CHAPTER IX

THE MAP IS STOLEN

We missed Uncle Joe dreadfully that month. It was the first time we had been on the Island without his wise head and experienced hands to help us over all emergencies, and we felt a bit forlorn and “lost” every time we stopped to realize he wasn’t with us.

But Uncle Charles was stronger now and able to assume more and more responsibility and Martin was a real joy, he was so eager to do more than his share always, instead of less. The boys too, had grown very experienced in the routine work, and Aunt Mollie, Andrée, Reddy and I all had our special duties, so we got along as well as could be asked.

There was only one unpleasant happening in the month the _Myra_ was away, but that worried us a good deal for many a day afterward, so I might as well tell it here.

It was about the middle of the third week after the schooner’s departure for the North, that we woke up one morning to see from our east windows a long trail of black, smudgy smoke across the clear blue of the sky. Under the smoke trail was a low, raky-looking boat, built somewhat on the lines of a yacht, heading directly in toward our Island.

Of course we all forgot completely about breakfast, and as soon as we had scrambled into our clothes in the shortest time possible, we raced each other--at least we children did,--down the Planter’s Road to the lagoon beach. Uncle Charles and Aunt Mollie followed at a more sedate pace, yet even they were excited, because it was so long since any of us had seen people from the outside world, that the bare possibility that this strange boat meant to pay us a visit was actually thrilling.

But of us all, it was Martin who was the most excited. He had brought a pair of Uncle Charles’ binoculars down to the beach, and now he was studying every line of the oncoming boat, his forehead puckered into a funny scowl of anxiety.

“She’s coming fast--oh, boy! Watch her bow cut the water!” Dan ejaculated, whistling. “D’you suppose she means really to come inside, Martin? And why should she?”

Martin put the glasses down, and shook his head doubtfully.

“Maybe she needs fresh water--or thinks she can pick up a load of cocoanuts and oranges for the crew,” he offered. “Most of these islands have wild fruit growin’ on ’em, handy for the pickin’. And if a ship runs short on fresh vegetables, fruit’s a necessity. But she may not be comin’ in after all.” She was though, as we all knew within the next five minutes. Straight ahead, her sharp black bow shearing through the curling blue water, she came on at what looked almost like locomotive speed, heading apparently right at the reef over which high tide was boiling. Her heading so straight for the reef made us guess--even before she made the abrupt manœuvre we’d seen the _Myra_ make on similar occasions--that she knew her way in through the reef-opening.

Sure enough, just at the proper moment, she nosed sidewise, and slipped through, into the quiet water of the lagoon. Then there was a splash as her anchor ran out, and we saw several men--not in the trim uniform of a yacht’s crew however--moving about her deck.

Someone on board had caught sight of us gathered on the beach, for we saw the man who was evidently in command, beckon two of the others to him, and they held a sort of consultation. Meanwhile, the crew had swung a small boat overside, and then the man I’d decided was captain, and the two who had been consulting with him, got into the little boat, and were rowed ashore by two of the sailors.

Uncle Charles with Syd and Dan on either side of him, walked down to the water’s edge to meet them, and the Captain--who we now saw wore some kind of uniform cap, even if he couldn’t boast a uniform to match--raised one hand in a kind of rough salute, and called out to know if they might land.

Of course Uncle Charles consented, not being able to prevent their doing it even if he’d wanted to, and as soon as the boat grounded, the three men who weren’t rowing climbed over the side, and waded ashore.

Uncle Charles, making the best of the matter, held out his hand and the Captain met it with his own, which was huge and extremely dirty.

None of our unexpected visitors were what Aunt Mollie calls “prepossessing” looking. In fact, to be quite frank about it, they were as tough and hard-faced a group of men as I’d ever pictured Sir Henry Morgan’s pirates. But the Captain was polite enough though, from what I heard him saying to Uncle Charles, decidedly astonished to find anybody living on the Island.

As Martin had guessed, they had put in for fresh fruit, the Captain explaining they had obtained a supply here on several occasions before in the past two or three years. He said he’d always found the place deserted before, and hadn’t known anyone had taken possession since. He apologized for trespassing, as nicely as you could have asked--if only his face had been more naturally reassuring.

Uncle Charles told him he could send his men down to the orange grove to pick, under Syd’s and Dan’s direction, as much fruit as they were likely to need. And at that, Aunt Mollie, who wouldn’t have sent Morgan himself away from her property hungry, asked the Captain whether he and the men with him would come up to the house for a home-cooked breakfast. There were some fresh-baked yam pies in the storeroom--and though the Captain couldn’t have known then what Aunt Mollie’s yam pies were, he must have guessed by the way Reddy smacked his lips involuntarily, and the older boys grinned.

Anyhow he accepted with alacrity, and sending the sailors to the grove with Dan and Syd, followed the rest of us up to the house. Reddy who seemed to be fascinated by the salty flavor of our visitors--or maybe he was wisely keeping in the near vicinity of the yam pies--tagged at the Captain’s heels, his blue eyes round with curiosity and wonder.

In the big hall of the fountain, Uncle Charles produced a box of cigars, and Aunt Mollie, Andy and I hurried off to the kitchen. Under Aunt Mollie’s capable direction, a hearty breakfast was soon under way; sliced oranges, cereal (with evaporated cream: fresh milk and butter being something we had had to learn to do without on Sunset Island, so far); eggs and hot, sizzling ham; wheat cakes with a golden cane syrup, coffee--and the pies!

By the time it was set on the breakfast table which we had moved out onto the tiled terrace, the four sailors returned from their orange picking, all with ravenous appetites to judge by the way their eyes glistened at sight of that heaped-up table.

Andy and the boys and I ran back and forth between kitchen and terrace with the trays, and the amount those men ate was something to wonder at! Reddy sat at the table, close beside the Captain--Captain Rawson, his name was--not eating much, but hanging on every word that was said, his round, rosy little face quite solemn, and his blue eyes shining.

After they had eaten all they apparently could, the men went back to the beach, and lay on the sand for a while, smoking their pipes, and Reddy carried Captain Rawson off to show him the garden at his--the Captain’s--particular request. The Captain seemed to be sort of flattered by Reddy’s hero-worship, and as he treated the little fellow gently, Aunt Mollie made no objections to the expedition.

There was quite a lot of confusion and running up and down the Planter’s Road by the boys, superintending the transferring of the oranges to the ship’s boat, and Aunt Mollie, Andy and I had retired to the kitchen to wash up the mound of soiled breakfast dishes, so we none of us noticed that Reddy hadn’t gone down to the beach with the others.

It wasn’t till the oranges had been put aboard the ship, and she had steamed out through the opening in the reef, and so to sea, that Andy came upon Reddy in his own little bedroom upstairs, crying as if his heart would break.

His face wore such a woebegone and frightened expression, it frightened Andy, and she called for Aunt Mollie. I heard her, and ran upstairs too, and after a lot of soothing and coaxing from all three of us, we finally wormed what had happened out of Reddy’s unwilling lips.

_He had told the Captain about Sir Henry Morgan’s treasure, and about the map._ Probably the poor baby had had some notion of impressing his new hero, but if he had, the results of his confidence were totally unexpected. The Captain had been flatteringly interested, and had wondered if Reddy knew where this wonderful map was kept, and if so, would Reddy let another admirer of the great pirate, have a peep at it?

Poor Reddy! He fell for that hard! He hadn’t even known he was doing anything he shouldn’t. We had never made a secret of the map’s whereabouts, because there was no one on the Island except ourselves, to see it. It was always kept in the big escritoire in the library, that had belonged to some dead-and-gone Carreau.

Reddy had led his visitor straight to the spot and proudly exhibited the map, which the ungrateful Captain had proceeded, to Reddy’s horror, coolly to tuck away in his pocket.

“Cut on upstairs to your room, young ’un, and don’t try to blab till you see that boat of mine pass through the reef,” the Captain had warned him roughly, and had added a sharp clip over the ear for extra measure. Imagine it! Our Reddy, who had never been struck before in all his ten years. He’d been rather a delicate child and Aunt Mollie had perhaps babied him a bit. It made me hot all over with rage to picture that big bully daring to touch him. And I guess by the way Aunt Mollie’s lips went together, she felt just the same about it.

Our visitor had muttered a string of ugly words that had scared poor Red more than the blow itself, and had wound up by insinuating that besides punishment done to Reddy’s small self in the event of his “blabbing,” there might also be quite a few unpleasantnesses due to happen to the house and the rest of the family as well.

Well, of course, that had effectively sealed Reddy’s lips, and he had knelt, crying bitterly, at the window, straining his eyes to watch the ship’s departure through the barrier reef, and out to sea. Then Andy had found him, before he could run to Aunt Mollie with his story.

He was frightened, but not yet quite sure whether he had been naughty to show the map, and in face of his remorse, and the scare he had been through, none of us had the heart to scold him. Andy and I finally left him with Aunt Mollie to comfort him, and tumbled downstairs, bursting with indignation, to pour out the story of our loss to the boys and Uncle Charles.

They heard us with a running series of astonished exclamations, and when we had come to the end, Syd had struck an angry fist down on the arm of his chair, his face clouding anxiously.

“Dad, the loss of the map’s not the worst of it,” he said slowly. “Of course, we know by now, the map isn’t accurate, probably, but those--those _pirates_--Martin’s sure they’re rum-runners, by the way, and a pretty dangerous crew!--they’ll be bound to believe they’ll find Morgan’s treasure if they look for it where the directions show.”

He stopped, and glanced about our little group, his brows drawing together still more anxiously.

“Don’t be scared, girls, it’ll turn out all right. And of course the _Myra’s_ due to return almost any day now.”

“You mean,” I asked, keeping my voice quite casual and steady by an effort, I was so excited, “that we may expect a return visit from Captain Rawson?”

Syd nodded soberly. “I’m afraid so. But it’ll take some time for him to make his plans, and decide what to do,” he said reassuringly. “And Uncle Joe and the _Myra_’ll surely be here before then.”