“Good luck, Bill.”
They clasped hands, and an instant later, the canoe following drew alongside. Bill immediately changed places with the Indian who had been paddling in the stern. He placed his rifle carefully on the bottom of the canoe and grasping his paddle, swung the craft round to the right. Three more canoes fell into line behind him, and the four left the main flotilla and headed off to the westward, keeping the cliffs and the pounding surf off their port quarter.
Bill’s canoes pushed swiftly ahead over the long ground swell until three quarters of an hour later, the narrow entrance to the bay was in sight. Now their pace slackened, the dip of their paddles in the quiet water became barely perceptible, and hugging the deep shadow of the cliff, the canoes glided into the bay like dark water wraiths on a jet black background.
The sky was overcast, the visibility poor, but Bill could make out the night lights of Martinengo’s yacht. Nearby floated a large amphibian, evidently a sister ship of the one wrecked in the Glades. Tied up to the concrete pier was a smaller seaplane.
For a moment they rested on their paddles. Then at a sign from Bill, the other three canoes made off silently for the yacht.
Bill pointed his own craft for the amphibian. He doubted that a harbor watch would be kept aboard the plane, and in this he found his surmise correct. Drawing alongside, he made the canoe fast to an interplane strut, and motioned to his two companions to climb aboard.
While the Seminoles searched the hull, Bill busied himself with the engine. He removed two spark plugs, and disconnected the joints in the pipe line at both the fuel tank and carburetor. When he had finished the Seminoles reported that there was no crew aboard.
Bill nodded his satisfaction and the Indians followed him back into the canoe. Their next port of call was the seaplane, moored to the pier, where the same performance took place. When this aircraft had also been put out of commission, they turned their attention to the yacht.
As his canoe slid close to the long, black hull of Martinengo’s palatial craft, Bill dimly discerned the dark blotches on the waterline below the overhang of the stern. An instant later, his canoe nosed in among the Indian dugouts.
Not a word was spoken. Except for the lap of wavelets against the yacht’s hull, and stentorian snores from somewhere above their heads, the night was peculiarly silent. From afar came the dull boom of the surf. Then they heard the pop-pop of rifle fire from the interior of the island, more than a mile away.