What a night. Bitterly cold, blinding rain and heavy sprays breaking right over us. If we had not been made of cast-iron we certainly could not have stuck it.
My cousin and I — he was third mate — did a little exploring to see if we could find some sort of shelter from the wind and rain. In great delight I sang out that I had found a cave, and he replied: "Well get into it, and see what it is like."
So we got in, and crawled and crawled, but it did not seem to afford much shelter, and, eventually, we crawled out the other side. It was only a huge boulder thrown up against the cliff. Still, it helped.
The old ship made a most wonderful picture there, with a slight list to port, every stitch of sail set (even our precious t'gallant sails), and side lights still burning, looking for all the world as if she was still running her Eastern down.
About two o'clock in the morning, the wind suddenly shifted to the north-west, and with it, the sea. Up to this time the waves, coming from right aft had only power to smash her stern in, and nothing more. The first sea, after the sudden shift, caught her on the quarter and broke her back; the second sea parted her amidship, and brought down the Mizzen and Jigger masts; in fact, the whole after part sank out of sight. It was a staggering sight to see those towering masts with their steel yards come tumbling and crashing down — the old ship was literally disintegrating before our eyes. The fourth sea brought the Mainmast down, and almost immediately afterwards, the Foremast. When morning broke, the only vestige left was the bare bows, and although weighing hundreds of tons, they were tossed up high and dry, on the rocks, like a battered shell — all that remained of that once proud ship, the old Holt Hill.
No doubt St. Paul's island in prehistoric times rose out of the sea, as the result of some titanic submarine volcanic disturbance, and there is no disguising the fact, a volcanic horror it has remained ever since. No waving palms, coral reefs, and silver sands on St. Paul's; just a bleak, bare, barren, and, for the most part, inaccessible island. Cold and raw, with the ever present threat of going up in the air at any moment.
Peep of day next morning saw us scrambling up the cliffs aiming for the top of the island. As we got up a bit, we found the cliff side consisted of nothing better than loose rubble, cinders, and lots of loose rocks. The result, and residue of the last volcanic effort. It didn't help the climbing, for whenever we got hold of a rock, in all probablility it was just stuck in the rubble, and promptly came away, leaving one balanced, half in mid air and half hanging on to the rock. "Stand clear below," was the caution, and then let go!
That rock would start another, until there was a full fledged avalanche careering down the cliff side, making it altogether a fairly exciting climb, but not by any means the easiest part was dodging other people's rocks!
By the time we did get to the top, the sun was up. Did we not revel and roll in the dry grass? What a treat to feel warmth once more.
CHAPTER NINE
A DESERT ISLAND
As we were lords of all we surveyed, and at perfect liberty to go where we wished — without the slightest fear of trespassing — three of us set a course, as it turned out, right straight across the island. Frequently we had to work our way round huge gaps in the ground, from which came sulpherous fumes, in a kind of steamy smoke. Admitted there are a few goats on the island, but they are like the proverbial Chinaman who can live on the smell of an oil rag. Whatever they do live on, certainly does not detract from their activity. "Now you see me, now you don't"; a glimpse on the skyline, and gone again. Certainly before one could have got within rifle range — if we had possessed such a thing. No doubt these goats, also the rabbits, of which there are a fair quantity, have been put on the island by ships, in times past. The rabbits and goats, unfortunately, find their living on top of the island; whilst any unfortunate human beings must always keep to the sea level, in order to get water.
We continued on our way, and the going was somewhat like walking up a fairly steep hill. Up this slope we trudged. No signs of either water or life. No trees; not even a bush. I suppose we had been working our way along for the best part of a couple of hours, up and still up, looking more at our feet than to our front. Suddenly I stopped, for we seem to have come to the edge of the world. There, lying like a panorama, over two thousand feet below us, was a wonderful lagoon, absolutely circular, with cliffs all around,, except just where the sea had broken in on the far side. There, the cliffs ran down to two shingle spits with a 16 foot channel between them, giving entrance to the lagoon. One chap with us who had eyes like the proverbial hawk, said he could see huts. I had good eyesight too, but perched up there I could see nothing resembling house or hut. As a matter of fact, as it turned out, there were five huts, and when we did get down we found the one he could only just see, was actually large enough to hold the whole forty-two of us, at one end!
As there was nothing to be gained by staying perched up there, we started to look for a break in the face of the cliff, which was pretty nearly perpendicular, but overgrown with long rank grass, any three or four blades of which it was almost impossible to break. We soon found a place where we could negotiate the overhanging lip, and with a very creditable imitation of monkeys, we commenced to swing, toboggan and bump our way down.
We found that the whole of the cliff was honeycombed with caves, and we frequently discovered ourselves dangling bodily over one of these openings.
I am convinced, and I always have been, that if a thorough search should be made of these caves, hoards of pirates' treasure would most certainly be unearthed, but the first step towards anything like that would have to be the burning of all this rank grass.
Everywhere there are indications showing that the island has been used for many purposes. Traces of old whalers, and sealers, and evidences of occupations long before that. There were boats of a build unknown to the oldest sailor amongst us, the planking and timbers, although inches thick, crumbled away in one's hand. Old time anchors, with their wooden stocks rotted out, in fact there was actually a built slip, where a small vessel could be hauled up, scraped and painted. The huts must have been in existence for over a hundred years, and there were many other indications that immediately jump to a sailor's eye as evidence that it had been used as a base for some seafaring enterprise.
What more ideal place to catch an unwary East Indiaman, after running his Easting down and ready to turn north? Very likely he would be trying to sight the island to correct his position. In bad weather a schooner could lie in the lagoon, happily, and in perfect safety. No matter what sea running outside, the lagoon is always like a millpond. A lookout on the top of the island would soon spot one of the lumbering old timers in the distance. Then the schooner could be warped and towed out, just hiding in the entrance, till the time was judged ripe to make the attack, and that, we can imagine, would be both sharp and short. Then back with their booty to the lair, leaving no track or trace. even wreckage would not stand one chance in a thousand of ever being sighted in those latitudes. The caves lent themselves as perfect hiding places for the plunder and, in my firm opinion, there it remains to this day, for it is notorious that pirates never lived to enjoy their ill-gotten gains.
There is treasure hidden all over the world, but in my humble opinion, St. Paul's holds the long sought secret of many a pirate's hoard.
It has always been, — and still is, — my ambition to search these caves, and sometime, with a bit of luck, I will.