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We could see nothing for the scalding white veil that enveloped us; we could hear nothing for the roar of steam, the bombardment of explosions, and the crash of thunder; but our nostrils were assaulted by a most unearthly medley of smells. "Hell's loose," growled Thrackles. We were clinging hard as the ship reeled.
Only Handy Solomon clung desperately to the wheel, jamming his weight to port in the hope she might pay up: Thrackles, too, his eye squinted along some bearing of his own, was waiting for her to drag. Presently it became evident that she was doing so, whereupon he drew his knife across our hawser. "My God," chattered Pulz at my ear. "If we go ashore " He did not need to finish.
Thrackles hesitated. We've had our dose of that. Well, if he goes aboard and stays, where are we the worse off? I asks you that. But he won't. This is w'ats goin' to happen. Says he to Old Scrubs, 'Sir, the men needs you to bash in their heads. 'Bash 'em in yourself, says he, 'that's w'at you're for. And if he should come ashore, w'at could he do? I asks you that.
For the moment Berserker rage had burned itself out. Handy Solomon continually wetted his lips, like an animal licking its chops. Thrackles stared into space through eyes drugged with killing. No one spoke. We landed in the cove, and were surprised to find it in shadow. The afternoon was far advanced. Over the hill we dragged ourselves, and down to the spring.
"Something that pays big." Thrackles supplied the desired answer. "Dat chis' " suggested Perdosa. "Voodoo " muttered the Nigger. "That's to scare us out," said Handy Solomon, with vast contempt. "That's what makes me sure it is the chest." Pulz muttered some of the jargon of alchemy. "That's it," approved Handy Solomon. "If we could get " "We wouldn't know how to use it," interrupted Pulz.
"It's treasure, of course," said Handy Solomon shortly. "He, he, he!" laughed the negro, without mirth. "What's the matter with you, Doctor?" demanded Thrackles. "Treasure!" repeated the Nigger. "You see dat box he done carry so cairful? You see dat?" A pause ensued. Somebody scratched a match and lit a pipe. "No, I don't see that!" broke out Thrackles finally, with some impatience.
Thrackles voiced approximately the general attitude. "Philosopher's stone or not, something's up. The old boy took too good care of that box, and he's spending too much money, and he's got hold of too much hell afloat to be doing it for his health." "You know w'at I t'ink?" smiled Perdosa. "He mak' di'mon's. He say dat."
The Nigger became more sullen; Perdosa more snake-like; Pulz more viciously evil; Thrackles more brutal; while Handy Solomon staggering from his seat to the open keg and back again, roaring fragments of a chanty, his red headgear contrasting with his smoky black hair and his swarthy hook-nosed countenance he needed no further touch.
Poor stuff, and water soaked, but still tobacco. Spent a quiet afternoon carving a headstone for the dear departed. Pity it were that virtues so shining should be uncommemorated. Idle as the speculation is, I wonder who my next visitor will be. Thrackles, I hope. Evidently some of them have been playing the part of Pandora. Spent last night in the cave. Air quite fresh. "June 6.
I stood watching him, choked with rage and indecision. The humming broke into words. "'Oh, quarter, oh, quarter! the jolly pirates cried. Blow high, blow low! What care we? But the quarter that we gave them was to sink them in the sea, Down on the coast of the high Barbare-e-e." "Here, you swab," he cried to Thrackles, "and you, Pancho! get some wood, lively! And Pulz, bring us a pail of water.
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