Bill Bolton—Flying Midshipman

by Noel Sainsbury

From his place at the rear of the line Bill studied his fellow prisoners. They were a nondescript crew, negroes, Indians (Seminoles, from the Everglades, he thought) and poor whites. All were dressed as he was. They were dirty and unshaven, stumbling along quite evidently dispirited and hopeless.

The atmosphere was stifling and the white shell dust stirred by the tramping of many feet set them to coughing. Bill tried to show a brave front to his guards but the utter hopelessness of his position, the uncertain future and the separation from his father made him feel desperately blue and discouraged. He trudged along in the blinding dust and heat, almost praying that his troubles might be ended with a bullet.

But when they topped the rise and began to follow the zig-zagging road down the cliff, the sight of blue water below cheered him considerably. It was cooler out of the valley, and he somewhat regained his spirits. He spotted his own plane, moored out in the bay near the yacht Pelican. Tied up to the concrete pier was the larger of Martinengo’s two amphibians, a tri-motor plane of huge dimensions.

The shambling party drew closer and he saw that she was constructed with a windowed cabin forward to house pilots and passengers. Aft of this and having a separate entrance was a large freight hold. When carrying a capacity load, he fancied that her weight must be terrific. Now, with her retractible wheel landing gear drawn up to the metal covered hull, the big flying boat rocked gently at her mooring. A mechanic tinkered with her central engine. Two young fellows in smart white uniforms and gold-banded caps, who were smoking cigarettes on the wharf called a greeting to Tom as the party arrived. Bill realized that they must be pilot and assistant pilot of this craft. A short gangway led across from the pier to the freight cabin entrance and over this Bridge of Sighs the clanking prisoners were herded.

The interior of this large compartment of the air cruiser may have been originally designed for carrying freight. Bill now found that the remodeled hold served quite another purpose. At right angles to the entrance, a narrow corridor ran lengthwise down the middle of the cabin. Opening off this were tiny wooden cubicles with just enough space behind their barred doors for a man to sit on the narrow bench which served as the sole article of furniture in each tiny cell. The place reminded Bill of the eighteenth century prison hulks about which he had read. Light and air were let in through iron barred portholes and Bill was glad to find that the cell that housed him contained one of these small windows. By squeezing sideways on his seat, he got a restricted view of the bay.

Presently the door to the prison hold was shut and an armed guard took his seat at one end of the cell corridor. A few minutes later, Bill heard the engine idling and they floated away from the dock. The hum of the three motors soon increased to a roar and they started to taxi toward the mouth of the harbor.

Trained aviator that he was, Bill Bolton knew the exact instant that the pilot lifted his heavy bus on to her step. There came an increased spurt of speed, as the plane skimmed the surface of the bay and rose into the air with the smooth grace of a bird taking flight.

Her nose pointed toward the western horizon she sailed over the heads at the harbor’s mouth, gaining altitude every second. When she reached a height which Bill, staring out of the porthole, judged to be about a thousand feet, her pilot banked sharply to starboard. Again she swung back on an even keel; and now with throttle wide open the big flying boat roared into the northwest.

Bill saw that the round red orb of the sun was perhaps still an hour above the horizon. He craned his neck and the sea near at hand became visible. It looked smooth and calm. Here and there low islands, the dark green of their vegetation contrasting with the bluish green of the water, dotted the silken surface of the bay.

Bill straightened on his narrow, uncomfortable seat. Rather than stare at the poor fellow in the cell opposite, who was weeping, he closed his eyes. But this did no good, for he conjured up the dreadful picture of his father in the stifling calaboose on Shell Island.