The offices of National Archivist and National Librarian coexisted in the person of Mr. Frances Bustamente. “Here is the very book, Mr. Limekiller,” he said. “And, as to the chart, I have sent down for it, it should be up here, presently. - Hm, well, that is very- curious. ”
Limekiller had the heavy old book in his hand. He wanted to sit down at table and chair and look into it. But Mr. Bustamente’s courtesy required an equal courtesy in return. “What is very curious, sir:
“Well, evidently, going by the Acquisition Numbers, we must have acquired both chart and book at the same time. And they are both prefixed with AD, that means, the Admiralty, you know. I am afraid that the Admiralty in London has never given us anything. anything that
. And we always recorded this to the extent of putting AD for Admiralty before the Acquisition Numbers. - Well, I shall leave you to your book, now.”
The book was no lightweight, and would have taken more time than Limekiller could spend in the cool and dim chamber to read; it did not circulate.
Yes, Cook had been here. Cook had not been here long, but — Evidently he had loved this hidden coast (as it then was). Had loved it so much that as he sailed away the last time in life he had been heard to say, “I’ll be back. I’ll be back. I shall be back. Living or dead, I shall be back. By God, I shall.” And old Esquire Northrup, waiting to go ashore with the pilot, and who had dined so well at the farewell that he was probably half-seas over, said, “Well, Cook, and as I am one of His Majesty’s Commissioners for Oaths, shall I record this one of yours?” — “
Mr. Bustamente was back. “And here is the chart, Mr. Limekiller.” Thoughtfully, he rolled it out. It was not, or course, the old archbishop’s chart, but it was its twin. Here was the whole coast of British Hidalgo, its reefs and isles and cayes, its bights and bays. And, there in the comer, where the archbishop’s hand had rested, concealinglv, there — sure enough — engraved: the words,
“It is certainly very old, Mr. Bustamente1 said. “I would not attempt to clean it, it is so old. Clean it? — why, these drops and splotches, sir, you see, here and there. Don’t know what they are. Why! Do you know, Mr. Limekiller! — I believe that they may be blood!”
After. how long? A hundred and eighty years?. who could say. However, Limekiller said, “Yes, sir, you may be right.” It was chilly, in here. He had found out all that he wanted. He got up to thank Mr. Bustamente, and to leave. The archivist accepted the thanks, walked his guest to the door. “I wonder whose blood it could
Limekiller backed off. “I have no idea,” he murmured. Limekiller lied.
THERE BENEATH THE SILKY-TREE AND
WHELMED IN DEEPER GULPHS THAN ME
But to go back a bit.
Here is Limekiller with his sun-stained hair and beard, shaggy as a sheep-dog though of course much taller. Limekiller and his boat and beard are now all registered and denizened in a small port on a tropic sea, capital of some place more than a colony but not yet a country, and often left off maps because its name seems larger than itself. If you cannot get there, that is not our fault. Others have.