Bill, of course, did not know the exact location in Big Cypress of Martinengo’s gold diggings, but here Osceola’s uncanny bump of direction came into play once more. Not ever did the young Seminole appear at a loss. On they sped, straight as an arrow shot from a bow.
The sun was three-quarters down the horizon when they caught sight of the lagoon in the cypress swamp, with the stockade close beside it. They had timed their arrival to a nicety. The prisoners had just been locked up for the night and their guards were going to supper.
Forward went Bill’s stick and he dived for the buildings with a wide open throttle. He caught a fleeting glimpse of figures running on the open quadrangle that seemed rushing up to meet him. Then back came his stick again. The Loening bucked like a frightened bronco and zoomed upward a bare fifty feet above Mother Earth. As she rose, a weighted letter was dropped overboard.
Again Bill climbed, until his plane reached an altitude of possibly a hundred feet above the squadron, which had changed its formation and was now flying in a continuous circle, high above the stockade. Bill leveled off and sent his plane into a series of reverse control turns known as figure eights.
Less than five minutes later, the two in the Loening saw a procession of men form in front of the bosses’ headquarters. From there they marched two by two out of the stockade and down the corduroy to the dock. One of the leaders carried a white flag.
Bill reached for a pair of fieldglasses and clapped them to his eyes.
“Martinengo’s in front, with the flag!” he cried into the mouthpiece of his phone, nearly deafening Osceola in his excitement. “And yes—that’s Dad—beside him! Gee whiz! If I was a Frenchman, I could kiss the old Admiral! His letter did the trick, Osceola. That old boy is some humdinger!”
“Wonder what he said in it. It certainly brought them out in a hurry.”
Bill laughed. “Bellinger let me read it. Short and to the point—that’s the Navy. It read: ‘You are through, Martinengo. Walk down to the dock with your men—unarmed. Bring Mr. Bolton with you. My planes are bombers. Charles S. Black, Rear Admiral, U. S. N.’”
“Short and sweet, and very much to the point!” laughed Osceola. Two seaplanes glided down out of the circular formation below them.