The next hour passed slowly, the chums toiling with shovel and rake to keep the furnaces burning well and to ensure the removal of clinker and cinders. So painstaking did they appear that the leading stoker had no cause to complain, and left them to themselves to attend to the furnace of No. 3 boiler, which happened to be nearest to the ladder leading on deck.
At a quarter to five—it was still pitch dark without and dawn would not break until twenty minutes past the hour—Kenneth and Peter deserted their post. Unseen by any of the other toilers in the steam-laden atmosphere of the stokehold they darted up the ladder, paused only to see that the deck in their vicinity was deserted, and stole cautiously under the lee of the dummy boiler-casing.
Five yards away was the accommodation-ladder, which for some reason had not yet been topped-up and secured. Close to the grating at the head of the ladder stood a figure faintly silhouetted against the phosphorescent light from the placid waters of the harbour. It was Mendoza. The pirate captain was standing almost motionless and peering shorewards.
For a seemingly interminable time he remained cutting off the lads' path to freedom, but at length with an exclamation of impatience, he went aft. The chums heard him shout an order. Above the hiss of escaping steam came the sound of many footsteps.
"Quick!" hissed Kenneth.
With their hearts thumping violently the fugitives crept across the intervening space of deck between the casing and the accommodation-ladder. Down they stole, the suspended structure swaying and groaning at every step, until they gained the platform at the foot of the ladder.
Fifteen feet above them, and on the very part of the deck they had just left were the hands summoned by Mendoza. The tackle supporting the accommodation-ladder was violently jerked, as if preparation were being made to hoist up. Simultaneously others of the crew were swinging out a pair of empty davits.
Above the turmoil came the sound of oars. One of the Paloma's boats was returning to the ship from the shore. Judging by the sound she could not be more than ten times her length from the accommodation-ladder, for which she was making.
"We're clean bowled!" thought Kenneth.
CHAPTER XXI. SCALING THE CLIFFS
"Lower yourself and hang on!" whispered Peter, and without hesitation he dropped feet foremost into the black water, edged round to the underside of the lower platform of the ladder and waited.
Kenneth followed with more haste than discretion, sending up a shower of phosphorescence as he took the water. For a few moments the chums waited breathlessly, expecting that they had been spotted by the buccaneers on deck; but either the sound of the splash was deadened by the commotion on board or else the phosphorescent swirl was mistaken for the splash of a fish.
With a bump that made the accommodation-ladder shake violently the boat came alongside. Between the treads the chums could see the head of the bowman's boathook obtaining a hold on the teak grating within eighteen inches of their faces. The boat forged ahead a few feet. Two men stepped out and ascended the ladder. The boat then dropped astern, so that the remaining members of the crew could be discerned with far too much clearness to be appreciated by the chums, as they hung on with only their heads above water. But the Spaniards in the boat were far too busily engaged in hooking on the lower blocks of the fall to notice them.
An impatient voice hailed the boat from the ship. A necessary reply was given and the boat rose to the davit-heads, dropping a shower of luminous water from her keel.
"Now for it!" whispered Peter. "Keep close alongside until we're round her stern, but look out for the prop.!"
The warning was fully justified, for almost at that moment the Paloma's propeller began to churn the water. To be caught in the suction of that powerful screw meant death; to strike out frantically away from the ship's side meant detection.
Fortunately the fugitives had not to choose either alternative. Just as Kenneth thought resentfully, "So they call this getting under way at daybreak!" the revolutions of the propeller ceased. Mendoza had ordered a few turns of the screw to assure himself that all was well in the engine-room.
Nevertheless the chums gave the stern a wide berth. It was fairly safe to do so, since most of the hands were busy preparing to unmoor and shorten in both cables before weighing.
"No hurry!" whispered Peter. "Don't splash."
Using the breast-stroke and keeping their hands below the surface, the two lads struck out for the shore, moving at a funeral pace, lest the ripples in their wake might attract notice. The water was very warm: they had no fear of cramp. It was so salt that the swimmers were surprised at its unaccustomed buoyancy. Foot by foot, yard by yard they drew clear of their floating prison. Occasionally a fish, breaking surface, would cause a phosphorescent swirl on the dark waters. Big fish, some of them. Vaguely Kenneth wondered whether they might be sharks. He had not seen sharks in their enclosed anchorage. There were plenty in the outer lagoon, and there was no guarantee that some of these tigers of the deep might not find their way into the inner harbour. He remembered being told that in the event of being attacked by a shark the best thing to do was to flounder violently and splash with arms and legs, but in the present circumstance silence was highly desirable. It depended, he thought, on self-discipline, and whether the risk of being recaptured by the Paloma's crew did or did not outweigh the peril of being seized by a ravenous shark.
The while both lads swam strongly and with slow, deliberate strokes. The Paloma was quite invisible in the darkness. Ahead, and most deceptive as to distance, could be discerned the summit of the low cliffs nearly surrounding the anchorage. The rest of the rocky walls was in utter darkness. It was impossible to gauge with any degree of accuracy how far the beach was, or whether there was any beach at all at the point for which the swimmers were making.
Suddenly Peter uttered a surprised cry. His bare foot had struck against a slimy object. For the moment he thought a fish had attacked him, until he discovered that it was a trailing length of seaweed he had encountered.
A few yards farther on and the chums found themselves in a kelp-bed. There were slippery and yet tenacious tendrils of seaweed everywhere, through which the swimmers must make their way if they were to gain the shore, unless they were compelled to make for the pier-head.
"We're nearly there!" exclaimed Kenneth. "Keep your feet up and don't get flurried. If you do you'll get caught up."
"Easier said than done," replied his chum breathlessly, as he stopped to disengage a particularly adhesive tendril from his left ankle. "Think we'll get through it?"
"'Course," rejoined Kenneth, but after a few more strokes, he too found the formidable nature of the kelp-bed. Heedless of his own advice he commenced to struggle. The more he strove to shake off the tendrils, the more they hampered his movements.
"Peter!" he exclaimed. "I've stuck!"
Moving cautiously, young Arkendale swam to his friend's assistance.
"I'll hold you!" he said reassuringly. "Put your hand down and try to free your ankle."
Kenneth attempted to do so. Failing, he kicked violently. His bare foot came in contact with hard ground. The water was only four feet deep.
By this time dawn had broken with characteristic swiftness of the Tropics.
"It's quite shallow," announced Kenneth.
"And about time too," added Peter, as he too was glad to rest his feet upon the firm bottom. "Be careful, don't raise your head too much. Look behind you!"
Standing out distinctly against the reddish hue that stole over the crests of the peaks of Boya was the Paloma. Her foredeck was enveloped in steam as the capstan performed the task of "Breaking-out" the remaining anchor. Mendoza had lost no time in getting under way at daybreak.