‘Ye’re a chuckle-headed ninny, Laddie, but you’ve a fine heart. If ’n that was m’ lay I could’ve asked y’r little skinker where ye went that had a wreck in a cave, right? We got to be in it as muckers or we’ll get nothin’, savvy?’
Chapter 10
Early the following day two fishing boats hoisted their red sails and left Dunlochry, heading south-west past the holy island of Iona as if making for the rising shoals of mackerel in the open sea.
Aboard Aileen G and Maid, however, there was unrestrained glee, for in a few hours they could be as rich as barons. Both Jeb and Wee Laurie had been told their mission only once they were out, their silence secured by the strictest oaths and the certain promise that if any blathered a word they would end up with nothing.
When they were well out to sea and the horizon innocent of land, they bore up for Tiree, to its remote south-west tip, passing inside the long, menacing black reefs of the Skerryvore to reach the end of the island. Even in the glory of the early-morning sun there was an unsettling, sinister air about the place. On this side the light of day could not touch the gloom of the craggy fastness. The sea heaved and struck in sullen white explosions against the dark coast, and as they neared the tortured tumble of rocks, it seemed impossible that they could reach through to the glittering prize that lay inside.
Aileen G sailed by a long grey-sand beach and low pass leading down it to the precipitous pinnacles of the next point. Following on closely, Maid doused her main at the same time and the two eased on their sheets to come to, just beyond the highest headland and close to an inward twist in the tall crags.
It was as Laddie had said: a narrow inlet flanked by two majestic buttresses and there, on a stony slope leading to the impenetrable dark of a sea cave, the blackened remains of a considerably sized wreck.
All about were seaweed-covered rocks, even in this good weather seething and soughing – some unknown captain had achieved a miracle to con his ship through into this last haven in dark and storm to what he must have thought was blessed safety.
The cave, however, had been a deadly trap for there was no way out: the vertical outside rock-face was a hopeless barrier, and no soul could have survived the swim of a mile or more through the currents while being hurled against razor-sharp barnacled reefs.
Anchors were cast – two, this close.
The malefic aura reached out and quietened both boats as Stirk prepared. He looked down into the opaque green depths and shuddered. No sailor cast himself into the sea without good reason but there was nothing else for it.
In loose tunic and trousers he eased himself over the side.
The cruel cold bit into him but he wasn’t going to let it deter him. He struck out for the slope, feeling the great surge and pull of the swell as he made for his goal, now looking so far away.
A clumsy swimmer, Stirk progressed slowly across the thirty yards to shore. He’d taken it on partly to be sure there was fair play but also to see for himself what lay in wait for them. Puffing like a walrus, he finally felt the pebble seabed under him and emerged on all fours next to the wreck timbers.
He had a light cord tied to his trouser belt at the back, which he used to pull in an oilskin bundle floating on a pig’s bladder. It contained a warm jacket, a short spade and a pick.
Throwing a quick reassuring wave, he crunched forward, sizing up the task.
The ship lay sagging and spiritless, the ribs gaunt and jagged, weed slimed and decayed. The decks had long since collapsed and the timbers been driven clear; the outline of the frames was now stark and unrelieved. Stirk moved past the beached hull towards the bow and entered the cave proper. It was dim and stank richly of seaweed and brine. Every step on the shards and pebbles echoed sharply.
He shivered: up this far he might be coming on the bones of long-dead sailors – or, worse, trespassing on the haunt of mermaids and sirens. Every nerve on edge, Stirk fought down his fears and entered the wreck through the skeletal ribs. It was almost unrecognisable, a jumble of anonymous weathered timbers and decay above the tide-line and below it more of the same, green-slimed.
He stumbled about inside, looking for anything that could bring life to the remains, but it was quite bare. The ship’s bottom timbers curved away and he made out foot-waling above it; the decks overhead were completely gone. The wreck had been scoured clean.
It was a bitter blow. Here and there were shapeless, encrusted masses but a few exploratory blows with the edge of the spade showed them to be mast stumps, the iron of fittings, a tangle of heavy cable nearly eaten away – nothing resembling a treasure chest.
Shuddering with the bite of the wind he stumped about, trying to think. It was no good hacking at the wreck – these were the last vestiges, the hold and bottom timbers. Nothing more was below it.
If anything had fallen out, could it be on the tiny beach next to the remains? He clambered out and at random attacked the hard-packed silty sand and rock fragments.
Half an hour’s solid work revealed nothing more than sand fleas, a pair of energetic little crabs and a rapidly filling hole.
He straightened, glancing out into the brightness of the sea. Maid was there, dutifully ‘fishing’, while Aileen would be out of sight around the point expecting a signal. All aboard were waiting for his sudden cry of discovery.
Wearily he went further down, nearer the water and began again. After twenty minutes he knew he was beaten. Neither in the wreck nor outside it was there the slightest sign of treasure. If there was any, it would take an army of diggers and even then …
He paused to think. It was odd. Wrecks he’d seen, even old ones, had in them at least a few sad and poignant reminders of those who had lived and died in them. A barnacled pewter tankard, galley pots, a trinket, masses of rigging and blocks from the boatswain’s stores, fittings, bottles.
Why had this ship been picked clean as a whistle?
His brow furrowed as he pondered the mystery. Then the answer burst in with a finality that put paid to the whole venture. The conger eel!
They were all nothing but a crowd o’ loobies. If the eel had swallowed the coin, by definition it must have been under water! He smacked his forehead in realisation.
Stepping back a pace or two from the wreck he sighted down it. Sure enough there was a slight but definite incline. Over the years the seas had surged into the cave and, bit by bit, washed all that was movable down into the ocean. In despair he went to the water’s edge and stared bitterly at the innocent waves. In the depths, within yards of where he stood, was their treasure – but as far out of reach as though it were on the moon.
Chapter 11
‘Chair says brother Laurie shuts his trap an’ gets the ale. Meetin’ has a mort o’ thinking t’ do.’
‘Aye! A right settler for them as don’t deserve it!’ spluttered Jeb. ‘Why, if we’d have-’
‘For Chrissakes!’ roared Stirk. ‘Put a reef in y’r jawin’ tackle! ’Less anyone has somethin’ t’ offer, keep y’r gob shut!’
It wasn’t meant to be like that, and the frustration was keenly felt by all of them. To know a fabulous treasure lay almost within arm’s reach was too much to bear.
‘We throws out a grapnel an’ drags it up?’ McFadden offered.
‘Don’t be a ninny, Laddie! They’re not in the chest any more – that’s how y’r conger got one. They’s scattered about over the bottom o’ the sea.’
Jeb sullenly interjected. ‘Y’ told us once how in the Caribbee there’s natives as dive f ’r coins you throw in the sea. What’s wrong wi’ us-’
‘’Cos we ain’t divers! Born to it, they is, like fish. And in them seas it’s as clear as glass an’ they can see what they’re a-doing.’