Slipping out of the bunk, Kenneth went to the open scuttle. It was a bright starlit night, with no moon. Broad on the port-beam was a long unbroken line of white water, showing ghost-like in the starlight at a distance of not less than three-quarters of a mile. A low rumble like that of far-away thunder greeted the lad's ears. It was the noise of surf breaking upon the coral reefs.
"Hallo, old son!" exclaimed Peter drowsily. "What's up?"
"You awake too!" rejoined Kenneth.
"Yes, something seemed to wake me," declared young Arkendale. "What's that noise?"
"Breakers," replied Kenneth. "I fancy they nearly piled the yacht on the reefs. We've altered course, but goodness only knows why we've slowed down."
"It's enough to make any vessel slow down," declared Peter, as he caught sight of the long line of foam.
"But we aren't heading for it now."
"Possibly there are other reefs ahead," suggested Peter. "Well, if they do put the ship on the rocks, I hope they'll remember to unlock this door. Hallo! We're altering course again."
Slowly the Paloma turned sixteen points to starboard and retraced her course. A similar performance took place every half-hour until dawn paled in the east, revealing a lofty, coco-palm covered island, with a series of rugged, barren peaks standing out clearly against the growing light.
"We're putting in there," declared Kenneth. "They were dodging about all night until it was light enough to see the passage through the reefs. I'll wake the Pater up and tell him."
When aroused Mr. Heatherington went to the scuttle.
"Now the fun commences, lads," he remarked. "This is Talai."
"I wish they'd unlock the door," said Kenneth. "We can't see much as her head's pointing just now."
"It's not eight by a long way," Peter reminded him.
The mutineers evidently knew their work, for a man had been sent aloft to the foremast cross-trees to con the yacht through the channel. The leadsmen were in the chains, heaving the lead at frequent intervals, while by the sounds from the fo'c'sle it was obvious to the prisoners that preparations were being made to stream the buoy and to range the cable preparatory to letting go the anchor.
Presently the engines stopped. Then, with a rush and a roar, the cable rattled through the hawsepipe. The Paloma, carrying way until she snubbed at the restraining chain, swung round and rode head to wind in the shallow lagoon.
"By Jove, lads!" exclaimed Mr. Heatherington in a low voice. "The rogues are hot! They've brought up within two hundred yards of the black pearl oyster beds."
Punctually at eight, the cabin door was unlocked, and the captives were allowed to go on deck before breakfast was served.
Mendoza was on the bridge. He gave Mr. Heatherington a shifty, triumphant glance, as if to indicate that he was well on his way to the attainment of his quest. Miguel Fe, leering with excitement, was standing just abaft the mainmast. Lopez, who had been superintending the letting go of the anchor, was gazing steadily at the island—an occupation shared by most of the hands—who by this time had an idea that Talai was a veritable El Dorado.
Mr. Heatherington and his companions had hardly been on deck more than a minute before Captain Asger Holbaek, with his wrists still fettered, appeared, escorted by half a dozen armed mutineers.
The Dane sniffed the air, gave a quick glance in the direction of the island, and then resumed his progress as if too dejected to take any interest in his surroundings. One of his guards uttered a gibe in broken English, but the Dane paid no heed.
Suddenly, when just abreast the mainmast, Captain Holbaek gave his guards the shock of their lives.
With a quick jerk of his powerful arms he snapped the steel links of the handcuffs, as if they were made of thread. Turning with the agility of a whippet the Dane delivered two blows in rapid succession at the men previously behind him. They crashed like logs to the deck, but before they had measured their length, Holbaek had swung round and had seized the foremost pair of Spaniards in a grip of steel. Before they realized what had happened, they were swung apart and then swung together with terrific force, their skulls meeting with a sickening thud.
A moment later Asger Holbaek leapt upon the low bulwark and plunged into the placid waters of the lagoon.
CHAPTER IX. A DASH FOR FREEDOM
A howl of rage burst from the Spaniards when they realized the Dane's desperate attempt to escape. Mendoza rushed to the lee side of the bridge, and blazed away with the automatic. Those of the crew who had their firearms handy also opened fire with an erratic and wasteful expenditure of ammunition.
Asger Holbaek was a magnificent swimmer and diver. He made no immediate attempt to break surface but swam with long, easy powerful strokes at a depth of about twenty feet. Although in the marvellously transparent water every movement of the Danish captain could be clearly discerned, he was immune from the hail of bullets provided he kept well down.
The surface above and beyond him was churned by the ricochetting nickel. On and on he swam until Kenneth, anxiously watching his progress, began to marvel at the Dane's lung capacity. Nearly two minutes from the time he plunged over the side Holbaek came to the surface at a distance of about eighty yards from the anchored yacht. At that distance it was out of the question to aim with any degree of accuracy, yet the infuriated mutineers kept up the fusillade, feverishly reloading and emptying their weapons at the fugitive.
All around the swimmer's head the water was torn by bullets. To Kenneth it seemed impossible for all the missiles to miss their objective.
"He's hit!" exclaimed the lad involuntarily, as Holbaek slipped beneath the surface; but the next instant Kenneth saw that the swimmer was still going strongly, although, owing to the oblique angle of the spectators' vision it was now no longer possible to obtain a clear view of his movements.
The firing died away, the Spaniards waiting for the head of the swimmer to reappear above the surface. The mutineers jabbered and gesticulated. Above the babel Mendoza's voice could be heard shouting for someone to bring him a rifle and ammunition. In the turmoil no one seemed to obey.
Again the blonde hair of the Dane appeared above the surface. The fusillade broke out once more, the bullets flying wide of their mark. This time, realizing that he had put a fairly safe distance between him and his enemies, Holbaek showed no great haste to dive. When he did he kept only a few feet below the surface.
The mutineers ceased fire. Mendoza, having been baulked in his wish to obtain a rifle, was about to utter a string of maledictions when he suddenly gave a shout of fiendish exultation. From his elevated post on the bridge his keen eyes caught sight of a vee-shaped ripple on the water, the apex of the vee terminating in a dark triangular object—the dorsal of an enormous shark.
The tiger of the deep had marked its intended prey.
Asger Holbaek was now on the surface swimming strongly with a powerful overhand stroke. He was still two hundred yards from the sandy beach. Whether he saw his ferocious pursuer or not remained an unanswered problem. If he did he gave no sign. He neither quickened his pace nor looked behind him but maintained his easy yet sturdy strokes.
Kenneth wanted to shout a warning, but no cry came from his lips. His throat was as dry as a lime-kiln. He could not utter a sound. He could only watch with an unaccountable fascination the preliminaries to what would appear to be a ghastly drama.
A strange silence fell upon the hitherto noisy mutineers. They, too, expected to see the Dane seized by the enormous maw of the shark.