This was Boya—the one-time secret coaling base of the German Pacific Squadron. To a stranger and indeed to those acquainted with that part of the Pacific it presented no attractions. Apart from the menace of the reefs there was nothing on the island to merit the attention of traders—not even coco-palms in sufficient quantities to provide a remunerative cargo of copra for a small schooner.
The island of Boya bore a sinister reputation, for on three occasions during the present century pearling vessels embayed during a sudden hurricane were smashed to matchboard in a few minutes with the total loss of their crews.
Amongst the Kanakas there was a firm belief that the island was inhabited by the manes of departed evil-doers—a belief that added to the reluctance of trading vessels, partly manned by natives, to risk the intricate passage through the reefs.
"Surely the mutineers aren't making for that dismal, one-eyed show!" remarked Peter.
"Looks like it," rejoined his chum. "Though why, I haven't an earthly. Some new form of villainy, I guess. They've done with the black pearls, so they are trying another wheeze."
"Making up on the swings what they lose on the roundabouts, eh?" exclaimed Arkendale. "Well, it strikes me, old son, that you and I will have to swim for it if she holds on this course much longer—and a precious poor chance we'll stand in that broken water."
On the bridge, Mendoza was anxiously studying the expanse of reefs through a pair of powerful marine-glasses. At frequent intervals he lowered the binoculars and addressed a string of feverish questions to Lopez, who, confident enough as the Paloma raised the island, was beginning to feel "rattled" by the nervous demeanour of his superior officer.
"Have you picked up the leading-marks yet?" demanded Mendoza for the twentieth time. "What if they have been removed?"
"If they have been we're doomed, unless we retrace our course," replied Lopez, adding with thinly-veiled sarcasm, "though it is hardly to be expected that anyone would go to the trouble to remove a fifty-ton boulder just for the pleasure of piling us upon the reefs."
A long pause—horribly nerve-racking to the highly-strung Mendoza—and Lopez gave a grunt of satisfaction.
"I've spotted it!" he exclaimed. "Port five, quartermaster—meet her—at that!"
"I can't see any leading-marks," said the mutineer captain querulously. "Where are they?"
"Over there," replied Lopez airily, indicating an indefinite arc of the land. "Please don't interrupt or I'll make a mistake."
Lopez was now sure of the course, but he was determined to keep the information to himself unless anyone else on board possessed sufficient astuteness to discover the secret bearings. He realized that, like himself, Mendoza was a crafty villain, and, if occasion arose, would not hesitate to murder his Third Officer. Between the mutineer officers there was a hardly concealed rivalry. Neither would scruple to plot against the other, if there were a practically certain chance of success.
By keeping the knowledge of the channel to Boya Island to himself, Lopez realized that he held a strong card. It made him indispensable. Once the Paloma reached the anchorage she would not be able to leave it except at enormous risk, if Lopez were not on board to act as pilot; and when Mendoza grasped this fact it would compel him to keep on amicable terms with his youthful but no less crafty subordinate.
The Paloma had now eased down to five knots—a speed sufficient to enable her to maintain complete steerage-way and yet to gather stern-way under reversed engines in less than twice her own length. Leadsmen were assiduously heaving the lead. This was a precaution taken at Mendoza's behest. Lopez smiled to himself, because he knew that no bottom was to be found until the vessel was within a cable's length of the outermost reef, when the water shoaled with remarkable abruptness to six fathoms.
Silence now fell upon the group of officers on the bridge. Mendoza, realizing that the matter was helplessly out of his hands, contented himself by gazing at the expanse of foam on either side and ahead of the vessel. Miguel Fe, guessing Lopez's intentions, was endeavouring to find out for himself the leading-marks. Incidentally he was scheming to enter into a compact with Lopez over the business, with a view to supplant Mendoza when the favourable moment arrived.
Meanwhile Lopez kept his binoculars levelled, at one time ahead, at another on the starboard beam. Occasionally he made a gentle movement with his hand to let the quartermaster give the ship a few degrees of the helm.
Suddenly he straightened himself and replaced the binoculars in the case.
"Port eight, quartermaster!" he ordered.
Round swung the Paloma to starboard, until she settled down on a course at right angles to that she had previously held. The channel was now only about eighty yards wide, foaming breakers on both sides and a barrier of jagged rocks ahead. It was on one of these inconspicuous rocks in line with the north-easternmost bluff of Boya that Lopez steered. To edge off the mark more than ten yards meant disaster, while to add to the dangers the high freeboard of the yacht being broadside on to the wind caused her to make considerable leeway and necessitating consequent compensation of helm.
At the end of this apparently blind channel the water widened and deepened into a natural basin giving sufficient room for the Paloma to turn through ten points, or more than she actually required.
Motioning to the quartermaster to step aside, Lopez took the wheel, glanced shorewards with apparent indifference, waited, and then put the helm to starboard. His quick eyes had detected the next marks: one a small, weather-beaten board that had once been tarred but was now a rusty brown hardly distinguishable from the coco-palm trunks. This he brought almost in line with a rock resembling a dog's head. Almost, because had he done so the Paloma would have crashed upon a half-tide reef; but by keeping the rock its own width wide of the board a clear course was assured.
Followed an anxious five minutes. Although the surf was not so heavy and broken it still surged on one side of the channel. On the other the water was so clear that Mendoza, gazing over the lee rail of the bridge, could easily discern the fantastic coral formations thirty feet down, their sides as steep as the wall of a house, and their upper edges as sharp as a timber-feller's saw.
At length Lopez gave the wheel a careless spin, toyed with the spokes with his left hand, while with his right he wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead.
"Is this the anchorage?" inquired Miguel Fe, breaking the prolonged silence.
"Not yet," replied Lopez. "Will you go for'ard and stand by to let go?"
Miguel Fe went without a word, at his subordinate's bidding. Standing by to let go the anchor was a duty that fell to the lot of the junior officer. He wanted to dispute the point until he remembered that it was policy to keep in with Lopez if he hoped to carry out his plan. Besides, Lopez was virtually in charge of the ship in his present capacity of pilot and navigating officer.
Mendoza, too, was beginning to take a livelier interest in things. He no longer studied the bed of the lagoon—possibly because the danger of making final and speedy contact with it was a thing of the past—and transferred his attention to the forbidding face of the island, now less than a cable's length away and towering high above the yacht.