Arthur Ransome - Swallows and Amazons (Complete Series)

“To show that he hasn’t quite retired?”

“Something like that. When he feels too retired he always tries to dash off.”

“So he could with a ship like this,” said Titty. “I heard Mr. Duck say so.”

“It’s Mr. Duck’s story that’s stirred him up so. And then knowing that Black Jake was going off to have another dig. I knew what he was thinking of when he went and bought those spades last night.”

“I say,” said John, who had been listening, but saying nothing. “Anybody been into the deckhouse this morning? Did you notice the chart they had on the table?”

“The English Channel,” said Nancy.

“It wasn’t,” said John. “It was a chart of the Caribbees.”

“Pheew!” said Nancy. “But I might have guessed it.”

Captain Flint walked forward and joined them. At least, he had a look over the bows at the anchor chain which was hanging straight up and down. Then he shifted one of the capstan bars in its place in the rack against the bulwarks. Then he had a look at all the halyards on the foremast. Then he said “Pretty Polly” to the parrot, but turned away sharply when the parrot sang out “Pieces of eight!” in reply. Then, for a minute or two, he stood looking down into the two buckets that stood between Susan and Peggy, one half full of potato peelings and the other with a lot of large white shiny potatoes in it just covered with water. Then, for the hundredth time that morning, he lit a match and was going to light his pipe with it, but stopped, looking at his pipe and thinking of something else, until the match burnt his fingers and he had to throw it overboard in a hurry.

“Spit it out, Uncle Jim,” said Nancy, kindly enough. “We’re all waiting.”

“He’s Captain Flint when he’s afloat,” said Titty.

“Jibbooms and bobstays!” said Nancy, “then what’s he humming and hawing about?”

Captain Flint glanced aft. Peter Duck was comparing the two big copper sidelights and giving a last shine to the one he thought needed it most. Captain Flint made up his mind to speak.

“It’s Mr. Duck’s story,” he said at last. “You heard it, all of you. Well, what do you think about it?”

John and Nancy looked at each other, but said nothing.

“It’s a fine story,” said Titty, “especially that part about the crabs.”

“If crabs are really as big as that,” said Roger. “Have you ever seen crabs as big as that?”

“I wasn’t thinking of the crabs,” said Captain Flint. “It’s the treasure. Mr. Duck saw it buried. Saw it, mind you. That’s Point One. Miles better than any old tale about a chart all covered with skeletons and red ink that one old sailor had from another who had it from his great-uncle who thought that his grandfather had been a lively fellow on the Spanish Main. Mr. Duck saw the stuff buried. That’s Point One. . . .”

“He didn’t say it was treasure, did he?” said Susan. “I thought he didn’t know. It might be anything.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Captain Flint. “It’s so jolly hot in those West Indian islands that no man ever walked even half a mile there to bury something that he didn’t think was well worth while keeping to himself. No. It stands to reason it was treasure. And Mr. Duck himself saw it buried. Point One. Now. The two scoundrels who buried it were both drowned. No rival claims. They had no time to tell another soul about it. It’s still there. It’s as good as if Mr. Duck had buried it himself. We know it was buried. Point One. We know that nobody knows where it was buried except Mr. Duck. That’s Point Two. It’s the surest thing that ever was waiting to fall into anybody’s mouth. It’s like a bit of Euclid. Two things equal to the same thing are equal to each other. Q.E.D.”

“What about Black Jake?” said Nancy.

“He knows where the island is, because he stole the bit of paper Mr. Duck had sewed up in a scrap of old jacket,” said Peggy.

“Right,” said Captain Flint. “Black Jake is Point Three. He knows where the island is, but he doesn’t know where the stuff was buried. Here’s a man who sailed to Crab Island to look for it, didn’t find it, because Mr. Duck hadn’t told him where to dig, and came back still thinking it such a likely place that he’s off to have another try. Here’s a man who goes half mad when he sees Mr. Duck shipping with us, for fear he’s going to show us where that stuff was buried. Black Jake’s Point Three. He’s seen the island and he’s keener than ever.”

“Perhaps he’ll find it this time,” said John.

“Not without Mr. Duck to help him,” said Captain Flint.

“Look here, Uncle Jim,” said Nancy, “what do you want to do about it?”

“Well, I can’t help thinking it’s almost a crime to leave it there. A sure thing like that. I’ve been treasure-hunting all my life, but I’ve never been after a thing as sure as that. I must say I should like to bring it off, just for once.”

“You know he never really has,” said Nancy.

“It seems such a pity not to,” said Captain Flint, “with a ship like this fairly stuffed with stores. . . . And Mr. Duck himself aboard her.”

“But Mr. Duck doesn’t want to go to Crab Island ever again,” said Titty.

“I know,” said Captain Flint unhappily. “But he might change his mind.”

“He wouldn’t like Black Jake to have it, whatever it is,” said Nancy.

“That’s just it,” said Captain Flint.

“But Black Jake’s started probably already,” said Roger. “We ought to be using our engine.”

“Mr. Duck thinks he’s waiting for us.”

“Well, let’s go anyway,” said Titty.

“Yes, let’s go,” said Susan. “Some time or other, when we’ve had a bit more practice. Let’s go next year. It’s the sort of thing that wants a lot of planning.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Captain Flint dully, after brightening up at the first words Susan had said. “And anyway, it’s Mr. Duck’s treasure, and we can’t very well go after it if he doesn’t change his mind. But . . .” He stopped short.

Peter Duck had put the sidelights away and was coming along the deck.

“Vessels is beginning to swing,” he said cheerfully, “and I feel a breath just now. And then another. It’s coming down out of the north-east again. See that ripple yonder. If we was to start hoisting sail we’d be ready for it. There’s no sense wasting an easterly when bound down Channel. Easterlies is rare.”

They looked across towards Southampton Water. Vessels anchored by Cowes were beginning to swing, showing that the tide was turning. The Wild Cat was swinging, too, and, with the turn of the tide, a gentle breeze came out of the north-east, strengthening to a steady sailing wind.

“You’re right, Mr. Duck,” said Captain Flint. “We’ll make all the use we can of it. No harm in that, anyway. All hands to make sail. You’ll have to shift that parrot off the forestay.”

The potato peelings went flying over the side. That strange green-feathered riding-light was lowered and, shrieking, “Pieces of eight!” was carried below decks, like Gibber the monkey, in order to be out of the way. Susan ran with the potatoes to the galley, and put both buckets inside the door. John, Nancy, and Peggy fitted capstan bars, while Captain Flint and Peter Duck together hoisted up the sails. In a very few minutes the crew were walking round the capstan to the old tune of “Amsterdam,” while Peter Duck was looking over the bulwarks to see the anchor come up, and to sign to them when to stop. The Wild Cat was off again.

When the bustle of getting under way was over, and ropes were coiled down and the deck cleared, Nancy went forward once more to her seat on the capstan, taking Susan with her. The others were all at the stern watching Peter Duck at the wheel. Captain Flint was in the deckhouse, looking at the chart.