Red Fox would like to express their grateful thanks
for help given in the preparation of these editions to Jennifer Schofield,
author of By Jove, Biggles, Linda Shaughnessy of A. P. Watt Ltd
and especially to the late John Trendler.

BIGGLES FLIES WEST
A RED FOX BOOK 1 86 230222 7

First published in Great Britain by Oxford University Press, 1937

This Red Fox edition published 2004

Copyright © W E Johns (Publications) Ltd, 1937

The right of W E Johns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Papers used by Random House Children’s Books are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

Red Fox Books are published by Random House Children’s Books, 61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA, a division of The Random House Group Ltd, in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd, 20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia, in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd, 18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand, and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd, Endulini, 5A Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa

THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox and Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire,

Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

About the Author

Biggles Books Published in this Edition

Prologue

1 An Ugly Customer

2 The Doubloon

3 The Letter

4 Biggles Makes a Proposition

5 Unexpected Difficulties

6 Tragic Events

7 The Hurricane

8 Wrecked

9 What Happened to Dick

10 What Happened to Biggles

11 The Rescue

12 A Lucky Fall

13 Revelations

14 Dick Goes Ashore

15 The Attack

16 Warm Work

17 Explanations

 

Out of the corner of his eyes Biggles saw Dick go overboard and disappear under the foam, but he could do nothing to help him. Indeed, as he fought to keep the flying-boat under control, it seemed certain that during the next minute or two the others must join him. Ashen, he looked at Algy. ‘Jump when she hits!’ he cried, in a shrill, strangled voice, and dived deliberately at the rocks.

He did not quite reach them. The machine struck the sea a few yards short, but the result of the impact was almost the same as if she’d struck solid earth. There was a rending crash as the wings tore off at the roots, and the bows crumpled like a crushed eggshell.

 

Captain W. E. Johns was born in Hertfordshire in 1893. He flew with the Royal Flying Corps in the First World War and made a daring escape from a German prison camp in 1918. Between the wars he edited Flying and Popular Flying and became a writer for the Ministry of Defence. The first Biggles story, Biggles the Camels are Coming was published in 1932, and W. E. Johns went on to write a staggering 102 Biggles titles before his death in 1968.

www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk

BIGGLES BOOKS
PUBLISHED IN THIS EDITION

FIRST WORLD WAR:

Biggles Learns to Fly

Biggles Flies East

Biggles the Camels are Coming

Biggles of the Fighter Squadron

Biggles in France

Biggles and the Rescue Flight

BETWEEN THE WARS:

Biggles and the Cruise of the Condor

Biggles and Co.

Biggles Flies West

Biggles Goes to War

Biggles and the Black Peril

Biggles in Spain

SECOND WORLD WAR:

Biggles Defies the Swastika

Biggles Delivers the Goods

Biggles Defends the Desert

Biggles Fails to Return

The moon is up, the stars are bright,

The wind is fresh and free;

We’re out to seek for gold to-night

Across the silver sea.

The world was growing grey and old;

Break out the sails again!

We’re out to seek a realm of gold

Beyond the Spanish Main.

ALFRED NOYES: Drake

Prologue

I. Murder on the Main

There was a soft creaking of blocks and tackle as the two ships, Rose of Bristol and Santa Anna, stirred uneasily on the gently heaving ocean. The ropes of the grappling irons that held them in a fast embrace grew taut, slackened, and grew taut again; it was almost as if the Rose shrank from the contact and strove to escape. But the steel hooks in her gunwales held her fast.

Overhead, from horizon to horizon, the sky was the deep azure blue of the tropics, unbroken except in the distant west, where, high above the misty peaks of Hispaniola,^* a fleecy cloud was sailing slowly eastward. Nearer, a snow-white albatross swung low on rigid wings, its shadow sweeping the limpid surface of the sea, clear aquamarine, with little purple shadows here and there between the ripples that lapped gently at the Santa’s stern, or broke when a school of dolphins hurried by.

This scene of grace and colour was well matched by the splendour of the Spanish ship, a stately galleon, her counter red and silver, her towering poop all gold-encrusted, her sails, now loosely furled, rich cream and crimson, bright pennants streaming from her mastheads to the coats of arms that lined her sides above the bristling guns.

Only the Rose, belying her name, looked out of place, as out of place as a tramp on the threshold of a palace. Her sea-stained canvas, torn and shot-holed, lay in piles about the foot of her broken and splintered mainmast, or trailed with twisted skeins of cordage over her sides. From her bluff, Bristol-built bows to her sweeping stern she was painted black, a fitting colour, for about her well-scrubbed decks, in a welter of fast congealing blood, lay her crew, their glazing eyes upturned to the grim emblem of piracy that hung limply from the galleon’s peak – a sable flag with a white device: the dreaded skull and crossbones.

The scene was all too common in the days when Charles the Second was king. The Rose of Bristol, a barque of two hundred and fifty tons, homeward bound from the Spanish Main, had fallen in with the Santa Anna, lately captured by the most notorious pirate on the coast: Louis Dakeyne, leader of the Brethren, half French, half Dutch, half man, half devil, whose name was execrated wherever sailors met between the Old World and the New; for he spared neither man nor maid, or old or young of any nationality. His latest exploit, so it was rumoured, had been the capture, off Cartagena, of the galleon Santa Anna, to which, after subjecting her captain to unspeakable tortures, he had transferred his cut-throat crew. So when at dawn the foretop of the Spaniard had appeared above the clear horizon, John Chandler, Master of the Rose, had clapped on sail and fled, knowing that, outmanned and outgunned, he stood no chance against the monster with its heavy metal and swarming crowd of villains. And for a time it seemed as if he would escape, for the barque was the better sailer of the two; but then the breeze that could have saved him passed him by, and while he had lain becalmed the bigger vessel with its enormous spread of canvas had crept slowly nearer, and with sinking heart the English captain knew his hour had come. With steady voice he had called his crew to prayer, then bade them die like men.

He had fought to the end, refusing to strike his colours, firing his one small piece of ordnance until the pirates poured aboard. Then, with his loyal crew around him, he had made his last stand near the mainmast, neither asking nor giving quarter. Cutlass in hand, the name of his God on his lips, he had done all that one man could do while his gallant hands were beaten down and slain, and only he remained, to fall at length under a foul blow from behind.

But not to die at once. Sorely wounded, he was dragged aboard the galleon while his ship was looted. This done, he was questioned by Dakeyne about other ships in harbour, soon to sail for England; but he set his lips in an obstinate line and not a word came from them. At that they flogged him until he swooned, but they could not make him speak. And now, the pirate’s patience soon exhausted, he stood upon the fatal plank, looking death in the face, with his hands tied behind his back.

A sudden silence fell, a hush broken only by the plaintive cry of the seabird, now circling very near, and the gentle murmur of the water far below.

Well might it have been for Louis Dakeyne, Louis le Grande, self-styled, or Louis the Exterminator, as many called him, had he dispatched his prisoner there and then, for the English mariner had still one card to play, and he played it with such deadly calm that those who heard his words turned pale, knowing that one on the point of death must speak the truth.

Turning from the end of the plank that hung far over the limpid sea so that he faced his ship, he regarded the grinning mob, his captors, with steadfast eyes that held not fear, nor hate, but scorn and triumph. For a moment he stood thus while a bead of blood crept down his ashen brow, crossing a cut so that a cross of red was formed.

The omen did not pass unseen, and a low mutter, like breakers on a distant beach, ran through the mob. It died away to silence as the stricken captain spoke.

‘Harken unto me, black hounds of hell,’ he cried, in a clear, ringing voice. ‘Harken at these my words, for they will be in the ears of each and all of you when your hour comes, as it will, before another moon shall wax and wane.’

A howl of derision rose into the sun-soaked air.

‘Shoot him,’ screamed one.

‘Perro! Vamos a ver,^*’ snarled a renegade Spaniard.

‘Swing him by the heels,’ roared a one-eyed monster.

‘Woodle him,^**’ bawled another.

‘Silence!’ At the pirate captain’s sharp command the imprecations ceased. He was watching the doomed man with a peculiar expression, not far removed from fear, upon his face.

‘Amongst the gold that you have taken from my ship and put with yours,’ went on the English captain dispassionately, ‘there is one coin, a gold doubloon, that carries all your fates, for it is cursed. When Joseph Bawn, a red-haired thief whom some of you may know, was brought to the scaffold at Port Royal this day last week, that coin was in his pocket. And there, within the shadow of the gallows, he spat upon it thrice. And as he spat he cursed the God who made him, and everyone into whose hands the gold should fall.’

A shudder, like the sound of the wind in leafless trees, ran through the superstitious audience.

‘That piece was put upon my ship because it was the king’s and had to go to England,’ continued the captain relentlessly. ‘Mark well my fate, and see how true the curse is working; then contemplate your own that soon must follow. For you can not escape. The piece is in your hoard, and to disown it you must throw your treasure overboard, which you have not the heart to do.’

There was no more laughing. Upon the faces of the pirates were frowns and scowls; upon their lips were oaths, but in their hearts cold fear.

John Chandler lifted his blue eyes to the blue sky. ‘With my last breath I beseech my God to strengthen now that curse until—’

He got no farther. Dakeyne’s pistol blazed. A stream of flame and sparks leapt from its gaping muzzle and ended at the sailor’s breast.

For an instant he remained standing, eyes upturned, lips moving. Then his knees bent; his body sagged limply and plunged down into the void.

At the sound of the splash the pirates rushed to the side of their ship, eyes seeking the corpse. But all they saw was an ever-spreading ring of ripples that circled slowly outwards from a crimson stain. And as they stared aghast an icy slant of wind moaned through the rigging.

‘What’s that?’ muttered Dakeyne, white-faced.

‘The bird! It was the albatross!’ cried Jamaica Joe, his quartermaster.

The pirate’s eyes flashed round the sky. ‘The bird has gone!’ he gasped. ‘Look!’

There was a sudden hush as all eyes followed his quivering forefinger.

Far to the west, from north to south, across the sky, an indigo belt was racing low towards them, blotting out the blue.

The pirate’s voice scarce rose above the hubbub. ‘All hands aloft,’ he croaked through lips that were suddenly dry.

II. The Curse

In setting down the disasters that befell the Santa Anna following immediately after the murder of Captain John Chandler, it is not suggested that these were caused directly by the sacrilegious words of a drunken buccaneer on the scaffold at Port Royal, but that they were the indirect cause is certain.

There is no question about the incident happening. We know from the famous chronicles of Exquemelin, the surgeon who served under the most notorious pirate captains, including the celebrated Morgan, and who afterwards wrote an account of his adventures, that Joseph Bawn was a pirate of the most villainous type. We know that he was turned off^* at Port Royal in January 1689, for the foul murder of a comrade whose rations he had tried to steal, and Sir John Modyford, Governor of Jamaica at that time, refers to the condemned pirate’s frightful curse in a letter to Lord Arlington, Secretary of State to Charles II’s ‘Cabal’ Cabinet. But to presume that the last wish of a red-handed murderer was fulfilled by his Maker would be going too far. As far as the Santa Anna was concerned, the truth is probably to be found in four perfectly natural causes.

In the first place there was the incident itself, which distracted the attention of every soul on board, including the watch, so that the hurricane caught them unprepared. Secondly, there was the ship. Like all Spanish ships of the period she was unseaworthy; the high poop and short keel were so opposed to all natural laws that one marvels that they sailed at all. Thirdly, the firmly ingrained superstitions of the crew – notwithstanding their professed godlessness – must be taken into account. And lastly, but by no means least, their lack of discipline or control.

From the years 1680 to 1720, when piracy was in its heyday, it would be no exaggeration to say that the Brethren of the Coast – as they called themselves – were virtually in command of the West Indies and the Spanish Mainland. Morgan was probably more powerful in Jamaica than the Governor; he certainly had more men at his beck and call. That he was superior to the Spanish colonists is proved by his exploits, which included the taking and sacking of such cities as Panama, Porto Bello, and Maracaibo; Panama was the most strongly fortified city on the Main. At Tortuga, the Brethren had practically established a colony of their own, and that they did not, in fact, do so, was due to the weakness already referred to – lack of discipline.

Their commanders were appointed by themselves and held their posts only by the goodwill of the crews. Such orders as they gave, except in the heat of battle, were, in fact, only suggestions, for if they did not meet with the approval of the ship’s companies they were not carried out. If the captain dared to insist, more often than not he was deposed, sometimes by the simple expedient of being thrown overboard. Admittedly, in times of success, orders were, on the whole, obeyed, but when things started going wrong the officers had to look to the priming of their pistols. It is on record that one pirate ship had no less than thirteen captains in a few months. Bartholomew Roberts, who maintained his command for four years, probably held the record for duration of office – popular fiction notwithstanding.

At the time of the capture of the Rose of Bristol the popularity of Louis Dakeyne ran high, for a very good reason. The Santa Anna, which he had waylaid, had proved to be a veritable treasure ship, laden with such minted coins as doubloons, golden moidores, pieces of eight, and cross money, to say nothing of plate, silks, lace, and other rare fabrics that would fetch good money at Port Royal, where unscrupulous traders were making fortunes. In their minds, Dakeyne’s matelots^* – as the pirates sometimes called themselves – were already spending their ill-gotten gains in the iniquitous and pestilential drinking booths that lined the waterfront, so it may be safely assumed that the bare possibility of this depraved ambition being frustrated soon set them grumbling.

When the hurricane struck the galleon she heeled over until the grapnels tore the side clean out of the English ship. The foresail, carelessly stowed, burst like a paper bag, flinging overboard two men, who soon disappeared astern in the smother of foam whipped up from the surface of the sea. By an odd coincidence they were two of the very men who had clamoured for the English captain’s instant death as he stood on the plank, a fact that was not overlooked by the rest of the crew, who saw in the disaster the direct hand of God. Meanwhile the Santa Anna heeled away before a wind of such violence as no man on board had ever before experienced. It beat up terrific seas that poured over the poop and splashed half way up the mainmast.

For seven days the tempest raged, and in that time nine men were killed. The rest were so exhausted that they could hardly stand, much less keep the ship clear of water.

On the fifth day a deputation, headed by the quartermaster, had staggered to the captain, imploring him to throw all the gold overboard that their lives might be spared. Dakeyne refused peremptorily to jettison what had cost so much blood and toil to get. The men grumbled, the quartermaster louder than the rest, and Dakeyne, seeing in him as the only other navigator a likely rival, had pistolled him on the spot.

On the eighth day the wind died away, and the galleon lay becalmed on a sea that was as flat as a sheet of glass. She was short of water and short of provisions. What little water she had left was foul, and the food, badly cured boucan^* was rotten and full of maggots, due to the damp heat The muttering grew ominous.

By nightfall the crew had split into two parties, those who wished to jettison the treasure and those who sided with the captain. The latter were in the minority. Fighting broke out more than once, and several men were killed. Their bodies, after the custom of the pirates, were flung overboard. And all the time the ship lay like a log on the glassy sea while sharks gathered round to enjoy a grisly feast.

When the calm had lasted for six days Dakeyne lived up to the reputation that had earned for him his sinister nickname of Exterminator. While the larger party were together in the fo’castle, plotting, no doubt, Dakeyne and his adherents crept upon them with loaded muskets and delivered such a volley that half of them fell dead or dying. The rest were easily dispatched. More bodies were flung overboard, and the number of sharks increased. Eleven men only remained alive, not counting the captain. Having no water, they drank rum, and, rolling drunk, consoled themselves by roaring Morgan’s famous slogan, coined after the dreadful sacking of Porto Bello:

If there be few amongst us

Our hearts are very great;

And each will have more plunder,

And each will have more plate.

Their hearts were not very great on the morrow. Louis the Exterminator whistled for a wind. He whistled in vain.

A blood-red sun was sinking into a blood-red sea the following evening when the pirate captain, a scarlet bandanna tied about his head, called to one of the men who were lounging listlessly aft to bring him a drink of rum. His throat, he declared, was parched – as well it might be after the quantity of liquor he had already drunk that day. The man fetched the rum bottle and passed it to the captain. But he did not watch him drink it. His eyes were on the back of the captain’s hand as it rested on the rail, and had Dakeyne been sober he might have remarked the seaman’s expression. But he did not. It is doubtful even if he had noticed what the sailor had seen – a round patch of what looked like white dust on the back of his hand.

The sailor, a Frenchman who had sailed with L’Ollonois, returned swiftly to the others. With ashen face and staring eyes he told them what he had seen. ‘It is the plague,’ he muttered hoarsely.

Lorton, a one-armed gunner who had sailed many seas, sprang to his feet, an oath on his lips, hand groping for his knife; but the Frenchman restrained him, casting furtive glances over his shoulder in case the captain should be watching.

That night, while Dakeyne was heavy in drunken sleep, the remnant of the crew launched the one boat that had escaped damage by the storm, and stole away across a moonlit sea, not knowing that the sun had warped the planks and opened up the seams. For three days of purgatory they kept the boat afloat by constant bailing before they were picked up by a Spanish ship, whose commander, being a humane man, hanged them out of hand instead of subjecting them to the usual tortures.

Dakeyne awoke to find himself alone and all the rum gone. All that day he moped about; but during the night came another storm, as furious as the last For a time he tried to work the ship alone, but at length his strength gave out and he staggered to his cabin to rest.

When he awoke he was surprised to find that the rolling had ceased, and going up on deck, saw that a remarkable thing had happened, so remarkable that he could scarcely believe his good fortune. The ship was aground on an island the size of which he could not judge; more than that, she was high and dry where the tide had left her. What was still more surprising, she appeared to be in a land-locked harbour, an inlet so small that at first he could not understand how she had got there. Presently, exploring, the apparent miracle was explained.

The galleon had drifted into a narrow channel between grey rocks about the same height as herself, which opened out at the inner end into a sort of miniature lagoon. He could not see the sea, but he could hear it, a short distance away. The rocks on either side were so close that he could jump ashore, which presently he did, to make certain that no Indians were hidden in the jungle that crowded nearly to the water’s edge. From a comfortable seat on a rock he regarded the ship and her position with considerable satisfaction. Never were Morgan’s words more appropriate, he reflected, for now there was only one to share the treasure, and it was he. If the ship had come in it could be got out, he opined, not unreasonably. There was bound to be food and water on the island. He would fill the casks and lay in a store of provisions, and then sail the ship to a proper harbour. By thunder, so he would! He’d show them what one man could do. Dakeyne was no coward or he would not have been the captain of a pirate crew.

It would not take him long to work out his position, he thought, and he was about to put this plan into execution when he remembered something that caused a cold shiver to run down his spine. Bawn’s doubloon! The curse, the potency of which he could no longer ignore. It would be the act of a madman to set off on such a voyage as the one he proposed with that dreadful piece of gold on board. No matter. There was an easy way of getting over that difficulty. He would put the doubloons ashore, every jack one of ’em; hide ’em until such time as he could come back with a stout ship and a stout-hearted crew to retrieve them.

He set to work with commendable method and determination, but he had neither the time nor inclination to dig a hole; instead, he selected a depression in the rocks, a hole large enough to take perhaps two or three casks lying one on top of another, and into this he began to pour the coins. He did not like the idea of handling the gold, and he looked at the minted pieces suspiciously as he scooped them into the piece of canvas he was using as a carrier; but his heart grew lighter with each load he carried, hoping that the treacherous piece was already in the hole.

It took him a long time to transfer them all, for the gold was heavy and the sun was hot; but at last the job was done. Then, too wise to trust his memory, he sat down at the Spanish captain’s desk and began to make a note of the exact position of the hole in which the treasure lay, the note taking the form of a rough map to which bearings and measurements could afterwards be added.

While thus engaged it struck him suddenly that all was strangely quiet, unnaturally quiet; also, for no apparent reason, the temperature had dropped several degrees, causing the sweat on his face to turn cold and clammy. It sent a shiver running through him, leaving as an aftermath an apprehension of danger. But as we have already observed, Louis the Exterminator was no coward. His jaw set at an ugly angle as he primed and cocked his pistol; then, with a faint sneer curling the corners of his loose mouth, he crept quietly up the companion and looked around.

Not a soul was in sight. Not a movement could he see. Not a sound could he hear but the sullen murmur of the sea against the rocks outside the little inlet. Satisfied that all was well, he returned to the cabin, but before he could resume his task a sudden cry outside brought him round with a nervous start. Pistol in hand, he strode swiftly to one of the poop lights.

His face paled as a snow-white albatross sailed slowly past his field of vision. There seemed to be something familiar about it. Was it imagination or was it the same bird that had hovered round the ill-fated Rose of Bristol? He could not be sure, but a superstitious conscience tugged his heartstrings and the presentiment of an unseen danger still persisted. For a moment or two he waited, pistol at the ready, hoping that the bird would come within range. Whether the ball struck it or not, he would derive some satisfaction from having alarmed it, he thought savagely. But no such opportunity presented itself. It was almost as if the great bird understood what was passing in his mind, for it banked slowly to and fro just out of range, turning its head all the while to watch him in a curiously human manner, from time to time uttering its mournful cry.

The Exterminator spat contemptuously, but he could not deceive himself. For the first time in his life he was afraid, afraid of he knew not what. He hurried back to the desk, propped the pistol against a heavy church candlestick that stood within easy reach, and picked up the quill to finish marking out his map. As he did so, something dropped heavily out of the gathered-in part of his silken doublet. Idly, he looked to see what it was. But as his eyes came to rest on the object he caught his breath sharply; the pupils of his eyes dilated and his face set in lines of unspeakable horror. The object was a gold doubloon.

For a few moments he continued to stare at it unbelievingly. Then, with an oath, he sprang to his feet. His eyes did not leave the coin. It seemed to fascinate him. He knew what it was. He did not know how he knew, but he knew. Knew that the one coin that had slipped out of the canvas carrier was the coin. The doubloon to which still clung the dying pirate’s curse. Somehow it had dropped into one of the many pleats of his doublet. To what purpose?

Had he been less enthralled by the crudely cut piece of gold he might have seen. He might have noticed that his trembling hand was resting on the desk, and the slight vibration was causing the muzzle of the pistol to slip. At first it moved very slowly, hesitatingly, but as it passed the point of balance it dropped sharply, with a thud. The weapon roared. A tongue of blood-red flame spurted from the gaping muzzle. For a fleeting instant it seemed to lick the pirate’s silken doublet Then it was gone. Silence fell. A sickly smell of scorching mingled with the acrid reek of powder-smoke.

For perhaps three seconds after his first convulsive spasm of agony the pirate did not move. Then, his staring eyes still fixed on the coin, his right hand crept down until it rested on the dreadful hole made by the pistol ball. Slowly, as if he feared what he might see, he looked down, and saw his life-blood pumping through his grimy fingers. At the sight, the horror on his ashen face gave way to hopeless resignation. He sank down in the chair and covered his face with his hands. No sound broke the silence except a sinister drip – drip – drip. A little crimson pool began to form at his feet.

Slowly, so slowly that the movement was hardly perceptible, his body began to sag forward until at length it lay asprawl the desk. A fly settled on the pallid, red-streaked face, but the pirate did not move. Others joined it. Still he did not move.

There was a flash of white as the albatross swept past the open port. Louis le Grande did not see it; nor did he hear the cry that seemed to swell to a note of triumph as it soared into the sun-drenched blue of heaven.

Inside the cabin settled the hush that comes with the presence of Death. A hush that was to remain unbroken for just two hundred and fifty years.

III. Time Marches On

The years rolled by, and with their passing, nature triumphed. Came sun and rain and wind and calm, but no man came to the island where Louis, once le Grande, kept lonely vigil with his fate.

Before a year was out the gruesome stains upon the galleon’s deck were hidden beneath a mantle of fallen leaves that died and rotted where they lay, and made a sure foundation for the ever-questing moss.

When James the Second ruled in England there came a storm that undermined the rocks which lay about the harbour’s narrow mouth, so that they fell, and falling, made a wall against the waves; and year by year the tireless sea cemented them with sand.

The years rolled on, each year contributing its little to the shrouding of the dying ship. While Queen Anne wore the crown came briers and vines to seek a foothold in the moss that blanketed the rotting timbers. In the reign of George the First the masts collapsed and struck a futile blow at the all-devouring jungle; but the briers and vines and weeds embraced them, and dragged them down to oblivion and decay.

The years rolled on. In the reign of George the Second a ship came watering at the island, and although the thirsty sailors came ashore they did not learn its secret. When George the Third was king came several ships, but a hundred years had passed and no sign remained to reveal what they could not suspect, and so they sailed away.

The years rolled on. When George the Fourth sat on the throne a shipwrecked mariner was cast away upon the island, and although he stayed there for a year, often in his lonely wanderings passing within a score of paces of the green-girt wreck, he did not find it. And so he went away in the next ship that called, and in due course died a pauper’s death, not knowing that once he had made a frugal meal within a yard of enough doubloons to pay a prince’s ransom.

The years rolled on. William the Fourth, Victoria, King Edward – the seventh of the name – King George the Fifth, the eighth King Edward, all ruled in turn, but still the island kept its secret.