"It's patched up," reported the Chief Engineer with a dry chuckle. "She'll be raising steam I've nae doot, but she'll blaw yon patch clean out when they wark up tae onything like a pressure."
Captain Blair's surmise was a correct one. Porfirio, having picked up the wireless messages exchanged between the British, American, and Japanese cruisers engaged in searching for the missing merchant vessels, was aware that they had given up hope of finding the survivors and were returning to their respective bases. He was a believer in the old adage "Men and ships rot in port ", and was loth to keep the Malfilio and her polyglot crew in harbour any longer. Inactivity not only meant no prizes; the pirates, lawless except for the iron rule of their captain, were particularly apt to get out of hand when their enthusiasm flagged by standing idle.
But before he set sail he wanted to see the Donibristle sunk in the South Approach Channel. That entrance, he considered, was a weak spot in the natural defences of the secret base, and by sealing it against the passage of all but the smaller craft he would be able to devote all his resources to the defence of the sole remaining approach. Not that Ramon Porfirio had any desire to pit the guns of the island against a squadron of warships. He hoped to be able to disappear decently long before the secret was out, leaving Henriques and Strogoff to shift for themselves. Similarly Black Strogoff was fostering a plan to get away from the island with the bulk of the booty in specie, and, once clear, obtain his revenge on Porfirio by denouncing him to the British Admiralty or the U.S. Navy Board.
At length the Donibristle was warped out until her bows nearly touched the sheer face of the cliff that formed the detached screen to the anchorage. Hawsers were then led from her port quarter and starboard bow, until she swung straight up and down the Southern Approach Channel. A cable's length more and the ship arrived at the scene of her watery grave.
Captain Blair, looking much like a parent would when called upon to sacrifice a child—for the idea of scuttling his ship was hateful to him in the extreme—shouted for the boats to be recalled. The life-boat, in which Burgoyne and half a dozen men had been working, ranged alongside under the Donibristle's port quarter. Astern of the life-boat was a gig; while a couple of cutters and another gig—the latter only manned by pirates—came alongside the starboard accommodation ladder.
"We're in eight fathoms of water, Mr. Burgoyne," sang out the Old Man.
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the Third Officer.
Captain Blair turned and made his way to the spot where Black Strogoff was standing.
"We are in position," he reported gruffly.
"And about time, too," was the ungracious response. "All right, tell your men to push off."