Commander Ford was looking at a chart with a hand torch. One finger stopped at a tiny island off the coast of Yucatan.
“That’s our destination,” he said. “If Crazy John knew what he was talking about, the Southern Queen went down on a reef just off the Isle of the Singing Trees.”
“What island?” asked Tim.
“The Isle of the Singing Trees. It’s marked here on the chart and is uninhabited.”
The S-18 crept through the thinning night at half speed and with the coming of the dawn, they saw the outline of the island. It was small and seemed barely able to keep its head above the restless Caribbean. Breakers, indicating the danger of hidden reefs, fringed the isle. Through the powerful glasses they could see a dense tangle of vegetation and beyond the Isle of the Singing Trees the dim outlines of the mainland, which was still shrouded by the morning mists.
The pulses of the men aboard the S-18 quickened. They were within sight of their goal.
Tim scanned the surface of the ocean. There was no sign of the Iron Mate, not even a faint smudge of smoke to cause them apprehension.
Commander Ford ordered the Diesels stopped. A piping hot breakfast was served to every member of the crew and then the slow, creeping trip toward the island was resumed.
As they neared the desolate spot, Tim could understand why Crazy John had not cared to return. There was nothing beautiful about the Isle of the Singing Trees. The beach was rough and strewn with rock and as they approached the island they heard the singing of the wind through the tangled growth. Truly the island had been well named.
The island had never been adequately charted, and Commander Ford was feeling his way past the dangerous reefs, one of which had brought a sudden end to the Southern Queen eleven years before.