And in this way he set off upon his journey once more, sailing the Pompeia himself, and letting the negro potter about, cook a meal or two, and gossip a little on subjects of interest in the islands, but of none at all to him. And at Tortola--to which the man belonged--he sent him ashore, telling him that whenever the cutter came in and out he could come and see if he was wanted, and perhaps earn a shilling or two. The weather was everything that could be desired, and, had Reginald been the most Cockney yachtsman that ever kept a yacht in the Thames, instead of a skilful sailor, he would have found it all he wished, while the cruise past the intermediate islands was charming even to him, who had seen so much of the world.
The great peak of Nevis interested him by recalling the fact that it was in this island that Nelson found his wife, when, as captain of the Boreas, he brought his ship here after chasing the French fleet; while St. Kitt's, with its "Mount Misery," and its claims to be the Gibraltar of the West Indies, appealed also to his naval mind. And, when the scarlet-roofed houses of St. Thomas, surrounded by the glorious foliage of that fair island, hove into sight as the Pompeia left Santa Cruz on her port beam, he felt a thrill of satisfaction, mixed, perhaps, with excitement at the knowledge that Coffin Island was at hand. Another day or so would bring him to the place of which his relative had, in his quaint style, left so graphic a description; he would probably come into contact with the strange family that dwelt in Coffin Island; he would be near his inheritance.
"Yet," he said to himself, as he set the yacht's head a point further north, to run up what still retains its old name of "Sir Francis Drake's Passage"--"yet is it my inheritance? Or does it not by right belong to this poor family, who, it seems, have for over a hundred years been searching hopelessly for it? Is it theirs or mine? Theirs--who, by some strange fate, have come to the knowledge that treasure is buried here, perhaps was buried by their own ancestors, who left the story of it--or mine, who am only the kinsman of the man who lighted on that treasure, but could not take it away with him? Well! I shall see. Perhaps, when I have met these people who live in so primitive a state, I shall know better what to do--know whether it is best to get the treasure and go off with it, or do my duty, and, if it is rightly theirs, restore it to them."
So, you will perceive, not only was Reginald a romantic and adventurous young man, but also a very straightforward one!
CHAPTER XXX.
OUT OF THE DEPTHS OF A FAR DISTANT PAST.
Two days after these reflections the Pompeia was making her entrance under very light sail into that river--spoken of variously by Nicholas as a canal, an inlet, and an outlet--in which the fight with the Etoyle had taken place. And it almost seemed to Reginald as if he must himself have been a partaker of that fight, so visibly did his predecessor's story rise before his mind now that he was in the very spot.
"It was here," he thought, as he lowered the last remaining yard of sail, "that the Etoyle was across the stream, there that the galliot lay before they went at them. Heavens and earth! why does not Nicholas rise up before my sight with his round face and light bob wig, as he appears in the little picture at home, and in his scarlet coat?--but--no, he would not have them on here. Those braveries were not for cruises such as he was upon."
Then he looked around again.
"Which, I wonder, was the spot where Alderly drew up the box from under the water, and where he murdered the diver? Which the spot where the path led up to the hut? Why does not some spirit rise to point these things out to me?"