THE WRECK OF THE AIR-SHIP.
The little island of Herm possessed only one building of importance, a
monastery of French refugees. In the great walled-in courtyard, there
was present an object of special and curious interest to the monks. The
arrival of the _Bladud_ had been observed with astonishment by all the
inmates of the monastery, who naturally associated its coming with that
of a certain mysterious visitor--a sun-scorched, iron-grey emaciated
man--who had recently landed on the island, coming, it was said, from
the coast of France. The visitor, who remained in complete seclusion
in the building, sedulously nursed back to health and strength, was
treated with extraordinary deference and respect by the Superior.
That much the monks could not fail to know; but any sly inquiries and
surmises on their part were met with the sternest and most peremptory
discouragement.
Excitement was quickened, therefore, when, only a few hours after the
arrival of the air-ship, preparations were made for the distinguished
visitor's departure. Linton stood in the courtyard, glancing anxiously
at his watch, while Wilton, the engineer, put some finishing touches to
the gear. The little man had proved himself a model of discretion. He
asked no questions, but now and then threw quick glances towards the
tall, thin stranger, who, at a respectful sign from Linton, had taken
his seat in the stern of the boat.
Whether Wilton knew or suspected the identity of Wilson Renshaw, who
now calmly waited for the voyage to commence, Linton could not tell.
He suspected that he did, and, little guessing what a few hours would
bring forth, he registered a mental promise that the silent, faithful
little engineer should not go unrewarded. It struck him that there
was a good deal of nervousness in Wilton's manner, as he threw upward
glances at the sky.
While the preparations were being completed, the Superior of the Order
stood close at hand, addressing in subdued tones his deferential and
earnest farewells to Mr. Renshaw, and Herrick, raising his eyes,
saw the peering faces of at least a score of monks at the upper
windows of the monastery. Glancing higher still, he noted with some
uneasiness that the scurrying clouds, copper-tinged from the setting
sun, betokened the coming of a wild and stormy night. Fervently he
breathed a prayer that the aerial voyage might have a happy issue. But
by this time he knew enough of air-ships to be aware that there were
perils which no scientific inventions, and no precautions, can wholly
nullify: risks from defects and mishaps with machinery, dangers from
both combined, that at any moment might bring about some irreparable
catastrophe. Yet, to-night, everything must be hazarded. Not an hour,
not a moment must be lost. The time had come. To let it pass unseized
would be to miss the tide at the flood, to sacrifice the touchstone of
fortune.
He glanced at Wilton:
"Ready?"
The engineer gave a quick nod and lifted a grimy finger towards his
cap. Linton, raising his own cap, turned towards the illustrious
passenger:
"Shall we start, sir?"
"At once, please," was the answer.
Linton stepped aboard and grasped the helm. Wilton took his place
forward, and the Superior, bowing obsequiously, moved to a safe
distance from the aeroplane.
The faint preliminary throbbing of the engine instantly commenced.
The boat began to rise, slowly at first, then more rapidly, as the
elevating power obtained freer play. Every window of the monastery
now was plastered with wondering, eager faces, intent on the _Bladud_
as she soared aloft. The Superior made angry and imperious gestures,
but the monks did not, or pretended not to, see. This mounting of the
aeroplane with such a passenger must not be missed. It was a spectacle
the like of which they would not see again.
Higher and higher climbed the _Bladud_, beating the air with her
flapping wings. The cold breeze rushed through the wind-harp on the
mast with a sighing, mournful sound as the boat swept in swiftly
widening circles through the air. The passenger, impressed but not
perturbed, glanced sharply round him; then, feeling the growing
keenness of the wind, he drew his fur coat across his chest.
When they were high enough, Herrick, with one eye on the compass, put
the tiller over and gave an order. Wilton lightly moved a switch, and
immediately the _Bladud_ headed at high speed for the open sea.
* * * * *
As the hours passed, night fell dark and thick about them; the wind
became more violent, and ever and again chilly, sleety squalls affected
to some extent the equilibrium of the boat. No one spoke, except for
an occasional query from Herrick, to which Wilton responded by act or
gesture only.
Not one of the three men on board knew of any definite cause for
anxiety, yet in the minds of at least two of them there was a growing
sense of tension and disquietude. The muscles of Wilton's face twitched
as he sat in silence, his eye watchful and his hand ready.
Yet, so far, all went well. To avoid prolonged dangers of the open
channel, they tacked northwards towards the coast of France, intending
to resume the sea course as nearly as possible above the Straits of
Dover. Nearer land the air grew less cloudy. The twinkling lights of
habitations far below became visible like distant glow-worms. From
the numbers of these lights they could form an idea of the size of
the towns and villages over which they passed. Some thirty-five were
counted. Presently the silent passenger himself identified the locality
and said that they were passing over the highlands between Cape Blanc
and Calais.
It was time to give the ship a different course; and once again below
them lay the wide expanse of sombre, tossing sea. But the _Bladud_
now encountered the strength of a growing gale from the North-East,
and soon it became apparent that she was being dangerously deflected
from her proper course. It was a discovery silently made, but fraught
with the fears of potential disaster. If they should be blown out to
sea, there was but one ultimate certainty--death for all on board. The
store of motive power could only last for a given number of hours, and
already much of the power had been expended. Their hope must lie in
reaching dry ground within a period that grew perilously shorter and
shorter even while they thought of it.
Entrusting the helm for a moment to the passenger, Herrick crawled
forward, and while the rising gale shrieked above them and around them,
held a hasty, whispered conversation with the now excited engineer.
"We'll never do it, sir, we'll never do it," Wilton said, hoarsely.
"St. Margaret's Bay; Why, see! we've left it far behind already. No
landing there to-night. What's the best air-ship that ever was built
against a wind like this?"
"Land us anywhere, anywhere," was Herrick's vehement answer.
"Yes, if we can," muttered Wilton, gloomily. "I'm afeard there's
something wrong with her, and that's the truth, Mr. Herrick."
"Good God!" exclaimed Herrick, with an anxious glance towards the
figure in the stern.
"See that?" gasped the engineer, as a strong gust from the north drove
the bow of the boat farther sea-ward. "See that, sir? I tell you, she
can't stand it."
Again and again the same thing happened. The gale, so far as it was
easterly, drove them westward along the coastline, and ever and again
the fierce gusts from the north forced them away from it. Linton
crept back to the stern. Thirty minutes passed--minutes of increasing
suspense. At the end of that time they had lost their bearings. The
_Bladud_ became more and more beyond control.
"Is there danger?" Renshaw asked the question very softly.
"I am afraid there is, sir," said Linton.
The other nodded: "I thought so. What part of the coast is that down
there?" he asked after an interval.
Linton peering over, pondered a minute before he answered:
"Dover's left far behind by this time. We've passed Hastings. Those
must be the lights of Brighton."
"We can't get down?"
"Impossible at present. We must drive straight ahead. Inside the Isle
of Wight there'll be a chance for us--more shelter and more ships.
Wilton knows that part."
"Can we last as long?"
"I think so--I hope so."
A long silence fell as the _Bladud_ battled with the wind. Then there
came a startling, rending sound that indicated some defect in the
machinery. The boat began to veer erratically.
"Steady, sir, steady," roared Wilton, making a trumpet of his hands.
"For God's sake head her north!"
From below there rose a sullen, surging sound, the threatening monotone
of angry waves breaking upon a rocky shore.
The sound grew fainter. They must be travelling inland--across the Isle
of Wight. Now, then, was the time for a descent. Dimly in the forepart
of the boat, Wilton's bent form could be discerned, his face peering,
his hands at work in the complex box of the _Bladud's_ machinery.
Suddenly he threw himself back, sitting on his heels, and Herrick
thought he saw his hands raised with a gesture of despair. The _Bladud_
lurched and swayed violently, and for a moment it seemed as if the
gyroscope had wholly failed to act. If that were so, in a moment the
boat might lose her equilibrium, and all would end. But that was not
the trouble. Linton now realised that it was the lowering apparatus
that would not work. The _Bladud_ still rushed madly forward. With
unchecked speed, they flew across the island. Another coast line then
came into view--the long low line of lights stretching from Portsmouth,
across Southsea to Eastney and Fort Cumberland. There was hope, then,
or if not ground for hope, at least a fighting chance!
But the _Bladud_ now by some inexplicable perversity of the machinery
made obstinately for the eastern extremity of the line of lights. That,
again, might serve if only they could descend on the wide common of
Hayling Island. They were nearing it every moment. Presently from below
there rose a new menace, an angry sound--grating and monotonous, that
Linton could not understand.
"What's that?" he shouted.
"The Woolseners," bellowed Wilton, in reply, and made a wild gesture
with his disengaged hand. He knew the deadly peril--those shifting
banks of shingle churned in the shallows by the ceaseless action of the
tides and waves. The Woolseners were as fatal as the Goodwin Sands to
every ship or boat that found herself among them.
With a desperate effort, aided by Renshaw and directed by Wilton,
Herrick forced over the helm. Another ominous crack reached their ears,
but for the moment they were successful, and a sudden squall from the
east aided their combined efforts. They now were heading straight for
Portsmouth Harbour. All might yet be well!
Still travelling at great speed, they traversed nearly half the
distance, it now being Wilton's design to bring the _Bladud_ down on
Southsea Common. Then, suddenly, the horizontal movement of the boat
absolutely ceased. All the motive power that was left in her began
through some terrible mishap to be expended in the development of
rapid elevation. The frantic efforts of Wilton to check the upward
rush were unavailing, the boat went up and up with terrible velocity.
This last catastrophe was paralyzing, overwhelming. Climbing higher
and higher, the boat would rapidly exhaust her small remaining store
of compressed air. Then, in an instant, would commence a reversal, and
the _Bladud_ would rush down through space--the end for all on board,
inevitable death.
Linton again left the helm in Renshaw's hands. It was useless to retain
it. He scrambled forward to assist Wilton in his desperate efforts to
right the machinery. A dreadful feeling of sickness began to overpower
him as the air-ship swayed and waltzed in the upper air-currents,
lurching and righting as if struck by successive waves, but ever
mounting higher and yet higher.
It grew intensely cold. Feathery flakes of snow began to envelop them.
Their lungs laboured. It became more and more difficult to breathe.
Linton gasped enquiries which either Wilton did not hear or could not
answer. He glanced back at their ill-starred passenger, who had set
out to recover power and a great position and now was rushing to an
awful death. He saw that Renshaw's head rolled limply on his shoulders.
Already he seemed to be insensible. Filled with terror and alarm, he
shouted to Wilton though the man was close to hand, but his voice,
though the effort of utterance was so great, sounded even to himself
quite faint and far away.
By the light of the protected spirit lamp fixed to the tiny engine
house, Linton saw that the recording instrument already registered an
altitude of 20,000 feet.
A dull indifference began to take possession of his mind. His
faculties were slowly freezing. Even his eyesight now began to fail. He
could scarcely see the column of mercury in the glass, or the minute
hand of his watch. He felt that consciousness would soon completely
desert him. His right hand was resting on the gunwale of the boat; he
found he could not raise it. He could scarcely move his lower limbs,
and, turning once more to glance at the barometer, his head fell
forward helplessly.
By a violent exercise of his muscles and his will, he raised his face
a little, but for an instant only. It drooped again. He slid down into
the bottom of the boat. His fading gaze sought that of Wilton. They
looked into each other's eyes, like dying men bidding one another
silent, sad farewells. The mists of death already seemed to be closing
on them, when a sudden variation of the temperature, or, it may be,
some magnetic current partially revived them. But the _Bladud_ still
rushed upward, ever upward. They had reached a height of four miles
above the earth, and the temperature had fallen to 24° below freezing
point of water. To this appalling altitude the _Bladud_ had ascended
with almost incredible rapidity.
Upward, and upward still, they went, until five miles, then six, was
reached above the surface of the vanished earth.
Out of the void a muffled voice reached Linton's ears, the welcome
voice of a living fellow-creature. It was Wilton trying to rouse him,
Wilton speaking with urgency and vehemence.
Gradually he came out of his swoon; familiar objects close to him
revealed themselves again. Wilton was lying in the bottom of the boat.
He was striving in vain to reach Linton. The piercing cold had almost
paralyzed him. His hands were freezing.
What did Wilton want? What was he trying to do?
As far as could be judged, they had now reached an altitude of 37,000
feet--nearly seven miles. The mists closed in again. The thread of life
was on the point of breaking. Linton became half conscious that a thick
crust of ice had formed upon his clothes, his breath was freezing on
his lips and in his nostrils. He glanced again with an agonizing effort
at the moving record of their elevation. Another 1,000 feet, and then
2,000 feet. Needles of ice were pricking at his eyes. Close to him the
prone form of Wilton seemed to be covered with minute crystals from
head to foot. Linton tried to stretch out his hands to touch him, but
found that they were helpless, numbed. What, he vaguely wondered, was
Wilton doing now? What mad idea was this? With an exhausting effort the
engineer had just smashed the lens of his telescope. Then his hands
seemed again to fail him.
Watching him helplessly, Linton felt that everything was useless,
hopeless, lost. It would soon be over.
But Wilton had gripped the broken glass of the telescope between
his teeth. What was he doing now? Why was he sawing frantically,
convulsively, at that tightened cord?
Ah! that was it! Well done, Wilton. But it was hopeless, quite
hopeless, after all. Linton rolled his head feebly. They had climbed
another 1,000 feet, and they were mounting still.
No! What was this? There was a change. Something had happened. Linton
was sensible of a strange eddying, a pause, a feebler flapping of the
aeroplanes.
Merciful God! The boat had ceased to rise. Now she was sinking,
sinking, with appalling speed, yet checked to some extent by the broad
aeroplanes, just as a bird would be when, with extended wings, it
floated down to earth.
He tried to frame some words; tried to touch Wilton with his hand;
failed to do either. Wilton lay motionless, with bleeding lips.
* * * * *
Out of the blur of mental chaos, Linton Herrick found himself roughly
dragged back to consciousness. Kneeling in the boat, he discovered that
he was submerged in water to the waist; flecks of salt water smote him
in the face; all around there was a welter of wild, tossing waves.
In his ears, to add to his distraction, there sounded a harsh and
melancholy bell. It was tolling, tolling, close at hand.
The _Bladud_, water-logged, tossed feebly in the trough of the angry
sea. Built on a theory that she could float for a considerable period,
it nevertheless rushed in upon Linton's mind that in a few minutes she
would sink. He struggled to his feet, grasping the rigging as he did
so. Something arrested his attention. What was that silent log-like
thing the waves were rolling yonder in the semi-darkness? It must be
Wilton, poor Wilton, who had saved their lives--or tried to save them,
only to lose his own. Wilton! Dead!
A voice hailed him. It came from Renshaw, his companion. He also was on
his feet, swaying from side to side as the boat, settling deeper and
deeper in the water, plunged and lurched beneath them.
"Look!" cried Renshaw, "the buoy! We must swim for it!"
As he spoke he plunged over the side and struck out for a towering
object that rose and fell in the waves only a few yards away. Linton
realised that that was where the clangour of the bell was coming
from--the refuge of the shipwrecked--the bell-buoy close at hand!
Before he fully knew what he was about, he, too, was struggling in the
waves. He was a strong swimmer, but, clogged with his wet clothing,
another yard or two would have been too much for him. He shouted some
incoherent words of encouragement to Renshaw, and struck out with all
his small remaining strength. The tall frame-work of the Spit-buoy rose
out of the sea just in front of him. From its apex came louder than
ever the noise of the iron clapper beating on the metal, as the tossing
sea roiled the huge buoy this way and that.
His hand touched something hard.
He grasped an iron rail. Slowly and laboriously he drew his dripping
form out of the sea. Then, panting heavily, he threw himself down face
downward, full length, on the deck of the buoy, and stretched out both
hands to the other swimmer. Renshaw's strength seemed well nigh spent.
He was making futile struggles to rid himself of his heavy coat. As he
rolled over helplessly, almost swept beneath the buoy, Linton grasped
his collar.
The next moment he had drawn him to the rail. A breathing space, and
then another effort, exhausting and prolonged.
Two panting men, half drowned but saved, lay side by side upon the
buoy, fenced from the greedy sea by rusty, dripping iron bars. Above
them, in the stormy mournful night, ding dong! the bell kept clanging
to and fro--this way and that, with every wave and motion of the
singing sea.