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Detail from the paste-down end cover of this book. By Juan de Fuca's Strait author James G. McCurdy. Published 1937 Binford's and Mort. |
This being the situation in the mid to late 1800s, it is not strange that there was a conviction throughout the district that considerable wealth lay buried in various localities, simply waiting for some fortunate individual to bring it to light.
When S.S. Buckley, the pioneer jeweler, died in 1873, everyone expected that he would leave behind him a sufficiency of this world's goods, as he had enjoyed large patronage and had lived frugally with only a man-servant for a companion. But to the surprise of all, scarcely any money was found about his premises, and his stock had to be sold to pay his funeral and other expenses.
Old-timers recalled that every pleasant Sunday afternoon, Buckley had been in the habit of taking a stroll in the woods beyond Hammond's Orchard, and it was generally supposed that he had buried a large sum of money somewhere in that vicinity. If so, he hid it so securely that no one was ever able to find it, although many efforts were made to bring it to light.
To this day there persists a general belief in the legend of "Harry Sutton's Gold," although it must be admitted there is little authentic evidence that it ever existed. Harry Sutton was known to enjoy a profitable trade at the Blue Light Saloon on Union Dock, long before the advent of banks. Sutton was given to taking long walks in the forest about once a week similar to those of Buckley, only his strolls took him back of Ben Pettygrove's orchard where there was a labyrinth of old roads. After Sutton had killed Charley Howard and fled from the town to escape his just punishment, these walks were recalled and it was conjectured that he had been placing his surplus funds in some secret hiding place. Wise individuals felt that in his haste he had not been able to recover his money and that it must be still buried at the root of some tree. For years this conviction was widespread and numerous efforts were made to unearth the supposed treasure.
Interest in the subject had about died out when it was revived by the finding of a small box full of coins under a stump during road construction. This set the treasure hunters at work again but nothing further was found.
When I was about ten years old, I too, became a treasure hunter and together with my brothers dug at the base of numerous trees on the outskirts of the town hoping to stumble upon Harry Sutton's buried wealth.
Late one summer afternoon we happened to enter a small clearing far from home, shut in by somber firs––not the most pleasant place in the world for boys to be at that hour. In the clearing was one large stump that was marked with a multitude of X's (probably made by the axes of the woodchoppers) but we thought this is a very good omen. Besides, the earth of the base of the stump was very soft and with some sharpened sticks, we began to dig feverishly.
At a depth of about two feet, we struck a board that gave forth a hollow sound. My older brother reached down into the hole and exclaimed: "It's the top of a box!" Tearing away at the rotten wood, while we stood about him scarcely able to breathe for excitement, he thrust his hand down into the box and brought up a smooth rounded object that gleamed strangely white in the subdued light of the setting sun.
He held it aloft and we gazed at it fascinated. Then with a cry, he hurled it to the ground and we fled precipitately from the ghostly place. The object was a skull! We did not take time to ascertain whether it had belonged to man or beast.
Some years ago I took part in a thrilling search for secreted wealth and successful in unearthing money and securities amounting to over a hundred thousand dollars.
Lawrence Smith, who had been a butcher for years in Port Townsend had been living a hermit life in a one-room shack out near West Beach. During boom days he had disposed of considerable land at inflated prices and had shrewdly invested the proceeds in government bonds. He neighbored with but one person, S.M. Eskildsen, who had a farm not far from the Smith ranch.
The hermit had been ailing for some time and one morning Eskildsen came to me and exclaimed: "By George, Smith's a mighty sick man and I think he's going to die. We ought to take him to a hospital." We lost no time in securing an automobile and went out for the purpose of taking him where he could get skilled treatment.
We found the door locked and barricaded from within, and had to take out a window to gain an entrance. Smith was out of his head and half-dead from the cold, leaning up against his cook-stove clad only in his underwear. We dressed him warmly and Eskildsen and the chauffeur hurried him to the hospital.
Knowing that Smith possessed a large number of bonds, I remained behind to search for them, fearing that the place would be robbed as soon as it became known that the owner was no longer upon the premises. I broke open his trunk and looked hastily through it but failed to find anything of value. I examined his bed and looked carefully into the various receptacles ranged along the shelves but this also proved fruitless.
I made a mental deduction that Smith would keep his bonds in some place where he could have his eye upon their hiding place by day or night and with this thought in view, looked into some wooden boxes piled one of top of the other back of his stove. Number one was filled with a miscellaneous assortment of small articles of no special value; number two proved likewise; number contained broken glass and torn papes on top, but down in one corner I saw a metal box about two inches square, wrapped about with wire.
This looked promising and an examination revealed a roll of paper filling the interior of the box. I drew this out, removed the outer wrapping and there were his government bonds––in various denominations, and totaling exactly $100,000.
Continuing my search, I found among the litter another small can which was filled with currency wrapped in tight rolls, but I did not take time to count it. At the bottom of the box was a purse containing a small amount of silver and I now felt certain I had located practically all of the hermit's hoard. Fearful of being attacked with all this suddenly acquired wealth in my possession, I locked the door of the shack and hurried out to the main road where I soon met the returning automobile. The valuables were placed in a sealed bag and left in the custody of the bank.
Smith died the next morning and during the day Eskildsen and I made another trip to his cabin. In some old envelopes in the bottom of his trunk, we found uncashed government checks for interest aggregating a considerable amount.
It was well that we had acted so promptly, for that night the cabin was broken into and everything was turned upside down. The floors were taken up, the bed was ripped to pieces, things were thrown helter-skelter about the room, and holes had been dug in about twenty different places about the grounds. It is not believed that the vandals were rewarded for their labor; if so, they have kept their secret well.
Upon receipt of instructions from relatives, the remains of Lawrence Smith were shipped back to his old home in Kentucky for interment. When the sealed sack was opened and the tin can examined, it was found to contain $4,250 in currency of large denominations. The total amount found in the cabin and reported to the Court, and finally distributed to Smith's heirs was slightly over $106,500,* not an insignificant sum to have been accumulated by a man so uneducated that he could not read, and wrote his name only with the greatest difficulty.
I never expect to experience a greater thrill than that which possessed me when I located that valuable cache. As I review that eventful afternoon–– the sick man slowly dying in the midst of his hoarded wealth –– the poverty of his habitation when he might have surrounded himself with every bodily comfort –– the secreted treasure and its ultimate recovery –– every element was present to form a drama of real life, packed full of human interest.
Furthermore, the sighing of the wind in the treetops, the thunder of the surf along the adjacent beach, and the lonely spot which the hermit had selected for a home –– all were profoundly suggestive of a page from Treasure Island, with its story of hidden ingots and pieces of eight.
* Calculated to be ca. $2,986,509 in 2020.
Written by James G. McCurdy
By Juan de Fuca's Strait. Binfords & Mort. 1937
From the library of the Saltwater People Historical Society.
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