The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

been queer doings in these waters.”

      To these words the landlord gave emphasis by a significant shake of his head, which spoke unutterable things, and drove Bart and Pat wild with curiosity.

      “What do you mean?” asked Bart.

      The landlord looked at him solemnly for a few moments, and then asked,—

      “Did you ever happen to hear of Captain Kidd?”

      “Captain Kidd?” repeated Bart, in innocent wonder, “Captain Kidd? Hear of him? Of course I’ve heard of him. Everybody knows about him.”

      “Well, if that man’s ghost don’t haunt this bay, then I’m a monkey.”

      “Haunt this bay? What do you mean? What had Captain Kidd to do with this bay? He was hanged at London.”

      “He had a precious lot to do with this bay,” said the landlord, positively. “Why, I don’t see how that could be,” said Bart, trying to get the landlord excited by contradiction. “I don’t see how he ever could have been here. His story’s a simple enough one; soon told. I’ve heard it often. How he went from New York to London well recommended, and got a commission from the British government to command a ship, for the purpose of putting down pirates in India and the East. But this didn’t suit him quite; so he turned pirate himself. Most of his piracies took place in the East, though. It’s true he returned to America, and made a great panic; but he was captured and sent to England, where he was tried and executed. That was in 1699. I remember the date very well. So I don’t see how he could have done much about here.”

      Bart spoke very volubly, and seemed to have the Life of Captain Kidd at his tongue’s end. The landlord listened very attentively. But Bart’s words, instead of shaking his own convictions, only served, as Bart had hoped and intended, to strengthen and confirm them. As Bart spoke, he raised himself up out of the lounging attitude in which he had been sitting, looked full in Bart’s face, and as he ceased,—

      “Very well. Grant all that,” said the landlord, with a comprehensive sweep of his hand, which seemed to concede every single statement that Bart had made, in the fullest and frankest manner. “Grant—all—that—every word of it. I don’t doubt it at all—not me. Very well. Now mark me. Captain Kidd did really, and truly, and actually, flourish about here, in this here bay—for he’s left behind him the most—un—mis—tak—able in—di—ca—tions. I’ve seen ’em myself, with my own eyes. I’ve handled ’em myself, and with my own hands. And besides, that there pirate must have been about over the coast of America a good deal more than you give him credit for, or he wouldn’t have left a name behind, from one end of America to the other; and, at any rate, he must have been here, or else he wouldn’t have left behind what he has left, and what I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

      “I didn’t know,” said Bart, “that he had left any traces of himself here. What are they? What kind of traces?”

      “What kind of traces?” said the landlord. “Traces that beat everything in the way of traces that any pirate ever made. What do you say, for instance, to a pit so deep that nobody’s ever been able to get to the bottom of it?”

      “A pit? What sort of a pit?” asked Bart, full of excitement.

      “What do you say to his filling that pit with oaken chests, crammed full of gold and silver ingots, and gold candlesticks, plundered from Catholic churches, and precious stones, such as diamonds, rubies, and emeralds—beyond all counting?”

      “Gold! silver! precious stones!” repeated Bart, who was so overcome by this astounding information, that he could only utter these words.

      “What do you say to his taking the prisoners that had dug his hole, and filled it, and killing them all, to keep his secret?”

      “Killing his prisoners!”

      “What do you say,” continued the landlord, enjoying with keenest relish the evident excitement of Bart,—”what do you say to his contriving the most extraordinary plans ever heard of to prevent anybody ever getting at that treasure,—by making the hole, in the first place, far down under the level of the sea,—by building a drain, so as to let in the sea water; and then, after killing the prisoners, filling up the hole to the very top? What do you say to all that?”

      “Why, I never heard of this in all my life! How do you know it? Tell me, now. Tell me all about it. Where is the place? Is it here—in this bay?”

      “Of course it is. I’ve said as much,” replied the landlord.

      “But you didn’t mention it this morning.”

      “No, because you only wanted to hear about fine scenery. This place isn’t particularly remarkable for that. It’s a little island, not more than three miles from here, up that way to the right. It’s called Oak Island, because Captain Kidd planted it with acorns, so as to know it when he came back. Well, since his day, the acorns have grown to be oaks—some of them pretty big—though being near the sea, they haven’t grown so big as they would have done if they had been planted farther inland.”

      “Oak Island!” repeated Bart, in a tone which expressed the most profound interest,—”Oak Island!”

      “That’s the place,” said the landlord. “I wonder you ain’t heard of Oak Island before.”

      “Never,” said Bart; “that is, I’ve heard the name mentioned; but never knew that Captain Kidd had anything to do with it.”

      “That’s just what he had,” said the landlord. “Everybody in these parts can tell you all about it. People have been full of it ever since Chester was settled. I’ve heard it all my life.”

      “But if there’s money there, why don’t they get it?” asked Bart.

      “Because they can’t!”

      “Can’t?”

      “No, can’t. Captain Kidd knowed what he was about, and he made his arrangements so that, from that day to this, nobody’s ever been able to get down to the bottom of that money-hole, and, in my humble opinion, never will.”

      “Why not? I don’t understand.”

      “Well,” said the landlord, “it’s a long story; but as I’ve got nothing to do just now, I don’t mind telling you about it.”

      So saying, the landlord settled himself into an easy, lounging attitude, and began the story of Oak Island.

      CHAPTER VII.

      “I believe” said the landlord, “there’s always been a talk, among the people around here, that Captain Kidd used this place as a kind of headquarters; and this idea seems to me to have come down from old settlers who might have been here in his own day,—French and others,—though Chester wasn’t actually settled till long after his time. At any rate, there it was, and everybody used always to believe that Captain Kidd hid his money somewhere in this bay. Well, nothing very particular happened till some sixty years ago, when a man, on visiting Oak Island, just by chance saw something which seemed to him very curious.

      “The island was overgrown with oaks and other trees intermixed. Now, right in the midst of these trees, he came to a queer-looking place. It was circular, and about fifteen feet in diameter. Trees grew all around it. Just on this circular spot, however, nothing grew at all, not even moss or ferns. It looked as if it had been cursed, or blasted. The trees were all around it—some oak and some maple; but among them was one,—pine or spruce, I don’t know which,—and this one looked a good deal older than the others. One of the boughs of this old pine tree projected right over the blasted circular spot in a very singular fashion, and on this the man noticed something that looked like very queer growth for a pine tree. He climbed up, and found that it was a pulley, which was so rotten that it might have been hanging there a hundred years. It was fastened to the bough by a chain, and this was so rusty that it broke in his hands. This pulley and rusty chain the man removed and took with him.

      “Of