Richard Cary was relating the news of the camp when the sound of a rifle shot made him jump to his feet. It came from the interior of the island. Another shot, then the staccato reports of a magazine emptied as fast as a man could pull trigger. They reëchoed from the cliffs like a fusillade. A rocket soared from the jungle and traced a scarlet line against the evening sky.
Captain Cary roared a command and two men popped into the boat at the gangway. He delayed to say to the chief officer:
“Stand by, Mr. Duff. If you need me, blow the whistle. We don’t know what mischief the schooner may be hatching. We have to divide our forces. Charlie Burnham is in a mess. Watch out for my signal from the beach. We may want to shove off in a hurry.”
“You will find the old hooker right here, sir,” hoarsely rumbled Mr. Duff. “I wish I could go with you.”
The two seamen tugged madly at the oars while Richard Cary, standing in the stern, listened to the renewed rat-tat-tat of rifle fire. It subsided before he leaped to the beach and dashed into the narrow trail. Soon he heard a man cry out with pain, and the ferocious hubbub of fighting at close quarters. He upbraided himself for his folly in leaving the camp. He had been caught napping and tricked into a false sense of security.
Stumbling over roots and stones, he ran with the thin beam of a little flash-light to reveal the path cut through the undergrowth. He shouted mightily as he ran. He thought he heard answering voices. There was no more rifle fire. He was some distance from the camp when he saw a figure coming toward him. It swayed like a drunken man and fell to the ground. The fugitive was found to be a Colombian sailor whose sweat-soaked shirt bore darker stains of blood. Two others came staggering along the trail. Between them they carried a comrade whose head wagged grotesquely. Cary flashed his light on the round, pallid features of Mr. Panchito who dangled a useless arm and was gashed in the thigh. His gayety was eclipsed.
Behind them came the rest of the Valkyrie party, in tragic disorder. Charlie Burnharn was limping with the rear guard, using his rifle as a crutch. He blubbered at sight of Captain Cary and was ashamed to meet him.
“The b-bastards jumped us, and it’s all my fault,” he sobbed. “They crept up on us just after dark. One sentry got his, with a machete, before he could squeak. We put up the best scrap we could, sir, but we had to beat it. For God’s sake, Captain Cary, get the men from the ship and we’ll go back and clean up.”
“Steady, Charlie. You couldn’t help it,” said Cary, putting an arm around him. “Did you leave any men behind?”
“One, sir. We started to lug the sentry, but he croaked a little ways back yonder and we hid his body in the bushes. I don’t know how many are hit. They caught us from three sides and rushed us. We couldn’t hold the camp. These Colombian ginks of ours put up a dandy scrap. You can’t tell me a South American revolution is vaudeville stuff. I know better.”