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Donated by the
Grand Rapuis Publlc Llbrary
The May G Qmgley
Collectzon
of Ch1ldren’s L1terature
December 2001
The Umvers_ty of M_ch_gan Dearborn
Mard_glan Llbrary
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THE SPANISH GALLEON
THE WVERSHY or Mvcnnem-osmaonu usmnv
by Tudur Watkins


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THE
SPANISH
GALLEON
AN ADVENTURE STORY BY
TUDUR WATKINS
WITH DRAWINGS BY
JACK MATTHEWS
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"“""1947


COPYRIGHT, 1946, BY COWARD—MCCANN, INC.
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PAGE
11
16
26
34
48
55
74
82
IOI
114
134
148
154


THE STORY
CHAPTER I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
The Spanish Galleon
Spanish Gold
Under the Waterfall
The Chase in the Tunnels
Rector and Coast Guard
The Spanish Lady
The Smoke Signal
The Rector Disappears
Strange Meeting
Gull Island
The Rector has a Plan
Daft Sammy
The End of the Spanish
Lady
AND DRAWINGS
throughout the book


(
'1
Y


THE SPANISH GALLEON
by Tudur Watkins


_
CHAPTER ONE
THE SPANISH GALLEON
THE STATELY GALLEON shuddered and drove her nose more
deeply into the tumultuous waves that heaved and foamed
about her bows. Her sails, slashed into ribbons by the
howling gale, ﬂapped like pistol shots about the rigging;
huge seas broke over her as she raised herself out of the
angry waters, and struggled like a stricken animal to gain
an even keel.
High on the poop, Captain del Cordobo had cunningly
constructed for himself a wind break of rough canvas, and
by peering over it commanded a view of the wave-swept
deck. He steadied himself, and wiping his hand over his
face, stared into the driving murkiness of sea drift and
Wind. He cursed softly under his breath, and roared out
an order into the windy darkness. His men were getting
out of hand . . . a week out from Lisbon and heavy weather
all the way . . . he’d hoped for better weather off the Eng-
lish coast, but there was no sign of the storm abating . . . his
ship was rapidly becoming waterlogged . . . the pumps un-


I2 THE SPANISH GALLEON
able to cope with the inrushing sea, and settling deeper
with every stormy moment that passed.
Suddenly he felt someone tugging at his sleeve. He
turned with an imprecation rising to his lips, but checked
himself as he beheld a slightly-built woman, her beautiful
oval face framed by a silk mantilla, which she held at her
throat. She stood there for a moment, then putting out her
hand to steady herself, looked directly at him before shout-
ing above the gale:
“We are in danger, Seﬁor Cordobo.”
Cordobo did not answer. She went on: “I would prefer
you to tell me.”
The man nodded his head. '
“How far are we from Bristol?”
“Half a day’s sail, my lady Catherine. That is, half a
day’s sail in calm weather. In this, it is difficult to know.
It's strange to have such a violent gale in the Channel. I
thought we would be safe.”
He shrugged his shoulders with a resigned gesture.
“I am doing all I can.”
“It is not enough!” snapped the woman ﬁercely.
Cordobo looked at her almost pityingly.
“You do not know the sea, Seﬁorita de Braganza. The
sea, she is always such a ﬁckle mistress.”
The lady glowered at him and looked up over the canvas
at the darkening sky and black scudding clouds.
“You know that the English milord, my husband to be,
will be waiting at Bristol for me.”
“He will have to wait. The wind and sea pay scant re-
spect to English milords. At least he is safe. I would like
to be in his shoes at this moment.”
The lady Braganza stamped her tiny foot angrily and
faced him.
“You are forgetting your responsibilities, sir,” she said


I4. THE SPANISH GALLEON
clear of the coast, but a glance over his shoulder showed
her to be sailing perilously close to the rocky shore.
He cursed, and strode out uncertainly to the hehnsman.
“You’re off your course!” he bellowed above the shriek
of the wind.
The steersman looked at him dumbly, and ﬂexed his
ﬁngers more tightly about the spokes of the big wheel.
Cordobo noted the movement, and grasped the helm,
bending the weight of his body against it.
“Swing her over!” he shouted angrily. “We must keep
her into the wind!”
Then above the tumult of the storm he heard an ominous
rending sound of splintering timber. He glanced aloft fear-
fully as the mainmast slowly leaned over and crashed to
the deck in a welter of spars and twisted ropes. Huge seas
ﬂung fragments of the wreckage frothing about the deck.
Cordobo desperately clung to the spinning wheel, but
a spar slithering from the deck knocked his feet from under
him, and the next moment a huge sea lifted him bodily
from the deck. For a moment he hung sickeningly in the
wash of water. There came a faint cry above the fury of
tearing wind, and he disappeared over the side into the
tumultuous heave of grey waters that swirled and heaved
about the sides of the galleon.
F renzied shouts rang out above the storm as the crew
stampeded at the loss of their captain. Men ran aimlessly
about, clutching the ratlines and rigging in a wild attempt
to save themselves: and all the while the ship settled more
deeply, and rolled sluggishly, as though the unequal strug-
gle was proving too much for her.
The rocky coastline loomed nearer and nearer. In the
distance the roar of breakers could be heard, and the white-
ness of waves smashing against towering cliffs could be
dimly seen. By now the galleon was ﬁrmly in the grip of


THE SPANISH GALLEON I5
the on-shore current, and rode the waves more surely, but
heading inexorably towards the rocks.
Then came an awful scraping of hurt timbers as her keel
tore over the ﬁrst hidden reef and slipped into a boiling
trough of water. For a moment she rode more tranquilly;
then the next oncoming wave lifted her bodily, and tossed
her carelessly against the face of the cliff.
High above the noise and tumult of the storm came a
woman’s shriek, and a ﬂash of white, terror-stricken face
showed momentarily at the window of the great cabin.
The galleon shuddered raspingly against the face of the
great jagged rocks, and seemed to try to twist away, but
again the waves reached her back only to hurl her once
more against the cliff wall. But this time a strange thing
happened. She was driven clean into a high deep crevice
that slashed the face of the cliff like a big, black wound.
The fragile vessel disappeared into the darkness, leaving
the fury of wind-swept waters battering remorselessly
against the rocky shore.
The following morning evidences of the storm wrack
littered the coast for miles along the Channel. Spars and
timbers in tangled profusion; bodies of brown-faced Span-
ish sailors that rolled and tossed lazily in the heavy swell.
But the biggest crevasse in the rocky face of the cliff was
no more. The whole face of the cliff had collapsed over the
mouth of the cave, sealing the entrance and burying the
Spanish galleon from prying eyes.
The gulls screamed their deﬁance from their newly-
shaped homes, and dipped gracefully in salute to the over-
whelming terror and might of the heaving seas.


SPANISH corn 17
\
some spot on the ﬂoor just ahead: it was only when she
shot a glance from beneath her bushy eyebrows that one
realized their extraordinary brightness.
But the most insistent cry of all came from the seat under
the leaded window in the corner. The window looked over
and across at the grey angriness of the Channel, and picked
up the shrill cry of the sea gulls as they wheeled away and
over the white walls of the old inn. Joanna turned angrily
at the raucous voice, and ambled muttering towards the
window seat.
There were three men sitting there. They had one thing
in common. All were dirty and unkempt. The leader, a stout
man, with a deep, rich voice, was distinguished by a black
patch over his right eye, and a perpetual leer in his other.
From time to time he paused in his conversation to stroke
his eye patch thoughtfully, and to peer unblinkingly at the
other men: two nondescript individuals, one thin and
cadaverous of feature and possessing a wooden leg which
was thrust out alongside the rum-stained table; the other,
a slight, rat—like man, with pointed face and small eyes who
was known as Dandy.
The man with the patch suddenly thrust his hand into
his pocket and pulled out a gold coin. Then in that low
rich voice: “See here, mates-—” he began, “the gold moi-
dore as ever was. Look at it.”
He tossed it into the air and allowed it to fall with a
whirring tinkle on the table.
The others craned forward to look at it—Peg Leg du-
biously, and Dandy avidly licking his lips at the sight of
the thick yellow gold piece.
Joanna came slowly to the table, and stopped at the
sight of the coin. She giggled nervously.
“Heh, Patchy—ye’re playing nice games with a poor
woman—ﬂashin’ gold pieces in such a miserable house.


18 THE SPANISH GALLEON
Joanna likes gold, Patchy. I’ll get ye rum now—hot rum,
s1rs.”
Patchy Davis looked up at her quizzically.
“We’re beholden to ye, woman,” then to the two others,
“and that’s the hinﬂuence of yellow gold, me buckoes.
’Twill sure turn a heart of stone, that’s what. All right,
woman, bring us three rum punches, and bring ’em quick.”
Joanna turned smartly, and walked away, eyes to the
ground. Patchy watched her go, then turned to the others.
There was urgency in his demeanor, and furtiveness. He
blinked around before speaking.
“A gold moidore—that was found not a half mile from
this very window.”
They looked out through the window across the Chan-
nel where the waves showed their frothy tops white in
the moonlight—and to the stretch of yellow sand that
curved away toward the headland.
Patchy looked pleased at the effect of his words—he
reveled in dramatic situations and was enjoying himself.
“Under the Bishop’s Rock, that’s where this moidore
was found.” He pushed the coin towards Peg Leg. “D’you
notice anything strange about it?”
Peg Leg reached out his hand towards the gold piece,
only to be restrained by Patchy, who snapped, “Look, I
said, not touch!”
Peg Leg started back, growling hoarsely, and glowered
at the coin. “Ye needn’t be so touchy,” he began—“I’m not
goin’ to lift it.”
Patchy Davis stroked his eye-shade slowly, and looked
steadily at him with his one eye—there was a world of
unutterable menace in the unwinking stare of the solitary
orb, before which Peg Leg cowered.
“I’m still skipper of this craft,” said Patchy softly, “and
I don’t like shipmates who lose sight of that.”


SPANISH GOLD 19
Peg Leg swallowed and started to speak, but was re-
strained. Patchy went on:
“That gold moidore tells me certain things. See the date
on it?”
The little man leaned forward and peered hard at the
coin.
..wyﬁ HH,,.3J.3

_
“I can’t see nothing, Mr. Davis. Nothing at all. Now hif
I could pick it up and spit on hit, and rub it a bit with me
sleeve—then p’raps, I could see——”
Patchy smiled. “I’ll tell ye the date, me buckoes. 1629.
That’s it. 1629.”
Peg Leg looked blank. “What difference does that
make?” he asked.
“The difference between my brain and yours. Now like
a real honest sailorman I took this coin up to the old rector.
I knocked at the front door, polite like, and he asked me
in. He told me about the good ship Espinosa del Ter-
rega——”
Dandy sighed. “A furriner,” he said.


20 THE SPANISH GALLEON
Davis nodded his head vigorously. “A Spanish furriner,
what carries a beautiful Spanish lady to this country two
hundred years ago.”
“What for?” growled Peg Leg.
Dandy looked wearily at Peg Leg. “Don’t hinterrupt,”
he said. “Let Mr. Davis ﬁnish.”
“Well,” continued Patchy. “This Spanish lady was com--
ing here to be married, see? And the ship carried her——”
He broke off suddenly as Joanna picked her away through
the throng, carefully carrying three steaming tankards of
rum. Patchy picked up the gold coin and carelessly tossed
it in the air.
Joanna slid the tankards across the table, and laughed
shrilly. “There, gentlemen, that will thaw the evening chill
from your bones. The best in the house. Shall I change
the gold piece for you, Mr. Davis?”
Patchy looked up at her. “No, Joanna, not yet. Pay her,
Dandy.”
The dirty little man pushed out some coins with ill-
disguised reluctance, and threw them on the table.
Patchy waited until Joanna had returned to the bar
before resuming his story. Then in a muttered monotone-
“The rector told me that the ship was lost without trace.
A ship full of gold coins—no spars or driftwood—nothing.
Just disappeared.”
Peg Leg gaped. “Did the rector tell you the spot she dis-
appeared?”
“Don’t be a fool,” answered Patchy. “Thousands would
like to know that—wouldn’t they?”
“But if you know the place, what are we waiting for?”
“We’re waiting until to-morrow afternoon because I’ve
got an appointment with the rector——”
And Patchy leaned back and smiled indulgently at the
open mouths of his companions.


SPANISH GOLD 21
The following afternoon Patchy strode purposefully up
the cliff path, towards the rectory. A gabled old house,
weathered grey by winters of channel storms, it was
perched precariously on the side of the cliff road, and
commanded a magniﬁcent view of the broad sweep of
stormy sea. The house was surrounded by a lawn of ﬁbrous
seaturf across which Patchy walked timidly towards the
front door. Once there he stood looking at the big brass
knocker, and spitting on his hand, smoothed his hair, and
gently raised the knocker.
The sound echoed through the house. Patchy stroked
his eye-shade and looked-ill at ease. He fumbled in his
pocket and dragged out a huge square of sail-cloth with
which he violently blew his nose. Then the door opened,
and the rector stood framed in the opening. He was a tall,
thin gentleman—very white. White of face, with a mop of
ﬁne snowy hair, and a gleaming clerical collar. He looked
quizzically at Patchy Davis, and coughed delicately in his
hand.
“Er—I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure——” he began.
Patchy became bluff. “We ain’t been interdooced offi-
cial,” he said, “and me name is Patchy Davis. Remember?
I was talking to you yesterday about gold coin.” He
looked around and shivered. “Cold and draughty standing
here, ain’t it, sir?”
The rector smiled. “Er yes,” he answered. “Even sum-
mer zephyrs become quite stormy up here. Yes indeed.
Er—perhaps you’d better come in. Yes, you’d better come
in to my study.”
He blinked at Patchy and swung around into the house.
Patchy followed at a respectable distance to the study.
“Now,” began the rector, “how—er can I accommodate
you?”
Patchy took the gold piece from his pocket, and tossed


22 THE SPANISH GALLEON
it on to the table before the rector. The old man picked it
up, turned it over and peered at it with undisguised in-
terest.
He sighed. “Part of the Braganza dowry—a magniﬁcent
specimen. I should like to add this to my collection.”
He looked up at Patchy and blinked.
“Shall we say—er—two guineas?”
Patchy shook his head. “Tell me the story of the dowry,
sir. You’re a scholar, and know everything. Me, I’m a
pore sailorman thirsting after knowledge.”
The rector smiled. “I have conducted considerable re-
search into the strange disappearance of the galleon. Yes.
So much so, that I am probably an expert on the subject.
The date was 1629, and Spain very rich at the expense of
her newly-won colonies—-Spain was a land of gold at that
time. Her galleons sailed on all the seas of the world——”
Patchy coughed loudly. “Excusin’ an ignorant sailor'-
man, sir, wot lost his eye a serving His Majesty, but what
about the lady—the Spanish lady?”
“Oh yes, of course. She was engaged to be married to
an English nobleman, and sailed for this country in a Span-
ish galleon. The cargo was largely made up of gold pieces-
moidores—precious stones, and other rare and valuable fur-
nishings that Catherine de Braganza was bringing to her
English home. The Espinosa del Terrega was in sight of
these coasts when a violent storm arose, and strange as it
may seem, the galleon disappeared completely.”
Patchy Davis leaned forward eagerly. “Where? Do you
know where she disappeared?”
The rector shook his head. “Several people would like
to know that. The secret has been well kept for over two
hundred years.”
Davis tried to conceal his disappointment. He picked up
the gold moidore from the desk, and stood up facing the


SPANISH GOLD 23
old man. “I’m beholden to ye, sir,” he said. “And from
now on my guess is as good as yours. I’m after that gold,
sir, and nothing’ll stop Patchy Davis when he starts after
gold.” He moved to the door.
The rector looked at him, and remarked mildly, “You
sound very determined, Mr. Davis. If I may be permitted,
I have a theory——”
‘ Davis turned eagerly and faced the rector. “A theory’s
a guess, ain’t it? All right, let’s have your guess ﬁrst.”
But before the rector had an opportunity to vouchsafe
his theory the door burst open, and a boy came into the
room, words trembling on his lips and eyes alight. A boy
with jet black hair, and russet brown skin, clear-eyed and
unafraid.
Then he saw the old seaman standing there and stroking
his black eye-shade reﬁectively.
“Why! It’s Patchy Davis!” he burst out.
Patchy looked pleasurably at the youngster and rumbled
happily: “Most boys up and down the coast know me. An
old sailorman what lost his eye in a ﬁerce naval engage-
ment.” Patchy beamed, and showed his broken teeth in
a wide smile.
Peter ignored his blandishments, and crossed to face his
uncle.
“Uncle, it was this man who took the gold coin from
Dewi down at the Bishop’s Rock yesterday. He had his
hat down over his eyes, but I saw him. I’ll call Dewi——”
He ran to the door and called out. A moment later Dewi
came in. A small boy burned by the sun, his mass of tow-
colored hair bleached almost white; he was barefooted,
and stood at the door uncomfortably twisting his toes with
embarrassment.
Peter turned excitedly to Dewi. “Now Dewi—do you
recognize this man?” He pointed at Patchy.


24. THE SPANISH GALLEON
The rector cleared his throat, and coughed quietly.
“Ahem—this business savors of the—er—inquisition,” he
began. “It’s—er—most disturbing.”
Patchy broke in. “That’s all right, sir, boys will be
boys.” He fumbled in his pocket, and took out the gold
moidore, then with a magniﬁcent gesture he handed the
coin to Peter. “There,” he smiled, “Patchy Davis always
tries to right a wrong.”
Dewi looked hard at Davis, then said, “My dad said
you were a rogue.”
Patchy" grinned. “Them’s hard words, young sir, but
if I’ve offended your father at any time, then I’ll apologize
now to his son. And here’s the gold moidore——”
He grinned broadly. Then placing his foreﬁnger along-
side his nose winked prodigiously at the rector. “Buried
treasure, hey?” he said nasally. “I could tell ye tales that
would twist the ears off of you——”
Dewi piped out deﬁantly, “P’raps Peter and I could tell
you something, too. These coins are always being washed
up at the same place—down by the Three Fingers Rock.”
Patchy started visibly, and_looked eagerly at the deﬁant
little towheaded ﬁgure. “Three Fingers Rock, hey?” he
said. “Ye’re a pair of clever youngsters ye are, what knows
things. Patchy must keep his one good eye ﬁrm ﬁxed on
you.” Then going to the door with a breezy “Best respects”
to the rector, he disappeared hurriedly.
Peter turned angrily on Dewi. “You silly cuckoo, why
did you tell him?”
The rector looked up from his desk. “I wish you’d go
away, Peter,” he said wearily. “I’m busy.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle,” answered Peter, “but did you tell
him?” I
“Tell him what, my boy?”
“Your theory about the Spanish galleon.”


SPANISH‘ 001.1) 25
“Er—let me see—er no, I don’t think so. You mean about
the galleon being driven into one of the lofty caves here-
abouts, and a landslide sealing the ship in the cliff?”
“That’s it, sir. Did you tell him?”
“Er—no. I don’t think I did.”
“Good,” said Peter, evidently pleased. “Dewi and I have
a clue, and we intend following it up to the end.”
The rector looked worried. “I trust it won’t mean scal-
ing cliffs and indulging in other such hazardous exploits.
I think it would be better if you left such an undertaking
to others.”
Peter grinned. “We’ll be all right, sir. We’re starting
early to-morrow at Three Fingers. We’ll search every inch
of the cliff until we ﬁnd the cave where the treasure ship
is. Come on, Dewi.”
Eagerly chatteringthe two boys went out, the rector
staring after them and lugubriously scratching his head.


CHAPTER THREE
UNDER THE WATERFALL
THE DAWN HAD colored the sea slate-grey when Peter and
Dewi set out the following morning for the foreshore.
Slung over Peter’s back was a canvas satchel, while Dewi
had a coil of rope wound around his waist.
Peter’s uncle had ﬁred their imaginations months ago
with his story of the Spanish galleon being buried intact
in the cliff, and whenever weather pennitted the two boys
explored the loftly caves and inlets of the cliﬁ.
One signiﬁcant clue was the repeated presence of pieces
of Spanish gold being turned up in the sand—and always
at the same spot, the base of Three Fingers Rock.
Peter was chattering about this as they made their way
to the Rock.
“You see, Dewi,” he was saying, “the galleon must be
somewhere behind the cliif—and it must be there some-
where.” He indicated the sheer mass of rock that extended
for hundreds of feet from the sandy shore to the summit.
Screaming gulls wheeled and glided from ledges overhead,
26


UNDER THE WATERFALL 27
and occasionally small stones fell with a cloud of rattling
dust.
Some one hundred yards from them there was a water-
fall.
Dewi scratched his towhead dubiously. “But we’ve
searched here before, Peter,” he said, “and there’s no open-
ing anywhere near.”
Peter stared hard at the cliff face, then suddenly pointed
in the direction of the waterfall. “There’s one place we
haven’t searched,” he exclaimed.
Dewi followed his outstretched hand to the falls. The
Rectory brook ﬂowed over the cliff at this point, and
threw a ﬁne curtain of spray over the sheer wall of rock.
Peter looked up thoughtfully. “I’d like to go up,” he
said suddenly, “and look behind the falls.”
He stumbled across the sand to the cliff face, and lean-
ing against a rock, looked up. 0
Dewi watched him with admiration. He was quite con-
tent to leave all deductions and plans of campaign to his
friend. -
Peter turned to Dewi excitedly.
“You see,” he began, “the water jumps from the top,
and leaves a space. I’d like to get up there, and have a look
behind the falls.”
Dewi looked dubiously at him. “We’ll never ﬁnd a cave
halfway up the cliff, Peter,—and anyhow, how do you
propose to get up there?”
“Climb up,” came the answer.
Dewi stared up at the hundred feet of rock that stretched
ﬂatly to the blue morning sky.
“All right,” he said limply. “Lead on. I’ll follow.”
Peter grinned delightedly, and reaching up for a crevice,
levered himself upwards amid a shower of rattling stones.


28 THE SPANISH GALLEON .
H 7 ' 77
It s all right, he called a moment later. “Just like going
upstairs.”
Dewi gasped, and followed in Peter’s tracks.
Slowly they approached the summit, clinging like house-
ﬂies to the face of the cliff. They were now breathless
and panting as a result of their exertions. Peter was begin-
ning to regret his rash venture. He had hazarded a quick
glance down, and the sight of the drop caused him to draw
in his breath with a little hiss. He called out softly to Dewi
behind him, and told him not to look down. There was no
turning back now—it was the top or nothing.
He glanced up where the white smother of water
plunged over the cliff top, and gritted his teeth.
He heard Dewi gasping behind him. “Try to cling here
a while,” he panted. “Not far to go now.”
Dewi kept his eyes ﬁxed on the swinging satchel that
hung out sickeningly from Peter’s back. From time to time
a shower of pebbles and little ﬂurries of dust eddied down
from Peter’s scrambling feet.
Sea gulls screamed away from their nests in the cliff, and
swung away lazily and angrily in low sweeping dives.
Dewi groaned. “I can’t hold on much longer, Peter—my
arms feel red hot—I’ve never been up as high as this be-
fore.”
Peter glanced quickly down. “Hold on, Dewi,” he said.
“We’ll move across from here. Across and towards the
falls. I think there’s a ledge jutting out. You follow me.”
He moved cautiously across the face of the cliff, and
towards the falls, feeling each foothold with inﬁnite care,
and kicking away clouds of chalky dust as he went-
nearer and nearer until he swung himself on to the narrow
platform of rock that jutted out. It was a treacherous re-
fuge, for the spray from the falls had given it a slippery
surface; the slightest change of position meant taking a


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UNDER THE WATERFALL 33
Peter shook him impatiently. “Can’t you see it ﬂicker-
ing?” he asked.
Again Dewi nodded his head as Peter went on. “That
means there must be an opening there,” pointing into the
darkness and away from the entrance.
They moved forward, the ﬂame guttering and dancing
more ﬁercely as they went, until they found themselves
at the entrance to a tunnel whose mouth gaped blackly
before them, and seemed to be full of an unknown menace.
Everything was still and quiet, with a sombre silence that
seemed to hang over them like a blanket.
Peter shivered slightly, and forced himself to laugh.
“Golly,” he said, “but it’s as quiet as the grave, isn’t it?”
Dewi started and hissed. “That’s stupid talk, Peter. As
if we are buried. Let’s go on through the tunnel and see
what happens.” -
And linking their arms ﬁrmly the boys disappeared into
the gaping blackness of the tunnel.


CHAPTER FOUR
THE CHASE IN THE TUNNELS
AT THE EXACT moment that Peter and Dewi disappeared
into the tunnel, Patchy Davis was seated in the favorite
window seat of The Jolly Fishermen and sipping a tot of
rum. Facing him across the table sat Joanna looking more
wrinkled and rosy in the bright sunlight that ﬂooded
through the leaded window and shone on the oak rafters
of the room.
Patchy was exerting himself to please the woman. “You
see,” he was saying, “you understand me, Joanna. And for
why? Because you are one of the wealthiest women along
the coast. Oh ay, but Patchy Davis knows. He knows all
about it, does Patchy.”
Joanna darted a sharp glance at him. “What do you
know, Patchy?” she inquired.
Patchy laughed, and with shoulders shaking, looked
around. “The Jolly Fishermen is a snug little tavern,
Joanna, and owned entirely by you. Now you’re careful
and cautious like, and ye’ve no doubt gotten together a
34


THE CHASE IN THE TUNNELS
nice tidy sum of money.” He looked knowingly at the
woman, and winked prodigiously.
Joanna was nervous, and showed it. She wondered what
was coming next. Patchy Davis’s reputation was too no-
torious to be lightly dismissed, and he was most dangerous
when he smiled and put on an air of good fellows, and the
woman was awaiting his next remark with something akin
to alarm.
Patchy continued, “I’m hot after the treasure of the
Spanish lady.”
Joanna sighed with relief. So that was it. She laughed
shrilly before speaking. “A child’s dream, Patchy Davis.
Every kid along the coast has been looking for it. It’s a
fool story, and I’m surprised that a grown man could be
so stupid. Give it up, Patchy Davis, and have another glass
of rum.”
“A child’s dream, hey? But I have proof, my woman.
And right at this moment one of my mates is trailing a pair
of young boys—a pair of venturesome frisky young colts
what’ll risk anything—they’re going to lead Patchy Davis
to the treasure galleon.”
“Still getting other people to do the work for you,
Patchy? But tell me, why are you telling me this story?
I’m only a woman, and a woman can do nothing, Mr.
Davis.” \
“Only a woman, hey? But a woman with money. And
money tells tales, Joanna. Ye’re going to lend Patchy Davis
a hundred guineas.”
Joanna stood up and faced him. “Ye’re joking, Davis.
Where would a poor old woman like me have a hundred
guineas?” _
Patchy leaned back, and stared ﬁxedly at the woman.
“There’s money along the coast, Joanna,” he said seriously,
“and plenty of it. The coast guards are at their wits’ end


36 THE SPANISH GALLEON
to stop the smuggling gang that’s working here.” He stood
up, and thumped the table. “Your customers are men of
guineas, Joanna, and some of it sticks. It’s been sticking to
you, Joanna, for a good many years. I’m asking you cool
and quiet for a loan of a hundred of those guineas. I want
a boat and vittles. That’s all.”
He sat down and stared at Joanna, but any answer she
intended giving was stopped on her lips, for the door burst
open suddenly to admit Dandy Evans. He was dusty and
breathless. '
“You’re right, Mr. Davis,” he gasped. “Right as ever
Was. I hid behind a rock like you said, and the kids climbed
the cliff by the waterfall, and disappeared.”
“Disappeared? You fool——”
“Mr. Davis—I saw ’em. I know where they’ve gone. It’s
a hole in the cliff, and behind the waterfall. We’ll want
ropes, Mr. Davis—and lanterns. They’re on the track of the
treasure!”
Patchy jumped up, and looked triumphantly at Joamia.
“Ye see,” he shouted. “Didn’t Patchy tell ye?” Then turn-
ing to Dandy he snapped—“Don’t stand there gawking.
Get a lanter n and some ropes—quickly.”
For the next few minutes Patchy Davis was in a fever
of impatience. He stamped up and down rubbing his eye-
shade vigorously and shooting remarks at Joanna.
“I’ll be a rich man, See? Lord of the Coast, that’s what
they’ll be a-callin’ of Patchy. Plenty of money to do as I
like. I’ll show ’em a thing or two.”
Only when Dandy re-entered did he cease his tirade,
and grasping his arm hurried him out from the inn.
# G Q i # #
Meanwhile Peter and Dewi had plunged deeper into the
tunnel and discovered that they had stumbled into a veri-


THE CHASE IN THE TUNNELS 37
table labyrinth of passages that radiated in all directions.
The candle had guttered low, and fearful lest they
should be trapped without light, Peter had blown out the
candle and carefully husbanded the remaining stump.
They moved cautiously forward in the stygian black-
ness, feeling their way against the side of the tunnel, and
on the watch for pitfalls and low roofs. The ﬂoor and roof
of the tunnel undulated, and in places was littered with
rocks and boulders.
They had walked for some distance, the tunnel always
shelving downwards, when Peter heard the splashing of
water, and just ahead noticed a feather of white spray in
the gloom.
He called to Dewi, and the boys increased their speed
until they came to a pool fed by a tiny rivulet of water
that fell from high in the roof. The pool had overﬂowed,
and the water formed a stream, using the ﬂoor of the tun-
nel as a bed.
Peter cupped his hands, and drank a deep draught of
the ice-cold water.
“It’s good,” he said, wiping his mouth.
“It’s fresh!” exclaimed Dewi. “It’s not salt.”
“Of course. Then it must be part of the rectory brook
that has seeped through into this passage. And the water
is ﬂowing down. So if we follow this water tunnel we will
get to the foreshore. Come on, Dewi.”
And with a whoop Peter jumped over the pool and
splashed ankle deep through the subterranean stream.
In a hundred yards the tunnel suddenly narrowed, and
Peter felt the walls to be damp, and with a quickness that
was alarming they found the water swishing around their
knees.
Dewi’s teeth chattered, and Peter fumbled for the candle
stump and the tinder. Came the scrape of the ﬂint, and


38 THE SPANISH GALLEON
soon the pale yellow glow of the candle ﬂickered on the
wet walls of the tunnel and revealed the swirling blackness
of the water about them. Peter took one look at Dewi’s
lugubrious face, and turned away.
“We’l1 go on,” he announced in an unsteady voice.
“But the water’s rising,” chattered Dewi. “Surely we’re
not going to be drowned and buried alive?”
Peter’s answer was stopped short as Dewi suddenly blew
out the candle.
“What is——?” commenced Peter.
“Hssst,” whispered /Dewi sibilantly. “I can hear voices.”
They stood stock still, and listened intently. At ﬁrst the
only sound was the lapping of the water about their feet,
and the dripping patter of drops from the roof. Then Peter
saw the ﬁrst pale glimmer of light far away down the pas-
sage which they had just traversed. Then the noisy pro-
gress of men, and the mixed murmur of heavy voices.
Dewi gripped Peter’s arm, and whispered, “Search
party? D’you think they're looking for us?”
Peter shook his head. “I dunno,” he answered, “but we
won’t take any chances. We’ll wait until we can either
see them, or hear their voices.” .
The boys stood in the numbing cold of the water and,
fascinated, watched the dancing orb of light jump crazily
closer.
Then the splashing of feet through the pool, then a
gruff voice echoing faintly in their ears “—always tries to
right a wrong.” Then loudly roaring, “Are ye sure the
kids are in this stinking blackness?”
Dewi gasped, and clutched hard at Peter’s arm.
“Jumping mackerel! It’s Patchy Davis! Peter, he’s after
us.” ~
“Must have been watching us climbing the cliff.”
“What shall we do?” _


THE CHASE IN THE TUNNELS 39
“Come on—as quickly as we can.”
And with a ﬂurry of cold limbs the boys waded quickly
through the water.
The splashing soon gave away their position, for a cry
faintly echoed in their ears. “Ahoy there, me bonny boys!
Ahoy! Here’s Patchy Davis a-come to help ye!”
To this was added the shrill piping of Dandy Evan’s
tinny voice, and Peg Leg’s gruff monotones.
Frantically the boys waded and splashed, fell and gasped
through the subterranean stream, all thoughts of hidden
pot-holes and low roofs forgotten as they plunged madly
along, leaving a frothy mass of bubbles and scutter of foam
in their wake.
The yellow ﬂicker of the lantern slowly receded, and
Peter was about to call a halt when Dewi gasped, “Peter!
Can you hear anything? In front of us, I mean?”
Peter shook his head, and moved away. “Come on,” he
said, “we’ve no time to waste.”
He splashed urgently through the water, but stopped
short as he heard an unmistakable and eerie howling noise
in front. Dewi clutched Peter’s arm.
“There,” he stammered, “now do you believe me? It’s
not human.”
“Have you forgotten that Patchy Davis is behind us?”
“And ghosts in front. What are we to do?”
“We can’t stay here. I suggest that we choose the ghost.
Come on.”
Slowly they moved in the direction of the fearsome
sound, Dewi clutching a rock. He had decided to sell him-
self dearly, but could not help wondering what would be
the reaction of a ghost to a boulder at its head.
Approaching a bend ir1 the tunnel they again heard the
howling. This time it was ﬁerce in its intensity. Starting as
a low moan the sound increased until it became a ﬁendish


THE CHASE IN THE TUNNELS 41
before it dipped again. The surface was smooth and sandy,
and the boys made good progress.
Gaining the top of the rise Peter suddenly paused as his
foot kicked against something in the darkness. It was not a
stone. It was something metallic that rang sharply. He
fumbled at it, and discovered it to be a lantern.
Excitedly he called Dewi. The ﬁsher-boy bent his tow-
head close to the lantern and sniffed. “It smells of oil,” he
announced.
“But that’s impossible! No one knows of these tunnels
except us.”
“It smells of oil all the same. Suppose you try to light it.”
Peter scraped his ﬂint and applied the ﬂame to the wick
of the lantern. It ﬂared up immediately.
“You see?” said Dewi. “Someone’s been using it lately.”
Peter swung around. “Look—over there. Another cave.
Let’s explore.”
“What about Patchy Davis? He can’t be very far behind.
We would be trapped——” ‘
“You stay here on guard. I’ll go inside.”
And without waiting for a protest he vanished into the
cave, swinging the newly-found lantern jubilantly.
Dewi squatted cross-legged on the sandy ﬂoor of the
passage and stared dismally down the slope towards the
howling blow-hole. From time to time the air would come
swishing up through the funnel, making the unearthly
sound that shivered eerily in the blackness.
He thought of the tons of earth above him, and the lofty
caves below; the endless expanse of white capped sea that
surged against the cliff, and he felt very small and insigni-
ﬁcant.
These miserable thoughts were suddenly interrupted by
a cry of delight from the cave, and an excited yell that


4.2 THE SPANISH GALLEON
forced him, stumbling awkwardly through the darkness,
towards the yellow glow of the lanter n light.
Peter was bending over a chest, and rummaging the
contents. _
“It’s a smugglers’ cave,” he cried, “a real smugglers’
cave! Golly, what luck!”
He pulled at a bundle of tarpaulin, and holding the
lantern high, inspected it more closely. Dewi spelt out the
word stamped boldly across the surface—“CH R I S-
T I A N S E N.”
“Christiansen,” he repeated, “that was the Danish brig
that was wrecked last month—her cargo was stolen by the
wreckers, and her crew murdered.” ~
“Last month,” whispered Peter softly, “then there have
been people here recently.”
“Somewhere in these caves the wreckers have made their
headquarters. The coast guards are after them. Peter, I’m
scared. There’s more in this than just ﬁnding a buried
treasure ship.”
Peter threw back the tarpaulin. “We must get out as
quickly as we can. Then tell Captain Handel Morgan of
the coast guards what we have found.”
“Yes, but how can we get out? Patchy Davis isn’t far
behind, and we don’t know what is ahead of us.”
“Come on. I’ve an idea. Help me push these kegs out-
side.”
He indicated a pile of small kegs in the corner by a
swing of the lantern.
“They’re full of spirits. Brandy chieﬂy. We’ll roll them
down at the scoundrels as they come up the slope.”
Dewi stared at the kegs without answering.
“Brandy,” he whispered. “Now if we could ﬁre it as
well.”


THE CHASE IN THE TUNNELS 43
He looked at Peter and grinned. “That should stop
them.”
“And the draught of air from the blow-hole would fan
the ﬂames. Golly, it’s a wonderful idea!”
Quickly the boys wheeled and pulled the kegs out of
the cave, and ranged them on the ﬂat ledge overlooking
the slope that led down to the blow-hole.
They had barely completed their task when they heard
the low buzz of subdued conversation.
Peter chuckled. “I expect they’re scared stiff—I can
imagine that dirty little rascal, Evans, shivering in his shoes.
No doubt it’s Patchy Davis that persuaded them to come
as far as this.”
Dewi was busily engaged soaking lumps of tow in paraf-
ﬁn, and nodded his head in silent agreement.
The voices came nearer, and Patohy’s low rumbling
voice could be clearly distinguished.
“Patchy’s afraid of no living thing! Move on, you yel-
low-livered lubbers! There’s a king’s ransom a-head of ye,
and nothing but a shrieking howling banshee between us
and the treasure! For a hundred guineas I’d split any
banshee in two. Come on, ye frightened dogs!”
The voice grew louder and more ﬁerce as the mﬂians
approached the blow-hole, and the two boys could not
help a sneaking feeling of admiration for the bluff approach
of the one-eyed scoundrel towards the blow-hole. Then
through the gloom they detected his shadowy outline as
he stumped purposefully down the slope, followed by two
ﬁgures that cringed fearfully against the wall.
“Onward!” he boomed. “If two brave buckoes of kids
can come this way, then so can Patchy Davis—and may
the howling banshee yell a hole through his silly empty
head!”
Then he looked up, and saw the yellow smudge of


4.4. THE SPANISH GALLEON
Peter’s lantern. He stiffened, and his whole attitude altered,
and he stood there, feet apart, and, throwing his head back,
laughed raucously.
“Me bonny boys,” he chuckled, “here’s old Patchy
come to fetch ye. To guard and watch over ye. Why do
ye run from old Patchy? Patchy always tries to right a
wrong.”
The boys heard a succession of violent imprecations
from Dandy and Peg Leg which were sharply silenced by
Patchy Davis’s snapping voice. Then, turning his head
toward the boys again, in honeyed tones, he said:
“Wait for me, boys. Old Patchy’s not as nimble as you
are. He’s not used to cliﬂ climbing and underground tun-
nels. Old Patchy’s an old man, me bonny brave boys.”
Peter’s voice rang out bell-like through the darkness.
“Stay where you are, Davis! I’m warning you!” -
A roar of laughter answered the boy’s brave challenge,
followed by Dandy’s high-pitched voice crying out
against the boy’s impudence. This was followed by the
rattling of a stone against the walls of the tunnel.
Dewi jumped up. “They’re throwing rocks at us,'Peter,”
he snapped. “Put your jacket around the lantern.” .
Peter laughed as he stripped off his coat, and threw it
over the light. He knew that he could rely implicitly on
Dewi in a moment of crisis. The ﬁsher-boy was ﬁghting
against something tangible, and almost felt like whistling
as he fumbled for the ﬂint and tinder.
He was lighting the ﬁrst piece of oil-soaked tow when
Patchy Davis again called out from the bottom of the
slope:
“I’m coming up, me buckoes!” he yelled. “Slow and
quiet-like, but I’m coming up all the same. And there’ll
be no more stone-throwing. I’ve had the pleasure of
stretching him what threw the stone senseless as ever was.”


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THE CHASE IN THE TUNNELS 4.7
Hastily Peter raised a big rock and stove in the ﬁrst
keg. Dewi quickly tossed in the ﬂaming oil-soaked rag,
and with a quick push sent the barrel of ﬂaming spirit spin-
ning down the slope towards Patchy Davis.
Then as quickly as Peter smashed in the kegs, Dewi
ignited them and sent them careering down towards the
nonplussed Davis.
The slope became a pathway of ﬂame and yellow fumes
mingled with the shouts and curses of Patchy and his
henchmen as they staggered back yelling imprecations and
dire threats at the boys.
Then, coming to the last barrel, Peter seized it and, rais-
ing it above his head, hurled it far into the dancing ﬂicker
of burning spirit. It reached the blow-hole just as a sudden
gust of air came whistling up from the lofty blackness of
the caves below. The sudden rush of air fanned the ﬂames
and with a yowling swoosh a column of ﬂame shot up
behind the retreating treasure seekers.
Without a backward look Peter grasped Dewi by the
arm and ran quickly along the tunnel away from the ﬂames
and angry cries.


_
RECTOR AND COAST GUARD
THE COAST GUARD STATION was a little, whitewashed cot-
tage situated somewhat boisterously on the top of the head-
land, and overlooking the Channel. The constant quiver
and ﬂap of the ﬂag outside bore eloquent testimony of the
storminess of the site.
Except for the ﬂagpole in the middle of the close-crop-
ped lawn and the iron bars at the window, it differed little
from the other cottages sprinkled about the coast.
Captain Handel Morgan lived at the station with Dai,
nicknamed “Slippers.” Dai “Slippers” did the household
tasks, overhauled the armory, and attended to the ﬂag
every morning and night.
Captain Morgan was the Crown representative for the
area, and his jurisdiction extended for over twenty miles
48


50 THE SPANISH GALLEON
“But accidents will happen, sir, if you see what I mean.”
He sighed heavily. “Many’s the brave body I’ve seen
washed up on the foreshore. Bodies that have swole
u _n
PThe doughty captain spluttered so much that his whiskers
quivered as he turned on Dai. “You’re nothing but a bab-
bling Jonah,” he thundered. “Do ye want to upset the
reverend gentleman?”
Dai swallowed hard, and looked crestfallen at the rector.
“I’m sorry, rector bach,” he said. “I do a deal of empty
talk without much thinking. Y’see that’s why I’m only
the assistant guard here instead of being boss over Cap’n
Morgan here.” He turned to the chief coast guard—“I’nt
it, Cap’n Morgan, sir?”
The look he received from his superior caused his lips
to close with a snap, and he stared out to sea unblinkingly.
“They’ve been away so long,” the rector said. “Of
course, they raided the—er—larder before they went, but
I think that is the custom before embarking on such ex-
cursions.” ‘
“Did they mention where they were going?”
“Er—some treasure hunt or other. My research was
rudely disturbed. I am making an intensive study of the
geological strata of this coast, and yesterday I had reached
a most interesting theory regarding the limestone deposit.
Do you realize, Captain Morgan, that the geology of——”
Captain Morgan broke in: “The boys, reverend. You
were telling me about a treasure hunt. We will discuss the
geology at some other time.”
The rector blinked. “Er—yes, of course. How foolish
of me. Well, Peter and Dewi have an idea that they can
ﬁnd the Spanish lady’s treasure ship. You know the story,
of course?”
Morgan nodded. “Every strip of coast in the country


RECTOR AND COAST GUARD 5I
has some such story. Spanish galleons and buried treasune,
or smugglers’ hoards and pirates’ loot. They’re just tales
handed down from father to son.”
“Of course I am aware of that, captain, but this Spanish
lady story has more than an element of truth. I have made
a wide study of the subject and am convinced that there
really is a galleon buried in these cliffs. Of course it will
probably never be found, but——”
“But the boys think that they can ﬁnd it, hey? Well, I’ve
thought the same thing myself many times. So have you,
no doubt, hey?”
He looked slily at the rector as he spoke. Peter’s uncle
coughed gently.
“Er—yes, I must confess that the prospect intrigued me
at one time. Buried treasure has a fascination for me.”
“For us all, sir. For us all. So now you can put your
mind at rest. The two youngsters have gone a-roving
down the coast, and lost all track of time. They’ll no doubt
be popping up again before you know it.”
He stood up, and nudging Dai, jerked his thumb towards
the ﬂag.
“Time to get her in,” he said laconically.
The rector accepted the gesture as a token of dismissal,
and rose from the boat. He blew his nose softly.
“I’ll be getting along then, Captain Morgan. If I should
hear anything I’ll let you know.”
He walked away slowly, then looked back over his
shoulder.
“I wish I’d taken Patchy Davis’s advice,” he remarked
mildly, “and sent——”
His words were choked back into his mouth by a thun-
derous roar from Captain Handel Morgan, who had swung
around ﬁercely on the mention of Davis’s name.


5'2 THE SPANISH GALLEON
“Patchy Davis?” he choked, “and what has Patchy Davis
to do with this again?”
He advanced towards the rector. “Why didn’t you tell
me? Ye’re withholding information, that’s what ye’re
doing.”
The rector ﬁngered his collar nervously. “I had no idea,”
he stammered, “that Davis was such a dangerous character.
He seemed to be—er—quite affable and well-meaning.”
Handel Morgan led the clergyman back to the seat.
“Listen, reverend,” he began, “if Patchy Davis is mixed
up in this, then it’s serious. Very serious. I know Patchy
Davis very well. He’s a very clever rascal with a trick of
avoiding trouble by his oiliness. We know that he’s been
responsible for dozens of smuggling and thieving jobs up
and down the coast, but cannot get evidence.”
The rector broke in. “But he is an old Navy man. He
told me.”
Morgan laughed. “He lost his eye in a tavern brawl.
He’s never been further than the coast of France. But I
suspect him of worse than that.”
His voice sank to a whisper, and he looked around fur-
tively before going on.
“The biggest gang I’ve ever known in thirty years have
grabbed control of the whole coast. We are powerless to
stop them, reverend. They ship over cargoes of contraband
right under our noses, and then disappear as though the
earth had golloped them up.”
The rector blinked. “Dear me,” he murmured, “but I
had no idea——” 1
“Nor has anyone else. I’m trying to keep it quiet. If the
villagers hereabouts heard of a successful smuggling gang
they’d all want to join in.”
He sighed and looked gravely at the clergyman.


CHAPTER SIX
THE SPANISH LADY
WITH THUMPING HEARTS and leaden legs Peter and Dewi
had raced wildly along the passage that wound and spun
its serpentine way deeper and deeper into the depths of
the cliff. The air had taken on sharp freshness, and at times
the boys felt a cold breeze whipping across their hot faces.
Always their path led them down—gently sloping at ﬁrst
until it became almost a sharp drop.
Peter was gradually forming the opinion that they would
soon ﬁnd themselves on the sandy bed of the foreshore,
and would possibly ﬁnd a means of escape through one of
the lofty caves that opened their big mouths to the lash of
the sea.
Dewi was dismal. He was never at his best while mn-
ning from danger. He was essentially a boy of vigorous
action and present trouble. Besides, a gnawing at his stom-
ach reminded him that some considerable time had elapsed
since he had eaten. His thoughts switched quickly from
golden pieces of eight to meat pasties of gargantuan pro-
portions and steaming bowls of hot soup.
55


56 THE SPANISH GALLEON
He had tried sucking a smooth pebble, but his wild
thoughts of food had caused him to clamp his teeth on the
tiny stone. He rubbed his jaw ruefully, and spat out the
pebble.
He turned his head to Peter, who was jogging along at
his side, and gasped: .
“When are we going to rest, Peter? I’m tired out.”
Peter changed the lantern to his other hand before an-
swering.
“I’ve a feeling that we’re almost at the end of the tunnel.
The ground has been sloping sharply for the last quarter
hour. I’m sure that we must be down on the foreshore.”
He grinned ruefully. “Be a disappointment if we just
walk out from the back of one of the big caves, won’t it?”
Dewi shook his head vigorously as he jogged along.
“Could get food. And get it quick. That’s all I want just
now.”
The soft sand now swirled about their feet and caused
them to stumble. Peter pointed out a danger in it. “Patchy
Davis and the others will be able to come upon us quickly.
Keep your ears open. The ﬂames won’t delay him long,
and he’ll have murder in his heart.”
Dewi griniaced. “And a pistol or a knife in his hand.
Come on, Peter. Let’s go quicker.”
He increased his speed, stumbling and slithering drunk-
enly through the cool soft sand and down the slope.
He ran a little ahead of his companion, and out of the
yellow orbit of the lantern and into the gaping blackness
of the tunnel.
Peter stared after him, marveling that he should have
raised such a remarkable burst of speed so soon after their
escape from Davis.
Then, swinging the lantern vigorously he yelled, and
started after him with the echo of his voice booming and


THE SPANISH LADY 57
rolling along the stone corridor before him. He had not
gone far when he was stopped short by a shriek and a crash
just in front of him.
He tried to call out, but fear for Dewi’s fate caused the
words to cling dryly to the roof of his mouth. Then he
hurried forward.
It was the yellow ﬂicker of the lantern that saved him
from the same fate that had befallen Dewi.
Before him he saw a long, steep ﬂight of stone steps that
had apparently been cut bodily into the ﬂoor of the tunnel.
Hurriedly he clattered down the steps.
There were twenty or thirty; he found himself me-
chanically counting them as he went down, his boots
crushing crisply on the powder of sand grains that lay
lightly on the stone. '
He paused, and holding up the lantern, peered blinking
into the drab darkness that lay before him. He thought he
detected a faint dark outline, and quickly scampered down
the steps, with the lantern swinging long ungainly shadows
behind him.
Dewi was seated on the bottom step groaning, and softly
rubbing his mass of tow-colored hair.
He looked up at Peter.
Peter gave a gasp of relief, and laughed uproariously
until they disappeared hollowly into the cool depths of
the earth.
“Down the steps,” muttered Dewi ruefully. “There were
a lot of them, and I bounced of f every one. Oooch, my
head!” -
Peter sat down on the step beside him, and cautiously
felt the egglike bump on Dewi’s head. He whistled softly:
“Whew!” he said, “What a beauty!”
He looked around casually. “But imagine stumbling
across a ﬂight of stone steps.”


58 THE SPANISH GALLEON
“Stone steps? I found them, didn’t I? I fell down ’em,
didn’t I?”
“Yes, but——” he turned excitedly, and shook Dewi.
“Can’t you see? The smugglers—the wreckers—they must
have cut them out of the rock. We must be getting near
their headquarters! Can’t you see, Dewi?”
Dewi rubbed his head. “If it’s a way out, let’s ﬁnd it and
use it. That’s all I say.”
“I agree. And go to Captain Morgan and tell him the
whole story.”
He held the lantern high, and stared around for a mo-
ment, then excitedly waved the light in front of him.
“Look! There in front! A door!”
Dewi looked up, and there, not more than ten yards
away, saw a big iron-bound door, heavily studded and
clamped—a door which spoke of mystery and wild excite-
ment, of unknown fascinating worlds and things, of books
and romance.
He arose unsteadily and walked gingerly to Peter’s side.
The boys stared at it, wonderment and awe written large
on their faces before they moved timidly up to it, and
passed their hands over the rough oak surface.
“I wonder if it’s open,” whispered Peter.
“Let’s try it and see,” answered Dewi, pushing at it with
his hand. .
“No,” he announced. “It’s locked.”
“Try again,” urged Peter. “It’s sure to be stiff. Besides,
it’s such a heavy thing. Come on now—together.”
Pushing and straining and gasping the boys hurled them-
selves at the big door, and were rewarded by a dismal
piercing screech which spoke of rusty hinges laboriously
and reluctantly working.
“Hasn’t been used much,” gasped Peter. “Come on


THE SPANISH LADY 61
again—there. And again. Now, I think we can squeeze
through. I’ll go ﬁrst.”
Pushing the lanter n before him Peter squeezed himself
through the aperture, closely followed by Dewi.
A wonderful sight ﬂashed upon them. They found them-
selves in a vast subterranean caver n illuminated by a soft
white glow that struck across them in shafts of shadowy
nebulous haze. Huge pillars reared themselves upwards
grotesquely to the impenetrable heights and disappeared
from view.
Before them, ﬂoating in a pool of water, was the galleon.
Perfectly still, and like a picture from a book: dainty and
delicate.
Peter sighed. “The galleon! Just look at it, Dewi! Like
a—like a lovely lady on a—on a—sheet of ice—golly!”
Dewi whispered: “Look up, Peter. Look up at the roof.
It’s the biggest cave in the world. And the pillars all around.
They are ﬁngers and legs stretching all the way up to
Heaven. Like being in church——”
, “A ship in a cathedral,” said Peter softly as he moved to
the fringe of the pool. He paused and looked over the still
sheet of water at the ship. Her name could be dimly dis-
cerned in the gloom, and he slowly spelled out the words:
“Espz'n0sa del Terraga.”
Dewi sighed happily. “Now we’ve found it, we can go
home, can’t we, Peter? Home to food and a good bed—to
see the sky again and to go ﬁshing in the Channel. Isn’t it,
Peter?”
Peter stared rapturously at the galleon, and did not an-
swer until Dewi tugged his arm.
“Heh? What did you say, Dewi?”
“Now we can go home, can’t we?”
Peter stared incredulously at his towheaded companion.


62 THE SPANISH GALLEON
“ =77 H
Go home. he said. You must be crazy, Dewi. We’re
going to board the gal1eon.”
“Board her? But—the water——”
“We’ll swim. Wait——”
He scooped up a palmful of water and tasted it. Then
he looked thoughtfully at the other.
“It’s fresh,” he announced.
Dewi shivered. “It’s going to be awful cold when we get
1n.”
“But can’t you see,” said Peter, “this pool is formed by
the rectory brook so we can’t be very far from uncle’s
house.”
Dewi looked up at the vastness of the cavern roof before
remarking drily, “If we could borrow gulls’ wings we could
ﬂy straight out from her, couldn’t we?”
Peter did not answer. He had stepped into the water and
was slowly wading out to the galleon. The water crept to
his knees—then his waist. He stood there, and looked back.
Through chattering teeth he stammered: “Come on,
Dewi—come on.”
Dewi gazed somberly at the blackness of the water that
lapped about his feet, then looked at Peter.
“Is it cold?” he asked.
Peter’s teeth rattled in his head, and failing to answer
verbally he waved his hand.
Dewi accepted the challenge, and stepped briskly into
the iciness of the water. Possibly he stepped too briskly,
for twisting awkwardly on a stone beneath the water, he
found himself suddenly spilled headlong into the pool.
Peter gaped admiringly at him as he wallowed and splut-
tered in the water. Frothing bubbles, and lashing the water
ﬁercely, he sent ripples to every part of the tiny beach
that ﬂanked the pool.


THE SPANISH LADY 63
“Gosh,” said Peter. “Good for you, Dewi. You’ve shown
me up this time.”
And holding the lanter n carefully above his head, he
lowered himself shudderingly into the icy inkiness of the
water, and thrashed his limbs vigorously, striking out for
the side of the ship, closely followed by the panting ex-
ertions of Dewi.
They were strong swimmers, and because of the absence
of any form of current soon found themselves clinging to
the side of the ship and staring up at the -bulwarks.
Dewi noticed a chain hanging over the side and made a
grab at it. He had hoisted himself almost to the deck when
the chain broke under the strain, and for the second time
in minutes he found himself once more unwillingly tossed
into the water.
Peter had by now swum around the other side, and dis-
covered a rope ladder dangling into the water. He yelled
at Dewi, and hastily clambered on to the deck of the
galleon.
A moment later he was joined by Dewi.
They stood there silently, the water dripping from them,
and running in tiny rivulets into the scuppers. Then softly
they squelched across the deck towards a hatchway.
Peter paused at the head of the stairway, and looked at
Dewi.
“It’s funny,” he began, “but it doesn’t look old. Every-
thing is shipshape, and stowed away Bristol fashion. I ex-
pected broken spars and dust and wreckage.”
Dewi looked fearfully at Peter.
“D’you think we’ll ﬁnd——” he hesitated and gulped—
“skeletons?”
Peter shook his head. “I—I don’t know. Let’s go down
to the Great Cabin and ﬁnd out.”


64 THE SPANISH GALLEON
Dewi grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said. “What about-
er—ghosts? The ghost of the Spanish lady, maybe?”
“Ghosts can’t hurt us,” answered Peter.
“I know. But they can frighten the lives out of us. Im-
agine going down there, and actually seeing the Spanish
lady—oh, golly.” He shivered and moved closer to Peter.
j Together they walked down the wide stairway, each step
creaking its protest as they went, and Peter muttering
angrily against the absence of dust and wreckage.
Then down a short corridor, and before them a door,
beautifully carved, and inlaid with rare woods.
It swung inwards easily at Peter’s touch, and the two
boys stood on the threshold and stared in.
They saw a luxuriously furnished cabin—daintily chosen
pieces of mahogany on a rich red carpet whose pile was of
a soft deepness.
Running around the room and looking totally out of
place were a number of big iron-bound chests, and in each
comer, bales of stuﬂ carefully sewn and bound.
Dewi broke the silence. “It’s the treasure,” he whispered,
“the Spanish lady’s treasure.”
He crossed into the room, and was suddenly halted by
Peter’s voice—“No Spanish lady put those chests and bales
there. We’ve stumbled upon a treasure house, but the
treasure belongs to the smugglers and wreckers. This is the
proﬁt of years of law breaking.” ~
“That’ll not stop us looking at it, will it?” .f
“I’m going to look at that desk. We may ﬁnd proof that
will send the gang to the gallows.”
He shook the desk, and tried the ﬂap, then attempted to
pry it open.
Meanwhile Dewi moved slowly towards the chests, and
ﬂung back the lid of one.
It was ﬁlled to the brim with gold pieces that shone


66 THE SPANISH GALLEON
“Patchy Davis wot always tries to right a wrong, and
who wants to help such brave boys.”
He looked at them smiling and reﬂectively stroking the
black patch over his eye.
“ ’Arsh you’ve been, boys. ’Arsh and cruel to old Patchy,
but bless you, Patchy forgives easy.”
Dandy Evans broke in behind him in a high-pitched
squeaking voice. “Hi don’t forgive! Not me! I’ll give the
brats the buckle end of me strap when I get ’em.”
The deep voice of Peg Leg growled assent.
Patchy stood between them and the boys, and snapped:
“Belay there, me hearties! No violence! I’m still skipper
of this craft.”
He looked quizzically at the boys before continuing:
“Ye’re wringing soppin’ wet, me bonny boys. Now if
ye’d been with Patchy he’d have shown ye where to ﬁnd
a boat that’d keep your feet dry. Now s’pose ye have a
peek at those chests, Dandy?”
Nothing loth, Dandy crossed over quickly, and stam-
mered with excitement at the sight that met his eyes.
“Gold!” he spluttered, and turning to the others, cupid-
ity and avarice written large on his face, gasped—“A king’s
ransom, that’s what it is! A king’s ransom!”
The news had no outward eﬂect on Patchy. “We’re
not kings,” he announced softly, “at least—not yet. We’re
going to keep our heads, and do a bit of thinking.”
Dandy and Peg Leg did not hear him, they were busily
engaged in cramming pieces of gold into all their available
pockets while Patchy looked contemptuously at them and
smiled.
It was Peter who spoke ﬁrst. “This is King’s business,
Davis,” he said. “And Captain Morgan is the representa-
tive of His Majesty on this coast.”
“Brave words, laddie—and spoken bravely. But we can’t


~ THE SPANISH LADY 67
be jumpin’ to such conclusions, at least not yet awhile.”
And turning to the others, he snapped: “Tie up these
bo s——”
Peg Leg growled his pleasure, and moved threateningly
towards Dewi while Dandy eyed Peter suspiciously. The
little man had a healthy respect for the resource of Peter
since the ﬁre episode at the blow hole.
The boys backed unsteadily into the corner of the cabin,
Dewi’s eyes were hot as he looked at his assailant, and a
faint blush appeared through the brown of his cheeks.
Had Peg Leg known the boy better he would have read
that signal and treated it with respect. Peter knew it. It
told him that his friend was ﬁghting mad and Peg Leg
would not bind him as easily as he thought.
From the corner of his eye he saw Dewi’s hand going
slowly behind his back, and reaching for a handful of
heavy gold coins. He grinned and did the same.
Dandy became immediately.suspicious of that smile and
halted, staring at the boy. “Grinning at me, hey?” he piped
in his high-pitched shrilling voice. Peter nodded his head,
and as both men prepared to pounce on the boys, they
both threw the coins full in the faces of their assailants.
The men staggered back, shouting imprecations and wild
oaths while the coins clattered and rolled to all corners
of the cabin.
Had it not been for the presence of Patchy Davis, the
boys would have escaped at that moment, but Patchy
leaned carelessly against the mahogany door, and roared
with laughter at the plight of his men.
“Two bonny boys,” he gasped, tears of merriment
streaming from his one good eye. “Did ye ever clap eyes
on such a brave pair of young buckoes?”
Peter stood deﬁantly and faced him—“You’ll get the


THE SPANISH LADY 69
“Now l’ll have to be a-leaving of ye, me boys. To make
arrangements.”
He scratched his head as he looked dovsm at them quiz-
zically. “Ye know too much, so I’ll have to dispose of ye.”
Then hastily he added, “With gentleness and no joy in me
heart, for Patchy hates violence and always tries to right
a wrong.”
Peter looked up at him. “You’re playing with ﬁre,
Davis,” he said. “And you’ll get burned.”
“Mebbe, Peter lad, mebbe. But it’s worth it, hey? For all
this——”waving his hand around the cabin.
Dewi squirmed into a sitting position, and faced Patchy
Davis. “It’s not a treasure trove, you fool! It’s smugglers
and wreckers gold! There’s blood on every gold piece, and
the smugglers would never rest until they had laid you by
the heels.” _
Patchy threw back his head, and laughed loud and long.
“I’m not afraid, boys. I’m afraid of nothing that walks
the earth. And I’m going back to the Jolly Fishermen to
arrange a sea voyage for you. There’s a boat sailing from
Bristol at the end of the week. You will be passengers, and
Patchy will be a-paying of your fare. Nothing like a sea
voyage for a pair of boimy boys.”
He turned away from them, and went to the door. Then,
as if he suddenly remembered something, he thrust his
hand deep into his capacious pocket and threw a huge hunk
of bread and a slab of meat at the boys.
“No need for ye to starve, boys. Eat. ’Twill make ye big
and strong.”
And with a rich laugh on his lips he threw open the
door.
It was Dandy who ﬁrst looked up the stairs towards the
deck. It was Dandy who saw the weird apparition standing
there. A woman, dressed in Spanish costume, complete


70 THE SPANISH GALLEON
with lace mantilla. She stood there silhouetted in the half
light and stared down at the men. She looked contemptu-
ously, scornfully, at them, as beﬁtted the daughter of a
Spanish grandee, and even the redoubtable Patchy felt
uncomfortable.
For an appreciable time she remained there staring. Her
outline became nebulous as the blackness of her ﬁne lace
seemed to merge with the half light of the cave.
The men were transﬁxed.
“It’s a ghost!” whispered Dandy fearfully. “The ghost
of the Spanish lady! We’re haunted, that’s what——”
Then the apparition seemed to glide down the stairway
toward the men. There was a scurry of feet as they dashed
back into the cabin. Dandy threw himself through the
window closely followed by Peg Leg and Patchy. There
was a succession of splashes as they fell in the icy pool,
followed by howls of terror as they made their way to
the bank, and hurriedly retraced their steps the way they
had come with many backward glances.
Peter and Dewi stared at one another in bewilderment.
From their position they could not see the stairway, though
they were facing the door. They could not understand the
frantic retreat and ignominious escapade of the trio of
rogues.
Dewi leaned toward Peter. “They saw something—out
there.” He nodded his head towards the door. “Something
that scared them so bad they forgot everything else.” He
paused, then, looking fearfully at Peter, said, “And I can
guess what.”
Before Peter had time to answer him, Dewi’s eyes gog-
gled at the doorway of the cabin.
The Spanish lady stood there framed in the aperture,
and stared at the boys. In the yellow light of the lantern
she looked more ethereal than ever.


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76 THE SPANISH GALLEON
“But ye’re a coast guard, so mebbe I can tell ye instead.”
Dai shook his head violently. “I want nothing to do with
you, Davis.”
He pulled out a handful of coarse grass and started
chewing, but the resultant ﬂavor with the tobacco did not
please him, so he hastily spat it out and drew his sleeve
across his mouth.
Patchy Davis leaned across and leered at him. He was
now aware of Dai’s discomﬁture and the thought pleased
him vastly. “I’m all for law and order, me bucko,” he
whispered hoarsely, “and I could tell ye the inside story
of some mighty funny things that happen up and down this
coast. Now—ye’re a smart man, Dai, and smart men like
yourself want to get on, hey? Ye’d like to wear gold braid
on the sleeve and have a cap with a shiny peak, now
wouldn’t ye? Of course. Patchy understands his fellow
humans, and wants to help.”
He grinned magniﬁcently. “We’re all brothers, in’t we?
an’ brother help brother, that’s what I say.” He leaned
back.
Dai wriggled, and made as if to get up. Being a simple
soul, the sweetness of Patchy’s words worried him. He felt
rather like a very small minnow being chased by a very
large pike in a deep pool.
But Patchy was enjoying himself, and briskly motioned
Dai back to the grass before continuing: “So we’ll talk
about smugglers and such-like violent people, hey? Keep
your ears open, me handsome bucko, and listen to Patchy
Davis, wot always tries to right a wrong——”
Dai felt himself being swamped by the torrent of oily
words and felt he should try to assert himself. He swung
around, and looking at a spot above the patch on Davis’s
eye, blurted—“Where are the boys?” Then, emboldened
by Patchy’s silence, went on, “I knew you were a law


78 THE SPANISH GALLEON
And without a backward glance he lumbered away
down the cliff road.
Dai waited until he was well out of sight, then, scram-
bling to his feet, hurried to the cliff top and looked down.
Almost directly below him he could see the stumpy
ﬁgure of Handel Morgan and the rector. Cupping his
hands he gave out a yell in their direction, and was re-
warded by a white ﬂash of two upturned faces.
“Come on up, Cap’n Morgan, sir!” he bawled, “it’s im-
portant. I’ve seen someone.”
His voice faded as he looked fearfully down the cliff
road wondering whether Patchy Davis would hear him.
Down below on the sands Dai’s shout had caused some
discussion.
Captain Morgan gruﬂiy demanded, “What does the fool
want now?”
The rector vouchsafed the opinion that it would be as
well to ﬁnd out. Captain Morgan muttered stormily into
his whiskers. “I put him on the cliff top out of the way.
Now he bawls at me and orders me to the top. Who’s in
charge of this station? Is it Dai ‘Slippers’ or Handel Mor-
gan? l’ll send someone up to see what he wants.”
He was looking around for a messenger when he was
forced to glance up again in response to another hail from
Dai, who now judged that Patchy Davis was safely out of
hearing. His voice came echoing down the cliff face.
“It’s Patchy Davis! Up here! Quickly, Cap’n . . . you’ve
no time to lose.”
For a moment Captain Morgan did not realize the im-
port of the message that faintly assailed his ears. Then the
name Patchy Davis struck a chord in his memory, and he
turned excitedly to his companion, and spluttered, “Did
you hear what he said, reverend? He’s captured Patchy
Davis! Dai ‘Slippers’ has captured Patchy! Come on!”


80 THE SPANISH GALLEON
“A signal,” he muttered. “I’m sure it’s a signal. Look,
Captain Morgan!”
Morgan peered suspiciously from beneath his shaggy
eyebrows. “M’yes,” he said, “may be something in what
you say.”
The smoke from the chimneys of the inn rose lazily into
the blue of the sky, then suddenly stopped. There was a
pause and again faint feathers of smoke ascended.
The rector looked eagerly at the coasvguard.
“That smoke could be seen for miles around. It could
serve as a rallying sign for the smugglers and Wreckers.”
Morgan smacked his clenched ﬁst into the palm of his
hand. “By the Great Horned Toad! You’re probably right,
reverend! Now why didn’t I think of that?”
“P’raps you’ve been too busy chasing the smugglers to
think,” said Dai “Slippers.”
Handel Morgan gave him a withering look before going
on hastily: “We’ll go there now . . . right away.”
He started to move away but was again restrained by
the rector. Behind the benign face of the clergyman was a
keen brain and icy resolution and already the coast guard
was beginning to feel a profound respect for the apparently
timid old man who blundered so happily towards danger.
“We would be better advised to wait——” began the
rector.
Handel Morgan stopped and looked at him.
“Why?” he snapped. “We’ve a good chance to catch
the scoundrel red-handed. I must have evidence, you rea-
lize that? And there’s no smoke without ﬁre, and no ﬁre
without human agency to touch it off.” _
The rector looked a triﬂe bemused and answered hesi-
tantly: “Quite. Quite so. But why should we waste our
energy—er—apprehending one underling who lights a ﬁre
when we could catch the whole gang?”


THE SMOKE SIGNAL 81
“What the devil do you mean, sir?” rapped the chief of
the coast guards.
The clergyman lifted his glasses from the bridge of his
nose and allowed them to fall back. He was a patient man
but Morgan’s bullheadedness was beginning to worry his
sensitive nature.
“I mean that signal is no doubt calling the wreckers
together for the job. Probably to-night. If we postpone
our visit to The Jolly Fishermen until to-night-”
“We’d have a chance to catch all,” Morgan broke in.
“By the Great Horned Toad, sir, you’re right. We’ll ar-
range a raid for to-night. I’ll get the men together. It’ll be
dark by eight-thirty, though the weather doesn’t look too
promising. Eight-thirty to-night.” He looked at Dai and
roared. “Eight-thirty, Dai, to-night. D’you hear me?”
The rector nodded his head gently and glanced at the
ﬂight of gulls that squawked noisily from their cliff eyries.
“Even the gulls appear to have heard you,” he remarked
lazily.


84 THE SPANISH GALLEON
Again Morgan knocked, this time to the accompaniment
of a vigorous “Open! In the King’s name!” Still there was
no answer. Morgan paused irresolute, and stared blankly
at the door. The rector leaned over, lifted the latch, and
the door swung open before them to reveal a long stone-
ﬂagged passage and oak panelled walls.
“By the Great Horned Toad” shouted the coast guard,
“They’re making fun of me. I’ll soon——”
His speech was cut short by a querulous voice appearing
from the inner darkness and Joanna came into view—-
“Here’s a stir and pother,” she croaked, “getting poor
innocent bodies from their ﬁresides on such a night. It’s not
a Christian thing to do.”
She peered at the two men, and stood back suddenly,
her whole mood changing-
“Gentlemen! The captain and the reverend gentleman!
Come in, sirs, come in. It’s a dirty night, gentlemen; a
dirty night of wind and rain. This way to the best room,
sits.”
She shuﬂled away casting backward glances over her
shoulder. The burly coast guard stamped angrily after her,
growling and tugging at his whiskers. She led them into
a room—cold and cheerless, and fumished with hard shin-
ing furniture.
“Sit ye down, gentlemen—I’ll get a rum toddy for you.
Hot rum will chase the cold from your bones.”
Morgan made as if to burst into a tirade against theb
woman, but was restrained by a warning glance from the
rector. Joanna looked slily at the men, and backed slowly
from the room. There was a pause While they heard the
woman’s footsteps go echoing down the stone-ﬂagged
passage. The rector quickly crossed to the door and peered
out.
“She’s gone,” he announced.


86 THE SPANISH GALLEON
being it would be better if we employed gentler methods,
I think. Let me try.”
Morgan reluctantly moved away from the cringing ﬁg-
ure. The business of trailing the wreckers was beginning
to baﬁle him—and violent crime was sweeping the coast
like a plague. Every fresh outrage brought more letters
from his superiors, and Morgan was beginning to feel in-
secure in his job.
The rector fumbled in the capacious pocket in the back
of his coat. He tugged out the big handkerchief, and his
snuff box; then came a rustling of paper, and the rector
tapped Sammy on his shoulder.
“D’you like—er—toffee balls, my boy? They’re some-
what sticky, but quite palatable.”
Sammy looked up at him, his eyes round with wonder-
ment. He took one timidly and slid it into his mouth.
“Why do you put seaweed on the ﬁre, Sammy?”
Sammy scratched his thatch of hair—“Seaweed?” he
mumbled. “Seaweed makes smoke. Makes lots of smoke.
It goes up the chimney.”
He waved his hand vaguely at the ﬁreplace. “Smoke
goes up the chimney,” he repeated, “and into the sky.
Twistin’ and curlin’ ﬁgures that write on the sky. It makes
letters and words for people to see——”
Handel Morgan broke in quickly—“What people? Ask
him what people.”
“What people, Sammy?” asked the rector.
“All people—ﬁshermen in their little boats see Sammy’s
smoke—and men at the plough. The shepherds with their
sheep—they all see the smoke.”
“What are their names?” asked Morgan roughly.
Sammy looked vacantly at him, and turned back to the
ﬁre.
“No names,” he muttered. “The man doesn’t like names.”
I


0..


90 THE SPANISH GALLEON
it
We’ve no time, woman. Our business is urgent.”
“But it’s a cold night, sir—and blowing wind and rain.”
The coast guard grufﬂy ignored the outstretched tray
and grasping the rector’s arm strode purposefully from the
room.
Outside the inn they paused and turned up the collars
of their oilskins. The wind swept in from the sea and
lashed the puddles on the path. Handel Morgan peered
through the rain and whistled softly in the direction of a
clump of rough bushes that skirted the path. The bushes
parted to reveal the dismally shuddering ﬁgure of Dai
“Slippers.”
He slopped his way towards the Captain. “You whistled,
Cap’n Morgan, sir? Can we go home now?”
Morgan growled his displeasure into his whiskers. “Don’t
talk like a fool,” he rumbled ominously. “We’re on their
track at last, and you talk about going home.”
“But I’m awful wet, Cap’n Morgan.”
“So are we. This gang are doing a job down at the Beach
House to-night—there’s also some monkeying going on at
the Covey Light. I’m guessing it’s robbing the Beach House
is the big job so we’ll watch the clif f road.”
The rector coughed discreetly and peered at the coast
guard over the rim of his sou’wester.
“May I vouchsafe a suggestion?”
Morgan raised his eyebrows in a query as he looked at
the rector.
“Er—we are satisﬁed that this inn is the—er—headquarters
of this gang. You are agreed?”
Morgan nodded his head.
“Then I think we should keep someone posted here.”
“That’s good sense, reverend. I’d thought of that. You,
Dai, you’ll stay here.”


96 THE SPANISH GALLEON
“After them,” shouted Morgan. “Back to the inn.”
He whistled ﬁercely. A pause and his men gathered
around him. Morgan swung to face them. ,
“I’m not blaming any of you. They’ve gotten away
from us. No use wasting tears on lost chances. But we’re
getting to grips at last. We’ll go back to the inn. Come on,
follow me.”
He took the rector’s arm, and pulling up his oilskins
above his chin led the way quickly down the road.
Arriving at the inn, they found no chink of light to
guide them—the windows were heavily shuttered, and the
door presented a pool of darkness that made it impossible
to judge whether there was anyone there.
The coast guards crouched against the rickety fence
around the inn and looked intently at the dark outline of
the building.
Morgan whistled softly, then turned to the rector. “I
hope this wind and rain have kept Dai awake.”
He was answered by a shadowy ﬁgure slopping dis-
consolately towards him.
“Well, Dai?”
Dai “Slippers” was breathing hard.
“Oh, Cap’n bach——” he began.
“What have you seen?”
Dai swallowed hard, then the words came out in a tor-
rent.
“Hundreds of them—all going past the inn—horses loaded
with bundles and men muﬂied up to the eyebrows—close
enough for me to touch them. I tell you I nearly died. And
a coach—a coach. Horses without a rider—they drove past
here at speed——”
Morgan stayed the ﬂow of words by grasping Dai’s
arm and shaking him.
I


. THE RECTOR DISAPPEARS 99
Simcox, the two men he had detailed to examine the back
of the inn.
“Well?” demanded Morgan, “did you ﬁnd anything?”
“No, sir—not exactly.”
“What the devil do you mean? Did you or did you not
ﬁnd anything?”
Simcox, a tall ungainly man, bald-headed, shifted un-
comfortably on his feet.
“We found tracks of horses and wheels in the mud.”
“Good,” snapped Morgan. “Where did they lead?”
“They didn’t, sir.” Then hastily, “Askin’ your pardon
respectful.”
Morgan glowered. “I’m in no mood for silly jokes.”
Simcox swallowed hard.
“The tracks led to the stable door, then they all stopped
as if a chalk line had been drawn to mark the spot. The
stables and outhouses were empty. I looked most careful.”
Morgan looked murderously at his men. “Am I to under-
stand,” he said acidly, “am I to understand that you expect
me to believe ghost stories?”
He stood up and raved at them. “It’s an excuse to cover
your own inefficiency! Brazen ineﬁiciency, that’s it!”
Again he felt himself to be moving in deep waters, and
needed the calm judgment of the clergyman. However,
his pride prevented him from asking openly. He tugged at
his whiskers, and shot a look over his shoulder into the
dark corner of the room. There was no response. He
coughed loudly and shifted uncomfortably on his seat.
He looked hard at the table, and said, “Well, reverend,
what’s your opinion?”
Hearing no reply Morgan growled explosively before
swinging around in his chair to face the darkness of the
far side of the room.
“What do you think, rev——” he broke off, and leaned


5’
DEw1’s ARM FELT as if it was on ﬁre. He rolled over the
cabin ﬂoor and kicked his corded legs at Peter’s back. Peter
stirred drowsily and waking, groaned.
The strain of their hurried journey through the tunnels
had taken toll l,§l1‘,’.I.'.1.,.1’1I1(l,,ll‘! spiteof their.-bonds they had
fallen asleep. ' ' 0 _ 7
Dewi Ialirilced-.oizvlishly at; Peter-1 1.;/z:'id_ sighed. “Come on,
Peter,” he said softly, “this is no time for sleeping.”
It was some time before full consciousness returned to
Peter. He looked across at his friend. He was feeling ex-
tremely miserable, cold, and very sorry for himself.
“Golly, but we're in a frightful mess, Dewi,” he said.
“What about that woman?” Dewi asked with a quick
glance at the cabin door. “We must get away before she
comes back.”
Peter squirmed into a sitting position and looked around
the cabin. His eye took in the piled boxes of gold coin, the
bales of silk and the small kegs all littered in wildest pro-
fusion around the cabin. He sighed. '
I0]


I02 THE SPANISH GHLLEON
“I’d swop this lot for a good sharp clasp-knife,” he said.
“I’ve been twisting and tugging for a long time, but
these cords seem to get tighter.” He winced. “I think I’ve
taken all the skin off my wrists. What are we going to
do, Peter?”
Peter did not answer immediately. He thought of the
hopelessness of their position—the impossibility of being
rescued—the Spanish lady, and the ruthlessness of Patchy
Davis.
“We’re in a mess, Dewi,” he announced. Then looking
sharply at his friend he shot out: “You afraid?”
Dewi sat bold upright, overbalanced, and spluttered his
indignation from his supine position.
“Where’d you get such a daft notion, Peter? I thought
you had more sense. We’ve got to get out from here——”
He spoke ﬁercely, simulating a conﬁdence he did not
feel. The thought that Peter was losing his buoyant conﬁ-
dence frightened him more than the Spanish lady or Patchy
Davis. _. _. _ . . .
He 1<><>1<ed._--_wi1<§11y ‘airoundfth.e iclablnftaking ‘in the ex-
quisitely carved oak panels, Vthelwide l_atti_c_ed porthole win-
dows, the piled ;box“esland' bales. Then .thé‘d‘eskl Suddenly
his eye lighted on the mirror above the desk. He gasped.
“Peter,” he whispered hoarsely, “Peter!”
Peter wriggled to face him.
“What’s the matter?”
“The mirror.”
Dewi nodded his head violently towards the mirror over
the desk.
Peter turned. “What about it?” _
“If we could knock it down from the wall——”he began.
Peter stared at him for a moment uncomprehending.
“Gosh——” he murmured. “You’re right, Dewi. It would
4


I04. THE SPANISH GALLEON
to counter its swing, hoping that the sudden check to the
movement would jerk it away from the wall and send it
crashing to the ﬂoor. He succeeded in getting his shoulder
to it when, with a rending sound of splintering wood, the
top of the desk gave way and plunged him into a tangled
mess of wood and papers.
The mirror, its wild swinging suddenly halted, jolted
out from the wall and after a moment's sickening pause slid
from the wall. It hit Peter’s shoulder—throwing him head-
long on to the ﬂoor of the cabin—and crashed to the ﬂoor,
breaking into numberless fragments.
Dewi slid up to his friend and nudged him gently.
“Are you all right, Peter?” he asked.
Peter shook his head free from a mass of papers, and
nodded.
“Think so,” he said. “It gave my shoulder a clout.”
“I’ll look for a piece of glass,” said Dewi.
He moved across and carefully selected a long sliver.
“This’ll do,” he announced cheerfully. “Try to back
over to me.”
Peter wriggled towards him and thrust out his bound
wrists. .
“Ready?” asked Dewi.
Peter nodded.
Grasping the piece of glass ﬁrmly Dewi started sawing
ﬁercely at the rope that bound Peter’s wrists.
It was some time before the ﬁrst strand parted with an
audible snap. After that the work became easier and soon
Peter and Dewi stood in the center of the cabin gently
rubbing their chafed wrists.
“Now we can go home,” said Dewi.
Peter did not answer at once. He had moved over to the
wreckage on the desk and was reading some of the papers
that strewed the floor.


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STRANGE MEETING 10']
“Look at this!” he said excitedly, holding out a piece
of paper towards Dewi. “Look at those names!”
Dewi read slowly. “Bonny Maid of Bristol, Wanderer,
Dun00n—names of ships,” he said.
“Can’t you see?” Peter went on. “They’re ships that
have been wrecked on the coast. And recently.”
Dewi stared at him wide-eyed.
“Then—then——” he began.
“Someone is using the Spanish galleon as a headquarters!
It’s—it’s—Dewi! Can’t you see? It’s the wreckers!”
Dewi clutched Peter’s arm.
cc n V u 9
Come on, he said, we d better get away from here.
Let’s go home.”
“We’re going to ﬁnd Handel Morgan.”
“Back the way we came?”
Peter looked grave. “No—we can’t take a chance on
that. Patchy Devis is probably watching the cliffs. We’ll
scout around and explore the cavern. Grab that lantern-
come on.”
They hurried out from the cabin, up the broad staircase
and on to the deck of the Espinosa del Terraga. The cold
air of the caver n struck their ﬂushed faces like a blow.
Peter glanced quickly around the cavern from the still
stretch of water that surrounded the ship to the walls of
the cavern that stretched away into the darkness.
“We came in from that direction,” he announced, point-
m .
%)ewi did not answer. He was staring up into the roof.
“Golly!” he breathed, “this goes right up to heaven.”
Peter shook him impatiently.”
“We simply must get away from here. Don’t you rea-
lize that Davis and that woman are coming back?”
“I’d like to explore this place,” said Dewi.


108 THE SPANISH GALLEON
H
We’ve no time. We’ll try the other end of the cavern.
There may be an entrance there.”
Dewi looked at the water.
“In again?” he asked.
“No help for it,” answered Peter. “Come on, we’ll wade.
Hold the lanter n up.”
A few minutes later they stood on the soft sand that
fringed the edge of the pool, and grimly surveyed the
water they had squeezed from their clothes.
The belt of sand seemed to run clean around the water,
and Peter thought he could detect little paths running away
into the surrounding darkness.
Picking his way gingerly he skirted the pool and struck
out for the far side of the cavern. Dewi followed a few
paces behind him, casting quick nervous glances at the
wavering shadows made by the stalactites and stalagmites
in the yellow glow of the lantern.
They had walked for perhaps ten minutes and Peter was
beginning to think that the cavern had no end when sud-
denly the wall of the cavern loomed up before them—a
welter of big rocks piled roughly and stretching endlessly
into the roof.
Dewi groaned. “It’s a dead end, Peter. We’ll have to go
back the way we came.”
Peter did not answer at once, but moved away, skirting
the big boulders that littered the sandy ﬂoor. Dewi fol-
lowed.
“We’ll go around this way——” he began, then excitedly,
“Look, Dewi! There’s an opening over there—come on!”
He raced away, and Dewi stumbled after him.
For a moment Dewi lost sight of the ﬂickering lantern,
for a moment he was left in the eerie half-light of the cave.
He uttered a little gasp and sobbed—“Wait for me, Peter!
I’m coming, Peter!”


STRANGE MEETING I09
He was answered b a cr from the other. “Come on,
Y Y
Dewi. It’s all right. There’s a tunnel here.”
Dewi stumbled through the darkness and rounding a big
boulder was rewarded by seeing the yelloyv glow of the
lantern. He saw Peter standing there holding the lanter
n
high above his head. In front of him was an iron-bound
door. He pushed gingerly at the big curved knob, and the
door swung open softly revealing a well-timbered passage-
wa .
Peter looked around before beckoning Dewi to his side.
“Look at those walls,” he said. “See those posts support-
ing the roof. Someone has been using these tunnels regu-
larly and has strengthened the walls.”
Dewi nodded. “And the floor,” he said, “it’s been trod-
den ﬂat.”
Peter moved carefully down the tunnel; the way was
smooth, and without any obstacle, and they were able to
walk quickly, at times even breaking into a little jog trot.
Dewi didn’t like it one little bit and said so in no uncertain
terms. “It’s too easy, Peter; it’s much too easy.”
Peter turned his head without slackening his step. “Don’t
be silly. Sooner we get to Handel Morgan the better.”
“But where does this passage lead?” Dewi demanded
plaintively.
“It’s bound to lead out to the light eventually. It’s a
well-used pathway. Long and straight. It simply must lead
somewhere.”
Dewi gave a cry of dismay. “Of course it does,” he said.
“It leads right into the arms of the wreckers.”
Peter cut his further cogitations by catching his arm and
trotting ahead. Now the tunnel narrowed, and soon they
found their progress barred by another stout door. Again
Peter pushed at it, but this time found it resisted his
efforts.


IIO THE SPANISH GALLEON
He put his shoulder to it and heaved, but with no eﬂect.
Eventually he was obliged to confess himself beaten. He
ran his hand through his hair with a little tired gesture——
“I’m afraid—I’m afraid it’s bolted, Dewi. Looks as though
we are stuck.”
Dewi ﬂopped to the ground, and made himself com-
fortable with his back against the rough wall and his feet
stretched out before him. He looked up at Peter.
“We’ll have a rest,” he announced cheerfully, “then
we’ll go back the other way—the way we came in.”
Peter nodded his agreement, and sat beside Dewi. He
idly traced ﬁnger patterns in the soft sand that fringed the
edge of the passageway. As his ﬁnger moved he spoke.
“I’ve got you into a frightful mess, Dewi. It doesn’t look
as though we’re ever going to get out of this.”
Dewi looked quizzically at him. “You’re losing heart,
Peter,” he said. “That’s not like you. You’re tired. After
you’ve rested here you’ll be ready to take on the whole
gang. Try to have a nap.”
The boys wriggled uncomfortably into the sand. There
was a silence that could almost be felt. Dewi shifted awk-
wardly, and looked around. There were shadows that
melted into darkness—on the one hand, the door, solid and
inscrutable—on the other, shadows into nothing. Dewi
shivered. He began to think that he had been down there
for years. He tried to look at Peter without turning his
head, but without much success.
Suddenly he heard a faint scratching noise. He sat
up quickly and stared in the direction of the door. The
noise continued.
He turned to nudge Peter, but Peter had also heard it
and was looking intently at the door.
“It’s a mouse,” he whispered.
Dewi sighed his relief, but his serenity was rudely dis-


STRANGE MEETING III
turbed a moment later by the sound of a sharp, clear knock
on the door. He stared at the big iron hinges and cross-
pieces as though unable to believe his ears. He grabbed at
Peter’s arm.
“Did you hear that?” 4
Peter nodded violently.
“That was no mouse.”
Peter stood up slowly and moved towards the door. He
reached out his hand timidly towards the iron ring. He
was about to grasp it when the knock was repeated. This
time louder and more imperious than before. Peter with-
drew his hand hurriedly and turned to Dewi.
“Why is he knocking?” he demanded hoarsely. “He
must be a fool.”
“D’you think he heard us talking?”
“No, of course not.”
“D’you think it’s the——” Dewi gulped, “the Spanish
lady?”
Peter shook his head. Suddenly Dewi pointed at the iron
ring that was the handle of the door. Very slowly it was
turning. It stopped. Came the soft hissing sound of well
oiled bolts being withdrawn. The boys looked fascinated
at the door. Peter started as Dewi tapped him lightly.
“We’d better go,” he whispered.
“No, wait.” .
“What are you going to do?”
“Get a stone—a heavy one.”
Dewi reached out and picked up a big stone. He held it
out for Peter’s approval.
“That’ll do. Stand behind the door. Over here. Then
slosh him as he comes in.”
Dewi stood up and crouched against the wall as Peter
blew out the lantern.
He stared ﬁxedly at the door. Then slowly, almost im-


II2 THE SPANISH GALLEON
perceptibly it started opening. The boys were tense, ex-
pectant. They drew themselves closer against the wall of
the tunnel. The door opened wider, and a shadowy ﬁgure
slowly made its appearance.
Dewi was bunched, ready to deliver his blow, his hand
raised when he was suddenly halted by Peter who yelled:
ﬂsto !,,
Tlie ﬁgure hastily withdrew. Peter raced through the
door, and shouted loudly after the retreating ﬁgure: “Un-
cle! Stop! It’s Peter!”
The rector paused, then turning, came slowly towards
them.
“God bless my soul——” he began. “It’s you—it’s Peter.
Where’s the other boy? How did you get here? Dear me.”
Peter laughed loudly with relief—the sound of his voice
echoed weirdly through the passage.
“It’s all right, Dewi,” he called out. “You can light the
lantern again.”
A moment later the lantern cast its yellow glow over
their faces, showing the rector blinking owlishly at them,
his coat and hair liberally sprinkled with a ﬁne white dust.
Dewi stared at the cleric as though he could not believe his
e es.
y“It’s really you, sir?” he stammered. “Where—where did
you come from?”
“It’s a long story, my boy. But brieﬂy I have come from
the inn, The Jolly Fishermen. Remarkable things have been
happening. I must confess I feel somewhat stimulated. I
have fired a pistol.” He looked proudly at the boys before
going on. ‘
“Yes, actually ﬁred a pistol. I think I—er—winged my
man. The chase led us to the inn. I went on a tour of
exploration and was—er—violently precipitated through a
trap door and into a tunnel. This tunnel. I decided to con-


GULL ISLAND 115
with Dewi close behind. They heard the rector’s voice
above them.
“The trap door works on a swing. l’m going to pull
down at the ring.”
There was a pause and they heard a soft thud. Almost
immediately they saw a shaft of yellow light coming from
above. Dimly they could see the oak-raftered outline of a
ceiling. Then the aperture became smudged as with many a
grunt and wheezing of breath the rector painfully levered
himself into the room. He was followed quickly by the
two boys.
The rector looked triumphantly at them. “Here we are,”
he announced. “This is The ]olly Fishermen.”
Peter looked around.
“It’s a dark room,” he said. “No windows, and only one
door. This must be their headquarters.”
“Exactly, my boy. And now to ﬁnd the ringleaders.
Come along, we’ll—er—investigate further.”
“Don’t you think we should try to ﬁnd Handel Mor-
gan, sir?” asked Peter.
“Of course. I left him here at the inn, but he’s very im-
petuous, I’m afraid—and a little stubborn.”
“I think someone should stay here to keep an eye on the
people while we get the coast guards.”
The rector nodded his agreement. “Yes, my boy, that
would be the reasonable thing to do. Now I think that——”
Peter broke in—“I’ll stay, sir. You and Dewi could go for
Captain Morgan.”
There was a long pause while the cleric looked hard at
Peter. He scratched his nose before speaking. “It’s dan-
gerous,” he said softly.
“I can keep out of the way, sir. I’m younger than you,
and I’ll be very careful.”


GULL ISLAND 119
enough that Pm freeing you and allowing you to join our
organization. You know too much to be outside.”
“I'don’t know anything, woman. ’Armless as summer’s
dawn, that’s Patchy. I keep me eyes and ears open, that’s
all.”
“You know where those boys went. Handel Morgan
said so.”
“Don’t ye believe them coast guards. I promised ye I’d
join ye if you’d let me free. Well, you’re keeping your side
of the bargain, now I’ll keep mine.”
“You’ll obey orders, Davis.”
“Of course I’ll obey orders, though I’d like to know
more about your leader—the man.”
“No one knows him, so you’ll be like the others. You
understand?”
The voices sank lower, and Peter guessed that ]oanna
was giving the men their instructions. He thought that it
was time for him to retrace his footsteps. He turned to go,
only to ﬁnd his arm caught in a vice-like grip that made
him wince. A face of frightening pallor was thrust close to
his, and he was conscious of great blank eyes staring at
him.
“l caught you,” a ﬂat toneless voice was saying. “Sammy
caught you.”
He was pushed hastily down the steps and thrust igno-
miniously into the cellar accompanied by the constantly
reiterated statement from Sammy: “Sammy caught him.
He was listening outside. Sammy caught him.” 0
His arrival was greeted by cries of surprise from the
people in the cellar.
“It’s the brat,” snapped ]oanna. “It’s the interfering brat
who started all this trouble.”
Dandy and Peg Leg made a menacing move in Peter’s
direction only to be restrained by Patchy Davis.


I20 THE SPANISH GALLEON
H ' 77 H
Well, strike me down, he roared, if it ain’t my little
friend!”
Joanna looked up sharply at him.
“Where’ve you seen him before?”
For a moment Patchy was taken aback, but soon recov-
ered his vast geniality.
“He’s one of the village boys. He plays down at the fore-
shore. Don’t ye, me bucking handsome boy?”
He winked prodigiously at Peter.
The boy made no reply to Davis’s overture. Patchy
tumed to Joanna.
“What’ll you do with him?” he demanded.
Joanna looked puzzled for a moment. “I don’t know,”
she answered sourly. “I’ll have to see the man.”
Sammy crossed to her and plucked at the sleeve of her
dress.
“Gull Island,” he said, pointing at Peter. “Gull Island.”
Patchy Davis started visibly.
“The little island at the mouth of the channel--is that
the place he’s talking about?”
Sammy nodded vigorously.
“You can’t do it,” said Patchyangrily. “It’s not Christian
to put a young boy there.”
Joanna sidled up to him.
“There’s no place for anybody squeamish in this organ-
ization,” she said icily.
“But Gull Island has a name for being haunted. I
wouldn’t leave a dog there alone.”
“We’re not dealing with dogs, Davis. We’re dealing with
meddlesome brats.”
She accompanied the words with a vicious slap at Peter’s
face which was intercepted nimbly by Patchy Davis.
Joanna glowered at him, her face twitching with sup-
pressed anger.


GULL ISLAND I21
“Does this boy mean anything to you?” she demanded.
“Of course not.” Patchy looked uncomfortable. “But
Gull Island is haunted, and I’ll not be a party to putting
young boys on any haunted island.”
Joanna laughed. “I’ll tell ye a little secret. There’s a big
old house on Gull Island. It’s in ruins—a-moulderin’ and
a-rottin’. The wind comes up from the sea, howlin’ and
groaning and whistlin’ through the holes in the walls——”
Peg Leg and Dandy shifted awkwardly.
“Gull Island is a good place for our work. People are
afraid to go to Gull Island, so it’s a good place for our
work. Is that enough for you?”
Patchy did not answer at once.
“l’ll take the lad on one condition,” he said.
]oanna looked up sharply at him.
“On condition that no harm comes to him.”
“I’ll have to see the man.”
“When do we start?”
“At dusk. You’ll ﬁnd a boat in the creek. You should
get to the island in one hour.”
“How’ll we know where to go?”
“Sammy will come with you. While you’re away I’ll see
to stopping the other boy’s mouth—and dealing with the
coast guard and his friends. That’s all. Come, Sammy.”
She dismissed them without another word and gathering
her voluminous skirts tightly about her she went quickly
from the cellar.
Patchy ordered the others out by the simple expedient of
jerking his head in the direction of the door. They shuf-
ﬂed out in front of him. Patchy looked back at Peter, made
as if to speak, but changed his mind and went out, pausing
only to lock the heavy door securely.
It was dark when they stood off from the island. Peg Leg
and Dandy were bathed in sweat, for the boat was cumber-


I22 THE SPANISH GALLEON
some and there had been a heavy swell running. Peter lay
in the bottom of the boat, securely bound and gagged.
Sammy had taken a seat aft, and stared ahead most of the
time, completely oblivious of the wind and spray that broke
over him from time to time.
In the distance they could see the dark outline of the
island, and momentary ﬂashes of white as the waves dashed
against its rocky shore. The sea became choppier and the
little boat began shipping water.
Patchy looked down at Peter, then shouted across at Peg
Leg.
“Throw a tarpaulin over the boy.”
Peg Leg reached out his hand, but was restrained by
Sammy, who spoke in a low ﬂat voice.
“Joanna said no tarpaulin. And Sammy always listens to
Joanna.”
Patchy jumped up with such violence that the boat
rocked wildly.
“It’s Patchy Davis is giving orders now, not Joanna. Put
that tarpaulin over the boy.”
Again Sammy spoke.
“No tarpaulin.”
“l’m commanding this craft. Anyone who disobeys or-
ders goes overboard——” then ﬁercely, “and that includes
you.”
Sammy looked at him for a moment, his eyes as expres-
sionless as ever, then without another word he turned away
and resumed his watch ahead.
Peg Leg threw the tarpaulin over Peter, glancing an-
grily at Patchy while he did it. Then Sammy~ spoke softly,
with no indication of malice or temper.
“There’s a little bay in front of us. Keep same course.
She’ll run up.”
Patchy grunted and shifted his grip on the tiller, and


GULL ISLAND 125
tried to peer through the mist. The island now loomed up
in front of them, an impenetrable wall of rock surrounded
by angry seas that ﬂung themselves impotently against it,
then boiled in a mass of spume at the foot of the cliffs. The
roar of the breakers swelled up and caused Patchy to look
around anxiously. He felt dubious about Daft Sammy’s
ability to get the boat safely ashore. He cast a quick look
at Sammy, but his face remained inscrutable.
Now the boat was taken by the inrush of waves, and Peg
Leg and Dandy shipped their oars, and wiped the perspira-
tion and spray out of their eyes.
Sammy leaned over, and without a word took the tiller
from Patchy. It was evident that he was thoroughly con-
versant with the course to the island, and any emotion he
might have felt was deeply hidden behind the inscrutable
look on his face.
However, even he looked pleased some little time later
when the boat ran aground on to the hard sand of a tiny
rock-ground bay.
The men jumped out with cries of relief and quickly
hauled the boat high above the tide level.
With his feet on dry ground again Patchy’s reassurance
returned, and he looked eagerly around.
“Black as the inside of a dog’s belly,” he announced
cheerfully. _
Dandy’s extended arm drew his attention.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The haunted house.”
Patchy looked and saw the stark silhouette of a ruined
house, gaunt and forbidding in the moon wrack. He shiv-
ered and looked away.
“Enough to give a man the creeps,” he muttered. “I’ll be
glad to get out of this.”


iz6 THE SPANISH GALLEON
Sammy darted a quick look at him, and turning up the
collar of his coat, said: “You’ll wait.”
Patchy stiffened.
“Joanna said there’d be someone waiting for us. If that
someone don’t turn up soon we’ll go back to the mainland.
And we’ll take the young lad with us.”
“No. You’ll stay here,” said the ﬂat toneless voice.
Patchy bridled angrily.
“Orders again, hey? Daft Sammy is giving Patchy Davis
orders. I’ll not stand for it.”
Peg Leg stumped over to Patchy and laying his hand on
his arm, growled, “Steady, skipper. Steady does it. We’re
sailin’ in dangerous waters.
“I’ll not be steady,” snapped Davis, “have you forgotten
about the galleon and the treasure? Have you forgotten it’s
ours for the taking? I only joined this outﬁt to get clear of
that inn. And I’ll not take any orders from a village idiot.
I’ll not stand for——”
The rest of his speech was broken short by a muttered
ejaculation from Dandy.
“Look!” he shouted excitedly. “Up at the ruined house!”
“It’s a light!”
“A light from a ruined house. That’s funny.”
Then Sammy spoke. “It’s the signal. We can go up. Bring
the boy and follow me.”
He prepared to move off, but was restrained by Patchy’s
voice.
“ ’Ere, you. Wait a minute. Is that another order?”
“Yes, it is. Follow ane.”
“And s’pose we decide to stay here. What then?”
It was then that a remarkable thing happened. Sammy’s
voice suddenly lost its toneless quality, and broke on their
ears like the crack of a whip. His eyes blazed with a wild
light as he looked down on them. His frail stooping ﬁgure


GULL ISLAND I27
straightened and he looked a terrifying sight. The others
backed away in surprise at the transformation.
“Sammy’s not asking,” he snapped. “Sammy’s telling!”
Patchy was the ﬁrst to recover his composure. “And they
call you ‘Daft Sammy,’ ” he said in a puzzled voice.
“It has been an effective disguise—until you and the two
brats came blundering into my work.”
“So you allowed us to join so that you could get us out
here.”
“Exactly. You will move in the direction of the light.”
Patchy stood his ground and frowned ferociously. He
wanted time to think. He sighed heavily.
“You’ve got Patchy wrong,” he said in a honeyed voice.
“Patchy bears no ill will, and is full of forgivin’ and kind-
ness. Turn the other cheek to your enemy, that’s Patchy
Davis. Now see ’ere, Sammy, you and me ought to come
to some arrangement.”
Sammy looked down stonily at Patchy. Then he spoke
one word.
“Move.”
Patchy still stood his ground. There was a long pause
before he spoke.
“I’m going back to the mainland. Come on, Peg Leg
and Dandy.”
He moved towards the boat; then paused suddenly as he
heard Sammy’s voice, cool and menacing behind him.
“You’ll force me to blow a hole in you, Davis.”
Patchy turned slowly and looked into the muzzle of a
pistol held by a hand that did not shake or tremble.
“You’re well ﬂushed with pistols,” he said.
Sammy waved the gun in the direction of the house.
“Move.”
Patchy shrugged his shoulders, and obeyed, leaving Peg


iz8 THE SPANISH GALLEON
I
Leg and Dandy to carry Peter. Sammy followed behind,
his pistol leveled at Patchy’s back.
A few minutes’ walk over the rocks brought them to the
ruins of the old house. The walls, with their windowless
frames looking like the vacant eye-sockets of a skull, were
grey and mouldering, while all around were great crumpled
heaps of masonry that had become mingled with the rocks
of the seashore.
Sammy did not hesitate. He motioned them through a
gap in the walls, and to their surprise they found them-
selves facing a well-built door ﬂanked by solid walls.
Patchy gave a little gasp of surprise.
“You are taken aback, Davis?” asked Sammy grimly.
“The ruins are a shell, and a very effective disguise for a
comfortable residence. Now perhaps you are aware. of
what you are up against! Open the door and go in.”
Patchy pushed open the door, and was confronted by a
magniﬁcently furnished room. Away in another part of the
house they could hear the mellow chimes of a clock. There
was something sinister about the deep pile carpet and
luxurious furnishings—the incongruity of the house gave it
a forbidding air that hung over all like a shroud.
A door opened and a woman came in. She was dressed in
a black lace gown of a wonderful richness—her hair was
piled high on her head and held in place by combs studded
with diamonds that twinkled ﬁercely, while around her
neck, and relieving the darkness of her dress, she wore a
rope of pearls.
She stopped at the door, and looking across at them,
spoke: “Well, Davis——?”
Patchy started at the voice, and stared across the inter-
vening space that separated them.
“Joanna!” he gasped. “It can’t be.” He looked again, and
burst into a raucous guffaw. “Joanna all dressed up! Your


GULL ISLAND I29
L
customers ought to see you now!” And he roared with
laughter.
The laughter bubbled in his throat but was cut short as
Sammy jabbed the pistol into the small of his back. Sammy
spoke over Patchy’s shoulder.
“I brought them up for you to see them, woman.”
“Good. Davis and the boy are dangerous. They must be
destroyed. The other two are fools. They can be shipped
abroad.”
Her voice had a silky, menacing quality. She went on:
“They can be kept in the hut on the beach until we are
ready for them. The clergyman and the other boy must be
found. I shall be busy covering our tracks in readiness for
Handel Morgan and‘his soldier friends.”
“You can leave that to me,” said Sammy. “And the
clergyman and the other boy. I will dispose of them. Now,
these can go to the hut on the shore until we are ready.
I’ll take them down myself.”
He motioned the men to the door, then looking back
added, “Get ready to leave, woman. We go back to the
mainland in ﬁfteen minutes.”
Some minutes later he indicated a hut to them. It was a
tiny building, strongly built of oak beams, and roofed with
driftwood spars. Situated as it was well back from the sea,
and in a cleft between two huge rocks, it was practically
invisible from the sea.
Inside, he lighted a lantern after carefully shading the
windows. Waving them into a corner of the hut he took
down a handful of chains from a nail on the wall, and pro-
ceeded to manacle them together. Peg Leg and Dandy were
joined, then, ﬁrst untying the ropes that bound Peter, he
chained his wrist to Patchy’s.
He stepped back and surveyed his handiwork with grim
satisfaction.


I3O THE SPANISH GALLEON
“That should keep you safe,” he said. “You’re chained
and marooned. I’ll be back again before midnight to—er—
ﬁnally dispose of you.”
And with a quick movement, he blew out the lantern,
and went out, fastening the door behind him.
There followed a long silence. The sudden turn of events
had left Peg Leg and Dandy speechless, and they now
turned on Davis, yelping their anger and disgust; whining
ﬁtfully at the fate that had overtaken them.
Patchy dismissed their moanings with a grunt, and wrig-
gled to face Peter.
“Well, me boy, here’s poor old Patchy in a very awk-
ward position. All trussed up and ready to be thrown to
the ﬁshes.”
“You brought it on yourself,” snapped Peter, relieved of
his gag, he was rather glad of the chance to talk again.
“Them’s harsh words, young sir. But there, Patchy Davis
always tries to right a wrong. Too soft-hearted like, that’s
always been the trouble.”
“What habout us?” whined Dandy. “Got us into a
proper mess you ’ave, with your talk of buried treasure.”
“Belay there, Dandy. Stow it an’ die down. Didn’t the
gentleman say you’re goin’ for a nice long voyage? Ye’re
goin’ to travel an’ see the world——”
Peg Leg broke in, growling, “I’ve seen all I want——”
“Twsh, Peg Leg—a man can never see too much. Now if
I wasn’t chain fastened to this boy’s hand here I reckon I
could mebbe swim to the mainland.”
He sighed heavily.
“Ah me, but it’s goin’ to be a cruel cold end for Patchy
Davis wot always tries to right a wrong.”
Peter looked sharply at him.
“What’s in your head, Davis?”
“They’ll throw us overboard way out in the Channel-


GULL ISLAND 131
but ﬁrst they’ll put us in sacks weighed down with lumps
of coal what’ll carry us to the bottom nice and quick.”
Peter turned eagerly on him.
“What did you say about swimming to the mainland?”
Patchy looked surprised; a look of almost childlike won-
der passed over his face.
“Did I say anything about swimming?”
Then suddenly, as though he had re-discovered the
thought in the dim recesses of his brain, “Oh yes, so I did.
I reckon it’s about two miles ‘to the mainland—two miles
with a good current at our backs. Now, but for this shackle
on my wrist and yours——”
He paused and looked signiﬁcantly at Peter.
“I can tolerate your company as far as that,” said the
boy coldly.
“An’ could ye swim that far?” asked Patchy eagerly.
“I could try.”
“An’—an’ us a-fastened together?”
“We have an arm each, and our legs free. I don’t see why
we couldn’t do it.”
Patchy sighed explosively and happily.
“Ah, but he’s a glorious laddie, isn’t he now, Peg?”
Peg snorted.
“What about us?” asked Dandy plaintively.
“That’s your problem, mates. Patchy’s got enough to
worry about.”
Peter looked hard at Patchy Davis.
“Wait a minute, Davis,” he said. “How do you intend
getting out of this hut?”
Patchy laughed softly.
“What’s wrong with the window there?”
“But it’s barred. Iron bars——”
“Notice anything below the window? Look, boy—
planks. An’ perhaps you’ve noticed that one of ’em is


I32 THE SPANISH GALLEON
loose. Not very loose, but loose enough for us to get this
chain behind it.”
He pulled Peter over to the window, and with his free
hand passed the slack chain around the top of the plank.
He drew the chain taut.
“Now,” he said, “if we both pull together—steady like.”
Peter grasped the chain, winding the slack about his
wrist. Patchy stood away and tugged. At ﬁrst there was no
sign of the plank giving way. Peter tugged until he felt his
arms ache. Patchy stood back bellowing and growling
his rage, his one eye smouldering angrily and the veins
on his temples standing out like whipcords.
Then came the ﬁrst squeak of protesting lumber.
“It’s loosening,” breathed Patchy. “Once more, me beau-
tiful boy. Once more.”
Again they tugged. Came the sound of splintering wood
and the next moment the plank lay on the ﬂoor, and the
night air poured into the cabin.
Patchy drew the sleeve of his free arm across his fore-
head, and beamed at Peter.
“Y’see, lad,” he whispered. “Now a little wriggle and
we’ll be out on the seashore with the bonny smell of salt
water in our nostrils. Come on, lad.”
He bent down, and with agility surprising for one of his
bulk, started edging through the aperture, half dragging
Peter after him. ‘
They heard Dandy’s voice mournfully behind them.
“You’re a fool, Davis. You’ll never swim that far——”
Patchy looked back at the hole, and answered cheerfully:
“I’d rather drown trying to escape than be tossed over-
board without a ﬁght. Come on, Peter boy.”
They picked their way carefully over the rocks and
down to the water’s edge. The prospect was not inviting.
_~


GULL ISLAND 133
The sea boiled and bubbled in the faint moonglow, and
seemed to stretch away endlessly.
Peter shivered in spite of himself.
“I wish we could see the mainland,” he said.
“When the moon comes out from the back of that cloud
you’ll see it,” announced Patchy cheerfully. “It’ll be the
ﬁrst time I’ve ever steered a course in the water.”
He tugged gently at the chain, and walked slowly to-
wards the water. There he paused, and deliberately kicked
of f his big sea-boots.
“Don’t want too much extra weight, Peter, me boy.”
Peter silently did the same.
They straightened themselves and walked into the sea,
the chain that fastened them together making a metallic,
not umnusical clinking sound. The water swirled about
their ankles. It was cold, and the boy bit back a cry at the
ﬁrst shock of contact. They waded further out. Now to
their knees. The ﬁrst waves broke about them in a ﬂurry
of white frothing spume. They gasped.
Then taking a deep breath Patchy and Peter plunged
into the water and struck out strongly in the direction of
the mainland.


_
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE RECTOR HAS A PLAN
HANDEL MORGAN TUGGED angrily at his whiskers and
blinked furiously at the rector.
“You say you left the boy at the inn?”_
“Yes, with a strict injunction not to look for trouble.”
134


136 THE SPANISH GALLEON
I
“What do you suggest?” he asked difﬁdently, though
growling a little deep down in his throat. '
The rector placed the tips of his ﬁngers carefully to-
gether.
“I am not a man of action, Captain Morgan, and I hate
violence, but putting myself in the shoes of the leaders of
these Wreckers I would not give up all my ill-gotten gains
without a ﬁght. That means The Jolly Fishermen should
be our immediate objective.”
Morgan leaned over his desk.
“And a thorough search of the caves, hey?”
The rector nodded.
“I’m looking forward to seeing the galleon,” he said.
Dewi could not restrain himself. He waxed enthusiastic
about the beauties of the underground ship and the treas-
ure. His ﬂow of words was cut short by the rector, who
soberly reminded him of Peter.
Dewi’s face became grim. “We’ll get him back, sir,” he
said.
Handel Morgan stood up.
“I hope you’re right, m’boy. I’ll stir out these soldiers-
some of them seem to think we’re on a picnic. The annoy-
ing thing about it is that I’ve nothing deﬁnite to——”
The rest of his remarks was broken off by a faint tap
on the door. He looked up angrily at the interruption, and
snapped a hasty “Come in.”
“Now as I was saying,” he continued. Again came the
tapping noise, this time a little louder.
Handel Morgan stood up, and strode towards the door
muttering angrily. He reached out for the latch and ﬂung
the door open. A storm of angry ejaculations that sprang
to his lips was suddenly choked back as two ﬁgures fell
into the room. They were Peter and Patchy.


THE RECTOR HAS A PLAN I39
I
Peter nodded his head. Handel Morgan looked hard at
the boy before catching the rector by the arm and gently
drawing him away from the others.
“See here, reverend,” he whispered, “the boy has been
through a great deal. He must be delirious.”
The rector nodded his approval.
“M’yes, perhaps you’re right.”
Peter struggled up. “It’s no use you whispering there,
uncle. It’s true, I tell you.”
Patchy Davis chimed in. “The boy’s right.”
“Of course I’m right. And Sammy—Daft Sammy——”
“Now don’t tell us that he is one of the leaders.”
“But he is,” said Peter desperately. “Won’t you believe
me? I’ve seen and heard him giving orders. He’s the real
leader of the gang. The ruined house on the island is only
a shell. Behind it they’ve built a wonderful house—it’s
furnished like a palace.”
The coast guard looked at the rector.
“What do you think, reverend?”
“Well, the woman at the inn has been behaving very
suspiciously. All along I’ve had an intense dislike for her.
I think we should act on Peter’s information.”
“That’s exactly what I thought, reverend. We’ll go to
Gull Island right away. I’ll get the men.”
He stamped from the room roaring lustily.
Patchy Davis stirred awkwardly. He would never have
confessed it openly but he was feeling embarrassed. Rather
like a cuckoo in a nest he had recently robbed. He looked
at the rector with his one good eye, and gave an enormous
and signiﬁcant wink as though to say: “We understand
one another, don’t we?” Then he turned his head away
and laughed richly.
The rector felt himself slipping and looked severely at
Davis.


THE RECTOR HAS A PLAN I41
here we can see the outline of the ruins.” Davis glanced
around at the horizon.
“Not much darkness left,” he announced. “An hour be-
fore dawn. Come on.” .
He turned the collar of his coat up, and stepping over
the rock struck out over the dunes, followed by the others.
The wind was keen and whipped up little ﬂurries of
sand into their faces. No word was spoken until they came
into sight of the house. Everything was still and eerie, the
only sounds being the incessant roar of breakers and the
howl of . the wind through the mouldering walls of the
old house.
Peter could not help but recall his other journey across
the dunes some hours earlier, with Sammy’s pistol at their
backs, and the winking light from the house.
Handel Morgan looked up at the gaunt pile of stones.
“You sure you didn’t dream about this house, Peter?”
he asked softly.
Peter pointed to a gap in the stones.
“Through here,” he said, and leading the way, beckoned
the others after him.
He led them unerringly through the ruins until he ar-
rived at a big solid door. ‘
“Here,” he whispered.
He pushed at the door, and to his surprise it opened
smoothly. Morgan pushed Peter on one side, and with pistol
held steadily before him led the way into the house.
A tiny lamp burned brightly at the foot of the broad
staircase, and illuminated the room. In the distance they
heard the mellow chimes of a clock.
Morgan stood irresolute in the middle of the room and
stared about him. “I’d never have believed it,” he said.
“They’ve furnished this place like a palace, and I’ll venture
it’s all stolen property.”


I42 THE SPANISH GALLEON
“But where are they?” the rector asked. “There’s a pecu-
liar, deserted atmosphere about this place—an air of mys-
tery that I don’t like.”
“You mean that it may be a trap?” asked Morgan.
The rector nodded.
“Why not?” he said. “It’s the evident thing to do. No
doubt Joanna and the man went to the hut on the shore,
and discovered that Peter and Patchy had escaped.”
“But they don’t know that we got to the mainland
safely.”
“They are not the sort of people to take chances.”
Handel Morgan lumbered across the room. “I’m going
to have a good look around,” he said. “There may be some
of them still hiding here.”
The rector selected a comfortable chair and sat down.
He looked quizzically at Davis.
“I’m afraid I—er—cannot make up my mind about you,
Mr. Davis.” .
Patchy looked pained. The rector went on.
“However, you helped my nephew, so I have decided
to accept you.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m grateful. And I hope to prove my
gratitude.”
The rector’s head nodded on to his chest and in a mo-
ment he was asleep and snoring softly. Peter looked at him
and laughed. Dewi scratched his head, and said: “He’s a
cool ’un, isn’t he?”
It was some time before Handel Morgan returned. The
look of chagrin on his face revealed his disappointment
before he spoke.
“Empty as a drum,” he said dolefully, “and packed with
treasures from attic to cellars.” The steady snoring from
the chair pulled him up with a start. “By the Great Horned
Toad!” he said explosively. “He’s got the infernal sauce
to sleep while we’re surrounded by danger.”


THE RECTOR HAS A PLAN I43
The rector opened one eye, and looked solemnly at the
coast guard.
“Danger?” he asked mildly. “Where?”
The coast guard looked angrily at him. “Poof!” he said,
and walked to the front door. He looked back.
“I’m whistling the men up,” he said, “and going back
to the mainland. There’s nothing to be gained by sleeping
here.” And with a quick triumphant glance at the snoring
cleric he stalked out. As soon as he had gone the rector
jumped gleefully from the chair. “Come on, boys,” he
said. “My plan is working beautifully.”
The others stared after him as he hopped from the room.
Soon they heard Morgan’s shrill whistle, and shadowy
ﬁgures detached themselves from the dunes and gathered
around their chief. The cutters were manned and ﬂoated,
and with a vigorous rhythm of oars were soon moving
at a spanking pace through the grey waters of the Channel.
Peter had contrived to get in the same boat as his uncle,
and he now moved beside him and nudged him gently
with his elbow. The rector grunted, and peered over the
collar of the oilskin that enveloped him. Peter leaned to-
wards him and whispered in his ear.
“Excuse me, sir——” he began.
“Not now,” said the rector from behind the folds of the
oilskin. He retired behind the huge coat so that only his
sou’-wester was visible. Peter was adamant.
“You said your plan was working beautifully--you re-
member, sir?” "
A quick nod of the sou’-wester was the only indication
that the boy’s question had been heard.
“What did you mean, sir? Have you really got a plan?”
Again the sou’-wester nodded.
“Won’t you tell me about it, sir? I’d like to help. Really
I would.”


I44 THE SPANISH GALLEON
This time the sou’-wester shook violently, and a smoth-
ered whisper came from the depths of the oilskin.
“Too dangerous for a young boy.”
“I like danger, sir. I know how to look after myself.”
The sou’-wester shook. Peter gazed regretfully at the
muﬂled ﬁgure, and relapsed into silence. He knew better
than to pursue the subject any further. He gazed ahead at
the ﬁrst faint ﬂush of the new day on the horizon. The
new lights threw dancing shadows on the waves, and
carved the oarsmen into silhouettes that danced and swayed
rhythmically as the boats cut their way through the
choppy waters. About a mile away he could see the main-
land. It was necessary to steer down channel for some con-
siderable distance so that an easier landfall could be made
by avoiding the cross currents.
As the sun peeped over the water it became possible to
distinguish landmarks ashore.
First the coast guard station on the headland, its white-
washed walls now a rosy pink in the dawn light. Peter
could even see the masthead on the little green in front of
the house. Then as the sea changed from blackness into
greys and greens, objects inland slowly became more no-
ticeable—little farmhouses dotted in ﬁelds—even cattle, then
away beyond them all he saw the inn, The Jolly Fisher-
men. He sighed heavily as he looked at it, and wondered
how many miles away Joanna and Sammy were. He
glanced quickly at his uncle, but the oilskin barrier was
still up, and looking as formidable as ever.
He yawned and wished there was somewhere he could
sleep. He looked around drowsily. It was now quite light—
everything seemed to be washed with the freshness of early
day. He looked lazily at the inn, suddenly blinked, rubbed
his eyes, and looked again. He was startled by Dewi’s voice


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CHAPTER TWELVE
DAFT SAMMY
“I THINK YOU must have lost your reason,” snapped Joanna,
staring ﬁercely at the back of Sammy’s head.
Sammy did not answer, but reached out for another
handful of seaweed which he carefully placed on the glow-
ing embers of the ﬁre. The smoke billowed and rolled up
the chimney. Sammy looked at it with satisfaction, and
glanced around at the dark walls of the coffee room. There
was a wild look in his eyes. His hair was tousled, and his
white face had taken on an unearthly pallor.
“Well——” said Joanna, “have you ﬁnished?” "
“Not yet,” he muttered. “The fools—to pit their puny
wits against me. Do they think they can send me to the
gallows?”
“But that smoke will be seen for miles around, Sammy.
It’s light. Everyone will see it. I hope they won’t be watch-
ln .7,
gSammy laughed wildly.
“But I want them to see it. I want everyone to see it.”
I48


I50 THE SPANISH GALLEON
H
Joanna licked her dry lips. Sammy went on: We must
get rid of our enemies.”
The woman looked steadily at him: “Words are easily
spoken, my friend,” she said levelly.
The man laughed scornfully.
“You do not understand, woman. The workings of my
mind are beyond your feeble understanding. I am baiting
a trap——”
Joanna leaned forward eagerly. She was a little fright-
ened by now, and her one thought was to escape.
“You are baiting a trap,” she repeated mechanically.
“You are giving the smoke signal, and you are baiting a
trap. You are right. I do not understand.”
“Reach me some more seaweed, woman. Seaweed that
makes the smoke that writes on the sky.”
He laughed wildly—an inane cackle that echoed shrilly
in the old coffee room.
“Soft ﬁngers of smoke that wreathe and curl and call
men—to do the bidding of Daft Sammy.”
Joanna was frightened, but steeled herself to approach
him. She reached out her hand and grasped his arm.
“Sammy,” she said softly. “Sammy, you’re not yourself.
Please, let’s go away from here. We could take enough
gold with us. There’s plenty in the galleon. Please let’s
go now.”
He turned ﬁercely on her, eyes blazing and two spots
of red on his face showing the anger he felt. He raised his
arm as though he would fell her. Joanna cringed whimper-
ing, and cowered into the corner.
“Be still!” he shouted. “I’ve been king of this coast for
years!”
He towered over the woman, mouthing his rage. “I’ve
ruled my domain with a rod of iron! I’m as rich as Croesus


I52 THE SPANISH GALLEON
“I will lure the poor fools into the Galleon Cave—they
will pursue me, then I shall double back to the inn after
setting the fuses. All the entrances will be sealed.” ~
He became reminiscent. “The galleon was there many
years before I found it. You remember that day, woman?
You remember the skeletons of the Spanish sailors? Spanish
Galleon has made a fortune for us. Now the Galleon Cave
shall help us. They will be trapped in the cave—their bodies
will rot. The stupid fools, to think they could pit their
puny wits against me!”
The woman had stared aghast at her leader during this
outburst, and now she broke out wildly: “But what of
the galleon? And the treasure?”
She ran to him and, grasping his arm, burst out, “Sammy!
Sammy! You’ll not be leaving that, will you? All those
good rich gold pieces—and the bags of diamonds—you’ll not
be leaving them, will you, Sammy?”
The man shook her oﬂ roughly.
“I’ll do that if it pleases me.”
Joanna clung to him, sobbing a little.
“Oh, Sammy,” she cried, “you wouldn’t be so cruel to
a woman who has helped you so long. You wouldn’t,
Sammy, would you?”
Sammy looked down at her and laughed.
“Where’s your sense, woman? And to think that I’ve
always admired your nimble brain. Do you think I would
leave all my wealth to them? The galleon will be still there
—like a lovely lady on a sheet of ice. It will be left there
to——”
Joanna broke in wildly—“You shan’t do it! Is all my
work to end like this? Years of bowing and scraping before
ignorant yokels—chasing through those passages disguised
as the Spanish lady—disposing of the bones of the Spanish


DAFT SAMMY 153
crew. All the dirty work I’ve had to do! You shan’t destroy
it all!”
Sammy turned vindictively on her. “Shut up,” he cried.
“And listen. Handel Morgan can have the galleon and the
treasure until his bones rot. He cannot eat jewels, can he?
And gold pieces. They’ll starve, Joanna. Starve with their
hands full of gold pieces. Then I’ll go back. I’ll open up
the entrance again and claim my own.”
He laughed shortly. “Oh, but it’s too easy.”
Joanna looked relieved. Sammy looked keenly at her.
“You are satisﬁed?”
Joanna nodded.
Sammy became brisk.
“All the kegs of powder are in position and the fuses
ﬁxed. Now let us have more seaweed. They must all come
into our trap. We’ll wait in the tunnels. Come.”
He strode to the far corner of the room, and opening
the trap door, lowered himself through the hole. Joanna,
with a quick look around the dark room, followed him.
i


THE END OF THE SPANISH LADY I55
noisily. He always had the feeling that he was riding a
wild elephant when Morgan embarked on an investigation.
“Get lanterns,” snapped Morgan. “We’ll go down into
the tunnels.” He looked around the room.
“Ah, the trap door is open. Very obliging of them. Fol-
low me.” '
He walked quickly to the corner. The rector coughed
discreetly.
“Aren’t we being somewhat hasty?” he asked diﬂidently.
Morgan swung around to face him.
“Why?” he demanded. “We know they’re down there,
don’t we? Well, this is no time for shilly-shallying; we’ll
go down and get ’em.”
“But my dear Captain Morgan, why not listen to the
voice of reason?”
Morgan faced the rector impatiently. The rector went
on quickly: “You see, I arranged for Sammy and Joanna
to be here at the inn.” _
The coast guard goggled at the rector. His jaw dropped
as he spluttered: “You—you arranged—you arranged for
them to be here! What the devil are you talking about?”
“Well, it’s not difficult to explain, my dear Captain Mor-
gan. You see, our visit to Gull Island was a wild goose
chase. I knew it the moment we started out——”
Morgan started to speak, but the rector went on hastily:
“The main treasure is the galleon in the cave, you agree?
I acted on the assumption that this gang had a fairly eﬂi-
cient espionage system to report on our movements. The
moment we were all safely out of the way I assumed they
would double back after the treasure—back to the inn.”
He paused, and stroked his chin gently. “I was rather
nonplussed by the smoke signal. I did not contemplate an
invitation to the inn.”
Morgan said nothing, but glowered ﬁercely at the rector.


I58 THE SPANISH GALLEON
tunnel. He peered into the darkness and still the yellow
light danced on. He cursed softly under his breath.
“Missed him,” he muttered. “Come on.” And he raced
off into the darkness closely followed by the others.
On the turn the light disappeared, and the coast guard
increased his speed.
“He’s tumed the bend,” said Peter breathlessly. “We’re
almost in the caver n now.”
Almost as soon as he ﬁnished speaking they burst into
the Galleon Cave. The rector and the coast guard halted
their iinpetuous rush, pulled up short by the beauty of the
sight before their eyes. Morgan gasped: “So that’s it!” He
murmured, “That’s the galleon!”
He stood and stared at the sight of the delicate lines of
the galleon as it seemed to glow with a soft white light.
“What an exquisite thing,” said the rector softly.
It was Peter who roused the two older men from the
reverie into which they had fallen.
“Look,” he shouted. “There’s the light again! See, over
on the far side of the cave—on the other side of the gal-
leon!”
Morgan glanced up quickly.
“Shall I take a shot at him, sir?” asked Peter excitedly.
“Of course. Quickly—aim for the lantern.”
Peter took careful aim and ﬁred. The pistol jerked vio-
lently in his hand, and as he peered through the acrid
ﬂames he heard Morgan shouting:
“You’ve knocked the lantern out of his hand!”
He cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted across
the cave.
“Ahoy there! Whoever you are—the game is up! Better
surrender or take the consequences!”
The only answer was a burst of mocking laughter that
echoed weirdly around the cavern.
_ _~


THE END OF THE SPANISH LADY I59
The rector ventured the opinion that he sounded very
conﬁdent.
Morgan did not answer, but raced away towards the far
end of the cavern. The laughter continued.
Morgan stopped, and looked around.
“The laughter seemed to come from above us,” said
Peter. “There must be a gallery up there.”
“Well, if he can get up so can I,” said Morgan grimly,
as he prepared to climb. He paused as a voice—the voice of
Daft Sammy—rolled down from above. It sounded wild
and mad, breaking its cadences with that high echoing
laugh.
“Stay where you are, clod! Stay where you are, and
listen—I am the man. My voice will be ringing in your ears
long after I have gone. And when your bones are bleached
then I will come back—I’ll come back——”
His voice died away into a low menacing chuckle.
Peter stared anxiously at his uncle.
“What did he mean by that, uncle?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea, my boy. I think
he is a very odious person. I shall be delighted to see him—
ahem—swing.”
Then Morgan spoke from slightly above their heads.
“There’s a gallery running along here, but he’s disap-
peared completely. I wouldn’t be surprised but that he’s
doubled back to the inn. He’ll never escape that way—I’ve
got the place completely surrounded. I’m——”
His words were choked back by a tremendous roar,
accompanied by a vivid red ﬂash and a shower of stones
that splashed into the pool. The echo of the explosion was
deafening. The dust slowly cleared and they saw that the
far end of the cave had fallen in. Morgan peered through
the gloom.
“The far entrance has been blown up. The murdering


THE END OF THE SPANISH LADY I61
“What shall we do, Patchy?” asked Dewi.
“Follow her,” said Patchy, lumbering down the tunnel
with Dewi close at his heels.
“But where is Sammy?” asked Dewi as he jogged along-
side Davis.
“Save your breath, lad.”
Further and deeper they went into the passage, with
the air getting thicker and more dust-laden as they went.
From time to time they heard many ominous rumblings
away in the distance. Dewi glanced fearfully about him as
he ran; he shot little sideways glances at Patchy. Patchy’s
face gave no indication of his feelings, but remained set
and ﬁxed. He was still breathing evenly in spite of his
bulk and the distance he had run.
Another explosion—this time louder than anything they
had heard, and from behind them. Dewi felt the ground
heaving beneath him, and rocked him slightly out of the
even rhythm of his run. The rumble of the explosion rolled
tumultuously through the conﬁned space, and pressed like
lead weights against their ear drums.
Patchy and Dewi coughed to get the dust out of their
throats. The lantern light blinked and the ﬂame struggled
in the stiﬂing atmosphere. Then little stones started falling
from the roof—ﬁrst, single pebbles, then a dusty trickling
that became a ﬂood. The timbers that shored up the walls
groaned their protest and bulged ominously. Patchy Davis
caught Dewi’s arm and pulled him to a stop. They both
pressed hard against the wall, and listened to the repercus-
sions of the explosion as they rolled and reverberated
through the galleries.
Davis drew the palm of his hand down over his face,
and stared with red-rimmed eye up and down.
“We’re surrounded by lunatics, Dewi boy,” he said in
a small quiet voice.


162 THE SPANISH GALLEON
H D 7’
Dewi glanced up at him. What do you mean, Patchy.
“That burning smell way back there——” he jerked his
head towards the inn entrance, “it was a fuse. I ought to
have guessed it. They’ve blown up the tunnel behind us.”
“We can go through the Galleon Cave, and out by way
of the cliff entrance.”
Patchy shook his head, and inwardly was thankful that
the boy could not see the desperate look that he could not
conceal. Too well he realized the full import of that ﬁrst
explosion. The cliff entrance had been sealed, and it was
evident that they were all trapped.
Dewi’s voice broke across his thoughts.
“What about Joanna?”
“She must have dodged into one of the side passages.”
“What are we going to do now?”
Patchy scratched his head before answering.
“We’ll go on to ﬁnd the others,” he said. “Come on
now—best foot foremost, and keep to the middle of the
pathway; there’ll be less danger of falling stones.”
He simulated a cheerfulness he did not feel as he grasped
the boy’s arm and stepped out over the rubble into the
center of the passage. The whole labyrinth of tunnels
seemed to be alive with strange and threatening sounds-
squeakings and groanings that sounded like one long pro-
test from the earth around them. They found sections of
the tunnel almost completely blocked with debris, and only
with difficulty could they proceed on their way.
After traveling in this fashion for some time Patchy
suddenly paused, and quickly dragged Dewi to the wall.
He wrapped his arms around the boy in an elephantine
hug, and pushed his head into the folds of his reefer jacket.
Dewi gasped, and tried to pull away from the odor of
strong tobacco and tarred rope—his cry was drowned by a
roar as the roof in front of them collapsed. Davis crouched


I64. THE SPANISH GALLEON
Patchy laughed—a big rich laugh that echoed and vied
with the rumbling noises about them.
“That’s right, me handsome boy. That’s right. Old
Patchy had almost forgotten. Come on, follow me.”
And once more he dragged himself to the top of the
pile of debris. Dewi clambered after him and started
scratching ﬁercely at the loose stones and rubble that
reached to the roof. Patchy’s strength was put to good
advantage as he pulled away big boulders and sent them
rolling down the steep sides of the pile.
They worked steadily until their ﬁngers were bleeding
and their clothes smothered with dust and earth.
At last Patchy sat back and with a heavy sigh, said
dismally: “We’d better take a rest, laddie. We don’t seem
to be making much progress.”
He ruefully sucked at his bleeding ﬁngernails.
“I’d like to get my hands on Sammy,” he said.
Dewi did not hear him. He was peering intently through
the dense mass of stone that barred their progress.
“Look, Patchy!” he said. “Look! A light!”
Patchy swung around, and levered himself up on his
elbows alongside Dewi. They both lay on their stomachs
and peered through the debris.
“I can’t see anything,” said Patchy, his one eye blinking
furiously.
“I’m sure I saw a light,” said Dewi. I
Seconds passed, then both yelled out simultaneously.
Through the stone came a distant blink of light; the veriest
ﬂicker, but enough to raise their drooping spirits.
Patchy cupped his hands, and bellowed through the
aperture.
“It may be Joanna,” said Dewi hoarsely.
“Whoever it is they won’t leave us trapped. Ahoy! Ahoy
there! Help!” The light danced towards them.


THE END OF THE SPANISH LADY I71
The rector looked up at the roof of the tiny cave. “Why
not?” he said softly. “Why not?”
Morgan coughed loudly.
“You mean that we may be standing at the bottom of a
well?” he asked.
“Standing at the bottom of my well, my dear captain,”
was the answer.
“But how are we going to——?”
He left his question unanswered and looked up at the
roof.
Peter did not hesitate, but walked into the pool to ﬁnd
out for himself. The water swirled about his knees, then
to his waist as he slowly advanced to the center of the
pool. The others watched fascinated as the water rose
higher and higher. The rector bent his head and stared
at the ripples that ﬂickered to the edge of the pool. Then
he heard Peter’s voice.
“It’s all right,” he was saying. “I’m standing in the mid-
dle of the pool.” '
The rector raised his head and looked across at his
nephew.
Peter’s head and shoulders protruded out of the water.
He was staring up at the roof. '
“I can see daylight!” he shouted excitedly, “and the
roof isn’t very high just here—I can almost touch it with
my hands.”
He turned, and slowly waded back to the others.
“I’m sure We’re at the bottom of the well,” he said as he
arrived at the edge of the pool. “I could see a circular speck
of daylight through the roof.”
Morgan looked dubious.
“We’ll have to wait until someone drops a bucket,” he
said gloomily, “then we can put a message——”
“We can’t wait,” said the rector quietly. “You see, W6