Читать книгу Arthur Ransome - Ultimate Collection - Arthur Ransome - Страница 125

Table of Contents

Peter Duck had not been sorry to have no chance of picking up Black Jake and his friends. They had been aboard the Wild Cat once, and it would be a week at least before he stopped feeling the bruises on his jaw and the back of his head. One visit from such folk was one too many. He did not want another. Anyway, he said, they could not have lived long in that swirl of heavy water. If the skipper thought he must look for them, well and good, but the old seaman had hardly glanced over the side. He had plenty to do clearing the wreckage on deck. The moment that was done he had set to work to cut a couple of wooden splints for the setting of Bill’s broken arm. That was the next job that mattered. He had lit the lamp in the deckhouse. He had finished roughing out the splints, and now he spoke to Captain Flint.

“The sooner we sets about that doctoring job the better, sir.”

Captain Flint called John and Nancy to take the wheel.

“If there’s the least hint of another squall coming up,” he said, “give me a shout. Peggy, Titty, and Roger will help to keep a sharp look out. You’ll hear a squall before it comes. Anyhow, she’s got no sail to speak of. I want Susan in the deckhouse to help Mr. Duck and me with the bandages.”

Not a word was spoken by the others to the two captains as they steadied the wheel, watched the compass through its little window, and kept the Wild Cat, under small jib and trysail, reaching away northward in the dusk. Not a word was spoken by the captains. Everybody was thinking of the deckhouse as a hospital, an operating-room. They had seen Bill’s white face when he had fainted with the pain of his broken arm, and now, though they did not want to listen, they could not talk, and every moment were afraid that from inside the deckhouse would come some groan or sigh or other sound that would show that the pain was more than he could bear.

But, for all the noise he made, Bill might not have been in the deckhouse at all. They heard Peter Duck talking of the way a broken arm properly set is often stronger than it was before, and they heard him telling of how he had had both arms broken at once when he had been carried off his feet and thrown into the scuppers by a green sea coming aboard. And then they heard Captain Flint’s voice. “Steady. Keep just so. It shouldn’t hurt now. Next bandage, Susan. Get the end unrolled. Pins.” But they never heard a word from Bill. And then Captain Flint’s voice came again, louder, more confident. “Good lad, Bill. I couldn’t have stuck that without squeaking. You’ll be right as rain now if you don’t get those splints shifted. But you’ll have to eat with one hand for a bit. And you’ll have to sleep up here. No climbing up and down until that arm’s set. You and I must swop cabins for a few days.”

Captain Flint came out of the deckhouse, followed by Peter Duck, with a handful of scraps of bandage and bits of wood, which he threw over the side.

Susan came out with her First Aid box, which had been very useful, after all. “All right, Bill I’ll tell them,” she was saying over her shoulder. And as soon as she was through the door she told them.

“Bill grinned all the time, except just one moment when they were getting the bones to fit.”

Titty felt sick and so did Nancy, but Roger changed the subject, and, for once, nobody minded.

“Captain Flint,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“When are you going to look at Mr. Duck’s treasure?”

Captain Flint glanced round and looked up at the sky. The wind was steadier now, but not strong, not nearly enough for the Wild Cat’s storm canvas. Stars were showing in patches of clear, deep blue. That overhanging roof of black cloud had broken up at last.

“It looks better,” he said.

“Aye,” said Peter Duck. “Quick up. Quick down. We’ve had what was coming. We’ll maybe get fine weather in the morning.”

“Yes, but when are you going to look at the treasure?” Roger was not to be put off once he had made up his mind to ask.

“Well,” said Captain Flint, “as we’ve got it aboard, we may as well look at it. We can’t leave it in my bunk for ever. We may as well look at it now.”

“Uncle Jim,” cried Nancy indignantly. “Don’t talk as if you wished we hadn’t found it.”

“I’m taking the wheel,” said Mr. Duck, and took it as he spoke.

Captain Flint went back into the deckhouse, and the others crowded after him.

Bill lay propped up on a pillow and a roll of coats in Peter Duck’s bunk, his left arm, a monstrous bundle of white bandages, resting in a sling across his chest. The others hung on where they could, and were thankful that the motion of the ship was so much easier than it had been. Under the light of the cabin lamp, on the chart-table, resting, indeed, in the middle of that big chart of the Atlantic on which the trail of red crosses had marked their progress on the outward voyage, was the small teak box that had brought them so far. Captain Flint had set his heart on finding it, and yet, during these last dreadful days, he had wished a thousand times that he had never come to look for it. Now he was going to know what it was that all those years ago Peter Duck, the little boy hiding from the crabs, had seen buried in the sandy earth at the foot of his bedroom tree.

“Of course, there may be nothing in it after all,” he said. “Nothing worth anything.”

“But there is,” said Nancy.

“Bags with labels,” said Roger.

“Bonies and Mallies,” said Titty.

Just as John had done on the beach, Captain Flint took the rusty padlock from the clasp. It was on the point of falling to bits, and, gently though he moved it, a trail of rusty brown powder fell from it on the chart. Susan was just going to blow the dust away when Captain Flint tried to flick it off with his hand, and smudged the broad Atlantic.

“Indiarubber’ll take it out,” said Susan.

A lurch of the little ship tilted the deckhouse, and half a dozen hands were put out to save the treasure-box from sliding across the Atlantic into Europe or even off the table. But it did not stir. Captain Flint’s hand had been the nearest, and rested firmly on the lid. He waited a moment in case another lurch was coming, and then opened it. There, untouched, just as they had been when first the diggers brought the box up from under the roots of the fallen tree, were the wallet and the four leather bags, each with its label.

“Whalebone, those labels,” said Captain Flint, and read, just as the children had read: “Mallies,” “Bonies,” “Roses,” “Niggers.”

“But what do they mean?” asked Nancy. “Why couldn’t those galoots write sense, whoever they were?”

Captain Flint picked up the little bag labelled “Mallies.” It was the best filled of the four. He felt it between his fingers.

“It might be dried peas,” he said, “but it might not.”

He unfastened the leather lace that closed the mouth of the bag. Inside the bag was a little parcel of soft leather.

“It isn’t peas,” said Roger.

“Not likely,” said Bill, from his place on Peter Duck’s bunk.

“Don’t try to sit up, Bill,” said Susan.

Captain Flint opened the little parcel, and from it poured into the palm of his open hand a stream of little white beads, or things like beads, only that they had no holes in them. They were not very white, and there was a sort of faint glow in them as they trickled out of the little leather packet into the pile in his hand. He knew at once what they were.

“Pearls,” he said, “and a pretty poor lot. ‘Mallies,’ ” he said to himself thoughtfully. “Let’s see if the ‘Bonies’ are better. There’s no fortune for anybody in that lot.”

“They’re very pretty,” said Peggy.

But Captain Flint had poured the little dull pearls back into their parcel, and put it in its bag, and propped the bag in a corner of the box. He now opened the bag that was labelled “Bonies.” There was not so large a packet in this bag, but the moment its contents rolled out into his hand everybody knew they were something altogether better. Clear, glimmering things, as big as peas some of them, and not dried peas at that.

“Of course, it’s easy to guess what he meant with his ‘Mallies’ and ‘Bonies,’ ” said Captain Flint. “The chap that wrote those labels had had the things from a Portuguese pearl-fisher. Or a Brazilian, perhaps. One of these South Americans with a lot of Latin at the back of their own lingo. Mallies . . . yes. Malus. Bad. And a rotten lot they are. Bonus . . . Good. I remember that much. And sure enough the ‘Bonies’ are a lot worth looking at. I only wish there were more of them.”

“What about the ‘Niggers’?” asked Titty.

“ ‘Niggers.’ Negritoes. Niger . . . Black. If they had black pearls in there there’s no wonder they took some trouble over them. And the ‘Roses’ ’ll be pink pearls, worth a tremendous chunk if they’ve got the real colour in them.”

With quick, eager fingers he undid the “Niggers.” There were very few of them. Not more than a score or so of the sooty little things. But three or four of them he seemed to think very good indeed. There were a good lot of the “Roses.” There was just the faintest glimmer of pink about them, and Captain Flint said that maybe sixty years ago they had been fine pearls enough, but faded now beyond recovery.

In the leather wallet that was in the box with the little bags of pearls there was nothing except two old, stained, folded pieces of parchment. They almost fell to pieces as Captain Flint opened them out. He spread the first on the chart-table, close under the light of the lamp. In the top left-hand corner was a crown, and the emblem of the Board of Trade beneath it. Captain Flint began reading aloud:

“By the Lords of the Committee of Privy Council for Trade. Certificate of competency as First Mate. To Robert Charles Bowline. Whereas it has been reported to us that you have been found duly qualified to fulfil the duties of First Mate in the Merchant Service we grant you this certificate of competency. Given under the seal of the Board of Trade, this Thirteenth day of February 1859. By order of the Board, etc.”

Captain Flint went to the door of the deckhouse, and spoke to the man at the wheel. He had a good excuse.

“Mr. Duck, what was the name of the captain of the Mary Cahoun who took you off Crab Island and piled his ship on Ushant?”

“Jonas Fielder,” came Mr. Duck’s voice, prompt and sharp out of the darkness.

“And what did you say were the letters he had tattooed on his wrist?”

“R. C. B.”

“I thought so. Well, Mr. Duck, we’ve something here well worth taking a look at.”

“We’re not likely to meet any shipping,” came the voice of Mr. Duck from outside, quiet and businesslike, “but there’d be no harm in having all shipshape and rigging our sidelights, if you’d tell one of my watch to get them lit.”

“That’s one for me,” said Captain Flint, coming back into the deckhouse. “You, John, just light those lamps for him. . . . No. . . . I’ll do it myself.” And Captain Flint left the crew to look after the treasure while he lit the two big sidelights, and went out to set them in their places on the shrouds.

The others read through the certificates. The second parchment was like the first, but had a different name in it.

“But why did they leave the certificates with the pearls?” John was saying when Captain Flint came hurrying in again. He answered the question at once.

“That’s a bit more of Mr. Duck’s yarn,” he said, “a bit we can’t be sure about. But I wouldn’t mind betting that Jonas Fielder was out of this life and in Davy Jones’s locker before Mr. First Mate Robert Charles Bowline made so free with his name, took command of his ship, and sailed her across to wreck her on Ushant. I suppose he thought a time might come when he’d want his own name again. Well, they’re all dead now and a long time ago, and we shall never know if First Mate Bowline and his friend took the pearls from Captain Fielder or from someone else unlucky enough to come in their way. I wonder how many lives that boxful of beads has cost already.”

“And broken arms and teeth,” said Bill, grinning from the bunk where he lay propped up.

“You’ve certainly earned your share,” said Captain Flint.

“Are they worth an awful lot?” asked Roger.

“I don’t know about that,” said Captain Flint. “Anyhow, it’s the first time in all my life that I’ve ever gone anywhere to look for treasure and laid my hands on it to bring it home. And of course I’m jolly glad you found it. But even with that box lying safe in this deckhouse, I’ll tell you now there’ve been a dozen times in the last twelve hours that I was wishing I’d never heard of it. Bringing the lot of you right over here. You just don’t know what might have happened.”

“But we’d have wanted to come anyway,” said Titty.

“You ought to be jolly pleased now,” said Nancy. “Think of the chapter you can put in the next edition of Mixed Moss.”

“It’s much more of a treasure than just an old book,” said Roger, “and you were very pleased about that.”

“It’s what you’ve always wanted to do,” said Peggy, “and now you’ve done it.”

“And we had a grand voyage,” said John. “We’ll remember it all our lives.”

“And it isn’t over yet,” said Nancy.

“And nothing’s really gone wrong that can’t be mended,” said Susan. “Not even Bill’s arm. Of course, there’s his teeth. Were they second ones or first ones, Bill?”

“They ain’t wasted,” said Bill. “Not they.”

“Well,” said Captain Flint, “to-morrow we’ll have to begin regular watches again. And the sooner we get some sleep the better.”

“And supper,” said Roger.

“I’ll boil up some water right away,” said Peggy.

“Get along out, all of you,” said Captain Flint. “And I have a word or two to say to Mr. Duck.”

But of all the crew of the Wild Cat, Peter Duck took least interest in the treasure. He would not leave the wheel to go into the deckhouse to have a look at the pearls. It was not until after supper, when most of the others were going to bed, and Captain Flint took the wheel for the first watch from eight o’clock till twelve, that Peter Duck just glanced through those old certificates, reading them word by word under the lamp on the chart-table.

“Yes,” he said, for Captain Flint had told him what he guessed. “Yes. I reckon there was no Jonas Fielder aboard the Mary Cahoun. I wonder what happened to him. Scuppered, likely as not, and his mate, too. There’s been a heap of trouble about these pearls.”

“Ain’t you going to look at ’em?” asked Bill.

“Pearls,” said the old man. “Pearls. Pearls’ll keep till morning. What I wants now is sleep.”