WE were sitting in old Professor Frisbow’s room in the West Coast Museum, and our host had been listening to accounts of wonderful adventures on deep-water. Each had spoken, and it was Frisbow’s turn. We settled ourselves comfortably, and he began:

“Few people remember the old town of St. Augustine as it was before the war, with its old coquina houses and flat, unpaved streets, that abounded with sand-fleas in dry weather and turned into swamps of mud and sand when it rained. Those who can look so far back through life’s vista will remember its peculiar inhabitants.

“The Southern negro, sleeping in the hot sunshine on the plaza, or loafing about the sea-wall talking to the white ‘cracker,’ was, of course, the most numerous; but there were also the Spaniards and Minorcans, who married and intermarried among themselves, that made up a large part of the population.

“St. Augustine was not a thriving town. Its business could be seen almost any morning quite early, when a few long, narrow, dugout canoes, with a swarthy Minorcan rowing on one side, and a companion sitting aft paddling on the other, would come around the ‘Devil’s Elbow’ in the Matanzas River, and glide swiftly and silently up to a break in the sea-wall and deposit their loads of mullet or whiting. Then the canoes would disappear with their owners, after a little haggling had been indulged in between the latter and the purchasers of the fish, and the quiet of the long, hot day would begin.

“It is astonishing how lazy one may become under the influence of that blue, semi-tropical sky, with the warm, gentle breeze from the southern ocean rippling the clear, green waters of the bay. Life seems a bright dream, and any unwonted exertion causes a jar to the nerves such as one feels when rudely awakened from a sound, pleasant sleep. During the daytime in summer no one but the negro and a few long-haired Minorcans would tempt the torrid sunshine; and even I, with my passion for sport, would seldom show my pith helmet to the sun during July and August.

“The inlets and rivers along the coast of Florida abound with all kinds of fish, from the little mullet to the mighty tarpon; and many a day’s sport have I had with them in either canoe or surf along that sandy coast.

“For a guide I often had an old Spaniard called ‘Alvarez.’ This old man lived alone in a coquina house of rather large size, and affected the airs and manners of a grandee. He associated with no one, and no one seemed to know anything about him, except that he came there on a schooner from the West Indies years ago, being then an old man. He had bought this house, and had continued to live there without any visible means of support other than the fish he caught. He always went to the store opposite the plaza, at the end of every month, and paid cash in Spanish or American gold and silver for his frugal supplies.

“I had been out ’gator-shooting, and was returning home after two days’ sport with a few good skins, when, on turning the last bend in South River about twenty miles from St. Augustine, I came suddenly upon an old man in a dugout canoe fishing. He had just hooked a large bass, and I started the sheet of my sharpie to stop its headway, and waited until he landed him. I then sailed up alongside of the canoe, intending to buy the fish and take it home with me, thinking, of course, that the old man would be glad to sell it. What was my surprise when he informed me politely that he did not care to sell it, though he had a score or two in the bottom of his canoe. This from an old long-haired Spaniard who seemed in the depths of poverty excited my curiosity, and I endeavored to start a conversation with him about the different fishing ‘drops’ in the locality. He eyed me suspiciously at first, and finally answered my questions with an ease that puzzled me greatly.

“There was one particular place, or ‘drop,’ for catching drum-fish down the South River of which I had often heard but could never find, so I ventured upon this subject to the stranger. To my great surprise he offered to accompany me to it any time that I should find it convenient, telling me at the same time that he lived in St. Augustine, and that I would probably find him there the next day. I thanked him, and, letting go, squared away before the southeast breeze and soon left him out of sight.

“The next day I was walking along the sea-wall smoking my pipe and thinking of this peculiar old fisherman with his mahogany-colored face and bright eye, wondering if I could get him to pilot me on an expedition to the southward. I had a rambling idea of spending several weeks in fishing down the Indian River, and I wanted some one to pilot me who knew the way through the inland passages. While I was trying to form some plan of this intended trip I saw a canoe come around the bend in the Matanzas, and, on its approaching nearer, I recognized the old man whom I had met the day before. I went up to him as he landed at the break in the sea-wall and asked him what luck he had had fishing. For a reply he showed me as fine a catch of red bass as I had ever seen, at the same time offering me a couple as a present. I took them; and after he had tied his boat to a ring in the wall, he joined me and walked part of the way home with me.

“On our way I asked him if he had ever been through the passages to the Indian River, and he smiled as he answered ‘yes.’ I then asked him if he would guide me through on a trip that I intended to make. He was silent for some moments, and finally said he would, provided there was no party going along with me. I then left him; and after going home with my fish I went around to see my friend the sheriff, to find out more about him. I was told that he was a peaceable old fellow, and as he fished a great deal he probably knew all the best places for miles around, that his name was Alvarez, and that he was a reliable man as far as any one knew.

“About a week after this we started out one fine day bound south. Although Alvarez was an absent-minded old fellow, and in spite of his peculiar manner, so different from the common class of dirty, poverty-stricken Spaniards, we got along together splendidly. I was never a great talker, especially when hunting or fishing, and the dearth of conversation on this trip was one of the most enjoyable features of it. Old Alvarez and I became quite good friends after this expedition, and I often used to question him about himself and his affairs. As long as the conversation related to his life in the town he would talk readily enough, but anything regarding his birth or former life he always avoided, merely saying that he ran away to sea when quite young, and that was all that could be drawn from him.

“My fancy often pictured him a pirate or ‘beach-comber,’ and, in fact, there was a rumor to that effect in the town. People said that he had treasures buried along the shore somewhere on Anastasia Island; and that if he chose to talk, more than one vessel that had cleared Cuban ports and had never been heard from could be accounted for. This was mere idle gossip and amounted to nothing, but once somebody had seen his canoe at midnight hauled up on the sand on a narrow part of the island some ten miles below the town.

“Sailing by, they had seen Alvarez walking up and down the beach with his head bowed forward as if looking for something. It was not the season for turtles’ eggs, so it was hard to imagine what he was looking for in the soft yellow sand. People, however, did not like to inquire too closely into his affairs, for when he was annoyed his face assumed such a sinister expression that it boded no good for those who were inclined to chaff him.

“One night a negro ruffian and a Minorcan forced an entrance into his house with the evident intention of securing his imagined treasure. The next morning Alvarez came out and told the sheriff that there were two dead men in his house that he would like to have removed. The sheriff, who was a Spaniard, came around, and there, sure enough, lay both; one shot through the neck and the other through the head, while two immense old-fashioned pistols lay empty on a table in his room. There were no signs of a struggle except a long smear of blood from his room to the hall where the body of the negro lay. He was easily acquitted, and afterwards became more stoical than ever, but he was never disturbed again.

“Although these things happened long before I knew him, I did not hear of them until some time afterwards, and I’ve often wondered since what made the old fellow take such a fancy to me.

“Alvarez and I used to shoot pelicans together. We would go down the river to a narrow part of the island and then cross over to the front beach. I had always remembered this place on account of a bunch of tall palmettoes that grew on the outside of the island and towered above the low bunches of scrub-oak. A more lonely spot it would be hard to find even in that wild country. Here we would make a blind for the night, and shoot the birds as they came in on the beach to roost among the sand-dunes. By the light of a full moon fair sport could be had in this way, and often we would secure a fine bird with long pencilled feathers.

“One night after shooting several birds we turned in on the sand, intending to spend the rest of the night there, as there was no wind. I awoke during the night, and, looking around, found that Alvarez had disappeared. I looked across the sand-spit and saw the boat all right, so I wondered where he could have gone. I arose, and, shaking the sand from my clothes, followed his tracks, which were plainly visible down the beach towards the clump of palmettoes that stood out sharply against the moonlit sky. On nearing them I saw a figure sitting on the sand under the largest tree, and on getting closer I saw that it was Alvarez with his head bowed forward on his arms, which rested on his knees. He started up suddenly on hearing me approach, and asked, sharply,—

“‘How long have you been here?’

“His voice sounded so different from what I had been accustomed to that I was quite startled, and stood looking at him for some moments wondering if he had gone mad. He returned my gaze steadily and gave me a most searching look. I finally answered that I had come to look for him; at the same time I wondered what he meant and tried to curb my rising temper. His fixed look relaxed and he turned his head slightly. I followed his glance, and saw that he was looking at the ground near the foot of one of the palmettoes. The sand about the roots was much disturbed, as if he had been digging for something.

“‘Alvarez,’ said I, ‘what have you been hunting for, and what do you mean by asking how long I’ve been watching you?’

“He remained silent for some moments, then rising, he placed his hand on my shoulder: ‘That’s all right, Mr. Frisbow,’ he said. ‘I have these nightmare fits on me once in a while.’

“‘Well,’ I answered. ‘It’s a strange sort of nightmare that makes one go rooting around in the sand like a hog.’

“He looked at me again with that curious expression, and then said, slowly,—

“‘I was a young man when I first came onto the Florida reef, and there’s many things happened about here and Barrataria before you was born. Some day I’ll talk with you about old times, but not to-night. It’s late. We go to sleep.’

“‘No,’ said I, ‘tell me what you mean. There’s plenty of time for sleep, and, besides, it’s too hot, anyhow.’

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘there’s just one thing I think about every time I come to this spot, and that is the fight which took place a couple of miles off shore, abreast this clump of palmettoes.’

“‘What kind of fight?’ I asked. ‘I never heard of any fight taking place off here.’

“He looked at me sharply, and I fancied the hard lines in his weather-beaten face relaxed into the faintest suspicion of a smile.

“‘Quite likely not,’ he answered, ‘but there was one off here a long time ago. It isn’t likely many people remember much about it, for the men who took part in it probably died years ago. It was between two schooners.

“‘There was one that carried fruit from Havana, and she started down the coast one night from St. Augustine, homeward bound, but without any lights. This was probably an oversight, or, perhaps, a desire on the part of her skipper to save oil.

“‘There was another schooner coming up the coast that evening, and she didn’t have any lights because she was all the way from the Guinea Coast loaded with ebony.’

“‘I don’t see why a vessel carrying ebony shouldn’t carry lights,’ I interrupted.

“Old Alvarez’s face showed a net-work of lines and wrinkles and the stumps of his yellow teeth shone bright in the moonlight.

“‘There isn’t any real reason why they shouldn’t,’ said he; ‘but there used to be a prejudice against the trade. As for me, I don’t see why people considered it in such a bad light, for shipping the article not only paid the owners but improved the ebony—after they got it ashore.’

“‘I see,’ I answered; ‘the ebony was alive, then, and in the form of men and women.’

“‘Most likely,’ he replied, ‘though they do say that life in a ship’s hold is not uncoupled with death, especially when a vessel gets caught in the hot calms outside the Guinea Gulf. Anyhow, the vessel had no lights and was crowding along with every rag on her.

“‘The first thing anybody on board knew of the whereabouts of the fruit schooner was the crash of her bowsprit poking into the fore-rigging and knocking the foremast out of the Guinea trader. Then she ranged alongside, all fast, with her head-gear tangled in the wreck.

“‘There were a great many men on the vessel carrying the ebony, and in a few minutes they swarmed on deck with muskets and cutlasses. As soon as they found the fellow was a fruit schooner they started to cut her adrift, cursing the captain and crew for the damage.

“‘Everything might have gone well and the vessels separated but for the fact that the passengers on board were two officers and their families bound for Havana. These two men came on deck in uniform, and in less than a minute the men saw them. To let them go meant certain death to all hands on the ebony schooner, so they started over the rail after them.’

“Here Alvarez became suddenly silent for a few moments, and his eyes wandered towards the trees, as if expecting to see some one. Then, facing me again, he continued:

“‘They made a terrible fight, they say, cutting down half a dozen men as they crowded aft. The captain and crew of the schooner were soon tied up, and the men rushed onto the quarter-deck to take the officers at any cost. It was all over in a minute, and the two wives and a beautiful girl were carried on board the ebony schooner. The men were so worked up that a plank was rigged from the weather-rail and the lashings cast off from the feet of the prisoners. One by one they walked to their death along that narrow strip of wood with their eyes bandaged and elbows lashed fast behind them—and that was all.’

“He remained silent for some moments after this, and again looked sharply at the clump of palmettoes.

“‘But, Alvarez,’ I said, ‘what became of the two women and the beautiful young girl?’

“‘I never heard,’ he answered, dryly, and started to walk slowly back to the blind.

“‘Did they ever catch the ebony schooner?’ I ventured again.

“‘I don’t know,’ he replied, shortly, and, as I saw he would talk no more, I kept silent.

“After walking up and down the beach trying to get cool, we finally laid down under the trees and slept until daybreak. Then we started home. On the way back we were becalmed, and having drunk up all the water, we drifted along under a scorching sun with our mouths too dry to open. As I lay on my back in the bottom of the boat, I could not help thinking of the stories about this old man, and it suddenly flashed upon me that he had been seen near those same palmettoes before.

“I vaguely wondered if he had been a pirate and had buried his ill-gotten money under those trees on that lonely shore. There he sat in the stern-sheets, his grizzled hair shining in the bright sunlight under his old slouch hat, and his small gray eyes looking seaward for the first cat’s-paw of the coming morning breeze. His skin, tanned to leather from long exposure to the weather, made him as impervious to the sun’s rays as a negro. But in spite of this his features were as clearly cut and as strongly marked as those of a Don of bluest blood. Altogether he was not a bad looking old man, even with his slightly hooked nose and too firm mouth.

“I soon fell asleep and dreamed of rich galleons fighting huge canoes full of grizzled pirates, armed to the teeth, who squinted carefully along their old muskets and fired with loud yells. I suddenly awoke to find Alvarez calling to me to sit to windward, as we were heeling over and rushing along through the water before the sea-breeze only a few miles from town.

“The next day we started out bass-fishing in the surf on the outer beach. A rod and reel would have been considered strange instruments in those days down there. We used to take our hand-lines, which were very long, and, coiling them carefully, would wade out to our armpits. Then swinging the heavy sinkers about our heads until they acquired sufficient velocity, we would send them flying out beyond the first line of breakers, and paying out line, would wade back to the beach. Sharks abounded, and often we lost our gear when they took a fancy to our baits. We never feared their attacking us, as the waters abounded with fish, and in such places they seldom if ever attack a man.

“One day after some good sport Alvarez seemed tired, and instead of holding the end of his line in his hand he tied it around his waist. I noticed this and was about to call his attention to the danger of it, when I hooked a huge bass and was kept busy playing it for some time. The lines we used were about the size of the cod-lines used in the North, and capable of holding a strain of nearly two hundred pounds, while the hooks were like the drum hooks now used. While I was playing my fish my line, which was old, parted near the end, and I hauled it in to fit a new hook and sinker. During the time I was thus engaged Alvarez had waded out up to his shoulders in the surf and had cast his line into deep water. He then started to wade slowly back towards the shore. Before he had made a dozen steps I saw him suddenly reach for his line.

“Three heavy breakers had just rolled in, followed by a comparatively smooth spell that lasted for a few moments. I stopped working at my line and watched him, for I knew he must have had a good bite. Suddenly I saw him throw his whole weight on the line, but in spite of this go slowly forward. He was now in water so deep that he had to jump up every time the swell came to keep his head out of the foam. In a moment I turned, and as I caught the expression of his face I knew what had happened. That face I’ve often seen since in my dreams, and I will never forget the expression of sudden fear that filled it.

“He had gone out so far that he could not get a good foothold; a shark had seized his bait and was making slowly out to sea. He called my name and beckoned me to come and help him. With trembling fingers I finished knotting the sinker to my line and rushed headlong with it down the beach. Water is a yielding fluid, but all who have tried know what tremendous exertion is required to make speed through it when in above the knees. When I was close enough I swung my sinker over my head and sent it whizzing straight and true towards the old man, who was now out to the first line of breakers, and swimming, though steadily moving outward.

“I flung the lead towards him, and he would have caught the line, but at that instant a huge sea broke right over him and he disappeared in the smothering foam. When he reappeared he was beyond reach and going steadily seaward. With a sickening feeling I hauled in the line and plunged into the surf to swim out to him. I made good headway until I reached the first line of curling water, when a heavy breaker fell over me and swept me back a hundred feet from where I started. Standing there in the surf, with the bright sun shining, I saw old Alvarez passing slowly out to sea to disappear forever. I tried to think what to do. He evidently could not break the line. It was impossible to untie it with the strain on it, and he being only half dressed had left his knife ashore.

“I thought of our boat which was on the lee side of the island, and knew that it would take a couple of hours to get around the point. However, it seemed the only thing to do, so I made my way ashore and started across the island as fast as possible. Just before entering the woods I looked seaward, and there on the breast of a long swell, a quarter of a mile off, was Alvarez, swimming steadily with his face turned towards the beach.

“In about a quarter of an hour I reached the boat, hoisted the sail, and shoved off. There was hardly any wind on the lee side of the island, so I put out an oar and sculled until the perspiration poured down my face and my heart seemed as though it would burst. In spite of this I made but little headway, and finally had to give it up exhausted. It was about two in the afternoon when I started, and it was after three before I cleared the point and got wind enough to get to sea. I came around on the sea side of the island and close enough in to see our coats on the beach, but of Alvarez there was not a trace.

“I headed out to sea in the direction that he was going when I saw him last, and searched about until dark, when I gave it up as hopeless. It was late when I arrived in the town that night, so I waited until morning before I reported the accident.

“The sheriff searched the house in which the old man lived, but nothing was found except an old sea-chest filled with clothes, some of which appeared to be Spanish uniforms, but very dilapidated. No money was found in the house except a few Spanish gold coins, and these were in the room that he occupied as a bedroom.

“For months afterwards I kept thinking of Alvarez and his tragic end. Although I felt very sorry for him, I could not help wondering if he did have money concealed in the neighborhood. I often felt heartily ashamed of myself, after discussing with some friend the probability of his having concealed wealth, but, nevertheless, the fancy that he had took a strong hold of me.

“I tried to imagine where on earth he could have hidden anything, and always my thoughts centred on that clump of palmettoes on that low sandy island. This feeling finally took such hold of me that one night I started out pelican-shooting with a shovel in the bottom of my boat.

“I felt something like a robber, but knowing that the old fellow had no relations, or friends even, for that matter, I tried to convince myself that I was right. It was about eight o’clock when I started with a good sailing breeze off the land, so it could not have been more than ten when I ran my boat’s bow on the sand and lowered the sail on the west side of the island.

“As I took up my gun and shovel a feeling of excitement came over me, and I felt as though I had already found a mass of untold wealth. When I started to walk across the island this feeling increased, and soon I was plunging and ploughing through the deep dry sand at a great rate.

“I could see the bunch of trees standing out clearly against the sky, and also the white surf beyond, for, although the moon was only in its first quarter, the night was clear and bright. I halted on the crest of a circular sand-dune to get my breath, and a feeling of lonesomeness crept over me as I looked towards the dark grove and down the lonely beach where everything was lifeless. The stillness seemed intensified by the deep booming of the surf, and I felt as if something or somebody was watching me. I had just turned towards the trees and was starting down the side of the dune when, with a sudden rush and flapping of wings, a huge gray pelican started up within ten feet of me and made off like a great gray ghost to seaward. A sudden chill shot up my spine. Dropping the shovel, I grabbed my gun in both hands and fired instantly at the retreating shadow. The shot was an easy one, but I missed; so, swearing at myself audibly for my nervousness, I picked up the shovel and went on.

“I halted under the largest tree, and, resting my gun against the trunk, tried to form some plan of action. Although the trees were some thirty feet above high-water, there were no tracks or anything else to indicate that any one had ever been there before. I might dig the whole grove up, for all that I had to guide me, before striking the right spot. However, I went to work at the front of the big tree and started to dig to the eastward.

“I toiled for an hour and was getting pretty warm. Thus far I had struck nothing but the roots of a tree, so I began to despair. I knew that I might keep on digging holes clear through to China, and, with nothing to guide me, pass within a foot of what I searched for. I took off my shirt, and the cool breeze blowing on my warm body invigorated me; so, taking up the shovel again, I started to lengthen the hole to the eastward. I dug steadily for another half-hour, when my shovel suddenly struck something solid. This made my heart almost leap into my mouth, and with quickening breath I dug fiercely on.

“Like a miner on making his first find of gold, I trembled all over, and the perspiration poured down my naked breast and shoulders as I threw clouds of sand on all sides. I was as drunk as if I had swallowed a pint of liquor, and I remember nothing except that I felt like shouting with delight. I finally cleared a box of the sand over it and then tried to lift it. To my intense surprise it moved easily. But my excitement gave way to the deepest disappointment, for I well knew that if a box about six feet long, two wide, and two deep contained coin it would take more than one man of my size to move it.

“I lost no time thinking these thoughts, but started to pry off the lid. The wood, which was extremely well preserved, resisted the edge of my shovel so well that it broke the iron. I was losing patience, so, whirling the shovel above my head, I brought it down with crushing force upon the lid. After a few blows it gave way, and I eagerly tore off the splintered fragments. As I did so I leaned over and peered into the face of a corpse.

“I leaped back and gazed at it in a stupefied way for some moments, my head in a whirl, then partially recovering myself, I went forward to examine it. It looked like the body of a man in the uniform of an officer; at least so I judged by some buttons on the coat; but everything had passed through the last stages of decomposition. There was nothing left on the head at all, and the teeth grinned horribly in the moonlight.

“As I stood and gazed I thought of Alvarez. So this was his secret! How came a man to be buried in such a lonely spot? Was it a friend or victim of his former days, brought ashore from some vessel in the offing that dare not land at St. Augustine?

“I did not molest the body, but after recovering myself I put the fragments of the lid back as well as I could and piled the sand over it. I then dressed, and, taking my gun, started for the boat. After sailing several hours with hardly any wind, I arrived at the town just as the rising sun came up out of the ocean. I said nothing of my trip to any one, and soon after left St. Augustine to return no more for years.

“The town is a queer old place, but it has changed greatly to one who remembers it as it was years ago. Its quaint old fort and coquina walls doubtless contain many secrets of their former owners. As for old Alvarez, he carried his to sea with him that bright afternoon with a shark for a pilot.”