THE FIRST SIGHT OF LONDON
On the morning of June 22 a fog lay on the Irish Coast until nine
o’clock. Between that hour and ten o’clock the fog turned into a misty
rain and it was not until nearly eleven o’clock that old Donald O’Meara,
keeper of the north light on Arran Island off Galway bay, applied
himself to the work of cleaning the outside metal and glass of the light
house. At twenty minutes after eleven o’clock “Captain” O’Meara,
sweeping the horizon as he recharged his little clay dudeen, made out a
strange object in the west high above the sea.
“Captain” O’Meara was the first European to sight the first airship that
crossed the Atlantic ocean. It was a few seconds after twenty-eight
minutes after eleven o’clock when the _Ocean Flyer_ passed the Arran
light. As the giant airship approached this tower, the aeroplane seemed
swooping toward the island as if to perch thereon. When the swift
incline suddenly turned to horizontal and the dull metal wings carried
the aeroplane ahead only a few hundred feet above the dazed light
keeper’s head, O’Meara could make out no person aboard.
Although the veteran light keeper sprang into the tower when the roar of
the cyclonelike propellers reached his ears and fled down the steps to
his cottage below, the _Flyer_ was yet in plain sight when he reported
what he had seen, by telephone to the mainland. Within thirty minutes
this information and similar reports had reached the Galway evening
newspapers from a dozen sources.
“She looks like a big French aeroplane,” came one message from
Bullyvaughan on the south shore of Galway bay. “Like as not lost in the
fog early to-day.”
No observer suspected or suggested that the strange vehicle had actually
crossed the Atlantic ocean. And the telegraph messages that hastened to
London, receiving little attention in the midst of the coronation
exercises, were not even repeated to America. Within the apparently
untenanted car of the big air craft there was little excitement and
almost no activity. The nerve tension of the long trip had resulted in a
spiritless, almost tired condition that did not even prompt enthusiasm
in the crew over the first glimpse of the long looked for shores of the
old world.
Ned and Alan were both at the wheel. They had picked up the Galway bay
light with no other comment than “There she is!” And Roy, heavy-eyed but
wide awake, had made his observations and set down his figures as
mechanically as if yet far a-sea. In truth, as the _Flyer_ had made her
night-long swift flight eastward, hour by hour holding to its course in
unvarying response to the powerful engine that never faltered, the
surprise would have been _not_ to see the landmark that spelled success
and victory.
The arrangement of the night watches had been, in the main, carried out
as planned. At two o’clock Alan relieved Ned at the wheel. About four
thirty o’clock Ned took charge again and Alan was off till seven. From
that time until ten o’clock Ned slept and at ten both boys were together
to stick to the end. Roy, at the observer’s table, got along with his
three-quarter hour cat naps till seven o’clock in the morning when Bob
spelled him off until ten o’clock. At this time Buck threw himself on
the floor of the store room and was only called when the Arran light
came in sight.
When the stars faded at four o’clock in the morning and Alan felt the
snappy night air changing to a colder moisture he feared a fog. Ned came
on watch at seven o’clock to find every indication of heavier weather.
Hoping that the fog, if it grew worse, would lift when the land was
reached, the young aviators made the best of a bad prospect and Alan
prepared to turn in.
“I’d stick now, to the end,” he explained, “if it wasn’t for what’s
comin’. It’s a long haul back, old man,” he added as he patted Ned
affectionately on the shoulder, “and that’s goin’ to be the real test.”
“In more ways than one,” replied Ned significantly. “But I’m feelin’
fine. Get what rest you can. We may have to stand a straight watch
to-night.”
“Isn’t it surprisin’,” exclaimed Alan, “that we’re not throwin’ up our
hats and yellin’? We’ve practically crossed the ocean at last and there
don’t seem to be any excitement. What d’ you think we’ll do when we
really sight the land?”
“If it’s Arran light,” answered Ned with a smile, “as I hope and reckon,
I’ll bet our first thought’ll be ‘Are we on time?’”
No member of the crew had been busier during the night than Bob. Only a
part of his “watch off” had he given up to sleep. In his eagerness he
was frequently at the wireless, as the night wore on, watching and
waiting for some answer to his earlier message. In mid-ocean this had
been an almost useless precaution. The _Flyer_ wireless outfit was
hardly powerful enough to make a fifteen hundred mile connection. But
Bob had a theory that the answer might come by way of some liner; that
it might be picked up by the operator on some large steamer and thus
relayed to the _Flyer_.
As the airship approached the Irish coast the keen young reporter was on
the alert for a direct message from the station at the Lizard. At ten
o’clock in the morning no word had been received and it was Bob’s turn
for a few more hours’ sleep. As they must now be not much over two
hundred miles from the land, Bob wanted to get off another message
directly to the _Herald_ office in London.
“There’s time yet,” he explained, “even if the other message went wrong.
They’ll have three hours to change their plans—they can even send the
fuel and oil wagon out to that place in three hours.”
Alan rather opposed the idea.
“We’ve got trouble enough ahead,” he suggested. “I don’t suppose the
government would know about it and of course the wireless people
wouldn’t interfere with a private message. But we can’t send it without
telling about our plans again and I don’t like the idea of so many
persons knowin’ what we’re tryin’ to do. If there’s a leak anywhere, you
can bet the police ain’t goin’ to go to sleep on the job.”
“I’m not afraid of the message becoming known through the wireless
office,” said Ned, “but there are hundreds of amateur operators always
on the lookout for practice. If one of these caught us he might not
hesitate to tell all he knew. Wait a little while. We may hear
something.”
Disappointed, Bob surrendered and retired to a state room. However, Ned
knew something about the working of the wireless and two or three times
during the next three hours he sleepily arose and listened for a
possible call. At ten o’clock Bob turned out for the long watch and,
relieving Buck, alternated from that time in keeping an eye on the
engines and an ear on the wireless receiver. At 10:30 o’clock all were
relieved by a shout from Bob and almost before the three boys on duty
could question him, the wireless operator was filling the store room
with loud “barks” of the wireless condenser. Bob had received a call and
was pounding his key in response. Suddenly the wire ceased. A few
moments of silence and then Bob threw off his head piece and shouted:
“New plan O. K.; new plan O. K. They got it. Message is a Marconi from
the Lizard. Signed _Herald_.” “Any answer?” he yelled as he sprang to
the instrument again.
Ned examined the chronometer.
“Roy,” he announced, “it’s ten thirty-two o’clock. How near in are we?”
The vigilant Roy made a quick calculation.
“We’re less than one hundred and seventy miles out.”
“Send this,” called Ned to Bob: “‘Herald, New York. Ten thirty-two A. M.
One hundred and seventy miles off Irish coast. Light rain. London one
thirty P. M. Message received. _Flyer_.’”
At various times during the night the constantly changing watches of the
airship had partaken of cold luncheon and hot coffee. Between ten thirty
and eleven o’clock Roy and Bob between them had prepared an ample
breakfast and when the lookout finally saw the Arran light and sang out
“There she is!” Roy, Bob and Alan were at breakfast below. It was then
that Buck was aroused and all climbed above to feast their eyes on the
point to which they had been making all night.
While the _Flyer_, speeding forward over the lakes and rivers, white
highways, thatched cottages and little stone fenced villages of Ireland,
carried its crew nearer the great metropolis, all was made shipshape
aboard. The staterooms were arranged for the return passengers. The boys
aboard had no plans for further sleep or rest except such as they could
snatch while on duty or in the short stop before their start on the
return trip. The program called for a departure from London at two
o’clock or before. And the flight to New York was to be made in twelve
hours “or less” as Ned put it.
The boys in turn freshened themselves with sponge baths and, when the
Irish Sea hove in sight at twelve o’clock, every one was newly alert and
as spick and span as if the voyage was just beginning.
“The Arklow Light five miles abeam to port,” cried Ned a few minutes
later.
“Blackwater Light five miles to port,” chimed in Alan in great spirits.
“Nine minutes after twelve o’clock,” shouted Buck standing by the
chronometer.
“Two hundred and twenty-six miles to London,” called Roy from his table.
“Stand by for Cardigan Light Ship and the Welsh coast.”
When the village of New Quay in Wales had been laid astern at twelve
thirty-three o’clock and the _Ocean Flyer_ at last had English soil in
sight ahead there was new activity. Ned, Buck and Bob tried the engine
room trap door; the rope ladder was attached to hooks at the door’s edge
and the landing ladder was got in readiness on the starboard gallery.
Then a thirty foot length of line was procured and made fast to the
matrix bundle. With this line the package was to be suspended below the
car and dropped at the right moment rather than to take the risk of
hurling the bundle from the slackened airship.
Alan returning to the pilot room, Ned sat down at Roy’s table and wrote
a message to be cabled to the _Herald_. Using what time he had before
Oxford was reached, Buck also prepared a cablegram for his manager.
Suddenly, all aboard seemed to have new duties. Only Alan had the time
to examine the new land below. Welsh mountains soon gave way to the
English country side of history and fiction. Almost unconsciously Alan
brought the _Flyer_ nearer the moors and woods of the outlying counties.
“They’re all here, boys,” he shouted. “I’d know it without Roy’s chart.”
“A little strange,” answered Roy, “to go to London, turn around and
leave England again without putting foot on the soil.”
“You may have a chance to stretch your legs at Acton,” broke in Ned.
“We’ll be there nearly a half hour.”
“Think I can run over to the village?” continued Roy.
“What’d you want to do there?” asked Alan. “No soda water in England you
know.”
“I thought I’d mail the folks a picture postal card,” laughed Roy.
“That’ll be one way to prove we’ve been here.”
“But a better way to put in your time,” interrupted Ned again, “will be
for you and Bob to take charge of the men who are to go back with us and
get ’em aboard and in their staterooms. Buck,” he announced, “you get
the new supplies and water aboard and store ’em away. Alan and I’ll be
busy with the fuel and oil. If we’ve got any time left after that, we’ll
stretch our legs and rest.”
“Hereford, by the chart,” was Roy’s only reply. “Stand by for Cheltenham
and Oxford dead ahead.”
Buck, somewhat nervous over his coming pilot duty, was hastening to
finish his report. When Roy announced Cheltenham a few minutes later,
Buck hastily ended his copy, sealed and addressed it and sprang to
Alan’s side by the wheel.
“The shore pilot is aboard, sir,” exclaimed Alan turning toward Ned and
speaking with assumed dignity.
“Very good,” answered Ned. “Turn the ship over to him.”
Roy, continuing the joke, turned his land chart face down on the desk
and arose with a smile, stretching his arms.
“I suppose I’m off duty now, sir.”
“Until we leave Acton at two o’clock,” was Ned’s sober reply.
“Bring her down to seven hundred feet,” came a sharp order from Buck.
All looked up in surprise and Ned even chuckled. It was apparent that
the new pilot had taken charge in reality. Before Oxford was reached the
shadowy east had formed itself into the cloud that always hangs over a
great city. The moors and farms of west England had long since merged
into the park like places and estates in which rose the country homes of
wealth and the nobility. Even at 700 feet these fled beneath the
speeding car until all detail was lost. Railway lines, vine-clad
stations, the picturesque cots of rural hamlets were almost a blur. But
they all meant one thing—London was near.
As the silver thread of the Thames at Oxford crossed their flight there
was a new order from Buck. Ignoring the chart course of S. E. 7/8 E. he
moved his hand to the right, peering ahead, until he gave the word “hold
her!”
Alan at the wheel seemed in doubt and showed it.
“I’m doin’ this,” exclaimed Buck. “See those two towers dead ahead?
Well, they’re Windsor Castle.” Ned and Roy sprang to the lookout.
“Was that bunch of gray towers Oxford?” asked Buck craning his neck
astern.
“And that’s Windsor ahead?” inquired Ned with no less interest. “This is
certainly a fine way to study a new country.”
“I wouldn’t reckon Windsor was on our course,” argued Alan.
“It isn’t much off it,” explained Buck. “But you’ve got to remember I
know London suburbs from the ground—not from the sky. It’s twenty-one
miles from Windsor to Fleet Street. And it’s twenty-one miles of as
windin’ roads and streets as ever were made; suburbs and cemeteries,
prisons and gas works, remnants of old parks and flower spotted new
ones; old mansions goin’ to ruin in a world of tradesmen’s villas and
bungalows; electric trams and windin’ railroads—”
“You don’t mean to say you don’t know the way in?” broke in Ned.
“I’ll get you there,” answered Buck undisturbed. “And to be sure of it
I’m goin’ by way of Windsor because you can’t miss its towers. There
we’ll pick up the Great Western railroad and then we can’t miss our
way.”
“Sure you know the railway?” asked Alan anxiously.
“Throw me off if I don’t,” was Buck’s answer.
“Where does it end?” asked Ned not wholly reassured.
“At the great Paddington Station.”
“Then how do we get to Hyde Park?” was Alan’s next question.
“It’s in sight. Before we’re well over the station I’ll point out the
Marble Arch gate at Oxford Street and Park Lane.”
At Windsor the Thames was wider but there was no time for scenery now.
It required only a motion for Alan to pick out the railway and then with
a wide swerve the _Flyer_ headed into the thin haze ahead.
“What time is it?” asked Roy reopening his log.
“One fifteen o’clock,” answered Alan, his voice trembling, “English
time.”
“It’s twenty-one miles to Fleet Street,” said Buck at once. “It must be
about three miles to the Arch from Fleet Street. You’ve got eighteen
more miles—”
“That’s ten minutes,” exclaimed Ned. Catching Roy by the arm he motioned
to the store room ladder. “We’ll go below and get ready. When you pass
Paddington lift her to about one thousand feet and then do a wide
spiral. Unless we give you the word through the tube you’ll have to
stop. If they’re ready for us Roy’ll pass the word ‘go ahead’ and I’ll
drop the stuff. Then hit it up for Acton. Keep your place, Buck. If we
stop, both stand by the wheel. It may be a race with the police. Don’t
leave the wheel, either of you. Bob’s at the engine. Roy and I’ll do the
work below.”
In a few moments the engine room trap was open and Captain Ned was on
the floor getting his first view of London.