The writer had been one of the crew, and the letter was to
his son, who was, at the very time the letter was written,
master of a Spanish merchantman.
Many years had elapsed since the events the letter narrated
had transpired, and the old man had become a respected citizen
of an obscure Spanish town, but the love of gold was still
so strong upon him that he risked all to acquaint his son with
the means of attaining fabulous wealth for them both.
The writer told how when but a week out from Spain the crew
had mutinied and murdered every officer and man who opposed
them; but they defeated their own ends by this very act, for
there was none left competent to navigate a ship at sea.
They were blown hither and thither for two months, until
sick and dying of scurvy, starvation, and thirst, they had
been wrecked on a small islet.
The galleon was washed high upon the beach where she
went to pieces; but not before the survivors, who numbered
but ten souls, had rescued one of the great chests of treasure.
This they buried well up on the island, and for three years
they lived there in constant hope of being rescued.
One by one they sickened and died, until only one man
was left, the writer of the letter.
The men had built a boat from the wreckage of the galleon,
but having no idea where the island was located they
had not dared to put to sea.
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