Sir Joshua took a hand from the wheel, put it to his side, made realistic noises. What? A god groan? A god feel pain? Native fellows were furious! They’d been done, you see, and suddenly they knew' it. Pranged the poor fellow, cut him down, and —”
Limekiller had been listening with a mixture of fascination and confusion. Now he had to stop the narrative and get a firmer grip and grasp on it. “Excuse me, Sir Joshua —”
„— ah — Mmm — Yes, my boy. What?”
“What is the connection?”
Sir Joshua considered this. Evidently it confused him. “Connection with what, Jack?”
“I mean. what is the connection between Captain Cook and. well, with anything? Anything at all? That was in Hawaii. And we —
At a sudden hail from Sir Joshua, Harlow came and took the helm. Sir Joshua, taking Limekiller by the arm, led him back and sat him down. “Now, my boy,” he began. He seemed to be struggling with a slight show of temper. Then control won. “Now, my boy, it is exactly Captain Cook who. well confound it, boy!” Control lost. “Who in blazes do you think this so-called Bloody Man, this alleged Captain Blood is?” In a lower voice, he said, “Was. ”
There was a rather long silence. Then Limekiller said, “Do you mean it is supposed to have been Captain Cook? The Captain —”
Sir Joshua shook his head, sadly. Then he asked Limekiller what he meant by “supposed to have been”? Had not Limekiller seen the whole thing? Hadn’t Limekiller described the gaping wound in the man’s side? Had he or had he not?
“Yes, yes! But. as I told Harlow, when he — well, in another connection: the wound which I saw was far too large for a spear- thrust. You yourself just said the spear-thrust wasn’t fatal. He was killed, Cook, you said, he was killed when they cut him down.”
“Ah, yes,” Sir Joshua said, somberly. “They cut him down all right. And then they cut him up!“
And then it all came back to Limekiller. “Polk,” there was no “Polk,” that was only his ear, catching at a name he was not expecting to hear, and catching instead a name which hadn’t even been uttered. Captain Cook. Oh yes. Of course. Yes, they had cut him up. They had cut him all the way up. They had cut him into pieces. And they had sent each piece to one of the district chiefs. Of course, they had brought them back, by and by. Very soon, in fact. For one thing, there were, after all, the heavy guns of His Majesty’s ships. And, for another — But the for another didn’t matter. They had brought back the pieces of Captain Cook.
That is, they had brought back all but one of the pieces of the body of Captain Cook.
The Hawaiians had been cannibal, then… at any rate, upon occasion.
“And that one piece?”
Sir Joshua sighed heavily. Again, he wiped his face. “It was a piece of his right side,” he said.
The offices of National Archivist and National Librarian coexisted in the person of Mr. Frances Bustamente. “Here is the very book, Mr. Limekiller,” he said. “And, as to the chart, I have sent down for it, it should be up here, presently. - Hm, well, that is very- curious. ”
Limekiller had the heavy old book in his hand. He wanted to sit down at table and chair and look into it. But Mr. Bustamente’s courtesy required an equal courtesy in return. “What is very curious, sir:
“Well, evidently, going by the Acquisition Numbers, we must have acquired both chart and book at the same time. And they are both prefixed with AD, that means, the Admiralty, you know. I am afraid that the Admiralty in London has never given us anything. anything that I know of. but it did sometimes happen that the commanding officers of different vessels of the Royal Navy would sometimes contribute things to the old Colonial Government… in the old days. things they had perhaps no further use for.
. And we always recorded this to the extent of putting AD for Admiralty before the Acquisition Numbers. - Well, I shall leave you to your book, now.”
The book was no lightweight, and would have taken more time than Limekiller could spend in the cool and dim chamber to read; it did not circulate. A History of the Hidalgo Plantation and Woodcutters’ Settlements / In the Bay of Hidalgo / In Central America / From the Earliest Times / With Many Anecdotes and Illustrations [etc., etc] by the Rt. Honourable Sir. L. Dawson Pritchard / Sometime Colonial Magistrate. For a marvel, the book was indexed.
Yes, Cook had been here. Cook had not been here long, but — Evidently he had loved this hidden coast (as it then was). Had loved it so much that as he sailed away the last time in life he had been heard to say, “I’ll be back. I’ll be back. I shall be back. Living or dead, I shall be back. By God, I shall.” And old Esquire Northrup, waiting to go ashore with the pilot, and who had dined so well at the farewell that he was probably half-seas over, said, “Well, Cook, and as I am one of His Majesty’s Commissioners for Oaths, shall I record this one of yours?” — “Yes sir, yes sir,’ exclaimed Lt. Cook, as he then was. And, according to local tradition, it was so done. This same Esquire Northrup, on a later occasion, died attempting to win a wager as to who in the Settlement could consume the greatest quantity of turtle-soup in the space of one hour’s time. ”
Mr. Bustamente was back. “And here is the chart, Mr. Limekiller.” Thoughtfully, he rolled it out. It was not, or course, the old archbishop’s chart, but it was its twin. Here was the whole coast of British Hidalgo, its reefs and isles and cayes, its bights and bays. And, there in the comer, where the archbishop’s hand had rested, concealinglv, there — sure enough — engraved: the words, Jas. Cook, Lt., R.N.
“It is certainly very old, Mr. Bustamente1 said. “I would not attempt to clean it, it is so old. Clean it? — why, these drops and splotches, sir, you see, here and there. Don’t know what they are. Why! Do you know, Mr. Limekiller! — I believe that they may be blood!”
After. how long? A hundred and eighty years?. who could say. However, Limekiller said, “Yes, sir, you may be right.” It was chilly, in here. He had found out all that he wanted. He got up to thank Mr. Bustamente, and to leave. The archivist accepted the thanks, walked his guest to the door. “I wonder whose blood it could be?’ he wondered, aloud, “Eh, Mr. Limekiller? Whose do you suppose?”
Limekiller backed off. “I have no idea,” he murmured. Limekiller lied.
THERE BENEATH THE SILKY-TREE AND
WHELMED IN DEEPER GULPHS THAN ME
But to go back a bit.
Here is Limekiller with his sun-stained hair and beard, shaggy as a sheep-dog though of course much taller. Limekiller and his boat and beard are now all registered and denizened in a small port on a tropic sea, capital of some place more than a colony but not yet a country, and often left off maps because its name seems larger than itself. If you cannot get there, that is not our fault. Others have.
Peter Pygore owned what Miss Abercrombie, the attorney and estate agent, referred to (before she gave it up) as “a very desirable residence and property,” on the West Shore of the Belinda River; though he usually preferred to indulge his desires by residing elsewhere. His house, though, with its towering turrets of 19th century Tropical Gothic, its cupolas and balconies, its yards full of flowering trees, was among the first things to catch the eyes of newly-arrived and house-seeking foreigners.