The Dead Man's Secret, or the Valley of Gold. Being a narrative of strange and wild adventure compiled and written from the papers of the late Hans Christian Feldje, Mate

Front matter

"KNEELING BY THE CHEST, I MOKE CRITICALLY EXAMINED ITS CONTENTS." Vpage 35. THE DEAD MAN'S SECRET nr THE VALLEY OF GOLD Being a Narrative of Strange and Wild Adventure compiled and written from the Papers of the late Hans Christian Feldje, Mate BY J. E. MUDDOCK. F.R.G.S. AUTHOR OF "A WINGLESS ANGEL," "fROTI'THE BOSOM OF THE DEEP," "STORMLIGHT," " STORIES WEIRD AND WONDERFUL," ETC. WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY FRED. BARNARD Hu o n & o n CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY CONTENTS. CHAPTEB PAGE Introduction .. .. .. .. .. 1 I. In the South Pacific .. .. .. 4 II. The Raft and its Occupant .. .. .. 16 III. The Stkange Manuscript .. .. .. 26 IV. We decide to Desert .. .. .. ..37 V. We make a Discovery and bury the Body .. 45 VI. A Startling Story — We fall into the Hands of the Enemy .. .. .. .. 58 VII. At Quito— The Trial .. .. .. ..71 VIII.

The Sentence .. .. .. .. 82 IX. Nausiscaa the Beautiful .. .. ..87 X. We start for the Quicksilver Mines .. 94 XI. Yasotoaro .. .. .. .. .. 104 XII. "Fire! Fire!" .. .. .. .. 115 XIII. The Fight for Freedom .. .. .. 126 XIV. We Start for the Oriente .. .. .. 138 XV. In the Depths of the Forest .. .. .. 147 XVI. A Fight with Snakes .. .. .. 158 XVII. An Exciting Encounter .. .. .. 165 XVIII. A Moment of Deadly Peril .. .. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE XIX. The Denizens of the Virgin Forests .. •• 186 XX. We prepare for War .. .. .. 194 XXI. There was a Ponderous and Overwhelming Rush as of a Tornado .. .. .. 210 XXII. We continue our Journey in search of El Dorado 221 XXIII. In the Grip of a Python .. .. .. 232 XXIV. Eureka! .. .. .. .. .. 240 XXV. The Mad Carpenter and the Tragedy of El Dorado .. .. .. .. 251 XXVI. Homeward Bound .. .. .. ..

Introduction

. In that most nautical of London suburbs, Wapping, the very air of which is heavy with the odour of tar and shipping, a block of very old houses was pulled down a few years ago. There was nothing very ex traordinary in this proceeding, for the hand of modern progress is ruthless, and in the rage for improvements it seizes and tears to the ground ancient buildings and historic monuments alike. It is true there was nothing about these houses to attract attention save their great age, which was said to be at least four hundred years. Therefore, as a link with the past they were interesting, although they had been modernized almost out of entire semblance to their former selves. In razing a main wall, however, of one of the houses, a cupboard, built into the thickness of the wall, was brought to light.

It was only an ordinary i? cupboard, but its presence must have been unsuspected for many years, as the door had been covered with successive layers of paper that had been put on the walls of the room. But what was remarkable was this, in the cupboard was a trunk, such as was com mon a century ago — one of those trunks that were covered with bull's hide, and studded all round the edges with brass nails. This particular trunk was worm-eaten and mildewed, and the hair of the hide had fallen away in patches, as if the long-hidden box was afflicted with mange. On the lid being raised, the trunk was found to be almost full of manuscripts, time-stained and yellow. Some of these papers were tiedup in rolls with strips of ribbon or pieces of string. Others, again, were lying scattered about. As the papers seemed to be of no value to those who made a cursory examination of them, they were flung, with the old trunk, on to the heap of debris of bricks and mortar, and it was my good fortune to rescue them from that position.

A hasty glance led me to the conclusion that the papers were deeply interesting, and I resolved to go through them carefully. The writing was not good, and in places was so obliterated with the damp as to be utterly in decipherable. I was enabled, however, to gather, that the whole of the sheets were a somewhat

INTRODUCTION.

. 3 rambling narrative of strange adventures experienced by one Hans Christian Feldje. This narrative struck me as having been written by a man of intelligence and keen observation, although lacking in scholastic attainments, for he did not spell well, he seemed to have a soul above grammar, and a not altogether complete grasp of the English language. Apart from his name, therefore, it was evident the writer was a foreigner. When I had carefully waded through the manuscript, and with much difficulty had collated the various sheets in proper sequence — for, by some strange over sight, the writer had neglected to number his folios — I found that I had the material to hand for a stirring and remarkable story. I have allowed the author to speak in his own person, though, of course, I have been compelled to alter his language very considerably.

The title was suggested by certain phrases used by Mr. Feldje himself; and it seems to me in every way appropriate. I should like to say, in con clusion, that in perusing Feldje's sheets I have been greatly struck by the air of truth that pervades them. He writes like a man who was telling a plain, un varnished tale in homely language ; neither sparing himself when blame was due, nor hesitating to accord praise where he felt he was entitled to it. THE STOEY, AS TOLD BY HANS CHRISTIAN FELDJE, MATE.

Chapter I. In The South Pacific

I'm going to make a true story of the startling ex periences of part of my life. I'm not good with the pen, for I am a sailor man, and know more about boxing the compass and sailing a ship than I do about writing. But if I put it in the rough, I can get it polished up afterwards by one of them writing fellows that make books. I'm told that these chaps, if they only get hold of half a word that suits them, will reel off a yarn as quickly as a log line runs out when a craft is spanking along at the rate of fourteen knots an hour ; and that for a five-pound note, a bottle of old Jamaica, and a quid of 'bacca they'll write any mortal thing. Now, that's my market ! and as I ain't a bargain driver, but just as free with my money as ever a sailor man was, I'll give any one of them skunks as does the writing two fivers and as much rum and 'bacca as will last him for six months, if he ain't too heavy on them.

I consider that's a fair deal. And then as for the yarn, why, Lord love you, this here of mine will just put into the shade everything that has ever been written, if the fellow what writes it ain't one of those swabs that can't tell a holy-stone from the family Bible. But avast there, mate. Heave in your slack. Why, darn me, if I don't think after all I can do without the assistance of the writing chaps. Anyway, here goes.* * This is iu the original manuscript. I have al lowed it to stand exactly as written, as showing Mr. Feldje's rugged honesty of expression. It would appear as if the author had not succeeded during his lifetime in getting hold of one of " the writing chaps " he so feelingly refers to, not withstanding the liberality of his terms, namely, "two fivers and as much rum and 'bacca as would last him for six months."

The pay ment in kind suggests itself to me as being more munificent than the two fivers, though, of course, much would depend upon the " writing chap's" capacity for consuming tobacco and stowing rum away. If he had not a sailor's stomach he might very soon find himself over loaded, and turn the [turtle. Why Mr. Feldje did not Buceeed in getting his narrative published during his lifetime I do not know, but it would seem as if he had put his papers into the box, and stowed the box away into the cupboard, where it lay hidden for many, many years. He had evidently forgotten all about it. Possibly he found his task of writing his life so exhausting that he endeavoured to recuperate himself with rum and 'bacca, and the remedy killed him. This, how ever, is a mere suggestion. I tried to learn something of his domestic life, but failed, though I ascertained that iu the house where the box My name is Hans Christian Feldje.

I am a Swede by birth, but left my native country when I was very young. My people on my father's side had been sailors for many generations, so salt water ran in my blood. My father met with an accident while on ship board that came very near sending him to Davy Jones's locker. However, he recovered, but he was so crippled that he was unable to go to sea again, so he and my mother, with my two brothers and my sister, came to London ; and as he had saved a little money, he opened a sailors' boarding-house in Poplar, not far from the East India Docks. At this time I was a small bit of a swab, about eight years of age, and I had to lend a hand in waiting on the lodgers. I didn't get much schooling, as you may imagine, but I soon picked up English. I also learnt to read, with the assistance of a neigh bour, and got very fond of books, especially those about the sea and adventures.

As soon as I could read I went ahead a bit, because I did not want to be a dunce all my life, and by the time I was about eleven we had an old skipper come to lodge with us. He was a weather-beaten old hulk, but could carry a was found, a Mr. Hans Christian Feldje died at the age of seventy three — so, after all, the rum and 'bacca must have suited his constitution — and was buried iu the parish churchyard of St. George's-in-the- East. big cargo of rum. He had sailed the salt seas the world over, and could spin yarns from one Saturday night to the next Saturday night without stopping. He was a fellow who had had lots of schooling and knew everything, and he undertook to teach me on consideration of my father letting him lodge at a cheaper rate. Well, for two years he pegged away, and he not only taught me a lot of navigation amongst other things, but he inflamed my mind with notions about the sea.

At last the old fellow, having got too big a cargo of grog aboard, broached-to, and went down in deep water. That is, he had a fit of apoplexy after a week's spree, and was found dead in his bed. He was my first and last schoolmaster ; but, never theless, I have managed to pick up a good deal, and though perhaps I'm not as good a scholar as those swells who go to colleges, I know how many beans make five, and can tell a hawk from a hand-saw. By the time I was twelve I began to worry my father to let me go to sea. He wanted to keep me at home, however, because I had become very useful in the boarding-house, and owing to his crippled state he had some difficulty in getting about. But the salt was in my veins, and though I was very young, I felt that a 'long-shore life wouldn't suit me. At last I told the old man that if he didn't give me my sailing orders, I should up anchor some dark night and run the blockade.

That fetched him, and when I was thirteen he bound me 'prentice to a Dutch East Indiaman trading under the British flag. As I have said, I was only thirteen, but I looked three years older at least. I was a well-built youngster ; smart and able, and quick at picking up things. I had a stomach like an ostrich, and as I had not been brought up in cotton wool, I was pretty well toughened, and could stand any amount of knocking about. In those days a youngster on board of an India man had a pretty lively time of it. Apprentices were not ' addressed as "sir," and they didn't wear blue reefers with brass buttons ; and caps with gold bands and flags on them. Oh dear, no. They were called lubbers and swabs and greasers, with a lot of epithets before these names, just to give them tone like ; and they were generally roused out of their bunks with a rope's end or a handspike.

They had to live on hard tack and salt horse, and, as there were no steam-condensers aboard in those days, Jack often had to wash his maggotty grub down with stinking water. Nor had the apprentice much time allowed him for saying his prayers, or for doing anything but his duty, and that had no end. If he ventured at any time to be obstreperous, he was mast-headed for a few hours, or triced up to the mizzen rigging, and the posterior part of his anatomy tickled with the end of a rope. However, there was a good deal of attractiveness about a sea life even under these conditions, and a lad who wasn't a fool got on well. Anyway, in those days they didn't make cotton-wool sailors as they do now ; and 'prentice hands were turned into cast-iron men, who could go anywhere and do any thing, and could handle a full-rigged Indiaman as easily as a yacht.

When I was out of my time I shipped as an A.B. on board the Dunkerley, bound for Batavia; and in that voyage I was cast away with the rest of the crew — except five or six who were drowned — on a desert island, and for six months we lived on nothing in particular, and didn't wax fat on it. If I were to tell my experiences for the next twenty years I guess I could make a pretty interesting book. I was twice shipwrecked during that time, and for a whole year I lived amongst the cannibals on one of the Solomon group in the Pacific. But that is not my purpose. I intend to only deal with that part of my life at which the strange adventures began that I am now about to relate. I was getting on for forty at this time, and had gone out to Monte Video from Liverpool as mate of a barque called the Ariadne.

I fell sick at Monte Video through drinking poisoned water, and had to be left behind at the hospital. I remained there for several months. The weather was just about as hot as it could be outside of the infernal regions, and the sickness was awful. I was therefore very anxious to clear out, although there didn't seem to be much chance, notwithstanding that I was willing to ship before the mast. But all things come to him who waits, and my chance came at last. One day a large full-rigged ship called the Golden Cloud, and hailing from Bristol, arrived with a cargo of horses. She had been knocking about the coast for some time, having come down from Pernambuco, and as she had a good deal of sickness on board, she had lost several hands, including the mate. She was commanded by a countryman of mine, a Swede named Yngvar Nielson, and he at once shipped me as mate in place of the one he had lost.

We lay at Monte Video for another two months, as there were no freights. But at last the skipper took a charter from a Spanish firm at Buenos Ayres for Callao and San Bias, on the coast of Mexico, and having loaded our cargo we cleared out, and I was very thankful to see the last of the Bio. I did not form a very high opinion of the skipper. He was over-fond of his grog, and it made him mad, and when he got into his tantrums you had to stand by for squalls. A good deal of the navigation of the vessel devolved on me, for often the skipper was incapable of taking a sight or working a reckoning. We had a pleasant run south, however. We kept well into the land, and passed to the westward of the Falkland Islands, but off the Horn we got a snifter, and for six days we were hove to, and for another six we were scudding under bare poles.

The vessel was not very well found, and she was undermanned, so that at times we found ourselves at the mercy of wind and waves. The sea was full of ice, too, and it took us all our time to keep clear of it. The crew and I worked well together. They said they had every confidence in me, and they so disliked the old man that I believe if I had told them to pitch him overboard they would have done so. But I had no desire for his death, though I was so uncomfortable in the vessel that I resolved to clear out as soon as possible. At last we rounded the Horn, and bore up north, and, as we had fallen short of provisions, we put into Valparaiso for fresh supplies. Here three or four of the hands deserted us, and we had to ship fresh ones, including a boatswain, an Englishman, named Bobert Nixon. He was a man about fifty years of age ; a regular old shellback.

He was a thorough sailor man from the tips of the grizzly hair on his head to the soles of his huge feet. Like myself, he had sailed pretty nigh all over the world, and I took to him from the first. He was a quiet man, who knew his work, and did it well. He could take his "tot " of rum with any one, but he never shirked his duty, and that's one of the things that drew me to him. I don't believe in your fresh-water sailors, who don't know a clew-line from a marling-spike, and yet swagger about a ship as if they had been in command of three-deckers all their lives. Bob Nixon wasn't one of that school. There was no swagger in him, but there was nothing about a ship from the main royal truck to the keelson that he didn't know. The carpenter was a Scotchman, named Sandy Macpherson, another good fellow, who seemed capable of doing almost anything; and he and I and the boatswain soon became pals.

After leaving Valparaiso we fell in with strong westerly gales that compelled us to give the coast a wide berth, and, as the Golden Cloud was a regular old washing-tub, we made a long passage to Callao. Here more of the hands deserted, and we had to ship fresh ones, including a carpenter's mate. We were a fortnight in Callao before we could clear for San Bias. We shaped a nor'-westerly course at first on leaving, hoping to get the fag-end of the south-east trades to carry us down into the Doldrums ; but the wind soon fell light, and we hugged the land again, so as to get the night breezes that blew down from the Andes. We managed to drift into about 3° south, where we fell in with nothing but calms. The heat was a caution. The pitch bubbled up out of the seams of the deck, and the brasswork got so hot that it would almost take the skin off your hands if you touched it.

It was pretty monotonous work this, lying like a log on a sea of oil. A long, rolling swell came up from the south, causing the water to flash like a mirror of highly polished steel in the fierce glare of the sunlight. With the exception of the motion imparted to them by the rolling of the vessel owing to the swell, our sails clung about the masts as limp as wet rags. The skipper whistled for wind, and swore from morning till night, except when he was drinking rum ; but no wind came, and the in activity under the roasting sun was maddening. The oily sea was dotted with the black fins of the sharks, and from the time the sun rose to the time it set in the red-hot ocean there was never a cloud in the sky to break its fierceness. As the ship swarmed with cockroaches, and mosquitos came off the land in tens of thousands, while the heat above and below was so stifling as to render it difficult for even us shell backs to sleep, it may be imagined that we were not quite as comfortable as we might have been in a king's palace.

I don't know that I ever felt so tired of a voyage before in all my life, and the discomfort was rendered the more unpleasant owing to the tyranny of the skipper, who really seemed to do all that he could to render the lives of his crew miserable. I am quite sure that if the hands could have reached the shore, they would have left him in a body, for one and all vowed that the Golden Cloud was the worst ship they had ever sailed in. One day, when in lat. 2° 3' south, with Guayaquil bearing east twenty-five miles, one of the hands was in the foretop, putting chafing-gear on" the collar of the fore-stay, when he reported a large black some thing on the water about five miles off on our star board quarter. It did not look like a boat, and he could not make out what it was. Taking a glass with me, I went up to the main cross-trees, and after a time I made out the strange object to be a raft, with a man on it.

Although the distance was not great for a good glass, the glare and flash of the water and the haze in the atmosphere produced such a mirage that it was difficult to see objects clearly. However, I was convinced that what I saw was a raft, with a man lying down on it, and suspecting that he must be a shipwrecked mariner, I went to the skipper's cabin to report the circumstance.

Chapter II. The Baft And Its Occupant

The skipper, who had been fuddling himself during the morning, had turned in, and when I roused him up he growled like an angry bear. I told him that there was a raft with a man on it a few miles away, and I asked him what I should do. " Let the raft and the man go to the devil," he roared. "Well, sir," I answered, "as the poor fellow may be a shipwrecked mariner, it would hardly be human to refuse to render him assistance. Perhaps we may be wrecked ourselves some day and want help." " True, true, Feldje," he muttered, as if his feelings had been touched by that last remark. " Well, look here, give me a drink of rum, for my throat is like a red-hot copper-kettle. This infernally sultry weather burns the inside out of me. When I've had a drink, I'll go on deck and see what the raft is like."

I thought to myself, "It isn't the hot weather that's burning your inside out, old man, but the rum." However, I gave him a tot out of the little beaker that always stood on his cabin table ; and then with his bare feet and only his trousers and shirt on, and his hair hanging about his face like a towzled mop, he went on deck. It was a long time before he could make the raft out, but at last he did so, and then turning to me he said — " Feldje, get a boat lowered, and send the second mate and some of the hands to see what that thing is; and look here, take a bottle of rum with you, for the poor devil on the raft may want something. It's im possible to live in this blazing weather without rum." I smiled, and went away to execute his orders, when, calling me back, he added — " Look here, go in the boat yourself, and take who you like to pull the oars."

I was glad of this, for even the little change of a few miles' pull in a boat would be a break in the monotony ; and as the boatswain was standing by, I told him he could go with me, and I sang out to " Chips " to go too, thinking that he might be able to jxick out a spar or two from the raft, for, as far as I could make out, the raft consisted of spars lashed together. c Besides the boatswain and Chips I selected two A.B.'s to go in the boat. One was an Irishman, a great favourite of mine. His name was Barney Fagan, a clever seaman, and a generally useful fellow. The other was an Englishman, named Jim Smith. We had no difficulty in getting the boat into the water, for our vessel rolled steadily, and at intervals, as she rose and fell with the swell. As soon as we had unhooked the falls, I told the men to bend to it, and they soon swept us clear of the ship.

The glare from the water was blinding, and the heat was suffocating. I had got a bottle of rum from the steward, according to the captain's orders, and think ing that my men might want supporting before we got back, after a long pull over that burning sea, I had secretly brought a second bottle from my own locker ; and as we had plenty of tobacco, we lit our pipes and made ourselves comfortable. It was a peculiar sensation as we rose on the back of the great swell, and then dropped down in the valley, which was blinding white with the gleam and glare. The sharks swarmed about us, and now and again, as they thrust their black fins out of the water, we could see their villainous-looking eyes glaring hungrily at us. We had a boat-hook with us, and I managed to give one huge brute such a prod with it that his blood spurted from the wound, and the blow must have stunned him, for in a few minutes we saw scores of his companions tearing him to pieces, and at the sight Barney Fagan exclaimed piously — " Howly Mother be praised that there will be one of thim bastes less in the sea anyway !

" When we had pulled about two and a half or three miles, the men were nearly all dead-beat with the exertion in the furnace-like heat, and so I served out a tot of rum, mixed with water, of which a small beaker was stowed in the boat. Before leaving the vessel I had taken the bearings of the raft, but neglected to bring a small hand-com pass with me, which was unfortunate, for we could not see the object we were rowing to ; in fact, I began at last to think that we must have got out of our course, and I strained my eyes anxiously over the sea in search of the raft, but could see nothing save the gleaming waste of waters, dotted about with the fins of the sea tigers that were athirst for prey. Presently the boatswain stood up, and, after a long and steady gaze ahead, he exclaimed — " I believe I see it there, about a point and a half on our weather-bow."

Standing on the thwart, I caught sight of what seemed a black speck that rose and fell with the swell. I brought the boat's head up, and we steered direct for the object. The work of rowing under the torrid conditions was very trying, and I served out another tot, which stimulated the men to fresh exertions. "Well," said Chips, as he stopped rowing, and mopped his streaming face, "if that poor devil has been on the raft long he must be done brown by this time, and be stewing in his own juice." We laughed at this remark, but suddenly I caught full sight of the raft as we rose to the swell, and as we were not more than half a mile from it, I could see that there was one man on it, and he was stretched on his back, so I said gravely — " Chips, I think you are right. The poor fellow is done brown, for I believe he's dead."

" Maybe it's only his watch below, and he's slaping," put in Barney. "I fear, Barney," said I, "he'll get no more watches below, for he's gone aloft." " Divil a fear, sir," exclaimed Barney. "Sailor men never go up there," and he pointed to the sky. "They always remain down below," and he pointed to the water. " No, Barney," I said reprovingly, " sailor men are not half as bad as a good many other kind of folk, and though I don't profess to know much about it, my impression is there is a regular place for sailors." " Well, I don't mind where it is," chimed in the boatswain, " if they'll only give us plenty of rum and 'bacca." I did not make any answer to that, for at that moment we came in full sight of the raft again ; but I could not help thinking that, as a rule, a sailor's idea of heaven is a place where there is an unlimited supply of tobacco and rum.