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The following is a fictional story based on the Kidd-Palmer maps written by the French author Max d'Amplaing (1883-1963) who published it under the title Le trésor du flibustier (The Buccaneer's Treasure) in Junior, a French adventure-book series (no. 133) in 1953 (Lyson: Éditions des Remparts). The book (93 pages) has not been translated in English but I have made a translation starting from the third chapter "Captain Kidd's Chest". I intend to translate the remaining book chapters (IV-XVI) over the next few days and weeks. I found the obscure book while searching the digital library of the Bibliothèque nationale de France (National Library of France), see here and here; however, the library only grants free access to the first two chapters. I recently acquired both a physical copy and ebook. The latter has made translating it easier. Those who are familiar with the Kidd-Palmer maps (see my thread) will know of the names Hubert Palmer, Elizabeth Dick, Arthur Cutler, Pamela Hardy and Ned Ward. In the fictional story, a few of these names have been slightly changed (Hugh Butler and Pamela Tardy).
Translation by Oliver D. Smith
CAPTAIN KIDD'S CHEST
This legend could hardly be said to be common knowledge. Certainly, at the beginning of the 18th century, its memory was alive on all the English coasts, in those fishing villages where more than one inhabitant had sailed the oceans and known former comrades who had turned to buccaneering, where stories of the Kidds and Morgans still fascinated people during evening gatherings. Then, it was gradually forgotten. Not by everyone, of course: there are still historians interested in the murky side-stories of history, and above all, there are fanatics who get passionate about an idea, about an object...
That was precisely the case with Mr. Hubert Palmer.
Around the year 1930, this old gentleman in his sixties practiced the dignified profession of solicitor in the distinguished small town of Eastbourne, on the south coast of England, which in France corresponds to an avoué. He was an old bachelor of irreproachable life, highly respected by his clientele and acquaintances, who led a completely peaceful existence in his cottage built on the dune overlooking the sea.
Financially very comfortable, he entrusted the care of his house to his housekeeper, Miss Elisabeth Dick, a very respectable person, barely a little younger than the solicitor, who over time had become, by force of habit, her employer's confidante. In Eastbourne, where he had always lived, everyone knew Hubert Palmer. At the precise opening and closing hours of his office, he could be seen in the streets, rigid in his jacket with short lapels and narrow trousers. His bowler hat was impeccably brushed every morning. With an umbrella in hand, he walked with his head bowed, at the steady pace of an absorbed man. People smiled at his attire and stiff appearance, which he had not changed in some thirty years since taking over his father's practice.
To see him so correct, so regular, no one would have ever thought that this man, who spoke to no one and never raised his head, harbored an extraordinary passion.
And yet, as soon as he left his office, he forgot his files and his clients' complaints. With long strides, he would return to his seafront residence, far too vast for him and for Miss Elisabeth, where he never received any visitors other than antiquarians or stealthy informants. And there, in a dressing gown and slippers, he radically changed professions.
He became a pirate.
Let's be clear: an armchair pirate. For, despite the vast view he had of the Ocean from the top of his dune, Hubert Palmer had never been tempted by travel. He contented himself with living alongside those outlaws, buccaneers, filibusters, deported convicts, galley slaves, escaped prisoners, adventurers of all countries, blacks, Indians, half-breeds... All those who, in the West Indies, along the coasts of Brazil, Peru or West Africa, in the Indian Ocean and the China Seas, had for nearly two centuries built a near-supremacy and made more than one captain tremble.
From top to bottom, right down into the stairs and the attics, the entire house had been transformed by the "solicitor" into a veritable museum dedicated to the glory of the former knights of Tortuga and Saint-Domingue. It was nothing but cutlasses, boarding sabers, pistols, blunderbusses, muskets, axes, swords, pikes and half-pikes, faded and torn caps, tattered jackets, belts, and scarves... Inside a large side-board with multiple drawers slept yellowed and stained logbooks, enlistment contracts, account ledgers with cooked books, muster rolls with fanciful names, pieces of crumpled maps. There was even silver tableware where clumsily chiseled initials could still be read. Here and there, with its streaks of grey dust and gunpowder smoke, one could catch sight of the "Jolly Roger," the famous black bunting of pirate flags, encrusted with the skull and crossbones.
Finally, in a locked and padlocked bookcase, hundreds of bound or paperback volumes about piracy in all languages and from all periods proved with what interest and care the solicitor researched and devoted himself to his studies.
Yes, a true museum of strictly authentic pieces, several of which bore the seal of major antique dealers in London or Amsterdam and had belonged, beyond any doubt, to the most famous gentlemen of fortune.
In Eastbourne itself, an antique dealer specializing in nautical objects knew the solicitor's tastes well. At auctions, he picked up weapons, trinkets, old maps that had belonged to former sailors. From small neighboring ports, old fishermen in financial difficulty gladly brought him the old odds and ends of their ancestors, hitherto tucked away in wardrobes or attics. In Hugh Butler's shop, one could find a bit of everything related to the sea, old or modern items, of certain value or none at all. Hubert Palmer had unearthed a few old daggers there, a "Jolly Roger," even two or three silver plates that his intuition had made him recognize as pirate gear.
Butler's shop was located in a narrow street of the small town, slightly off the route that Hubert regularly took to travel to or from his law office. Yet, whenever his inner demon tormented him, he would occasionally make a detour.
That is what happened one evening in the month of May 1930, when the warm spring breeze prompted the collector to breathe in the mild air after a long, tedious day spent examining files.
He stopped for a few moments to inspect the storefront. Nothing had changed since his previous visit: it was still the same items of no great value on display.
He was about to continue on his way when Butler rushed to the door.
— Ah! Mr. Palmer, I am so glad to see you. Do step inside for a moment. I have something that might interest you.
The solicitor hesitated:
— What are you going to show me? he asked.
The other man winked, giving a mysterious little smile.
— An extremely rare wonder... You have nothing like it in your collection.
— You think so?
Hubert too gave a smile, but one loaded with doubt. He was not a man to fall for the antique dealer's tall tales.
— I am certain of it, the latter replied.
— Do you know where it comes from? From Captain Kidd.
Butler led his client into the back room. There, in the dead center of the small, dark room, sat a rather massive chest.
— Is that it?... A simple sailor's chest, remarked the solicitor with a pout.
— If you only knew who it belonged to...
The dealer turned on the electricity.
It was indeed one of those rectangular chests with a domed lid, about fifty centimeters long and forty wide, in which, over past centuries, sailors would pile their laundry, belongings, and also their fortune. This one was made of oak inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
— Pah! Palmer blurted out, I'm not interested. People have already offered me dozens of them... It holds no interest for me... I don't see how this could be a marvel...
At the same time, he took a step back to return to the shop.
— Do you know where it comes from? resumed the dealer. From Captain Kidd...
Immediately, the solicitor's eyes lit up.
— You don't say?...
— From Captain Kidd.
Butler's confidence was enough to impress the solicitor, causing him to step back into the back room and lean over the chest. A huge padlock closed it, the thickness of its rust proving it hadn't been opened in centuries.
— Can you show me the authentication? he asked, straightening up.
— Very willingly. That's the easiest thing in the world. Do you have a spare hour? I'm going to take you to the person who sold me the chest.
The antique dealer took his hat, locked the door of his shop, and hailed a passing taxi.
— To Miss Tardy's, on the way to Scafford, he instructed the driver. I will tell you when to stop.
The car set off.
— Do you know Miss Pamela Tardy, Mr. Palmer?
— The descendant of Commodore Tardy?
— Exactly, the great-granddaughter of the naval captain who commanded the Victory at the Battle of Trafalgar and who received into his arms Admiral Nelson, mortally wounded.
— Is she the one who possessed the chest?... By what chance could it have fallen to her?
— By chance, indeed. Captain Tardy had received it as a gift from his boatswain, named Ward.
— A descendant of the famous Ned Ward?
The antique dealer made a movement of surprise.
— You know who that was?
— Absolutely, Captain Kidd's boatswain.
— Oh! Oh! Mr. Palmer, I realise you know far more than I do about the life of the famous pirate, and that under these conditions, it would be difficult to deceive you.
— Indeed, replied the solicitor modestly, I am quite well documented on the great men of buccaneering. Nothing that has been published about them has escaped me...
— Well then, I am delighted to connect you with Miss Pamela, who will certainly give you other details that I do not know. In any case, you can already see that the chain of ownership followed by the chest has nothing abnormal about it. It is difficult to doubt Miss Tardy's word.
During the conversation, the taxi had briskly climbed the hill overlooking Eastbourne and was reaching the top of the dune.
At one of the first villas, Butler signaled the driver to stop.
The old lady's house, built of ashlar stone, seemed to defy hurricanes and fogs. The greyness of its rubblework indicated clearly enough that it dated back to the time when the commodore had retired. It had undergone no change. Everything suggested that inside it was the same.
Indeed, the maid who came to open the door to the visitors led them into a hall adorned with historical mementos. In the living room where she showed them in, they saw, in an antique glass cabinet, an oriflamme from the Victory, the saber and decorations of the flagship's former commander, and other more recent keepsakes.
Almost immediately Miss Pamela appeared, a woman in her fifties, very distinguished, and, with her white silk neckerchief, of a rather stiff appearance.
Once the introductions were made, Butler immediately informed their hostess of the purpose of their visit.
— I explained to Mr. Palmer how your grandfather received Captain Kidd's chest... He would be very eager to know certain details.
— Which ones, Sir? asked Miss Pamela, turning to the solicitor.
— I was a bit moved seeing the padlock covered in rust, answered the collector. Everyone knows that Kidd left a treasure somewhere. How is it that no descendant of Ned Ward ever tried to open the chest to attempt to find out the location of the hiding place?
— I will explain to you... First of all, are you superstitious?
— Oh! Not at all... In that respect I differ greatly from many Englishmen.
— Well, sir, it is precisely for a reason of superstition that the padlock has never been forced.
Hubert Palmer gave a slight start.
— I will explain, she continued. It is a story passed down from generation to generation by the Wards and which my family has respected. When Captain Kidd was surrounded by an English fleet somewhere in the Sunda Islands, this man, who was a monster, nevertheless felt supreme remorse. He had married a few years earlier his wife, Sarah, whom he had never seen again and to whom, upon his departure, he had only been able to leave a rather small sum. Circumstances had prevented him from seeing her again and giving her money. On the point of being captured, he thought of her and entrusted his chest to Ned Ward. But at the same time, he made him swear that he would not try to open it and threatened the worst curses on anyone who would dare infringe this supreme will. For two and a half centuries, first the Wards, then the Tardys have respected this order.
Palmer lowered his head without making a remark.
— Am I being indiscreet, Miss Tardy, in asking you why you are parting with this object which has been in your family's hands for almost 230 years?
The old maiden lady did not shrink away.
— I am going to give it to you. It stems from the same cause as what precedes. I am alone in existence and the last of the name. My heirs, who are fairly distant grandnephews, are very young and certainly do not have the same obsession that my ancestors and I have had. It is likely that, if they know this chest can reveal Kidd's hiding place to them, they will open it, whatever I may have said or written in my will. So that they do not run any risk, I preferred to get rid of it. If you intend to buy it, you are warned.
Translation by Oliver D. Smith
CAPTAIN KIDD'S CHEST
This legend could hardly be said to be common knowledge. Certainly, at the beginning of the 18th century, its memory was alive on all the English coasts, in those fishing villages where more than one inhabitant had sailed the oceans and known former comrades who had turned to buccaneering, where stories of the Kidds and Morgans still fascinated people during evening gatherings. Then, it was gradually forgotten. Not by everyone, of course: there are still historians interested in the murky side-stories of history, and above all, there are fanatics who get passionate about an idea, about an object...
That was precisely the case with Mr. Hubert Palmer.
Around the year 1930, this old gentleman in his sixties practiced the dignified profession of solicitor in the distinguished small town of Eastbourne, on the south coast of England, which in France corresponds to an avoué. He was an old bachelor of irreproachable life, highly respected by his clientele and acquaintances, who led a completely peaceful existence in his cottage built on the dune overlooking the sea.
Financially very comfortable, he entrusted the care of his house to his housekeeper, Miss Elisabeth Dick, a very respectable person, barely a little younger than the solicitor, who over time had become, by force of habit, her employer's confidante. In Eastbourne, where he had always lived, everyone knew Hubert Palmer. At the precise opening and closing hours of his office, he could be seen in the streets, rigid in his jacket with short lapels and narrow trousers. His bowler hat was impeccably brushed every morning. With an umbrella in hand, he walked with his head bowed, at the steady pace of an absorbed man. People smiled at his attire and stiff appearance, which he had not changed in some thirty years since taking over his father's practice.
To see him so correct, so regular, no one would have ever thought that this man, who spoke to no one and never raised his head, harbored an extraordinary passion.
And yet, as soon as he left his office, he forgot his files and his clients' complaints. With long strides, he would return to his seafront residence, far too vast for him and for Miss Elisabeth, where he never received any visitors other than antiquarians or stealthy informants. And there, in a dressing gown and slippers, he radically changed professions.
He became a pirate.
Let's be clear: an armchair pirate. For, despite the vast view he had of the Ocean from the top of his dune, Hubert Palmer had never been tempted by travel. He contented himself with living alongside those outlaws, buccaneers, filibusters, deported convicts, galley slaves, escaped prisoners, adventurers of all countries, blacks, Indians, half-breeds... All those who, in the West Indies, along the coasts of Brazil, Peru or West Africa, in the Indian Ocean and the China Seas, had for nearly two centuries built a near-supremacy and made more than one captain tremble.
From top to bottom, right down into the stairs and the attics, the entire house had been transformed by the "solicitor" into a veritable museum dedicated to the glory of the former knights of Tortuga and Saint-Domingue. It was nothing but cutlasses, boarding sabers, pistols, blunderbusses, muskets, axes, swords, pikes and half-pikes, faded and torn caps, tattered jackets, belts, and scarves... Inside a large side-board with multiple drawers slept yellowed and stained logbooks, enlistment contracts, account ledgers with cooked books, muster rolls with fanciful names, pieces of crumpled maps. There was even silver tableware where clumsily chiseled initials could still be read. Here and there, with its streaks of grey dust and gunpowder smoke, one could catch sight of the "Jolly Roger," the famous black bunting of pirate flags, encrusted with the skull and crossbones.
Finally, in a locked and padlocked bookcase, hundreds of bound or paperback volumes about piracy in all languages and from all periods proved with what interest and care the solicitor researched and devoted himself to his studies.
Yes, a true museum of strictly authentic pieces, several of which bore the seal of major antique dealers in London or Amsterdam and had belonged, beyond any doubt, to the most famous gentlemen of fortune.
In Eastbourne itself, an antique dealer specializing in nautical objects knew the solicitor's tastes well. At auctions, he picked up weapons, trinkets, old maps that had belonged to former sailors. From small neighboring ports, old fishermen in financial difficulty gladly brought him the old odds and ends of their ancestors, hitherto tucked away in wardrobes or attics. In Hugh Butler's shop, one could find a bit of everything related to the sea, old or modern items, of certain value or none at all. Hubert Palmer had unearthed a few old daggers there, a "Jolly Roger," even two or three silver plates that his intuition had made him recognize as pirate gear.
Butler's shop was located in a narrow street of the small town, slightly off the route that Hubert regularly took to travel to or from his law office. Yet, whenever his inner demon tormented him, he would occasionally make a detour.
That is what happened one evening in the month of May 1930, when the warm spring breeze prompted the collector to breathe in the mild air after a long, tedious day spent examining files.
He stopped for a few moments to inspect the storefront. Nothing had changed since his previous visit: it was still the same items of no great value on display.
He was about to continue on his way when Butler rushed to the door.
— Ah! Mr. Palmer, I am so glad to see you. Do step inside for a moment. I have something that might interest you.
The solicitor hesitated:
— What are you going to show me? he asked.
The other man winked, giving a mysterious little smile.
— An extremely rare wonder... You have nothing like it in your collection.
— You think so?
Hubert too gave a smile, but one loaded with doubt. He was not a man to fall for the antique dealer's tall tales.
— I am certain of it, the latter replied.
— Do you know where it comes from? From Captain Kidd.
Butler led his client into the back room. There, in the dead center of the small, dark room, sat a rather massive chest.
— Is that it?... A simple sailor's chest, remarked the solicitor with a pout.
— If you only knew who it belonged to...
The dealer turned on the electricity.
It was indeed one of those rectangular chests with a domed lid, about fifty centimeters long and forty wide, in which, over past centuries, sailors would pile their laundry, belongings, and also their fortune. This one was made of oak inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
— Pah! Palmer blurted out, I'm not interested. People have already offered me dozens of them... It holds no interest for me... I don't see how this could be a marvel...
At the same time, he took a step back to return to the shop.
— Do you know where it comes from? resumed the dealer. From Captain Kidd...
Immediately, the solicitor's eyes lit up.
— You don't say?...
— From Captain Kidd.
Butler's confidence was enough to impress the solicitor, causing him to step back into the back room and lean over the chest. A huge padlock closed it, the thickness of its rust proving it hadn't been opened in centuries.
— Can you show me the authentication? he asked, straightening up.
— Very willingly. That's the easiest thing in the world. Do you have a spare hour? I'm going to take you to the person who sold me the chest.
The antique dealer took his hat, locked the door of his shop, and hailed a passing taxi.
— To Miss Tardy's, on the way to Scafford, he instructed the driver. I will tell you when to stop.
The car set off.
— Do you know Miss Pamela Tardy, Mr. Palmer?
— The descendant of Commodore Tardy?
— Exactly, the great-granddaughter of the naval captain who commanded the Victory at the Battle of Trafalgar and who received into his arms Admiral Nelson, mortally wounded.
— Is she the one who possessed the chest?... By what chance could it have fallen to her?
— By chance, indeed. Captain Tardy had received it as a gift from his boatswain, named Ward.
— A descendant of the famous Ned Ward?
The antique dealer made a movement of surprise.
— You know who that was?
— Absolutely, Captain Kidd's boatswain.
— Oh! Oh! Mr. Palmer, I realise you know far more than I do about the life of the famous pirate, and that under these conditions, it would be difficult to deceive you.
— Indeed, replied the solicitor modestly, I am quite well documented on the great men of buccaneering. Nothing that has been published about them has escaped me...
— Well then, I am delighted to connect you with Miss Pamela, who will certainly give you other details that I do not know. In any case, you can already see that the chain of ownership followed by the chest has nothing abnormal about it. It is difficult to doubt Miss Tardy's word.
During the conversation, the taxi had briskly climbed the hill overlooking Eastbourne and was reaching the top of the dune.
At one of the first villas, Butler signaled the driver to stop.
The old lady's house, built of ashlar stone, seemed to defy hurricanes and fogs. The greyness of its rubblework indicated clearly enough that it dated back to the time when the commodore had retired. It had undergone no change. Everything suggested that inside it was the same.
Indeed, the maid who came to open the door to the visitors led them into a hall adorned with historical mementos. In the living room where she showed them in, they saw, in an antique glass cabinet, an oriflamme from the Victory, the saber and decorations of the flagship's former commander, and other more recent keepsakes.
Almost immediately Miss Pamela appeared, a woman in her fifties, very distinguished, and, with her white silk neckerchief, of a rather stiff appearance.
Once the introductions were made, Butler immediately informed their hostess of the purpose of their visit.
— I explained to Mr. Palmer how your grandfather received Captain Kidd's chest... He would be very eager to know certain details.
— Which ones, Sir? asked Miss Pamela, turning to the solicitor.
— I was a bit moved seeing the padlock covered in rust, answered the collector. Everyone knows that Kidd left a treasure somewhere. How is it that no descendant of Ned Ward ever tried to open the chest to attempt to find out the location of the hiding place?
— I will explain to you... First of all, are you superstitious?
— Oh! Not at all... In that respect I differ greatly from many Englishmen.
— Well, sir, it is precisely for a reason of superstition that the padlock has never been forced.
Hubert Palmer gave a slight start.
— I will explain, she continued. It is a story passed down from generation to generation by the Wards and which my family has respected. When Captain Kidd was surrounded by an English fleet somewhere in the Sunda Islands, this man, who was a monster, nevertheless felt supreme remorse. He had married a few years earlier his wife, Sarah, whom he had never seen again and to whom, upon his departure, he had only been able to leave a rather small sum. Circumstances had prevented him from seeing her again and giving her money. On the point of being captured, he thought of her and entrusted his chest to Ned Ward. But at the same time, he made him swear that he would not try to open it and threatened the worst curses on anyone who would dare infringe this supreme will. For two and a half centuries, first the Wards, then the Tardys have respected this order.
Palmer lowered his head without making a remark.
— Am I being indiscreet, Miss Tardy, in asking you why you are parting with this object which has been in your family's hands for almost 230 years?
The old maiden lady did not shrink away.
— I am going to give it to you. It stems from the same cause as what precedes. I am alone in existence and the last of the name. My heirs, who are fairly distant grandnephews, are very young and certainly do not have the same obsession that my ancestors and I have had. It is likely that, if they know this chest can reveal Kidd's hiding place to them, they will open it, whatever I may have said or written in my will. So that they do not run any risk, I preferred to get rid of it. If you intend to buy it, you are warned.
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