Some two hours later a spanking breeze arose out of the northwest. The schooner’s sails bellied to it, and a spirit of joy was abroad among the crew. Their officers had promised them a quick run to a fine island, and then unlimited shore leave. Little dreaming of the trap that was being laid for them, the crew went about their tasks of trimming sails with songs and glad shouts.
When twilight fell the schooner was bowling along at a twelve-knot gait, bound for the island of which Mate Durkee had spoken. It was known to him as Brigantine Island, although the charts called it Cook’s Land.
As the mate had foretold, it was not long after midnight when a cry of “Land ho!” rang out from the forward lookout. It was bright moonlight, and in the silvery radiance those on board the schooner had no difficulty in making out a long, low elbow of land right ahead. Close at hand they could hear the thunder of the surf as it broke on the reef.
“Do you know the passage?” asked the skipper of his mate.
“I could run it blindfold,” was the response. “Close haul on those head-sheets!” he called out. “Lively, now! Bring her about! That’s the way! Here, I’ll take the wheel myself!” he cried the next instant, springing to the helm.
Under his skillful guidance, for there was no denying that the rascal was an able seaman, the Tropic Bird was swung through the narrow passage-way in the reef, and shot into the calm waters of the lagoon beyond.
“Don’t seem to be much life ashore,” said Captain Lawless, scanning the moonlit island.
“Fire a rocket, and you’ll see the dingoes come running out of their holes,” laughed the mate.
A big signal rocket was procured from the ship’s stores, and discharged.
As it burst in a cloud of blue flame, and the “bang” which accompanied its bursting resounded loudly, lights began to flash on shore, and they could see scores of dark figures scuttling about the white beach.