There, in the depths of the cave,
was the cask full of loot just as
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TOWN WEEKLY MAGAZINE SECTION
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A —
ON THE EVENING that I told the story
about the powder keg and tie emerald
brooch, the Island was still a haven
of tranquility. It was the perfect
setting for talk of ghosts and buried
treasure — or it would have been if the
Dodsons were the sort of people who
eould enter into the spirit of the thing.
We were having coffee on the terrace
after dinner, the Dodsons and Linda
and I. At our feet were the waters of
the Great Scund dotted with jagged
islets. Mr. and Mrs. Dodson sat there
like two paunch; seals. They made me
feel like a real estate agent trying to
put over a deal — which, in a way, I
was.
But Linda was an audience to make
a Homer out of a hack writer. When
she leaned forward in her chair every
line of her body, every fleeting ex-
pression of her brown, adorable face
‘vas a quick response. When I looked
at her—which was most of the time—
strength was added to my resolution
“to preserve her as a permanent audience,
to require Mrs. Thorley Dodson to find
herself a new social secretary. :
I started by telling them about the
emerald brooch I had seen that morning
in Hamilton, in the window of a store
in Queen Street. The thing fascinated
me—it so clearly belonged to another
age. The people in the shop couldn’
or wouldn’t tell me how it came there.
The Dodsons' interest in the trinket
was less than mild. “Sort of thing they
fake up to catch the tourists,” sniffed
Mrs. Dodson.
They thought I was stretching things
very far indeed to connect the brooch
with the statement made and attested
by the pirate John Ridge, follower of
Nathaniel North, on the night before
he was hanged at Port Royal. They
even doubted whether there ever was
such a person.
“At any rate,” I told them, “there
was a real Nathaniel North. His life
is history. He was born and spent his
boyhood here in Bermuda and was as
remarkable a scoundrel as ever sailed
under the black flag. This legend has
to do with his latter days when he was
living on the coast of Madagascar, rich
with plunder. It’s easy to believe that
his thoughts may have turned back to his
native islands, that he conceived the
idea of spending his last years here.
by
k
“In those days, more than two hun-
dred years ago, this Island was much
as it is now, with only the one house
on it. The owner, who lived here alone,
was an ancestor of mine—Phineas Pavey
by name.
“One sultry afternoon in July, Phineas
saw a brigantine slip by the end of
Spanish Point. It kept to its course until
it let go its anchor here in the Sound,
not half a mile off the Island.
“All afternoon Phineas watched the
ship uneasily. Ffom the number that
it carried he was convinced that it was
no peaceful trader. No sign of activity
was visible on board. At last, when
the sudden“tropieal night had blackened
the waters and the lights of the harbor
were out, Phineas saw a long-boat put
off from the side of the stranger. Fear-
ing an attack, he hurried out of the
house and ‘hid himself in some bushes
close to the shore.
“The long-boat came in swiftly and
grounded on a strip of sand. The crew
sat motionless and silent at their oars,
EDWIN MULLER
A gripping story of mys:
tery and romance ana a
search for hidden pirate
goid on a tropical island
but one figure moved from the stern
and stepped ashore. Phineas saw him
walk up and cdutiously inspzet the
house. Then he returned to the boat
and there were low murmurs.
“One of the crew rose from his place
and the two of them rolled out what
looked like a large keg. Carrying it
between them they disappeared in the
darkness toward the center of the
Island. For a long time old Phineas
crouched in the bushes, not daring te
move. He could have tossed a pebble
on the backs of the long-boat crew
who sat as still as the rocks around
them. Once or twice he thought he
heard sounds from behind the black
curtains that hid the interior—bumping,
jarring sounds.
“At last Phineas heard boots stumb-
ling over stones and one of the figures
reappeared, walking fast. He stepped
into the boat, there was a brief parley
and they pulled away. Phineas lay
where he was until morning. The dawn
showed that the brigantine was gone.
“When it was full light Phineas made
a careful search, peering fearfully be-
hind every bush and outerop of coral.
He found nothing.
“ABOUT SIX MONTHS later the master
of the British sloop ‘Polly’ put into St.
George’s Harbor. He had been in King-
ston, he said, when the crew of the
notorious pirate Low had been brought
in, tried before the Admiralty Court
and duly hanged on a gallows.
“One of the wretches, John Ridge,
had made a statement on his last night,
probably hoping that its investigation
would postpone his execution. Unfor-
tunately for him he wasn’t believed.
But when the story came to old Phineas
he had no trouble in believing it.
“Before he joined Low’s crew, Ridge
said, he had served under North. On a
certain occasion, the latter had anchored
in the Bermudas and after nightfall had
put the long-boat ashore on Cavello
Island, a spot with which he seemed to
be very familiar. Ridge was one of the
crew. They had carried with them a
powder keg, fetched up from North's
cabin, a keg clamped and coopered with
unusual care. Arrived on the beach the
captain had called on one of the crew,
Pedro by name, to help him ashore with
it. « They had carried it inland. Present-
ly North came back alone and ordered
them roughly to row back to the ship.
“That was the story. When it got
about Bermuda there was a general
movement toward Cavello. An official
searching party scoured the place, with
Phineas sourly looking on.
“Many predicted that North would
be coming back one day to reclaim his
treasure. It wasn’t known then that he
had been killed in a quarrel of native
princes on the Madagascar Coast.”
Mr. Dodson roused himself. “Well,”
he demanded, “and what’s all that to do
with this emerald thing?”
“Probably nothing,” I answered. “Only
that brooch is just the sort of thing
that would have been in the keg—"
Mr. Dodson snorted. “Young man,”
he said, “your abilities are wasted. You
should be writing sales literature for
suburban developments.”
The Dodsons heaved themselves to
their feet to go inside. “Linda, dear,”
said Mrs. Dodson briskly, “I’ll want you
to help me with my shopping list.”
I smoked a pipe on the terrace, re-
flecting on the status and prospects of
myself, Tom Pavey, New York hack
writer and land-poor Bermudian.
Dodson knew exactly how keen I was