My Buried Treasure

Part 1

MY BURIED TREASURE

by Richard Harding Davis

This is a true story of a search for buried treasure. The only part that is not true is the name of the man with whom I searched for the treasure. Unless I keep his name out of it he will not let me write the story, and, as it was his expedition and as my share of the treasure is only what I can make by writing the story, I must write as he dictates. I think the story should be told, because our experience was unique, and might be of benefit to others. And, besides, I need the money.

There is, however, no agreement preventing me from describing him as I think he is, or reporting, as accurately as I can, what he said and did as he said and did it.

For purposes of identification I shall call him Edgar Powell. The last name has no significance; but the first name is not chosen at random. The leader of our expedition, the head and brains of it, was and is the sort of man one would address as Edgar. No one would think of calling him “Ed,” or “Eddie,” any more than he would consider slapping him on the back.

We were together at college; but, as six hundred other boys were there at the same time, that gives no clew to his identity. Since those days, until he came to see me about the treasure, we had not met. All I knew of him was that he had succeeded his father in manufacturing unshrinkable flannels. Of course, the reader understands that is not the article of commerce he manufactures; but it is near enough, and it suggests the line of business to which he gives his life’s blood. It is not similar to my own line of work, and in consequence, when he wrote me, on the unshrinkable flannels official writing-paper, that he wished to see me in reference to a matter of business of “mutual benefit,” I was considerably puzzled.

A few days later, at nine in the morning, an hour of his own choosing, he came to my rooms in New York City.

Except that he had grown a beard, he was as I remembered him, thin and tall, but with no chest, and stooping shoulders. He wore eye-glasses, and as of old through these he regarded you disapprovingly and warily as though he suspected you might try to borrow money, or even joke with him. As with Edgar I had never felt any temptation to do either, this was irritating.

But from force of former habit we greeted each other by our first names, and he suspiciously accepted a cigar. Then, after fixing me both with his eyes and with his eye-glasses and swearing me to secrecy, he began abruptly.

“Our mills,” he said, “are in New Bedford; and I own several small cottages there and in Fairhaven. I rent them out at a moderate rate. The other day one of my tenants, a Portuguese sailor, was taken suddenly ill and sent for me. He had made many voyages in and out of Bedford to the South Seas, whaling, and he told me on his last voyage he had touched at his former home at Teneriffe. There his grandfather had given him a document that had been left him by his father. His grandfather said it contained an important secret, but one that was of value only in America, and that when he returned to that continent he must be very careful to whom he showed it. He told me it was written in a kind of English he could not understand, and that he had been afraid to let any one see it. He wanted me to accept the document in payment of the rent he owed me, with the understanding that I was not to look at it, and that if he got well I was to give it back. If he pulled through, he was to pay me in some other way; but if he died I was to keep the document. About a month ago he died, and I examined the paper. It purports to tell where there is buried a pirate’s treasure. And,” added Edgar, gazing at me severely and as though he challenged me to contradict him, “I intend to dig for it!”

Had he told me he contemplated crossing the Rocky Mountains in a Baby Wright, or leading a cotillon, I could not have been more astonished. I am afraid I laughed aloud.

“You!” I exclaimed. “Search for buried treasure?”

My tone visibly annoyed him. Even the eye-glasses radiated disapproval.

“I see nothing amusing in the idea,” Edgar protested coldly. “It is a plain business proposition. I find the outlay will be small, and if I am successful the returns should be large; at a rough estimate about one million dollars.”

Even to-day, no true American, at the thought of one million dollars, can remain covered. His letter to me had said, “for our mutual benefit.” I became respectful and polite, I might even say abject. After all, the ties that bind us in those dear old college days are not lightly to be disregarded.

“If I can be of any service to you, Edgar, old man,” I assured him heartily, “if I can help you find it, you know I shall be only too happy.” With regret I observed that my generous offer did not seem to deeply move him.

“I came to you in this matter,” he continued stiffly, “because you seemed to be the sort of person who would be interested in a search for buried treasure.”

“I am,” I exclaimed. “Always have been.”

“Have you,” he demanded searchingly, “any practical experience?”

I tried to appear at ease; but I knew then just how the man who applies to look after your furnace feels, when you ask him if he can also run a sixty horse-power dynamo.

“I have never actually found any buried treasure,” I admitted; “but I know where lots of it is, and I know just how to go after it.” I endeavored to dazzle him with expert knowledge.

“Of course,” I went on airily, “I am familiar with all the expeditions that have tried for the one on Cocos Island, and I know all about the Peruvian treasure on Trinidad, and the lost treasures of Jalisco near Guadalajara, and the sunken galleon on the Grand Cayman, and when I was on the Isle of Pines I had several very tempting offers to search there. And the late Captain Boynton invited me——”

“But,” interrupted Edgar in a tone that would tolerate no trifling, “you yourself have never financed or organized an expedition with the object in view of——”

“Oh, that part’s easy!” I assured him. “The fitting-out part you can safely leave to me.” I assumed a confidence that I hoped he might believe was real. “There’s always a tramp steamer in the Erie Basin,” I said, “that one can charter for any kind of adventure, and I have the addresses of enough soldiers of fortune, filibusters, and professional revolutionists to man a battle-ship, all fine fellows in a tight corner. And I’ll promise you they’ll follow us to hell, and back——”

“That!” exclaimed Edgar, “is exactly what I feared!”

“I beg your pardon!” I exclaimed.

“That’s exactly what I don’t want,” said Edgar sternly. “I don’t intend to get into any tight corners. I don’t want to go to hell!”

I saw that in my enthusiasm I had perhaps alarmed him. I continued more temperately.

Part 2

“Any expedition after treasure,” I pointed out, “is never without risk. You must have discipline, and you must have picked men. Suppose there’s a mutiny? Suppose they try to rob us of the treasure on our way home? We must have men we can rely on, and men who know how to pump a Winchester. I can get you both. And Bannerman will furnish me with anything from a pair of leggins to a quick firing gun, and on Clark Street they’ll quote me a special rate on ship stores, hydraulic pumps, divers’ helmets——”

Edgar’s eye-glasses became frosted with cold, condemnatory scorn. He shook his head disgustedly.

“I was afraid of this!” he murmured.

I endeavored to reassure him.

“A little danger,” I laughed, “only adds to the fun.”

“I want you to understand,” exclaimed Edgar indignantly, “there isn’t going to be any danger. There isn’t going to be any fun. This is a plain business proposition. I asked you those questions just to test you. And you approached the matter exactly as I feared you would. I was prepared for it. In fact,” he explained shamefacedly, “I’ve read several of your little stories, and I find they run to adventure and blood and thunder; they are not of the analytical school of fiction. Judging from them,” he added accusingly, “you have a tendency to the romantic.” He spoke reluctantly as though saying I had a tendency to epileptic fits or the morphine habit.

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