paper for the fellow's name. Meadows, I made out--Carey Meadows--and inscribed in thicker letters so that its impression might never fade was a prayer that if he should die, and his body be found, justice might be done on his accursed brother who had shut him there to perish: Commander Evelyn Meadows of the Tiger.
I had no time to think what this might mean, for suddenly I became aware that the tide had risen; high up the slope as I was, the water was feeling about my ankles. So engrossed had I been in my strange discovery that I hadn't noticed the waters creeping up over my feet. Hastily I scrambled down the steep fall to find myself trapped in the next pocket, with the water already over the mouth of it. Perforce I dropped my lantern, and in sudden darkness dived beneath the arch and rose into blackness on the other side, where again I pressed forward in utmost alarm, for I was blindly stumbling and slipping. Then the roof came down against my head, again forcing me beneath the water. Once more I dived, but rose only to crack my head against the rock, with no space of air to breathe in. I was almost choking for want of breath, but I kicked out frenziedly against the pressing rock, sinking down and down until at last I felt the roof rise up again, and I knew I was in the next pocket. With my lungs near bursting I splashed my way up to the surface, where fortunately there was room for my head to clear the water. There I rested for a moment gulping in the dank air; but fearing to delay plunged once again beneath the arch, and so up into the fifth pocket, and on to the next. It was a terrible journey, but at length I came out into the open way, almost sobbing with terror, but knowing that now I was safe.
I sank upon a rock to recover my breath, and at last felt my courage return to me, and even laughed at the adventure, though I knew well I had played a close match with death. Then I stripped off my soaking garments, and dived for the last time, rising to the good daylight in Ebb-Tide Pool, where for a long while I lay out on a hot rock and basked in the sun, till feeling a desire for dinner I set off for my clothes which I had left on the platform above the pool.
I climbed out on to the great rock by the way I had learnt. I was still a few feet from the platform when I saw a face looking down at me from above. It was hastily withdrawn, but the surprise nearly upset me, and I swung, clinging by my finger-tips, to the face of the rock. Then gathering my strength I tightened my grip, and was once more climbing steadily upwards, when I heard a terrible cry above me and the sound of scuffling feet. My curiosity was aroused, and I tugged myself up in a last effort. Just as I was about to swing myself on to the platform I saw two figures swaying above me, locked in a deadly struggle. I clung to my perch, half fearing they would topple on to me. Then I recognized Dirk. Immediately I knew what had happened: at last he had tracked his quarry to earth. I saw the huge fellow slowly bending his enemy back over the edge of rock, so that his body was curved like a bow. The man's right hand was raised, and in it gleamed a knife; but Dirk had him firmly gripped by the wrist. As I looked I saw the knife-hand slowly opening with the pressure of Dirk's fingers upon it. At last the knife slipped free and fell to his feet, and the empty hand spread wide with the palm turned full towards me.
And across the palm were two jagged scars.
In a fever of frenzied excitement I heaved myself on to the platform, and drawing my knife shouted, "Let him go, Dirk! Let him go! Let me kill him! He's mine!"
