The Spanish Galleon / Being an account of a search for sunken treasure in the Caribbean Sea.

THE SPANISH GALLEON
BEING AN ACCOUNT OF A SEARCH FOR SUNKEN TREASURE IN THE CARIBBEAN SEA BY CHARLES SUMNER SEELEY
CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY 1891 Copyright, By A. C. McClurg and Co. a. d. 1891.

MY name is William Morgan, and I am a lineal descendant of that William Morgan who was a brother of the famous Welsh buccaneer, Henry Morgan. I mention this in no spirit of pride,—quite the contrary,—but because some may choose to trace in these adventures evidence of hereditary tendencies.
On the eighteenth day of August, 1886, as the sun was setting, I was floating in the Caribbean Sea. You may mark the place on the map as being approximately N. latitude 15°, and W. longitude 62° from Greenwich; or in other words, between one hundred and two hundred miles west of the French island of Martinique. A chest, well corded but partly filled with water, was all that kept my head above the surface. Without food or drink I had been floating thus since shortly after sunrise of the previous morning. At that time the sloop in which I was voyaging, capsized and sunk in a squall, drowning the negro captain and owner, and his son, who constituted the crew. In this little vessel I was bound for a small uninhabited island known as “Key Seven,” which was in plain sight when the disaster occurred. For two days and a night, without sleep or refreshment, I had been struggling to push the floating chest toward this land.
Now as the sun was just about to sink exactly behind the trees on the island, I was so near that the sound of the waves on the beach reached my ear. The tide would soon turn, and I must gain a foothold on the sand before the ebb got fairly under way, or continue the struggle another night. My hands and arms were sore in places from chafing in the salt water against the chest, every muscle ached, cramps and pains shot incessantly through every limb, my eyes were on fire, the wolf of hunger gnawed at my stomach, my lips and mouth and throat were parched and dry. The fever of utter exhaustion and fatigue drove delirious dreams and fancies through my aching brain. Still on, on, on, compelling the unwilling and rebellious muscles to their automatic work, made sickening to the very soul by long continued repetition, I fought until at last my feet rested on the bottom. One final struggle and the wave left me with the chest upon the beach. But it was not until the last ounce of energy had been expended, that I staggered and fell on the dry sand among the parched bladder-weed that streaked the shore. There I lay for half an hour, completely exhausted.