TWENTY FATHOMS DOWN
He knew then that Providence had guided him to the side of one of the
other ships, that, could he but make himself heard above the roar of
the elements, he might yet be saved. The realization brought a renewal
of courage. The mere physical contact with something more solid, more
stable than the hungry waves endowed his aching body with strength. If
he could only hold on! The strain on his cramped fingers was terrific,
and at every roll of the hull his body was thrown against it with a
violence that must soon bring endurance to an end. He dashed the salt
water from his face and shouted at the top of his tired lungs. And
then, coming up choking and sputtering from a wave, again sent his
appeal toward the deck. Surely, he thought, someone must hear him!
He could no longer stand the pain in the hand and arm that held him
to the ship, and with difficulty he reached his right hand up and set
the fingers into the narrow crevice and dropped the other away, numb
and aching. This brought his face to the hull and turned his body so
that it lay closer to the steel plates and was less buffeted. And the
position raised his head further so that his breathing periods were
more frequent. When his head was above water he shouted, but he began
to lose hope now, for in that confused roar of wind and water his
cries were scarcely audible to him. His hold was precarious and more
than once he felt his fingers slipping away. Then, by every effort of
weary muscles, pushing against the smooth surface with his left hand,
he regained his hold. During one such struggle, with head thrown back
and for the instant above the waves, he blinked the water from his eyes
and tried to pierce the darkness and glimpse the rail far above him. It
must have been some sense other than sight that told him the truth, for
no gloom was ever more impenetrable and even the hand that protected
his face from the hull was beyond his vision. But, looking up, he
suddenly realized that there were no towering sides above him, that it
was not a cruiser or destroyer he was clinging to, but a submarine!
And then something that had puzzled him dimly was explained. In groping
along the hull he had gained the impression that, instead of bulging
outward as it arose it did the opposite. Now, at the risk of losing
his hold, he sent his left hand exploring at arm’s length and found
instant corroboration. The hull receded sharply. He realized then that
perhaps no more than another twelve inches beyond his utmost reach
was the deck. If he could only pull himself up there! But nothing to
grip to, neither protuberance nor recess, met his searching fingers.
Somewhere not very far distant must be the conning tower and bridge,
and when the next deluge had washed over him and passed he shouted with
a desperation born of the knowledge of help at hand and of failing
strength. But even as he shouted the thought came to him that in such
weather they would be navigating the boat from the tightly-closed
conning tower and not from the exposed bridge, and that no cries he was
capable of would penetrate its steel sides.
He knew that he could not last much longer. His arm felt as though it
was dead, or, to be more exact, it didn’t feel at all; sensation had
quite passed from it, and it was only by painfully working a finger
that he could be certain that his hand still clutched the edge of the
little crevice. He was far less reconciled to drowning than he had
been before. The injustice of being thrown into the path of rescue
and then mercilessly denied it produced a sense of rebellion and even
anger. A few feet away from him, beyond that thin steel well, men were
talking, perhaps laughing, in warmth and light and comfort, while he
was doomed to perish miserably within arm’s length of them! A sudden
surge of mingled wrath and terror overcame him, and he rained weak
blows on the hull until his knuckles were torn and bleeding and the
salt set them to stinging, and strove, as the waves would let him, to
knock his knees, too, against the plates. Then a calmer mood came, and
the hopelessness of further struggle settled over him. If he abandoned
the submarine he would be no worse off than before save that he had
depleted his strength for swimming. In one way he would better himself,
for drowning was far less imminent when riding the seas than while
being smothered with the waves that broke over and against the boat.
And, after all, he had no choice, for he could no longer hold on. His
fingers were slipping fast now and he had no strength to work them back
into place. But, somehow, having decided, he found it hard to act. As
unfeeling as it had proved, that submarine was tangible and friendly,
and letting go would be like releasing one’s hold of a rope to drop
into unknown depths. He compromised with his decision. He would stay
where he was as long as he could. Time enough to cast adrift when his
fingers no longer performed their task. He shouted no more now. He only
waited and endured.
Moments passed, and then light beat on his closed lids and he opened
his eyes. A wave hissed over him, but through it a white glare
penetrated. The water passed, the boat rolled, and, choking and
gasping, his aching body tossed sprawling against the hull, he heard a
voice issue from the fierce radiance that still engulfed him. The words
were whisked away by the wind. Something dragged at his free arm and
he felt himself being pulled like a sack of grain up the wet, sloping
side. He experienced neither joy nor relief, but only a dim wonder. And
about that time he ceased to take further interest in things.
Minutes later he awoke to the knowledge of something hot and fragrant
at his lips and a voice saying “Drink.” He obeyed and a warm glow
permeated his chilled body. For a brief instant he opened his eyes
wide enough to receive an impression of a painfully white place that,
to a vision so long accustomed to darkness, seemed ablaze with
lights. Forms moved hazily. The air reeked of oil. An appalling tumult
assaulted his ears. The force that held his head up was removed and he
sank back with a sigh and went to sleep again.
When he next awoke he was still in the white place and the lights still
gleamed, but the noise had ceased and the smell of oil had given way to
an odor he could not describe even to himself. And, which was stranger
than all, instead of the pitching and tossing he remembered, the place
where he lay was almost motionless.
Painfully, for he felt weak and dizzy, and every bone and muscle in his
tired body ached, he stopped gazing at the bottom of the bunk above
him and moved his head so that he could view his surroundings. He
began to remember slowly as he did so, and by the time he realized his
surroundings the events of the night before were in orderly sequence.
He sighed deeply, and:
“Gee! I’m still alive!” he muttered.
It was a strange place in which he found himself, but his visit to the
submarine in New London that time enabled him to recognize it. He was
lying in one of the lower bunks in the forward battery compartment
which is the men’s quarters. There were twelve of these bunks in all,
six on each side, three in a tier. One or two of those opposite were
occupied. An iron ladder led from the floor to a closed hatch above.
Everything was painted white and sweated moisture. A table disputed
the center of the compartment with the ladder and about it four men,
in soiled and greasy dungarees, were seated. Further aft a sixth man
was in evidence. He was drawing coffee at a steaming urn, and Nelson
knew him for the cook. There was an electric range beside him, and,
opposite, food lockers. Beyond the galley end of the compartment a
watertight door stood open, revealing a vista of further compartments.
Everywhere ran pipes and wires, with a multitude of valves and
switches. The odor which had puzzled him at first now yielded certain
recognizable ingredients: hot coffee and food; battery fumes; moist
clothing.
He was beneath a cover of two gray blankets. They had removed his outer
clothing and it lay, half dried, across his feet. He sniffed longingly
at the coffee streaming from the faucet of the shining urn, and when,
after a moment, the cook approached the table with three aluminum cups
of it in hand, he found his voice.
“May I have some, please?” he asked weakly.
The cook, a lad not much Nelson’s senior, with an unmistakable Irish
countenance, looked over his shoulder, and the men at the table craned
their heads.
“Hello, kid!” said the cook. “You comin’ to? Sure you can have some.
All you want, I guess.”
One of the others stepped across to the bunk. “How are you, Jack?” he
asked.
“All right, I think. What boat’s this?”
“_Q-4._ Where’d you come from?”
“Don’t be bothering the lad with questions, Terry. He’s down and out,
I’ll bet.”
“I feel pretty fair, thanks,” said Nelson. “I belong on the _Gyandotte_.
I was on lookout last night――is it morning now?” The man nodded. “Last
night it was, then. Something happened. Maybe a boat blew off the
davits. Anyway, I went overboard. After awhile I caught hold of this
boat and hung on. I shouted, but I thought you didn’t hear me. Then
someone flashed a light and I woke up down here. That’s about all.”
“And it’s plenty, kid! You were all in when they grabbed you. How long
were you in the water?”
“How does he know?” asked one of the others with deep disgust.
“Suppose he looked at his watch and timed himself? Sit down here, you
chuckle-head, and sop up your coffee and leave the lad be.”
“Out o’ my way, Terry!” The cook thrust a cup of coffee into Nelson’s
hand and added sugar. “Kid,” he said, “you won the long-distance
rough-and-tumble record last night, all right! One of you fellows tell
the luff the boy’s awake. He wants to speak to him.”
“Ay, ay, Cookie! Cut some more bread while I’m gone, will you?” One of
the men arose and disappeared through the after door. Nelson propped
himself on an elbow and stirred his coffee.
“The storm’s all over, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Is it, then?” said the cook. “You wouldn’t think so if you was up
above. It was blowin’ about seventy when we left.”
“Left? Oh, you mean that you’ve submerged?”
“You bet you! We’ve been down nearly four hours now. I’ve seen a few
rough nights in my short but eventful life, kid, but last night had ’em
all beat! We was shufflin’ around here like dice in a box. How you ever
lived in the water is what gets me!”
“How far down are we? Are we sitting on the bottom?”
“Sitting on the bot――say, where do you think you are? New York harbor?
There ain’t no bottom here, or if there is it would take a day to find
it! We’re a hundred and twenty feet under, or were an hour ago, and
we’re doing about four knots.”
“Gosh!” exclaimed Nelson in awed tones. “A hundred and twenty feet
below the surface! Isn’t that a lot?”
“It ain’t too much in this rumpus, kid, believe me! Have some coffee?
I’d give you some hash, but they said you wasn’t to eat till the luff
seen you. Here he comes now.”
The lieutenant was a man of about thirty-two or -three years of age,
short, squarely-built, bearded, round of face and dressed in a stained
uniform whose gold braid was dulled and discolored. He had a gruff
voice and an all-enveloping smile.
“Hello, Neptune!” he greeted. “All ready to go back where you belong,
are you? We’re going to shoot you out a tube in a minute.”
“No, sir.” Nelson saluted weakly, and smiled. “Not quite yet, sir.”
“Well, how are you feeling? And where in the name of common sense did
you come from?”
“I’m sort of tired, sir, that’s all. I went overboard from the
_Gyandotte_. Something broke loose on deck and struck me and first
thing I knew I was in the water.”
“Pleasant experience! Go ahead and finish your coffee.”
“I’ve had enough, sir, thanks.”
“Feeling hungry?”
“No, sir, not a bit.”
“Just as well. We’ll feed you up later. Don’t know how soon we’ll be
able to land you back on your ship, though. If this gale keeps on we’ll
be down some time. What kept you from drowning?”
“I don’t know, sir. I had a life-vest on, of course. After I’d been
floating around awhile my hand struck against this boat and found a
sort of hole――――”
“Scupper, probably. How long were you hanging on before we got you?”
Nelson frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know. It seemed a long
time, but I don’t think it could have been more than a quarter of an
hour.”
“Great Scot! Who was it heard the knocking? You, Clancy, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Brainard heard it, too. I thought we were scraping a mine. I
wouldn’t have heard it only I was in my bunk, and it’s a top one, and
the knocks were right alongside my head.”
“Yes, and he fell out in a hurry, sir!” chuckled the man called Terry.
“He did it in the quickest time I ever saw!”
“So would you have if you’d heard it,” growled Clancy. “I thought sure
we were making friends with a floating mine and I didn’t want to be so
close to it.”
“Don’t blame you!” laughed the lieutenant. “Lucky for this man we’re a
single-huller and that you heard it, though. What’s your name?”
“Troy, sir; seaman, second class, Reserve.”
“Reserve, eh? Well, there’s hope for the Reserves if they’re all like
you, Troy. You have luck, my boy, and that’s better than being born
rich. Mix him up some gruel in an hour or so, Cook, and make him take
it. We’ll put you aboard your ship the first chance there is, Troy, but
you’ll have to make the best of us for awhile.”
“Thank you, sir. I――I’d like to――that is, I mean I’m awfully grateful
to you for taking care of me, sir. I guess I’d have been a goner by
this time if you hadn’t pulled me aboard.”
“I guess you would have,” rejoined the lieutenant dryly. “Don’t see how
you stuck it out as long as you did. You’ll never die by drowning,
young Neptune! Those your duds there? Why aren’t they dried? Can’t you
hang these in front of the stove somehow, Cook? He will want something
to put on when he gets up. Here, Clancy, you take charge of this man.
See that he’s fed and has dry clothing. When he gets up give him
something to do to earn his passage.”
The lieutenant nodded, frowned, smiled, and strode back to the central
station.
Clancy, a red-haired youth of twenty-four or so, rating as a first
class machinist’s mate, forthwith took over his duties. He viewed
Nelson severely, standing beside the bunk with legs spread wide and
oil-stained hands on his hips.
“Now then, Mr. Neptune, you heard the luff’s words, didn’t you?”
Nelson nodded and smiled.
“What you grinning about? Respect is what I’ll have from you, my son,
and a lot of it! Don’t you know better than to grin at your superior
officer? What sort of manners do they teach you in the Naval Reserve?
Stow that grin, I tell you, and look respectful!”
“Yes, sir,” responded Nelson demurely. The petty officer grunted.
“That’s better. Now then, hungry?”
“No, thank you.”
“Good thing you ain’t. You wouldn’t get anything fit to eat on this
boat, anyway. Just the same there’ll be some gruel for you pretty soon
if the cook don’t forget it or fall asleep. Now then, Cookie, look
alive with the young gentleman’s wearing apparel! Oh, you’ve got it,
have you?”
“I have; and as to fallin’ asleep, believe me, Clancy, I ain’t never
fallen asleep standin’ on my two feet like you do most of the time.”
“Is that so? One of your feet would be big enough, without using the
other at all. When those clothes are dry, you’d better get into ’em,
Mr. Neptune, and then feed your face with some gruel――if you can eat
it, which I misdoubt. Then report to me in the engine room. Get that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right-o!” Clancy viewed him with a fierce scowl, dropped one eyelid in
a portentous wink and swung himself out.
Only the cook was left now, save for the occupants of one or two bunks
who stirred uneasily in their sleep. The cook had improvised a clothes
line above the electric stove and Nelson’s things were already gently
steaming.
“Wet clothes is against the rules entirely,” observed the cook
cheerfully. “But if the luff passes ’em it’s not for me to be kickin’.
Now I’ll start that gruel for you, Nep, but I don’t know what it’ll be
like, for I never made none!”
“It doesn’t matter,” murmured Nelson. “I’m not hungry.”
“Makes no difference. If the luff says you eat, you eat if it kills
you.”
Nelson digested that in silence a moment. Then: “How many are there
aboard here?” he asked.
“Three officers and twenty-one men. And one fresh young Reservist,” he
added as an afterthought.
“Meaning me? If you call me fresh I’ll report to Clancy that your
gruel’s no good.”
“Clancy? That club-footed, knock-kneed galoot! Much I care about
Clancy. Where’s that package o’ oatmeal I had once? Gruel on a
submarine! They’ll be askin’ for asparagus and artichokes next!”
A new party of men entered, three capable looking youngsters not much
older than Nelson, and only removing their sea-boots, climbed into
bunks. They viewed Nelson with a sort of tired interest, but asked
no questions. In something less than three minutes as many new and
assorted snores were added to the symphony. Occasionally a sailor
passed through toward the bow, or hurried aft again. The sound of
voices traveling from the compartments further back reached Nelson
as from an underground passage. There was only a slight motion
perceptible, a queer lunging and rolling combined that was quite new
to anything he had before experienced. Save for the sound of voices
and the musical efforts of the sleeping men and Cookie’s muttered
apostrophes to the simmering gruel, the boat was oddly still. Once
when someone far forward in the engine compartment dropped a wrench
the clatter was startling. The atmosphere was close, but Nelson found
no inconvenience in breathing. Something, and he thought it might be
the air, made him strangely sluggish and sleepy, and he was on the
point of dozing off again when he heard from beside his bunk a startled
exclamation:
“For the love of Mike! See who’s here!”
Opening his eyes he looked up into the astounded face of Martin
Townsend.