CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Battle with the _Iron Mate_

Plans for the recovery of the treasure of the Southern Queen were talked over fully at mess that night.

"The wreck is in about 185 feet of water," said Charlie Gill. "That's not a bad depth in itself but the currents down there are tough. They might sweep a diver into a hole in the hull and he'd never get out."

"Then you think we'd better take the _S-18_ right down beside the old ship so you can work out of our own hull?" asked Commander Ford.

"From the standpoint of the diver, that's going to be the safest way," said Charlie, "and it will be a whole lot faster. Once we get our hands on the gold we'll be able to transfer it directly aboard the _S-18_"

Commander Ford nodded thoughtfully.

"You're right. The currents you speak of can cause trouble even for a submarine the size of the _S-18_, but I guess that's the only solution. We'll make our first dive in the morning."

Turning to Tim, he added: "You'd better get your seaplane off the deck tonight. Make it fast to the beach. I don't want to lose any time when daylight comes."

Members of the crew aided Tim in getting the Sea King off the deck and into the water. It was night before the task was completed, and he taxied the trim little craft up to the beach under the guiding rays of a searchlight on the conning tower. While Tim was making the plane fast for the night, Pat rowed in from the _S-18_ to take him back.

The Isle of the Singing Trees was living up to its name that night. The tangled mat of underbrush came down close to the water's edge and from it came a mournful melody. Now and then a vagrant breeze, skipping through the tree tops, added a higher note and Tim shivered at the loneliness and the desolation. The lights of the _S-18_, a bare 200 yards from the shore, looked far away. He was glad when Pat's boat grated on the rocky beach.

Pat also felt the weird atmosphere of the island.

"It isn't healthy here," he said. "Let's get back to the _S-18_."

Tim jumped into the boat and they pulled lustily toward the safety and comfort of the submarine.

Men slept restlessly on the _S-18_ that night. Tomorrow they were going to the bottom of the bay. If fortune favored them, they would come back to the surface with a wealth of gold.

Tim was as restless as any of them, turning and tumbling around in his narrow bunk. An hour before dawn he slipped out of his blankets, dressed, and went up on deck. Commander Ford was in the conning tower and Tim wondered whether he had slept any during the night.

"I'm a little anxious about the Sea King," said the flying reporter. "I'd like to turn the searchlight on the beach."

"Not right now," said the commander softly. "There are lights of some kind over to our left."

Tim turned sharply. Low in the water, and far out, he caught the faint glow of lights.

"The _Iron Mate_?" he asked breathlessly.

"Perhaps. We'll have to wait until dawn to know the truth."

"It may be some passing steamer."

"These are dangerous waters. Regular traffic keeps away from this section of the coast."

Tim watched the lights intently. They were barely moving, but it seemed as though they were coming nearer.

There was a faint glow in the east when Commander Ford spoke again.

"Go below and rout out the crew. Tell Joe Gartner I want arms issued to every man. As soon as that is done I want him up here for final instructions."

Tim shot down the ladder into the control room, landing with a bang that resounded through the interior. He raced back to the crew's quarters. Men, only half awake, tumbled from their bunks.

"Everyone out!" cried Tim. "Joe, you're to issue arms at once. Then Commander Ford wants to see you on deck."

"Glory be," croaked Joe. "It must be the _Iron Mate_. Maybe I'll get a chance to unlimber my gun after all."

They tumbled into their clothes and went forward where Joe issued ammunition belts and revolvers. A stack of rifles was placed in a special rack in the control room with a box of ammunition beside them. The _S-18_ was getting ready for trouble.

On deck Joe Gartner tore the tarpaulin off the four inch gun. From the depths of the _S-18_ a half dozen shells were brought on deck and the gun was trained on the cluster of lights.

The sky lightened and a few minutes later the tense group on the deck of the _S-18_ made out the outlines of the ship which was beyond the reefs. It was the _Iron Mate_, rolling gently in the swell.

Through field glasses they could see men clustered along the rail of the tramp steamer and Tim thought he could see Sladek on the bridge. The first move was up to the _Iron Mate_ and it was not long in coming. From the far side of the steamer came the roar of an airplane engine and the seaplane took wing, its colors flashing in the bright rays of the sun.

"Better get ashore at once and have your own plane ready to take off," Commander Ford advised Tim. "Take Pat with you and be sure that you have a light machine gun."

Pat got the gun and plenty of ammunition from Joe Gartner and they tumbled into one of the small boats and started for shore.

Out to sea the other plane was climbing rapidly, circling over the _Iron Mate_. It was up 2,000 feet by the time Tim and Pat reached the Sea King and had torn off the motor coverings and loosened the moorings.

Tim piled into the after cockpit and snapped on the starter. The motor awoke with a roar and he warmed it up thoroughly, keeping an eye on the plane above. There was little wind and he could take off in a straight dash across the water.

Pat, the light machine gun in his arms, climbed into the forward cockpit. There were parachutes for both pilot and passenger and Tim instructed his companion in the operation of the chute.

"If we go aloft I'll get even with you for some of the unhappy hours I've spent in that tin fish," chuckled Tim.

Pat, a little white around the lips at the thought of his first trip aloft, grinned gamely.

"I can take it," he said.

The plane from the _Iron Mate_ was darting toward the Isle of the Singing Trees. The ship was coming down now in a terrific power dive. Tim estimated the speed at nearly 150 miles an hour. The air was filled with the roar of the motor.

Then the oncoming plane levelled off and flashed over the _S-18_. Something black hurtled over the side.

Tim tried to shout, but his throat closed and he could only gasp. Automatically he leaped into action, his hand jamming the throttle on full. The Sea King scuttled across the water, angling away from the _S-18_ while down from the sky plummeted the black object. It struck the water a good hundred yards away from the _S-18_ and a fountain of water arose in the air. The noise of the bomb could be heard even above the roar of the Sea King's powerful motor.

Tim lifted the finely trimmed craft into the air and set out in pursuit of the bomber. Below them on deck of the _S-18_ Gunner Joe was training his sights on the _Iron Mate_. Tim, looking down, saw a puff of smoke and a fountain of water leap into the air beyond the _Iron Mate_. Joe had overshot his target.

But there was no time to watch the Iron Mate now. Tim concentrated on the task of bringing down the other plane. Ahead of him, Pat crouched in the cockpit, the machine gun ready.

The seaplane was making a desperate attempt to get under the shelter of the _Iron Mate_ but Tim drove on relentlessly on the tail of the other ship. There was no chance for the pilot to land and taxi back to the steamer.

The Sea King was fast and easy to handle. In less than two minutes Tim had overhauled the bombing plane and Pat, sighting with a steady hand, pulled gently on the trigger of the light machine gun. It chattered and jumped, but he got his aim again and poured a stream of bullets at the target ahead.

Tim, watching intently and matching every move of the fleeing pilot, saw the bullets ripping into the wings. Then Pat got the range on the fuselage and the line of bullets crept nearer and nearer the cockpit.

Sensing that death was near, the pilot tried to loop and get onto the tail of Tim's plane, but the flying reporter guessed the maneuver almost before it started and he placed Pat in a position to pour a stream of bullets into the motor of the other plane.

Suddenly there was only the sound of their own motor. The other seaplane was falling away with its prop turning idly. Pat, thoroughly angered at the attempt to sink the _S-18_ with a bomb, trained his gun on the other pilot but Tim pulled the nose of the Sea King up and spoiled his aim.

"He's all through," he shouted. "They'll never be able to repair that motor."

Spread out below them was a strange panorama. Against the green background of the Isle of the Singing Trees the _S-18_ was throwing shell after shell at the _Iron Mate_, and the tramp steamer was responding. One good, solid shot would sink the _S-18_, while the _Iron Mate_ could stand a lot of shelling without going down.

Tim noticed that the _S-18_ was moving slowly back and forth behind the reef and that the submarine was ready to submerge at a moment's notice. Only Gunner Joe and the men he had selected to help him load the gun were on deck.

"Joe's using a lot of ammunition," cried Pat.

"He'd better get a direct aim soon or they'll get us after all."

A white line of bubbles streaked the water.

"Joe's fired his torpedo!" cried Pat.

A lookout on the _Iron Mate_ saw the torpedo and the old tramp swung its stern into the clear just in time. The torpedo streaked on out to sea.

Tim's attention shifted back to the pilot of the crippled seaplane. It was landing at least a mile away from the _Iron Mate_ and he admired the cool nerve of the other pilot, who brought his craft down to a safe landing. With motor dead, the flyer would have to wait for a boat from the _Iron Mate_ to pick him up.

Tim sent the Sea King into a dive while Pat shouted questions at him, landed and taxied alongside the disabled plane.

Pat covered the other flyer with his machine gun. Tim recognized the pilot as the man who had flown the amphibian for Sladek on the trip to Cedar river valley.

Fierce anger glowed in the eyes of the other pilot, but he remained silent as Tim scrambled onto the right pontoon and made his way toward the rear cockpit.

"Don't try any funny business," Tim warned. "My partner's got an itchy trigger finger."

"You'll never get away with this," snarled the other.

"Don't let that trouble you," retorted Tim. "You'd better worry how you're going to get away from here. You know if we decided to put a few holes in your pontoons it would be a long swim to the _Iron Mate_ and the sharks might be hungry."

"You wouldn't dare do that."

"You tried to sink the _S-18_," snapped Tim. "Now get out of that cockpit and crawl down on the other pontoon."

"What are you going to do?"

"Shut up and get down on the pontoon like he told you," roared Pat, waving his gun menacingly.

The pilot of the disabled plane obeyed the command and Tim scrambled into the cockpit. In the bottom was what he had hoped for, half a dozen small, high-explosive bombs.

In less than five minutes he transferred the deadly cargo to his own plane.

"Thanks a lot for the pineapples," he yelled at the disgruntled flyer clinging to the pontoon. "I guess we won't sink your plane after all."

"Give me those surprise parties," said Pat.

"You can't gauge air speed," replied Tim. "I can fly and handle the bombing at the same time. We'll go low and you may be able to rake the deck of the _Iron Mate_ with your gun."

Pat grinned and gave voice to a wild, Irish battle cry as the Sea King leaped into the air.

There was a gun both fore and aft on the _Iron Mate_, and both of them were firing steadily at the _S-18_ when the Sea King flashed over the first time.

Pat, leaning over the edge of the cockpit, let a blistering blast of fire loose and Tim dropped one of the bombs. It struck a scant 25 yards beyond the _Iron Mate_, sending a great spray of water into the air.

Banking the Sea King sharply, they swept back toward the tramp steamer. Men were running excitedly about the deck for the attack from the air had taken them by surprise. Again Pat raked the deck with fire while Tim, working rapidly, dropped two bombs overboard.

The first one missed, falling short, but the second struck only a few feet from the gun on the fore deck. There was a shattering blast of flame and smoke, the scream of rent steel, and the cries of frightened men.

Relentlessly the Sea King bore down again. This time Tim aimed at the after deck. There were only three bombs left. He swooped low, dropping only one of the missiles, but he had the range and scored a direct hit. In less than a minute both guns had been put out of commission and the ship badly damaged.

"We'll plant another 'egg' midships and then call it a day," yelled Tim.

Once more the Sea King, struts and wires screaming vengeance, swept down. Again Tim scored a hit, the blast from the third bomb leveling the stubby masts and the funnel. The deck of the ship was strewn with wreckage and the _Iron Mate_ was definitely out of commission as far as any more fighting was concerned.

Tim landed the Sea King inside the barrier of reefs and taxied alongside the _S-18_.

"Splendid work," shouted Commander Ford, and the others in the crew were loud in their praise.

Tim and Pat made the Sea King fast again at its moorings and rowed back to the submarine. In the distance the _Iron Mate_ was painfully limping away from the scene.