Bill Bolton Flying Midshipman Part 9

The gang ate their dinner squatting on the corduroy road, and as soon as they had finished, most of the toilers fell fast asleep.

"They prepare this mess for us once a week," Osceola informed Bill.

"Today is Thursday, and by Sat.u.r.day the heat has soured it to such an extent that hungry as we are, we leave it alone. No man's stomach can hold it then."

Bill finished his bread and the last drop of his water.

"I should think it would pay Martinengo to feed us better," he muttered wearily. "No wonder the men die off quickly, forced to such labor and undernourished this way."

"It costs him little to kidnap new slaves," grunted the Seminole. "All supplies have to be flown here by plane from Sh.e.l.l Island. But I'm too tired to talk, Bill. Better get what rest you can-the afternoon is always worse than the morning grind."

He stretched out on the logs of the roadway, and a couple of minutes later, his regular breathing told that he was asleep.

Bill lay down, too, but his aching muscles, the smart of his back where the guard's lash had cut the flesh, and his blistered hands made slumber an impossibility. Myriads of buzzing, stinging mosquitoes added to his discomfort and he was not sorry when the overseer's whistle brought the men staggering to their feet again.

Instead of a wheelbarrow, now, Bill and Osceola were given shovels for the afternoon's work. At first, Bill welcomed the change but soon found that it was quite as arduous as the morning's toil. There was absolutely no let up. As soon as one barrow was filled, another took its place. The wet mud was slippery, the mosquitoes by the water even more tenacious.

He began to feel that death was preferable to endless days of this kind of thing.

To make matters even worse, the overseer in charge of the shovelers used his lash without mercy at the first sign of flagging. Bill felt its burning pain several times during those hours, as did every other man on the muck-heap.

The woodcutters returned late in the afternoon and began carting their logs up the incline where they were dumped on the mud at the end of the corduroy to solidify the foundation of the extended roadway. The tree trunks were heavy and the men so weak that it took eight or ten of them to carry a single log.

Slowly the sun sank toward the western end of the lagoon and Bill knew that within five or ten minutes they would be forced to knock off for want of light. Then Osceola slipped in the muck and fell flat.

Before the poor youth could get to his feet, the overseer's lash felled him again. But instead of desisting in his cruelty, the man continued to rain blows on the prostrate and half-unconscious body of the Indian.

This was too much for Bill. As the wicked lash descended for the third time, he dashed toward the guard and swinging his shovel like a club, brought it down on the man's skull. The overseer dropped in his tracks and Bill helped Osceola to his feet.

"Follow me," he shouted, "it's now or never!"

Osceola, half dazed, ran with him through the crowd of amazed workmen to the far edge of the muck heap. There came two splashes as the lads dove.

Revolvers barked, men shouted orders and the lagoon's gla.s.sy surface was churned with bullets.

CHAPTER VIII-WHAT HAPPENED IN THE SWAMP

The water closed over Bill's head. The shock of the plunge put new heart into him and he struck vigorously out keeping well under the surface.

His plan was to make for one of the small islands of the lagoon, trusting that oncoming darkness would cover his escape. What he would do after reaching the island must depend upon circ.u.mstances.

The green depths of the lake were surprisingly clear. He could see myriads of small fish dart away as he forged ahead. Then a long dark body swept alongside of him. Osceola's sinewy arm caught him by the shoulders and swung him round to the left. The Indian swam ahead, keeping parallel with the bank, his actions showing Bill that he wished him to follow.

By this time, Bill's lungs were nearly bursting and his head throbbed with the strain of remaining under water. Feeling that he must have air or drown, he turned on his back and rose, careful that no more than his nose and mouth appeared above the surface. Two or three life-giving breaths, and he sank again, with the m.u.f.fled sound of revolver shots in his ears. After another spurt under water in the direction indicated by Osceola, he came up to the surface again, sinking as soon as he had filled his lungs with air.

Rising for the third time, he was surprised to find the young Seminole at his side. Osceola was floating with his head just above the water.

"It's safe to stay up now," he murmured. "Make no sound-and follow me."

The Indian turned on his side and glided forward with the speed and silence of an otter. Bill understood that a splash might be fatal in advertising their whereabouts, and followed in his wake. Though a strong swimmer and a fast one, he could not keep up with the Chief.

Then the sun, already low on the horizon, sank out of sight. Osceola's sleek head disappeared under the canopy of overhanging boughs that lined the lagoon's swampy sh.o.r.e. Soon Bill glided beside him, into the deep shadow under the branches, and although he could not see his friend, he heard his low voice.

"Give me your hand, Bill. We've got to get out of this. They will come here when they find no sign of us in the lagoon."

"Lead on, old sport," answered the white youth. "You're a better man than I am if you can navigate in this gloom."

"Oh, I've got eyes like a cat," chuckled Osceola. "Come on now-there are roots below us-stand on them."

Bill found a foothold on the slimy roots and hand in hand they scrambled out of the water. Osceola led him round the base of a huge tree and onto the sprawling roots of another forest giant.

"This is the one-I've had my eye on it ever since we've been working this end of the lagoon. There's a cleft in the trunk, about thirty feet up that will hold us nicely."

"Mmm-after we get there!" was Bill's unenthusiastic reply.

"Oh, that's not so difficult. There are plenty of vines."

Bill followed Osceola a few steps round the trunk, then felt his hand touch a thick stem that clung to the bark of the tree.

"Follow that straight up," directed the Seminole. "I'll go ahead, for I can see."

"I wish I could," said Bill. "I'm as blind as a bat in this darkness!"

"You'll get accustomed to it," Osceola a.s.sured him. Then Bill's hand was released from the Indian's grasp and he heard the other moving upward.

"Follow me," he went on, when he was just above Bill's head, "and if you get into trouble, grab my foot until you can find a toehold."

The thick stem of the vine proved a comparatively easy means of ascent, and especially so to an Annapolis mids.h.i.+pman. Up he went, hand over hand, his rubber-soled shoes gripping the bark's rough surface.

"Here we are," said Osceola's soft voice presently, "give me a hand-that's right. Now step in here and squat down. Not so bad, eh?"

"Could be a lot worse," agreed Bill, finding a seat next to his friend in the wide cleft. "If those guys can't see any better than I can in this murk, they'll have a time locating our hideout."

"They'll have torches to give them all the light they need," replied Osceola. "But they're not counting on their eyes to find us."

"Listen!"

Across the swamp sounded the deep bay of a dog.

"Bloodhounds?"

"They keep four of the brutes in kennels over at the stockade."

"Think they'll be able to track us?"

"I doubt it. We were walking on roots under water until we started to climb. Of course we left a trail up the tree trunk, but the hounds are not likely to scent it."

"Then you think we're O.K. for a while?"