The barracks boss stared at Bill in undisguised amazement, while the
others fingered their rifles. Slowly a twinkle came into the man’s eyes
and he broke into a roar of laughter.
“When it comes to cast-iron, dyed in the wool _nerve_?” he choked,
“you’re sure a winner, Bill—Bolton! I took a fancy to yer when I first
laid eyes on yer and I’m sorry for yer now. If I wasn’t,” he shot out
venomously, “I’d certainly put a bullet in yer carcass. The joke has
been on me, all right—now it’s on you. If you bumped Diego off, the
boss’ll put yer on the spot. Them’s rules. What did yer do with him?“
“He’s lying in the room over at the barracks where he was about to
handcuff me and put me into a pair of leg irons. He’s wearing them now,
or was when I left him.”
“Did you bump him off?”
“No. His jaw may be broken where I socked him—otherwise, I guess he’s
O.K.”
Tom took half a cigar from his pocket, thrust it into his mouth and
chewed steadily for a minute or two.
“Well, you’re a smart kid, Bill,” he admitted, “but not quite smart
enough for this outfit. Got the keys to them cuffs and leg irons?”
Bill handed over the keys without a word.
“Zeppi,” Tom ordered, “trot up to the barracks. Let that fool Diego
loose and bring them things here.” He tossed him the keys and Zeppi
hurried away.
“You men,” continued Tom, “go back to the cells with Tony and bring out
them guys. Not old man Bolton, remember. Martinengo ain’t sendin’ him
along with this batch. Take ’em out the back way and line ’em up in the
road till I come. That’s all—beat it!”
Tony and the detail trooped into the corridor, closing the door behind
them. Tom ejected a stream of tobacco juice on to the floor.
“I don’t know as how I can blame yer,” he said to Bill. “You’re in a bad
way, kid, and I reckon you know it.”
“What about my father? Will Martinengo have it in for him because I
tried to get away?”
“Naw—the boss is hot on discipline, but he’ll enjoy the joke, seeing as
how nobody except Diego is the worse for it. That mug is sure to have a
sweet time explaining but youse two won’t get strafed. The workin’s is
bad enough punishment. He’ll let it go at that.”
“What are these workings you’re all talking about, Tom?”
The man shook his head. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he returned
evasively. “Here comes Zeppi. Orders is orders, and you gotta get into
that hardware.”
Bill was handcuffed and his ankles were locked into iron bands on either
end of a short chain. This made walking possible, but scarcely
comfortable, since he could not take a step over a foot in length. He
shuffled out of the jail, accompanied by Tom and Zeppi, to find a group
of twelve men in chains like himself, lined up by the roadside. Tom gave
the word and the party and its guard filed off down the road toward the
harbor.
From his place at the rear of the line Bill studied his fellow
prisoners. They were a nondescript crew, negroes, Indians (Seminoles,
from the Everglades, he thought) and poor whites. All were dressed as he
was. They were dirty and unshaven, stumbling along quite evidently
dispirited and hopeless.
The atmosphere was stifling and the white shell dust stirred by the
tramping of many feet set them to coughing. Bill tried to show a brave
front to his guards but the utter hopelessness of his position, the
uncertain future and the separation from his father made him feel
desperately blue and discouraged. He trudged along in the blinding dust
and heat, almost praying that his troubles might be ended with a bullet.
But when they topped the rise and began to follow the zig-zagging road
down the cliff, the sight of blue water below cheered him considerably.
It was cooler out of the valley, and he somewhat regained his spirits.
He spotted his own plane, moored out in the bay near the yacht
_Pelican_. Tied up to the concrete pier was the larger of Martinengo’s
two amphibians, a tri-motor plane of huge dimensions.
The shambling party drew closer and he saw that she was constructed with
a windowed cabin forward to house pilots and passengers. Aft of this and
having a separate entrance was a large freight hold. When carrying a
capacity load, he fancied that her weight must be terrific. Now, with
her retractible wheel landing gear drawn up to the metal covered hull,
the big flying boat rocked gently at her mooring. A mechanic tinkered
with her central engine. Two young fellows in smart white uniforms and
gold-banded caps, who were smoking cigarettes on the wharf called a
greeting to Tom as the party arrived. Bill realized that they must be
pilot and assistant pilot of this craft. A short gangway led across from
the pier to the freight cabin entrance and over this Bridge of Sighs the
clanking prisoners were herded.
The interior of this large compartment of the air cruiser may have been
originally designed for carrying freight. Bill now found that the
remodeled hold served quite another purpose. At right angles to the
entrance, a narrow corridor ran lengthwise down the middle of the cabin.
Opening off this were tiny wooden cubicles with just enough space behind
their barred doors for a man to sit on the narrow bench which served as
the sole article of furniture in each tiny cell. The place reminded Bill
of the eighteenth century prison hulks about which he had read. Light
and air were let in through iron barred portholes and Bill was glad to
find that the cell that housed him contained one of these small windows.
By squeezing sideways on his seat, he got a restricted view of the bay.
Presently the door to the prison hold was shut and an armed guard took
his seat at one end of the cell corridor. A few minutes later, Bill
heard the engine idling and they floated away from the dock. The hum of
the three motors soon increased to a roar and they started to taxi
toward the mouth of the harbor.
Trained aviator that he was, Bill Bolton knew the exact instant that the
pilot lifted his heavy bus on to her step. There came an increased spurt
of speed, as the plane skimmed the surface of the bay and rose into the
air with the smooth grace of a bird taking flight.
Her nose pointed toward the western horizon she sailed over the heads at
the harbor’s mouth, gaining altitude every second. When she reached a
height which Bill, staring out of the porthole, judged to be about a
thousand feet, her pilot banked sharply to starboard. Again she swung
back on an even keel; and now with throttle wide open the big flying
boat roared into the northwest.
Bill saw that the round red orb of the sun was perhaps still an hour
above the horizon. He craned his neck and the sea near at hand became
visible. It looked smooth and calm. Here and there low islands, the dark
green of their vegetation contrasting with the bluish green of the
water, dotted the silken surface of the bay.
Bill straightened on his narrow, uncomfortable seat. Rather than stare
at the poor fellow in the cell opposite, who was weeping, he closed his
eyes. But this did no good, for he conjured up the dreadful picture of
his father in the stifling calaboose on Shell Island.
Twisting round again, he sought relief from troubled thought in the view
from his tiny porthole. They were traveling overland now. Fifteen or
twenty miles away, he could make out the sea’s dim outline. But what
interested Bill far more was the nature of the country below.
Innumerable water-courses intersected a dense cloak of dark green
foliage which seemed to be banded with a somber red along the waterways.
Then as the plane’s pilot dropped her nose, seeking to avoid the
increasingly strong headwind, Bill caught the sickening stench that he
remembered so well.
“Mangrove!” he exclaimed aloud, his voice drowned in the roar of the
engines. “We’re over the mangrove swamps of Florida, south of the
Everglades! That red line along the banks of the streams—exposed roots,
of course.”
He watched the swamp for some time, wondering what the pilot would do if
a forced landing became necessary, and thanking heaven that the motors
seemed to be running smoothly.
Then the amphibian sailed over wide water again. “Whitewater Bay, on a
bet,” thought Bill, who remembered his map of Southern Florida. “Chuck
full of mangrove islands, too. If I’m right, we’ll cross a strip of
mainland soon, and if that pilot keeps to this north-by-west course,
we’ll be over the Ten Thousand Islands in fifteen or twenty minutes!”
Bill’s guess was a good one. The bay gave way to swamp once more, and
then they shot out over a weirdly beautiful stretch of water, studded
again with countless islands. He knew now that the plane was paralleling
the south-western border of the Everglades—that huge, swampy basin on
the southern Peninsula which covers an area much the same as
Connecticut. But unlike the populous New England state, the only human
inhabitants of the Everglades are a few hundred Indians who thread its
lonely water-paths in primitive dugout canoes.
Evidently the plane’s pilot did not intend to cross the Everglades. They
were still heading north, but the amphibian’s nose had been swung to
starboard. By the time they left the Ten Thousand Isles, Bill realized
that they were traveling a point or two east of north. Could it be that
they were making for those dark, watery woodlands known as the Big
Cypress?
Bill had heard about the Florida Cypress Swamps, and knew them to be a
trackless labyrinth of swamps, lagoons, creeks and low, fertile islands,
all deeply buried in the shadows of a mighty cypress forest. Twilight
was deepening over the earth now, as the red ball of the sun sank below
the horizon. Bill thought he could just discern the first outlines of
the big trees; then all was dark, and the amphibian roared on into the
maw of black night.
He continued to gaze into the darkness. Perhaps fifteen minutes later,
his vigil was rewarded by the sight of a pinpoint of red light far ahead
and slightly to the left of the speeding plane. It was soon evident that
the pilot recognized this signal, far below in the wilderness. The light
disappeared from Bill’s view, and he knew the reason why. The plane’s
nose was now headed directly for the light and therefore it was out of
range from his porthole.
Down there in the trackless swamps of Big Cypress, someone was
signalling the amphibian. Could this be their destination? Had they
reached “the workings” that the men on Shell Island mentioned with such
obvious loathing?
The big bus tilted forward and down. The three motors ceased to function
and Bill knew that the plane was about to land.