The Frontier, May 1926 — page 18: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

8 mistake. But you made no error——”’ “T could haf made ’em gome aboart in my gigs, a few at von time,” the skipper interrupted. “Zay no more. Id iss so [ shall rebort.” Donovan waved his hands resign- edly, but immediately straightened and rubbed his hands briskly. “Well, sir,’ he said, “here’s one thing you’re going to let me do, right now. That’s to fix a bandage on that leg of yours.” And securing the medical kit, that remarkable giant, with his tremendous hands, shortly displayed a deftness in surgery that might well have won the praise of any surgeon. Nor did he stop with the captain. Whistling cheer- fully, he labored far on into the night, treating our men and the wounded buccaneers as well, extracting bullets and stitching up wounds with a skill that was admirable to behold. ‘What I says,” exclaimed Mr. Jen- kins, “is this: there’s as handy an ail- around man as I’ve seen afloat.” In the meantime all the uninjured buccaneers had been closely guarded and clapped in irons the instant they came on board. Most of them had little to say; like their wounded, they were pale, depressed, and, for the most part, sullen and brooding. Occasion- ally one tried to rally his fellows; one or two attempted bravado, but the ma- jority responded to this with grins that were all too feeble. A moment later they relapsed once more, sunk in their contemplation of the fate which awaited them. Now one licked his dry lips; now one shivered appre- hensively; for they had been taken red-handed, and the shadow of the im- pending gallows lay over them all. Among them was a_black-browed giant, called Beef McCallum by his shipmates. He had been quartermaster aboard the Retriever. A fearful cut on the left side of his head had cost him an ear and had also knocked him unconscious so that he lay, breathing stertorously, for two days and more without speaking. We thought at first that the man’s skull had been frac- tured and that he would undoubtedly die, but on the third day he rallied and, within an hour or two, was sit- ting up. Going about with Donovan on his rounds—for he had continued to act as the doctor—I came upon the man, seated on a pallet on the fo’c’sle deck under a tarpaulin, along with other wounded buccaneers. “Ha!” said Donovan. “So you don’t cheat the gallows after all, my hearty.” THE FRONTIER xe The buccaneer winced a little and scowled at us. “That's as may be,’ he growled. Then, with a look from the tail of his eye at his comrades, he spoke bluntly, but with an appeal in his bloodshot eyes that belied his gruffness. “Could I have a word with you, sir?” he asked. Glancing at Donovan I caught a strange flicker in his narrowed eyes. But almost at once he spoke up. ‘No harm in that, I suppose,” said he. “Come.” We gave the man a hand up, and in a moment had helped him, tottering with weakness, to a point amidships, out of earshot of his comrades. There we three paused, McCallum leaning against the bulwarks for support. He was no longer gruff, but stared at Don- ovan beseechingly. Stark fear was staring from his eyes. “IT ain’t no coward,” he began hoarsely, “but the gallows—lI’ll say I’ve the horrors for thought of ’em. Well, now, what I want to ask is this: if sa be it I could tell you where Jerry Blunt’s cache lay, would I get off?” All the geniality had flown from Donovan’s features. He eyed the quartermaster grimly, his mouth a compressed slit. “So you know where it is, do you?” he grunted. McCallum changed countenance a little. “Tt does—that is, I knows——” “Come,” Donovan interrupted. you knows, spit it out.” The man searched Donovan's fea- tures closely before answering. “Ah,” he groaned, then, “J don’t have no luck. You must have tound the chart.” Donovan looked round about quickly. No one was within earshot. “Grant that I have,” he said. “Well, now, you want your life. There’s a chance for you if you open hatches. How many doubloons is in that cache ?”’ “Nigh onto a million pounds, I’d figger,” McCallum answered. “rf Y EYES were fairly popping by now, | can assure you. The name of Jerry Blunt was one to conjure with at sea. He had sailed as a privateer during the war; he had been posted for piracy later; and he. was supposed to have taken no less than two hundred ships. It required little stretching of the im- agination to credit him with a cache of that size; and it was plain that Don- ovan helieved the assertion, for he drew in a whistling breath, with his eyes afire. “And do you know where it’s bur- ied?” he exclaimed. McCallum changed countenance. “Yes—and no,” he said, ruefully. “It’s on a island out over the rim, in the South Pacific—a place Jerry Blunt named the Devil’s Caldron. It’s a main spot for cannibals thereabouts, though that island ain’t inhabited, along of sperrits or somethin’ atop the plateau. That’s what Jerry says after one pal- aver, anyway. Well, I figgered, if you hadn’t got the chart, I'd name the island, anyway, and maybe get a chance to give you the slip when we landed.” And he shuddered. “I'd ruther be marooned, or risk cannibals, than swing and sun-dry,” he added. “Here,” said Donovan, producing a flask. “Try a tot o’ this, and then tell me what you know.” “Thankee,” said the pirate, smack- ing his lips over the potion. “Well, then,” he continued in stronger tones, “this were the way of it. Slim were mate, Blunt’s first mate, some three years back. I was bos’n. We'd made good hauls, and the Sea Lion was fair wallowing with pieces of eight and plunder. But one or two had got away, and we was posted, and the tipple widening. So Jerry—did you ever meet up with Jerry?” ‘‘No,” said Donovan, “though f just missed him once.” “Ah,” said McCallum, “he were the queer coot, were Jerry Blunt! That cross-eyed he could stand on the fo- c’s'le deck facin’ the sprit and catch you filchin’ a pannikin o’ rum from the after cabin. When he were a-thinkin’ things out, there he’d squat, cross- legged like a Turk, under a tarpaulin on the poop, and a-playin’ of a piccolo. ‘Bowline Haul,’ is wot he’d play, till it fair got on your nerves. Now he’d point the piccolo for’ard; now he'd point it aft; then he’d point it towards the cross-trees—but pipin’ away all the time, with the two eyes of him looking straight in towards his nose. Never a smile on his mug all the time, d’y’mind; only now and again he’d stop for a swig from a jug which he'd sling over his elbow. ‘Pickle ’em in brine!’ he’d say then. “They'll keep better till Judgment Day.’ Which were a sayin’ he had when we makes ‘em walk the plank.” “Yes, yes,’ said Donovan impa- tiently. “But don’t hang so long in ConnicloOoks.conm