Peter's First Ascent
"There is no knowing what tricks these Rioguayans will be up to,"
observed Uncle Brian, as they gained the open expanse between the
workshops and the house. "For instance, I should not be at all
surprised if I knew there was a secret dictaphone concealed in each
of my private rooms. They are undoubtedly bluffing me--or at least
they think they are--and I'm bluffing them in return. So I just
carry on, do the work I contracted to do in a thorough and
conscientious manner. What I do beyond that is my affair."
"I was thinking, Uncle----"
"Thinking what?"
"Can't you send in a report about what is going on here to the
British Government?"
"How?"
"By letter, or cablegram in code?"
"Not an atom of use, Peter. That letter I wrote asking you to join
me here was opened by the Rioguayan Government officials. Every
scrap of paper that leaves here through the post is carefully
examined. They wouldn't accept a code message. It would only serve
to increase their suspicions, and that I want to avoid as much as
possible. You and I, Peter, are marked men. If, for instance, you
went into Tepecicoa, you'd be shadowed from the moment you left till
the time you returned."
"You said I was to take up flying," persisted his nephew. "What's to
prevent me taking you up and making a dash for the West Indies or
the Southern States?"
"In the first place," objected Uncle Brian, "you won't be allowed up
alone. There will be always six or eight of the crew. They won't
prevent us from carrying out our proposed experiments, but they'd
very soon stick a knife between your ribs if you attempted to fly
across the frontier. In the second place, if you attempted to start
at night without a crew there's always a strong guard posted over
the hangars. No doubt we'll find a way out when the time comes, but
until then keep your eyes open and don't look too wise!"
"There's another point, Uncle."
"And that is----?"
"That greaser Ramon Diaz: what was his object in trying to prove
that Jutland was a Hun victory?"
"I think simply because he wanted to see how you'd take it. Out here
they think it is a great stunt to be able to rile an Englishman.
According to their ideas Great Britain is fast crumbling. They'll
never make a bigger mistake. Perhaps some of the newspapers are
responsible for that. The Rioguayans cannot understand our form of
government. To them it is an absurdity to appoint a Prime Minister
and then begin to howl him down. Out here there is no Opposition, or
if there is, it does not advertise. People in Rioguay who
ostentatiously differ from the President and the Senate are forcibly
and finally removed."
"Well, Uncle, I thought Diaz was a pal of yours, and naturally I
didn't want to start scrapping with him in your house, but I should
have liked to give him a straight left."
"It's as well you didn't," remarked Brian Strong drily, "although I
quite sympathize with you in your desire to alter the features of
Ramon's figurehead. Keeping your temper under control puzzles these
Rioguayans far more than if you had hit out. You'll have plenty of
provocation, Peter, especially later on when they think I've guessed
the secret of the flying-boat's true colours. Our policy just at
present is to carry on, eat humble-pie if needs be, and to prepare a
line of retreat as soon as my anti-aircraft device is tested and
perfected."
Breakfast over, Brian suggested to his nephew that he should take a
stroll round the flying ground until _siesta_.
"I'll have to be fairly busy," he added. "But this evening we'll
have a 'private view' of this little invention of mine."
Accordingly, Peter made his way to the "taking-off ground", which
consisted of a sloping floor of wood, bordered on one side by a belt
of sand and on the other by a track of earth covered with coarse
grass--the three differently constructed in order to give the pilots
experience in rising from various kinds of ground. At the end of the
expansive slipway was a lake nearly a mile in length, artificially
constructed in order to give the flying-boats practice in taking off
from and alighting on water before being dispatched to their tidal
river base at San Antonio.
There were at least half a dozen craft undergoing flying tests, or
else being employed as instruction machines for budding aviators.
The pilots were young men, alert and keen on their work. Peter had
to admit that. There was little or nothing of the supposed South
American languor about _them_.
Peter Corbold's arrival on the flying ground had attracted a certain
amount of attention, the airmen looking at him curiously and passing
remarks that, owing to his ignorance of the language, left him quite
"at sea". Every Rioguayan on the works and on the estate of El Toro
seemed to know who he was.
For some while he stood watching the huge amphibians "take off".
This they did after only a very short run down the inclined plane,
rising steeply in the air with very little effort. The training at
El Toro was confined to rising and alighting both on land and water,
and being able to fly a straight course. Fancy flights and stunts
were left severely alone until the flying-boats left for their
war-base.
Presently, one of the pilots standing by came up and made signs to
Peter that he might go as a passenger. Although he had come out
without any intention of "going up", Peter accepted the offer with
alacrity.
"The blighter would think I had cold feet if I refused," he
soliloquized, as he followed the pilot into the interior of the
flying-boat, where he found five other Rioguayans already
there--lads undergoing instruction. The two mechanics--one for each
pair of motors--were not visible, their "stations" being in the
alleyway between the engines and below the space ostensibly to be
used for the storage of merchandise.
It was Peter's first time of "going up", and he had to confess that
he did not find the experience very exhilarating. The enclosed
fuselage practically eliminated all sensation of speed, and once the
initial movement was over--somewhat like the starting of a
lift--there was little beyond the noise of the motors to convey the
suggestion of speed.
Going to one of the side scuttles, Peter looked earthwards. By this
time the flying-boat had attained an altitude of between 2500 and
3000 feet. At that height the land looked flat and uninteresting as
it apparently moved slowly below the ninety miles an hour aircraft.
It was only by observing the shadow of the flying-boat upon the
sun-dried plain that Peter could realize that he was being carried
through the air at a rate that he had never previously attained.
Looking through the glass door between the main saloon and the
pilot's office, Peter saw that the man had abandoned the joy-stick
and was leaning back in his seat and rolling a cigarette.
"He's bored stiff," was the young Englishman's unspoken remark.
The pilots under instruction had also lost interest, but owing to a
very different reason. It was their first flight, and already every
one of them was in the throes of air-sickness.
It was evidently the intention of their instructor to prolong their
agony, for the flying-boat was still climbing steadily and heading
for the Sierra Colima, a range of jagged mountains forming the
north-eastern frontier of the republic.
Here, there is to be found a perpetual turmoil of air currents, the
torrid atmosphere of the plains rising on either side of the
mountains and engaging in conflict with the cold blasts of air in
the higher regions. Not only were there fierce, eddying winds to be
met with, but highly dangerous air-pockets--veritable pitfalls
taxing to the uttermost the resources of the pilot.
For a good twenty minutes the flying-boat tore madly over the tops
of the jagged peaks. Lurching, side-slipping, flung almost
vertically through a distance of two hundred feet, twisted like a
withered leaf in an autumn gale, the machine provided a series of
thrills to the now far from bored Peter. Gripping a metal rod, he
divided his attention between the view below, the cool daring of the
pilot, and his own efforts to prevent himself being hurled violently
against the sides of the fuselage.
"That chap is some airman, although he's a Dago," declared Peter.
"Those other fellows look like having a very rough time of it."
They were. The five were lying utterly helpless upon the floor,
sliding in a confused mass every time the machine gave a violent
lurch.
Greatly to his surprise, Peter felt no sign of air-sickness. Why he
was immune he knew not. It was possibly owing to the fact that he
was a sailor, but he remembered instances of his late brother
officers going up for joy-rides and quickly falling victims to
air-sickness.
"If I could manage this 'bus," he soliloquized, "and I wanted to
clear out of the country, who's there to prevent me? Deal
effectively with the pilot and the trick's done. But there's no
hurry; there'll be plenty of excitement down there before the time
comes to do a bunk with Uncle Brian."
Half an hour later, the flying-boat swooped down towards the landing
ground. This was a far more exciting bit of work than the
comparatively tame ascent.
The ground appeared to leap upwards to meet the descending machine.
Peter held his breath, fully expecting a terrific bump. The thought
flashed through his mind that perhaps the pilot had lost control.
Peter watched the custodian of his fate. The pilot was sitting well
back in his seat, his right hand grasping the lever controlling the
planes. With a slow deliberate movement, he pulled the lever towards
him. The flying-boat's speed was instantly checked. Her fore-and-aft
axis came to a horizontal position. Then the bows appeared to rise
ever so slightly, while at the same moment the four propellers
ceased revolving.
There was a bump, but it was far less violent than Peter had
expected. Another and yet another of less magnitude and the
flying-boat was at rest once more on _terra firma_.
The pilot scrambled out, followed by the two mechanics. Peter
dropped lightly to earth, with a sensation of elation at having
successfully passed through the ordeal of his first flight.
He was half-way to the house when he glanced back to see the first
of the five miserable looking "quirks" crawling painfully out of the
fuselage.
"So you've been up," observed Uncle Brian. "How did you like it?"
"Not so dusty," replied Peter. "Those poor blighters under
instruction didn't seem to revel in it, though."
"They wouldn't," rejoined Uncle Brian. "That flying-boat is of an
old type, and is used only for instructional purposes. She's known
to the instructors here as _El Boyeta_--the Emetic. So you weren't
ill? Capital; you'll make a good airman, I can see."
"And the sooner the better," added his nephew.