“Cozumel Is. August 7, 1686.
“Wee having taken the towne of Merida neare Campeachy and got much booty the barke being overladen burried silver pigges and the rest of the plate at a point on nothe mainland Yucatan two leagues due south from the hed of Catoche Bay having the red rocke where the stream flows out in line with the extreemest projection of cliffe on west horn of bay. You shall know the place by the felled tree bridging the stream above itt between two groves of acajou trees a cross-cut on two or three. Wee purpose to go to Tortuga there to meet you if God will.”
This singular communication ended with a totally illegible signature and a flourish in another hand.
“Where did you find this?” demanded Pomfrett.
“Where but on the island—island of—the island, as I were saying,” replied Mr Dawkins, with an uneasy glance at Gamaliel, whose watchful countenance turned from one to the other as the conversation went on. “Me and two more, what’s dead now, we found it, a-coming ashore for wood and water for Her Majesty’s ship Ranger. And so it happened,” he ended, abruptly.
“But I don’t understand. Why, the date’s 1686—twenty-two years ago. And who were Captain Grammont and Captain de Graaf? Spin the yarn, man,” cried the impatient Pomfrett.
“The captains was buccaneers both, I reckon,” returned Dawkins, with more assurance. “And we come ashore, all as I was saying, for”—with deliberation—“to wood and to water—Her—Majesty’s ship—Ranger. Me and a man called Ratsey, and another called Magnes. Both dead, now. And cruising about the island, if you understand, we comes upon one of them big crosses as the old buccaneers used to set up at a place of rendezvous, when they wished for to leave instructions to a sister ship, or what not. A spar and a yard lashed cross-wise, if you understand; and you march ten paces north and then you dig, and there’s the bottle. Ain’t that so, Hookey?”
Gamaliel nodded. “Well,” continued the adventurer, somewhat confirmed in his assurance, “we, happening to have heard of the custom, did so. And there’s the bottle. Stab me dead where I sit, if that ain’t the bottle.”
“And where was this, did you say?” Pomfrett was quite eager by this time.
“On the island—port of call for buccaneers, I reckon.”