But the piracy game wasn’t as fruitful as Lord Howell had hoped it would be; true, they managed to pillage their fair share of merchantmen and live a relatively decent life from the proceeds, but soon the men were grumbling that the Aurora was by no means a particularly successful freebooter, and that others were doing far better.
“It is as if some kind of a curse is upon us, m’Lord,” Tom Masterson observed one night as he shared the meal with Lord Howell— now Don Pedro—in the captain’s cabin.
“Please refer to me as Don Pedro,” Howell warned. The men did not know his real name and he wanted to keep it that way. Tom understood. He remembered also how the infamous opal had brought his captain nothing but misfortune. He secretly wondered whether perhaps the jewel was at the root of their lack of success in this game. When he mentioned the idea, ‘Don Pedro’ shook his head.
“I’ve been wondering about the opal myself, Tom,” he said, “and perhaps we ought to do something about it now.” He rose from the table and stepped up to a large map on which their future course had been marked. “In about six or seven days, depending on the wind, we should be getting close to the American shore, about here,” he said, and pointed to a spot on the map. “Let us make landfall there and see what we find in the way of a good hiding place for the jewel.”
“Perhaps we should also remove some of the other gold and jewelry,” Tom suggested. “The men are getting restless these days and temptation is always near.”
“Quite so,” Don Pedro nodded. “Especially as we have just divided the results of last year’s spoils with them. There is no money due to the crew now for another year.”
“The map reads Long Island,” Tom said, pointing at a yellow-colored bit of beach on the map. “Is this where you intend making landfall, sir?”
“Yes, somewhere along that sandy stretch. I have been told there are many coves where a vessel our size can easily lie at anchor and not be detected from inland. We will need a little time to do our business, and it had best be done without interference from anyone on land.”
“The men know to fight on land as well as on sea,” Tom replied.
“Perhaps, but the very nature of this business requires us to be prudent, Tom.” Don Pedro doused the candles. “No more of this to anyone, you understand, until we are close to the coast.”
Tom nodded, and left his captain, seated by the cabin’s rear window, staring out into the darkening night sky as the sea pounded the Aurora with relentless monotony.
Don Pedro sighed. There was a trace of relief in the sound. It seemed to him that his decision had removed a great weight from his soul; there might well be better times ahead. He shivered. He must be growing superstitious, like all sailors. How could the great blue opal affect the destiny of the Aurora?
Nevertheless, he mused, he would be glad when it was off the ship—and hidden out of harm’s way in the New World.
It was a cold, clear morning just over a week later when an excited lookout came running down to the captain’s cabin with the good news that he had sighted land. Quickly getting dressed, Don Pedro rushed on deck. No doubt about it, as his telescope quickly told him, there was a thin, dark line on the far horizon that could only mean one thing: land ahead.
Just then the wind suddenly changed, and the Aurora was being pushed farther south than Don Pedro had intended. But there was no arguing with nature; he resigned himself to letting it take its course, for he knew that in due time, the winds would shift again and carry them to their intended goal. This was the Aurora’s first transatlantic voyage, though some of her crew had been to Panama and Mexico.
Don Pedro decided to pray for a shift in the wind, so he could make landfall at the earliest possible time. He found his praying a bit awkward, seeing that he was now in the piracy business, but then he figured that God had favored stranger causes than his; and perhaps there was some redeeming element in his past that would sway the Deity to favor him and his course!
Whether it was the power of his prayer or merely nature taking its course, the winds shifted again a week later and once more the Aurora set course directly for the American coast. This time, the favorable winds stayed with them to the last, and not more than five days had elapsed when the coast rose up before their eyes, close enough to prepare the anchor for landing. The crew rejoiced at the prospect of being on land again, and having fresh water and food—though the total lack of booty en route had somewhat dismayed them. On reflection, Don Pedro thought that this was just as well as it would have delayed their arrival even more. But could it not also be the consequences of having the accursed opal aboard that had kept rich merchantmen away from their course? For a well-equipped pirate ship, the Aurora was doing poorly indeed.
Had it not been for a fortuitous encounter with three French ships six months before, bound for the Indies with pay for Colonial troops there and sundry goods, Don Pedro doubted his crew would still be with him: they would have looked for more lucrative employment elsewhere. He hoped that things would change as soon as the opal had been removed from the ship and his possession.
The stretch of coast where the Aurora made landfall was deserted. They could see smoke rising from Indian settlements in the distance and, as the morning matured, the sun disclosed a sandy, white beach which looked pristine and inviting. Of course, Don Pedro knew that there were English settlements strewn along the coast of Long Island; it had been his intent to avoid them all along so as to do his business with as little risk of being disturbed as possible.
When the longboat had been lowered, he, Tom, and half a dozen men jumped into it and made for shore. In his breast pocket, Don Pedro carried the accursed stone; a heavy chest containing much of the gold and jewelry taken from the Frenchmen—mainly the share reserved to himself, Tom, and the officers of the Aurora—was also aboard, ready to be secreted along with the opal. A suitable place had of course to be found, and as soon as the party set foot on land, the task to find such a hiding place began.
The sun was now getting stronger; it promised to be a warm day. The seaman’s chest filled with treasure weighed heavily on the shoulders of the four men carrying it, and now and then they set it down on the sand, to recover their strength. Tom looked at Don Pedro with a searching glance, as if to say, how much farther do we have to go?
“Halt,” Don Pedro said, perhaps intuiting Tom’s thoughts telepathically. “This is where I want to do it.”
They had reached a small clearing not far from where they had made landfall. It was shaded by a clump of trees bending with the wind. Almost like a meandering river, the clearing extended to the coast; to the east the rolling dunes led to uplands in the distance. It was as if they had stepped on virgin soil, so silent was the landscape. If it had not been for the rising smoke of Indian settlements in the distance, they might have thought they had landed on some undiscovered island.
The men put the chest down with a sigh of relief, and its weight half-buried it in the soft sand. But they were not to have any long respite.
“Let us dig over there,” Don Pedro commanded, and pointed at the trees. “Just below that one tree standing apart from the others.”
Quickly, the sailors took out shovels, and dug where their captain had indicated. The soil was less soft where the trees stood, and though they worked hard, it was clear it would take more than a few minutes to dig deeply enough to secure the chest from possible scavengers.
At last, the hole was deep enough for a man to stand in and not be seen from above: Don Pedro was satisfied that the treasure would be safe at that depth. He ordered the men to line the walls of the hole with wooden planks they had brought with them from the Aurora.
“How will we remember the spot?” Tom asked. Part of the immense treasure within the chest was his, and he wanted to be sure he could find it again.
“Not to worry,” replied Don Pedro as he drew a piece of paper from his pocket and began to sketch the area. “I will always remember.”
“And I will never forget,” replied Tom, and smiled. But there was a false note in his voice that Don Pedro failed to notice.
The men had by now finished supporting the walls with wood. They lowered the heavy chest into the hole.
“Do you want us to cover it now?” asked the burly seaman known as Rowdy Tony, whose real name had long been forgotten.
“Not just yet, Tony,” replied Don Pedro, “but in a moment.”
With that, he swiftly stepped up to the hole, peering down into it. There sat the seaman’s chest, safely ensconced in the wood-lined hole. Pedro drew a small pouch from his breast pocket and carefully placed it down on top of the chest, making sure it would not slip off. Then he jumped up onto the sand again, brushing loose earth from his clothes.
“Now cover it, men,” he commanded. The sailors quickly shoveled the loose earth and sand onto the chest, filling in the hole in a matter of minutes. As they were busy finishing the work they had come for, they failed to notice that a pair of eyes was watching their every move.
But something made Tom look in the direction of the farthest tree.
“Look,” he cried out, “we’re not alone.”
As Tom spoke, the owner of the eyes stepped out from behind a tree. A tall, proud-faced Indian, attired in clothes indicating his rank of Chief, fearlessly stepped forward and confronted the landing party. There was a moment of embarrassment, as Don Pedro realized his quandary.
“How long have you been standing there, friend?” he enquired, not yet knowing what to do about the unexpected and certainly unacceptable intruder.
The Indian did not move. Agonizing moments went by as they waited for his answer. Perhaps he did not understand English?
As if he had read their random thoughts, the Indian replied, “I have watched you land, yes … and I have seen you come to this place.
What is it you have brought here, white man?”
“That’s none of your business,” an angry Tom shouted, ready to attack the Indian. But Don Pedro’s hand restrained him.
“It is my business, white man,” the Indian said, somewhat haughtily. “You are on ancient tribal soil.”
“Nonsense.” Tom’s temper was on the verge of exploding. “This is part of His British Majesty’s land.”
“Are you of the King’s men, then?” the Indian asked. A furtive smile appeared on his thin lips, indicating his disdain.
While this conversation was taking place, two of the men had quietly moved around the clump of trees and come up behind the Indian. With a sudden move, he noticed them and prepared to defend himself with his hunting knife. But it was too late: the two burly sailors had him firmly in their grip.
“Don’t hurt him,” commanded Don Pedro, “but bring him to me.”
With the Indian a reluctant prisoner, the two sailors led him down the dune to Don Pedro.
“Who are you?” the captain asked. He motioned to the men to release their grip on the Indian, which they reluctantly did. The Indian did not move.
“I am Chief Rolling Thunder … this is our tribal land.”
“Which tribe?”
“I am of the Shinnecock.”
“We are a peaceful people. We do not want your land.”
“You have come to place … something … into our sacred soil. This is our land.”
“We will not stay. Have no fear.”
Tom had been watching the exchange with mounting discomfort. Now he bent close to Don Pedro and whispered in his right ear, “We can’t leave him … he has seen everything.”
Don Pedro realized the dilemma had to be resolved quickly. The sailors stood around, their eyes focused on him with increasing hostility. After all, they all had a share in the treasure they had just buried.
As Don Pedro was groping for a solution, Tom suddenly lunged forward, his seaman’s knife high in his fist. He seized the Indian in a deadly hold, in such a way that the man could not free himself unless his strength was greater than his attacker’s; and Tom’s strength was clearly superior.
“We can’t let him live, Captain,” Tom said matter-of-factly, as he prepared to slit the Indian’s throat. The Indian’s face was serene as he prepared himself for death.
But something in Don Pedro’s mind snapped at this instant. With all his weight, he threw himself against Tom, forcing him to release the Indian. Tom sprawled on the ground, his eyes filled with anger. Don Pedro stood waiting, prepared to defend himself against his own men. The Indian did not move. Why wasn’t he taking advantage of the situation to run away? Don Pedro wondered.
Even Tom took this in, and as he got up, he seemed a calmer man.
“I am still the captain,” Don Pedro said, casually touching the pistol in his belt. ”‘And you will please refrain from taking any action without my command to do so.”
The Indian now extended his hand to Don Pedro. “You have saved my life, white man, and I owe it to you.”
“I do not kill a man in cold blood, Rolling Thunder,” Don Pedro replied. “But it is a pity you saw us hide the chest here.”
“You must not concern yourself about it,” the Indian said. “It will not be touched so long as the Shinnecock walk this land. We will guard it for you.”
“You will, really?” Tom said, coming closer with an expression of astonishment in his brutal face. “Then I am truly sorry I tried to kill you.”
But Rolling Thunder did not reply. Instead, he once again extended his arm to Don Pedro, then took a small knife from his belt and quickly cut into his skin, drawing blood immediately.
Don Pedro understood at once. Extending his own arm, and baring it, he let the Chief cut his skin as well. Each man sucked the blood of the other, while the crew watched in disbelief.
“We’re blood brothers now,” the Chief said. “We are as one.”
He waved at Don Pedro, and then turned away. Without so much as another glance, Rolling Thunder walked past the clump of trees and disappeared toward the Indian settlement in the distance.
For a moment, nobody spoke. There was a brooding silence in the air, chilling it even though the sun now stood nearly at the zenith.
“Let us go back to the Aurora,” Don Pedro said, and the men obeyed. Only Tom seemed ill at ease. For a moment, he hesitated.
“Coming, Tom?” Don Pedro asked, waiting for his mate to make a move.
“I don’t think it is wise to let the Indian go, sir,” Tom said, as he slowly joined Don Pedro in walking down the dune toward the boat. “How do we know he won’t come back tonight and take our treasure?”
“No, Tom, he won’t. I know enough about Indian taboos to be quite sure our treasure could not be safer.”
“You’re the captain,” Tom replied, but there was a tone of subdued anger in his voice.
Don Pedro noticed it, of course, but thought it would quickly pass. Still, he did not want his mate—and old companion—to feel unhappy. Putting his arm around the reluctant man’s shoulder, he said, “It’s going to be all right, Tom, believe me. But we’ll come back with the fall tides just to make sure everything is as it should be—all right?”
“Very well, sir,” Tom replied. “I hope you’re right.”
Nothing further was said about the matter, and soon they were back aboard the Aurora. The afternoon tide was favorable, and within the hour she set sail, heading due south toward the rich trade lanes where a lonely French merchantman might offer new treasure.