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Pieces of Eight, a novel by Richard Le Gallienne |
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Book 3 - Chapter 13 |
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_ BOOK III CHAPTER XIII We Begin to Dig.
"_Vigile et ora,_" said the "King." But in spite of that counsel, watching and praying was not much in the "King's" temperament. Besides, as I could see, he was anxious to begin operations on John Teach's ruined mansion, and was impatient of the delay. "With Golconda and Potosi beneath our very feet," he exclaimed at last, "to be held up by this scurvy pock-marked ruffian, I swear 'I like it not.' No news from your duck-shooting friend either. It is a slow-moving world, and the Bird of Time has either lost his wings, or been captured as a specimen on behalf of the Smithsonian Institute." At last there came a message from Charlie Webster, another of his Caesarian notes: "Sorry delayed a few days longer. Any news?" That seemed to decide the "King." "What do you say, Ulysses," he said, "if we begin digging to-morrow? There are ten of us--with as many guns, four revolvers and plenty of machetes--not counting Calypso, who is an excellent shot herself." I agreed that nothing would please me better--so, an early hour of the following morning found us with the whole garrison--excepting Samson, whom it had been thought wise to leave at home as a bodyguard for Calypso--lined up at the old ruined mansion, with picks and shovels and machetes, ready to commence operations. The first thing was to get rid of the immense web, which, as I have already described, the forest had woven with diabolic ingenuity all around, and in and out the skeleton of the sturdy old masonry. Till that was done, it was impossible to get any notion of the ground plan of the several connected buildings. So the first day was taken up with the chopping and slashing of vegetable serpents, the tearing out of roots that writhed as if with conscious life, the shearing away of all manner of haunted leafage, all those dense fierce growths with which Nature loves to proclaim her luxuriant victory over the work of man's hands--as soon, so to say, as his back is turned for a moment--like a stealthy savage foe ever on the watch in the surrounding darkness and only waiting for the hushing of human voices, for the cessation of human footsteps, to rush in and overwhelm. "'I passed by the walls of Balclutha and they were desolate'" quoted the "King," touched, as a less reflective mind must have been, by this sinister triumph of those tireless natural forces that neither slumber nor sleep. "Here," said he, "is the future of London and Paris--in miniature. The flora and fauna will be different. There will be none of these nasty centipedes" (he had just crushed one with his foot), "and oaks, beeches, and other such friendly trees will take the place of these outlandish monstrosities. That pretty creature, the wild rose, will fill the desolation with her sweet breath, but the incredible desolation will be there; and as we here to-day watch this gum-elemi tree, flourishing where the good Teach 'gloried and drank deep,' so the men of future days will hear the bittern booming in the Rue de la Paix and their children will go a-blackberrying in Trafalgar Square. Selah!" Two days we were at it with axe and machete--wearisome work which gave Tom and me occasion to exchange memories of the month we had put in together on the Dead Men's Shoes. We smiled at each other, as the other fellows groaned and sweated. It seemed child's play to us, after what we had gone through. "They should have been with us, Tom, shouldn't they? They'd have known what work is;" and I added, for the fun of watching his face: "I wonder whether we'll find any gentlemen playing poker downstairs, Tom." "God forbid, sar! God forbid!" he exclaimed, with a look of terror. The next step was the clearing away of the mounds of fallen masonry and various rubbish, which still lay between us and our fortune--tedious preliminaries which chafed the boyish heart of the "King." To tell the truth, I believe we had both expected to uncover a glittering hoard with the first stroke of the pick. "'And metals cry to me to be delivered!'" quoted the "King," whimsically, fuming as he took his long strides, hither and thither amid the rubbish-heaps, so slow to disappear and reveal those underground passages and hidden vaults, by which the fancies of both of us were obsessed. We had worked for a week before we made a clearance of the ground floor. Then at last we came upon a solidly built stone staircase, winding downward. After clearing away the debris with which it was choked to a depth of some twenty or thirty steps, we came to a stout wooden door studded with nails. "The dungeon at last," said the "King." "The kitchens, I bet," said I. After some battering, the door gave way with a crash, a mouldering breath as of the grave met our nostrils, and a cloud of bats flew in our faces, and set the negroes screaming. A huge cavernous blackness was before us. The "King" called for lanterns. As we raised these above our heads, and peered into the darkness, we both gave a laugh. "'_Yo--ho--ho--and a bottle of rum,_'" sang the "King." For all along the walls stood, or lay prone on trestles, a silent company of hogsheads, festooned with cobwebs, like huge black wings. It was the pirate's wine cellar! * * * * * Such was our discovery for that day, but there is another matter which I must mention--the fact that, somehow, the news of our excavation seemed to have got down to the settlement. It is a curious fact, as the "King" observed, that if a man should start to dig for gold in the centre of Sahara, with no possible means of communicating with his fellows, on the third day, there would not fail to be some one to drop in and remark on the fineness of the weather. So it was with us. As a general thing, not once in a month did a human being wander into that wilderness where the "King" had made his home. There was nothing to bring them there, and, as I have made clear, the way was not easy. Yet we had hardly begun work when one and another idle nigger strolled in from the settlement, and stood grinning his curiosity at our labours. "I believe it's them black parrots has told them," said old Tom, pointing to a bird common in the islands--something like a small crow with a parrot's beak. "They're very knowing birds." I saw that Tom was serious. So I tried to draw him out. "What language do they speak, Tom?" I asked. "Them, sar? They speak Egyptian," he answered, with perfect solemnity. "Egyptian!" "Yes, sar," said Tom. "Egyptian?--but who's going to understand them?" "There's always some old wise man or woman in every village, sar, who understands them. You remember old King Coffee in Grant's Town?" "Does he know Egyptian?" "O yaas, sar! He knows 'gyptian right enough. And he could tell you every word them birds says--if he's a mind to." "I wonder if Tobias knows Egyptian, Tom?" "I wouldn't be at all surprised, sar," he answered; "he looks like that kind of man," and he added something about the Prince of the Powers of the Air, and suggested that Tobias had probably sold his soul to the devil, and had, therefore, the advantage of us in superior sources of information. "He's not unlike one of those black parrots himself, is he, Tom?" I added, for Tom's words had conjured up a picture for me of Tobias, with his great beak, and his close-set evil eyes, and a familiar in the form of a black parrot perched on his shoulders, whispering into one of his ugly ears. However, we continued with our digging, and Tobias continued to make no sign. But, at the close of the third day from our discovery of John Teach's wine cellar, something happened which set at rest the question of Tobias's knowledge of Egyptian, and proved that he was all too well served by his aerial messengers. The three days had been uneventful. We had made no more discoveries, beyond the opening up of various prosaic offices and cellars that may once have harboured loot but were now empty of everything but bats and centipedes. But, toward evening of the third day, we came upon a passage leading out of one of these cellars; it had such a promising appearance that we kept at work later than usual, and the sun had set and night was rapidly falling as we turned homeward. As we came in sight of the house, we were struck by the peculiar hush about it, and there were no lights in the windows. "No lights!" the "King" and I exclaimed together, involuntarily hurrying our steps, with a foreboding of we knew not what in our hearts. As we crossed the lawn, the house loomed up dark and still, and the door opening on to the loggia was a square of blackness, in a gloom of shadows hardly less profound. Not a sound, not a sign of life! "Calypso!" we both cried out, as we rushed across the loggia. "Calypso! where are you?--but there was no answer; and then, I, being ahead of the "King," stumbled over something dark lying across the doorway. "Good God! what is this?" I cried, and, bending down, I saw that it was Samson. The "King" struck a match. Yes! it was Samson, poor fellow, with a dagger firmly planted in his heart. Near by, something white caught my eye attached to the lintel of the doorway. It was a piece of paper held there with a sailor's knife. I tore it off in a frenzy, and--the "King" striking another match--we read it together. It bore but a few words, written all in capital letters with a coarse pencil: "WILL RETURN THE LADY IN EXCHANGE FOR THE TREASURE," and it was signed "H.P.T." _ |