Black Bartlemy's Treasure Part 49

"Indeed!" says I. "And, Damaris, I have found you treasure beyond price."

"O Martin, is it Bartlemy's treasure--the jewels?"

"Better than that a thousand times. I have found you a real cooking-pot!"

"O wonderful! Show me! Nay, let me see for myself. Come and aid me up, Martin."

Setting down my candle I crawled back where she stood all eager impatience, and clasping her hands in mine, drew her up and on hands and knees brought her into the cave.

"Here's a goodly place, comrade!" says I.

"Yes, Martin."

"With a ladder to come and go by, this should make you a n.o.ble bedchamber."

"Never!" says she. "O never!"

"And wherefore not?"

"First because I like my little cave best, and second because this is too much like a dungeon, and third because I like it not--and hark!"

and indeed as we spoke the echoes hissed and whispered all about us.

"Why, 'tis airy and very dry!"

"And very dark by day, Martin."

"True enough! Still 'tis a wondrous place--"

"O very, Martin, only I like it not at all."

"Why then, the bed, the bed should serve you handsomely."

"No!" says she, mighty vehement. "You shall make me a better an you will, or I will do with my bed of fern."

"Well then, this pot--here is n.o.ble iron pot for you, at least!"

"Why yes," says she, smiling to see me all chapfallen, "'tis indeed a very good pot, let us bring it away with us, though indeed I could do very well without it."

"Lord!" says I gloomily. "Here have I found you all these goodly things, not to mention chair and table, thinking to please you and instead--"

"I know, Martin, forgive me, but I love not the place nor anything in it. I am very foolish belike, but so it is." And here she must needs s.h.i.+ver. "As to these things, the bed, the chair and table and the shelves yonder, why you can contrive better in time, Martin; and by your thought and labour they will be doubly ours, made by you for our two selves and used by none but us."

"True," says I, greatly mollified, "but this pot now, I can never make you so brave a pot as this."

"Why, very well, Martin," says she smiling at my earnestness, "bring it and let us begone." So I reached down the pot and espied therein a long-barrelled pistol; whipping it out, I blew off the dust and saw 'twas primed and loaded and with flint in place albeit very rusty. I was yet staring at this when my lady gives a little soft cry of pleasure and comes to me with somewhat hidden behind her.

"Martin," says she, "'tis a good place after all, for see--see what it hath given you!" and she shewed me that which I had yawned for so bitterly, viz. a good, stout saw. Tossing aside the pistol, I took it eagerly enough, and, though it was rusty, a very serviceable tool I found it to be.

"Ha, comrade!" says I, "Now shall you have a chair with arms, a cupboard, and a bed fit to lie on. Here is all the furniture you may want!"

"And now," says she, "let us begone, if you would have your supper, Martin." So I followed her through the little tunnel and, having lowered her on to the table, gave her the pot and then (albeit she was mighty unwilling) turned back, minded to bring away the firelock and pistol and any such odds and ends as might serve me.

Reaching the cave, I heard again the dismal groans and wailing, but much louder than before, and coming to the door, saw it opened on a steep declivity of rock wherein were rough steps or rather notches that yet gave good foothold; so I began to descend this narrow way, my candle before me, and taking vast heed to my feet, but as I got lower the rock grew moist and slimy so that I was half-minded to turn back; but having come this far, determined to see where it might bring me, for now, from the glooms below, I could hear the soft lapping of water.

Then all at once I stopped and stood s.h.i.+vering (as well I might), for immediately beneath me I saw a narrow ledge of rock and beyond this a pit, black and noisome, and full of sluggish water.

For a long while (as it seemed) I stared down (into this water) scarce daring to move lest I plunge into this dreadful abyss where the black water, lapping sluggishly, made stealthy menacing noises very evil to hear. At last I turned about (and mighty careful) and so made my ways up and out of this unhallowed place more painfully than I had come.

Reaching the cave at last (and very thankful) I sought to close the door, but found it to resist my efforts. This but made me the more determined to shut out this evil place with its cold-breathing air, and I began to examine this door to discover the reason of its immobility.

Now this (as I have said) was a narrow door and set betwixt jambs and with lintel above very strong and excellent well contrived; but as I lifted my candle to view it better I stopped all at once to stare up at a something fixed midway in this lintel, a strange shrivelled black thing very like to a great spider with writhen legs updrawn; and now, peering closer, I saw this was a human hand hacked off midway 'twixt wrist and elbow and skewered to the lintel by a great nail. And as I stood staring up at this evil thing, from somewhere in the black void beyond the door rose a long, agonised wailing that rose to a bubbling shriek; and though I knew this for no more than some trick of the wind, I felt my flesh tingle to sudden chill. Howbeit I lifted my candle higher yet, and thus saw beneath this shrivelled, claw-like hand a parchment nailed very precisely at its four corners, though black with dust. Wiping this dust away I read these words, very fair writ in bold, clear characters:

JAMES BALLANTYNE

HIS HAND WHEREWITH HE FOULLY MURDERED A GOOD MAN.

THIS HAND CUT OFF BY ME THIS JUNE 23 1642.

THE SAME BALLANTYNE HAVING PERISHED SUDDENLY BY A PISTOL SHOT ACCORDING TO MY OATH.

LIKE ROGUES--TAKE WARNING.

ADAM PENFEATHER.

In a while I turned from this hateful thing, and coming to the bed began to examine the huddle of goatskins, and though full of dust and something stiff, found them little the worse for their long disuse; the same applied equally to the sailcloth, the which, though yellow, was still strong and serviceable. Reaching the firelock from the corner I found it to be furnished with a snaphaunce or flintlock, and though very rusty, methought cleaned and oiled it might make me a very good weapon had I but powder and shot for it. But the bandoliers held in all but two poor charges, which powder I determined to keep for the pistol. Therefore I set the musket back in the corner, and doing so espied a book that lay open and face down beneath the bedstead. Taking it up I wiped off the dust, and opening this book at the first page I came on this:

ADAM PENFEATHER

HYS JOURNAL

1642.

Hereupon, perceiving in it many charts and maps together with a plan of the island very well drawn, I thrust it into my bosom, and hearing my lady calling me, took pistol and bandolier and so to supper.

Thus amidst howling storm and tempest we sat down side by side to sup, very silent for the most part by reason of this elemental strife that raged about our habitation, filling the world with awful stir and clamour.

But in a while seeing her so downcast and with head a-droop I must needs fall gloomy also, and full of a growing bitterness.

"Art grieving for England?" says I at last, "Yearning for home and friends and some man belike that loves and is beloved again!"

"And why not, Martin?"

"Because 'tis vain."

"And yet 'twould be but natural."

"Aye indeed," says I gloomily and forgetting my supper, "for contrasting all you have lost, home and friends and love, with your present evil plight here in this howling wilderness, 'tis small wonder you weep."

"But I am not weeping!" says she, flus.h.i.+ng.

"Yet you well may," quoth I, "for here are you at the world's end and with none but myself for company."

"Why, truly here is good cause for tears!" says she, flas.h.i.+ng her eyes at me.