T. C. Bridges
Martin Crusoe (19) (A Boy’s Adventure on Wizard Island)

XIX. The Second Bomb

During the next few seconds Martin did some pretty hard thinking. The path along which his bearers were carrying him ran through a tract of low, dark-green scrub, and so far he was fairly certain that Odan had not seen him.

But once Odan and his men were out of the valley, they would have a good view of the road running back towards the capital, and would know that Martin had left it.

Then they would most certainly try the branch road, and as they could travel twice as fast as the litter bearers, the game would be up.

Martin looked towards the harbor, which was now little more than a mile away. If he left the litter and ran, he could reach it ahead of his enemies. But even so, he could not be certain of finding a boat, and if he did find one he would have to row two or three miles to reach the place where the Bat was moored. Also, he would be in full view from the shore, and could not hope to row as fast as Odan’s men could run.

He glanced to the left, and saw the great domed roof of the temple palace rising against the hot blue sky, about three miles away; then in a flash he made up his mind.

“Stop!” he called sharply to his carriers.

They seemed to understand. At any rate they came to a halt, and instantly Martin was out of the litter.

“Go on,” he ordered, pointing down the track to the harbor, “straight to the water.”

Rather reluctantly they moved on. Martin watched them a moment, then, turning to the left, plunged into the thick of the scrub, and headed straight towards the landmark which the towering bulk of the temple offered.

The heat was frightful; for while the bush cut off what little air there was, it was not high enough to give any shelter from the intolerable blaze of the mid-day sun. Great drops of perspiration streamed down Martin’s face and rolled into his eyes, almost blinding him. What he had gone through already that morning was not the best training for this sort of thing. But he did not flag, but kept on at a steady jog-trot which covered the ground at the rate of five or six miles an hour.

He was thirsty when he started; before he had gone a mile his throat was like sandpaper and his tongue a dry stick. He picked up a pebble and put it into his mouth, but that was no use. In spite of himself his pace began to slacken.

He came at last to a bit of rising ground. The bushes on it grew scantily, but he felt that he must see what Odan was doing. Bending double, he climbed the hillock and looked cautiously out.

What he saw was this. One body of men was coming down the salt track at a sharp double. On the main road, which led to the town, the rest of them were traveling fast in a solid body, and the dust rose in clouds under their trampling feet. In front was a tall figure whose golden helmet gleamed resplendent in the sunlight.

Martin’s eyes filled with dismay.

“The fellow’s been too cute for me!” he groaned.

Each moment Martin’s chances were growing more slim, yet he refused to despair. He drew a long breath, hurried back down the slope, and set to running again.

He had to beat the main body to the boathouse. If he could do that, and get aboard the Bat before they caught him, he might still escape. If not—well, he knew Odan a deal too well to suppose that he would get off with his life this time.

His heart pounded against his ribs, and he had an ugly pain in his side, and black specks began to dance before his eyes. But he clenched his teeth and kept on.

Suddenly he was out of the scrub and among fields where Indian corn and sweet potatoes were growing. To the right was the harbor with the boathouse little more than half a mile away. He looked to the left. There was the road, also about half a mile away, and even as he looked the cloud of dust rising high in the hot air told him that Odan’s men were there.

It was no use trying to hide any longer. There was nothing for it but to race for the boathouse. He made for it at top speed, but before he had gone twenty steps there came a fierce shouting from behind.

Odan could see him, and the chase was on.

If Martin had been fresh, he would have thought nothing of such a run, especially with such a start as he had. But by now he was fairly reeling, he could hardly breathe, and he had never before been in such agonies of thirst. It was only the sight of what was behind him that kept him going at all—that and the feeling that he must beat Odan at any price.

The first field was yams hilled up like English potatoes; deep, soft soil and dreadful going. He crossed it, plunging through a low hedge, and came right on top of two Lemurians hoeing weeds. They gazed at him an instant with goggling eyes, then both fell flat on their faces.

Martin saw a big earthen jug of water standing under the hedge. He snatched it up, took one deep draught, dropped it and tore away.

A fresh roar behind, and, glancing back, he saw Odan and half a dozen huge Norsemen clearing the hedge at the upper end of the field. They yelled like a pack of hounds on a hot scent, and Martin knew they were shouting to the brown men to hold him. But the men were far too scared, and lay where they had fallen.

The water had given Martin new life, and though he was deadly tired he managed to keep his lead. With his eyes fixed on the boathouse he raced for it.

Suddenly the thought came to him that Odan might have left a guard over the place. Instinctively his hand searched for his one remaining bomb.

He crossed another field, struggled though a fence of prickly pear, and came out into the street.

It was the hour of the midday sleep, and not a soul was in sight on the broad open quay. The boathouse was right in front of him.

He paused for a moment to get his bomb. It was his last. His pursuers saw him stop. Their yell of triumph spurred him on, and he dashed straight for the boathouse.

To his intense relief there was no one there, and the Bat lay safely moored at her pontoon.

He was down the steps in two jumps, and, laying his bomb down, set to unfastening the ropes that moored her.

The knots were hard; someone had doubled them all, and his blood chilled as he realized it would take time to untie them.

He felt for his knife, but, like his pistol, it had been taken.

The shouts of Odan’s men grew louder, and, in spite of all his pluck, his fingers shook a little as he wrestled with the hard knots.

One was loose. As he leaped across to reach the other, he heard the hammering of a score of sandalled feet on the quay above.

Rage filled his heart.

“Caught at the finish!” he muttered fiercely. “Well, they shall have the bomb first.”

Straightening himself, he picked up the bomb and struck a match.

As the little flame burnt up straight in the windless air Odan appeared at the head of the steps. He was covered with dust and the sweat streamed off him, but his savage eyes glowed with triumph.

“Ha!” he roared in his great bull-like voice. “So you are trapped, O sorcerer. Now let us see if your black arts can save you!”

As he spoke he drew his bronze sword from its scabbard, and the keen blade flashed in the sun blaze.

“Get back!” cried Martin in a ringing voice. “Get back! My arts can save me. One step forward and it will be your last!”

Odan hesitated. He was mad with rage and with longing to finish Martin, whom he regarded as the only real bar between himself and the throne. Yet, as ever, Martin’s calm front daunted his savage, superstitious soul.

His men came pounding up behind him. Their presence gave him confidence, and all of a sudden he plunged forward.

Instantly Martin touched the match of the fuse, and, raising his little bomb high above his head, hurled it straight at the giant.

Odan saw it coming. He ducked and dodged, and the bomb missed him by a matter of inches.

But it struck the edge of the quay a couple of yards behind him and exploded with a deafening crash, flinging splinters of metal and stone in every direction.

With a yell of agony the rebel leader pitched forward, and rolled heavily down the steps on to the pontoon, his heavy sword clattering after him. As for his men, appalled by the explosion, they broke and ran. But two lay writhing on the stones of the quay, and others were bleeding from jagged wounds.

Martin did not hesitate an instant. Leaping forward, he snatched up Odan’s sword, slashed the remaining rope, and, stepping swiftly into the hull of the flying boat, switched on and pressed the self-starter.

To his intense relief it answered instantly. With a stuttering roar the twin engines burst into life, the propellers spun dizzily, and the Bat, as if glad to feel her master’s hand after so many days of idleness, shot out across the smooth water, trailing a milky wake behind her.

He sent her rushing onwards faster and faster until the air began to scream past his burning face. Then he pulled back the joy stick, and felt her leave the water and rise lightly into the air.

Up and up she went, the roar of her exhaust bringing the echoes beating back from the land. Then at three hundred feet he circled.

The first thing he saw was Odan himself, apparently little the worse, standing on the edge of the quay, furiously shaking his huge fist at the plane. Behind him were forty or fifty of his men staring up, wonder-struck, at the wheeling Bat.

Martin was conscious of a shock like a blow. He had fully believed that the great brute was dead and done for, and it was the cruellest disappointment to see him on his legs, as active for mischief as ever.

He looked beyond—at the temple palace. It lay baking in the sunshine, without a sign of life about it.

Martin suddenly felt that he hated it—that he was sick of the whole place and everything connected with it. On top of that came a second thought.

Why should he stay in it? He had plenty of petrol for the flight back to Lost Island. Why not return to the dear old Professor and the kindly Scipio, and leave all these madmen to fight out their own quarrels?

Hardly knowing what he did he swung the Bat’s nose round, and went tearing away towards the sea with the speed of a homing pigeon.