“P’r’aps it’s the Bird of Paradise run ashore, and cursed Macka’s on that isle with Gabrielle, hidden in those palms,” was the thought that struck Hillary. He was certainly impressionable, and if there was a peculiar construction to be placed on a commonplace incident, Hillary was just the person to do it. Even he realised the foolishness of his thoughts, for the wreck was that of a steamer, not a sailing ship. Samuel Bilbao got terribly impatient; the long tropic day seemed endless. He was awaiting the friendly dusk of evening before he lowered the boat and went forth to overhaul the wreck.
A quarter of an hour after sunset a boat left the Sea Foam. In it were Ulysses, the mate, two sailors and Hillary. After half-an-hour’s hard rowing they softly beached on the silver sand of the isle, just where the wreck lay.
“Salier! A German steamer!” whispered the mate in subdued, frightened tone, as he slowly made out the big black letters on the grey-painted stern. Then the five of them softly walked round the sands on the shoreward side, where the sprays and seas would no longer drench them. All was perfectly quiet on the shore; only the noise of the incoming sea swell and the soughing of the high winds in the belt of mangoes and coco-palms disturbed the silence.
The derelict lay right over, her deck like a wooden wall on the shoreward side. In a moment Ulysses, the mate and Hillary had clambered over the reefs and climbed over the listed bulwarks. There was something uncanny about the silence of the mouldy-smelling saloon as the three of them crept into it and climbed along the listed floor. Ulysses went about his job as though he had done little else all his life than search wrecks on uncharted isles in the South Seas. Flash! flash! went his lantern as he went down into the lazaret hold and began to peer into all the likely places for treasure.
“What’s that, O Maker of the Universe?” wailed the mate, as he nearly fainted and fell forward so abruptly that he almost knocked Hillary off his feet.
“What’s what?” said Samuel Bilbao, as he flashed his lantern in the direction of the mate’s pointing finger. “Why, it’s a derned old tom cat!” said Ulysses as he flashed his bull’s-eye lantern on a monster fluffy black cat. It looked at them all with its green, flashing eyes that had so frightened the mate and yawned! It was the ship’s cat. There it lay, as plump as might be, and all round it were the bones of mice and rats that had evidently made the beast decide to stop on its old ship in preference to going ashore to catch the fierce, sharp-beaked cockatoos that swarmed on the isle.
As soon as the mate had taken a pull at his brass whisky flask and recovered his self-possession they continued their search. Bilbao went down into the main hold. Hillary and the mate held the taut rope as he swung himself down, down into those inky depths. After a deal of hunting and swearing Ulysses yelled out: “Haul me up!” In a few moments his curly head appeared above the rim of the hatchway. Then he uttered a tremendous oath that harmonised with the look of disgust on his face. He had discovered that someone had been there before them and had evidently searched the hulk in a most drastic fashion, for they had emptied the hold and had cleared off almost every movable article of value. All Ulysses managed to find was one case of Bass’s pale ale, a pair of the late skipper’s sea-boots and a few mouldy articles of clothing under the bunks in the forecastle.
“By thunder, let’s clear out of this!” said Ulysses as he looked into the eyes of the sallow mate and breathed his disappointment. Samuel Bilbao had really thought that at last he’d come across a prize. It was only natural he should think that a ship sailing across the South Seas should have some kind of valuable cargo on board. So many times had he sat in grog shanties and listened to wonderful tales told by old sailors who had found “treasure troves” lying about on the reefs of uncharted isles of the Southern Seas.
“Blimey! waiting all day long to search a bloomin’ wryck hon an hiland, and only faund a five-shilling case of Bass’s ale—and sour at that—and a bob’s worth of old clothes,” groaned the Cockney boatswain, as he expectorated viciously over the mate’s head. They were standing on the shore again, almost ankle-deep in the shining coral sands. Bilbao and the two sailors who had watched on the shore while the search was on were looking up at the rigging, and the huge listed funnel when they received a shock.
“God in heaven, what’s that!” said the mate so suddenly that everyone instinctively turned to make a bolt from some unspeakable horror.