Where Gold Lies Read online

  WHERE GOLD LIES

  Jacqueline George

  WHERE GOLD LIES

  3rd edition Copyright © 2013 by J.E. George

  ISBN: 978-0-9873920-4-6

  Cover design by Jacqueline George

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2009 by J.E. George

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Q~Press Publishing

  Contents

  Foreword

  Death in Savannah

  Bristol Bound

  The Hunt Sets Out

  Picking up the Scent

  Watching and Waiting

  Following the Chart

  Treasure Island

  The Devil Steps Out

  The Assault

  Hawkins Comes to Visit

  Where the Treasure Lies

  Searching for the Silver

  Marooned

  A Stormy Voyage

  A Peaceful Haven

  Port Domingo

  Treasure Hunting Again

  Return to the Island

  Homeward Bound

  Marooned Again

  Endings and Beginnings

  About the Author

  Other Jacqueline George titles you may enjoy

  Foreword

  When I was still a young girl, I chose to spend the summer of my second year in University at my Grandmother’s house. I remember it as an Arcadian time. The sun shone every day, I had not a care in the world, my Grandmother’s house ran itself as smoothly as the servants could manage, and they treated me as no more than a guest. Nearly three months devoted just to enjoying myself.

  At University, I spent a lot of my time debating with friends the important issues of the day—Socialism, votes for women, the opportunities open to the new King—all of which I treated dreadfully seriously. In fact they took up so much of my time that, at the end of my second year, my tutor had to warn me that I needed some hard serious work on my historical studies if I wanted to graduate the following year. I agreed to undertake some item of historical research during my holidays to demonstrate my ability seriousness. Still with no idea on just what to study, I reached my Grandmother’s at the end of June, looking forward to three months of country living.

  Grandmother was an old woman by then (already in her nineties and she died shortly afterwards), but still as sharp as ever. She saw what I needed and artfully put in front of me something that was bound to seize my imagination. She did not go about it directly but merely asked me to try and catalogue a chest of papers from the attic.

  The chest contained bundles of letters, mostly dealing with the renting of her estate properties, and the various legal matters that come up in the countryside. Those were dry, dusty and completely uninteresting. I also found a bundle of love letters from an Army officer stationed in India, a love affair that had ended when the officer died of fever. I liked those, but I found it difficult to imagine my grandmother as the glowing young girl in those worn papers.

  The document I eventually came to, the one Grandmother knew I would not be able to put down again, is the one that follows here.

  I remember quite clearly the first time I held it. I pulled it from its waxed cloth cover and took it to the brighter light of the attic window. It had no cover, just good quality paper punched on its left-hand edge and bound together with a very faded blue ribbon. The first page looked very worn, scraped and dirtied by handling. It had been written in a firm and open script, in faint brown ink. I could hardly read the front page, and it was not until I had turned the leaf that I began to realise what I had found.

  The papers contained an account of his early life at sea, written by my great-great-grandfather Richard Brown. I later looked for his records and found that he had ended his days as the priest of Hinton St Anne in the year 1821. He must have written the account around the end of the century (the eighteenth century) and he addressed it to his daughter, Grandmother’s mother. It all seemed terribly long ago, but the fact that the people in the story were my ancestors was enough to keep my attention for a little while. What held it right to the end, however, was the story the old pages told.

  The young Richard Brown, before he became a priest, had been a pirate and sailed upon the Spanish Main. What an idea to conjure with! What a delight to have such an infamous man in my family tree. In the end, Destiny had led him away from the calling of pirate and he had left the sea to become a parish priest. He had one daughter, Great-grandmother Rose, and had told her nothing of his past.

  Then a chance event had brought him to the point of confessing everything to his daughter. A naval captain who had known him in his days as a pirate arrived at his house. The Captain did not recognise him, and all would have been well if he had not fallen in love with Rose. He and Rose wanted to marry and poor Richard Brown faced the impossibility of concealing his early life from his daughter any longer. That was why he had sat down and written the whole tale on the pages I held.

  Imagine my delight when I found that he had not been just an ordinary pirate. I had read of him before, as have most people in England, in the book Treasure Island. Richard Brown had been there at the time. He was one of the wicked men who came so badly out of that story.

  I threw myself into researching the background of Richard Brown’s account, and by the end of the summer had produced a paper supporting the truth of it. My paper was sound but perhaps a little more exciting than Oxford tutors are accustomed to. I did not mind. It kept me academically respectable and (much more fun) gave me reputation to dine out on. I had resolved to have it published but by the time I had got halfway through that tiresome process, many events conspired to delay it. I had graduated more or less comfortably, taken a tour around Europe and got married. I started a family and then the Great War intervened. Thank God, my husband eventually returned to me from France, and we got busy putting our lives back on an even keel.

  Babies are not great friends to literature and until the children had grown up a little I rarely thought of Richard Brown. Now, however, my excuses are exhausted and I have at last managed to see the story published in book form. I hope you will come to like Richard Brown, and even Long John Silver, as much as I do.

  Joan Downey, Paignton, 1931

  Death in Savannah

  I write this account of events long past because a story I thought had ended has come to life again. It threatens to entangle you in deeds and memories you are too young to remember. I do not even know if I want you to read this account; I am at a standstill. Providence has provided that Captain Hawkins should come to my house and ask for your hand. I would be happy to see you accept him, but if you do, I must tell you things about your upbringing that I have kept hidden for many years. I fear they may hurt you deeply.

  Perhaps as a modern girl you will find this tale as exciting as a novel or a play. As your father I could not approve of that. Both your grandfather and I were thoroughly wicked and odious at that time. Since then, I have tried hard to amend my life and in some fashion pay for my sins. I would wish that your grandfather did the same wherever he travelled to, but knowing him as I did, I doubt it. I will let you read on, and may God and your own good conscience be your guide.

  This account in some ways reflects the curious book that Doctor Livesey published in the name of Hawkins, and in some ways differs from it. Livesey sought to hide Treasure Island not only by withholding its latitude and longitude, but also by transforming its tropical f
lora into something much nearer home. So the coconut palms became pines and holm oaks replaced the much more useful breadfruit trees. He added snakes, and dispersed the clouds of mosquitoes and other biting insects. An effective disguise, for you would be hard put to identify the place if you sailed right by it. Not even the hills have remained in their assigned stations.

  Other differences are tricks of memory, and here I am at my weakest for I write many years after the Doctor. I am an old man now and have an old, worn brain. My memory plays tricks on me, and I begin to wonder what was true and what imagined. Believe me, the time of which I write is as clear in my mind as a summer’s day. I have only to close my eyes and I can hear the sounds, smell the smells and feel the deck heave under my feet. Some things are gone, however, names especially. But all the names I recall I will put down clearly. Most of them will be dead by now, and you are not likely to publish the others abroad.

  I dare say Hawkins would disagree with much of what I will write. For your own sake and your future peace, I beg you will not show this to him. There is nothing to be gained by upsetting him, and I do not believe he could keep it secret. Can you imagine such an expansive nature labouring not to let the cat out of the bag? It is better that he never knows. He has Livesey’s account in mind anyway, and I doubt that mine would find favour.

  Just as two men may meet on a certain day in the market square and next year admit the meeting but disagree on the day, the weather, the colour of the other’s coat, so Livesey and I disagree about details. But for the most part his account accords closely with mine, always understanding that they were written from different sides of the mast. Enough of this. I will philosophise no longer but set down the truth of the tale and let you judge.

  The tale starts, I suppose, on the day Flint died in Savannah of the effects of yellow fever and too much rum. I was a member of his crew, a young man of some twenty years answering to the name of Dick. A full twelve of those years had been spent at sea with Flint, starting as a cabin boy and becoming in time a seaman able to reef and steer. How I came to join Flint and the events that filled those years is another tale, and I will pass them by. It is enough that I describe myself as young, full of vigour, and a pirate. In my time with Flint I had sailed many sea miles, ranged over three oceans, and visited more ports than you can imagine. My trade of piracy meant that I had committed many wicked deeds, and seen many more. I was very sinful and very ignorant.

  Flint died on board his ship Walrus moored at the quayside in Savannah. He had raved the evening through, cursing and shouting for rum. By morning his unquiet soul had passed on, undoubtedly to the eternal fires. A terrible thunderstorm had accompanied his departure from this world, a fitting eulogy to a wicked and bloody man. The morning came soft, clear and sunny, washed clean by the violence of the night.

  The Walrus was fine ship, light and well rigged. She could outrun any merchant ship and most men o’ war. Whatever faults Flint had (and he had many), he did not stint on caring for his ship. Our stores were kept full of paint and cordage, and our stock of sails would have cost a fortune had we purchased them. Of course the stores, as with the victuals, we mostly looted from our victims. We had a fine crew too, all as bound to the Walrus as a tenant to his farm. There was no fear of us skipping off when we came to port. Firstly, of course, no other ship would have taken us once they heard where we had come from. And secondly, the Walrus suited us. We had grown accustomed to her ways and liked the life, which is a terrible thing to say.

  So there we were, on the morning after Flint’s death, tied up to an old and rather shaky wharf some distance from the main quay of Savannah. The sun had begun to make the morning hot and heavy, and we did not yet have the benefit of a breeze to stir the water and bring some freshness. The crew was loafing about on deck waiting for something to happen, and discussing to where we might sail. We gossiped that we would soon make sail to leave this ill-omened place, and bury Flint at sea where he belonged. We were waiting for the ship’s officers Billy Bones (mate) and Long John Silver (quartermaster) to tell us what to do.

  As it turned out, we were too late. People say that bad news travels fast, and the news of Flint’s death had been heard in certain influential breakfast rooms around the town. As we stood day-dreaming, a file of soldiers marched onto the quay led by a smart young officer. The town authorities and merchant who had been Flint’s protectors and chandlers had moved to protect their investment.

  Leaving a sentry at the foot of the gangplank, the officer led his men aboard. He dropped heavily off the ship’s rail and stood looking us over. He was tall and fair, no older than I but with the bearing of a General. In his smart red coat and fine neck cloth, he looked a complete contrast to his surroundings. He looked about him disdainfully and did not approve of what he saw.

  “Flint is dead,” he stated. “Where is your first officer?”

  We looked at one another like sheep until Long John, stepping out of the cabin, answered him. “I reckon that’s me you’d be wanting, Sir. John Silver, quartermaster, at your service.”

  “Mr. Silver,” said the officer, looking at him more closely. “I’ve heard of you.” He looked pointedly at the soldiers now lining the rail. “Well, Mr. Silver, I have orders from the harbourmaster to impound this vessel. I also have orders to imprison any crewman still in Savannah at mid-day. Kindly lead your men ashore.”

  The silence that followed this command seemed long. It was broken by the sergeant cocking his musket. His men followed suit.

  Long John could only acquiesce. “Step ashore, lads,” he growled. “This pup’s masters have no more use for you now.” The sergeant tensed but was held by a gesture from his officer. “Move!” ordered Long John and we filed ashore.

  Once ashore past the sentry, we turned to watch Long John being handed down the gangplank by two of our crew. The Walrus had been our home for several years and you may imagine a wave of great sadness sweeping over us as we comprehended that both she and our Captain had been taken from us.

  “D---- take those lobsters,” muttered Israel Hands. “I’ve twenty dollars still aboard.”

  “What, Israel?” cried someone. “You’ve money of your own and you were letting us keep you in grog the other night?”

  I sympathised with him. I had several silver dollars and an emerald of great size hidden behind a knee in the hold. The stone was my pride and joy, though I don’t recall what I thought to do with it. Sell it, probably, and buy a ship of my own. How young men can dream.

  “There’ll be a few purses aboard, I’ll be bound,” put in Chips Morgan, one of the old hands. “But what about Flint’s cabin? There’s a sight more hidden away there. That officer will be poking his nose into every corner just now.”

  “And much good may it do him!” laughed Long John. “For he’ll find nothing. Billy Bones was there before him.”

  Long John laughed again. “He’s done us proper. While you drunken turtles were swinging in your hammocks, King Billy the Fourth shoved off in the jolly boat. I saw him come out of the cabin and he left the place in a wild tangle too. He wasn’t after no dollars, though. I doubt he’d have found any, even if he was. He was after Flint’s chart of the Island, that’s what he wanted. He’s taken his chest, and if he doesn’t have the chart along with him, then you may use me for a sinker.”

  The Island. That was the place the world now knows as Treasure Island, where Flint had buried his evil wealth. The story had gone like this. About a year or two before he died, Flint and the Walrus had struck upon the chance of a lifetime. We had been cruising off the ports of the South Americas looking for likely victims, and having a very thin time of it. In two months we had done no more than steal enough food to keep us alive. Now we were heading back to the West Indies to see if our luck would change. Then one dawn the helmsman passed the word and we tumbled out of our hammocks to the hushed voice of Long John telling us to stay below and keep quiet.

  He stood on deck and called forward to us all that was h
appening. It seemed that out of the dawn was sailing the largest Spanish galleon we could imagine. Beating towards the Walrus on a parallel course, she would pass only a short distance upwind of us. All aboard her appeared to be sleeping. We waited in the dark of the fo’c’sle, not too worried. The Walrus would no doubt pass as harmless, and that was the best we could hope for. In no case could we try to attack such a grand vessel, and she would be unlikely to waste any precious time with us.

  “She’ll be a-beam of us shortly,” Long John called down. “What lubbers they are! We could be a fleet of the King’s ships and they’d be no wiser.”

  We heard Flint moving about and a whispered conversation with Long John and Billy Bones. Then Billy came rushing in calling for Israel Hands, our gun captain.

  “Get the starboard guns clear away, then wait.” was the message he brought. “Don’t let no one see you about it, neither. We’re going to have a go at them. But don’t run ‘em out ‘til Flint calls. Shot or grape, it don’t signify.” He rushed off again and let us to our work. The guns were on deck, in full view of our adversary. Israel set four of us to crawl out of the fo’c’sle under the shelter of the railing and ready the guns.

  Soon Billy hurried back. “Grape into the aft cabin and shot at the rudder. And don’t miss or you’ll wish for the D---- to carry you off.”

  And again. “Soon as I call, you larboard hands to the mainsheets. Standby. We’ll be going about then run the guns out and shoot. You won’t get no second chance, Israel Hands, so make it count.”

  “Just you worry about sailing this barky,” Israel returned, “An’ I shall worry about the guns.” We always kept two of the guns on each side loaded with grape-shot and the other three with round-shot. Not that we used them much. A shot across the bows of our prey was generally enough to achieve our purpose.