The peak they had left was a trifle higher than any of the others, so it
was unnecessary for Broughton to waste time getting altitude. The Martin
drove steadily eastward over the murky world below.
Probably no ship is ever so helpless as when flying over country like
that at night, but the successful culmination of their adventure was
such a tonic to the airmen that the chance of a forced landing seemed
only a minor thing, scarcely to be considered.
In a few minutes Graves turned and passed a note back to Hinkley. The
tall flyer read it with difficulty in the darkness, and then passed it
to Broughton, steadying the wheel to give the pilot an opportunity to
read it:
Although the ammunition and guns in the back are packed
where I do not believe Hayden can get at them, I believe it
would be wise for me to climb back there in order to take no
chances with him. He is desperate, and might try to take us
all to ---- with him.
It would be an easy matter for Graves to get from his cockpit into the
flyer’s compartment, and from there back to the rear cockpit. The roof
of the bomb compartment provided a four-foot runway which is not a
difficult matter for an experienced airman to negotiate. Nevertheless,
climbing around a ship under the best of conditions is no parlor sport.
It was a tribute to Graves’ nerve that Broughton looked at Hinkley and
then nodded at Graves. The secret agent promptly unbuckled his belt and
crawled beneath the instrument board into their cockpit.
With the aid of wire and struts he inched himself over the flyers’
heads, and started crawling along the runway. Broughton throttled as low
as he dared to kill speed. The air was smooth as glass, as it always is
at night, which made Graves’ attempt easier.
Finally Hinkley turned to Broughton and nodded with a wide grin.
Broughton relaxed from the strain of keeping the ship absolutely level,
and looked around. No one could be seen in the rear cockpit. Then
Graves’ head appeared, and the firm mouth was smiling beneath the big
goggles. He nodded cheerfully. Apparently everything was all right.
Hayden’s head had come into contact with something when they had heaved
him in, Broughton surmised, and he was probably as unconscious as a sack
of meal.
They were now a speck in the starry sky above the mountains. In every
direction nothing but the black voids of the valleys and the shadowed
sides of towering mountains met the eye. Both flyers had seen
awe-inspiring sights in the air, but there were few which could compare
with the panorama spread out below them now. There was mystery and
greatness there--widely scattered pin points of light from the
wilderness, with an occasional far-off cluster that represented a
town--all contributing to a grandeur and beauty which was more
impressive because less seen than suggested.
* * * * *
Suddenly Hinkley’s long fingers gripped Broughton’s arm. He pointed to
the right hand motor. For a moment Broughton could not fathom his
meaning. Then his heart sunk as he realized what had happened.
A tiny spray of water was spurting from the radiator. Perhaps one of the
bullets had hit it and weakened it, or more likely it was only a failure
in the material. In any event, it meant that within a few minutes all
the water would be gone, and even before that happened the motor would
be useless.
The pilot strove to pierce the gloom below to discover any sign of a
landing place. There was none. Parachute flares would do no good down
there--one can land in the trees blindly with as much chance for life as
in the daytime.
While Broughton was still trying to pick up some clearing, which would
show lighter than the woods, Hinkley loosened his belt. He leaned over
to yell into Broughton’s ear:
“I think I can hold it for a while!”
He threw his leg over the side of the cockpit, leaning far backward to
avoid the propeller which was whirling within inches of him. Finally he
decided not to risk it, and climbed back. He went back on the bomb
compartment and crawled down on the wing from there. Little by little he
made his way forward to the leading edge of the wing. Once again even
the throwing of an arm for a few inches would mean being mangled by the
propeller.
He held to the struts and made his way to the motor. The design of the
radiator helped his scheme. On a Martin it is a square contrivance set
up above the motor, and well toward the rear of it. On most planes the
radiator is in front of the motor, with the propeller turning two inches
in front of it.
Hinkley fought the wind viciously while he extracted a half dollar from
his pocket and wrapped it in his handkerchief. It took precious time to
accomplish it on his perilous perch, and all the while the water was
getting lower. Already Broughton had opened the motor shutters wide to
hold the temperature down.
Finally Hinkley placed the wrapped coin against the leak. He pressed
hard against it with his hand. He could feel the handkerchief soaking,
but he knew that the motor would last many precious minutes more because
he had reduced the leak by over half. He set himself as comfortably as
he could. One foot was less than an inch from the edge of the wing. His
right arm was crooked around a strut. His left held the temporary
barrier against the radiator. In this position he fought the propeller
blast.
The heat of the water made him change hands frequently. Once he nearly
fell into the propeller doing it, for both hands had to be free for a
second at one time in order that the coin be always pressed against the
leak.
Then he had to change fingers, for his thumbs were both scalded. One by
one he used the tip of each finger, and one by one they scalded. His
thin lips were set into a line that was like a livid cut in his face,
but the makeshift plug was always there. He did not even glance at the
ground six thousand feet below. He wondered whether Broughton knew what
he was suffering, and would land at the first opportunity.
Broughton did, but for a half hour he could find no place. Then the
great ship cleared the last peak. Over beyond the foothills plowed
fields gleamed dully in contrast to the black spots of trees.
The left hand motor was eighty-five Centigrade, flying throttled to a
thousand revolutions and with the shutters wide open. It was difficult
to handle the ship with the right motor turning up so much more.
Broughton came to a decision. To take a chance was the only way.
He cut the right hand motor until it “revved” up a thousand, and started
a shallow dive. In a moment the Martin was diving through the gloom at a
hundred miles an hour. It was only three thousand when they cleared the
foothills. The country was still ragged, but it was level.
Broughton pulled his left parachute flare. A sense of ineffable relief
filled him as he saw a fiery ball drop earthward. Those flares didn’t
work as invariably as they might.
The eyes of the three airmen, stranded there in the darkness, followed
that ball of fire with unwinking eyes. Suddenly it burst, and a
brilliant flare swung downward on a small parachute. The earth was
lighted up fairly well in a circle of at least a mile’s radius.
Broughton cut his motors still further. He beckoned to Hinkley. Hinkley
knew the desperate need for haste--that flare would not last long and
the other one, hung to the right hand wing-tip, might not work. He
worked his way rapidly back to the cockpit, careless of his raw
fingertips as he grasped wires and struts to help him along. The flare
was within three hundred feet of the ground, and the Martin a thousand,
when he reached the seat and strapped his belt.
There was just one possible field. It was a cornfield, apparently, about
seventy-five yards long. There was a fence at both ends. Next to one
fence was a road. On the far side of the other was a very small clump of
woods.
The flare was growing dim and perilously near the ground as the Martin,
with all switches cut, skimmed the fence and settled. The corn was
nearly as high as the bottom wing. The bomber no more than hit the
ground before darkness came as suddenly as though a light had been
turned off in a room.
The ship wavered, and there was a rending crunch from the landing gear.
Then a crash as the ship nosed up slowly and the front shell of the
observers cockpit folded back until it loosened the instrument board.
“Hooray!”
It was Hinkley shouting.
“Jim, I _never_ was so glad to get on the ground in my life!”
Broughton made a wry face. He was suddenly weak from the strain.
For a moment the two sat there motionless, not even bothering to
unloosen their belts. Then Hinkley turned to look at Graves. That
gentleman was unloosening his belt.
“We thought you might want to smoke a cigaret, so we landed,” said
Hinkley.
Graves held up the frazzled butt of a cigar.
“I chewed it up from the time you got out there on the wing,” he
replied. “We came pretty near trading a Martin for a pair of honest-to
---- wings, didn’t we?”
“Or coal-shovels,” grinned Hinkley.
“How’s Hayden?”
“Came to once and I put him out again and tied him up,” replied Graves
calmly. “Let’s flag this car coming down the road and see where we are.
I’d like to get the first train I can get to.”
“We’re not far from either Lexington or Richmond. I saw the lights of a
big town a few miles north,” said Broughton as all three men climbed
out.
They lifted Hayden out of the back seat. His head was bandaged, and he
was still unconscious.
“I bandaged him up--he was bleeding pretty badly,” remarked Graves,
lighting a new cigar with a steady hand. “Let’s get over to the
road--there’s a regular parade of autos coming.”
A string of headlights extending so far that some were mere points of
light were coming down the road. The noise of a Martin, plus the
parachute flare, had aroused the whole country.
Broughton lingered behind to use an electric-flashlight on the ship. The
ground was soft, and there was a ditch they had hit, besides. That was
the reason for the nose-over. It was better so, he reflected. They would
have run into the fence and then the trees at the further end of the
field, and some one would probably have been hurt.
Within fifteen minutes there were a hundred marveling people around. The
flyers hired a guard for the ship, and then accepted the invitation of a
man who drove a luxurious touring car to spend the night at his home.
Hayden, whose identity was not revealed, spent the night in the town
jail of Ellis, Virginia, guarded by the tireless Graves in addition to
the regular warden, and accompanied that gentleman to Washington by
train early the next moving. He was handcuffed, and rode in a baggage
car to avoid publicity.
As he was leaving Graves shook hands with the flyers in a matter-of-fact
way.
“You’ll hear from me,” he stated. “Perhaps I may see you again before
long. Good-by.”
* * * * *
Hinkley and Broughton had to wait for a crew to come from Langham Field
to dismantle the Martin and ship it home. The day after their return to
the field the newspapers blossomed forth with across-the-page headlines
telling of the round-up of a stupendous conspiracy which had been
responsible for the series of great robberies that had been astounding
the country.
The story of Hayden’s capture was not a part of the press reports, and
Hayden himself was not too prominent in them. They saw Graves’ fine hand
in that. They could readily realize that any revelation of their
identity would be more dangerous than the glory involved would warrant,
even were they desirous of nibbling at the fruits of fame.
A few days thereafter there came a letter to each of them. The contents
were alike. There were two copies of a letter signed by that same great
government official whose name had appeared on Graves’ letter of
authority. The letter was addressed to the Secretary of War. As they
read those letters Hinkley’s smile was as mocking as ever and
Broughton’s face as stoical, but each of them still has his copy,
carefully locked up and preserved as though the most precious of
possessions. As Hinkley once confided to Broughton while slightly under
the influence of the demon rum--
“I don’t think a bit more of that letter than I do my right eye!”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 7, 1923 issue
of The Popular Magazine.]