A SUBMARINE ENCOUNTER.
"THERE is one thing I didn't mention to the Admiral," remarked
Whittinghame on his way back to the airship. "It has been worrying me
somewhat. The 'Meteor's' supply of ultra-hydrogen is running low."
"I thought so too, sir," said Dacres. "We've had quite a series of
accidents."
"And we cannot risk another mishap with equanimity," added
Whittinghame. "Even under the best conditions we must be back in
England before the next fortnight; otherwise we must remain here
until we get a fresh supply from home. If, in the event of--Hulloa!
The 'Meteor' seems to be lower in the water than when we left her."
Whittinghame's surmise was quite correct. The airship was floating
with a pronounced list to starboard and slightly down by the stern.
"Anything wrong?" he demanded briskly as he ascended the swaying
ladder and gained the interior of the "Meteor."
"Yes, sir," answered Setchell. "There's a leak in No. 5 compartment.
We have located it, and exhausted the ultra-hydrogen from the three
sub-divisions affected."
"It's lucky that the gas wasn't wasted," remarked the Captain. "The
ballonette sub-divisions are flooded, I presume?"
"Yes, sir, a fairly large hole, I should think. We tried compressed
air, but could not expel the water."
"Shall we lift her and ascertain the extent of the damage?" asked the
sub.
Whittinghame shook his head.
"It's my belief that some rascally agent of Durango has been at
work," he said. "If we rise we shall create suspicion in his mind,
and frighten him away. Now we know we can take steps to protect
ourselves accordingly. I'll ask the flagship to lend us a couple of
divers. Fortunately the damage is easily repaired provided we save
the ultra-hydrogen."
"I'll go down, sir," volunteered Dacres, "and Callaghan will
accompany me."
"I'll be delighted to accept your offer," said Whittinghame
gratefully. "I'd go myself only I've had no experience in submarine
work of any description. Mr. Setchell, will you please signal the
'Repulse' and ask the loan of two Restronguet diving-suits?"
Callaghan expressed his willingness to accompany the sub. The
Irishman had been a first-class seaman-diver in the Royal Navy, and,
although unaccustomed to the modern diving-dress, could be relied
upon to do his work thoroughly.
Without delay a motor pinnace from the flagship came alongside,
bringing the required apparatus. The Restronguet diving-dress, the
invention of the late owner of the famous submarine, "Aphrodite," had
been generally adopted by the Royal Navy.
The dress was entirely self-contained, the chemically-charged
air-supply being carried in metal cylinders attached to the diver,
while airtubes and life-lines were no longer required.
The sub was well acquainted with the Restronguet diving-dress, and it
required only a brief explanation to acquaint Callaghan with its
simple peculiarities.
"Another sub-division flooded, sir," announced Setchell.
"The rascal, or rascals, must be still at work, by Jove!" ejaculated
Whittinghame. "Have your knives ready in case there's any
resistance."
"We have something better than that, sir," said Dacres, holding up an
instrument resembling a tuning-fork. "These are issued with the
diving-suits in case the divers are attacked by sharks or human
beings."
"What is it?" asked Whittinghame curiously.
"Be careful, sir," cautioned the sub as his chief stretched out his
hand to take hold of the weapon. "It is electrically charged, and
will temporarily paralyse any living thing it touches with these two
barbs. My friend Commander Hythe had a dose of it once. He said he
will never forget it. It simply knocked all the stuffing out of him."
"A good substitute for the 'cat,' then," commented Whittinghame.
"Now, all ready?"
The metal headpieces were placed over the wearer's heads and clamped
on to the collar-plates. The two men, deprived of the outside air,
were now dependent solely upon the supply contained in the portable
reservoirs.
Dacres led the way. Shuffling awkwardly to the entry port he made his
way slowly down the ladder till the water reached to his shoulders.
Then releasing his hold he sank gently to the bed of the Zandovar
Harbour.
Fortunately there were no tidal currents. The bottom was composed of
fine gravel and sand, and practically destitute of marine growth. The
depth being less than thirty feet, the brilliant sunshine penetrated
the clear water with very little loss of intensity.
The sub waited till the Irishman joined him, then pointed
significantly towards the after end of the floating airship, whose
rounded hull could be traced through almost its entire length.
Callaghan raised his hand to signify assent, and slowly the two
divers made their way aft.
Suddenly Dacres came to a dead stop. His quick eye detected a foreign
movement. In the deep shadow cast by the lower horizontal plane a man
in a diving-dress was at work. An air-tube and life-line showed that
the villainous diver was equipped with an old-fashioned apparatus,
but the question was, how far was he working from his air-supply? Was
he alone?
Cautiously Dacres and his companion approached, but before they could
get within striking-distance the bubble caused by the escaping air
from the valves in the helmets gave the alarm. The fellow, dropping a
large drill with which he had been studiously employed, slid off the
flange on which he had been seated and gained the bed of the harbour.
Evidently his chief aim was flight, for he made his way off as fast
as he could, his life-line and airtube trailing in an ever-increasing
bight upon the sand. His cumbersome diving-dress so impeded his
efforts that he was no match for his pursuers. Once he turned, and
seeing that flight was impossible, he drew a huge knife with his left
hand, while in his right he grasped a formidable-looking axe.
All prospect of taking the marauder by surprise being at an end,
Dacres realized that both he and his companion were at a
disadvantage. The only vulnerable portions of their antagonist to
which the electric fork could be applied were his bare hands. To get
in a knock-out blow would entail a great risk on the part of the
attackers, for the fellow evidently meant to make good use of his
weapons.
The sub did not fear the axe so much as he did the knife. Owing to
the density of the water the force and velocity of the blow of the
former would be considerably diminished, but a thrust of a sharp
steel knife, meeting with very little resistance, was not to be
regarded lightly.
Dacres stopped, and grasping the other's life-line cut it with his
knife. He could, of course, have easily settled the submarine
encounter by severing the rascal's airtube, but this he was loth to
do. On the other hand how could the fellow be secured? If he
surrendered, he could not be taken ashore, especially if there were,
as was quite likely, a crowd of accomplices. The only solution,
according to the sub's idea, was to compel the man to surrender, take
him to the surface, and there disconnect his airtube.
Again the sub bent down, this time laying hold of the flexible
armoured hose. He raised his knife threateningly, and indicated that
his antagonist should either surrender or be deprived of his supply
of air.
The fellow's reply was more than Dacres had bargained for. Either he
mistook the invitation to give in, or else he meant to die gamely.
Raising his axe he floundered towards the place where the sub stood
grasping the airtube.
Dacres dropped the pipe like a piece of red-hot coal, and promptly
retreated. Brave as he was he did not like the look of that long,
keen knife glistening in the pale green light.
As the stranger advanced Callaghan made his way behind him, and
poising his electric fork awaited an opportunity to seize the fellow
by the arm and prick him on the back of his hand.
Again the mysterious diver halted and, turning alternately to his
right and left, contemplated the two points of attack. By this time
the sandy bed of the sea had been considerably disturbed, and the
water was rapidly becoming mingled with a muddy deposit that greatly
curtailed the range of vision.
It was now a complete deadlock. Neither of the unknown's antagonists
could bring themselves to start the attack at close quarters, while
the stranger would not surrender.
Awaiting his opportunity the Irishman stealthily gained possession of
the airtube, and, grasping it in his powerful hands, attempted to
curtail the supply of air. The attempt was a failure, for he was
quite unable to compress the stout wire coil running around the
rubber hose. He fancied he could see a grim smile of contempt upon
the features of his foe. Suddenly Callaghan changed his tactics.
Still holding on to the airtube he began to retreat towards the
"Meteor." The unknown diver had, perforce, to follow, and since his
speed was less than that of the men equipped with the Restronguet
apparatus, he could not hope to overtake the Irishman. Dacres saw the
latter's plan, and he, too, made for the side of the
partially-submerged airship.
It seemed as if nothing could prevent the stranger from being
ignominiously hauled to the surface alongside the "Meteor's" wire
ladder, until he caught sight of one arm and a fluke of an old anchor
that was almost buried in the sand. Round the projecting ironwork he
took a turn with the flexible pipe, and the united efforts of his two
foes were unable to make him budge another step.
The only solution as far as Dacres could suggest was to return to the
surface and get hold of a length of rope wire. By this means the
unknown diver could be capsized, made a prisoner and be taken to the
airship. The only objection was that some time must necessarily
elapse before the wire could be obtained, and in the interval the
stranger would make good his escape.
While he was pondering over the problem Dacres saw a huge object
heading straight towards him with tremendous speed. The next instant
his antagonist was thrown forward, his legs working convulsively in
spite of the leaden weights on his boots, while his weapons dropped
from his outstretched arms. Then came a terrific blast as the air
under considerable pressure burst from the man's diving-dress, while
all around the water was tinged with blood. An enormous swordfish,
its bulk intensified by the magnifying effect of the water, had
charged the unfortunate diver from behind and had impaled him on the
long, sharp, horny spike that projected from its head.
Shaking the lifeless body like a terrier does a rat the swordfish
strove to disengage its formidable weapon. Dacres knew that either he
or his comrade would be the next object of attack, since the
ferocious swordfish is never satisfied with one victim. Discretion
urged him to make a speedy retreat while there was still an
opportunity, but his sense of devotion to his companion soon put that
idea out of his head.
Holding his electric fork well in front of him, the sub steeled his
nerves and approached his latest foe, which was still striving to
withdraw its "sword" from its victim's body.
But Dacres was forestalled. Callaghan, being more in the wake of the
fiercely-struggling fish, made his way through the blood-stained
water and drove his electric weapon deeply into the leather-like
skin. Giving one tremendous jerk that sent the Irishman on his back
the swordfish became as rigid as if it were a frozen carcass of
mutton in a ship's refrigerator.
As quickly as possible Callaghan regained his feet. His Hibernian
blood was up. Securing the knife that had fallen from the grasp of
the slain diver he plunged the blade deeply--not once but many
times--into the carcass of the swordfish.
At length, satisfied with his efforts, Callaghan desisted, and
pointed towards the "Meteor." Although encased in the metal helmet
the sub shook his head. The Irishman saw the gesture. Dacres meant to
follow the length of airtube, through which the air was still being
pumped by the dead man's assistants, who were in ignorance of what
had occurred, although the manometer told them that something was
amiss.