CALLING this bold cutting-out of the electric launch the close of the
first bout, we were obliged to admit that the enemy had taken a hard
fall out of us at the finish. As matters now stood, the advantage was
with the mutineers. To be sure, we had six of their men, including
their first mate and navigator, safely laid by the heels; and Jerry
Dupuyster's plucky adventure had tied up the yacht, temporarily, at
least. But without a boat we could not press the fighting, and the
six hostages were more likely to prove a burden than a forfeit with
which to bargain. Bassinette, or whoever it was who was commanding the
mutineers, would know that he was dealing with men who would neither
starve nor slay their prisoners; though he should have known, and
doubtless did know, that we ourselves were by this time in dire straits
for food. And as to the tethering anchor chain, they would surely be a
witless lot aboard of the _Andromeda_ if they should not remember that
they could compel Haskell and his mechanician assistants to cut the
cable.
It soon developed, however, that the amateur pirates were not thinking
of running away. Shortly after the electric launch had whisked to
safety under the stern of the yacht, it appeared again with a new
crew to man it. At first we thought the militant chief cook was going
to attempt a sortie and a rescue of the prisoners, but he had a better
scheme than that, as we were presently to learn. Keeping outside of
the enclosing reef, he sent the launch slowly westward, holding it
far enough out to be beyond pistol range, but paralleling the reef
as if seeking for another inlet. Elijah Goff hazarded a guess at his
intention.
"You folks 've got a camp o' some sort, hain't ye?" he asked; and when
Van Dyck gave the expected affirmative: "I guess maybe he's spyin'
'round to find that camp. He cal'lates that'll be your weak spot, if
you've got one."
That was enough to set us swiftly in motion, of course, and by
hastening we kept abreast of the launch all the way along the south
side of the island, though with no little difficulty, since, under
the fair certainty that the boat's crew had firearms, we dared not
show ourselves on the beach. At the western end of the island Grey cut
across to carry word to the women, while the rest of us fought with the
jungle and so kept the launch in sight all the way around the point.
Doubling the western reef ledge, the reconnoitering boat party
proceeded to pass the northern shore of the island in review; and again
we kept the pace, watching each inlet through the reef narrowly as
the launch approached it, and hoping, rather than fearing, that the
mutineers would turn in and attempt a landing and so bring matters to
a crisis. It was grueling work keeping abreast of the motor-driven
tender, and by the time we had made the complete circuit of the island,
we were wringing wet with perspiration, and spent with running.
It was not until after a second circuit of the island was begun, with
the launch still dribbling along outside of the reef, that we came to
the full knowledge of what the mutineer chief was doing. He assumed
that we would be following him and keeping him in sight, and he meant
to run us to death; in other words, to keep us running until we could
run no more. He doubtless knew, or guessed, that our camp was at the
opposite end of the island from the treasure plantation, and that we
couldn't guard both at the same time.
The second lap of the Marathon was a sheer fight for life, or, rather,
for the breath to sustain life. If we could have kept to the beach
without drawing the fire of the launch it would not have been so bad,
but a single attempt to do this brought a flash and crack from the sea,
and we had to dive to cover again. By the time we reached the camp end
of the island this second time, Grey was reeling and tripping like a
drunken man, and Van Dyck ordered him out of the running ranks.
"Stay by the women!" was the gasped-out command, and thereupon we lost
Grey.
The completion of the second lap practically finished the five of us
who were still in the race. When we came in sight of the _Andromeda_ we
were staggering and stumbling and caroming helplessly against the trees
and other obstacles. Unless we should be given a breathing space we all
knew that the game was up, so far as we were concerned; but happily the
breath-catching interval was given us. Reaching the inlet opposite the
yacht, the mutineers steered the motor-driven tender boldly through it
and headed for the island beach. The chief was evidently taking it for
granted that he had worn us out and left us behind, and was making a
quick dash to gain possession of the island.
Van Dyck kept his head, in spite of the maddening fatigue that was
fairly killing every man of us.
"Down!" he panted hoarsely. "Get ready and hold your fire until you can
see their faces--then let 'em have it!"
At the most, we wouldn't have had to wait more than a minute or so;
but Billy Grisdale was too young and too excited to wait. While the
launch was still so far out as to make a shot a mere guess hazard in
the starlight, Billy pulled the trigger of the pistol which had fallen
to him in the distribution of the captured weapons, and the mischief
was done. Of course, we all banged away at the crack of Billy's pistol,
but there was every reason to believe that the volley went wide of the
mark. In a twinkling the tender's motor was reversed, and there was
a wild scramble aboard of her to get the emergency oars out to help
her around. In the thick of it Van Dyck took a long-distance chance
with the old-model rifle. There was a shrill scream and a flash of
blue-and-green electric fire from the boat's motor to follow the shot,
and the power went off. Goff's chuckle was like the creaking of a rusty
door-hinge.
"I cal'late they won't run the legs off'n us any more with _that_ push
boat," he said; and since the launch's crew paddled hurriedly out to
the _Andromeda_ with the motor still dead, the prophecy seemed to be in
the way of fulfilling itself.
Shortly after the last man had disappeared over the yacht's rail, the
empty launch, apparently towed from the deck above, also disappeared
around the stern of the _Andromeda_, by which we inferred that the
mutineers had some notion of trying to repair it, or at least of
determining to what extent its motor was crippled. Pending another
move, we waited again, and were glad enough of a chance to lie quiet
and have a breathing spell.
While we were resting, Grey came up, pluckily refusing to be left out
of the forefront of things. As before, he had skirted the northern
beach and had crossed through the treasure glade to come up behind us
as we lay watching the yacht. Sanford, he reported, was still holding
the lantern upon the pages of his Botany book, and was only mildly
curious to know what all the running and racing and shooting portended.
At "Camp Hurricane," as Edie Van Tromp had named our storm-driven
refuge, there was plenty of excitement, and quite naturally a good bit
of alarm. Of the three men who might be said to be posing as "home
guards," only one, Major Terwilliger, Grey told us, had offered to join
the fighting force. Barclay was again playing sick, and Ingerson was
sleeping, log-like, through it all.
"I took it upon myself to turn the major down," said Grey. "He is too
old to keep the pace we've been setting, so I told him to stay by the
women, and left my pistol with him to chirk him up a bit. But I doubt
if he'd put up much of a fight, for all his military title."
"Ow, I say, old dear; you're off, there," Jerry put in quickly. "Uncle
Jimmie will fight like a dashed old billy goat if he's pushed to it,
don't you know!" And we were obliged to take Jerry's word for it.
After the disappearance of the electric launch around the stern of the
_Andromeda_ there were no sounds for a time; nothing that would enable
us to guess what the mutineers' next move would be. But later there
came a creaking of tackles, and the clanking of a steam winch--one of
the smaller winches operating the boat falls.
"Taking the tender aboard for repairs," I suggested; but Van Dyck
said they were more likely lowering the long-boat, which was also
motor-driven with a small gasoline engine for its propelling power.
"How about it, Captain 'Lige?" he queried; and the sailing-master
confirmed the guess, saying:
"That's about the way of it. That con-dummed Frenchman is layin' off to
give us another chance to play ring-around-the-rosy with him."
Billy Grisdale had kept quiet for five full minutes, which was little
less than miraculous.
"Say," he broke in, "I've been hearing something like a file or a saw
going out there on the yacht ever since the scrimmage was called off.
Listen!"
We did listen, and the sound was unmistakable. Van Dyck clicked the
lever of the repeating rifle and sent a shot whistling over the
_Andromeda's_ bow. There was a clatter as of hastily dropped tools and
the filing noise ceased.
"It'll begin again, just as soon as he's toled us away from here," Goff
predicted. "He's got to gnaw himself loose from that anchor, and he
knows it."
Van Dyck took the hint.
"We are going to keep as much as we've got," he declared. And then to
Grey: "How well do you shoot, Jack?"
"Couldn't hit the side of a barn, not even if it were painted white,"
confessed the rising young lawyer.
It was at this conjuncture that Jerry Dupuyster surprised us again.
"Me for the bally old pot-shotting. I'm fairly good at the birds, don't
you know. Took the blue ribbon over the field at Lord Erpin'am's last
fall--what? Give me the gun, and say when and where."
Bonteck passed the rifle over to the reincarnated club idler.
"You heard what Goff said. That infernal French sea cook will begin
to run us again as soon as he gets the long-boat over the side. When
that happens, you stay here and keep your ear out for that anchor-chain
filing. If it begins again, aim a little high and invite them to quit."
"I'm on," said Dupuyster. "But I'm dashed if I know why you want me to
hold high on the perishers."
"For the simple reason that they may be forcing Haskell or Quinby to do
the work, and we don't want to kill any of our friends," was Bonteck's
explanation.
While he was speaking we heard the first broken sputterings of the
long-boat's gasoline engine, and a little later the boat itself
slid out like a white shadow past the _Andromeda's_ stem, and a
third circumnavigation of the island was begun. Van Dyck stood up,
tightened his belt and groaned. "We're in for another ride on the
merry-go-round!" he lamented. "Fall in, you fellows."
We fell in, and the word was well-chosen. Lying by for the half-hour
or so after doing the double Marathon had stiffened every weary leg
muscle. Cursing the mutineers for the lack, or seeming lack, of
originality which was leading them to repeat an expedient that had
failed, we ran on, taking to the beach now, and risking a volley from
the long-boat for the sake of having a better running track.
So running, and keeping cannily abreast of the white shadow in the
offing, we had covered possibly half of the distance to the western
end of the island when the crack of a rifle from the rear, followed
instantly by a scattering fusillade, halted us abruptly.
The rifle was replying spitefully to the fusillade as Van Dyck, who had
been leading the race, wheeled, spread his arms and herded us into the
back track.
"They've played it on us!" he yelled. "There's only one man in that
long-boat, and the others are trying to put something over on Jerry!"
They were; and the trick had almost succeeded when we reached the strip
of beach that Dupuyster was defending. The crippled electric launch,
propelled by oars, and carrying possibly a dozen men, was half-way
across the lagoon, heading straight for the beach, and coming on
regardless of Jerry's rifle. Above the din of battle we could hear the
shrill, squeaky voice of the fat cook encouraging his men. "Pull on ze
oar, _mes braves! Sacré tonnerre!_ eet is but wan man dat shoot ze gon!"
But when we came up there were five more to shoot, and instant and
utter demoralization fell upon the attacking force. Shrieks of
surrender in half a dozen different languages rent the still night air,
and in a mad endeavor to turn the boat an oar was lost overboard.
If our situation had not been so critically desperate, there was enough
of the comic-opera element in the frantic attempt to retreat to have
brought down the house. As it was, Van Dyck stopped the firing and
shouted to the mutineers to come ashore and surrender. Some of the
men were evidently sick of their bargain and wanted to quit, but the
squeaky cries of the chief robber dominated the tumult, and under a
renewal of our bombardment the launch was got around and headed back to
the yacht with much splashing and hard swearing. Also, when the goal
of safety was reached, we could make out dimly that the accommodation
ladder was let down, and that two or three members of the boat's crew
had to be helped aboard.
A few minutes after this, we had audible proof of the correctness of
Van Dyck's guess about the long-boat and the ingenious ruse to draw us
off. The gasoline craft was coming back, as we could determine by the
increasing loudness of its exhaust. Following its return to the yacht
we were given another little breathing spell, and John Grey's quality
of professional curiosity had an opportunity to show itself again.
"I can't understand for the life of me why these fellows should come
back here and fight us so desperately for a chance to get ashore," he
protested. "You can't make me believe that they're doing it on the
strength of a silly yarn that is three hundred years old."
"What do you think about it, Captain 'Lige?" said Bonteck, ungenerously
handing the tangle over to Goff.
"I wouldn't put it a mite apast 'em," was the skipper's guarded reply.
"There was a good deal o' talk among the men about buried gold-mines
and such on the way down from New Orleans. I ain't no gre't hand at the
foreign lingoes, myself, but I picked up a word or two here and there."
"I don't more than half believe it, just the same," Grey persisted. "I
tell you, these fellows are not fighting for the bare chance of proving
or disproving that old story about the _Santa Lucia's_ buried treasure.
They've got inside information of some sort, and I'll bet on it."
"Maybe they have," said Goff, in a tone which said plainly that the
matter was one not worth worrying about.
Grey got upon his feet.
"We have six of these pirates back here in the woods: why can't we make
them talk and tell us what they are trying to do?"
At this, Van Dyck took a hand.
"They would lie about it, as a matter of course," he interjected.
"Besides, their particular object doesn't make any vital difference to
us. They are here, and our present business is to see to it that they
don't get away again--with the yacht."
Grey sat down again, grumbling.
"I don't see that we are getting ahead very fast," he complained. "What
in Sam Hill do you suppose they're waiting for now?"
The answer to Grey's impatient query was at that moment coming around
the _Andromeda's_ stern. It was the disabled electric launch again
this time with only one man in it, and he was sculling it with an oar
over the stern, slowly working his way toward the gap in the reef.
When it came a bit nearer we could see that the loom of a broken oar
had been rigged as a mast in the bow, with a white flag of some sort
dangling from it.
"A parley," I said; and Goff grunted acquiescence. But Jerry Dupuyster
worked the lever of his rifle to reload.
"Don't shoot, Jerry," Bonteck cautioned in low tones; whereat the
emancipated idler chuckled.
"Couldn't if I wanted to, by Jove; the bally cartridges are all gone,
what?"
The huge lump of a man in the stern of the launch stopped sculling when
he was within easy calling distance of the shore, and the boat lost way.
"Ahoy ze island!" he hailed, in a voice ridiculously out of proportion
to his barrel-girthed bigness.
"Get to work with that oar and come ashore!" was Van Dyck's brusque
command, to which he added: "We've got you covered."
"_Non, non!_ it ees ze flag of ze truce!" shrilled the voice. And then
the fat cook handed out an argument that was much more binding: "Ve haf
ze enchineers in ze hold shut up, and eef you shoot wiz ze gon, zey
will be keel!"
"Talk it out, then," said Van Dyck. "What do you want?"
"Ve make ze proposal--w'at you call ze proposition. It ees zat you vill
all go to ze ozzer end of zis island, _immédiatement_. W'en you do zat,
ve leave you ze long-boat to go 'way, w'erever you like to go. W'at you
do wiz Lequat and hees mens?"
"Lequat and his men are where you won't find them in a hurry," was
Bonteck's answer. "As to your demand that we go away and let you steal
the yacht again, there's nothing doing."
"_Sacré bleu!_ It ees ze--w'at you call heem?--ze ooltimatum. W'en
ees come daylight, ve put ze leetle cannon on ze long boat and keel
all--_oui_!"
At this savage pronouncement we held a whispered consultation, the
fat pirate sitting back in the stern sheets of the launch and calmly
lighting a cigarette. Could we, dare we, take the risk of a daylight
bombardment, even though the single piece of artillery were only the
yacht's little brass muzzle-loading signal piece, with such iron scraps
as the mutineers might be able to find or manufacture for the missiles?
It was a dubious question. Though our island was nearly if not quite a
mile in length, its greatest width did not exceed four or five hundred
yards, and the little gun would easily put it under a cross-fire from
either side.
"Have they powder?" I asked of Goff.
"Tain't likely they haven't--with them a-handlin' all that war stuff
from the Isle o' Pines."
"But nothing that would answer for grape-shot?"
"Pots and kittles in the galley, and a hammer to smash 'em with," said
the old Gloucesterman. "That's good enough, I cal'late."
"Speak up, all of you," said Van Dyck. "Shall I try to drive a bargain
with him for the long-boat? If he gives us enough gasoline, we might
be able to make Willemstadt, on the island of Curaçao--with fair
weather and a smooth sea. That is the nearest inhabited land, but it is
something over a hundred-and-fifty-mile run."