LOST IN THE CLOUDS
That bolt had, as it was speedily determined, worked mischief indeed.
Striking the tail of the _F 8_, it had ripped the vertical rudder away
and left it dangling, had put the starboard horizontal fin out of
commission and had torn the envelope fabric apart so that a flap of
it trailed down across the swaying rudder. Nor was that all, for when
Hugh, later, tried the radio apparatus he found it dead. The commander
accepted the misfortunes with untroubled countenance.
“Ought to be thankful we had helium up there instead of the old stuff,”
he said cheerfully. “There’s no damage done that we can’t repair
easily, once we’ve found a landing. How does she answer, Pete?”
“Badly,” replied Lieutenant Gandell from the forward cockpit. “She’s
dipping her tail and the rudder’s quite useless.”
“All we can do is pray for a wind that’ll take us back over the land,
what?” said Lieutenant Traine. “Want to put her up again, Bob?”
Mr. Weeks hesitated. “I’d like to be sure the lightning isn’t going
to take another crack at us,” he answered finally. “No, I guess we’ll
stick it out where we are. What do you think?”
“Might as well. Not much use in climbing if we can’t go high enough to
get out of this storm, and she won’t do better than six thousand, what?
Besides, if we’re going to find a landing we’d better be where we can
see in case the clouds break.”
The ship was no longer floating on “an even keel,” as the expression
was, for the damaged horizontal plane allowed the big cylinder to
settle slightly to starboard, and on occasions when a slight puff
of air stirred, to roll lazily. The lightning still played and the
thunder rolled, but the center of the electrical disturbance had moved
past them. The dun-hued clouds pressed about and increasing daylight
scarcely filtered through. The commander called Hugh forward and asked
whether the radio could be repaired, and seemed untroubled when the
ensign reported that he feared repairs impossible until a landing was
made.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Hugh. “I ought to have cut out when the storm
came.”
“Wouldn’t that have been difficult,” asked the commander, “considering
that you were in the ‘hole’? It was up to your assistant, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose it was,” owned Hugh unwillingly, “but Sterling’s a bit new
at the game, sir, and――――”
“I’m not criticizing him, Mr. Clode. He had orders to get into
communication with some one and was following orders when the storm
hit. I guess there wasn’t much time to cut out. Besides, if, as you
think, it’s the wires that are gone, that wouldn’t have helped much in
any case, would it?”
“No, sir, it wouldn’t. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can rig up some
sort of an antenna over the boat.”
“Very well, but don’t take any risks. As a matter of fact, there isn’t
much we can do but drift with the wind and look for a landing. And just
now there isn’t enough wind to blow out a match.”
“Are we moving toward land, sir?”
“Yes, so far. We’ll keep her going until a breeze comes along. After
that――well, it’ll depend where the breeze comes from!”
The storm gradually died away in the distance, and the _F 8_, with one
engine running, plowed along at a thirty-knot gait through a chill,
damp world of fog. At the bow, Mr. Gandell was in some mysterious
manner managing to keep her headed generally west. The wrecked rudder
served after its fashion to keep the ship’s nose steady, although the
big, gray bag rolled and dipped at times. Of visibility there was none.
For all Jack could have told the _F 8_ might have been three miles high
or only a hundred feet, while as for their location one man’s guess was
as good as another’s. Save that they were somewhere out over the Gulf
of Mexico, their whereabouts was a complete mystery.
Hugh and Jack busied themselves with what they feared was a hopeless
attempt to get the radio in commission again. From the small supply of
wire aboard, they rigged an aërial from bow to stern of the boat, using
two extra plane ribs of spruce as spreaders. Suspending the aërial
overhead proved impracticable, and so it was dropped below the hull.
The work kept them employed for nearly two hours, after which Hugh
tinkered with his instruments, but all to no purpose. In the end he was
forced to acknowledge defeat, although at intervals he returned to the
task, glowering and muttering at the offending installation. Hot coffee
was served at six, and with it sandwiches, giving the crew of the _F 8_
a more cheerful frame of mind. Lieutenant Jordan joined the boys in the
after cockpit and laughed and joked as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
By seven o’clock the clouds were thinner and a fitful breeze had sprung
up out of the southeast. Daylight and warmth, too, added comfort,
although the daylight was still obscured by the gray fog bank through
which they were sailing. With the advent of the breeze, steering became
more difficult and the dirigible wobbled from her course frequently.
But somehow or other, manipulating engine and remaining plane,
Lieutenant Gandell always managed to bring her back into her path
again. Once Mr. Traine insisted that he had heard a steamer’s siren,
faint and to the north of them. But although the others listened, the
sound did not reach them again. Noon found them still afloat in a
pearly-gray void at seventeen hundred feet elevation. Several times
pale yellow sunlight reached them, a diffused glow that brought a
slight warmth to chill bodies. But it never persisted. Shortly after
one o’clock――or two bells, as Mr. Jordan called it――the _F 8_ was
worked up to nearly four thousand feet in the hope of finding clear
atmosphere. But the clouds up there, although more scattered, were
still heavy.
An hour later the breeze swung further to the east and freshened
considerably, and the fog broke into wreaths and ribbons that swirled
fantastically about the ship. Both engines were running now and the
_F 8_ was doing a good forty-three miles, rolling and pitching rather
more than was pleasant, but fast approaching the coast, if, indeed, she
had not already reached it. During the afternoon Mr. Traine took the
coxswain’s seat and Mr. Gandell snatched an hour’s sleep below. It was
while the latter was off duty that Mr. Traine’s voice rang cheerfully
out from the bow.
“Land below!”
The commander stared quickly over the side, as did the others, but
the rift in the clouds had closed again, and it was not until a full
quarter-hour had gone by that Lieutenant Traine’s announcement was
verified. Then a break in the clouds showed, only a few hundred feet
below, a brief glimpse of yellowish green. Presently the ship passed
finally out of the fog.
Beneath them, alternately shadowed and sunlighted as they gazed, lay
a vast level plain, a treeless, grassless desert stretching in every
direction as far as eye could reach. Many miles toward the west,
the single break in the flat monotony, a lone mesa stood abruptly
up-pitched above the sun-baked floor of the desert. Patches and flecks
of gray-green appeared to be vegetation of some kind, probably cactus.
After a moment’s looking a cheer went up from the engine cockpit where
Lieutenant Jordan, the upper part of his body stretched athwart the
port engine outrigger, was gazing down at the welcome sight. With a
laugh the others joined in.
“Gee!” murmured Jack. “That certainly looks good, doesn’t it?”
“It’s a sight for sore eyes,” agreed Hugh, beside him. “Guess there
won’t be much trouble finding a landing there. It looks as level as a
billiard table!”
But making a landing without a rudder to rely on and without the help
of a ground crew below was not so easy a task. Very leisurely the _F
8_, her engines only just moving and her propeller idle, settled down
toward the open plain. The breeze swung her slowly about and she began
to drift sidewise. Again the propeller was started, but the attempt to
head her into the breeze was not successful, and, hovering as though
not quite convinced of the wisdom of the act, the big balloon neared
the earth. Anchor and cable were lowered over the side as far aft as
possible and slowly played out until the former touched the ground.
Then, watching for a suitable spot, the commander waited. Finally:
“Lower away,” he called. The many-fluked anchor dragged, caught, pulled
away again while the cable was paid out. Then a fluke found a hold and
the dirigible paused, tugged, swayed and stopped, swinging slowly
around with the wind. At once forward and aft guys were dropped, over
went the rope ladder from the engine cockpit and down swarmed Mr.
Jordan and his mate. All save the commander and Mr. Gandell followed
and a busy ten minutes ensued. As Mr. Traine feelingly put it, it would
have been a great convenience had there been a hitching-post handy!
But there wasn’t, nor any other object big and firm enough to make
the forward guy fast to, and there was nothing for it but to sink the
anchor securely in the earth. The after guy was secured to a metal bar
driven into the ground. Mr. Jordan viewed the result dubiously.
“I guess they’ll hold as long as a wind doesn’t come up,” he said.
“When it does we’ll stay around here about ten seconds! All right here,
sir!”
“Then we’ll have a look at the damage and see what can be done, Sam.
And whatever it is, we’d better do it, for I’ll feel a lot easier when
we’re afloat again.”
“Where do you suppose we are?” asked Jack of Hugh as they walked back
toward the tail in the wake of the others.
“Somewhere in Mexico. That’s the best I can do for you, Jack. Wherever
we are, we won’t be here long. I guess it can’t be far to the border.
Let’s see now. That must be west over there. Then Texas and the rest
of the old U. S. A. must be that way. I’m going inside the envelope
pretty quick and see if that aërial is all right. Though, even if it
is, it won’t help much. I’d like to know what in the name of Benjamin
Franklin is wrong with that set!”