Through the woods went the expedition, a long line of people following Ben, who had a musket almost as long as himself stuck over his shoulder, which necessitated his constantly ducking and dodging to avoid overhanging branches.
When they reached the northern edge of the woods they divided into three bands. One was headed by Ben and David, the second by Tom and Cotterell, and the third by Tuckerman. Each band was to make its way down to the beach in front of the rocks by a different path, but not to come out from the shelter of the bushes in the ravines until its leader was sure that the crew from the fishing-smack had landed and were looking for the chest. The ladies were to stay in the woods. To this Miss Penelope Boothby objected. She said that with the riding-crop she had picked up in the house she could easily defend herself against a dozen pirates. Cotterell said, “I’m sure you could, my dear Penelope. But the bright colors of your gown might give us away. And if we have to crawl through the brambles, what would happen to your light silk dress?”
Ben and David, with two men, threaded their way down a ravine to a network of bushes that fringed the edge of the beach. From here, without being seen themselves, they could see what was going on. The fishing-smack had come to anchor a hundred yards off shore, four men had rowed to the island and were now on the beach. Pointing to one of these men, David whispered in Ben’s ear, “That’s my friend Sam. I’d know his ugly mug anywhere.”
“They’re after the chest,” Ben returned. “Yes, they’ve found the right place. See, one of them’s crawling in, with a rope in his hand.”
Three bands of watchers, at three places along the beach, saw the crew of the smack haul the chest out from the crevice. As soon as they had it out they threw open the top. And as they all bent over, eager to lay hands on the Cotterell treasure, a voice hailed them from a clump of bushes not fifty feet away.
“Throw up your hands!” cried the voice. “Throw them up quick!”
The crew stood up. They saw a man in buff coat and breeches facing them, a pistol in his hand.
“Up with your hands!” cried another voice from a bush on the other side.
The crew hesitated a second. One of them glanced over his shoulder. “They’ve got us cornered!” he muttered, and stuck his hands up over his head.
The three scouting parties marched out on to the beach. The muskets and firearms were leveled at the four men round the chest.