Part 16 (2/2)

”Lower the only boat we've got left to save your b-- dog,” roared Bilbao, as he stood on deck, his vand.y.k.e beard and moustache stiff, and rippling to port as the wind struck him and mountainous seas rose level with the bulwark side to windward. The chief mate, gazing aloft with sunken, socket-like eyes, seemed almost pleased with the idea that the _Sea Foam_ might any moment turn turtle and so cut short his eternal fear about the jury's verdict if ever his duplicity got him into the clutches of the law. He was slowly fading to a shadow through all the worry that Bilbao had brought on to his trembling shoulders. Even at that early date a decided looseness in his bra.s.s-bound reefer packet was noticeable, clearly indicating the shrinkage of his once plump form.

Mango Pango, hearing the seas beating against the schooner's side, looked through the cuddy's port-hole, and seeing the wild confusion, as the crew slashed at the wreckage aloft while the schooner heeled over, cried aloud: ”Awaie! Awaie! O tellible _matagai_ (storm)! O Bilbalos, saver poor Mango Pango!”

”Don't cry, Mango, it's all right now,” said Hillary, who had just crept into the cuddy from the deck, for he too had been taking a hand in the desperate work of that buffeted crew. In half-an-hour every man on board was thanking his lucky stars that the _Sea Foam_ was still plunging along on her keel. Her storm-sails had been set and the taut jib-sails were just keeping her steady with head on to the seas after the first great onslaught of the elements. Though the wind had blown across the heavens with inconceivable velocity, not a cloud had smudged the face of the sky.

An hour before dawn the typhoon had quite blown itself out. Only the universal heave and tumble of the ocean swell told of the tremendous buffeting an hour before. The moon was sinking to the south-west.

Ulysses, Hillary and the melancholy mate stood on the p.o.o.p.

”Glad that blow's over,” said Samuel Bilbao, as the mate's obsequious voice echoed his own thankfulness. Then they all stared seaward, for the look-out man on the forecastle head roared out: ”Land on the starboard bow!” That cry caused tremendous consternation amongst all on board. It was evident that the _Sea Foam_ had got many leagues out of her course.

The mate put it down to the typhoon, and swore that it wasn't the fault of his navigation. Anyway, Ulysses gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Even Mango Pango stood amids.h.i.+ps on deck with the crew as they all huddled together and stared at the foam-flecked reefs of some strange isle that loomed up about a mile away to the south-south-west.

”What isle's that, for G.o.d's sake?” said Bilbao, as he got his chart out. For he had quite thought that he was far away from any islands.

”Can't make its reckoning; must be some small island off the Admiralty Group,” said the mate in a hollow voice, as he leaned over Bilbao's arm and stared at the chart. Half-an-hour after that all hands stood by the anchor, for the _Sea Foam_ was plunging dead on for the mighty burst of spray that rose high over the barrier reefs. Then they once more stared in surprise, for quite visible to the naked eye lay the wreck of a s.h.i.+p, a steamer, on the reefs, over which the thundering seas were still breaking. It was easy enough to see that she wasn't lying calmly at anchor, because of the great white-ridged line of curling breakers that rose and went right over her listed decks.

”It's some tramp steamer run ash.o.r.e,” said the mate in a hollow, sepulchral voice; ”a Dutch or a German boat, I think,” he added, as he looked through the telescope.

An hour after Bilbao shouted: ”Stand by! Let go!” and in a few moments the _Sea Foam_ swung safely at anchor in a few fathoms of water to the north-west of the strange isle.

Hillary looked mournful enough as he thought of the delay.

”Don't you worry, it's all right; besides, there's sure to be a dead calm after that blow last night, and we may just as well lie here as anywhere else, eh?” said Bilbao as he rubbed his hands with delight. For his all-embracing mind had already conjured up visions of that wreck being possibly crammed up to the hatches with chests full of gold and a valuable cargo of pearls. All day long the _Sea Foam_ lay off the island, as Ulysses stared through his telescope to see if he could discover signs of life on the derelict, or on the island. He wasn't taking any risks by going ash.o.r.e, or going on that wreck before he was quite certain that no one was about. He knew it was quite possible that the original skipper of the _Sea Foam_ had been released from the _calaboose_ by the German consulate, and that he and the missing _Sea Foam_ were already being followed up by the skipper in another hired schooner.

The sallow mate clutched Ulysses's arm and nearly dropped with fear as he too looked through the telescope. Then he wailed: ”You know, Captain Bilbao, they might be after us and would just as likely be there on that island in wait, knowing what you are.”

Ulysses only responded by shouting the irrelevant lines of some sea-chantey. Then he said, as he stared once more through the gla.s.s: ”Must have all gone away in the s.h.i.+p's boats. There's no one aboard that wreck, I'll swear.” His eyes brightened over his prospects.

Then he smacked Hillary on the back and shouted: ”Don't be downhearted!

I'm d.a.m.ned if we haven't anch.o.r.ed off a treasure-trove wreck! You and yer pretty Gabrielle will be able to keep one of the finest seraglios in the South Seas if all goes well.”

Hillary couldn't help smiling at the big man's levity as he too looked towards the derelict and watched the grandly picturesque sight of the curling breakers beating against the hulk.

Every now and again, as dawn stole over the seas, they could hear the long, low swelling roar and thunder as a big swell collided with the far-off barrier reefs.

”P'r'aps it's the _Bird of Paradise_ run ash.o.r.e, and cursed Macka's on that isle with Gabrielle, hidden in those palms,” was the thought that struck Hillary. He was certainly impressionable, and if there was a peculiar construction to be placed on a commonplace incident, Hillary was just the person to do it. Even he realised the foolishness of his thoughts, for the wreck was that of a steamer, not a sailing s.h.i.+p.

Samuel Bilbao got terribly impatient; the long tropic day seemed endless. He was awaiting the friendly dusk of evening before he lowered the boat and went forth to overhaul the wreck.

A quarter of an hour after sunset a boat left the _Sea Foam_. In it were Ulysses, the mate, two sailors and Hillary. After half-an-hour's hard rowing they softly beached on the silver sand of the isle, just where the wreck lay.

”_Salier!_ A German steamer!” whispered the mate in subdued, frightened tone, as he slowly made out the big black letters on the grey-painted stern. Then the five of them softly walked round the sands on the sh.o.r.eward side, where the sprays and seas would no longer drench them.

All was perfectly quiet on the sh.o.r.e; only the noise of the incoming sea swell and the soughing of the high winds in the belt of mangoes and coco-palms disturbed the silence.

The derelict lay right over, her deck like a wooden wall on the sh.o.r.eward side. In a moment Ulysses, the mate and Hillary had clambered over the reefs and climbed over the listed bulwarks. There was something uncanny about the silence of the mouldy-smelling saloon as the three of them crept into it and climbed along the listed floor. Ulysses went about his job as though he had done little else all his life than search wrecks on uncharted isles in the South Seas. Flas.h.!.+ flas.h.!.+ went his lantern as he went down into the lazaret hold and began to peer into all the likely places for treasure.

”What's that, O Maker of the Universe?” wailed the mate, as he nearly fainted and fell forward so abruptly that he almost knocked Hillary off his feet.

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