Let me assure the readers, at the beginning of this sketch, that it is strictly true in every particular. I have no ambition to shine as a writer of fiction, and, at the request of a number of friends acquainted with the remarkable circumstances, have sat down to relate, in a straightforward manner as is at my command; the part that I took in the history of the famous Buried Treasure.
Not the least singular part of this strange business was that, of the three individuals concerned two were boys, one being my son Frank (named for his father) and a playmate, Arthur Newman. The latter was thirteen years old, while Frank was only a few months his senior.
They were inseparable playmates from early childhood; and as we lived near a broad, deep inlet, which put in from the Atlantic, they learned to swim at the age of ten, and soon learned to manage a yacht as well as veterans. I was sometimes anxious because of their venturesome disposition, but although they frequently ventured outside, sometimes in very nasty weather, no accident ever befell them, and the parents of both boys gradually learned to dismiss all fear concerning them, under the belief that, as they grew older, they became better fitted to take care of themselves.
One day in March Frank told me that a suspicious brig had been standing off shore for the better part of a week, and he and Arthur had come to the conclusion that it was a pirate. I laughed heartily at their fancy, and assured them that the days of buccaneers and sea rovers were long since past, and they must dismiss all such absurd ideas from their minds.
The following week the Atlantic sea-board was devastated by one of the fiercest storms that had been known for years. Reports of wrecks and disasters to shipping reached us for several days after, and Frank remarked one evening at supper that he believed his suspected pirate was one of the unfortunate vessels that had gone down with all on board. I smiled at his words, but when I learned that the beach was strewn with wreckage, and that a great deal of it had washed into the inlet, I thought it probable that he was right, so far as the fate of the strange ship was concerned.
It was near the close of the month that my boy brought home a tightly corked bottle, which he and Arthur had found while cruising in the inlet. When he said that there was a piece of rolled paper inside, I felt enough curiosity to withdraw the stopper with the aid of a strong corkscrew, and to make an examination.
Sure enough there was a small roll of thick, vellum-like paper, on which, in a cramped hand, evidently written years before, was the following:
"Three feet under the Beacon Tree."
For a minute or two I was puzzled, and then, as if by inspiration, the whole truth burst upon me.
The Beacon Tree was the name of an immense poplar that stood near the mouth of the inlet. The fish-hawks had builded their nests in the forked tops for a half century. I remember hearing my father say it was struck by lightning long before and although its upper branches were shattered, and it had been as dead as a fence-post ever since, yet its immense size, great height, and peculiar, silver-like appearance caused it to become a prominent landmark to the vessels when approaching the coast, and long before I was born it gained the name of the Beacon Tree, by which title it was known to unnumbered hundreds of sailors and sea-faring men.