When all were dead except himself, however, the awful
loneliness so weighed upon the mind of the sole survivor that
he could endure it no longer, and choosing to risk death upon
the open sea rather than madness on the lonely isle, he set
sail in his little boat after nearly a year of solitude.
Fortunately he sailed due north, and within a week was in
the track of the Spanish merchantmen plying between the
West Indies and Spain, and was picked up by one of these
vessels homeward bound.
The story he told was merely one of shipwreck in which all
but a few had perished, the balance, except himself, dying
after they reached the island. He did not mention the mutiny
or the chest of buried treasure.
The master of the merchantman assured him that from the
position at which they had picked him up, and the prevailing
winds for the past week he could have been on no other island
than one of the Cape Verde group, which lie off the
West Coast of Africa in about 16x or 17x north latitude.
His letter described the island minutely, as well as the
location of the treasure, and was accompanied by the crudest,
funniest little old map you ever saw; with trees and rocks all
marked by scrawly X's to show the exact spot where the
treasure had been buried.
When papa explained the real nature of the expedition, my
heart sank, for I know so well how visionary and impractical
the poor dear has always been that I feared that he had again
been duped; especially when he told me he had paid a thousand
dollars for the letter and map.
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