A NAVAL ENCOUNTER.
“Jack, this is glorious!”
“You may well say that, Tom. I’m enjoying myself as much as if I were
on a vacation.”
At twenty-five knots an hour the _White Shark_ was cutting along on her
voyage to the south. The sea was smooth, but it rippled just enough for
the brisk, salt-laden breeze to blow an occasional shower of brine over
the two lads standing on the rounded back of the novel submarine craft.
It was the morning of the second day out. So far everything had gone
without a hitch. The machinery was running so smoothly that Silas
Hardtack had been left on watch in the engine room, while the boys
came up on deck to inhale a whiff of the fresh sea breeze.
Mr. Chadwick was busy over some problems connected with a new type of
threshing machine he was evolving for the use of the government in
experimental work. Jupe was busy in his galley. From time to time,
through a ventilator which was kept open while the _White Shark_ was on
the surface in fair weather, there floated up to the boys the rattle of
dishes and the appetizing smells of the dinner that Jupe was preparing.
“I’ve got an appetite like a horse, Jack.”
“So have I. Nothing like what poets call the ‘balmy breeze’ to give you
that.”
Through the open hatchway appeared another figure, that of Silas
Hardtack. The old man was a practical navigator, and as he came on deck
he brought with him his sextant.
“Eight bells,” he announced, “I’m going to shoot the sun.”
“Fire away,” chuckled Jack, “but don’t shoot it out.”
Old Silas raised the sextant to his eye and aimed it at the sun. Then
he gazed at the marked arc of the instrument and made a swift mental
calculation.
“How are we getting along?” inquired Jack.
“Wait till I get it worked out, Master Jack,” responded the old
salt, “but we’ve been making twenty-five miles an hour for the last
forty-eight hours. I only hope this weather lasts.”
“Same here; it’s important we should make a rapid run.”
“Yes; from what I know of those Cubans, they’re a bad lot when they get
scrapping. But bless you, if we had the old _Ohio_ along we could blow
the whole island into the water if we wanted to.”
“I hope we wouldn’t want to do anything like that,” exclaimed Tom, “it
must be a very interesting place to visit.”
“I read up on its history a bit before we left home,” put in Jack.
“Ah, and what do the books say about it?” asked Silas. “They’re mostly
wrong, I suppose.”
“I’ll tell you what I remember, if you like,” volunteered Jack.
“All right, heave ahead, my hearty, but don’t make it too long; I’ve
got to get back and give them engines a good drink of oil.”
“Cuba is the largest of the West Indian Islands,” began Jack. “It is
very mountainous, but possesses few rivers of any size. The coasts are
said to be very bad. Long reefs run far out to sea.”
“Aye, aye, I’ve been aground on one of ’em on the old _Ohio_,” struck
in Silas.
“I hope we’ll not get into any trouble of that kind,” said Tom.
“The island, which is 43,500 square miles in area, was discovered by
Columbus in 1492. The Spanish occupation dates from a short period
after that time. There have been numerous revolutions. In fact, the
history of the island appears to be one of unrest; but since 1898, when
the United States intervened and freed Cuba, there has been much less
trouble. Still, as you know from the papers, there has been plenty of
unrest from time to time.”
“Are there any wild animals there?” asked Tom, who liked hunting.
“Very few. Wild pigs and a few deer. There are boa constrictors,
though, and large lizards of various kinds.”
“How about gold or silver?”
“Very little. Not enough to make it profitable to prospect or mine for
either of them. There is plenty of iron, though, most of the mines
being located near to Santiago, at the mouth of which harbor, as you
know, Uncle Sam’s navy licked the Spaniards off the face of the map.”
“I wish the old _Ohio_ could have been there,” sighed Silas; “she’d
have shown how Yankees can fight. Well, thank you, lad, for your yarn.
Now I’ll get below. Don’t forget you relieve me in a short time.”
“We won’t forget, Silas. We’re anxious to see how far we’ve come.”
When they went below they found out. In the forty-eight hours or more
that she had been under way, the _White Shark_ had made twelve hundred
miles, which Silas declared was a “bumper” run.
While he hastened forward to communicate the results of his
observations to Mr. Dancer, Tom and Jack examined the chart which was
still spread out. It showed that they were about off the “Capes.”
“It seems to me I read something about the Atlantic fleet being ordered
to Europe before long,” said Jack. “What if they should be steaming out
from the Capes now? You know they rendezvoused at Newport News.”
“Let’s get a glass and go on deck and see if we can sight anything,”
suggested Tom. “If they are steaming to sea we ought to be able to see
them.”
“All right. Just wait till I find out if everything is running smoothly
and I’ll go with you. We don’t have to stand by for orders now.”
A thorough investigation was made by the young engineer, the result
of which showed that everything was running in fine shape. Armed with
the binoculars, the two boys went on deck. Tom was the first to gaze
westward. Then came Jack’s turn.
Of course the shore was invisible, for their course compelled them to
be many miles out at sea, but Jack thought he saw a dark blur on the
horizon.
“Take a look, Tom,” he urged, “and see what you make it out to be. It
looks like a steamer’s smoke.”
Tom took the glasses and gazed long and steadily in the direction Jack
had indicated.
“It is smoke,” he announced presently. “Gee whiz, Jack, whatever is
making it is coming toward us, too. What if they should be Uncle Sam’s
ships steaming eastward!”
“In that case,” said a quiet voice behind them, “I think we should be
justified in heading toward them and giving them a chance to look us
over.”
“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” laughed Jack, for the newcomer
was Mr. Chadwick, who had seen the boys going on deck with the
binoculars and had arrived in time to overhear Tom’s last words.
“There are several columns of smoke,” cried Tom, after another long
look.
“That appears to make it conclusive that it is the fleet,” said Mr.
Chadwick. “I know they were to sail for the Mediterranean station about
this time. Boys, we ought to have a fine marine spectacle. I’ll go
below and consult Mr. Dancer.”
While he was below, the boys kept the glasses busy, focusing them on
what were now, beyond a doubt, as many as a dozen columns of black
smoke. Before long they could make out dark hulls and odd-looking masts
rising above the horizon.
“Go below and tell them the news,” cried Jack, “and, oh, Tom, bring up
the flag.”
He referred to the ensign which could be fitted into a socket astern
when it was desirable to fly “Old Glory.”
Tom soon reappeared with Mr. Chadwick and old Silas. Mr. Dancer would
not leave the wheel of his craft even to see a naval parade under such
unique conditions. Of course the periscope afforded him a limited view
of the inspiring sight.
Before long the monster war dogs were plainly visible and the glasses
were no longer needful. There were eight of the ships—huge, formidable
craft, painted the dull gray that is Uncle Sam’s fighting color. At the
bow of each, as they came on, a creamy wave of foam curled up, and at
the rails of the bridge of the foremost craft a group of officers could
be seen pointing at the strange object their glasses had just “picked
up,” and which “strange object” was, of course, the submarine _White
Shark_.
The battleships were steaming “in column,” that is, in single file.
Each preserved its correct distance from the other, varying hardly an
inch as they progressed.
Right up alongside the leader of the column ran the little _White
Shark_. From the vast, lofty decks of the battleship she must have
looked like some marine monster with—by some Jonah-like miracle—a crew
of men and boys on her curved back.
The jackies lined the rails in crowds as the big vessel drew up closer.
Every one on board appeared to be aware of the presence of the
submarine. Bright colored flags appeared in strings signaling from ship
to ship the news.
Mr. Dancer ran the _White Shark_ into what appeared to be quite
dangerous proximity to the big craft. But fast as the battleships
were steaming, the _White Shark_ kept pace with them. From the bridge
inquiries were showered as to the nature of the submarine and whither
she was bound. To these, evasive answers were returned, as it was not
deemed advisable for the destination of the submarine to be known.
All at once, as the tiny metal chip of a _White Shark_ rushed along by
the side of the huge leviathan of naval warfare, an object clothed in
white fell from the stern deck. Like a flash it darted downward.
For an instant the watchers on the deck of the submarine thought
something had been thrown overboard from the cook’s or quartermaster’s
section of the ship.
But a moment later a booming, roaring cry ran along the battleship’s
crowded decks. Her steam siren shrieked like the wail of a lost soul.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Jack.
“It’s a man overboard!” cried Silas. “That’s what it is!”