CHAPTER XVIII—BIG CYPRESS AGAIN
Three o’clock on the afternoon of the next day found the two young men standing on the concrete pier, watching the narrow entrance to the bay. Beside them stood the old negro, Sam, an incongruous figure in his war paint, and armed to the teeth.
“Here they come!” cried Bill, as two wicked-looking destroyers, belching smoke from their squat funnels, glided into the harbor. “The old U. S. Navy is pretty prompt, once it gets started, eh? That isn’t bad time at all from Key West!”
“Lucky we were able to reach them by phone. That second ship is letting go her anchor. The one in the lead seems to be making for this pier.”
“I told them there was plenty of water,” said Bill, and they waited where they were until the destroyer laid alongside and made fast. A young man whose smart white uniform bore the black and gold shoulder stripes of a lieutenant-commander ran lightly across the gangway. He was followed by a chief petty officer and a file of men carrying rifles. Bill and Osceola stepped forward to meet them.
“Who’s in command here?” inquired the officer.
“I am, sir.” Bill stood stiffly at attention. He did not salute. It is not Naval etiquette to do so unless one is in uniform, wearing one’s cap.
“Mr. Bolton, I take it,” smiled the officer. “My name is Bellinger. If it’s okay with you, Mr. Bolton, I’ll take over now?”
“Please do.” They shook hands.
Bill then introduced Osceola and gave Commander Bellinger a brief report of his experiences during the past ten days.
“We’ve buried the dead gunsters,” he ended, “and the live ones are safely housed in their own jail.”
“My word!” exclaimed the Commander. “You chaps have certainly put in an interesting summer vacation—if not a very pleasant one! You’ve seen more scrapping in a few days than I have since the Armistice!”
“The Seminoles were a bit difficult to control, sir,” Bill went on rather hesitantly.
Commander Bellinger nodded. “I’ll bet they were. Probably scalped a few of the gunmen, eh? Well, what I don’t know won’t go into my report. The fortunes of war, you know. But I want you to understand now, Bolton, that the report won’t do you any harm with the Superintendent of the Naval Academy—quite the reverse, in fact. Both you and Chief Osceola have done well—very well indeed. And,” he added, “I think we’d better look over this gangster outfit. You’ll want to start your hop soon, I suppose.”
Bill nodded as they walked toward the hill.
“I have orders to meet a squadron of seaplanes from Pensacola Air Station at four o’clock in Whitewater Bay, sir.”
“How long will it take you to fly over there?”
“Something under an hour, sir. With your permission I’d like the small Loening moored out yonder, and take Chief Osceola with me.”
“That’s okay with me, Bolton. But we’ll have to get going with this inspection. Before you leave I’ll give you the admiral’s orders, and another envelope which you will turn over to Commander Thomson when you meet the seaplane squadron.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Bill, and the three breasted the winding road up the cliff.
Bill pushed forward the stick, at the same time he cut his gun and the Loening amphibian he was piloting shot downward. Far below, the island-studded waters of Whitewater Bay sparkled in the summer sunlight. Lying on its quiet bosom like great waterbugs with wings spread were the five seaplanes of the Navy Squadron moored in simple V-formation. Even at that distance, Bill could make out the difference in design of the flying boats.
“Three Boeing PB-1’s,” he announced into the mouthpiece of his headphone. “The other two are PN-10’s.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” answered Osceola. “It’s all Greek to me. But how can you tell them apart at this distance?”
“Easily enough—knowing their construction. The PB boats have a tandem engine mounting, for one thing. Can’t talk now—this has got to be a good landing. We’ve a bunch of experts watching us.”
He brought his stick slowly backward, bringing up the nose to level. Then he applied right aileron and simultaneously increased right rudder considerably. When the desired bank was reached, he checked the wing with the ailerons and at the same time eased the pressure on the rudder.
When the plane swung round so that it headed directly into the wind, Bill applied left aileron and left rudder. With wings level once more, he neutralized the ailerons and applied a normal amount of right rudder to steady her.
Once more he nosed over, and this time the Loening sped downward on a straight path into the wind, at an angle of 45 degrees. At a point equidistant from the two rear seaplanes of the moored squadron, Bill leveled off. A moment later, with hardly a splash his plane caressed the water and glided forward under its own momentum until it came to rest directly aft of the squadron’s leading seaplane.
Bill loosened the chinstrap of his helmet, as a figure in a monkeysuit walked out on the lower wing section of the big PB boat, and waved.
“That you, Bolton?”
“Good afternoon, Commander. I’ve got the admiral’s orders aboard.”
“Good enough,” returned Commander Thomson. “Nose that Loening over here and let me have them. That was a smart landing you made just now. You’re a credit to your old instructor!”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Bill, with a wink at Osceola, and did as he was bid.
“And I notice you haven’t lost your nerve, either,” smiled the Commander as he took the long blue envelope that Bill handed him. “Cheek is a better word, perhaps.”
“I never try to correct my superior officer,” laughed Bill, and they shook hands.
Commander Thomson slit the envelope and read the message.
“The Old Man says you are to lead us over,” he announced. “And I take it you know what to do when we get there.”
“Yes, sir. Received instructions from Commander Bellinger. I’ve got the letter in my pocket. He sent his best regards to you, sir.”
“Good old Pat. I bet he’d give half a stripe to be with us. We’ll shove off directly. Run your boat up to thirty-five hundred and retain that altitude until you zoom the stockade. Then climb until you are above us and don’t land until you see me on the water. Got that?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Let’s go, then. Good luck!”
“Same to you, Commander.”
Bill returned to the cockpit of his plane and presently the Loening was taxiing ahead, preparatory to her take-off.
Once in the air, he climbed to the prescribed thirty-five hundred feet. A sharp flipper turn brought the little amphibian on a compass course slightly west of north. Directly on his tail came Commander Thomson’s PB-1, with the other four planes of the squadron bringing up the rear in V-formation.
Bill, of course, did not know the exact location in Big Cypress of Martinengo’s gold diggings, but here Osceola’s uncanny bump of direction came into play once more. Not ever did the young Seminole appear at a loss. On they sped, straight as an arrow shot from a bow.
The sun was three-quarters down the horizon when they caught sight of the lagoon in the cypress swamp, with the stockade close beside it. They had timed their arrival to a nicety. The prisoners had just been locked up for the night and their guards were going to supper.
Forward went Bill’s stick and he dived for the buildings with a wide open throttle. He caught a fleeting glimpse of figures running on the open quadrangle that seemed rushing up to meet him. Then back came his stick again. The Loening bucked like a frightened bronco and zoomed upward a bare fifty feet above Mother Earth. As she rose, a weighted letter was dropped overboard.
Again Bill climbed, until his plane reached an altitude of possibly a hundred feet above the squadron, which had changed its formation and was now flying in a continuous circle, high above the stockade. Bill leveled off and sent his plane into a series of reverse control turns known as figure eights.
Less than five minutes later, the two in the Loening saw a procession of men form in front of the bosses’ headquarters. From there they marched two by two out of the stockade and down the corduroy to the dock. One of the leaders carried a white flag.
Bill reached for a pair of fieldglasses and clapped them to his eyes.
“Martinengo’s in front, with the flag!” he cried into the mouthpiece of his phone, nearly deafening Osceola in his excitement. “And yes—that’s Dad—beside him! Gee whiz! If I was a Frenchman, I could kiss the old Admiral! His letter did the trick, Osceola. That old boy is some humdinger!”
“Wonder what he said in it. It certainly brought them out in a hurry.”
Bill laughed. “Bellinger let me read it. Short and to the point—that’s the Navy. It read: ‘You are through, Martinengo. Walk down to the dock with your men—unarmed. Bring Mr. Bolton with you. My planes are bombers. Charles S. Black, Rear Admiral, U. S. N.’”
“Short and sweet, and very much to the point!” laughed Osceola. Two seaplanes glided down out of the circular formation below them.
“There goes the skipper,” exclaimed Bill. “It’s about time we went down and you were introduced to Dad.”
“Okay, boy, but watch your step. We don’t want to crack up now when everything’s turned out so beautifully.”
“Unh-unh—Not me!” grinned Bill, and nosed her over.
Those who have liked this story will be interested in the next book of this series, Bill Bolton and the Flying Fish.
The End.