WHEN a carefully concocted plan carried out industriously and faithfully results in a total failure to achieve the end sought, the consequences are disastrous in more ways than one. There is first the loss of all the labor, which is important; and secondly, and far more important, there is also inevitably a loss of confidence in one’s own power to achieve success.

I went to my hammock under the shed that night humiliated to the last degree, with a sense of utter contempt for my own judgment,—in short, in a sneering mood, criticising the folly I had displayed in not foreseeing events and making due provision for them. In a rank spirit of self-criticism and self-condemnation I reviewed what I had done, and what I had left undone, and deliberately pronounced myself a stupid ass for all my pains. Nevertheless, as before stated I went very quickly to sleep, and slept the traditional sleep of the just until after dawn.

When I awakened, the new risen sun hung bathed in fleecy clouds of primrose just above a sea all golden and flashing with his level beams; the dew gemmed each blade and leaf; the cool morning air trembled gently among the glistening foliage; the birds sang in noisy chorus far and near; everything was fresh and rested and hopeful and fair and encouraging.

I felt braced and full of confidence and hope; all the worry and trouble of the night had rolled away and gone. Never say die! There is no such thing as fail. The only question now is, what shall we do next? How shall we protect the wreck where it lies, and overcome the obstacles that have risen in our path? I went whistling a jolly tune down to the bathing-place in the creek, took a cool plunge in the clear water, and returned light-hearted, confident, and happy, to rouse my companions, that they also might feel the inspiring effect of the beautiful morning. I wanted somebody to talk with, to discuss the hundred half-formed projects with which my brain already teemed. I wanted to get to work again on some new line, and felt that no moment should be lost. I went to the door and called them; then built a fire and put the kettle on for coffee.

When Alice Millward came down to the fire, radiant in the beauty of health and freshness, her cheek flushed, her beautiful eyes sparkling, and a rebellious tendril of silken hair trembling over her brow in the breath of the morning, I so looked my admiration that she instinctively blushed. I turned away, busying myself with the fire. Somehow I could not help whistling snatches of the merry air that had been running in my head all the morning.

She caught my eye presently and said in a tone of full conviction, “Mr. Morgan, you have found some way of getting that treasure. I know you have by your manner this morning.”

“You are mistaken, Miss Millward. I only wish you were not. The fact is I have only just found that it is possible to begin again calmly to think and plan. But that discovery is quite enough to cheer one. It is a good deal to have recovered from the stunning disappointment of yesterday, and to have regained composure and confidence; for that is equivalent to regaining one’s faculties. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she answered, with a little air of thoughtfulness, “but I really do not know; for to speak the truth I do not think I felt the disappointment so severely as either you or father. Of course I was sorry, but then you see I was not so deeply interested, perhaps, as you two were.”

Mr. Millward now came up, and after the usual morning greeting said, “I imagine it will now be in order to begin to think of getting back to civilization. Our labors here seem to have come to naught.”

“No,” said I with some heat, “I shall not leave until I find it utterly impossible to explore that sunken hull. I could not rest comfortably elsewhere so long as a bit of hope was left. Of course,” I added, after a moment’s pause, “I cannot ask you to remain. But I do hope you will consent to stay a few days longer. We ought to protect the wreck from destruction in some way before the next gale. And I think it can be done.”

“But how?” said he.

“Ah, that is the question, that is the problem,” I replied. “If we could build a breakwater across the mouth of the chasm in some manner the hull would lie safely where it is. We could then leave, and come back with divers to get the treasure at a later time.”

“To stand the shock of the waves which will dash through that place in a gale of wind from the right quarter, your breakwater will require to be a powerful structure. And the building of it would be an engineering feat of no small magnitude, I take it.” And the old man shook his head slowly, as though to say he did not believe it possible.

Even as he was talking, however, the half-formed plan which had been floating hazily through my mind took definite shape. The chasm, the rocks, the swell and waves racing through were all so pictured in my mind that there was no need to go again and look at the place, because it was then before me in imagination as vividly as though I actually beheld it. The remedy for the danger was clear and plain to my mind. I went up to my two companions and taking a hand of each, said as earnestly as I felt: “We can do it. I see how it can be done. It is, I now believe, a piece of rare good luck that the old galleon drifted into that place. For consider; if she had struck upon the open beach she would inevitably have gone to pieces in the breakers, and who knows whether what of her cargo we want would have washed up to dry land. I tell you now, and believe me it is true, fortune has favored us.”

“But the breakwater,” said the old man, impatiently, “how can we construct such a thing?”

“Very well,” said I, with a smile and an air of mystery, “you shall know; but as the coffee boils, let us have breakfast, and we will discuss it over our coffee.”

“I am quite agreed to that,” replied he, “but fear it will need to be helped out by all the aid the good coffee can give it, my boy. However, I am open to conviction. You have done wonders in getting the wreck where she is, and I hope you may be right in your belief that the berth is a lucky one.”

When we were fairly seated, the corn bread broken, and the steaming hot coffee poured out by the hand of Alice, the old man nodded at me as much as to say, “Now fire away.”

Alice voiced the same request in words, saying: “Now give us your great plan, Mr. Morgan. I am sure it will be a success. How will you construct the breakwater?”

“My dear Miss Alice, I expect to induce the sea to do that work for me in the most part. I shall harness the wild waves of ocean to my dirt cart, and make them labor to protect the old hull they would delight to destroy.” And I calmly filled my mouth with corn bread, while Mr. Millward looked at me as though he feared I had become demented by the recent disappointment. There was silence for a moment or two. Then, looking furtively at me, he said:—

“But I do not understand how you expect to harness your steeds, even if such unruly creatures were willing to work for us.”

“Still, you will confess it is very simple,” I said, oracularly. “We have only to offer these waves work they always delight in doing, and you may be sure they will work day and night, high tide and low tide, to get it done, and when it is accomplished they will sigh and moan and crash and roar for more. That is the ceaseless, persistent disposition they have, and the harder the wind and the bigger the waves the quicker will the work be done. My plan is simply this: to get the waves to work throwing up sand to fill that chasm and bury the wreck if necessary in sand. If it is buried we can easily dig it out. But we need not wait for the entire chasm to be filled. It will be enough if the mouth and exit passage are filled. Look out at yonder beach and see the unruly breakers at their daily task of throwing up tons and tons of sand, and as constantly dragging it back again that they may have more of their delightful occupation. You have only to throw down a rock, or a branch, or some obstacle to retain the sand and hold it from being dragged back, and it will presently be buried beneath the heap which it has retained.”

“I see what you mean,” said Mr. Millward, setting down his cup of coffee, which he had held in his hand, “but I do not yet understand how you propose to prevent the constant scour that is going on in that race-way. You must first stop that scouring action, and then I agree that the place in time will fill with sand.”

Then I proceeded in detail to explain how by cutting down trees and throwing them into the mouth of the chasm I hoped first to get the tops buried in the sand, and then by adding brush and branches to create finally a bar of sand at this point, which could be constantly added to by more tree tops and branches and the sand cast up, until it was as high as the waves could reach. Near by grew mangrove trees in a little lagoon. These would answer our purpose as well as any; they could be felled into the water and floated to place.

All excitement and full of hope, now that a feasible plan had presented itself, we discussed the matter in all its bearings, until Mr. Millward, rising, declared we must waste no more time, but go to work while the weather held good. There was, indeed, no time to lose, as a northeast gale meant destruction to the old hulk, if it should occur before the guard could be built.

At once we loaded into the boat blankets and a sail for shelter, and provisions for several days, including five great calabashes of water, intending to camp at the point so as to be near our work while the present danger should continue. By nine o’clock we were out of the creek and under way, and soon reached the place where we intended to land. We moored the boat in safety under shelter of the rocks to the west of the point, where she would be safe except in case of a severe storm; then we put up the sail that we had brought for a tent, and landed such things as were wanted there, putting Alice as usual in control as housekeeper.

The long spar which we had used to connect the two triangles of our lifting-frame, we found beached to the west of the rocks, and torn loose from the triangles, which had washed away and disappeared. It was Mr. Millward’s suggestion that we could utilize this piece of timber to good advantage by cutting it to the right length, and wedging it across the mouth of the chasm at about the height of low water, for the butts of the trees forming the abattis to rest upon. To get this spar into the water and tow it around to the mouth of the chasm was the first job we undertook. For this purpose we used my boat, the “Mohawk,” as being the lightest to row. By dinner time (about one o’clock) we had the spar sawed off and dropped down between the rocks, where it wedged itself, as the wall was slanting at each side. To secure it more firmly in place we resorted to the expedient of tying a great stone on the end of a line and dropping it down on the spar several times at each end, standing for this purpose on the rocks above. We kept up this pile-driving operation until the spar began to splinter slightly. It now lay across the mouth of the chasm at about a foot above low water, so firmly wedged in place that no wave could displace it, unless it should be powerful enough to break the great, tough beam in twain, which was not very likely.

After dinner we took my boat into the small lagoon on the west coast near the north point, and began the other branch of our work by cutting down a couple of trees which stood near deep water, and grew in the water itself on branching roots uprising in a complicated maze. These trees, one at a time and by dint of hard work, we towed out into the sea and brought round to the mouth of the chasm. Here we manoeuvred until we got the butt end pointed at the spar, and then let go at the right moment so that the swell as it entered the chasm swept the tree bodily into the exact place we wanted it to go, the butt lying on the wedged-in spar, and the top presented to the waves. To weight the top down and make it sink we threw into the branches several heavy rocks. When in place the tree lay at an angle of about forty-five degrees with the horizon, the butt resting on the spar, and the branches on the bottom.

I had some fear that the shock of the tree striking against the spar might dislodge the latter; but it had no effect of that kind, the spar being much too tightly wedged. Moreover the chasm, as I have already stated, narrowed gradually from the mouth inward as well as from the top downward. So the blows of the waves only served still further to tighten the spar in place. We managed to get the two trees in place and weighted with rocks before we were called to supper at sunset. We had made a fair start, and accomplished a good day’s work. The supper, spread on the ground and eaten by firelight, was a merry meal, though we were very tired and glad to get to sleep. We needed a strong rope that had been left at Home Creek, and I concluded to walk there along the beach after supper, and sleeping at home to return at early dawn with the rope before breakfast. So I bade my companions good-night and started down the beach. The way was easy, and I reached the house in little over an hour and turned in immediately to secure a much needed rest.

When I returned with the rope in the morning, as I came near the tent and while it was still hidden from view by the intervening foliage, I heard the voices of father and daughter joined in a hymn,—the clear, rich soprano of the girl, flute-like and full, mingling in harmony with the noble baritone of the old man, whose voice was still unbroken by age. I paused a moment to listen to the wonderful song of praise, in which were mingled the deep booming bass of the surf, the myriad voices of the birds trilling an accompaniment, and the interwoven notes of the hymn, rising and falling together in sweet accord,—and my own heart was lifted up to the great Creator to whom such praise, I thought, might prove quite as acceptable as though sung by a full-voiced choir beneath cathedral arches to the accompaniment of the majestic chords of an organ.

When the strains of the hymn had ceased I came up, and the hearty greeting which I received was very pleasant. Indeed, the friendly sense of comradeship had become very strong among us all; and I have no doubt they were as glad to see me after this short absence as I truly was to see them.

After breakfast Mr. Millward and I began again at an early hour the work of filling, towing, placing, and weighting the trees. This day we placed five in position. The next day we brought and placed five more, by which time the entire mouth of the chasm was so full of the trunks, branches, and twigs that we could get no more in place. The fourth day of our labors we spent in casting loose rocks in among the branches. The fifth day we passed in watching this chevaux de frise and noting the effect of the waves, as they came frothing through the mass of twigs and branches. The structure—if such it may be called—held firmly and broke the swell completely.

We could do no more. The remainder of the work must be accomplished by the waves themselves in their own time and way. For this we must wait their pleasure. There was still quite a strong current through the chasm, and I wished very much that this could be lessened, as its tendency was of course to carry through a large portion of the sand which might otherwise be retained. When I spoke of this to Mr. Millward he immediately proposed that we should partly fill the narrow exit passage with rocks and limbs to check this current, and on the sixth day we began this job. Instead of floating whole trees, which we could not have managed to get into place without the aid of an ingoing swell, we cut and carried limbs and branches, which, together with rocks, were thrown down from above, until the end of the exit passage was a frothing mass of water struggling through the tangle. This very much lessened the current, and we were well satisfied with the work. That evening we sailed the two boats back to Home Creek and moored them in their former haven. The next day, which was the Sabbath, we spent in rest at home, leaving the waves now to do their work, and confident that no harm could come to the hulk if the fair weather would continue for a few days longer.

In the morning, while we were seated beneath the shed, Mr. Millward read selections from the Psalms, in his deep, sonorous voice and impressive manner. We joined afterward in prayer and hymn, and when this simple service was over I started with Alice for a walk on the beach to the south, while Mr. Millward composed himself for a comfortable smoke in the shade. The walking on the sand just above the reach of the waves, and yet where it was wet by an occasional toppling roller that came spuming up the slope farther than its fellows, was excellent, for the wetted sand was hard and firm and cool to the feet. Everywhere lay fragments of sea-weed, shells, and the curious forms of sea life cast up by the waves. We amused ourselves by collecting specimens of the many-tinted weeds, mosses, and fragile structures, whether vegetable or animal I know not, nor could any save a naturalist draw the dividing line. Alice explained how these delicate forms could be spread out and dried, by first floating them in water until they were untangled, and then lifting them out by a plate of glass and drying them on paper.

“I look forward now,” said she, “to the time when we shall be sailing away from our island home, and I would like to carry with me something by which to remember this beautiful beach.”

“Are you getting tired of the life, Miss Millward?”

“Ah, no,” she quickly answered, “not tired of it; far from that. It seems now quite like a home to me. You must remember that it is many years since father and I have remained so long in one place as we have been here. I have grown quite to love this beautiful island. And the work and the life is a real pleasure to me. But yet I fear that father is pining to be back to his work, or to civilization, though he has not yet said so in my hearing. It is hard, you know, for an old man to change his habits.”

“I suppose you would find it pleasanter if you had some one of your own sex as a companion,” said I.

“Perhaps so,” thoughtfully, “but I have never had any girl friends, you know, in all my life; for we have been here in this region, among the islands, since I was quite a child, and have gone about from place to place so much that I have had no chance to meet such friends as I might feel like making my companions. The people are mostly of quite another religion from ours,—those who are white I mean,—and though I have many friends among the colored people, the Hindoos and others, the friendship has not made me any comrades. Father has often said that he feared it was his duty to send me north among people of my own kind, that I might learn better what life in this world really means. But I think I do know, for it must be much the same everywhere; and I should not like to leave father here alone.”

The thought of the wandering life which this motherless girl had led, among poor, half-heathen people, touched me, and I had it on my tongue to contrast such an existence with the very different sort of surroundings she might have had elsewhere. But why should I do this? Even if she could understand it, which was doubtful, no good could come of creating in her mind longing and discontent; though I honestly believe discontent never could have found entrance to such a candid and happy mind, no matter what might be held up for her imagination to consider.

The sun soon beat down with fiery rays, and I cut for her a leaf of fan palm to form a sort of parasol. The picture she made in her light dress, against the blue sea all filled with glowing brightness, the shade of the graceful leaf falling upon her, will live long in my memory. It seemed to me that her pure soul shone out from the beautiful eyes that now and again met mine. Rare combination of something that seemed straight from heaven with what was sweetly human and of our earth; the clear, pure spirit, and the beautiful woman glowing with health and filled with life and color and made for human love—was there ever before, whispered my tortured heart, such an incomparable being? Dare I speak to her of what fills my mind and soul? No; most certainly not.

Now in point of fact I was making love to this girl with all my might, and did not know it. I wooed her all unconsciously, and had not dared to woo her at all. The divine passion, I have since been told, needs no word or sign; and this girl, divinely pure and yet sweetly human, inexperienced as she was, must have felt that I adored her. If she had never heard of the love of man for woman—and most likely she had never given it a thought—still she must have known my devotion to her quite as well as though the burning words that ever kept throbbing up from my heart for utterance had passed my lips. But I could not know. And so I alternated between the medium plane of faint hope and the cold depths of despair. I conclude, as I now look back, that I was not doing so badly as I then thought.

We sat down on a rock together to watch the little hermit crabs, each with a stolen shell that it had converted into a house, now peering out, now drawing itself in, now dragging its house along the sand in search of food or a better location,—funny little creatures, that seem to link the spider family to the crabs. Her hand was on my arm; we sat close together; the curved, flat edges of the spent waves nearly reached our feet as they stole up the sand; the solemn sound of the sea was in our ears, and the enchanting song of a first love filled my heart.

And then we wandered slowly on along the beach, now and then compelled by a higher flow to step aside; we examined the lovely shells that lay in numbers and great variety bleaching on the margin of the dry sand, or wetted by the rising water; the little skipping sand borers; now and again a gaping clam or hideous sea slug; dry shells of the great horse-shoe crabs; bladder-weed and ocean tangle; and all the wonderful dÉbris that the sea casts up. Then turning in toward the land we came among the tall, graceful stems of the cocoa-palm, their feathery heads trembling and rustling in the gently stirring air. Here we found in a low shrub the little nest of one of those diminutive wagtail wrens, and while the anxious mother fluttered near, feigning a wound or inability to fly in order to draw us away from her precious little ones, we looked at the four tiny, gaping-mouthed children clad in down and naked helplessness, until the distress of the comical little matron induced us to move away from the nest in pity.

We found too the purple passion-flower and gaudy cactus blossoms bursting out in showy splendor from thorn-armed, fleshy leaves, bright-feathered parrots and parroquets, a little humming-bird that bore a flashing jewel in his breast and made a misty halo round about him with his rapid wing, beating the air so fast that it seemed to the eye a faint sphere of cloud.

And so we wandered on side by side, talking of what we saw. I parted the thorny bushes for her path, lifted her over the rocks and logs, and hand in hand we crossed the grassy open where I had gathered seeds, now ripe again, and thus came finally home, as the sun stood in the zenith.

We found the old man sleeping peacefully in my hammock under the shed, with Bible in hand lying open on his breast. Duke lay on the ground below him, furtively opening an eye now and then, though without stirring when we came up. On the fire, now burned nearly out, slowly steamed and simmered the dinner stew, whose appetizing odors floating to us apprised us of the fact that we were very hungry, just as the cool shade told us we were very warm, and the inviting armchairs suggested that we were really tired.